Page 18 of Captured by the Cthulhu (Monster Mates #3)
Chapter 18
Treacherous Waters
Ashe
The Maritime Festival’s grand finale draws quite the crowd along Cape Tempest’s shore. I stand on the packed beach, squinting against the afternoon sun as the decorated fishing vessel—the “Sea’s Bounty”—bobs gently on the waves about fifty yards out.
It’s a beautiful replica of a 19th-century whaling ship, complete with authentic weathered sails and vintage rigging that would make any maritime historian swoon.
Despite my reservations about Sebastian’s reenactment idea, I have to admit the town has embraced the festival with genuine enthusiasm rather than malice. Most people seem to view this as celebrating our maritime heritage rather than glorifying monster hunting.
Kids clutch souvenir lighthouse snow globes and candied apples, couples lay out picnic blankets on the sand, and even the usually grumpy Mrs. Moore from the post office is smiling as she passes out commemorative stamps.
Beside me, “Robert Sterling” stands with perfect stillness. Even in his temporary human form, I can feel Roark’s unease. The enchanted pin gleams against his navy captain’s jacket—a genuine article from his former life.
His glamoured appearance is striking—angular face, deep-set eyes still flecked with gold, his coloring now a warm bronze rather than iridescent blue-black. He’s shorter than his true form, though still commanding at over six feet tall.
There’s something unexpectedly wonderful about standing beside him in public like this. We stroll through the festival grounds, his hand occasionally brushing against mine, sharing cotton candy and listening to sea shanties performed by the local choir, and every part of it feels normal.
The simple pleasure of walking openly together without fear of discovery has been intoxicating. I’ve caught myself imagining a future where this could be our normal—weekend trips to the farmers’ market, holiday celebrations in town, evenings at Marina’s new seafood restaurant she keeps threatening to open.
Dangerous thoughts, but impossible to suppress when he smiles at some small human custom or offers commentary on how festivals have changed since his captain days.
“You okay?” I whisper now, brushing my hand against his.
His fingers twitch toward mine before he remembers where we are. “Something in the water doesn’t feel right.”
I follow his gaze toward the seemingly peaceful harbor. The noon sun casts gold ripples across the surface, belying his concern. “What do you mean?”
“Not certain yet.” Roark’s voice is low, formal. “Just… instinct.”
I nod, not about to question him. I’ve learned to trust those instincts; they’ve kept him alive for nearly a century.
Before I can press further, Sebastian’s amplified voice booms across the water. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the historical reenactment portion of our Maritime Festival! Today we’ll witness a dramatization of Cape Tempest’s seafaring traditions!”
The crowd applauds politely. Elderly residents sink into folding chairs with the satisfied air of people who’ve seen festivals come and go for decades, while tourists eagerly snap photos of the picturesque scene.
Nobody seems to share my discomfort about the underlying theme, though I notice Marina watching from her shop doorway with a carefully neutral expression, her arms folded across her chest.
Sebastian continues from his position on a platform near the water, dressed in an elaborate period costume that makes him look like a naval commander from a Hollywood production.
“While our ancestors once hunted sea creatures out of fear and misunderstanding, today we recognize this as part of our complicated history, a reminder of how far we’ve come in understanding our ocean’s inhabitants.”
I blink in surprise. The diplomatic framing wasn’t what I expected from Sebastian after his enthusiastic presentation at the committee meeting. His words sound rehearsed, almost forced—like someone insisted he tone down the original script.
On the decorated vessel, veteran sailors in period costumes begin their performance. The “Sea’s Bounty” glides gracefully as they navigate with practiced efficiency, pointing dramatically toward something in the distance.
Their authentic harpoons glint in the sunlight—real weapons, though presumably they’ll only be used for show. A mechanical contraption emerges from the water—a foam kraken replica with motorized tentacles that wave menacingly toward the boat.
I glance at Roark, whose attention remains fixed on the ocean, his posture tense in a way that makes me nervous. The muscles in his forearm flex as he focuses on the water.
The sailors on the boat begin their choreographed battle against the foam monster. Old Pete, who’s been fishing these waters since before I was born, takes particular delight in his role as captain, dramatically raising his harpoon and shouting commands that carry across the water.
The crowd chuckles at the exaggerated movements as sailors pretend to struggle against the fake tentacles.
I lean closer to Roark, hoping to return to our normalcy after this demonstration is over. “After this, maybe we could get a meal at the Salty Dog. They make an amazing lobster roll.”
He doesn’t answer, and I realize he’s barely heard me. His focus has sharpened, eyes tracking movement in the water like a predator.
Then something changes.
The laughter dies as the boat rocks violently—much more forcefully than the gentle waves should cause. The foam kraken tips awkwardly, and I realize it’s being pulled underwater by something beneath it.
“That’s not part of the show,” I whisper, gripping Roark’s hand tighter.
His eyes track movement in the water I can’t see. “No. It’s not.”
Sebastian’s voice falters mid-narration as the boat lurches again. The sailors stumble, their practiced choreography abandoned as they grab railings to steady themselves. One man loses his grip on his harpoon, the weapon clattering to the deck.
A massive tentacle—a real one, slick and powerful—breaks the surface and wraps around the boat’s starboard side. It’s darker and more mottled than Roark’s elegant limbs, with angry red suckers that remind me of open wounds.
The crowd gasps, initially thinking it’s an impressive special effect. A child nearby claps until his mother pulls him back from the water’s edge, her instincts recognizing danger before her mind can process it.
“There’s a juvenile kraken under there,” Roark says, voice tight. “Likely confused and terrified by the mechanical lure.”
The boat tilts dangerously as screams replace the theatrical cheers. Two sailors tumble overboard into the churning water, their period costumes immediately becoming dead weight in the waves as the ship begins to splinter.
“They’ll drown,” Roark says, already shrugging off his captain’s jacket and handing it to me with reverent care. “Or worse.”
I clutch his arm. “Wait! You can’t take off your jacket or else the magic will fade. The Coast Guard—”
“Will arrive too late.” He turns to face me fully, his glamoured features intense with purpose. “They need help now.”
“If you go out there, everyone will see you,” I remind him, though I can already read the decision in his eyes. My heart clenches at the thought of what might happen once his secret is revealed to the town. All our careful planning, our hidden moments—over in an instant.
His hand cups my cheek, briefly and tenderly as the glamour shimmers. “I can’t let them die.”
The weight of his jacket in my arms feels suddenly significant—a piece of his past entrusted to me as he steps toward an uncertain future.
“Be careful,” I whisper, my heart racing. “Please.”
He kisses my lips quickly, fierce and resolute, before pulling away. “Keep the light burning for me.”
I watch as he strides toward the water, the glamour beginning to flicker and reveal who he really is. The crowd’s attention is still fixed on the struggling boat, not yet noticing the figure walking purposefully into the churning sea.
Just before the waves reach his chest, the glamour dissolves completely. His form expands, skin rippling back to iridescent blue as tentacles emerge where legs had been, his arms transforming back to their clawed, muscular state. Several gasps and shouts rise from those closest to the water’s edge as Roark dives beneath the surface.
I stand frozen, watching the spot where he disappeared, my fingers pressed against my lips where his kiss still burns.