Chapter 27

Alba's armsclenched tightly as he pulled the water with every sway of the oars in his hands, watching as a moonlit blur floated in and out beneath him in pursuit. A lazy predator dragging a recovered corpse along behind him, the faintest trail of red on the water as he did as Alba asked. Following all the way back to shore, wanting to know what Alba had in mind.

It wasn't the first time Alba had been tasked with telling someone their loved one had died at sea; though that time, instead of feeling grief as the family member fell to their knees and screamed and begged to know what happened, if their child had any last words, anything at all Alba could say to comfort them—Alba felt only a heavy, brooding curiosity as Phyllis Michaels looked at him blankly, put out her hands to take the damp cotton hat he held, and offered him barely a nod of understanding.

"Told ‘im not to go out in such a harsh storm," she mumbled. "Sea's been looking for any reason to swallow him up for years, now. Was a miracle he lived this long, I think."

"What do you mean?" he couldn't resist.

It wouldn't be that easy, he knew as much, but would have regretted it if he didn't at least try. Phyllis just shook her head, sighing and turning to the fireplace mantle to place the hat next to Eugene's picture.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he went on. Not wanting to appear rude, hoping she would continue. There was something else Alba wanted to know, hoping she'd tell him without him having to ask. A question that burned in the back of his mind all morning while rowing to town.

Curiosity stemming from the funeral procession he'd once seen on the wall of the mermaid baths. Another question of why his mother's hair had been cut when killing her. Wanting to know whether or not there was a reason her spirit lingered like all the merrow in the woods. Wanting to know if cutting hair was a common practice when any person in Moon Harbor died—not just wickies and carved merrow.

"Don't be, lad," Phyllis sighed, adjusting a photo of Dawson Michaels alongside the others. Alba's eyes lingered on it, realizing it was the first time he'd ever seen the man's face, his soft features and pretty blonde hair. Reminded of what Eridanys told him the night before. Feeling nothing but resentment toward that person, glad to know he was long dead, too. "Some things are expected, especially when you cheat dealings with higher powers."

Alba's mouth opened. He almost asked. He almost asked more, but stopped himself. He didn't want to draw attention to himself over the markings on his arms, again. He didn't want to mention the things Eugene said to him about Dawson before Alba smashed his head in, either.

"Will you hold a funeral?" he asked. "I'm happy to help however it be."

"Thank you, dear." Phyllis turned back to him with a weary smile. "Without any body to put in the ground, we may at least hold a ceremony. I'll speak with the others in town and see what we can gather together. I'll send someone for you once we decide how to proceed. I do hope you'll join us. Eugene spoke fondly of you from the very beginning."

Alba's smile twitched. He forced himself to think of his mother, of all the things Eugene said to try and trick him in his last moments, not wanting to get lost in his own confused grief and guilt.

He left Phyllis Michaels with a few final words of reassurance:

"Perhaps his body will turn up soon. The sea is cruel, but not merciless."

Alba sat aloneon the end of the dock, empty of fishing boats as the doggers of the town dragged nets through the water out on the horizon. A little wobbly from all of the imbibing he did immediately after meeting with Phyllis, as he'd gone far too long without a drink and a cigarette. Both at once revived every dying part of him in an instant.

Nursing a remaining half-bottle of whiskey in his lap, Alba's feet swayed back and forth, watching the dark water below as the sun reached late-afternoon and another thick collection of storm clouds formed on the horizon. They brought another bitter wind, though the smell was fresh and salty and crisp as ever. He inhaled as many lungfuls as he could, cleansing the tobacco from his lungs before inhaling another deep drag and doing it all over again like a ritual. The world was a little sweeter on the nerves with a buzz on the blood.

When a piece of the moon flickered into view beneath his feet, Alba grinned, opening his knees to get a better look. Eridanys slowly ascended to break his face through the surface, offering Alba a sarcastic, naughty little smile.

"How did the widow Michaels take the news?" he asked. "Her husband's body has already washed up on the black sand beach, as you requested."

"Wonder how it ever would have gotten there," Alba laughed warmly. He swished the alcohol in the bottle in offering, and Eridanys opened his mouth, allowing a string of the amber liquid to be poured over his tongue. It made Alba smile bigger, made his insides twirl and itch with the sight. Lips wet, liquid dripping down his chin. Glancing over his shoulder, there was no one on the street behind him—and Alba couldn't stop himself from sitting forward, hooking a hand under the back of Eridanys' head, and pulling him into a kiss. Tasting the whiskey and salt on his lips, his tongue, wishing he could have a moment longer to enjoy it. But even a little drunk, he knew better than to risk being seen with the last merrow of Moon Harbor.

"What was that for?" Eridanys asked with a little surprise.

"I just like you," Alba answered. "You and your mouth. That's all."

"You…" Eridanys' expression remained the same, but he opened his mouth again when Alba sloshed the bottle back and forth in offering. Alba wasn't sure why he said it, or why he said it like that—but his tongue betrayed him, adding:

"Will you help me row back to the lighthouse? I think I want to like you a little more."

Eridanys gazed up at him for a moment longer, before smiling and diving back into the water. Alba laughed, stumbling to his feet, then to where his stolen dingy was tied off. Tripping into it with another cry of amusement, the boat pulled away from the dock without him ever having to touch the oars. Something had already taken hold of the rope to tow him where they could be alone on the lighthouse rocks.