He lashed out on instinct. Another creature caught his wrist mid-swing; long, thin figures dug into his skin with inhuman strength. There were two of them.
He was spun and shoved, face-first into the tree. Pain flared along his ribs at the impact, but it was the seaweed that had been wrapped around his wrists, tightening the more he struggled, that scared him more.
A fist tangled in his hair and wrenched his head back. His cry cracked—panicked and useless.
A heavy mottled arm locked around his neck and dragged him backwards towards the jetty, his feet barely touching the ground. He twisted and kicked, but the creature holding him was too strong—he couldn’t break its momentum or even slow it down. Panic hammered through him, short-circuiting every thought except one: he was helpless. Again.
His gaze shot to the kitchen window—empty. He swallowed hard, breath shaking.
Of course Dad wasn’t home. He never was when it mattered. Just like before. Just like the day Rhys…
The second creature stepped into view. Those eyes, icy sapphires burning in the dark. The same ones that stared at him before he jerked awake at night, drenched insweat. His knees buckled. If the creature behind him wasn’t holding him upright, he would’ve crumpled onto the grass.
He’d spent seven years warped by guilt, convincing himself his memories had twisted into nightmares—a deserved punishment for not paying attention on the river. But this was real: the monsters, the terror. Every last bit of it.
A scream ripped through the garden. Dad burst through the gate; the old wood ripped from its hinges and skittered across the path.
“Da—”
The arm around Malachi’s throat tightened like a vice, cutting the word to a choking gasp. Black spots prickled at the edge of his vision. He strained against the seaweed bindings. Dad couldn’t take them. Not alone.
A whistle sliced the air followed by a sickening crunch. The second creature toppled, its skull cracked open. Those bright blue eyes stared blankly at the sky.
Hope flared—a quick blinding flash—and died just as fast. The grip around him tightened. The danger hadn’t gone anywhere. Dad had just made it angrier.
Another smell rolled over the garden—coppery and foul, like chum left too long in a bucket. Malachi gagged, lips pressed together to keep the bile down. A million questions raced through his mind, but they’d have to wait. He needed to get free of the monster holding him.
“Let him go.” Dad's voice was low and steady. The tone he used when he was about to snap.
Malachi turned his head as far as the blade against his throat allowed. Dad stood over the creature; fury carved into every line on his face. For a heartbeat Malachi didn’t recognise him—the man who’d throw fish back into the riverbecause he couldn’t bear to watch them suffer had all but disappeared.
The crossbow braced against his knee. He reloaded it with a practised ease that twisted Malachi’s stomach. Smooth movements—muscle memory, not panic. Dad shouldn’t have known how to do that, yet his hands moved as if they’d done it a hundred times before. As if he were a seasoned hunter rather than a man who ran a shop and made terrible tea.
The creature behind him let out a harsh, broken croak. As though he cared that the other creature had died. Then a knife pressed to Malachi’s throat. The metal kissed his skin, cold and sharp. He pulled his breath shallow, fighting the urge to gulp air. Any slip against the blade and he would slit his own throat. The creature hauled him backwards towards the water.
Dad marched towards them. “I let the Selkie go before.” His voice was calm and steady. “I won’t make the same mistake again.” He raised the crossbow. The safety clicked off. “I said, let him go.”
Selkie.
The word punched through Malachi’s mind. Cold sweat trickled down his back. Dad knew the monsters were real and never said a word. And he’d been waiting for them.
“Are you sure you can make the shot?” the Selkie snorted. His tone teetered on the edge of a laugh, daring Dad to try.
They stepped onto the jetty. Malachi slipped on the wet wood—the knife cut a thin, stinging line along his neck. Warm blood slid down his skin. His legs nearly gave out. The jetty felt too far away and his body too light, hollowed out by fear.
“Can you swim?” The Selkie smiled.
Hot, rancid breath brushed Malachi’s cheek. He clenched his jaw, swallowing the urge to be sick.
Dad adjusted his aim.
“You don’t have the courage to take the shot,” the Selkie spat, each word coated with venomous amusement. “It’s time to g?—”
A whistle tore past Malachi’s ear. The bolt shattered the Selkie’s skull. And they fell.
Ice-cold water swallowed Malachi whole. His scream burst into bubbles. The dead Selkie dragged him down, its weight relentless. The knife slipped from his neck, but it didn’t matter—his limbs barely moved. His chest seized. Water surged into his nose and dark closed in.
Rhys had gone like this—helpless, terrified, alone in the water.
