Archie watched the question work its way through him—the confusion tightening, the pieces shifting but refusing to slot into place.
“Can you remember what happened on the river?” Archie swallowed the tremor in his voice. “The day Rhys died?” His throat closed around the name. He had to clear it before he could go on. “You can tell me, even if it doesn’t make sense.”
Malachi frowned, eyes narrowing. For a split second he’d reached the edge of the memory. Then he shook his head, the movement sharp.
“You had it ready.” Malachi ignored Archie’s question. “It was already loaded.”
Archie’s breath caught, just for a second. Enough to give him away if Malachi had been looking for it. His fingers pressed flat to the table, grounding himself there, stalling. Of course he noticed it was loaded. Malachi always paid more attention than people gave him credit for.
“You burst through the gate...” Malachi’s gaze drifted past Archie, unfocused, as if the kitchen had slipped sideways. “Did you have it ready?”
“Yes.” Archie’s voice was tight. “I’m always prepared for this time of year. Ever since…” He let the sentence trail off, giving Malachi time and space to piece the puzzle together by himself.
“Why?”
“Son…” Archie drew a deep breath that scraped on the way in.
This was it. The line he’d sworn to never cross. For a split second, he was back there—young and terrified, thinking he and Heather could outpace fate by pretending the Otherworld didn’t exist. They should’ve left Latharna the moment she’d told him she was pregnant. Instead, he’dstayed. Stayed and lied. And now Heather and Rhys were dead. The lies and secrets ended tonight.
“Have you ever heard of Selkie?”
“Wait—” Malachi flinched, the word breaking apart as it left him.“ Was I bait?”
The question hit like a slap, knocking the air from Archie’s lungs.
“No!” He was on his feet before he realised he’d moved, chair legs screeching across the floor. His heart hammered, loud in his ears. “No. Never.”
The thought turned his stomach. Bait. The word itself was obscene. He would’ve burned Latharna to the ground first. Let the sea take him instead.
Malachi shook his head, a small, frantic movement. His mouth opened and closed again.
“They’re nightmares.” His breath hitched. He pressed a flat hand to the counter as his legs betrayed him. “They have to be.”
“They’re real.” Archie crossed the space between them in two strides and pulled out the chair with one hand, as if the calm of his movements might bleed into the room. “Sit. Please.”
“I’ve had the same dream every summer since?—”
Malachi’s mouth stayed open, the rest of the words stranded somewhere behind his teeth.
“But…” Colour drained from his face. “They’re dreams.” His eyes were too wide, fixed on nothing as if the room was spinning and he was bracing for a fall.
Archie’s hands hovered, unsure where to land. Malachi swayed and he was ready to catch him if he fainted. Perhaps this had been a huge mistake—too much, too fast.
“No!” Malachi shoved Archie’s chest with both hands. Not hard—panicked. “They’re just—" He sucked in the air,ragged and loud. “They’re something I made up to make myself feel less shitty about what happened.”
“They’re real.” Archie was repeating himself. Over and over. Hoping Malachi would finally hear him. “They’re called Selkie.”
“How could they be real?” Malachi’s voice climbed. “They’re fucking fishmen!” He paced a step, then another, then stopped as if he’d hit an invisible barrier. His breathing skidded, shallow and fast. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The words tumbled over one another now. He pressed his palms to the counter again. Panic held together by sheer stubbornness. “Why’d you let me think I was crazy for all these years?”
Silence had once felt like kindness, like leaving a wound untouched so it could heal. Now he could see it for what it was: abandonment dressed up as protection.
“I thought—" The explanation stuck in his throat. Archie moved closer but stopped short of touching Malachi, like he was approaching a skittish animal. “You were eleven. You’d just lost your brother. Please, pleasetry to understand, I was trying to protect you.”
“I was traumatised!”
The anger flashed hot and fast—that sharp turn fear took when it had nowhere left to run. Malachi’s hands balled at his sides, knuckles blanching, his jaw locked so tight it looked painful.
“I’ve been dreaming about those things every summer for the past seven years.” The words were brittle. “I thought I’d made it up!”
