Chapter 1
Present Day
Dusk swept off the rocky shore on Latharna Bay, an island off the coast of Northern Ireland, on a late summer’s evening.
Mayor Martin Johnston came down to the Polar Bear—a large rectangular rock painted white, with cartoonish features of a bear—for a spot of fishing after a long, stressful day at the Town Hall.
A few swimmers lingered on the beach, enjoying the last of the light, but the jet skiers and paddle boarders had left for the night.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, just a slight chill in the air.
Perfect fishing weather. Martin rolled his eyes at the smiling bear, cursing whoever had given it a fresh coat of paint.
Tourists flocked to have their picture taken with the Latharna Polar Bear, and the locals guarded it like a sacred relic.
But to Martin, it was a garish stain on the coastline he’d spent ten years marketing to investors.
He placed his tackle box behind the Polar Bear, giving him privacy from anyone passing who might want to steal a moment of his time.
The recent influx of planning applications made him a marked man by locals who wanted to limit the number of development sites on the island.
After nearly a year of legal wrangling, he’d finally signed off on the derelict land at Murdersley Hill, clearing the way for new, high-end housing.
He’d earned a moment's peace to celebrate the achievement and the discrete financial reward that came with it.
His legs ached from a long day at his desk. Groaning, he stooped over and hauled up his rubber waders. The rocks down to the sea were sharp and uneven—one wrong step would snap an ankle. But Martin climbed down the bank with ease, his footing sure from years of practice.
The cool water bit into his legs, but he sighed with contentment and cast his line.
The sun melted into the horizon, turning the water molten gold.
Laughter drifting from the beach caught his attention.
Across the bay, two young women dried off after a swim.
One of them dropped a piece of litter but didn’t stop to pick it up.
“Bloody tourists.” Martin shook his head.
“They’ve no respect.” He grumbled for a few more moments before the rhythmic splash of the waves against the back of the Polar Bear washed the negativity from his mind.
His thoughts drifted into a daydream of being crowned Fisherman of the Year at the Angler’s Rest Fishing Club.
The anglers of Latharna hadn’t had much luck this season.
To catch anything worth weighing would give Martin bragging rights for months, and land him the coveted trophy that had always eluded him.
It had been six years, or maybe even seven, since fishing had been this poor.
His grandfather told him tales of the fish disappearing when he was a boy, but Martin had always lost interest long before the monster ever rose from the deep.
A sharp tug on the fishing line snapped him out of his daydream.
His stomach jumped. He tightened his grip, pulse quickening.
A catch—at last. He’d been fishing since his grandfather first taught him, long before the damn Polar Bear existed, and the thrill of reeling in a catch never lost its power.
He wound in the line with slow determination, protecting the fragile thread.
Whatever he’d hooked was strong, thrashing hard enough to stir the still water into ripples.
Martin waded a few steps deeper, prepared to meet his foe halfway.
Sweat trickled down his temple as he fought against the weight on the line.
A prickle crawled across his skin—that unmistakable feeling of being watched. He shook it off, needing to focus. The line jerked once, weaker this time. The fish was tiring, the battle almost won.
The waves lapped higher around him. Excitement surged through his veins.
He gave the rod one last heave—and the line snapped.
He stumbled backwards, flailing to keep his balance.
The heat of his cheeks was cooled by the water as it splashed over him.
Panting, he spat out seawater and wiped the salt from his lips on his sleeve.
His shoulders slumped—victory gone in an instant.
Thank god no one had seen it. The lads at the angling club would never let him live it down. In the corner of his eye, the water rippled enough to pique his curiosity. He stilled, eyes tracking the current, the way he was taught years ago.
Something splashed to his left. Another splash, then another, and another, each in a different direction. Something grazed against his leg. Martin jolted, heart hammering against his ribs.
Adrenaline surged. He’d found a shoal, and this time he would make the catch. He turned towards the rocks to ready another lure when a tug at his left leg stopped him in his tracks. Gooseflesh prickled along his arms. He kicked, shaking his leg free of whatever debris had snagged him.
Turning back towards the sea, he squinted into the amber glare of the sinking sun, half expecting to find some beast of the deep rising from the water.
Tutting, he forced out a laugh. Superstitious nonsense.
He was a staunch man of science for god’s sake—the mayor of Latharna, not some whelp hiding behind the sofa during story time at the hearth.
He took a step towards the shore when something sharp dug into his right ankle. He cried out, kicking at the debris, but it held fast.
“Oh for god’s sake.” He bent, reaching into the water to untangle himself from whatever rubbish his leg was caught on.
He’d have to get his secretary to post another reminder about littering along the coast on social media.
Salt spray hit his face as he leaned into the water when a hand seized his wrist. Thin bony fingers clamped tight, nails biting into his flesh.
“What the hell—?” Martin flailed, his arms cutting useless arcs through the air. His strength drained from him in a sickening rush. A shadow slid beneath the surface.
A hard shunt from the side knocked the wind out of him, forcing him under.
Cold swallowed him whole. He surfaced, coughing up half the Irish Sea from his lungs, gasping for breath as he fought to find his footing.
Adrenaline drove him forward, legs pumping, lungs burning.
The man of science was a stranger to him now; stories from the hearth rarely had a happy ending and he was right in the middle of a new tale.
He hauled himself against the Polar Bear’s back. The same bony hands clamped around his legs and yanked him backward.
He screamed—thin and high. There was no dignity, only pure childlike terror. His fingers clung to the rocks, knuckles white. Sweat poured down his face despite the bitter cold gnawing into his bones. His legs kicked wildly, water churned around him, but the iron-clad grip didn’t loosen.
The stench hit him next: rotting fish, salt, and something worse… something dead. He gagged, coughing seawater and bile, desperate for fresh air to clear his senses and snap him back to reality.
“A fisherman?”
The voice was silvery, strange. Syllables rolled together like waves, the accent lilting, but unplaceable. A voice to draw you in, only to drown you.
“This will be very satisfying.” Said another, thicker and crueller, laughter bubbling just below the words.
Martin searched for the voice. A mop of black hair sank below the surface before he could see their face. Something brushed against his ribs as it passed beneath him. Then he saw her.
A third, silver-grey creature leaned against the Polar Bear above him, her skin slick with seaweed. For a heartbeat, Martin forgot to breathe. The creature's hair was dark and tangled, cascading over her shoulders, half concealing her tall, lithe body.
A hot wave of embarrassment flooded through him, but he didn’t look away.
There was a beauty to her that he couldn’t comprehend, as though some unseen or ancient force drew him towards her.
Her sapphire eyes met his and held his gaze.
He felt himself drawn forward, as though pulled by an invisible tide.
Before he could speak, the hands around his legs tightened. He lost his grip. Fingernails scraped bloody trails down the rocks as he was dragged backwards.
The sea swallowed him. He thrashed, kicked, and clawed at the dark.
Water forced its way into his lungs before he could scream.
The current twisted him, dragging him face-to-face with the monster swimming towards him—her powerful tail slicing through the water with ease.
The last rays of sun caught the blade in her hand.
Martin’s lungs burned. His vision blurred as he scrambled towards the surface that no longer seemed to exist. Then the knife plunged down—and the water around him turned red.