Rescued By The Grumpy Kraken (Monsters of Saltford Bay #8)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Orvik

I scan Saltford Bay’s harbor, noting every vessel's position against my mental map of what belongs where. The morning fog clings to the water's surface, reluctant to yield to the strengthening sun.

Everything is just as I like it. Orderly. Predictable. Under control.

My clipboard holds the harbor's heartbeat: arrival times, departure schedules, tide charts.

All precisely documented. Nothing left to chance, as it should be.

The ocean breeze pulls at my uniform jacket and I breathe in deeply, savoring the feel of the brine on my beard tentacles.

The long strands curl and wiggle on my chin as a strong gust of wind sprays a sprinkle of water over them.

I look at the dark, cold depth with a pang of longing. I won’t have time for a swim before this evening, not with all the tourists crowding the beaches for the summer.

My tentacle hair shifts slightly despite being tied back on my neck, wanting a bit of the moisture for themselves. My longing deepens into a painful tug at the base of my spine.

Maybe I have time for a swim, after all.

The walkie-talkie at my hip crackles to life, cutting short my dream of losing myself to the ocean.

"Flippers and Feathers to Harbormaster Fenmoor, you copy?"

Callum Finnick, the director of the wildlife rescue center, comes through the device, relaxed as always.

I pluck the device from my belt. “Orvik here. Go ahead.”

“We have a pelican ready for release,” Callum says over the noises coming from the aviary. “I could use your skiff and those strong arms of yours.”

I pause, checking my mental schedule for this morning. I really don’t have time for a wildlife release, but I know Callum. I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t help.

Selkies are like dogs with a bone when you deny them a favor. They don’t let go.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," I answer, already adjusting my day's plan.

As I walk toward my skiff, I notice Old Man Thatcher's boat is six inches too far from the dock. I make a mental note to speak with him about proper mooring procedures. Again.

That harbor is my responsibility. It’s my job to make sure that every boat, every dock line, every regulation is followed to the letter.

And I’m damn good at my job.

The water laps against the pilings as I untie my skiff, the rope sliding through my fingers with familiar ease. A few minutes later, I’m skipping over the churning ocean, my tentacles wiggling with delight as splashes whip around my face.

Flippers and Feathers sits on its rocky peninsula, the lighthouse standing sentinel behind it. I navigate around the jutting rocks, bringing the skiff alongside their dock in one smooth motion.

Callum waits for me, sandy hair perpetually damp, his short fur gleaming in the morning light.

"Morning, Captain." He offers a mock salute, eyes crinkling around the edges. "Thanks for the assist."

I secure the skiff with a perfect knot and scoff. Callum is both my best and my only friend. But I’m not above shoving him in the water if he pushes my buttons.

"It's harbormaster, not captain."

Callum chuckles.

"Sure thing, Harbormaster. Our patient is ready to go."

I follow him inside the center, the scents changing from salt and seaweed to antiseptic and fish meal. The building hums with quiet activity, the soft beeping of monitoring equipment, the distant calls of seabirds, the whispered conversations of staff.

I love this place. That’s why I volunteer so much of my sparse free time to caring for the animals here.

"So, what’s his story?" I ask. “He must be a fast healer; he didn’t even stay a month.”

"Old Salty? He's doing great. Fishing line entanglement around the wing, but no permanent damage. With all the orphans and young birds we always get in the spring, I can’t keep him much longer. He’s getting feisty anyway.

" Callum grabs a large plastic dog kennel along the back wall where an unimpressed pelican claps his beak with what can only be described as righteous anger.

"Dr. Enid cleared him for release yesterday, so off into the wild he goes. "

I nod. Dr. Enid Grenshaw doesn't clear any animal until she's absolutely certain of its ability to survive. Without being asked, I relieve Callum of his burden and we walk out of the center.

"Smart bird," Callum continues, leading me back toward the dock. "He knew exactly where to come for help."

"Or he simply washed up where humans found him."

"Maybe." Callum grins, unbothered by my lack of faith in bird intelligence. "But I like my version better."

We settle into the skiff, the pelican's container secured between us. I navigate away from the dock, heading toward the deeper water where shore birds feed. It’s still early and a good time to release the pelican where he can find more of his kind.

Callum chatters about the center's recent rescues, a harbor seal pup separated from its mother, a Northern gannet with a fishing hook injury, a young otter with an infected paw.

Business as usual, as unusual as it sounds.

"This is far enough," I say, cutting off his story about the otter's apparent fascination with the water filtration system.

The skiff drifts to a stop, bobbing gently on the swells. Callum leans over the side suddenly, reaching into the water with a quick motion.

"What's this?" he says, pulling up an object bobbing in and out of the water.

Water streams from his hand as he straightens, revealing what looks like a delicate sphere made entirely of carefully arranged seashells. It's about the size of a basketball, thin shells interlocking in an intricate pattern. Despite its fragile appearance, it bobs in his palm without breaking.

What in the abyss does this mean?

His expression grows serious as he looks back up at me.

"Here," he says, handing it to me. "Is this what I think it is?"

The moment my fingers touch the shell construction, I feel my scalp tentacles involuntarily contract, shrinking tight against my head. A cold current shoots through my veins like I've been plunged into the deepest trench. My beard tentacles curl inward protectively.

"Yes," I manage to say, my voice low and strangled. "It's a message buoy. A kraken one."

I examine it carefully, running my webbed fingers along the seam where the two halves join. With practiced movements, I twist the hemispheres in opposite directions. They separate with a soft click, revealing a hollow interior.

And then every cell inside my body stiffens from shock.

Resting in the hollow interior is a single curved shell fragment, no larger than my palm.

I need no one to tell me what it is. It's a deep-sea midnight nautilus, a creature that lives only near the hydrothermal vents at the bottom of the coldest trenches, its shell naturally black as the abyss with faint, fossilized streaks of pale violet where bioluminescent pigment hardened into the calcite over centuries.

Almost impossible to find, even for a kraken.

Almost. It’s precious and rare and unique, with its smooth surface carved to show two figures holding hands. Two figures of young kraken boys. It’s not a good carving, but it still makes my jaws clench and my blood rush to my ears.

I’m the one who found this shell. I’m the one who carved it and broke it in half, giving one to the kraken who was once a brother to me.

The world tilts.

I close my fist around the shell fragment, feeling its edges bite into my palm, sharp and painful. Good. The pain grounds me as I come to the realization that this buoy is a message.

A message from the kraken who owns the other half. A kraken I worked very hard not to think about for over fifteen years. A kraken who once felt closer than a brother to me.

Not anymore.

"It's the first time one of your people have come this close to our shores in years," Callum says, pulling my attention back to him. His voice is careful as he looks at me. "Have you had any contact with them?"

“You know I haven’t.” I grunt, then shake my head. “And I’m not interested in having any contact with them either. This means nothing.”

Even I don’t believe my own words. Callum frowns but doesn’t argue. He just watches my face for a moment with those gray-green seal eyes that miss very little.

At least he has the grace not to press.

"Let's get on with the release, shall we?" I slide it into my breast pocket, directly over my heart, where it sits like a stone dropped into still water.

I drop the open kraken buoy into the ocean, watching as it disappears below the surface.

After another long glance at the disappearing buoy, Callum nods and carefully opens the transport container. He reaches inside, lifting the pelican with sure, practiced hands. The bird seems remarkably calm, its dark eyes assessing our surroundings.

"Ready to go home, old fellow?" Callum murmurs, his voice taking on the soft tone he uses with all the animals.

Callum extends his arms, giving the pelican space to spread its wings. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, with surprising grace, the large bird launches itself into the air. Its wings stretch wide against the sky, powerful downstrokes carrying it away from us.

To freedom.

An unexpected swell of joy rises within me as the pelican banks sharply, adjusting its flight path. His wings brush the water as he tilts sideways, heading straight for a group of birds floating peacefully on the waves.

He’s healed, and he’s home. The swell of joy twists in my chest and becomes a pinch.

Home. On the open water far beyond the horizon. I will never return there.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Callum says, watching the bird dive in the distance and return to the surface with a triumphant, all-body shake.

I grunt noncommittally and start the boat engine.

"We should return. I have a new charter boat to inspect."

Back at the center, I help Callum unload the empty container. The selkie stretches, his joints popping audibly.