“The Selkie.” Malachi’s hands lifted, palms open. No anger, only confusion. “You said last night they were desperate when they took Rhys. Why didn’t you… I don’t know,” he gestured helplessly, waiting for his train of thought to catch up. “Bring them food. A roast chicken or something. Anything, before it got so bad their only option was eating people?”
Something dropped through Archie’s stomach, cold and heavy. He stared at Malachi, really stared this time—at the earnestness in his eyes, the absence of fear of judgment. Just a question. An honest one.
The answer didn’t come. That frightened him more than any accusation could have. Because it had never occurred to him. Because no one had ever taught him to think that way. Among the few who knew about the Otherworld, it had always been accepted that when the Selkie came, someone would go missing. One or two lives, quietly taken. A grim balance you endured, waiting out while they were onshore. He’d only acted when the balance tipped too far. When tradition finally failed.
“I don’t know, son.” Archie swallowed the bitterness in his throat. “It’s something we’ll talk about. Afterwards.”
Malachi watched him, not pressing or accusing. Just waiting. Archie felt the weight of it settle between them. And that, somehow, was worse.
Archie realised—with a jolt that left him unsteady, his footing suddenly unsure on the gravel—that in less than twenty-four hours, Malachi had shown more willingness to understand the Selkie than he ever had. Not weakness or naivety, but openness. The kind that didn’t come from training or tradition. The kind that scared him because it meant he might have been wrong. And that knowledge offered no clean way forward.
He wasn’t sure who his anger was for anymore—the Selkie, himself, or the generation of Wolfendens who, according to Ina, fought but never seemed to ask why.
Archie exhaled slowly and stepped back from the door, one hand still braced against the frame as if letting go might send him stumbling.
“Have you ever done anything like this before? Youboth seem so…” Malachi trailed off, gaze dropping to the dashboard, fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve. Whatever word he was searching for, he didn’t seem to like it enough to say out loud.
Archie tensed. This wasn’t the first time he’d gone to battle with the Otherworld. Latharna had seen a fair few skirmishes. The last had been when one of Damon and Camilla’s guests had fallen off the wagon and gone on a bloodlust frenzy one New Year’s Eve.
“We’re terrified for many reasons,” Archie chose each word carefully. “But right now, the thing that scares me most is you leaving this car.” He trimmed the truth down to something Malachi could carry. There would be time later for battle stories from the past and even then, he didn’t want to glorify bloodshed. People died—often at the hands of horrific violence.
“I won’t,” Malachi barely whispered.
Archie studied his face. The set of his jaw. The steadiness in his eyes that hadn’t been there a week ago. He nodded once. He had to believe him. Belief was the only thing keeping him upright. Because the alternative—imagining Malachi following them down the path, seeing what was waiting—made his stomach twist hard enough to steal his breath.
“Good.” Archie forced a smile he didn’t feel. He let his hand drop from the door and shut it gently. He walked towards Ina, who stood waiting for him halfway down the path. The only sound in the darkness was the car doors locking behind him.
Archie and Ina crept towards the Selkie nest, guided by the light of the full moon. The path was uneven, but Wolfendens had good eyesight and were surefooted in the dark. They crossed the old cobblestones with relative ease, salty sea air filling their nostrils.
The harbour opened out ahead of them in a shallow crescent of stone, its walls low and thick, built to break waves rather than impress. Beyond it, the land dropped away into black water. The Atlantic surged straight in through the narrow mouth before slamming into the harbour walls with a dull, rhythmic thud. Archie felt the rhythm settle into him, matching the pulse beating in his chest.
At the far end, the boathouse hunched into the sea, half-collapsed and leaning as though it had grown tired of standing. Years of storms and neglect had eaten through it. Stone had fallen into the water, leaving a jagged opening where the tide now washed clean through. Kelp clung to the broken edges. Old iron rings jutted from the walls, rusted and bent. Whatever path had once been there was gone—taken piece by piece by tide and time.
Ina paused, letting Archie move ahead. He stepped past her, crossbow held low but steady, the weight of it familiar against his palms, spare bolts strapped to his belt. Ready for war—or whatever came towards him tonight.
The salt stung his nose now, wet and metallic beneath the rot carried up from the water. He drew a slow breath through it anyway, letting it settle his nerves. Whatever waited inside that boathouse, he would meet it head-on. That was the only way he knew how.
They stopped. Archie held still, every muscle drawing tight as he listened. The breeze slid through the harbourmouth, lifting the loose edge of his jacket, whispering over stone and broken timber. Water moved below them—slow, patient and soundless except for the soft suck and pull against the rocks.
His pulse thudded hard in his ears. Silence could mean nothing. It could also mean everything had already gone wrong, that they were already surrounded and trapped by Selkie.
Archie’s gaze tracked the dark water slipping in and out of the boathouse opening, the tide breathing through the broken wall. His shoulders tightened, every instinct screaming for movement that didn’t come. For a heartbeat, hope flickered. If they’d already gone, if the nest had been abandoned, tonight could end without blood spilling on the stones.
Ina tipped her head towards the door. It was barred shut from the outside. Archie nodded once, signalling for her to unlock it.
Ina reached for the latch, easing it back with care. The bolt resisted, rusted stiff with age and salt, then shifted with a muted scrape. The door creaked open—and a wall of air burst out.
The stench of rotting fish hit Archie like a physical blow. He gagged, turning his head just in time to spit onto the stones. His eyes burned. His throat closed, breath catching sharp and shallow as his body reacted before his mind could catch up. Rotting fish, old blood, with something sour and wet beneath it all.
Ina covered her nose with the back of her hand, blinking hard. For a moment, Archie stayed still, forcing slow breaths through his mouth until the wave passed. His stomach rolled, unease coiling tighter with every second. This wasn’t the smell of an abandoned place.
Ina gave him a thumbs-up and stepped aside. Archie slipped inside first. The crossbow came up automatically, finger light on the trigger, every sense prickling. He scanned the darkness, waiting for movement—for a shape to lunge from the shadows. The air inside was thick with the iron tang of blood, sharp and unmistakable beneath the rot.
The Selkie had fed here recently.
The thought landed heavy, dragging images in his wake—slick hands, torn flesh, a scream cut short—and Archie shoved it aside before it could settle. If they were too slow. If their delay had cost someone their life… He didn’t let himself finish the thought.
And yet the boathouse was empty.
