Page 15 of Ghoul Me, Maybe

ELIAS

I ’ve seen madness before.

Men cracked open by sea storms and sleepless nights, muttering about mermaids with knives for teeth and gods that crawled up through their bilge water. But Lyle Brightwater?

He doesn’t seem broken.

He’s the kind of mad that dances on the edge of truth and delusion, always three steps ahead of everyone else and five steps too deep. Which makes him the most dangerous type of fool—especially now.

He barges into the shop like a storm with a caffeine addiction, arms full of maps, jars, and something that smells suspiciously like melted wax and desperation.

“ Found it! ” he shouts, nearly knocking over Mira’s ward shelf.

Sienna jerks upright from where she’s hunched over the table. Her hair’s still damp from the near-drowning, skin pale, lips pressed into a line that says don’t screw with me.

“I swear to gods, Lyle,” she mutters, “if this is about merfolk tax codes again?—”

“No, no, no, this is different. This is proof.” He slaps a parchment down in front of her like he’s delivering gospel. “The beach. The bay. The Maiden’s wreck. All of it—it’s built on a knot. A perfect intersecting knot of five ley lines.”

I lean against the back wall, arms crossed. My shoulders still ache from dragging her out of that cursed tide two nights ago. There’s a crack in my ribs that feels suspiciously real . And now this man wants to wave some chalk-scribbled star chart in my face and declare destiny?

“Don’t do it,” I growl.

Sienna doesn’t look up. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t indulge him. It’s never just one theory. Next thing you know, he’s reading moon phases off fish guts.”

“I heard that, ” Lyle calls without turning around. He’s already arranging candles around the parchment like he’s about to summon a forgotten god—or make a really chaotic birthday wish. “And fish guts are highly reliable if you know what you’re sniffing for.”

Mira snorts from behind the counter but wisely says nothing.

Sienna stands, arms folded. “Okay, walk me through it. Slowly. Use small words.”

Lyle beams. “Right! So ley lines—magical rivers beneath the earth, yeah? Flowing energy, ancient stuff, connects to places of power?—”

“Get to the point,” I interrupt.

“The wreck’s at the heart of a convergence. A nexus, if you will. Old magic, built up over centuries. It’s like dropping an anchor in a whirlpool and wondering why it drags.”

Sienna frowns. “You’re saying the Ruthless Maiden didn’t just crash—it was pulled there?”

“Exactly! Something called to it. And whatever cursed Elias got tangled in that call.”

I step forward, slow and deliberate. My boots thump heavier than they should—part intimidation, part habit. Lyle’s eyes flick to me like he’s wondering if I’ll throw him through the door. I don’t—yet.

“You think there’s a prophecy,” I say flatly. “Let me guess. The ghost captain, the witch’s daughter, a relic sealed with blood, yada yada fate?”

“Well… yes,” he says, unbothered. “But it’s more specific than that.”

He yanks out another sheet—a charcoal rubbing of a stone tablet, smudged and water-damaged.

“Found this at the base of the cliff, right where the ley lines intersect. Lost language, pre-Sundering. Only caught a few phrases.”

He traces the symbols with one nicotine-stained finger.

“‘Where tide forgets and stone remembers… the bound shall wake the buried.’ And this one here—‘The hand that breaks the seal must bleed with ancient guilt.’ Sound familiar?”

Sienna’s eyes flick to mine.

I grind my jaw. “Coincidence.”

“Sure,” Lyle says. “Like it’s a coincidence you’ve been half-corporeal for a century until she showed up and now suddenly you’re playing ghost with a heartbeat.”

I move before I think about it—one step, two, right in front of him. Lyle doesn’t back down, which surprises me. He just adjusts his cracked glasses and looks me dead in the eye.

“You’ve got storm eyes, Captain. You think you’re the thunder. But you’re the conduit. The spark.”

I lower my voice. “I’m not a damn prophecy. I’m a dead man who didn’t stay buried.”

“That’s what makes you the prophecy.”

Sienna steps between us, hand on my chest. I flinch. Still not used to being touched. Still not used to feeling .

“Easy,” she says, voice low. “He’s not wrong.”

I glare at her. “You believe this?”

“I believe something’s happening. I believe you shouldn’t have been able to pull me out of the water. I believe your scars are showing up in my dreams. And I believe my father left me a map to that vault for a reason.”

She turns to Lyle. “So what’s your play here, Brightwater? You want to help or just write us into your next blog post?”

He tilts his head. “Help, obviously. Fame’s great, but curses are better when they don’t kill your friends.”

“Great,” she says. “Then where’s the vault’s key?”

Lyle hesitates.

“There’s… one more site. Another line point. Beneath the cliffs. Old smugglers’ tunnel. I haven’t gone in—yet.”

Sienna sighs. “Then we go tonight.”

I catch her wrist. “ No. ”

She doesn’t pull away. But she doesn’t back down, either.

“You nearly drowned last time,” I snap. “I’m not dragging you out of the ocean again.”

“Then don’t,” she says. “Walk beside me instead.”

And damn her.

She means it.

She trusts me. This sharp-edged, trauma-wrapped woman who flinches when people raise their voice and jokes her way out of grief—she’s asking me to choose this. Choose her.

I step back.

Because if I don’t, I’ll do something stupid like reach for her hand.

Lyle, somehow reading the room and not poking it with a stick, clears his throat. “Sun sets in two hours. Tunnel entrance floods at high tide. You’ve got a window.”

Sienna grabs her jacket. “Then let’s go before the universe slams it shut.”

I follow her out the door into the rising dusk.

I’m not sure if I’m chasing fate or if it’s chasing me .