Chapter 17
Archie
“Drink.” Archie set the mug of sugary tea down in front of Malachi. “Please.” The word came out quieter than he intended.
Malachi nodded and wrapped both hands around the mug. He was still shivering, even after a hot shower. Their sodden clothes lay in a heap by the laundry room door.
“Thanks.” The word scraped its way out of him as he brushed damp hair from his eyes. His hands shook, but the tea stayed put.
Archie sat down at the table, elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands.
He should’ve been on his way to the Selkie nest to finish what he failed to do last time—to eradicate them from Latharna once and for all.
Instead, he was here, unable to look anywhere but his son, who stared into his tea with haunted eyes.
They’re back.
Malachi’s words landed with a sickening calm.
Of course he’d seen them. The nightmares snapped into focus—not fear or imagination, but memory forcing its way back up to the surface every summer like clockwork.
An eleven year old trying to carry something no child could name.
An eighteen year old still moving with it pressed tight between his shoulders.
Archie rubbed his temple until the skin burned.
He’d thought he was protecting them—burying the Otherworld deep enough that it would never reach his boys.
Heather had begged him to promise. Let them be normal.
Let them grow up without monsters. He’d kept that promise and the monsters came anyway. Not once, but twice.
The clock ticked, too loud in the kitchen. Archie lifted his mug, felt the heat against his palm, then set it back down untouched.
“We’d better sort out this laundry.” Malachi pushed back his chair. He moved like every breath hurt, one hand hovered at his chest. “Ina’ll be pissed if—”
“Sit.”
The word snapped out of him, cold and sharp, like ice breaking. Louder than Archie meant.
Malachi froze. The colour drained from his face as he sank back into the chair, shoulders caving in on themselves. His gaze slid straight back to the mug, as though it was the only thing he could focus on.
Archie shut his eyes for half a second. Pain flickered at the hinge of his jaw.
Heat climbed in his throat, a tight, buzzing pressure looking for somewhere to go.
Anywhere but Malachi. His hands curled against the table edge, nails biting into the wood until the urge dulled.
He dragged in a breath through his nose, slow and deliberate, forcing his voice down with it.
“On the jetty,” Archie spoke slowly, giving himself time to choose the words before they left him, “you said, they’re back. What did you mean?”
Malachi’s grip tightened on the mug. The ceramic creaked faintly under his fingers. “Nothing.” His shoulders were rigid, like he was bracing for impact.
Seconds dragged, heavy and unbroken. The kettle clicked softly behind them as it cooled.
“Please.” The word came out frayed at the edges. “Talk to me.”
“I was in shock.” Malachi swallowed, eyes fixed somewhere just past the rim of the mug. “I don’t remember what I said.” A short breathless laugh escaped him. “I almost drowned after being kidnapped by fucking fishmen.”
“Language!”
It snapped through the air before Archie could stop it. Parental autopilot—instinctive and ugly. His mug hit the table. Tea sloshed over the rim.
Malachi jolted. Not back—inwards. His shoulders caved a fraction, fingers slipping on the mug. Tea surged dangerously close to the edge.
“Fuck.” Archie dragged a hand down his face. “Sorry.” He reached across the table without thinking. Too late.
Malachi was already up. The chair scraped sharply as he stood, one hand flying to the counter to steady himself. His foot slid on the damp floor, and he caught himself with a hissed breath through clenched teeth.
At the sink, he tipped the mug out too fast. Tea splashed up the sides, catching his wrist. He didn’t react, just stood there, shoulders hunched, palms braced on the counter as if the room was moving.
“I don’t know.” The words barely made it past his throat. He swallowed and tried again, still facing the window. “It just—” His fingers curled against the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
“It reminded me of something” His shoulders hitched once, sharp and involuntary. “And I froze.”
Neither of them spoke. The kitchen seemed to wait.
“I couldn’t—” He broke off, shaking his head like he could dislodge the thought. “I couldn’t fight them off.”
“The nightmares?” Archie’s pulse quickened.
Malachi’s reflection stared back at him from the window above the sink.
He went very still. Then his hands moved—fast and angry.
He scrubbed the mug under the tap with more force than necessary, porcelain knocking against the metal, water splashing up his sleeves.
When he was done, he flung the cloth across the kitchen without looking.
Archie caught it on instinct. He wiped the spill, slowly, to buy time he didn’t know how to use, then tossed the cloth back.
Malachi caught it one-handed. A sharp sound tore out of him—half breath, half pain—as his other arm clamped to his chest. His knees dipped, just enough to betray him, before he straightened again, jaw locked tight.
Archie’s stomach twisted. There it was—the cost. Not just bruised ribs and cracked skin, but the way Malachi refused to let any of it show for longer than a heartbeat, Archie felt it like a blow of his own.
He’d taught him that. Taught him to grit his teeth.
To keep moving. To swallow the pain because stopping meant falling apart.
Birds shrieked past the window.
Malachi jumped so hard his shoulder clipped the cupboard door with a dull thud. He spun, eyes wild for a split second, fixed on the river beyond as if expecting hands to claw their way up the bank.
Standing there in his pyjamas, hair still damp and in desperate need of a cut, he looked so young. Eighteen, and already carrying things that would flatten men twice his age.
Archie’s chest tightened. How was Malachi meant to carry the knowledge that the things he’d been running from in his sleep were real—and still out there? Archie had survived by becoming harder, sharper and more ruthless. He didn’t want that life for Malachi. He deserved so much more.
Malachi turned back slowly, eyes narrow. “You shot them.” His voice was steady, too steady. “With a crossbow.” He met Archie’s eyes and didn’t look away.
Archie shifted in his chair. Heat crept up his neck, prickling under his collar. He rolled his shoulders to shake it away, but it stayed.
“Where’d you get it?
Archie’s fingers curled against his thigh, forcing himself to meet Malachi’s eyes.
“It’s old.” The words tasted of dust; dryness clogged his mouth. He cleared his throat. “It’s been in our family for a long time.”
Silence pooled between them. It settled in Archie’s chest, thick and airless. He swallowed and resisted the urge to fill it with anything—a joke, a lie, an offer of more tea. Once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And once he stopped, there’d be no going back.
“Why’d you have it?”
Malachi’s eyes flicked around the room, landing nowhere for more than a heartbeat. Like he was searching for something just out of reach.
“You know why.” Archie’s voice was barely audible.
The river. The Selkie. The wrongness of it all. Malachi had to reach it himself—to remember, not be told. To understand that what haunted him was real, not just in his head.
“No, I don’t.” Malachi’s voice cracked, fragile and thin at the edges. “Why’d you have it?”
Archie watched the question work its way through him—the confusion tightening, the pieces shifting but refusing to slot into place.
“Can you remember what happened on the river?” Archie swallowed the tremor in his voice. “The day Rhys died?” His throat closed around the name. He had to clear it before he could go on. “You can tell me, even if it doesn’t make sense.”
Malachi frowned, eyes narrowing. For a split second he’d reached the edge of the memory. Then he shook his head, the movement sharp.
“You had it ready.” Malachi ignored Archie’s question. “It was already loaded.”
Archie’s breath caught, just for a second. Enough to give him away if Malachi had been looking for it. His fingers pressed flat to the table, grounding himself there, stalling. Of course he noticed it was loaded. Malachi always paid more attention than people gave him credit for.
“You burst through the gate...” Malachi’s gaze drifted past Archie, unfocused, as if the kitchen had slipped sideways. “Did you have it ready?”
“Yes.” Archie’s voice was tight. “I’m always prepared for this time of year. Ever since…” He let the sentence trail off, giving Malachi time and space to piece the puzzle together by himself.
“Why?”
“Son…” Archie drew a deep breath that scraped on the way in.
This was it. The line he’d sworn to never cross.
For a split second, he was back there—young and terrified, thinking he and Heather could outpace fate by pretending the Otherworld didn’t exist. They should’ve left Latharna the moment she’d told him she was pregnant.
Instead, he’d stayed. Stayed and lied. And now Heather and Rhys were dead. The lies and secrets ended tonight.
“Have you ever heard of Selkie?”
“Wait—” Malachi flinched, the word breaking apart as it left him.“ Was I bait?”
The question hit like a slap, knocking the air from Archie’s lungs.
“No!” He was on his feet before he realised he’d moved, chair legs screeching across the floor. His heart hammered, loud in his ears. “No. Never.”
The thought turned his stomach. Bait. The word itself was obscene. He would’ve burned Latharna to the ground first. Let the sea take him instead.
Malachi shook his head, a small, frantic movement. His mouth opened and closed again.
“They’re nightmares.” His breath hitched. He pressed a flat hand to the counter as his legs betrayed him. “They have to be.”