When Gilbert was growing up on the island of Graves Cay, he’d often heard stories of strange happenings—phenomena that couldn’t be explained by science or hysteria. His brother told him of a circle of mushrooms that trapped any that passed through it without permission. He listened to tales of children who disappeared when they ventured too far into the woods, never to be seen again. He’d heard whispers of horses that prowled the rivers and dragged the trusting to a watery demise. His mother asked him to leave honey and bread out so the brownies would bless them with swept floorboards come morning. 

Gilbert took them as cautionary tales: don’t touch strange mushrooms, don’t play in the woods, and be careful around rivers. All of his conclusions were logical. Things like faeries and places like Tír na nÓg existed only in the imaginations of the superstitious. He spent his childhood scoffing at the warnings of others. He may have been a boy but he wasn’t so gullible as to believe in magic.

That was until the Spring he turned sixteen—the year he first knew love.

While strolling along the shore in the early evening, he spied a harbor seal turning into a human child and watched, open-mouthed, as the boy plodded up the road to town. Gilbert had seen his first selkie, merfolk of the Irish tradition. He had no way of knowing then, but he would remember this day for the rest of his life.

As Gilbert chopped potatoes for that night’s stew, thirty years later, he fondly recollected his and Harvey’s first proper meeting. He’d spied the selkie, Harvey, at the island’s only soda fountain some days later and introduced himself rather hastily (awkwardly, he’d later put it). Gilbert, so astounded that all the stories were true, wanted to know everything about Harvey and his magical coat. Harvey was bemused by the notion that he was novel and entertained all of Gilbert’s questions, even the stupid, sort of obvious ones. From that moment on, they were inseparable.

Harvey and Gilbert Park shared a house now on the same island they’d been born on. They’d built it themselves. It was small but cozy, composed of four square rooms with a rickety spiral staircase in the middle and a porch draped along the outside. The fireplace kept it warm, and the windows let the breeze through. They’d picked the flowery yellow wallpaper from a catalog but felled the trees for their floors themselves. The furniture was a mix of estate sale buys and eclectic woodwork courtesy of their neighbor, a carver by trade. They had a record player with all the best albums from their teenage years and decorated the house with as much greenery as could fit—Gilbert was allergic to dogs and Harvey to cats, so plants were a happy medium. They did have a fish, a beta their daughter affectionately named Clover.

They certainly couldn’t afford the best of everything, but Gilbert’s small construction company paid the bills while Harvey fulfilled his duties as a selkie. They enjoyed a degree of bliss many their age seldom achieved. It wasn’t all sunny days in paradise, however. Sometimes, though rarely, Harvey would be gone for weeks, only to return weary and battered. He once told Gilbert that the sea called him out to do its business but said no more. Gilbert quickly learned he was best suited as a shoulder to lean on and didn’t press very often. 

That night, Harvey came through the creaky front door just as Gilbert put the stew on to boil. His spotted coat hung loosely off his shoulders, his brown skin flushed from the cold, his hair dripping saltwater onto the floor. In one hand he carried a massive striped bass by the gills; his other put the coat onto the rack by the door. “Seas are rougher than they have any right to be this time of year,” Harvey grumbled, shivering from head to foot.

“Isn’t it always bad during the winter?” Gilbert intoned, now scrubbing furiously at a stubborn spot on the counter. Harvey, his socked feet dragging on the hardwood floor, shuffled over to where Gilbert stood by the sink and gave him a whiskery kiss. He placed the bass in the basin and sunk against the counter beside his husband.

“Not like this,” Harvey rubbed his face with cold hands, deep in thought. “Not in January.”

Giving up on the spot, Gilbert set his rag on the edge of the sink and took Harvey’s hands, warming them with his body heat. “You know better than me,” he said, smiling softly. “Do you think it’s got anything to do with your kind?”

Harvey pursed his lips. “Maybe. Something’s upsetting it. Something from my world. I just wish I knew what .”

They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps racing down the stairs—their daughter, Willow, emerged from the second floor, smiling brightly. She had Harvey’s warm brown skin and handsome smile but Gilbert’s dark hair and easygoing nature. Her ears were long and slightly knobby, wondrous and expressive, clear hallmarks of the good folk from which she hailed. She approached him with a great hug. “Where’d you go today, Papa?” She asked, squeezing as tightly as she could. 

Harvey squeezed her back, lifting her a few inches off the floor as she laughed. He set her down gently. “Only went into Bones Bay and back. Nothing too taxing.” Willow moved away only to pull up a bar stool beside him, listening closely as he spoke. Harvey leaned back against the counter, and Gilbert hauled the bass onto the kitchen island. “Would have been nicer if the current wasn’t working against me today—but you know how it is.” Harvey sighed, flexing his stiff fingers. “It’s the walk home from the beach that does me in; with the coat on, I couldn’t tell you winter from summer. Of course, I’ve got years of blubber on my bones.” He laughed to himself at his own private joke.

“It won’t be too cold for dear Willow, will it?” Gilbert began scraping the scales off the fish with the back of his favorite filet knife.

Harvey paused, scratching his beard. “Well… I don’t feel good about sending her out in this weather.” He tried his best to ignore Willow’s crestfallen look. “If anything happened, I don’t know if my poor heart could take it.” He turned to Willow, finally giving her his full attention. “I might just pull a double tonight, dear—you haven’t had as much practice in the winter, and it worries me.”

“How am I supposed to get any practice if you never let me?” Willow laughed, folding her arms over her chest. “And don’t forget, I’ve swam in colder water than this. Maine, remember? When I was ten?

Harvey threw his hands in the air. “I tried to stop you from jumping into that lake.”

“That was your first mistake, dear. Once Willow’s got her mind put to it, there’s no stopping her.” Crooned Gilbert, slicing off the fish’s head in one swift, decisive motion. “Anywho, the sea needs watching, and there’s a perfectly good selkie here to do it while you rest. Willow’s eighteen tomorrow. Let her grow up a little.” 

Willow glowed with pride. Sensing Harvey was close to breaking, Willow pulled out her best puppy-dog eyes, clasping her hands beneath her chin, emboldened by renewed confidence. “Dad’s right,” she said wisely. “You can’t go out now, you only just got back. Let me take it tonight. I promise I’ll be extra diligent.”

Harvey’s eyes darted between the both of them—Willow, focusing all of her brilliance directly on him like a spotlight, and his husband, focused on his task at the kitchen island and refusing to intervene. He sighed deeply, all of the fight leaving him. “I hate it when you two gang up on me.” He sunk even further into his stool.

“So it’s a yes?” In her excitement, Willow grasped his hand and squeezed.

Harvey frowned, but not too sternly. “It’s a yes,” he relented. Willow grinned wide and seemed about to run off, quick as a whip, but Harvey held onto her a second longer. “But you have to promise me, young lady, that you’ll be careful . Stay away from the ships, if you can help it, and stay close to the island. Don’t be seen. Please, for your old Pa’s sake?”

Willow hugged him. “Thanks, Papa,” she whispered, “I promise.” True to his prediction, Willow was pounding up the stairs in the blink of an eye. A few seconds of silence followed her leaving before Gilbert spoke.

“She reminds me so much of you, sometimes,” Gilbert smiled, the rhythmic sound of cutting filling the room. “You both can be so… determined.”

“If anything, she got that from you,” Harvey left his stool to hug his husband from behind, settling his chin on Gilbert’s shoulder. “How did we start dating, again?”

“Oh, don’t start,” Gilbert groaned, half chuckling. He tried to shrug Harvey off, but his husband just held him that much tighter.

“If I recall correctly…” Harvey continued despite Gilbert’s gentle protests, “I think it involved no less than five separate love poems.”

“ Six love poems, actually,” Gilbert began picking out bones with a tad more aggression than was necessary “And,” he added, a little miserably, “A song.”

“Oh yes, I remember the song,” Harvey teased, grinning from ear to ear. He started humming the tune, some sappy love ballad that had come out when they were teenagers and stayed on the air for months. He swayed gently, humming through the first verse before he suddenly paused. “I forget how it goes, dear; you have to remind me.”

“That’s a blatant lie and you know it,” Gilbert raised an eyebrow, holding back a smile that twitched at the edge of his lips. “I’m not singing, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Fine then,” Harvey relinquished his husband and shuffled across the room to where the record player sat leaning against a stack of books on the far wall. “I’ll just put it on.”

Harvey fingered through their records as Gilbert continued his slow work, pausing only to pull the soup off the hot burner. “Aha!” he exclaimed, pulling out the dusty record jacket. Willow bounded down the stairs again. She wore a thick, green wetsuit, her curly dark hair braided into two plaits for ease.

“See you later!” She raced to the coat hanger, reaching for the speckled gray coat on the tallest arm before her father’s shout stopped her in her tracks. She looked at him rather sheepishly.

“Where do you think you’re going? I just finished dinner.” Gilbert said rather firmly, taking a bowl out of the cupboard. Harvey put the record on to play, the familiar, soft voice of Frankie Valli dancing around the room.

Willow glanced between her father and the door, looking deeply conflicted. “It’s just—well I—alright. I guess I could eat.” She slogged over to the island. Gilbert poured her a bowl of stew over a bed of rice and then made bowls for Harvey and himself. 

“This song again?” Willow remarked, grabbing a pair of metal chopsticks from the cupboard. “I feel like we’re always listening to the oldies.”

“It’s a good song.” Harvey huffed, taking the nearly overflowing bowl from Gilbert’s outstretched hands. The spicy aroma seemed to bring some of the color back to Harvey’s face, but scarcely could he begin eating before Willow was sat and wolfing down her stew like a girl possessed. In a minute flat, her bowl was empty, and she rushed to wash it in the sink.

The two watched in amazement as Willow nearly flew across the room, quickly throwing the coat over her shoulders. “Dinner was great! See you later!” She said, half slamming the door behind her. The song slowed to a close.

“I can’t tell whether I should be impressed or angry.” Gilbert chuckled, bringing the bowl up to his lips. 

Harvey stood, slowly making his way over to the record player. Through the window, he watched his daughter race down the garden path away from the house. He could see the ocean from there, white-crested waves rising and falling. The lights of ships glimmered like stars being rocked gently to sleep on the horizon. He flipped the record, and another song began to play, one he was just as familiar with. “I’m proud of her,” He said once he was seated at the island again. “I hated the sea at her age. It felt like such a burden, protecting an entire island on my own.”

Gilbert was quiet for a few moments, thinking. “Sometimes, I wonder if she…”

“Wonder what?”

“Hmm, nothing. Eat your stew.”

Gilbert eyed the fish sitting on the counter beside him. He resolved to finish cleaning it and cook it that night, to put it in the ice box for the next day. He tucked his daughter’s behavior and his suspicions behind his ear to be addressed another day.

Leaving the house, Willow hummed her parent’s song as she took the familiar path down to the beach, as she did her stretches and changed shape; even when she was coming home later that night, it was stuck in her head, looping over and over, lyrics distorted by blind panic.

One mile offshore of the island of Graves Cay, a fishing vessel carried several of the Isles’ most influential men—fishing moguls, developers, and politicians. One of these men, the owner of Belos Industries, was a man by the name of Phillip Wittebane. He was exacting, precise; always demanding perfection in all things. Among these things, appearances ranked quite highly. That night, Phillip had brought along his nephew, Hunter, who he dragged Hunter down a corridor by the scruff of his neck, cold and angry. Coming out onto the ship’s deck, he threw him bodily through the open door. Hunter, a wiry, pale, blond-haired teenager, stumbled to his feet and began straightening out his clothes.

“Look at you,” said Phillip, standing in the doorframe. Phillip was a tall man, pallid and graying at the roots. His skin seemed pulled too tight over his bones, like badly stretched taxidermy. When he moved, it was with unnatural grace. He gestured at Hunter’s entirety, seemingly displeased with all of it. “Your hair is overgrown , your cuffs are stained ; you embarrassed me in front of my business partners with your endless babbling.” His face contorted in a facsimile of anger. “I let you leave the island for six weeks and somehow forget all your manners! Is this the culmination of all I’ve done to educate you?” Phillip loomed over poor Hunter.

Hunter said nothing. He opened and shut his mouth multiple times, but no words came. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” Hunter finally eked out, his throat nearly closing up in the process. He wanted to say that, after coming home from a training camp in the Rockies the day before, he hadn’t had the time to wash his clothes or cut his hair before getting on the ship with Phillip—but Hunter knew better, so he pressed his lips together and braced for the worst.

Phillip leered at him a few seconds longer, before sighing heavily and shaking his head, stepping away. “I expect so much from you, Hunter. You have the potential to lead armies. Your instructors speak so highly of you, and yet, a simple business meeting confounds you beyond all reason? I wish I could understand what goes through that head of yours.”

“I promise, I’ll do better.” Hunter’s hands started to tremble, and he hated himself for it.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Phillip said, rising to his full height once again. Suddenly, he winced in pain, clasping the doorway to steady himself. Hunter moved to help him, alarmed, but Phillip merely raised his hand, and Hunter stopped. “This curse… grows worse every day,” Phillip grimaced, his shoulders tensing as he straightened back up. “The treatments have become less effective. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Hunter instinctively felt the back of his head, where it seemed his hair was growing longer by the second. “I’ve taken every dose, as you asked,” Hunter murmured.

“Good,” Phillip turned, achingly, to leave. “At least you can manage that. I’ll come retrieve you once I’ve finished my negotiations.”

Hunter hesitated, his stomach turning over as he thought of the words. “Uncle,” Hunter asked just as Phillip was poised to close the door behind him. “Have you gotten any closer to finding a cure?”

Phillip gripped the knob so hard his knuckles went white with the effort. “No,” he pursed his lips. “My search continues. Your only action now is to keep your mind busy and your mouth shut. Keep training as you always have. I can trust you with that, right?”

Just as Phillip seriously seemed about to leave, Hunter interjected again. “Do I still have a part in the plan?” As he waited several long moments for an answer, his heart pounded.

“Of course you do, Hunter,” Phillip said, finally, with a meager trace of humor. “Even cursed as you are, we all still have our uses.”

Phillip closed the door to the second deck behind him. Hunter was alone, with nothing but the roaring sea behind him to keep him company. He turned his back on the door and moved to lean against the railing. The cold, wet metal dug into his bony elbows. With a resigned sigh, he looked down at the ocean.

The sea seethed that night—waves upon waves crashing endlessly, with water so bitterly cold that a single touch could render even the strongest swimmer exhausted in seconds. Rollers pummeled the side of the rocking ship; thousands of tons of freezing water exploded against steel in plumes of white foam. The boat rocked with it, soaring high over a wave before falling low with another. The Boiling Isles is a fitting name , Hunter thought. Even with the threat of imminent death if he ever were to fall, a part of him found it terrifyingly beautiful. 

Hunter wondered, briefly, what it would be like to swim in the ocean—when it was calm and warm, of course. Almost instantly, an icy shiver went down his spine. The closest he’d ever gotten to swimming was during a bath. He lived just off the beach and had never stepped foot upon it once in all his life. It was safer this way.

He remembered the first time he’d had the mind to ask what had happened to his father. Hunter was only five, but Uncle Phillip pulled him into his lap and, with glassy eyes reflecting the light of the hearth, whispered, “The selkie took him,” and then, with urgency, “Hunter, you must remember: the water always has its dangers, regardless of how shallow it appears.”

Hunter was nineteen, and he still couldn’t swim. Maybe that was for the best.

“Still,” Hunter breathed deeply the cool, salty air. “It’s nice to imagine.”

Hunter saw movement out of the corner of his eye—a flash of something small and quick. Hackles rising, Hunter glanced up and down the main deck but saw nothing. “Who’s there?” He shouted, straightening to his full height. “Reveal yourself immediately.”

He strained his eyes and ears, and still, nothing. The ship leaned forward again as it descended into a wave, and he hung on to the railing to steady his balance. He was just about to give up ( merely paranoia, he thought, just my mind playing tricks on me again ) when he heard a scuffling noise towards the darkened foredeck, like something heavy was dragging over the sole—it had a pattern to it, just on the edge of rhythmic, coming closer every second. Scrape, click. Scrape, click . With a jolt of terror, he tried the knob on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. His breathing quickened. Had he been locked out accidentally?

Several long seconds passed in silence. As Hunter continued to pull, his heart pounding, a steady rain began to fall. Fat raindrops soaked him within seconds, cold with the January wind. Now, if he caught a cold, he’d never hear the end of it from Uncle. He sensed, however, that the icy dread creeping down his neck was not just from the frigid rain.

He was just about to give up on yanking the handle when he saw it. Two glowing red eyes emerged from the darkness, about chest height. Hunter froze, the hair on the nape of his neck prickling like mad. The ship leaned back as the figure approached—first, a black nose, then fur the color of pond scum, paws the size of dinner plates, each with massive, untrimmed nails. The nails, which could have passed for talons, clicked when the creature’s paw fell on the fiberglass floor. The animal bared its teeth at him, dripping with foam and malice. It reminded him of the hounds Lilith, his governess, had told him stories of as a child—but for the life of him, he could not remember its name.

The light from the sconce above the door only went out about ten paces. A mere ten paces separated Hunter from a beast that only existed in his worst nightmares.

Hunter jiggled the handle again. The hound growled deep within its throat, droplets of drool falling from its drawn-back lips. The beast lowered its head and began to creep closer, haunches raised. “Nice doggy,” Hunter said, his voice cracking. “Don’t bite me… please…?”

With a bark that could have been mistaken for a rifle discharge, the hound lept. 

Instantly, without him having to think at all, Hunter used the doorknob as a pivot and ducked beneath the hound’s lunge, coming out the other side unscathed. The hound landed on a rubber mat, slippery with rain, and lost its footing. Hunter didn’t stay to watch. He ran, panic thrumming in his veins, down the deck, and towards the bow. He yanked on every knob he passed, hoping for an unlocked door. He tipped over any crates and boxes he passed, leaping bodily over plastic barrels that acted as barriers in the dim light. He didn’t dare look behind, but he could hear it panting and felt its thunderous steps against the hard ground.

Finally, a door swung inward. Hunter darted inside, slamming it behind him. The hound bounded on. Hunter grasped for a lock, but there was none. He looked around but couldn’t see anything obvious, like a chair, to brace against the knob to stop it from opening. Damnit.

He glanced out the window, looking for signs of the hound, but saw nothing. He could hear the rain lashing the door’s window. He was relieved to be out of it, even if it was just for a moment. There was very little light. He pressed his back against the door and caught his breath, taking stock of the situation he’d found himself in. Along the wall to his right were shelves stacked with nonperishables in bins—canned fruit, tinned sardines, jars of olives, jams, sauces, and hefty amounts of alcohol in tall bottles. To his right, a long row of counter space, a rudimentary sink, and a refrigerator. There was a hot plate and a dirty microwave on the counter, but little else. Beyond the fridge, a hallway split off towards what might have been the main cabin, and ahead of him, an exit back out onto the deck. 

Thinking it was better than nothing, Hunter pulled a few of the heavier bins off the shelves and started stacking them in front of either outer door. He figured they wouldn’t hold the beast forever, but if the monster tried to get in, he’d at least have some warning. He tried moving the rack itself, however, it was bolted to the wall.

With nothing better to do now, Hunter glanced down at his clothes. His white button-up and slacks were soaked head to toe in an even mix of rainwater, sweat, and… blood? Somewhere along the way, Hunter’s right hand had been cut several times without him noticing. Warm, red blood dripped down his palm and blended with the water he’d left on the linoleum floor.

Hunter started looking through the cupboards for a first aid kit. He found one, tucked behind a roll of moldy paper towels under the sink, and plopped down on the floor to wrap his hand. The kit was mostly empty—the only things left inside were a few pieces of gauze and a roll of tape. Unfortunately, no disinfectant. He considered pouring alcohol from the shelf over the wound but ultimately decided against it. He wasn’t confident the vodka would be good for more than just drinking. He’d have to clean it when he got home.

When I get home , Hunter thought. He tried not to feel bleak about his chances as he blotted the blood from his hand. Hunter almost couldn’t believe it—a beast of legend miraculously appeared on an unremarkable fishing boat sailing along the Atlantic and also seemingly wanted him dead. He resisted the urge to laugh. Hunter wrapped the tape around his wrist and across his palm. I’m losing it , he thought. God help me.

When he was starting to think the beast had moved on for good, there came the clicking of claws approaching the door. Hunter froze, his eyes instantly falling to the blood he’d left in a pool by the entrance. Dread churned in his stomach. Could the beast smell it through the closed doors?

Click. Click. Click. Silence.

Hunter jumped when the door shook with the weight of the hound crashing into it. The stacked boxes budged slightly each time the hound hurled himself against the door in a frenzy until one fell, spilling cans of peaches across the floor. Hunter wasn’t going to wait for the hound to come get him. Crouching so the hound wouldn’t see him through the window, he headed through the doorway to the main cabin.

The cabin was a small room with nothing inside but a table with a few chairs, a pinup calendar on one wall, and a door leading outside. “Damnit, damnit, damnit,” Hunter whispered, banging his hand against the side of his head. “C’mon, think. What can we do? What have you been training for all your life, Hunter?”

Not this, he thought.

There was a shattering of glass in the other room and then the sound of something heavy and wet landing on linoleum. No time for thinking. Just act.

He went out the door and back out into the driving rain. This, he knew, was probably a death sentence. There was no cover, no hiding. He didn’t have any weapons. He was, to put it eloquently, screwed. But, he figured, if he was going to get his throat ripped out by a rabid, bloodthirsty beast from ancient legend, it would be on his own terms.

He waited for the hound to follow the scent of his blood. He watched the beast stalk into the main cabin before eventually seeing him standing there, pressed against the railing. He braced himself. It charged at him, snarling. Hunter dove out of the way, but instead of flying over the rail and into the sea as he hoped it merely crashed into it sideways, briefly stunning itself. “ Shit! ” Hunter cried, clambering to his feet and breaking out into a sprint down the deck. He wasn’t sure where he was going—all Hunter knew was to run just a little faster than the monster, and he had a head start.

He came out onto the foredeck, an expanse of empty space save for several nets hanging from machinery above his head and masses of coiled ropes. Hunter began to despair—there was nowhere to hide here either, and unless he felt like climbing, nowhere to go but up. He spied a short, serrated rope knife, glimmering in the rain while half buried among the rope. He dove for it just in the knick of time. The mossy green hound came around the corner, sliding along the slick decking and shaking itself off as it got up. Their eyes locked. Hunter scrambled to a squat, brandishing the knife as best he could in shivering hands—he’d had practice with blades, but always against other people, not animals.

Hunter’s mind raced with all the survival books he’d ever read and the training camps he’d ever attended, the mountain hikes, the free climbs up sheer cliffs, the combat trials, hand to hand or otherwise. He was tired, and if he’d learned anything from years spent honing his body into a tool, exhaustion made him sharp but brittle. So far, he’d been avoiding the inevitable. A fight with this… thing had few positive outcomes, and his chances of coming out unscathed were close to zero. He kept his gaze locked on the hound’s glowing red eyes—he knew enough about canines to know that averting eye contact meant admitting defeat, and if Hunter did that, he may as well throw himself to the sea. He’d wind up dead either way. 

The hound was creeping ever closer, making a tight circle on Hunter’s left side. Hunter turned with it, teeth bared. The flash of his knife seemed to keep the creature at bay for now, but he could see the frenzy in its eyes. Hunter had a choice to make. He could wait for an unpredictable attack and possibly be overpowered, or attack first. While he might have the upper hand momentarily, if the fight dragged on for too long, he would be easy pickings. He hesitated, and the hound chose for him.

With little warning, the hound lunged for his throat. Hunter barely managed to roll out of the way, his foot catching on a tangle of rope. Hunter struggled against it in a panic, but he wasn’t quick enough to escape the hound when it reeled around to face him, snapping and snarling. He kicked at it with his untangled leg, but the hound caught the hem of his pants and yanked him closer with impossible strength. One massive paw pinned his shoulder, putting his only defense—the rope knife—out of reach. The hound Hunter threw his arm over his face, one final bid for protection, and the hound’s fangs sunk deep. Hunter cried out in agony as his flesh was torn, like paper in a shredder, as the hound shook him. The knife fell from his hand. Frantically, he picked it up with his left, and stabbed the hound in the only place he could reach—its neck. 

The hound shrieked and finally released Hunter’s arm. With his free leg, he planted his foot directly into its muzzle, sending it reeling backward. Breathing ragged, Hunter finally managed to kick off the ropes and stagger to his feet, holding his right arm close to his chest. He was afraid to even look at it.

The hound collapsed on the ground, twitching and whining. Something white pooled beneath it, and for a second, Hunter thought it was the reflection of moonlight in a puddle of water—but there was no moon, and it was glowing . He looked down at the knife in his left hand, covered up to the hilt in the glowing white liquid, and with a shout, dropped it. Hunter held his hand to the ship’s dim lights, shaking like a leaf. “It’s blood,” he breathed. The pounding of his heartbeat in his ears rose to a fever pitch.

Hunter stumbled backward until his legs hit the railing. He held on to the paling as if it was a lifeline. The hound finally went quiet and still. Its blood continued to flow down the deck, mixing with rain. He caught his breath and pushed the wet hair out of his face. Waves of horrible relief washed over Hunter, like the iron grip of panic around his heart had finally released. The tension seeped from his body. Finally, he was safe.

For a moment, anyway.

A pair of small hands clasped around his ankles, and Hunter yelped as his feet were yanked out from underneath him. His chin hit the deck, and his fingers scrabbled for purchase on the rain-slick floor. Hands he couldn’t see pulled and pulled and pulled until his lower half was dangling in empty air, and then, he was left hanging by just his elbows. Trails of red and white followed his fingertips. “Help me!” He yelled, half sobbing. He looked down at his legs but saw nothing there. In an instant, the presence he felt was gone. He tried even harder to haul himself over the ship's edge, but he slipped further with each second. He reached for the last rung of the railing, but wet as it was, he had no way of holding on. Only his fingertips were left grasping the precipice. Rain poured down on his face. “ Please! ” He cried, begging anyone, anyone, please—

Hunter lost his grip. Time seemed to move in slow motion as the ship fell away from him, or he from it. Hunter reached for something, anything. Lighting arced across the sky as he tumbled in the air, head over foot, over and over. He knew he was screaming, but he couldn’t hear it over the whooshing of air past his ears.

Hunter hit the water with enough force to instantly knock the wind out of his lungs. The waves swallowed him, and his terrified cries were swiftly silenced. As he faded out of consciousness, the dim edges of what was left felt something sharp clamping down on his wrist.

From there, Hunter remembered nothing.

Hunter woke up facing the stars. For a long second, he was convinced he was dead. 

Cold water lapped at his feet. His skin was numb with cold. The sky was painted with the orange of early morning. He drew breath into the deepest part of his lungs and coughed so hard he nearly vomited.

“Definitely alive,” he sat up, still half-choking on the dried salt in his throat. Hunter scooted away from the water, not wanting to touch it. Every bone in his body ached. His head pounded something monstrous. He rubbed his eyes and took a look around.

He was on a beach, though he wasn't sure which one. One of his shoes was missing, his shirt was ripped to shreds, he was covered in bruises and scratches, but inexplicably, he was alive. Something in the universe had taken mercy on him. Or rather, someone.

Beyond him were human footprints in the smooth, otherwise untouched sand leading off the beach. None coming towards him, just ones leaving. If he’d been dragged out of the water, the signs were washed away long ago. 

He raised his arm to the rising sun—a ring of bruises encircled his left wrist. They were small, semicircular, close together but uneven. Were they left by some strange animal? These weren’t the marks of a dog’s teeth by any means, and he didn’t recall being bitten on his left arm. He looked at his right arm, expecting to see a horrible gash, but instead, it was wrapped in white cloth. Ah . That explained why his shirt was ripped.

Giving up on that thought, Hunter clambered to his feet and shook the sand from his hair. He wasn’t entirely confident where he was, but he figured getting off the beach would be as good a start as any.

Someone wanted him dead. He intended to find out who and why. So he started in the direction of the town, his head empty of all but a slow building rage.