Chapter 33

Smoke filledthe town before Alba made it to the top of the hill. Carried by a tidal wind blown from distant ocean horizons. Propelling Alba forward with the flames, swirling constantly around him as if to clear the air before it reached his lungs. Circling him as he stood at the mouth of the cemetery, overlooking the town painted orange against the darkness as fire spread.

He wanted the burn of woodsmoke in his lungs; he wanted it to burn his eyes and nose and throat and chest—he wanted to burn all over. He wanted to glow like flames, like the blinding light of a lighthouse lantern, so they would all see him coming. So Josiah Warren would see him coming and know—he was a death knell to run from. He was a rocky outcropping that would tear anyone who came too close into pieces, leaving nothing behind but scattered bone and flesh for seabirds to pick at.

Using the shotgun as a makeshift cane, Alba limped to the road leading into town. The thick smoke swelled high enough to block out the stunningly bright moon, and people took notice. Pointing, gasping, shouting about a fire just as Alba reached the end of the road, some rushing up the street past him, some back into their homes, others toward the swollen sea where they thought the water would protect them. Faces Alba had come to know in passing, rushing by as if he didn't exist.

A cluster of Warren sailors huddled around the side of one of the buildings, speaking in low, rushed voices as they stared up at the growing smoke, clearly anxious as they kept glancing down the road. Waiting for permission to go from the man they were loyal to, finding comfort in a single shared cigarette passed between them.

Alba approached with the shotgun tucked in the crook of his arm, asking outright where he could find Josiah. When the first man took one look at him and barked a laugh, Alba lifted the gun and pulled the trigger. It knocked him back, summoning screams of alarm from the others, scattering like rats as Alba tossed the empty gun away. He claimed the newly dead-man's own firearm from the road to replace it, stealing a handful of bulky ammunition from his pocket in the same motion.

Turning, Alba cornered one of the remaining dogs as the others escaped, who threw his hands up, cowering, declaring "He's at the Michaels'! At the Michaels' house!" before frantically shoving Alba away and racing up the road with the others.

Alba's ears rang, shoulder sore from the kick of the blast as he popped the barrel of the new shotgun open to check the shells inside. He then wasted no more time, turning to head in the direction he'd once followed on the heels of Eugene Michaels.

With his limp growing heavier with every step, the shotgun returned to supporting his stride. He stumbled every time someone shoved him out of the way, racing from the flames spreading over beach grass and licking at their homes. Sparks caught on sails flapping on docked boats, devouring every salt-soaked board.

Alba walked toward it, the glow, the heat that made sweat build on his face and burned his eyes. Dragging himself forward, heart pounding as he imagined it. Josiah sitting across the table from Phyllis Michaels, drinking tea and eating dinner. Perhaps discussing his brother Herman, perhaps discussing her son Dawson. That house where he and Eridanys had slept side by side in a cramped bed after fucking one another into the pillows—all the while Alba never knowing what other terrible things the siren may have been subjected to beneath that same roof. It was enough to make Alba's vision blur, flaring bright and hot as the flames, on the verge of combusting himself.

The front door glimmered with merrow scales pressed into the plaster around the entryway. Alba reached it just as it opened—Josiah on the other side, half a movement from stepping out to see what all the noise was about. He met Alba's eyes—and ducked an instant before Alba pulled the trigger, blasting a hole through the side of the doorframe where his head had been.

"Bastard!" Alba shrieked, firing another shot that decimated the staircase railing into splinters. Racing inside after him, Alba popped out the spent shell-casings and replaced them with a quick motion. Like his mother once taught him in the woods outside their house.

Just inside, Phyllis Michaels lunged at him from the sitting room. Alba knocked her back with his elbow, before yanking on the trigger and sending her backward, next. Ears ringing, he stared at where she writhed on the floor, clawing at the old rug and dragging herself toward a nearby trunk, pulling it over on top of herself. Inside, a merrow-hair shawl tumbled out, stained instantly with her blood as she attempted to pull it over herself.

"Good-for-nothing... wickie…" she moaned. "Should've killed you while you slept… like I meant to… Knew you were fucking that—damn merrow… A good-for-nothing… salted tramp, just like your damn—mother…"

Alba approached. He kicked the trunk away, taking a handful of the shawl and wrenching it from her hands. She turned, staring up at him with wide eyes, chest splayed open and bleeding over the rug where she lay.

"Did you offer my mother a place to stay, too?" he asked breathlessly. "When she first got here. Did you all welcome her back?"

Phyllis' eyes darkened, but a blood-splattered grin split her face.

"Of—course," she choked. "We—were happy to have her—back again. Little—Edie Marsh—a stupid bitch, ever since—she was a little girl. Always talkin'—‘bout how she was goin' to find a better life—somewhere else. Came back anyway. Was a real—delight—seein' the shock on her face when—we dragged her to the altar. Never cried or begged—'til she felt the sickle on her throat." Her smile spread wider, eyes bulging. "You have your father's—ugly red hair, you know. But her eyes."

Alba pulled the trigger, decorating the side of the couch and hardwood floor with her last splatter of life. Making his ears ring, making his world spin, vision bright and throbbing and wavering in and out as his hands were and weren't his with every twitch of his finger on the trigger.

One more. Only one more, making his tongue roll over in his mouth. Like a hungry churning deep in his gut, satisfied with every pull of the trigger. Squirming in anticipation as he popped the empty shells from the gun and replaced them one last time.

Over him, that home barely standing beneath the weight of the sins carried out in its belly groaned, earth below begging to be cleansed where no amount of salt scattered by white-clothed hands could burn the evil away any longer. Only fire, only fire, like traveling preachers used to call out on the street as he and his mother hurriedly passed by. Alba had been baptized by them as a baby, promised fire and brimstone if he didn't worship their book—but god had never done anything to save him from the devil that came calling when he was thirteen.

He didn't need god where even salt couldn't cleanse wickedness—he would bring his own fire. He would take care of the devil, himself, with the flames of cast-off souls and a shotgun in his hand.

In his search, Alba was forced to reckon with the full extent of the Michaels' involvement in the butchering of the merrow of Moon Harbor. Hidden off the kitchen was a room with ceramic floor tiles stained black with blood; pastel wallpaper splattered like a pen whipping ink. A faded black and white photograph of Eugene standing with a smiling crew alongside a dazed merrow dangling like a fish on a line behind them. Crude drawings of merrow anatomy pinned to the walls. Scribbled notes of the healing capabilities of their skin, teeth, bones, hair woven into pretty white shawls. Journals logging each and every one of them caught and when. How long they wasted away in the old lighthouse beneath the turning light. Exactly how many still-beating hearts the man fed his son in hopes of saving him.

Alba destroyed that room in a wild burst of rage, even knowing the approaching flames would devour far more than he could break and tear. Wanting the fire to know exactly what deserved to burn most.

With no sign of Josiah on the bottom floor, Alba made his way to the stairs. Adrenaline helped dilute the ache in his hip, but he still dragged his shoulder along the wall as he climbed.

Moving slowly, listening with every step, he was aware that whenever the wood creaked beneath his feet, Josiah would hear him. Josiah would anticipate where he was, where he came from. It didn't matter to Alba—even if the man hid from him to avoid the gun, eventually the fire would come and consume them both.

As he reached the top of the stairs, something creaked behind the one door Phyllis hid from him the night he stayed. Alba moved for it. Nudging it open with his foot, he raised the gun to his nose, holding his breath as he took in the room. The distinct, sticky stench of decomposition struck him first, a miasma almost heavy enough that he had to cover his mouth.

The glass in the window frame cracked against the heat from the neighboring building alight in flame; mold grew in dark clusters along the head and baseboards on the walls, bed neatly made and recently slept in by the glass of water on the nightstand. And in the corner—a single figure sat stark upright, unmoving in a chair, facing partially toward the bed, the door. Soft blonde hair was brushed back, silvery pigment brushed over his closed eyes and cheeks dusted with far too much rouge, lips stained red with lipstick lovingly drawn on. He wore fine clothes, finer than any others Alba had seen in town, silk vest buttoned up over his chest, high collar masking dark bruising on the front of his throat, silver cufflinks reflecting firelight over his wrists. A merrow-hair shawl was draped over his legs, and Alba's blood ran cold when his eyes lingered on the cards spread out neatly in front of him. Cigarette cards, including the ones he'd shared with Eugene.

Eridanys' previous caller of the shore. Dawson Michaels—or at least, what remained of him.

Despite the clear attempts at making him look young, lively, merely sleeping peacefully in his chair—the closer Alba crept, the more the pallor of Dawson's skin was undeniable. His hands were porcelain white, fingernails gray and sunken; he hunched unnaturally, hardly reclining in the chair as much as he was propped up by the arm rest. He did not move, not even to breathe, not even to twitch, even as the window finally shattered from the heat and flames curled up the wallpaper.

"He was even more beautiful in life."

Alba jerked around, raising the gun as Josiah stepped into the room behind him. He held a ragged fishing knife in his hand, eyes wide, wild, directed at Alba with bloodlust shining in them.

"How much did your mermaid tell you?" he went on, pausing just long enough to get a good look at Alba, his posture, how he held the gun, as if trying to determine whether or not he actually knew how to use it.

Alba adjusted his grip, knowingly, to prove himself a threat. Josiah's mouth twitched.

"I was young when they got engaged, but I remember being stunned by the sight of him. I remember how shocked I was that my brother would ever want to marry someone from such a run-down shithole as this—But the second I saw him, I understood." Josiah's eyes flickered to Dawson, the briefest little look, as if even as an adult he couldn't believe it. "Dawson's theories on using merrow to lure fish was supposed to make our family wealthier, enough that we wouldn't need anything like steam ships even now. Even in death, Herman wouldn't tell anyone what happened here, what he and Dawson were planning—and it took me years of scouring his things to get even the smallest understanding.

"He was so secretive—so possessive of his lover's work. Didn't want anyone claiming it as their own, even after he'd died. Even Marco kept his secrets—apparently even visiting this place every now and again to continue recruiting sailors behind my back. Selfish and stupid, all of them. Dawson, my brother, Marco, every half-wit in this town who chopped up every last merrow living in their harbor." His jaw clenched. "Except one. That last one of yours. After I'm done with you, I'll truss him up like a prized catch and he'll bring me more acclaim than Herman ever deserved. I'll feed disobedient sailors to him when he's hungry, and come back to this place every few years to see if all of Moon Harbor's murdered wickies actually turned into merrow like these idiots always prayed. Maybe I'll find you again, then. Unable to sing with your throat slit. Just like your mother."

Alba pulled the trigger, but Josiah barely moved out of the way. He lunged with the knife bared, slamming Alba back onto the bed, wooden feet scraping across the floor as Alba used the gun as a shield against the knife. His arms shook beneath Josiah's weight, the pressure of the knife hovering over his eye almost too much to hold back. His saving grace was a rafter cracking in two overhead, one side tumbling down and smashing against Josiah's back, knocking him to the side and allowing Alba to kick him off fully.

Josiah's knife slipped, clattering to the floor as Alba managed to throw himself over the opposite side of the bed, falling to his knees then scrambling away as Josiah lunged. Alba tumbled backward into where Dawson sat, knocking the corpse loose to topple to the floor. It hit with a weighty thud, still soft and pliable as the day he died.

Cold, clammy, lifeless—dead. Dead all along, despite the merrow hearts. Despite all the blood spilled by Eugene Michaels and everyone else who listened to him. It filled Alba with bitter, toxic fury as black as the blood staining his arms, ears ringing loud enough to deafen the rest of his thoughts, leaving only his emotion to drive his instincts—and he kicked himself back into the wall, lifting the shotgun to blow the head off of Dawson Michaels' dead body.

Josiah let out a horrified sound behind him, but the sight filled Alba with euphoria. Staring at the thick, congealed remains splattered over the floor at his feet, he choked back a sudden bout of laughter as he couldn't help it. That person who had been dead for years, who resembled Alba in age when Eridanys tore his throat out, who Alba knew so little of—except that he'd done nothing but mistreat the siren he'd come to care so much for. The merrow-turned-siren who Alba would cherish and love and grow old with despite it all, in spite of it all.

Josiah lunged for Alba's gun, surprising him with the speed and dazing him when the butt of it collided with the side of his face in the power struggle. Stumbling back, Josiah pulled the weapon into his shoulder, and Alba threw his hands up on reflex, despite knowing both shells were already spent. Once Josiah realized it, himself—he reeled the shotgun back, smashing it into Alba's head before Alba could dodge away.

Josiah grabbed him next, wrenching him from the wall to shove him to the floor, smearing Dawson's remains with Alba's back as he pinned him and smashed fists into his face.

Alba barely had the strength to put his hands out, a useless attempt at defending himself as they were easily knocked away. Instead, he lashed his arm out to where Dawson's remains slumped alongside him. Scraping fingers through the stringy viscera, he shoved a handful of the rot into Josiah's face, grinding it into the man's mouth until he felt teeth graze his knuckles.

Josiah bellowed out in disgust, buckling over and choking, gagging on the taste, allowing Alba just enough time to kick him off and drag himself away—toward where the serrated fishing knife had skittered beneath the bed.

Stretching for it, grappling at the handle, he barely scooped it into his hand just as Josiah grabbed him by the back of the shirt and yanked him back out again.

Hands found his throat, pressing into it, choking him—and he threw his arm in an arc, slamming the blade into the side of Josiah's neck. Deep enough that blood instantly waterfalled out, drenching Alba's hand and soaking down into his sleeve—though Josiah didn't react right away. Too overcome with his own adrenaline, his rage, he only tightened his hands.

Beneath strained gasps, Alba shoved the blade to the side, cutting through the clenched muscles of the man's neck and summoning more blood to gush from the opening. Splattering him with crimson hot enough to nearly burn his skin, pouring in a curtain over his chest, his arms, his face, into his mouth until he choked on it when finally able to gasp.

Josiah finally pressed a hand into the wound, gargling, wheezing. Staring at Alba without moving, as Alba managed to pull himself free. The man found the bloody knife on the floor where Alba dropped it, lashing out with it, breaths growing raspy as he still never took his eyes from Alba stumbling away from him.

"Just die already!" Alba screamed, and the corner of Josiah's mouth quirked in response. Alba's final plea for relief, for respite, to be free of the weight suffocating him since the day he was born. The yoke around his choking neck, the burden on his back, exhausted until exhaustion was all he knew. Just wanting relief—just wanting a chance to breathe. To take the life he'd lost through his fingers again and again and again, that time refusing to let it go, clinging to it with all he had left—a life that would start only when that man was dead.

He grabbed the shotgun off the floor. Josiah attempted to say something, to taunt him, to cut him with the knife—but Alba smashed the butt of the shotgun into his head. Josiah crumpled to the floor with a grunt, and Alba hit him again. Again and again, bludgeoning his skull until there was hardly anything left. Until the man was faceless and inhuman even with air still in his lungs, as faceless and rotten as Dawson's corpse, as Eugene and Phyllis Michaels' corpses, as all those people sacrificed to the sea on that bloody altar. As faceless and rotten and inhuman as Alba had become since first stolen off the road, just a sailor, just a body, just two arms to heave nets from the sea—only just realizing he had a face to be seen at all when Eridanys held it gentler than he ever deserved.

Only when the shotgun fell from his grasp, slippery with blood, did Alba finally stop. He sank into the gore at his knees, breathing heavy, jaw hanging slack before clenching tight. A wailing, tearing emotion whirled in his chest, growing tighter, higher up his throat, before finally spilling out of him—except instead of a scream, it was splitting laughter. A shriek of amusement, erupting so hard from his chest that he buckled forward, wrapping arms around himself as more vomited out of him, no different than the cries of dread while kneeling in Eugene's splattered viscera. Making every inch of him shake, gasping and trembling and shrieking with laughter to the point he couldn't breathe, until the blood spilling from his nose and split lip dribbled over his tongue and down the back of his throat where it mixed with Josiah's splattered over him.

Alba laughed until tears filled his eyes, burning and blinding him; until he didn't know if mirth or agony howled from his lungs. He hardly felt any difference between its hands around his throat and how Josiah had clutched him. Choking him, suffocating, making him bend and hunch and gasp until he was sure his heart would split and erupt out of his chest.

His hands clawed at the thick, hot blood painted across the floor, at the lifeless flesh within reach, smashed into unrecognizable oblivion. He raked fingers through it, squeezing until handfuls of minced entrails squirted between his knuckles, laughing again when he realized why it was so familiar. That old, frozen memory of having to eat to live. Forced to eat his own kind by the demands of the man who laid faceless on the floorboards, only a few feet from being devoured by fire. Whose generational greed resulted in Alba's father being cannibalized in death; in Edythe being digested by the salty sea; in Eridanys forced into depravity to feast on others until his song warped into something predatory.

Alba scraped handfuls of indistinguishable innards between his fingers. He choked back another bout of laughter, a decade of crushing anguish, and buried a handful of the last remains of the Marsh family curse into his mouth.

Using furniture,door frames, the walls to support himself, Alba limped from the room. Down the hallway, the stairs. Slowed by the pain in his leg, his blurry vision through eyes nearly swollen shut, how hard it was to breathe. Moving to put one foot ahead of the other by the sound of fire devouring the house's wooden bones, until they groaned and crackled with bowing insides.

The world warped and smeared around him, thoughts dragging into a trickle, every movement requiring more effort than the last. Requiring him to blink through growing sweat dripping from his brow into his eyes, infiltrating his mouth and mixing with the blood on his tongue.

The door still hung open as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He could see the street through it. Empty, silent, except for roaring flames turning that town to ash. He thought he could hear the sea close by, as if the king tide swelled higher than ever before. Searching for its sacrifice. Seeking the human blood offered to sate it every month prior, as if it hadn't been given enough.

Alba followed the sound, hoping it would ease the dryness of his mouth. The cracked dust in his lungs. The hot blood searing his skin.

The moment he stepped into the nighttime air, he collapsed to the road, cobblestones baked and warm from the heat of the fire.

"Eri," he mumbled, closing his eyes as exhaustion crept over him. Heavy and sticky and making it impossible to keep himself above the surface of thought. "Eridanys… I'm here."

The sound of water trickled closer, a king tide seeking its sacrifice, reaching as far as it could with blood-stained fingers, snaking between cracks in the cobblestones. It found Alba where he lay, just like the sea always did when he thought he'd left her reach. Dark and muddy, made black by the soot of the burning town, tinged pink with blood. Growing. Swelling.

Gliding past him to continue up the street, spilling into open doors and sweeping debris away with it. Offering Alba only a passing greeting before continuing on its way, intent on other things than simply drowning him.

Alba closed his eyes again, resting against the cooked ground, waiting to be carried away like the rest of the crumbling houses. Not fighting as the tide swelled higher. Draping over his hands, his legs, his back, until it infiltrated his mouth and washed away any remaining blood caked against the back of his teeth. Rising until it lapped over him, kissing the split skin of his hands, his face where Josiah had beat him—before a wall of water suddenly crashed over the town entirely, sweeping Alba into its grasp before he had even a chance to call out one more time.

It swallowed him whole, turning and tumbling him like a doll trapped in a whirlpool, and all he could do was brace for the moment he slammed back into the earth. Smashed into a crumbling building. Was skewered through the chest.

But the moon found him first in the darkness, swirling within that smoke and ash-stained water as black as the stains on his skin. The moon with its familiar hands, its firm grasp that held Alba protectively, pulling him into its chest and holding him close.

Alba wrapped his arms around it in return. Not sure he would actually feel anything if he did, not sure how much of the moon's glow was his imagination, or death coming for him—but Eridanys was solid. Eridanys was flesh and bone, and Eridanys was holding him. Holding him where Alba knew—he was safe. Anywhere Alba was with Eridanys was safe.

A flutter of bubbles escaped Alba's lungs, catching on his nose, in his eyelashes. Any that clung to the curve of his swollen lips were swiftly kissed away by the siren who held him, before he sank peacefully into the dark sea that always wished to take him.