17. Moss

17

Moss

Another day ended. No sign of rescue. No idea where the hell they were. Just the sky and the sea and the echo of a kiss on his lips that left him aching for another taste.

"Moss?"

Carol was at the mouth of the cave. She gestured to the beach. "I—I need to tell you something."

How could he say no to that?

With a quick glance at Maggie—the little dragon was fast asleep by the fire, a particularly shiny mussel shell tucked between her front claws—he rose and followed Carol outside.

They were both a bit worse for wear. The constant sea wind brought with it a steady layer of salty air to cling to skin and hair. The clear days meant a burning sun, and sleeping on the ground brought its fair share of lumps and bumps.

But he'd never seen anything as beautiful as Carol outlined by the faint glow of their campfire, with the ocean behind her.

It was almost an instinct, now, to check the kraken every time he thought something like that. It was still there, deep in the farthest corners of his soul. Still keeping to their bargain. It would stay out of the way until Carol was safely home.

There had to be a catch.

Shaking off a shiver of unease, Moss walked over to Carol. "What do you want to talk about?"

"It's… complicated." She wrapped her arms around herself. Her lips pressed together, her eyes averted—shit. Shifting hadn't moved her shark's eyes and teeth. And he must have been less subtle than he thought when he noticed the fact earlier.

Subtle? Since when has anything you've done been subtle? He could practically hear Ataahua's snort of disbelief. And Pania, gentler but no less painfully accurate in her judgement.

They thought he was already gone beneath the waves. Maybe when he returned Carol to her people, there would be a chance to find his cousins and talk to them one more time.

Or maybe that was what the kraken wanted him to think. That he could push his luck holding his end of the bargain—and when he broke it, by not going to the kraken's lair the moment Carol was safe, the kraken would be free to straight up murder everyone in its path.

Cold plucked at his spine.

Yeah. Not worth the risk.

He looked down at Carol's pinched expression. Slowly, he put an arm around her.

She relaxed against him. A simple thing. But it filled his heart.

Deep inside him, cautiously, careful not to let its host feel any trace of its thoughts, something else felt the same way.

"Complicated?" he echoed. "Is there any part of all this that isn't complicated? Where does it rate between razor-winged bird shifters and having my dinner stolen by a baby dragon?"

She laughed weakly. But at least it was laughter. Not a sob at his terrible and terribly timed sense of humor. "Good point. I—I don't know where it rates. Probably worse than all of them."

"I doubt that."

"You shouldn't."

Tension thrummed through her. Little twitches of worry, like she was one wrong word from running away. He ran his hand down her arm, a slow caress. A silent plea. Stay with me.

What fucking right did he have to ask her to stay with him, when she didn't know the truth about him?

He stared out to sea. The stars blazed overhead, but the ocean was dark. Impenetrable, but hiding fathomless depths. A cold, eternal night, beyond where the sun ever touched.

His future.

"You're not the only one who's been hiding something," he admitted, and the words came out smoother than he'd thought. Like they'd been waiting all along, knowing he would say them.

He wasn't an octopus shifter anymore. There was no slithering out of this. Part of him must have known that, even if he hadn't accepted it until now.

Carol sighed. "I know."

Her words took a moment to sink in.

"Wait. How did you—"

"I don't know what you're hiding. But I do know you're hiding something." Her lips twisted, as though unsure if they wanted to smile or be serious. "All that s-special agent training is good for something. N-not actually figuring anything out, but random suspicion? I'm a-a-all over it."

She winced and squeezed her eyes shut.

* If it's easier for you to talk like this, we can,* Moss told her. She let out a shaky breath and shook her head.

"This is—this is me . This is the me I normally am, I mean. When I'm not—when I'm…" Her shoulders slumped as she gave in. A flurry of emotions flooded against his mind in front of her words: shame, anxiety, and relief at finally admitting something she'd been holding on to for so long. * This is how I am. I can't talk straight. I never know what to say, and if I do, I can't say it.*

* I never noticed that.*

*Because I'm not like that around you. I'm not… not scared that you'll think the wrong thing.* Her face twisted. * I already know you think the wrong thing. Because I've been lying to you about who I really am.*

He was walking on a knife's edge. And so was she. And the fact that both of them knew that was what made this so hard—the knowledge that if they took a wrong step, it wouldn't only be themselves they risked hurting.

Which left him trapped between venturing forward, step by careful step, and running away to remove the risk of hurting his mate.

As though she wasn't hurting already.

What could she be hiding that is tearing her up so much inside?

He tried a crooked smile. "I knew it. You are a dragon smuggler, after all."

She shook her head.

"Can't be that bad, then."

"Can't it?"

"Are you the Weaver of Souls, who stitches together our human half with the animal that suits us best?"

"What?" Carol stared at him, curiosity poking holes in her distress. "No, I've never—is that a real thing?"

"An old myth."

"But—a shifter myth, I've never…" She stopped. Her lips thinned, and she looked away. "I've never heard of any shifter myths before. That's strange, isn't it? Even if we live our lives in hiding, all societies come up with some sort of stories about themselves. But there must be stories we've forgotten, about why we're like this. The Weaver of Souls… I can see why shifters would come up with something like that."

He stayed silent, and a moment later she rubbed her face and sighed. "It's just a story," she said, as though reassuring herself. "No. I'm not some mythic figure from a fairytale."

I am.

His jaw tightened. Carol looked up at the stars, but all he could do was stare at her. He was the monster from the fairytale, the demon from the old stories. The idea of shifter myths had caught her interest, but how would she react when she learned he was one of them?

And what it meant for their future. That they didn't have one.

"Carol," he said, his voice hiding a misery deeper than his own heart could hold, "whatever you've been hiding, it doesn't matter to me. All that matters is we found each other. We've been given this time together—"

"Moss—"

Her voice was tight with fear. Moss reacted on instinct. He flung one arm around her, reaching out into the night with all his senses.

All his senses.

The darkness burned away all around him. He breathed in salt air, felt it wrap around his body, inescapable this close to the water—and heard its song. Bright and flighty, the ocean's chorus a deeper thrum beneath it.

Carol's voice cut through the magic like a hot knife through butter.

"There's something wrong with the stars."

He looked up. Two nights in this place, and the night sky had never been as clear as it was tonight. His vision swam.

"There's nothing wrong with the stars," he said as soon as he could speak again. "They're just the wrong ones. That isn't the sky above New York, or the northern Atlantic."

He paused, the enormity of what he was about to say looming ahead of him like the waves that had crashed down on them in the storm.

"Those are southern stars," he breathed. "The Cross and Pointers… I'm home."