Page 17 of Captured by the Cthulhu (Monster Mates #3)

Chapter 17

Human for a Day

Roark

I knock on the lighthouse door, my knuckles hesitating against the weathered wood. Strange how such a simple action feels foreign in this temporary human form. The silver compass pin fastened to my old captain’s coat catches the morning light, its magic humming against my chest as it maintains my disguise.

From the harbor below, cheerful music and voices drift up the hillside. The Maritime Festival is already drawing crowds—humans gathering to celebrate their connection to the sea while I stand here, a creature of those depths pretending to be one of them for a day.

My reflection in the window beside the door shows Captain Roark Sterling—broad-shouldered with a weathered face, dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, and the only feature unchanged: my dark eyes with hints of gold.

This body feels both familiar and confining after years of freedom in my true form. Two ordinary human legs instead of my six powerful tentacles. Limited reach. Dulled senses. But it’s a small price for one day of walking openly at Ashe’s side.

The door swings open, and there she stands. Her dark auburn hair falls loose around her shoulders instead of her usual practical bun, and she’s wearing a simple blue dress that matches the storm-gray of her eyes. For a moment, we just look at each other.

“You came,” she says softly. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I said I needed time to think. So did you.” I shift my weight, still adjusting to these two legs. “Have you? Thought about us, I mean?”

Her eyes hold mine steadily. “I have. And I’m still here.”

“One day doesn’t solve anything, Ashe.”

“No.” She steps closer. “But I know what I’m choosing, Roark.”

I want to believe her, but Sebastian’s warning echoes in my mind. “Let’s see how today goes first. Then we can talk about what comes next.”

She nods, accepting my caution. Her gaze travels over my human form. “Do you think anyone will recognize you here? As Captain Sterling?”

“Unlikely,” I say, relaxing slightly. “I retired from seafaring decades ago and rarely came to town even then. After the Unveiling, when my glamour disappeared…” I shrug. “The only ones who might know me are other monsters living among humans.”

Ashe’s eyes light up. “That’s right. Maybe you’ll see Iris.”

I nod. “That would be nice.”

As we walk down the hill toward town, I struggle slightly with my altered balance. Ashe notices and slips her arm through mine.

“Just like sea legs,” she says with a gentle smile. “You’ll adjust.”

The contact steadies more than just my physical form. Her warmth against my side grounds me, reminding me why I’ve taken this risk.

The festival transforms the normally sleepy harbor into a riot of color and sound. Booths line the wharf, selling everything from fresh seafood to handcrafted maritime trinkets. Children race between exhibits with painted faces—some as pirates, others sporting starfish and seahorses on their cheeks. Flags snap in the breeze, and string lights criss-cross overhead, waiting for evening to transform the scene further.

I tense slightly at the crowd, scanning faces out of old habit. Most decorations celebrate the town’s fishing heritage with nets, anchors, and sailing ships. Here and there, I spot stylized sea creatures—mostly decorative rather than menacing.

A few pubs still display their old mounts and trophies, visible through open doors, but they seem more like relics of the past than celebrations of hunting.

“You all right?” Ashe asks quietly.

“Fine,” I say, forcing my attention back to her. “It’s just… It’s been a while since I’ve walked among so many humans.”

“Then let’s start with something familiar.” She points to a booth by the water. “Marina’s set up near the main pier. We should say hello—she’s been wondering about you, in her way.”

“About me?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Well, about why I suddenly needed to start fishing again, back when you were injured.” She smiles, tugging me gently through the crowd. “Don’t worry—she’s good people. Probably the only person in town I’d trust with… well, with anything important.”

We make our way to a booth near the water where an older woman serves steaming bowls from a large pot. Her silver-streaked hair is pulled back in a practical bun, and her hands move with the confident efficiency of someone who’s spent decades working with fishing gear and bait.

“There she is,” the woman—Marina—calls out when she spots Ashe, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Then her gaze shifts to me, lingering just a beat longer than casual interest would warrant. “And you’ve brought company.”

“Marina, this is Roar… Robert,” Ashe says, a slight nervousness in her voice that probably only I would notice. “He’s visiting Cape Tempest for a few days.”

I bow my head slightly. “A pleasure to meet you, Marina.”

“Robert,” she repeats, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp as she takes my measure. “First time in our little town?”

“Not exactly,” I answer carefully. “I’ve passed through before, but never had the chance to properly enjoy its… charms.”

Marina reaches for a ladle and dips it into the large pot of chowder, filling two bowls with the creamy mixture dense with chunks of potato and clam. “Well then, consider this your official welcome.” She hands us each a bowl. “On the house.”

Ashe starts to protest but Marina waves her off.

“You’ve been working too hard up in that lighthouse,” she says to Ashe, before glancing back at me. “And any friend of Ashe’s is worth feeding well.”

“Thank you,” I say, accepting the bowl. The rich aroma brings back distant memories of harbor kitchens from my captain days.

Marina leans over her counter slightly, lowering her voice. “I’m glad to see you out enjoying yourself, Ashe. You’ve been… preoccupied lately.” Her eyes flick briefly to me again. “But whatever’s been keeping you busy, it seems to agree with you. You look happier than I’ve seen you in a long time.”

Ashe relaxes visibly. “I am. Thank you for… well, for not asking too many questions.”

Marina’s weathered face softens. “You know me. Live and let live, that’s always been my policy.” She straightens up as another customer approaches. “You two enjoy the festival. And ‘Robert’—” her gaze meets mine with unexpected directness, “—take good care of our lighthouse keeper.”

There’s something in her tone that suggests she understands more than she’s letting on, but her smile remains warm as she turns to her next customer.

As we walk away with our chowder, Ashe guides us toward a quiet spot on the edge of the wharf. The wooden planks creak pleasantly beneath our feet, a sound I once knew well from my days on deck.

“Marina’s been like a second mother to me since I came here,” Ashe says, settling onto a bench overlooking the harbor. “Especially after Dad died. She doesn’t pry, but she notices everything.”

I taste the chowder, savoring the rich flavors with my temporary human palate. “She cares for you. Though she’s rather perceptive.”

“That’s one word for it.” Ashe smiles.

I watch a fishing boat rock gently in the harbor as I consider this. “There are humans who understand the world isn’t as simple as others believe. She seems like one of them.”

“Maybe.” Ashe looks at me, studying my human form with curious eyes. “What’s it like? Being like this again after so long?”

I flex my fingers, still marveling at how different they are from my tentacles. “Limiting. And yet… familiar.” I search for words to explain the sensation. “It’s like reading a book you once knew by heart but haven’t opened in decades. The story comes back to you, page by page.”

Before she can respond, a burst of laughter draws our attention to a crowd gathering near the harbor’s central platform. A man in an impeccably tailored blue blazer stands at a microphone, his polished smile gleaming as he welcomes everyone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Maritime Museum and Historical Society are proud to present a special demonstration as part of today’s festivities! In two hours, we’ll be showcasing traditional hunting techniques from Cape Tempest’s storied past!”

The crowd applauds, but Ashe’s hand tightens around mine.

“That’s Sebastian Walsh,” she whispers. “He’s the one who was pushing for this at the meeting. I thought there was a chance Mrs. Holloway from the preservation committee was going to veto it, but I guess that fell through.”

I keep my expression neutral despite the churning in my gut. Sebastian’s eyes scan the crowd as he continues speaking about honoring tradition and heritage. When his gaze passes over us, I have the unsettling feeling he’s searching for something—or someone.

“We don’t have to stay for that part,” Ashe offers.

“No,” I say, standing and pulling her up with me. “I’d rather see what else the festival has to offer while we have the chance.”

My attention shifts briefly to the water beyond the harbor. Something moves beneath the surface—a dark shape that doesn’t match the rhythm of the waves. The humans, distracted by their festivities, don’t notice.

But I do. We’re not the only sea creatures drawn to Cape Tempest today.

I turn my attention back to Ashe, deciding not to worry about whatever I glimpsed in the water. Likely just fish excited by the unusual activity around the docks—or perhaps a curious seal drawn to the festivities. Either way, it’s not worth spoiling this rare moment of normalcy.

“Let’s explore,” I suggest, deliberately lightening my tone. “Show me what humans do at these celebrations.”

Ashe’s smile returns. “Well, first, we need to get you some proper festival food. Marina’s chowder was just the beginning.”

She leads me through the growing crowd, her hand still in mine. The simple pleasure of walking openly beside her without fear of discovery feels almost intoxicating. Around us, people laugh and talk, completely unaware of my true nature—treating me as just another festival-goer.

We stop at a food stall selling fried seafood, where Ashe insists I try something called “lobster fritters.”

“These didn’t exist in my day,” I remark after taking a bite of the golden-brown morsel. The rich, buttery flavor spreads across my tongue. “We prepared lobster much more simply at sea.”

The vendor, a heavyset man with weathered cheeks, raises his eyebrows. “Your day? You don’t look old enough to be talking like my grandpa.”

Ashe jumps in smoothly. “Robert’s family has been in maritime work for generations. He practically grew up on old sailing stories, didn’t you?”

I nod, silently thanking her. “Family tradition. Sometimes I speak as if I lived it myself.”

The man chuckles. “Know the type. My old man was the same way—couldn’t talk about fishing without sounding like he’d stepped off a whaling ship from 1850. Well, enjoy yourselves.”

As we move away, Ashe nudges me gently with her elbow. “Maybe dial back the ‘in my day’ comments? Unless you want people thinking you’re a time traveler.”

“My apologies,” I say, unable to suppress a smile.

We wander through a row of artisan booths, where local craftspeople display their wares—intricately knotted rope work, sea glass jewelry, and painted scenes of maritime life. At one booth, I find myself examining a collection of miniature ships in bottles. One looks much like my old Crown of Nova, but I set it aside, not wanting my sentimentality to draw too much attention.

As we continue through the festival, I relax into this temporary human experience. We try salt water taffy, which I declare “absurdly sweet, yet strangely compelling,” causing Ashe to laugh again. We watch children participate in knot-tying contests, where I resist correcting a young boy’s attempt at a sheet bend.

At a ring-toss game, the barker challenges me to win a prize for “the pretty lady.” I hesitate, unfamiliar with the game’s parameters, but Ashe encourages me with a playful push.

“Three rings on the bottles gets you a prize,” the barker explains, handing me wooden rings.

I assess the distance and angles with the precision that once made me a respected captain, then toss the rings one by one. Each settles perfectly around a bottleneck, drawing surprised applause from onlookers.

“We have a winner!” the barker announces. “What’ll it be for the lady?”

Ashe selects a small plush octopus with comically oversized eyes, accepting it with a straight face that cracks into laughter only when we’re out of earshot.

“Really?” I ask dryly, eyeing the caricature of my distant ancestors.

She hugs the toy to her chest. “It reminded me of someone I know. Though his eyes are much more handsome.”

The genuine affection in her voice catches me off guard. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine what life might be like if this weren’t just a magical interlude—if I could walk beside her like this every day, accepted and unremarkable.

As the day wears on, we find ourselves at the edge of the harbor again, watching children sail miniature boats in a shallow pool set up for the occasion. The simplicity of their joy is captivating—the pure delight they take in watching their tiny vessels catch the wind.

“Thank you,” I say quietly to Ashe.

She looks up at me, her gray eyes curious. “For what?”

“For this.” I gesture vaguely around us. “For showing me what it could be like.”

Her expression softens. “It doesn’t have to be just for today, you know. Things are changing. The world is adapting to monsters living openly.”

“ Some monsters,” I correct gently. “The ones that are useful or unthreatening or entertaining. Not ones with histories like mine.”

Before she can respond, a commotion near the central platform draws our attention. Sebastian Walsh stands at the microphone again, flanked by several men carrying traditional whaling equipment—harpoons and specialized hooks that make my skin crawl despite my human disguise.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for our special demonstration of Cape Tempest’s historical monster hunting techniques!”

The crowd begins to gather, their faces alight with curiosity and excitement. Ashe’s hand finds mine again, squeezing tightly.

“We should go,” she whispers. “You shouldn’t have to watch this.”

I slow our steps, reluctant to abandon the festival entirely. This brief taste of normal human life feels too precious to surrender so quickly.

“One more thing before we go?” I ask, nodding toward the lighthouse-shaped photo booth near the boardwalk’s end as I try to ignore the macabre demonstration Sebastian has planned.

Ashe follows my gaze and smiles. “A souvenir of the day? I’d love that.”

Inside the booth, we press close together as the camera counts down. Just before the flash, Ashe turns and kisses my cheek—a simple gesture that captures everything about this impossible day.

The photo slides out, showing a man and woman laughing against a painted backdrop of Cape Tempest’s harbor. Only the gold in my eyes hint at my true nature.

The photo is still warm in my hand when a veteran fisherman rushing past knocks into my shoulder, his weathered face tight with concern as he calls to his companions. “Something’s off with the tide—you see that pattern behind the demonstration boat?”

Following his pointed finger out to the water, I spot the telltale swirl of disturbed water around a replica whaling ship—and my borrowed human heart sinks with the certainty that our day of pretending has just run out of time.