Chapter 24

It must have beenagony for him, the salt soaking his wounds, but Eridanys swam fast and hard against the stormy sea on the other side of the cliffs. That time with Alba in his arms, pulled into his chest, one arm holding him in place while the other cut through the water in tandem with his whipping tail. As fast as he could go, racing Alba back to the lighthouse, having to get there before Eugene Michaels did.

Reaching the rocks, Eridanys tossed Alba up onto them with surprising roughness. Alba splatted into the mud, rolling over himself before scrambling back to where the siren had collapsed halfway onto the rocks. Eyes closed, breathing so hard his body rose and fell like its own heartbeat.

"Go on," he growled as Alba asked if he was alright, giving a sharp look. "I'm fine, just go. I'll get healing mud from the seabed?—"

"But—"

"I said go!" he snarled, pushing Alba away.

"A-alright!" Alba's voice trembled. He stumbled back, nearly slipping in the mud again. "Just—come back soon, alright? Once the old man leaves, please come ba?—"

"Get going, sailor!" the siren commanded, and Alba turned to race for the house.

Through the door, Alba went straight up the stairs to strip off his wet clothes for dry ones. He rinsed the saltwater from his hair before toweling it off, beginning to braid it over one shoulder when a knock came at the door—and everything went still around him.

He'd made it in time. Everything was going to be fine. Nothing had changed from before, he had no reason to worry, to be nervous about Eugene Michaels. He could talk his way out of telling the truth about his stained skin just like the first time—but then Alba caught sight of his hands, realizing his palms and fingers had been stained with the blood from Eridanys' tail.

Downstairs, Eugene Michaels invited himself in, calling out for him. Alba barely heard it. There was only the quickening thunder of his heart in his ears, the thunder of the storm on the house, and the trap door of the storage room rattling on its hinges for the first time in weeks.

There was nothing he could do. He couldn't hide. He was trapped—he was trapped, and he couldn't hide. He was cornered on a fishing boat in the middle of a dark northern sea with nowhere to run. He was trapped, but—but—there was always a way out. There were always lifelines to cut and bodies to shove into a raging sea if he had to.

But before that—he had to relax. He knew how to act. He knew how to blend. He knew how to disappear despite standing right in front of someone.

"Mr. Michaels?" he called down the stairs. "Just a moment!"

He finished braiding his hair.

"I was tarrin' the roof just before the storm hit… tryin' to get the muck off my hands."

He splashed around in the water basin below the window. He looked out of it for a moment, hoping to see Eridanys' moon-spot in the water, but there were only angry waves. Angrier than he'd seen in a while, as if they knew one of their merrow had been tangled in a net and torn apart.

Descending the stairs, he offered Eugene Michaels a small nod in greeting. The man nodded back, holding up the cane Alba had forgotten about in the grass. Alba smiled in embarrassment, not bothering to make up an excuse, taking it back and noticing how the man's eyes flashed to his stained hands right away. Eugene's mouth even opened slightly as if to ask what happened, but Alba had already given him a reason. A reason that would be strange to question. Alba didn't want to give him enough time to think of another way to make his accusation.

"What can I do you for?" he asked, grabbing the kettle and filling it with water from the sink. He moved with intention, placing it on the stove and lighting the wood underneath. Eugene watched in silence as he did, taking a seat at the table. "Must be pretty important if you rowed all the way out here in this storm. Came on fast, didn't it?" The wind howled overhead as if on cue, whistling through hairline cracks in the windows. "Might have to go out and secure the shutters if it rages any bigger. Want some tea?"

"The missus was worried about you," Eugene finally answered, returning to the same old man Alba had known since first arriving in Moon Harbor. "Since you didn't come back to the house last night. She was real excited, wanted to introduce you to our son."

"I caught a ride with the sailors goin' out to fetch their boats on the water," Alba lied with ease, though the mention of Eugene's son made his nerves pluck. He paused just long enough for the kettle to whistle, setting out cups and teabags as he added: "Sorry, should've said somethin'. Didn't want to bother you any more than I already was."

Eugene chuckled. He thanked Alba for the tea, taking a single polite sip, before returning the cup to the saucer.

"Was hopin' I might ask if you'd remembered anything from how you got them marks on your arms," he said. Getting straight to the point—but Alba was prepared. Enough that he didn't flinch, that he could act surprised in a way that didn't immediately give him away for the wrong reasons.

Pouring his own cup of tea, he glanced down to where his sleeves were rolled up to reveal the discoloration. His eyes grated over the matching stains on his hands again, too, knowing the man didn't believe his excuse for those. Exactly the same in color, the slight iridescence of them. Alba couldn't think of a single way that conversation could possibly end without some truth coming out, whether on purpose or by accident, and his nerves spiked.

"Afraid not," he finally answered, taking a seat at the table across from the man. "Though I promise I've been scourin' my mind for it. Makes me uneasy not knowin', too, y'know?—"

"Those markings come from spilled merrow blood, lad."

Alba's heart thudded. Eugene said it with assertion, like he thought it would be enough to frighten the truth out of Alba that easily. Alba's mouth even dropped open slightly in surprise, and he did his best to play along. The right sort of surprise. Not the kind that would give him away too quickly, even if it was inevitable. He pretended to look up and down his arm again, as if seeing the markings in a different light.

"Oh?" he asked.

"There's at least one in our harbor, I'm sure of it," the man continued, hardly a moment of pause from when Alba's voice stopped. "If you've been philanderin' with it behind my back, you'd be wise to tell me now. I won't play any games with you."

"I really don't?—"

"Don't you lie to me, lad!" Eugene snapped, and Alba stiffened. But instead of filling with fear, like the man clearly intended, Alba's expression hardened. He wasn't going to be intimidated through a raised voice—and that man should have known, no sailor alive was afraid of a little shouting.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," he said flatly.

"Listen close to me, Alba," Eugene said, pointing a finger in emphasis. "I know you know. I know you've seen it. I'm tellin' you right now—that merrow, the last one livin' here, killed my boy. Dawson deserves to know Eridanys has been taken care of when he finally comes-to again."

"What?" Alba choked, not sure which part exactly it was in response to. Eridanys—? Eugene's son—? "‘Come-to?' But you just said?—"

"Merrow magic fills every inch of the harbor here, but none as powerful as they themselves," Eugene said matter-of-factly. He touched his hand to his chest. Alba's ears rang. He thought back to those hands pulling a still-beating heart from that merrow in the salt. "For months, I've been collecting their magic to help my son heal. But there isn't much left. Please, lad, help me. What better odds do I have to bring my son back than to feed him the heart of the one who killed him?"

Alba had to brace against the edge of the counter. Eugene used such vague descriptors, but Alba knew what each and every one of them meant. Harvesting body parts from the merrow the night before. Admitting to having done it for months—long before Alba ever arrived. There was no question where the merrow went. Why their spirits were trapped in the woods—even why they blamed Eridanys for their gruesome fates, if him killing Dawson Michaels started the horrific cycle. But with that confession—Alba thought he at least better understood why.

When Alba didn't respond fast enough, or the way Eugene hoped, the man's expression firmed again. He took off his hat, dabbing sweat from his forehead, running a hand back through thinning white hair.

"You came here lookin' for your mother, didn't you? How's this, then. You tell me where the last merrow is, I tell you where she is."

"You—!" Alba gasped, lurching forward. His mouth dangled in shock, staring at the man, crushed beneath a thousand emotions at once. Not knowing which words to choose, feeling more like he might be sick than anything else. "Then—she really was here! The whole time!"

"Aye. Never should've come back to this place, but we'd never forget Edythe Marsh."

Alba stared at him. Knowing what he wanted to scream, doing everything in him to keep it back. To keep calm. To not be too impulsive with his reaction, to keep the situation under control as much as he possibly could—as much as possible while his patience thinned with every passing word.

"Your wife know too?" he asked. "She know, too? That I'm her son? Who else? Everyone?"

"Yes, lad. ‘Course she did. We all did. Quite the topic of gossip when you first came to town. Look an awful lot like your pop. Sorry to hear what happened to him. Awful shame what the sea does to men lost on her."

Alba ignored that offer of condolences, hating how he didn't know if they were genuine or just more acting. How he suddenly didn't know how much of Eugene was a lie, how much was sincere, especially after being shown so much kindness since arriving. That man who'd helped him from the start, who extended so much patience and offers of normalcy, even letting Alba sleep in his home. Hating the bitter taste of learning everyone already knew and lied to him, too. The whole town knew who he was, why he was there. Hiding it from him as he chatted with them on the docks and searched their town records and helped move their boats out to sea when the tide receded. How much did they know about what came of the merrow, too, then? How many knew exactly what went on in the woods the night before, when the moon wasn't there to see?

"Why hasn't she come to see me?" Alba asked, sounding like the plea of a child.

"Haven't told her you came, yet."

"Why—!" His voice cracked, only barely keeping the emotion back.

"Didn't know if we could trust you, ‘course. As a Warren sailor 'n all."

"You—Tell me where she is."

"Not until you tell me?—"

"I said tell me where my mother is!" Alba shouted, slamming a fist on the counter. Behind him, the trapdoor in the store room whipped open before slamming shut again. Even Eugene jolted, eyes flashing to the door then back to Alba, a wave of rage crashing over his expression.

"Playin' games with me, boy?" he accused, rising from his chair. Alba stepped back on instinct, but didn't cower. He straightened up further, clenching his jaw, gripping the edge of the counter in a desperate attempt to keep his rioting emotions under control. "You and that wretched creature—he'll bring you nothin' but misery! Listen to me, you don't know nothin' 'bout the sort of magic that resides here. One song and they own you?—"

"I know plenty ‘bout songs of the sea," Alba said back. "I don't need you lecturin' me on things I learned first-hand. Now—tell me where my mother is, and I won't throw you anywhere you might get a lesson, yourself."

Eugene put his hands up. Considering Alba's offer, eyes flickering between where he white-knuckled the edge of the counter, and the storage room door that rattled with the banging hatch on the other side.

"Alright, relax," he said, voice calm. "I'll take you to ‘er. She's hidin' away in a cottage right outside of town. Let's go there and have a chat, hm? She'll tell you. ‘Prolly scold you right for believin' anything a merrow says, too."

A shrieking bellow emerged from the depths of the hatch, wailing like a foghorn warning, a throat filled with water and warbling like a flute notched wrong. Alba was nearly able to ignore it, too overwhelmed with the rush of adrenaline at the mere mention of his mother being safe, being somewhere nearby, of him having been within reach of her the entire time. He was almost able to ignore the sound of the haunted waters frothing and calling out to him from the other side of the storage room door—but beneath the whistling wind of the storm, the crashing waves, the howling of drowned voices in every direction, Alba heard something else.

The clanging of a turning lantern. Just like the first time he arrived at that house, a sound he'd grown used to hearing, one that melted into the back of his mind until it hardly existed. But that time, standing there, he heard it again—louder than ever. The clang of a turning lantern he hadn't lit in nearly three days.

Always in such a hurry, with that bone in your teeth.His ears rang. Eugene turned back to him, wondering why Alba had stopped following, but Alba was unraveling the lie with a thousand realizations all at once.

Things he'd known from the start, but never let fester for his own sanity—the notes in the lighthouse keeper's log in his mother's handwriting; the boat captain who admitted to a woman tending the lighthouse before him. Even the simple fact that—Edythe Marsh would have never sat and waited obediently in a cottage on the edge of town. Whether or not she knew Alba had come looking for her—his mother was not the type to rush, but she would never allow someone to tell her to wait, either.

"Where is she?" Alba asked again. Eugene scowled, shaking his head, but Alba remained where he stood. "My mother's not the type to sit and wait to be told what to do, even in a place like this. You're goin' to stop lyin' to me now, Mr. Michaels."

Eugene dragged a hand down his face, growing more agitated, looking Alba up and down before licking his lips.

"The Warrens have a long history in this town, you know," he said. Alba's heart thumped. "Saw how Marco dealt with you, too, when he was here. Must be worth a lot to ‘em, hm? They're a ruthless lot, ‘specially with their contracts."

Alba said nothing. Eugene brushed himself off, then returned to his seat at the table. He sipped at the cooling cup of tea set for him.

"I have their inquiry address in the harbor office, you know. Sure they'd be glad to get a telegram from me, lettin' them know one of their lost sailors washed up in my harbor. May have even killed one of their own." His eyes lifted to meet Alba's once more. "You feed that man to your hungry siren too, lad? Sure bet Mr. Josiah would like to hear all about it, if he's anythin' like his brother Herman. Think he'll go easier on ‘ya if I tell him your siren probably liked the taste of your mother just as much? She never was a strong swimmer."

Boiling water tore over Alba's skin like acid, but he barely felt it. He felt only the impact of smashing Eugene Michaels' head with the copper pot, like a strike of lightning up his arm with every slam and clang of metal against hard skull bone.

Even when the man grunted and tumbled from the chair, putting his hands up and begging Alba's name, Alba couldn't stop—he threw himself on top of the man and drew his arm back to hit him again. Something inside of him finally snapped, bent far too long beneath a growing weight, breaking open until he couldn't stop it, finally split open with one final threat on his mother's life for Alba's submission.

Years of abuse and anger and fear and intimidation, helplessness and submission, bowing his head and giving thanks for the scraps he was offered; stowed-away frustrations of coming close but falling short, a peaceful life baited but never given; biting back, keeping his temper, obedient and silent and docile.

He slammed the hot kettle again, and again, until the man's round head was as concave as the pot that bludgeoned it. Until there were no more pleas from him, only the gurgling of lungs attempting to inflate through the flakes of bone and splattered blood that remained of his mouth and nose. Only then did Alba sit back, returning to his body, staring down at what remained of Eugene Michaels for what felt like an eternity—before stumbling backward into the wall, dropping the pot with a deafening clang. The house plummeted into echoing silence.

Screaming—horrified screams rushed him, all around him, making his insides curl and tangle, hands flying to his ears to try and block them out. Only after the sound beat into him until the world spun, did he realize they were his own. Screaming, sharp and haggard, choking on spit building up in the back of his throat, slicking his hands through blood up and down his arms, screaming and clawing at the crimson on his skin as if the old man's blood would stain him like merrow's stained like ink.

Alba screamed until he could no longer breathe, until tears clogged his vision and spit foamed at the corners of his mouth and snot dripped from his nose and all of it finally closed up his throat. Sobbing and crying and banging his head against the wall at his back in a desperate attempt to wake up, wake up, it wasn't real, he hadn't just done that, Eugene Michaels had not made those threats, he'd not put those thoughts into Alba's head, those images, Eugene Michaels of all people had not just compelled Alba to beat him until he was nothing but flesh and blood and viscera on the kitchen floor?—

Moon-white hands suddenly grasped at his, and Alba jerked away with another shrill gasp. Not wanting to be seen, not wanting to stain Eridanys with what he'd done. But Eridanys pulled Alba's hands from his face, demanding to know what happened, if Alba was alright—thinking the blood on his arms and drenching the front of his body was his own, as if he didn't see the bubbling lump of flesh on the floor right in front of him. As if he couldn't smell the iron in the air and taste the rust on his tongue.

Alba just wailed, sobbing, crying, shaking his head, it wasn't his fault, he didn't mean to kill him—it was an accident, he didn't mean to, he didn't want to, that kind old man that would row him to and from the lighthouse, whose wife was back home waiting for him, who had been the only one to show him kindness since he arrived, who offered him sanctuary in a world that never did anything but hunt Alba down?—

Eridanys pulled Alba in, kissing his burned hands with a cool mouth. He pressed a hand to the back of Alba's head, pinning him into his shoulder, stifling his cries and willing him to breathe. Breathe, take a breath. You're alright. I believe you. It was an accident. You didn't mean to hurt him.

"He—he said—!" Alba choked, shrill and unfamiliar to himself. "He was threatening me—! He said he was going to—! I didn't know—what else to do, but why did I—Why did I—! I didn't have to kill him, I didn't have to?—!"

"Easy, sailor," Eridanys whispered. "What did he say to you, Alba?"

Alba finally grabbed at Eridanys' arms, his shoulders, his chest. His hands left streaks of red and pink across the siren's skin, in his hair, but Alba couldn't wipe it away no matter how hard he tried. It only made him shake worse, losing any remaining grip he had on himself.

"Did you eat her?" he begged. "Did you eat her? My mother, tell me, god, did you?—?"

"No," Eridanys said. Instantly, like swearing an oath. Alba's head dangled forward, screaming one more time in overwhelm, but that time allowing Eridanys to slide closer. To hold him, to pull Alba into his chest and wrap arms around him. Protective. Safe. Guarding.

Eridanys turned to lean back against the wall, pulling Alba into him. Alba curled into the the siren's wet chest like a child, skin smelling of salt fresh from the sea. Through blurry eyes, he could see angry, swollen red marks criss-crossing Eridanys' legs where they'd been razed by the net in the cave—and he sobbed all over again.

Like a child, like a frightened animal. Everything hurt, inside and out. His hands, his mind, his eyes, his tongue, his chest, his hip. It all ached as everything he'd ever built to protect himself finally wore away, beaten through after years of cold nights and bitter loneliness and salt and clenched fists and harsh realities. Until every inch felt as desecrated as the copper pot, held together only by two arms wrapped around him.