I hesitate, hand on the doorknob. “I’ll be back soon.”
His gold-flecked eyes meet mine, and the intensity there makes me forget how to breathe. “I’ll be here.”
As I head down the path toward town, my mind keeps circling back to him. To last night. To this morning. To all the ways this situation is absolutely insane.
And to how, despite this tide I’ve found myself swept up in, I want it to keep pulling me in deeper.
Themorningfoghasn’tfully lifted as I make my way down the winding path into town. Sea air mixed with earlycoffee scents drifts from Main Street, where Cape Tempest is just starting to wake up.
Tourist season is ramping up, and already I spot a few people taking photos of the “Historic Monster Hunter’s Pub,” complete with its wall of harpoons and questionable taxidermy.
I pass the gift shop where Derek is setting up his window display—new shirts with slogans like “I Survived Cape Tempest.” He waves, and I return it automatically, trying not to think about how there’s a cthulhu in my kitchen.
The town’s done its best to adapt since the Great Unveiling. We’ve got a harpy running the post office now, and nobody blinks when the minotaur construction crew works on building repairs.
But there’s still that underlying tension—especially with the older families who made their fortunes hunting sea monsters. They’ve switched to “monster tourism” instead of monster hunting, but those old trophies still hang in their bars.
Roark would hate it here. The thought hits me as I pass The Kraken’s Head Inn, where a particularly garish tentacle display draws tourist photos. All those preserved pieces of sea monsters, treated like decoration. No wonder he hides in the deeper waters.
Last night flashes through my mind—how those same kind of tentacles wrapped around me, gentle and reverent….
“Ashe Morgan!”
I nearly jump out of my skin. Marina stands in the doorway of her shop, arms crossed, looking exactly like she did when she caught me trying to steal candy at age seven. She’s barely five feet tall, but she’s got the presence of a battleship, enhanced by the fact that she’s wearing what looks like three different flannel shirts layered over each other.
“You’re up early,” she says, eyes narrowing. “And heading toward my shop with purpose.”
“Can’t a girl visit her favorite coffee spot?”
“You have your own coffee maker.” She steps aside to let me in, the shop’s bell jingling. “And that look on your face means trouble.”
The familiar smell of coffee and fishing gear wraps around me as I enter. Marina’s is exactly what you’d expect from a bait shop that decided to also serve coffee—hooks and lures hanging from the ceiling, rows of tackle and gear, and somehow the best espresso machine in town. The walls are covered in photos of successful catches, including a few of Dad and me that I try not to look at directly.
“I need gear,” I say, running my hand along a display of fishing line. “Good gear. For serious fishing.”
Marina goes still behind the counter. “You haven’t fished since…”
“Since Dad.” I force myself to meet her eyes. “I know. But I want to start again.”
She studies me for a long moment, then nods once and moves to the gear wall with purpose. “What kind of fishing we talking about? Because if you’re just looking to catch some flounder—”
“Bigger.” I think of thirty pounds daily and try not to wince. “Much bigger.”
“Uh huh.” She pulls down some heavy-duty line. “And this sudden interest in big game fishing wouldn’t have anything to do with the commotion I heard about last night? Boats spotted something huge in the water during the storm.”
My heart stutters. “What?”
“Oh yes.” She tests the line tension with practiced fingers. “Some of the night fishermen came in talking about it. Something massive in the water, fighting with what looked like poacher nets.” Her eyes find mine. “Interesting timing, you showing up here the next morning.”
I try to keep my face neutral, but Marina’s known me since I was in diapers. She and Mom were research partners on maritime archeology projects, hunting shipwrecks all along the Atlantic coast. Back then, Mom balanced it well—a few weeks at sea, then home to us, bringing stories of underwater mysteries and forgotten treasures.
But after Dad died in that diving accident, something in Mom broke. These days, she’s always chasing the next expedition, jumping from research vessel to research vessel. The postcards come from different oceans each time, full of coordinates and compass readings but empty of anything real.
Marina’s the one who stayed, who made sure someone kept an eye on me even after I was old enough not to need it.
Which is exactly why she can probably read my guilt like a newspaper headline. She’s had twenty-eight years of practice.
“The thing about Cape Tempest,” she says, moving to check some hooks, “is that we’re real good at pretending nothing’s changed. Sure, we’ve got out and proud monster residents now, paying taxes, being normal. But those hunting trophies still hang in the bars. Those old families still talk about the ‘glory days’ of monster hunting.” She selects several hooks with clinical precision. “Makes you wonder how many creatures still hide in our waters, afraid to come up for air.”
