Rory swallowed hard. None of it was new. Ol’ Doaty’s verbal diarrhoea was an unchangeable cornerstone of their mutually despised relationship. If there was such a thing as true love, then he and Ol’ Doaty were in true hate with each other.
The only reason Rory allowed him onboard was because he’d promised his dad that he’d look after the old bastard. It was only once a week, at least.
Ol’ Doaty and Rory’s father had been friends for a lifetime; creel fishing together since their teens. But Doaty had been a thorn in Rory’s side ever since he was old enough to start collecting creels—the baited pots used to catch prawns, crabs, and lobsters.
Character building,Hamish Douglas had called it when he palmed Rory off to the old sod to learn the trade. Really, Rory knew it was just another way for his dad to put him out of sight for a while.
And now Rory was twenty-nine and ran his dad’s creel fishing business, but in Ol’ Doaty’s eyes he was still the same skinny, spotty little wet handkerchief from all those years ago.
‘I’m going to get the next lot in.’ Rory pulled the boat alongside the orange buoy rocking on the waves. ‘Or you could do it, if you fancy doing some actual work.’
Ol’ Doaty snorted, a disgusting nasal peal of displeasure. ‘Lazy little prick. Said so, din’t I?’
Rory’s fist curled.It’s nothing new,he told himself.It’s just how Doaty is. Let it go.
Rory scratched over his own beard of short stubble, just to give his hand something else to do. Besides, being around Doaty always made him itch.
Rory hooked the rope from the buoy and began to haul it into the boat. No one except Doaty would dare to call him little these days. A decade of this kind of work had given Rory solid arms and a sturdy build. He wasn’t particularly tall at only five-foot-five, but he’d worked hard to make sure anyone would be hard-pressed to call him ‘small’, either.
The first creel emerged from the sea, empty. So did the next five.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Rory muttered, inspecting the torn mesh of one of the pots. He’d pulled up another line afflicted by the same damage earlier in the day. ‘What the fuck is destroying these?’
He cast an eye over the holding containers partially filled with live crustaceans stored in separate boxes. The day’s catch was abysmal. Just as it had been yesterday, and the day before. Rory’s yields had been diminishing all year—and now he had a ton of broken equipment to replace as well.
He had no explanation for all the freak damage he’d encountered in the last week alone. There had been cut ropes, smashed creels, and even one of the buoys looked as though it had been hacked with a knife. Rory was beginning to suspect a person was behind it. But who would hate him enough to give him this level of grief? Who would even have the time?
He stowed the rope and broken creels in disgust. ‘We’re heading back in,’ he told Doaty on his way to the cabin. The old man had fallen asleep in his chair.
Rory turned theStartoward the mainland. The wind was picking up and a bank of dark cloud was rolling in. Rory foresaw the rest of his evening: drenched, cold, sorting lobsters from crabs on the Ullapool harbour wall while Ol’ Doaty toddled off for a pint in a warm pub. Some days it felt like Rory’s entire existence consisted only of rain, waves, and more rain.
He shrugged deeper into his thick oilskin coat. The neck fastening chafed at his chin and the hood sat uncomfortablyaround his face, but it was the only thing that truly protected him from the elements and kept him sane.
He turned into the long channel of Loch Broom, shoulders relaxing as the land began to rise on both banks. Ullapool’s seafront jutted out into the loch on a pointed tip of land. Rows of white caravans formed a low wall there before the even whiter houses of Ullapool came into view, capped by their grey tiled roofs.
Rory navigated around this headland to meet the harbour wall on the other side. He spotted the vessels of other local fishermen, already moored and emptied. Their owners were doubtless already in the pub across the road. Rory would tip Ol’ Doaty out there, roll him through the doors if necessary, and leave him to the other grizzled fishermen.
And Rory would keep his head down, work as hard as he could, for as long as it took, and pretend that he wasn’t wishing for a different kind of future.
Chapter Two
Fionn was floating aimlessly on the current when Iomhar found him. The older Minchman was near invisible as he crept up on the unwary prince.
Tattoos covered every inch of Iomhar’s blue skin, concealing him even more effectively in the deep. He lurked underneath Fionn, watching the young prince’s drifting silhouette suspended just under the surface of the waves. Fionn’s silver hair had been loosed from its braid and formed a flowing halo about his head that appeared to glow under the sunlight above. The prince was so very peaceful—andvulnerable.
Iomhar struck. He snatched a fistful of Fionn’s hair and dragged him down until the prince’s flailing feet were kicking at the waves above.
‘Sleeping on duty, little sprat?’ Iomhar rumbled in DeepSong. ‘What would your father say if he knew you were shirking your patrol?’
Fionn twisted in Iomhar’s grip, yanking his hair away. He righted himself before meeting Iomhar’s placid gaze with a ferocious glare.
‘I am not shirking anything!’ Fionn’s song was more melodic than Iomhar’s and lacked the righteous impact he was aiming for. ‘I finished my patrol hours ago.’
‘Then why have you not returned to the palace?’
‘Leave me alone, old man. Can’t I enjoy some time to myself?’
Fionn kicked away. He latched onto the current and bade it carry him. The ocean obliged, sending him speeding away from Iomhar like a torpedo. But the old Minchman was quick to react and easily caught up to Fionn in the flow. He seized hold of Fionn’s arm, slowing him—and the current—down.
