Chapter 21
Archie
Archie yawned until his jaw ached, the sound bellowing out of him.
The air sat heavy in his lungs, stale and unmoving, as if Riverside itself had decided to hold its breath.
Time dragged, each minute stretching thin.
His fingers flexed and unflexed. The itch under his skin had started, the kind that never stayed harmless for too long.
By the time the clock ticked past eleven, he couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed his keys, got in the car. A lap of the ring road around Latharna would kill an hour. Anything to escape the quiet hollow of the kitchen.
Ina was working out in the Hideaway, so that was out of bounds.
Not even the Selkie could keep her from training.
Malachi was still in his room, hopefully asleep.
Archie’s hand hovered near his door more than once, fingers twitching, before he forced himself to step away.
Malachi needed rest. Tonight would take enough from him.
Cold air blasted against his face, snapping his thoughts into something sharper. Gravel skidded under his tyres as he pulled into the church car park, jolting him back to reality. If asked, he wouldn’t have been able to explain how he got there—or why he came.
The car park was empty. The church doors were shut, heavy oak against pale weathered stone.
Archie stepped out of the car, the airless heat was almost suffocating after the sharp coolness of the air conditioning.
Nearby, the shallow river babbled downstream, barely more than a whisper as it ran past the edge of the grounds.
He checked the knife hidden at the small of his back—habit more than fear—and wandered towards the wooden bridge at the Glynn, a small village of old houses surrounding the church.
The bridge sagged across the narrow river, its boards warped and cracked with age.
Moss crept along the railings, slick where generations of damp had settled in.
The planks cracked beneath his weight, bowing with each step, as though protesting his presence.
Below, the river crawled sluggishly over stone, starved by weeks without rain. Too shallow and exposed for the Selkie. They wouldn’t risk it here, not without a clear escape route.
The breeze brushed his face, easing some of the tension coiled in his shoulders.
He scanned the river once more, then let his shoulders drop a fraction.
No ripples or movement. Nothing watching back.
Archie turned away from the water and pushed through the rusted iron gate into the graveyard. The area was safe.
He wandered without hurry, reading the names on old gravestones as he went.
Many were cracked or sinking, names eroded by time and neglect.
Families who once tended them had either died out or moved on.
Even the flower society who tended older graves had stopped coming regularly.
Another tradition on the edge of extinction.
He passed the church itself and felt the familiar tug in his chest. This was where he’d married Heather.
The irony of their church wedding still stung.
The Wolfendens weren’t churchgoers and Heather certainly wasn’t.
Ina used to joke he was the first of their line to stand at an altar, and Archie had never doubted it.
Heather wanted something human. Something ordinary.
White dress, stone walls, hymns she didn’t believe in—anything that didn’t look like where she’d come from.
He followed the overgrown path towards the newer graves on the far side of the cemetery.
The sleek black headstones glistered in the morning sun, while carved angels crumbled into ruins behind them.
The further he went, the quieter it became.
Traffic thinned to nothing. His feet sank into thick mossy grass.
Leaves rusted overhead as birds, hidden safely in their branches, sang odes to the sun.
He paused, listening. The graveyard would be unsettling at night. Daylight softened the place, but Archie knew better than to trust that. Silence was different in the dark.
He stopped, turned once, then again. The paths blurred together.
His jaw tightened; he wasn’t sure which direction to go.
It had been too long. After a few wrong turns, he found her.
Heather’s headstone was smooth and oval, jet-black and devoid of any distinguishable features.
The plot was neglected, save for a small vase of faded plastic bluebells—Ina’s doing no doubt.
He should’ve brought something, but he didn’t know he was even coming until he’d turned into the laneway.
There was no comfort here. No peace. He drew in a breath trying to ease the tightness crushing his chest. Heather’s face rose unbidden in his mind—the fear in her eyes the day she told him she was pregnant.
She’d wanted to run. But he’d convinced her they’d be safe if they left the Otherworld alone.
A mistake born from youth and naivety. You didn’t ignore the Otherworld.
You either faced its power, or paid the price for complacency.
Heather Wolfenden.
Reading her name cut deep. The kind of pain that never dulled. They’d be reunited one day, maybe even soon. The Selkie wouldn’t leave Latharna without a fight, and this time he prepared to fight to the death. Even his own, if that’s what it took to keep what little remained of his family alive.
His gaze dropped.
Rhys Wolfenden.
Archie went rigid. The world narrowed to the black stone and the name carved into it.
He fists clenched, nails biting hard into his palms. Ina had insisted on the marker even though there was no body to be buried; she said it would give Malachi somewhere to grieve.
Somewhere away from Riverside. As far as Archie knew, Malachi never came.
That would change. They wouldn’t run anymore. Wouldn’t circle the grief and pretend it wasn’t there. Tonight, they’d face it together—guilt, rage and all.
There was no comfort in imagining Heather and Rhys reunited. Not while the Selkie were still a threat to his family and to Latharna.
“Not yet, my love.” Archie’s fingers brushed Heather’s name, the stone cool beneath his touch. “Not yet.”
A twig snapped behind him, near the old Hangman’s Tree. Archie spun, hand already clutching the knife, ready to fight. He scanned the cemetery, breath held, muscles coiled.
The tree’s branches swayed gently in the breeze, leaves whispering against one another.
Archie’s grip in the hilt relaxed, and he let out a long, slow breath.
“Not yet.”