Chapter 4
Spencer liked patterns, people were predictable when you watched them long enough. Habits and routines, the small unconscious tells, they all added up to something useful.
That was why he didn’t rush. That was why he sat, pint in hand, eyes half-lidded as if he were only half paying attention. He wasn’t.
The Ferret’s Mott hummed around him, laughter, clinking glasses, chairs scraping against wooden floors worn smooth by decades of use. It was busy without being chaotic.
On the surface.
Mark had shifted his chair just enough to give himself a better view of the door. Spencer had the rest, the bar, the stairs, the open loft above where the familiars were still deep into what appeared to be a very heated card game.
The pigeon adjusted its glasses again.
The squirrel slammed something down with unnecessary force.
The ghost parrot let out a triumphant squawk.
“I still think the parrot’s cheating,” Mark muttered.
Spencer took a slow sip of his drink. “Then don’t watch it.”
“I’m not watching it.”
Spencer rolled his eyes, knowing full well his brother was full invested in the card game. “Then stop caring.”
Mark grumbled into his pint and Spencer let his attention drift, not aimlessly though, no, never aimlessly. Conversations bled together in places like this. You just had to know which threads to pull. Where to focus your attention.
“…told you, didn’t I? Only two of ‘em now…”
That caught his attention immediately. Spencer didn’t move, didn’t look, didn’t even dare to exhale. Instead, he just listened.
“…third one gone. Took something big down with him, though. Proper heroic, that.”
“…yeah, well, still leaves the bay lighter, don’t it?”
A pause. Then, quieter…
“…not like it matters. Not with the hatchlings.”
Mark’s foot stilled under the table.
Spencer’s grip tightened slightly on his glass.
Hatchlings.
“…seen ‘em myself,” another voice chimed in. “Small still. But you can feel it, the whole place buzzing different. Like it’s… starting again.”
“…about time, if you ask me.”
Spencer leaned back slightly, expression unchanged, but his mind sharpened. Two guardians, not three… and hatchlings. Kraken hatchlings.
He exchanged a brief glance with Mark, no words were needed. Because that changed things. A lot of things. For most paranormals, the guardians were something to respect. To avoid. To quietly acknowledge and then go about your business.
For Spencer and Mark, they were something else entirely. They were kin.
Spencer’s gaze flicked briefly toward the sea again, though the walls blocked any direct view of it. He could still feel it, though, that deep, slow pulse beneath everything.
Always there and always watching. He’d spent his entire life not answering that call.
He and Mark had both ignored it, despite being born into it. They weren’t raised into it, though, and definitely weren’t taught.
Born by magic and flame, and that was how it had started. No childhood in the normal sense. No gradual discovery, they had shifted from the beginning.
Tentacles and teeth and something vast and ancient sitting just beneath their skin.
They had learned very quickly that the world didn’t welcome things like them.
So they hid it, perfected it and buried it so deep that, most days, it didn’t even feel real.
But it was always there, calmly waiting… Krakens Hole… This place had always been a problem, because it called to them… not loudly, not forcefully just… persistently.
Like the tide, they had managed to avoid it for years.
It was far too risky. Too likely that something or someone would recognise what they were.
But the bounty was a call they couldn’t resist and here they were.
Only, the news of the death of one guardian and the hatchlings meant there was more of their kind, so this place could be a home, not something to avoid.
“…figure it means things are changing,” someone nearby said.
Spencer almost smiled at that, they had no idea how right they were.
Mark leaned in slightly. “So,” he murmured, voice low enough not to carry, “we’re not the only ones noticing the shift.”
“No,” Spencer replied quietly. “We’re just the only ones it matters to.”
Mark nodded once and went back to his pint.
Maybe they could finally exist somewhere without constantly looking over their shoulders.
It was a dangerous thought and Spencer shut it down immediately. They weren’t here for that, they were here for the job.
And the job was big enough to change everything. A bounty so large it bordered on absurd. Enough for them to retire on. Enough for them to finally stop.
Spencer exhaled slowly through his nose.
“According to the brief,” Mark said, echoing the thought, “she’s unstable.”
Spencer’s jaw ticked slightly. “That’s one way of putting it.”
Mark snorted softly. “They said crazy and violent. I believe the exact wording was ‘approach with extreme caution or not at all.’”
“And yet,” Spencer said dryly, “here we are.”
“Here we are,” Mark agreed. He waited a second. “You planning on talking to her first?” Mark asked.
“No.”
“Straight to drugging and tying up, then?”
Spencer took another sip of his drink, expression unreadable.
“If it comes to that.”
Mark studied him for a moment but he didn’t push. Didn’t need to because they both knew the reality. If she was as dangerous as the brief suggested and if she was a risk, then hesitation could get them killed. She was a dragon, after all.
Spencer didn’t make mistakes like that. Didn’t allow himself to.
“Rooms?” Mark said after a moment, shifting the subject.
Spencer nodded toward the bar. “Already handled.”
Mark blinked. “When?”
“While you were arguing with yourself about the parrot.”
“I stand by my suspicions.”
Spencer ignored him. They finished their drinks in silence, the evening stretching on in that easy, unhurried way the Ferret’s Mott seemed to specialise in and, at some point, a figure drifted through the far wall.
Spencer didn’t react. Mark, however, nearly choked on his drink.
“Is that…”
“Yes.”
The ghost was naked and, judging by the way several locals raised their glasses in greeting, he was familiar and clearly a local.
“That’s Blackbeard,” someone at the next table said, noticing Mark’s expression. “Well, what’s left of him.”
The ghost gave a jaunty wave, completely unbothered by his lack of… anything.
Mark stared.
Spencer took another sip of his drink.
“I hate this place,” Mark whispered.
“You love it,” Spencer replied.
“I really do.”
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
Spencer let his gaze sweep the room again and allowed himself, even for a moment, to enjoy the laughter, the ease in which they existed, and the absolute lack of fear. Because, here, they knew they were protected and they belonged.
He understood, suddenly, why someone might choose to stay. Why someone might choose to hide in this strange and yet appealing town.
His fingers tapped lightly against his glass, not one but twice before he stilled his fingers on the cool glass. “We move tomorrow,” he said quietly.
Mark nodded. “Yeah.” They stood not long after, heading upstairs to the rooms they’d secured and, unsurprisingly, they were small, but clean and cosy. More than good enough.
Spencer paused briefly at the window, looking out toward the dark stretch of sea beyond the town. He could still feel it… that pull, only it was stronger now.
Behind him, Mark dropped onto one of the beds with a groan. “If this job goes sideways, I’m blaming you.”
Spencer didn’t turn.
“That’s fine.”
“You always say that like you mean it.”
“I do.”
Mark huffed a quiet laugh.
Silence settled between them after that, never uncomfortable.
Spencer’s gaze lingered on the water a moment longer before he finally stepped back.
Tomorrow, they would search and confirm, and if luck is on their side they would find her and finish the job, quickly.
Spencer reached for the lamp but paused because something deep within his chest, something old and instinctive, didn't quite believe it would be that easy.
With that final thought he clicked the light off, not willing to let the thought linger.