Malachi squeezed his eyes shut. Rhys reached out for him. Malachi couldn’t reach him then and he couldn’t do it now. He’d failed again.
The last of the light above him faded to black. And he floated.
A hand grabbed his t-shirt and dragged him upward, wrenching him from the Selkie’s grip. Light burned his eyes as he broke the surface.
“Breathe,” someone commanded, muffled through waterlogged ears.
A thump to his back forced the water from his lungs. A hand held his head above the surface while he choked out the river.
Dad.
Dad cut the seaweed from his wrists, and dragged him towards the riverbank. The dead Selkie floated past, skull crushed, the current taking it away fromRiverside. Malachi’s eyes clung to it, refusing to look away even when his stomach heaved.
Dad hauled him onto the grass. The world tilted. Malachi scanned the river, searching for movement. Waiting for another set of blue eyes to surface.
Selkie. That was their name. The monsters who killed Rhys. The monsters who came back for him. His entire body trembled, muscles aching with every movement.
“Mal, they’re gone,” Dad whispered, arm wrapped tight around him.
“They’re not gone,” Malachi’s teeth chattered through every word. “They’re back.” His vision blurred at the edges. And the world slipped away.
Chapter 17
Archie
“Drink.” Archie set the mug of sugary tea down in front of Malachi. “Please.” The word came out quieter than he intended.
Malachi nodded and wrapped both hands around the mug. He was still shivering, even after a hot shower. Their sodden clothes lay in a heap by the laundry room door.
“Thanks.” The word scraped its way out of him as he brushed damp hair from his eyes. His hands shook, but the tea stayed put.
Archie sat down at the table, elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands. He should’ve been on his way to the Selkie nest to finish what he failed to do last time—to eradicate them from Latharna once and for all. Instead, he was here, unable to look anywhere but his son, who stared into his tea with haunted eyes.
They’re back.
Malachi’s words landed with a sickening calm. Of course he’d seen them. The nightmares snapped into focus—not fear or imagination, but memory forcing its way back up to the surface every summer like clockwork. An elevenyear old trying to carry something no child could name. An eighteen year old still moving with it pressed tight between his shoulders.
Archie rubbed his temple until the skin burned. He’d thought he was protecting them—burying the Otherworld deep enough that it would never reach his boys. Heather had begged him to promise. Let them be normal. Let them grow up without monsters. He’d kept that promise and the monsters came anyway. Not once, but twice.
The clock ticked, too loud in the kitchen. Archie lifted his mug, felt the heat against his palm, then set it back down untouched.
“We’d better sort out this laundry.” Malachi pushed back his chair. He moved like every breath hurt, one hand hovered at his chest. “Ina’ll be pissed if?—”
“Sit.”
The word snapped out of him, cold and sharp, like ice breaking. Louder than Archie meant.
Malachi froze. The colour drained from his face as he sank back into the chair, shoulders caving in on themselves. His gaze slid straight back to the mug, as though it was the only thing he could focus on.
Archie shut his eyes for half a second. Pain flickered at the hinge of his jaw. Heat climbed in his throat, a tight, buzzing pressure looking for somewhere to go. Anywhere but Malachi. His hands curled against the table edge, nails biting into the wood until the urge dulled. He dragged in a breath through his nose, slow and deliberate, forcing his voice down with it.
“On the jetty,” Archie spoke slowly, giving himself time to choose the words before they left him, “you said,they’re back.What did you mean?”
Malachi’s grip tightened on the mug. The ceramiccreaked faintly under his fingers. “Nothing.” His shoulders were rigid, like he was bracing for impact.
Seconds dragged, heavy and unbroken. The kettle clicked softly behind them as it cooled.
“Please.” The word came out frayed at the edges. “Talk to me.”
