Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
CIARAN
Five years.
He was going to be here for five years.
If Sawyer was only here for a few months, Ciaran thought he could endure it.
Whatever “it” was.
But five years?
Ciaran couldn’t do five years.
The problem was, Sawyer seemed capable of lasting that long too. He wasn’t green like Carpenter had been. Or the line of cops before him. Inexperienced, flippant, extroverted and in need of human interaction.
No, Sawyer didn’t seem that type at all.
What did Tobin say? That Sawyer was quiet, watchful. Observant.
He was older than the last cop, and, if Ciaran understood anything about fishermen, he was patient.
Sawyer had also requested the placement. He’d wanted to come here. Probably looked at a map, saw how removed from civilisation it was, and thought, Yes, that’s the place for me.
Just fucking great.
Ciaran hadn’t meant to follow him up to the store. He hadn’t meant to, but he couldn’t stop himself.
He’d seen him walk past the store, and before he knew it, Ciaran was walking up the street after him.
He’d ducked into the café in some lame attempt to not obviously follow him, then tried to distract himself by talking to Kellan, but then he’d heard Sawyer say he’d be here for five years.
Ciaran had dropped the stupid sugar container.
Ciaran had never dropped a thing in his life.
Ciaran had fought his hold on his stupid human form, and Kellan had gripped Ciaran’s arm, concern in his eyes. “Leave, now,” he’d said.
Ciaran had fled back to his store, and that’s where Kellan found him a short while after. He was pacing, tugging at his hair and trying to get air into his stupid human lungs.
Ciaran felt strung too tight, the need to shed this stupid human skin the strongest he’d ever felt.
The pull of the ocean was only dulled by the pull of Sawyer.
And that scared the fuck out of him.
“Talk to me,” Kellan said, his tone calm yet serious.
Ciaran liked Kellan. He was a great doctor, a steady hand, and a voice of reason. Ciaran trusted him, but he didn’t want to speak to him right now.
He didn’t know what to tell him.
The voice in the back of Ciaran’s head, telling him what this thing with Sawyer was, was screaming at him... but Ciaran didn’t want to say it out loud.
“The new cop,” Kellan hedged.
Ciaran’s gaze shot to his. He stopped pacing and ran his hand through his hair. “We need him to leave. I need him gone.”
Kellan studied him in that quiet, unassuming doctorly way he had. He put his fingers on the side of Ciaran’s throat and studied his eyes. “Your hearts are racing. Pupils dilated.”
Ciaran didn’t need a doctor to tell him that.
He shook his head, his mouth dry. Actually, he felt dry all over. His skin.... He needed water.
Just then, Fray burst in through the front door, his eyes locking on Ciaran. “What happened? Otis said—”
“Nothing,” Ciaran snapped. Christ, if they could stop talking about it, he might be able to get himself under control. “Nothing happened.”
Fray looked him up and down. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”
Ciaran groaned and ran his hand through his hair. “I need water.”
And then, because it all wasn’t bad enough, Detective fucking Sawyer happened to walk past, his arms full of groceries.
Ciaran hissed, having to grip the counter to stay where he was—to stop himself from following him.
Touching him.
Ciaran felt his body morph and snap back, as he blinked his eyes back to human.
“Take him,” Kellan ordered Fray. “Get him into the water. Now. Now!”
It was only the mention of water that had Ciaran willingly moving in the opposite direction of Sawyer. Not the urgency in Kellan’s tone, not the grip of Fray’s hand on Ciaran’s arm.
He didn’t care if anyone was watching. In that moment, it didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered but the call of the ocean. They were across the street now, barely touching the pier before diving in.
The cold relief was immediate. Melting into his true form was a reprieve he couldn’t explain. Every wrong felt right, every cell in his entire being relaxed and true.
He’d been strung far too tight, and now he was fluid and free.
He propelled himself forward, needing to expel as much energy as possible. He wanted to swim, to float on the undercurrent, to let the tide take him. He knew Fray was behind him. Fray always was.
He followed without complaint, without so much as a word. The only thing Ciaran could feel coming from Fray was concern. The further they swam, the longer they were underwater, the deeper they went, the more Fray’s concern lessened in tune with Ciaran’s stress.
Ciaran hadn’t even realised he’d stopped swimming until Fray’s voice sounded in his mind.
You okay?
He looked at Fray, noticing where they were. Had they swum that far?
Am now.
What happened back there?
I... don’t know.
Bullshit.
Ciaran ignored that so he could enjoy the push and pull of the water pressure at that depth. He let his form float, let his limbs fall loose, and closed his eyes.
I’d like to stay here.
Hm.
When Fray said nothing else, Ciaran reluctantly opened his eyes to what he assumed would be Fray’s no-bullshit glare.
Except it wasn’t.
He wasn’t even looking at him. He was looking past him, downward, into the depths of the Trench.
Fray wasn’t as big as Ciaran, not in either form. But he was lean and strong, and his skin, the colour of the blue of his human eyes, gleamed in the lightless depths. Shimmering.
Ciaran could feel Fray’s unease, his caution.
What is it?
Fray took a second to answer. Nothing.
But he didn’t stop staring into the depths as if searching for something. Ciaran couldn’t see anything, but something definitely had Fray’s attention.
Then what—
I mean nothing. Fray’s eyes met his. There’s nothing. No movement, no sound. Something’s wrong.
He was right. Ciaran had been so preoccupied, he hadn’t noticed, and that said more about his state of mind than anything else. He should have noticed.
There was nothing. No fish, no whale song. It felt as if the water, too, had gone silent and still.
Fray brought his limbs in and coiled them the way he did before he propelled himself forward, but Ciaran reached an arm out to grab him.
Don’t.
We should go look, investigate—
He tightened his hold on Fray’s limb. He knew Fray was right, and maybe Ciaran was spooked enough by the whole Sawyer-freaking-cop thing, but something felt off.
They stayed there, floating, watching, waiting.
Then Ciaran could taste something metallic and sour, and it took him a second to realise what it was. He still had his limb wrapped around Fray’s, and he could feel the thrum of his friend’s hearts and taste what he was feeling.
Fear.
Ciaran pulled him away. We’ll come back with the others.
Fray stared out into the darkness for a beat, then he nodded, and they turned back the way they’d come.
Back to Tenebrae Cove. Back to their human home.
The return journey seemed to take an age. He’d been so distracted, so immersed in his own problems, so desperate for distance, it had only felt like moments to get out that far. But it was dark by the time they came into the Cove.
They headed straight for Fray’s shop, which had the lower jetty underneath it for a dry dock, so they could slip out of the water with less risk of being seen.
Ciaran was feeling an equal measure of need to get back to be where Sawyer was and dread of that very proximity at the same time.
The turmoil had slowed him up, and Fray was ahead of him, heading for the first pylon of the jetty, when something—fear or fate, he wasn’t sure—made Ciaran stop and scan the pier.
He saw him then.
Sawyer.
He was standing on the pier, wearing a big coat now, looking out into the blackened cove, scanning, searching.
Ciaran reached out and grabbed Fray with one arm and pointed above them with another.
Fray went still, both of them darkening in colour to match the inky water.
Camouflage was as easy as breathing.
Then Tobin was there on the pier next to Sawyer, and Ciaran bloomed with a jealousy and rage so fierce, his colour changed to vibrant red. Fray spun in his hold, shocked and alarmed, and Ciaran was no longer holding him; instead, Fray was gripping him with eight vicelike holds.
What the fuck, Ciaran.
Ciaran fought with reason, with rationale. He couldn’t take his eyes off Sawyer, but then Tobin said something, and Sawyer gave a nod before he turned and walked away.
Tobin glanced quickly down at the water, eyes widening when he saw Ciaran, and he pointed his thumb toward Fray’s jetty before he disappeared from view, no doubt following Sawyer.
Ciaran didn’t like that, but he did feel better once he couldn’t see Sawyer, the fight leaving his body.
He knew he was there, though, somewhere close by, and that was enough.
Fray’s grip on him lessened, though he then dragged Ciaran to the pylon, and both taking human form as they climbed out of the water, their feet silent on the jetty.
They grabbed towels first, then a handful of clothes—there were always shorts and T-shirts handy, both at Fray’s and underneath the main jetty—and Ciaran pulled on some shorts.
He had to roll and shake his shoulders out, the tension now back in full force. The muscles over his skeleton felt too tight, and it was like he hadn’t just spent hours in freeform at all.
They could see Tobin heading their way down the pier, and Sawyer was right beside him.
Oh, that’s just fucking great.
Tobin walked in like he owned the place, his eyes silently asking, “What the fuuuuuuuuuck,” but Sawyer stopped at the door and poked his head in. “Knock, knock,” he said. “Uh, hi.”
Ciaran’s hearts thrummed so hard and fast, it almost hurt, his limbs itching to morph, to shift. It took every ounce of self-control not to...
“Hey,” Fray said, opening the fridge like it was the most natural thing in the world. “What brings you this way?”
“I just...” Sawyer’s eyes went to Ciaran’s, and, with a heat Ciaran could almost feel, he raked them down his bare chest to his abs and to his board shorts.
He stopped then, and with what looked like a concerted effort, made himself make eye contact.
He’d just checked Ciaran out, no doubt about it, but he at least had the decency to look embarrassed.
He cleared his throat. “Uh... saw you guys go in the water, didn’t see you come out.
Didn’t know if I should call the coastguard, or. ..”
Ciaran still couldn’t speak apparently, so Fray, now with a beer in hand, nodded to the loft-like shop that had open space down to the dry dock and jetty below. “Internal access,” he said casually. “We’ve been in and out a few times all day.”
Sawyer, still in the doorway, peered down the mezzanine to the jetty. “Ah.” Then he made a thoughtful face. “That’s pretty cool, actually.” His eyes met Ciaran’s again, and Ciaran struggled to keep his form.
He wanted to morph so fucking badly.
It was a physical pain to stop it, like it was a physical pain not to get closer to Sawyer.
“Isn’t... isn’t the water too cold?” Sawyer asked.
Fray gave him his best grin and put his hand to his bare chest. “Nordic heritage. Swimming in ice water is good for the circulation system.”
Sawyer nodded as if that made sense. “All right, then,” he said with a polite nod to Tobin and Fray. His eyes met Ciaran’s once more, and Ciaran almost buckled. “You okay?” Sawyer asked him.
Ciaran didn’t trust himself to speak, but he somehow managed a nod.
Sawyer squinted because he clearly didn’t believe that for one second. Ciaran berated himself for his lack of self-control.
“If no one’s in trouble,” Sawyer said, “I’ll leave you to it.”
Oh, someone was in trouble, all right.
Sawyer turned, disappearing into the night as he crossed the street and headed back to his police station.
Only then did Ciaran breathe.
Fray was immediately in front of him. “Tobes, call a meeting. Now. We need everyone here.”
Tobin didn’t hesitate, though he did spare Ciaran a concerned glance before he disappeared out the door.
Then Fray took hold of Ciaran’s chin and made him look into his eyes. “And you,” he said. “You’re gonna tell me what the fuck is going on.” He gestured toward the police station. “Who the fuck is that cop to you?”
Ciaran’s form shimmered with barely concealed restraint. He was going to say out loud what he could barely understand, but what he knew was true.
“I...,” he said, mouth dry. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. I can feel the energy rolling off you, man. Fear. You’re fucking scared of him.”
Ciaran let out a humourless laugh and dragged his hand through his wet hair. He’d never been able to hide anything from Fray. “I...” He shook his head and tried again. He put his hands on his knees, cursing his stupid human lungs. “I think he’s.... Fuck.”
Kellan appeared at the door then, one of his journals in hand, expression grim. “That he’s your mate?”
Ciaran’s body twisted, tormented, as if hearing the words out loud was both a relief and a burden.
Fray’s eyes were comically wide. And when Ciaran didn’t dismiss the claim, it was a few seconds before Fray could speak.
“What. The. Fuck.”