Chapter 14

Alba slippedin the mud more than once on his way out of the cemetery, down the footpath. He finally reached the top of the road and hurried into town dirty with wet grass stains and sweat and his ears ringing loud enough to practically deafen him.

"Mr. Michaels—!" he exclaimed upon stumbling into the harbor office. Hoping to return to the lighthouse as soon as possible—but every word slipped from Alba's mind as he met the old man's eyes where he stood behind the desk just inside.

Eugene had been interrupted by the door thrown open, mid-conversation with a stranger who had their back turned to Alba. But even without seeing his face—Alba knew. Alba didn't have to see. Just like every other threat he could recognize by the mere proximity of them, he knew. Though that threat, in particular, made his blood freeze in his veins.

Blonde, bearded, broad. With a smile that would chill Alba's blood from miles away, freezing him where he stood, not even jackrabbit instincts kicking in despite the urge to bolt. Alba knew better than that. He'd been trained better than that.

The only thing to surprise him was how even Marco appeared caught off guard as he turned, looking Alba up and down while his surprised smile never faded. Clearly not expecting to find a familiar face in such a remote, isolated place. Confirmed when he spoke, tone as arrogant as ever.

"Well," he said, "would you look at that. Never thought I'd cross my lost little pup while running errands."

"Don't bother the lad," Eugene attempted, and Marco glanced over his shoulder with an eyebrow raised. Silencing the man in an instant.

Eugene offered Alba the briefest look, though Alba didn't know if it was in question or pity. Alba never took his eyes from Marco long enough to see it clearly. A part of him wasn't even convinced it was real—wanting nothing more than to blink the man away. Only his imagination. Perhaps to blink himself awake—only a nightmare. But no matter how many times he tried to will Marco away, the man never vanished.

"This the one you've got tendin' your light?" He went on, nodding his chin toward Alba.

Eugene didn't answer outright again, just stammered a few words, foolishly confirming without meaning to. Marco smirked again, stepping from the desk suddenly to grab Alba by the arm and yank him toward the door.

Alba jerked back on instinct, petrified instantly with the look of warning Marco gave in response.

"You and I need to have us a chat, little prince. C'mere."

Alba was ashamed to freeze up, trying to find any of the courage he once had in Belmar's fish market, at the ferry station when he broke free of Marco's grasp the first time—but even without thinking it, he knew. There was nowhere to run in a town that small, with the water on one side and a forest rife with singing voices and a curse of salt on the other.

He stumbled when his cane tangled in his feet, dragged from the harbor office and around the side. Down the muddy alleyway alongside the neighboring building, where Marco shoved him into the wall and took a step back. Pulling a box of cigarettes from his pocket, he lit one, before glancing Alba up and down.

"What are you doin' here?" Alba asked before he could stop himself. Marco quirked an eyebrow, before nodding toward him in expectation.

"Take off your coat."

"What?"

Alba flinched when Marco raised a hand to backhand him. He quickly shirked off the jacket without another word.

"Push up your sleeves."

Alba did. Marco grabbed his arm with a rough hand, turning it over, leaving Alba to wonder in apprehensive silence what he could possibly be looking for. Eventually, the man inhaled a long drag of tobacco, then plucked the cigarette from his lips and pressed the hot end into the underside of Alba's wrist.

"Mr. Michaels said the new wickie had some strange marks show up on them," he said with a curt smile. Alba's heart thumped nervously, eyes flicking down to the merrow bloodstains between his tattoos. "Says you don't know where they came from, either. But you know better than to lie to me, don't you, Albatross?"

Alba did know that—but his mind was too busy spinning, wondering whether or not even Marco knew what they were, or if he really was asking. He nearly risked a made-up story about an ink squid or residue from repairing shingles on the roof—but then recalled another thought he'd had hours earlier. Just before following the salt-scatterers up the road. Before finding himself lured into the trees without realizing what sang to him.

That realization after finding his father's name in the town's register, knowing he was recruited to sail for the Warrens by a nameless, faceless pair of recruiters that went town-to-town just like all the others. How there was likely someone, somewhere, who knew Alba's mother and father were both from Moon Harbor, and it wouldn't be so out of the question to search for both Edythe and himself where she had been born and grown up.

But more than that—depending on who knew what, there was the additional chance someone apart from Alba knew the stories of merrow in Moon Harbor's waters, too. And if there was anyone working for the Warrens who would know such stories—it would be Marco. Josiah's closest confidante, who had once worked alongside Josiah's older brother Herman Warren before his death. For Herman Warren, who oversaw the company when Edythe and Edward Marsh were lured from Moon Harbor to Welkin not unlike those singing spirits had just lured Alba into the woods.

When Alba didn't respond fast enough, Marco's hand tightened around his wrist, smashing a thumb into the burnt skin left by the end of his cigarette. But Alba barely flinched. He barely felt it. Recalling Marco's tone when he first mentioned the marks—and how it resembled the doctor's tone that once asked the same.

"C'mon, now, Albatross," he said, pushing Alba into the wall. "If there was ever a time for you to try and persuade me to be gentle, it would be now. Even Josiah doesn't know I'm here over any other town collectin' debts. Doesn't know you're here, neither. Yet. I suggest you think ‘real hard ‘bout how you want to play this, hm? Answer me. Truthful."

Alba swallowed back on the lump in his throat. There were many things he knew, many more things he could only guess, but nothing that would help him in that moment except one: Alba could not outrun Marco a second time. He could not overpower Marco even a first time. But?—

But he knew someone who could. He knew someone who even might, if Alba asked nicely.

He knew where, if he could get Marco there, alone, he might be able to get away with it. Without anyone else seeing. Without anyone on the outside ever knowing Marco stepped foot into Moon Harbor in the first place.

"Y-yeah," Alba finally managed, averting his eyes and attempting to speak clearly. "Yes, Marco, you're right. There's… somethin' I think you should see. Just you, no one else. Erm—somethin' I think might even interest Mr. Warren, in favor of my debt, maybe…"

Marco's smile twitched with interest.

"That's a good boy. Why don't you lead the way?"

Alba didn't know how much Marco knew about the merrow—clearly enough to know the marks on Alba's arms were nothing to scoff at—but Alba wasn't going to ask. It didn't matter how much he did or didn't know, what he really thought Alba had to show him. All that mattered to Alba was ensuring the man never took another step out of Moon Harbor to tell Josiah about it. To tell Josiah about him.

"It's at the lighthouse."

"Let's go, then," Marco said with a tenderness that made Alba's skin crawl, like a man whispering sweet things to a lover in the privacy of the alleyway. It wasn't helped when his arm wrapped around Alba's waist, leading him with a hand on the small of his back toward the docks.

Alba didn't miss how so many townspeople stopped what they were doing to look, either—as if they all knew Marco and who he worked for, too. He'd mentioned something about being there to collect on debts, no different than any other shithole town that owed money to the Warrens, and Alba felt the briefest pinch of pity on those people. Perhaps the Warrens were who the circle of people mending the net when he first arrived meant when they said all their prettiest fish went to paying off debts.

As they reached the dock, the man's gentle arm around Alba's back hooked suddenly around his neck, possessive, controlling. Alba clawed at his arm with one hand, barely keeping up with the long stride without tripping or losing his cane in the process.

Grunting against how roughly Marco handled him, Alba barely managed to use his cane to point at the old man's row boat tied off to the dock. Marco wasted no time, unhooking his arm and shoving Alba off the edge, where Alba crashed into the dingy with a groan and a clatter of his cane.

He barely lifted his head as Marco pulled the docking rope away and tossed it, hopping down to join him with boots planting on either side of where he lay on the bottom. They'd only floated a few feet from the dock before Eugene came running, red in the face from the effort, though clearly choosing his words as carefully as Alba had.

"Sir, is this really necessary?—!"

But Marco flashed a handsome smile, saluting him like a soldier to their captain.

"I'll bring her right back soon, Mr. Michaels," he promised, referring to the rowboat. "Mr. Marsh and I just have some personal business to discuss over at your lighthouse. Won't be long. Will pay you for the lease when we get back. Double for the trouble."

Eugene clearly didn't know what to say—and even if he did, wasn't sure he could. Wasn't sure it mattered. Alba might have been able to tell him as much, but didn't have any mental energy to spare for the old man whose boat was being stolen with Alba prone on the bottom of it.

Once they left the safety of the dock's reach, Marco grabbed the back of Alba's shirt, pulling him upright and onto one of the seats. He tossed both oars to him, and Alba didn't protest. He took the worn grips in his hands, placed them through the iron hooks on either side of the boat, and went to work. Neither hurrying nor taking his time, both wishing for more time to think and to arrive there as fast as possible.

He didn't know much—there wasn't any room in his head for extra considerations—only that Marco wasn't going to leave the lighthouse alive. Alba would make sure of that, if anything else. He would leave as a bleeding corpse or, perhaps—eaten by the hungry merrow Alba hoped still lingered close by like he said he would.

"You look well, all things considered," Marco complimented with a smile from where he sat so casually opposite Alba, never taking his eyes away. His arms draped over the edges of the boat, legs crossed casually in front of him.

"How is Mr. Warren holdin' up?" Alba asked in return, barely trying to sound sincere. Knowing that small flicker of bitter vindication in his chest at the thought of what he might get away with was a dangerous assumption to make. "I assume he got his leg looked at right away."

Marco's smile tightened slightly. Keeping his cool, but less than thrilled to see Alba so comfortable speaking so sarcastically of his employer.

"Sure did," he answered nonetheless. "Right away. Everyone was so worried. You're going to have quite a mess to clean up when you get back. Unless whatever you have to show me is particularly impressive—perhaps even enough to quell Josiah's ire with you."

"You'll be impressed," Alba replied. Hardly skipping a beat. Accustomed to facing down men as wild as that one in his fancy coat and shiny shoes and trimmed beard. "You asked me where I got the marks on my arms—I intend t'show you."

Marco reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it. He tossed the still-flaming match into the sea, snuffed with a tiny sound. Alba breathed in deep lungfuls of the second-hand smoke as he rowed, inhaling through his nose, refusing to let the growing ache in his body show through even the smallest gasp of his mouth. Even though his chest and shoulders began to throb from the effort, even though the smallest beads of sweat built on his forehead. He was already exhausted from the hike to the cemetery earlier that morning, the events of being drawn into the woods—but he wouldn't let that man see any hint of any of it.

Barely managing to tie the boat off once they reached the rocks, Marco grabbed Alba by the braid and hauled him up the muddy steps. Alba stumbled after him, cursing and clawing at his grasp, only to be shoved down into the mud and his arms pulled behind his back. Marco tied them using rope from the boat, smashing Alba's face into the dirt again for good measure before heaving him back to his feet. Alba could taste blood from his nose as they approached the front door, mind racing, just hoping—hoping—Eridanys was hungry.

"Is this really better?" Marco asked as they entered the house, hand gripping the back of Alba's neck to keep him docile. "Better than the workhouse? Better than sitting on your ass carving fish all day?"

"I'd prefer sleepin' in the gutter over bein' on the receivin' end of Josiah's breath another day?—"

The hand on Alba's neck clawed at his hair, slamming him face-first against the countertop. He choked as blood from his crushed nose rushed down the back of his throat, pulled back and shoved into the cabinet doors next with enough force to crack one of them. Marco pinned him there as the world spun and more blood dribbled from Alba's nostrils, filling his mouth with the taste of rust and salt.

Marco looked at him with disappointment, the same look so many captains had given him over the years, men who didn't enjoy beating their disobedient sailors senseless, but had no choice if they wanted to maintain control. Alba needed to be brought back down to reality. Alba, who was smaller, skinnier, practically made frail since being kicked off the ship where he'd built his physical and mental fortitude after a decade of having no other choice—and Marco seemed intent on reminding him of exactly that.

"I wouldn't speak so poorly of Josiah in front of me, Albatross. You know my temper," he said, smiling at Alba for another long moment before yanking him back from the cabinets. His hand returned to the back of Alba's neck, making him hunch. "Now—show me what you brought me all the way out here for."

Blood dripped to the floor from Alba's nose as he was pushed through the kitchen, fingers digging into his nape as he limped, every step a fight to remain upright. Alba still didn't answer, sweat drenching his brow as he searched all over, strained his ears to listen, tried to find any sign of Eridanys where he could call out to, praying the merrow hadn't gotten bored and gone back to the sea when Alba actually needed him.

When something splashed from the washroom, followed by the squeak of the steel tub, Alba released a breath of relief—only to be shoved in the direction of the doorway as Marco heard it, too. The man's grasp on Alba's neck firmed, and Alba winced, but remained silent. All the way to the washroom door, which he opened before Marco pushed him in.

In the bathtub pumped so full of water it overflowed with every movement, a long tail draped over one end and coiled along the floor. Attached to the surprised, handsome merrow, who had been combing his hair with a spindly shell dredged from the bottom of the sea before being interrupted. The sight was something out of a storybook, and Alba couldn't help the little laugh that bubbled out of him, splattering some of the blood that dripped from his nose.

As he did—Eridanys just stared at him. Never once did his eyes flicker to Marco, not even for a moment, unblinking and locked on Alba's pitiful state.

"Said—I'd bring you a snack," Alba managed, voice wavering, before Marco shoved him to the floor. Without his hands free to catch himself, Alba crashed to the wood with a miserable sound, instincts telling him to kick away before his mind ever caught up.

Luckily for him, Marco lost all interest in anything but the merrow in the tub. His eyes shone in desire, gazing at Eridanys with a mouth that practically watered. He took a small step forward, reaching for the knife tucked into his belt. Despite the new threat, Eridanys still only stared at Alba.

"So this has been keeping you company all this time, little prince?" Marco asked, approaching with another step. Alba held Eridanys' eyes, silently begging him to do something. "Stunning, just like Herman always described… Oh, Alba, this is a gift, indeed. Mr. Warren may even wipe your slate clean."

Eridanys' eyes finally moved to Marco. Imperceptibly fast, sharp as knives, enough that Marco halted his slow approach.

"Warren?" he repeated the name, and Marco grinned like it was astounding for a merrow to be able to speak at all.

"You really must be one of the last of Moon Harbor, then. We're going to take such good care of you, you lovely thing. Have many fish returned to this desolate place since you came back? I hear swarms are drawn to things like?—"

Eridanys moved even faster than Alba's eyes; he moved as fast on land as he did in the water, so much that Alba didn't see exactly how it happened—only that, once the water in the tub settled again, Marco was writhing on the floor with his throat torn clean away, flesh clenched in Eridanys' jaw between sharp teeth. On the other side of the house, the trap door in the storage room suddenly slammed open then shut again, making Alba jump, straining to look—but there was nothing except his own fast, heavy breaths, and the wet moaning of Marco's life slipping out of him.

He didn't see exactly when Eridanys' tail gave way to legs again, but suddenly he was there, scooping Alba off the floor and carrying him to the tub. Alba had no chance to say anything before Eridanys tossed him like a rock into the overflowing basin, bursting back out again with a gasp and spluttering curses. Eridanys already had his back turned, though, trap door slamming impatiently as the merrow grabbed the nearly-dead Marco by his arms and started dragging him out of the washroom. Into the kitchen, toward the banging hatch, leaving a streak of blood in his wake. Alba called out for him to wait, not knowing why, straining against the ropes still binding his arms and clambering from the tub the moment he pulled himself free.

He made it just in time to watch as Eridanys clutched obnoxious hatch and heaved it open, gazing down into it for a moment. Alba heard the water thrashing below, churning in the inlet right underneath, as if frenzied with hungry sharks. His own feet remained rooted to the floor, not wanting to get any closer to Marco's body as he had to—but whatever was there caught Eridanys attention. Long enough that Alba finally said his name in a rasp, jumping when Eridanys' sharp eyes snapped back to him.

"Thank you," the merrow said, nodding to the body. "I actually was getting hungry."

"You'll come back?" Alba blurted. Eridanys cast him another look, smirking briefly to himself like the question was amusing.

"Once I take care of this."

He pulled the body closer, shoving it through the hole—before diving in after it. Alba did nothing at first, petrified, listening as the treacherous water beneath the house finally quieted again—only then lunging forward to slam the trapdoor back shut.