Page 10 of Captured by the Cthulhu (Monster Mates #3)

Chapter 10

Troubled Waters

Ashe

The lighthouse is too damn quiet now.

I catch myself pausing in the kitchen, coffee mug halfway to my lips, listening for the subtle shift of tentacles against wood floors. For that deep voice with its formal cadence asking questions about modern appliances and technology.

It’s been a week since Roark returned to the sea, and the silence feels like an unwanted resident rather than the comfort it used to be.

I’ve spent years cultivating this solitude, building it around myself like the stone walls of the lighthouse—sturdy, reliable, protective. Now there are gaps in my defenses, and the wind whistles right through them.

“God, get it together,” I mutter, dumping my lukewarm coffee into the sink.

The calendar on my fridge mocks me with its red circle around tomorrow’s date. One week since his departure. The arbitrary milestone when I’m supposedly going to hike through unfamiliar coastal terrain to find a cthulhu’s hidden cabin.

When Roark first suggested it, it seemed perfectly reasonable—romantic, even. Now, in the cold light of day, I wonder what the hell I’m thinking.

And besides that, what does one pack for a cthulhu booty call? Extra protein bars and waterproof everything, I guess.

The afternoon tour group is a high school marine biology class. I walk them through the lighthouse with practiced patter, but my gaze keeps drifting toward the horizon. The day is clear enough that the water stretches endlessly, deep blue meeting the lighter blue of the sky in a watercolor blur.

Somewhere out there, he’s swimming. Hunting. Maybe thinking of me.

“Miss Morgan? You were saying something about the lamp?”

I snap back to the present, where a dozen teenagers stare at me with expressions ranging from boredom to mild concern. Their teacher, a woman with kind eyes and a weathered face, raises her eyebrows.

“Sorry. Yes, the Fresnel lens.” I return to my script, explaining the brilliant engineering that allows the light to be seen for miles, the history of the mechanism, how it saved countless lives during storms where visibility dropped to nothing.

“And did the lighthouse also help with, like, sea monsters and stuff?” asks a boy near the back, his tone suggesting he’s hoping for gruesome details.

My throat tightens. “The light serves to guide all who travel by sea,” I say carefully. “After the Great Unveiling, we learned that includes substantially more beings than we’d previously understood.”

“My dad says before the Unveiling, a lot of unexplained shipwrecks were probably monster attacks,” the boy continues. “He says Cape Tempest has more of those than anywhere on the East Coast.”

The teacher interjects, “That’s actually a good example of how scientific understanding changes over time. What we used to attribute to monsters or divine intervention usually has natural—”

“But now we know monsters are real,” another student interrupts. “So maybe those stories were true.”

I grip the railing tighter. “These waters can be dangerous, certainly. But most marine creatures—including intelligent species—aren’t interested in attacking vessels unless provoked.”

“Do you believe in sea monsters, Miss Morgan?” asks a girl with bright blue hair.

I meet her eyes. “I believe in respecting the sea and all its inhabitants. The ocean has taught me that anything that survives its power deserves our consideration, not our fear.”

The teacher smiles approvingly and steers the conversation to the mechanics of the light itself. By the time the tour ends, my shoulders ache from tension. Once they’ve loaded back into their bus, I climb to the gallery deck for a breath of air.

Below, the waves crash against the rocky shore, a familiar comfort. I scan the horizon again, knowing it’s foolish to hope for a glimpse of him. Knowing I’m doing it anyway.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. The reminder I set for the Maritime Festival committee meeting this evening.

Great. Two hours of small talk with Cape Tempest’s finest while pretending I haven’t been harboring—and falling for—exactly the kind of creature their ancestors made a sport of hunting.

I lean against the railing, suddenly exhausted. “Where are you now?” I whisper to the sea. “Are you watching?”

The waves don’t answer, but somehow, I feel less alone for having asked.

Main Street looks like a Norman Rockwell painting that got into a fistfight with a tourist trap. Quaint colonial-era buildings house saltwater taffy shops and T-shirt emporiums featuring prints of krakens and mermaids. Post-Unveiling, the town doubled down on its sea monster heritage, commodifying the very creatures their ancestors hunted to near-extinction in local waters.

The irony isn’t lost on me as I hurry past “Mystic Treasures,” where Sebastian Walsh’s assistant is arranging a window display of what they claim are authentic selkie pelts from the 1800s. I avert my eyes, wondering for the hundredth time what Roark would think of all this.

Town Hall sits at the far end of Main Street, a weathered brick building with white columns and too many steps. Inside, the meeting room is already half full, local business owners and community figures clustered in their usual groups.

“Ashe!” Marina waves me over to where she’s saving a seat. Her silver-streaked hair is pulled back in a braid, and she’s wearing a cable-knit sweater despite the warm evening. “Thought you might not make it.”

“Almost didn’t,” I admit, sliding into the chair beside her. “Last tour ran long.”

She studies my face with the same sharp attention she gives to selecting bait for different fishing conditions. “You look tired.”

“Busy week.”

“Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t believe me, but she won’t push. That’s why I love her. After Dad died and Mom disappeared into her grief and work, Marina became the steady presence I needed.

“How’s business?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.

“Tourists are buying more tackle than they know what to do with. I spent an hour yesterday teaching a man from Ohio how to bait a hook. Poor fish around here don’t stand a chance.” She leans closer, lowering her voice. “Sebastian’s been asking questions about you.”

My stomach drops. “What kind of questions?”

“The nosy kind. Wanted to know if I knew where you went fishing last week. Said he saw you hauling in quite a catch.”

Before I can respond, Mayor Blackwood calls the meeting to order. I sit back, mind racing.

Sebastian saw me with the thirty pounds of fish I caught for Roark. Did he follow me back to the lighthouse? Did he see anything?

The meeting trudges through budget approvals and parking concerns for summer tourism. I force myself to look interested while mentally cataloging every interaction I’ve had with Sebastian in the past week. He’d followed me home the first day, but Roark had stayed hidden.

Still, something about the museum director’s interest makes my skin crawl.

“Now, let’s discuss the upcoming Maritime Festival,” Mayor Blackwood announces. “Sebastian, I believe you have some ideas to share?”

Sebastian Walsh rises from his seat across the room. At first glance, he embodies Cape Tempest’s ideal citizen—tailored blazer with nautical-themed elbow patches, salt-and-pepper beard meticulously trimmed, the confident bearing of someone born to high society.

But there’s something behind his smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Thank you, Mayor.” His voice carries a hint of an accent I’ve never been able to place. “As you all know, the Maritime Festival is our biggest tourism draw of the season. But I believe we can make this year truly special—a celebration that captures the true spirit of Cape Tempest.”

He clicks a remote, and a projector illuminates the wall with renderings of the town square decked out for festivities. So far, nothing unusual.

“What made Cape Tempest famous wasn’t just our fishing industry or our lighthouse,” Sebastian continues. “It was our brave hunters who protected shipping lanes from the terrors of the deep.”

The next slide shows historical photographs of Cape Tempest’s whaling ships, followed by images that make my blood run cold—men on docks posing proudly beside the carcasses of sea creatures. Not whales or sharks, but beings I now recognize as sentient species: a harpooned selkie, the mangled remains of what might be a juvenile kraken.

“Post-Unveiling, we’ve learned these creatures are more intelligent than our ancestors realized,” Sebastian acknowledges smoothly. “But rather than hide this part of our history, I propose we embrace it through an educational reenactment.”

The next slide shows sketches of sailors in period costume manning harpoon guns on a replica ship.

“We’ll emphasize that these practices are historical, of course,” Sebastian adds. “A way to honor our past while celebrating how far we’ve come in monster-human relations.”

My fingernails dig into my palms. The casual way he says “monster-human relations,” as if the slaughter of intelligent beings was just an unfortunate misunderstanding.

“The lighthouse would serve as a perfect backdrop,” Sebastian continues, nodding in my direction. “After all, it wasn’t just for guiding ships. It was our first line of defense, warning the town when sea monsters approached.”

I feel Marina’s hand on my arm, a gentle pressure urging caution, but the blood is pounding too loudly in my ears.

“That’s not true,” I hear myself say, my voice cutting through the murmurs of appreciation for Sebastian’s presentation.

The room falls silent. Sebastian’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’m sorry?”

“The lighthouse was never a ‘defense’ against anything,” I continue, unable to stop myself now that I’ve started. “It was—and is—a navigation aid. To protect lives, not endanger them.”

Sebastian’s expression shifts to something patronizing. “While I appreciate your passion for your workplace, Miss Morgan, the historical record is quite clear. The lighthouse keeper’s journals from the 1800s specifically mention watching for ‘strange disruptions in the water’ and ‘unnatural movements’ that might indicate sea monster activity.”

“Because they were trying to avoid them,” I counter, “not hunt them. There’s a difference between observation and actively organizing hunting parties.”

People are staring now. I’ve never spoken up like this during meetings before. Usually, I sit quietly, contribute when asked directly about lighthouse matters, and count the minutes until I can leave.

Sebastian’s eyes narrow slightly. “I’m surprised by your objection. The reenactment isn’t advocating for hunting. It’s educational—showing how perceptions have changed since the Great Unveiling.”

“By glamorizing the slaughter of intelligent beings?”

“Ashe,” Marina murmurs beside me, a note of warning in her voice.

Sebastian studies me with new interest, like I’m an artifact he can’t quite categorize. “I wasn’t aware you had such strong feelings about marine conservation, Miss Morgan. Perhaps you could channel that passion into helping develop the educational component of our presentation? Ensure we’re being… sensitive.”

The trap is obvious—he’s attempting to neutralize my objection by incorporating me. I open my mouth to refuse when Marina speaks up.

“I think what Ashe means is that we should be careful about tone,” she says smoothly. “Tourism has changed since the Great Unveiling. Many of our visitors might be uncomfortable with celebrating hunting traditions, even as history. Some might even be monsters themselves, or have monster family members.”

Several committee members nod thoughtfully. Marina has a way of making practical sense that people respect.

“A fair point,” Sebastian concedes, though his eyes remain fixed on me. “We’ll focus on the educational aspect. Perhaps a memorial component acknowledging mistakes of the past?”

Discussions resume around modifications to Sebastian’s proposal while I sit in silence, my earlier outburst still reverberating through me.

What was I thinking? Drawing attention to myself, revealing sympathies that might raise questions about why the previously quiet lighthouse keeper suddenly cares so deeply about sea monsters?

When the meeting finally ends, I rise quickly, hoping to escape before anyone can corner me with questions. Marina follows me outside, waiting until we’re clear of the building before speaking.

“You need to be more careful,” she says, voice low. “Cape Tempest has long memories.”

“You saw those pictures,” I reply, still seething.

She glances around to make sure we’re alone on the steps. “Of course it’s horrible. But your reaction was… personal. People notice things like that.”

My face heats. Is it that obvious? Can she read on my features the memory of Roark’s touch, the way his voice deepened when he called me his “treasure”?

“I just think we should be more respectful,” I mumble.

Marina sighs. “Sebastian was watching you the whole time, you know. Before you even spoke. Like he was waiting for something.”

“What’s his deal, anyway? I swear he’s got a bone to pick with me. Does he think I’m too young to be involved in the Historic Society or something?”

“He’s always been a bit of a bastard.” She pulls her coat tighter against the evening chill. “Listen, whatever’s going on with you—and don’t bother denying something is—keep your head down for a while.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak without revealing more than I should.

“And Ashe?” Marina adds as we reach the bottom of the steps. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Her eyes hold mine, and I see understanding there beyond what she’s saying out loud.

“Thanks, Marina.” My throat tightens with unexpected emotion. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

We part ways at the corner, Marina heading toward her shop and apartment above it, me toward the path that leads back to the lighthouse. As I walk, I can’t shake the feeling of being watched—a prickling awareness between my shoulder blades that makes me glance back more than once.

The street is empty behind me, but the sensation doesn’t fade.

With each step toward home, my thoughts turn to tomorrow. To the secluded cove where Roark’s cabin waits, and the promise of seeing him again.

Whatever risks I’m taking feel increasingly worth it—not just for the heart-stopping intensity of his touch, but for the way he looks at me like I’m something precious when the rest of the world barely notices I exist.

Marina’s right that I need to be careful. But careful doesn’t mean stopping. It just means watching the shadows more closely.