Page 19 of Captured by the Cthulhu (Monster Mates #3)

Chapter 19

Revelation

Roark

The moment I break the surface, the world splinters into chaos. Humans scramble across the sinking vessel while others flail in the churning water, their period costumes tangling like seaweed around their limbs.

I focus first on the immediate danger: a juvenile kraken, perhaps thirty feet across, thrashing just below the surface. She’s young—likely no more than fifteen years old—with mottled purple-gray skin that should be vibrant but instead appears dull with stress.

Her movements betray confusion rather than malice, though the distinction matters little to the humans caught in her path.

Diving deeper, I extend my arms toward the desperate sailors closest to drowning, while using my tentacles to keep steady in the churning water.

Their eyes widen with fresh terror when they see me—trading one monster for another in their minds—but survival instinct overrides fear as they grasp onto my offered limbs. I deposit them on a floating section of deck before plunging toward the kraken.

She senses me immediately, her massive eye rotating to track my approach. Her consciousness brushes against mine—raw, primal, and disoriented.

Threat? Challenge? Territory? Her thoughts scatter like startled fish, barely cohesive in their frantic sequence.

I respond in the ancient underwater language, a combination of pressure pulses and bioelectric signals that predates human civilization: Peace. Stillness. Safety.

Her tentacles lash out defensively, one connecting solidly with my torso. Pain blooms across my old wound, but I manage to avoid being wrapped in her grip. A kraken her size could easily crush me if truly threatened.

Who-you-what-you? Her communication is elementary, lacking the nuance of adult speech. Krakens remain with their pods until much older, learning language and customs from the collective. This one is far too young to be alone.

I am a cthulhu. Elder. Friend. I project calm through the bioelectric field surrounding us, a technique my father taught me long ago, before hunters claimed him. Why are you here? Where is your pod?

The kraken’s movements slow as she processes my presence. Above us, more of the ship begins to fragment and sink. I quickly surface and retrieve three more sailors clinging to debris, depositing them on the largest section of intact hull. One clutches a harpoon in white-knuckled terror.

“Stay here,” I instruct in human language, before returning to the kraken.

Her thoughts find more coherence as her panic subsides: Lost. Separated. Selkie found me. Said here safe-waters, but then I saw attack on one-like-me.

Understanding dawns with a cold certainty. The “attack” she witnessed was the theatrical reenactment with the foam kraken. She believed she was coming to the rescue of one of her own kind.

And Sebastian—the selkie—had guided her here deliberately, knowing exactly what might happen.

Not a real attack, I explain, projecting images of human celebration and theater. Pretend-hunt. Memory-ritual. Not a true danger.

Confusion clouds her thoughts as she processes this alien concept. Why mimic killing?

How does one explain human contradiction to a creature of pure instinct? I settle for simplicity: Humans remember through reenactment. They honor the past by reliving it, even the parts that should be forgotten. Now, where are you from?

I sense her location markers and recognize the shoreline she describes as her home—a protected cove nearly eighty miles north where kraken pods have long dwelled in safety.

I can guide you in home-direction , I offer, creating a mental map with current patterns and underwater landmarks.

Cautious gratitude ripples from her consciousness as she absorbs the information. Gratitude. Will seek pod-waters. Her massive form begins to retreat, tentacles tucking close as she prepares for deep swimming. Will remember cthulhu-friend.

As she disappears into deeper water, I turn my attention to the human survivors scattered across the wreckage. Men cling to the largest piece of hull, while others grasp smaller fragments. All require immediate assistance—the shore is too distant for them to reach safely in their current state, especially with the waves shifting unpredictably.

I extend four of my strongest tentacles, each capable of supporting a full-grown human. “Hold on,” I instruct the nearest group. “I’ll transport you to shore.”

Their expressions range from outright terror to desperate relief. One man—Pete, I believe Ashe called him—nods grimly and encourages the others. “Do as the creature says if you want to live, boys.”

It takes three trips to retrieve all the sailors, ferrying them carefully through increasingly choppy waters. By the third journey, exhaustion tugs at my limbs, and the reopened wound throbs painfully.

I hadn’t noticed the kraken’s strike had been so effective.

As I approach the shore for the final time, the weight of many eyes settles upon me. The beach has transformed into a gallery of stunned faces—some frozen in fear, others wide with wonder.

I deposit the final sailors onto the sand, keeping my tentacles submerged enough to retreat quickly if necessary. One sailor stumbles as I release him, and I automatically steady him with a gentle touch. The simple gesture causes several onlookers to flinch.

For a moment, no one moves. The tableau holds—monster and humans, suspended in mutual assessment.

I search for Ashe in the crowd and find her pushing forward, my captain’s jacket still clutched in her arms. Her expression carries no fear, only fierce concern. Something in my chest tightens at the sight of her moving toward me while others back away.

Before she can reach me, Marina breaks the silence, stepping decisively into the space between me and the crowd.

“All right, let’s get these men some medical attention,” she announces with the pragmatic authority of someone who has weathered enough storms to recognize which emergencies take precedence. “Tompkins, do you still remember your EMT training? Good—check Pete’s leg. Someone grab the first aid kits from the festival booth.”

She turns to me with a level gaze that contains neither terror nor awe—just practical assessment. “Thank you for saving them.”

Her simple acknowledgment shifts something in the atmosphere, but the moment of potential acceptance shatters as Sebastian pushes through the crowd, his elaborate costume now slightly disheveled but his voice carrying with theatrical precision.

“See the monster among us!” he calls, gesturing dramatically toward me. “This was their plan all along—infiltrate our town, attack during our celebration!”

Murmurs ripple through the gathering, and I don’t find myself surprised that Sebastian would try to pull something like this. He’s always enjoyed lighting fires just to watch the flames, even back when we sailed together long ago.

I should speak, defend myself against his accusations, but what could I say? That I’ve been secretly living in their waters? That I’ve been intimately involved with their lighthouse keeper? Every truth I might offer only feeds his narrative of infiltration and deception.

“He saved those men,” Ashe counters, stepping closer to me. “You saw him bring them to safety.”

“A convenient show,” Sebastian retorts. “After his friend attacked in the first place!”

“That kraken was confused, not aggressive,” I finally say, my voice carrying across the now-silent beach. “She believed she was rescuing one of her own kind from hunters.”

Sebastian’s smile turns sharp. “And how would you know that unless you communicated with it? Unless you were both working together?”

I struggle to find words that might bridge the gap between species, to explain the complexity of what happened beneath the waves without confirming his accusations of collusion. But my injury is making thought increasingly difficult.

“The only monster here is the one who orchestrated this attack!”

The voice that cuts through the tension is familiar—painfully so. It’s been long since I heard it, yet I would recognize it anywhere.

Iris pushes through the crowd, her small frame somehow commanding immediate attention. As she reaches the front, she unfurls her wings—translucent, iridescent membranes that catch the light in rainbow patterns. Most fairies keep their wings bound in public, the exposure an intimate gesture rarely shared outside close relationships.

Her eyes meet mine briefly, a small smile flickering across her face before she turns her full attention to Sebastian. Despite the years between us, I recognize her expression—the particular set of her jaw that appears when she’s prepared to fight.

“Sebastian Walsh isn’t concerned about monster-human relations,” she announces. “He’s a selkie who’s spent years attempting to create friction between species. Why? Because a human woman once broke his heart, and he’s never recovered.”

Sebastian’s face contorts with rage. “You know nothing—”

“I know you guided that juvenile kraken to these waters last night,” Iris continues, her wings fluttering with indignation. “I saw you in your seal form, though at the time I didn’t know exactly what you were up to.”

She sneers and scoffs in disgust. “I can’t believe you. You deliberately placed a confused, frightened creature in the path of that reenactment, knowing exactly how she would interpret the scene.”

The crowd’s attention pivots to Sebastian, whose composure has completely fractured. His eyes dart from face to face, finding no allies.

“You would take the word of these creatures over mine?” he snarls, backing away. “I’ve protected this town’s heritage, preserved its history—”

“You’ve manipulated its fear,” Marina interjects calmly. “And nearly got our people killed doing it.”

Several burly fishermen begin moving toward Sebastian with determined expressions. He assesses the shifting mood rapidly, then turns and sprints down the beach.

Before anyone can follow, he dives into the water where—I know from experience—he’ll transform and disappear into the currents, far faster in his seal form than any human pursuers.

I watch him go, a complicated mixture of vindication and concern swirling through my mind. Sebastian was once my friend, when we both lived as disguised men. His bitterness had festered decades longer than I realized.

Iris approaches me, her wings still proudly displayed. “You look terrible, Captain,” she says softly, using my old title with fond familiarity.

“Merely… tired,” I manage, though the effort of remaining upright grows increasingly difficult. The water around my lower tentacles has taken on a concerning tint—my blood, diluting in the shallows.

Ashe steps closer, her face pale with worry. “Roark?”

I attempt to reassure her, but the words never form. Instead, darkness sweeps across my vision, and I feel myself listing sideways. The last sensation I register is Ashe’s hands trying to catch what cannot be caught as my massive form collapses into the shallow water.