Following his pointed finger out to the water, I spot the telltale swirl of disturbed water around a replica whaling ship—and my borrowed human heart sinks with the certainty that our day of pretending has just run out of time.
Chapter 18
Treacherous Waters
Ashe
The Maritime Festival’s grand finale draws quite the crowd along Cape Tempest’s shore. I stand on the packed beach, squinting against the afternoon sun as the decorated fishing vessel—the “Sea’s Bounty”—bobs gently on the waves about fifty yards out.
It’s a beautiful replica of a 19th-century whaling ship, complete with authentic weathered sails and vintage rigging that would make any maritime historian swoon.
Despite my reservations about Sebastian’s reenactment idea, I have to admit the town has embraced the festival with genuine enthusiasm rather than malice. Most people seem to view this as celebrating our maritime heritage rather than glorifying monster hunting.
Kids clutch souvenir lighthouse snow globes and candied apples, couples lay out picnic blankets on the sand, and even the usually grumpy Mrs. Moore from the post office is smiling as she passes out commemorative stamps.
Beside me, “Robert Sterling” stands with perfect stillness. Even in his temporary human form, I can feel Roark’s unease. The enchanted pin gleams against his navy captain’s jacket—a genuine article from his former life.
His glamoured appearance is striking—angular face, deep-set eyes still flecked with gold, his coloring now a warm bronze rather than iridescent blue-black. He’s shorter than his true form, though still commanding at over six feet tall.
There’s something unexpectedly wonderful about standing beside him in public like this. We stroll through the festival grounds, his hand occasionally brushing against mine, sharing cotton candy and listening to sea shanties performed by the local choir, and every part of it feels normal.
The simple pleasure of walking openly together without fear of discovery has been intoxicating. I’ve caught myself imagining a future where this could be our normal—weekend trips to the farmers’ market, holiday celebrations in town, evenings at Marina’s new seafood restaurant she keeps threatening to open.
Dangerous thoughts, but impossible to suppress when he smiles at some small human custom or offers commentary on how festivals have changed since his captain days.
“You okay?” I whisper now, brushing my hand against his.
His fingers twitch toward mine before he remembers where we are. “Something in the water doesn’t feel right.”
I follow his gaze toward the seemingly peaceful harbor. The noon sun casts gold ripples across the surface, belying his concern. “What do you mean?”
“Not certain yet.” Roark’s voice is low, formal. “Just… instinct.”
I nod, not about to question him. I’ve learned to trust those instincts; they’ve kept him alive for nearly a century.
Before I can press further, Sebastian’s amplified voice booms across the water. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the historical reenactment portion of our Maritime Festival! Today we’ll witness a dramatization of Cape Tempest’s seafaring traditions!”
The crowd applauds politely. Elderly residents sink into folding chairs with the satisfied air of people who’ve seen festivals come and go for decades, while tourists eagerly snap photos of the picturesque scene.
Nobody seems to share my discomfort about the underlying theme, though I notice Marina watching from her shop doorway with a carefully neutral expression, her arms folded across her chest.
Sebastian continues from his position on a platform near the water, dressed in an elaborate period costume that makes him look like a naval commander from a Hollywood production.
“While our ancestors once hunted sea creatures out of fear and misunderstanding, today we recognize this as part of our complicated history, a reminder of how far we’ve come in understanding our ocean’s inhabitants.”
I blink in surprise. The diplomatic framing wasn’t what I expected from Sebastian after his enthusiastic presentation at the committee meeting. His words sound rehearsed, almost forced—like someone insisted he tone down the original script.
On the decorated vessel, veteran sailors in period costumes begin their performance. The “Sea’s Bounty” glides gracefully as they navigate with practiced efficiency, pointing dramatically toward something in the distance.
Their authentic harpoons glint in the sunlight—real weapons, though presumably they’ll only be used for show. A mechanicalcontraption emerges from the water—a foam kraken replica with motorized tentacles that wave menacingly toward the boat.
I glance at Roark, whose attention remains fixed on the ocean, his posture tense in a way that makes me nervous. The muscles in his forearm flex as he focuses on the water.
The sailors on the boat begin their choreographed battle against the foam monster. Old Pete, who’s been fishing these waters since before I was born, takes particular delight in his role as captain, dramatically raising his harpoon and shouting commands that carry across the water.
The crowd chuckles at the exaggerated movements as sailors pretend to struggle against the fake tentacles.
I lean closer to Roark, hoping to return to our normalcy after this demonstration is over. “After this, maybe we could get a meal at the Salty Dog. They make an amazing lobster roll.”
