Page 51 of The Merman’s Betrothal (Outcast Hearts #2)

G raham finished mooring his fishing boat and bid his small crew of passengers a good afternoon touring the streets of Ullapool. Tourist season was in full swing and business was booming on all fronts.

Far out to sea his catamaran, the Wayward Sun , was making its way into the Minch with a full complement of bums-on-seats to view the Summer Isles and maybe a bit of wildlife if the weather held.

He sucked in a deep breath of fresh air and patted his stomach, thinking vaguely about lunch before taking on his next fishing party.

Something sleek and silvery flashed in the water beyond the jetty.

Graham squinted against the sun’s reflection on the waves. Surely it wasn’t a—

‘Oh, hello beautiful,’ he said as the seal surfaced again. ‘Brazen, aren’t ye?’

It was uncommon to see a seal inside the harbour. Even less so to see one clutching a jam jar in its jaws.

The seal bobbed closer and deposited her cargo at Graham’s feet.

Not one to be phased by the peculiarities of ocean creatures, Graham picked it up. ‘What’s this bit of rubbish, then? Not got any stuck in yer teeth, have ye?’

The seal blinked slowly at him, then twisted gracefully and disappeared under the waves.

The jar in Graham’s hand was intact and appeared to have a piece of paper inside. Probably from one of those fools who thought it was romantic to toss their worries into the ocean, as if it needed their emotional garbage on top of the literal garbage it already suffered.

Still, driven by curiosity, Graham unscrewed the lid and unrolled the little piece of paper to see what it said.

He read it once, read it again, then stared off, dumbfounded, into the distance. ‘How the bloody hell did you manage that?’ he murmured.

Graham, the note began in a scratchy scrawl that he recognised as Rory’s.

All good here. Got my man. Married him, if you’d believe it.

I’d have asked you to be my best man but travel would have been difficult.

Thanks for everything mate. I’ll probably come visit eventually.

But not too soon, still busy fucking off.

The seal’s name is Acha, by the way. She’s friendly and likes crabs if you have any. Take care and shit. Rory.

As the wind picked up and whipped at his face, Graham laughed, a great belly laugh, and threw a salute to his disappeared friend.

‘Here’s to fucking off.’

Graham grinned and tucked the note away. He whistled a tune as he climbed the harbour steps, looking forward to another interesting day.

* * *

In the privacy of his inner chamber, Neacel sorted through his small, treasured collection of clothing.

The sparkling silver dress was still his favourite but perhaps too ostentatious, he decided.

He didn’t exactly want to draw attention to himself tonight.

But he wanted to feel… to feel… delicate. Graceful. Himself.

Neacel selected a simple black cocktail dress instead. It had clean lines and would look smooth over his body. It was also the only dress for which he’d managed to obtain matching shoes. Little black sandals with a kitten heel.

He bundled them all into a net on his back and set off.

It wasn’t long before he spotted the shadow of a boat heading inland. Taking aim, Neacel hurled a hook and line into its hull. The hook stuck. Now all he had to do was hold on. A much more efficient way to travel rather than swimming all the way there.

Several hours later, Neacel stepped out of the cave hidden below Ullapool and into the crisp evening air. The dress had needed time to dry and he’d spent more than an hour trying to get his lipstick on right. He patted everything down, smoothed his hands over his hair for the fiftieth time.

It’s just an experiment, he reassured himself. I won’t be long. A few minutes at most. Just to see what it feels like.

The streets weren’t too busy. Neacel had purposely picked a Tuesday because he’d heard it was The Loch-Up’s slowest night. Even the regular bouncer, Simon, was off-duty.

Neacel sidled inside the club. His heels click-clacked strangely—but satisfyingly—on the hard floor.

One drink, he promised, heart pounding. I’ll order one drink and then leave.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to catch the bartender’s eye. He stood awkwardly hugging himself at the bar. Nobody paid him much mind. Cautiously, Neacel began to relax.

‘Oy, oy,’ said a rough but not unfriendly voice behind him. ‘Do I know you?’

Instant panic. Neacel froze.

The voice belonged to a handsome, weatherworn face that slid into Neacel’s field of view. ‘Seen you in here before, haven’t I? With the guys with the kilts?’

The man’s eyes dropped to travel over Neacel’s body. Surely taking in the rumples he hadn’t quite smoothed out of the dress and the sand in his heels and more than anything the drainpipe frame that it all hung from. Neacel wished more than ever to shrink away.

But then the man smiled and Neacel’s heart skipped a beat.

‘Name’s Graham, beautiful. Can I buy you a drink?’

* * *

Hamish Douglas stewed silently in his chair in his empty house. The television was off; in his hand he clutched Rory’s letter.

This is goodbye, Dad. I’m going to stop trying to take responsibility for a problem that was never mine to fix. I hope you move on some day.

There was a lot more, but Hamish struggled to read the whole thing in one go. He was furious. And miserable. And his bastarding skin itched.

There was probably a pill for that if he cared to tell the doctor, which he didn’t. It was nobody’s business how his skin felt; that some days he felt like an alien living inside a husk that wanted to split open.

Rory had cared. Constantly tried to make him face his body’s aches and pains.

The final line of the letter caught his eye again.

I love you.

Rory

Rory had left the letter by Nancy’s photograph. Insult on top of insult.

God, Nancy. If only she were here. If only…

But she wasn’t. Rory had been here, and now he wasn’t either. And on a deep, dark level that he wasn’t prepared to bring into the light, Hamish knew it was his fault. He’d failed Rory. Failed Nancy by failing Rory.

There was a knock at the door. His heart almost jumped—but it was too brash a knock to be Rory’s who would have let himself in with a key, anyway.

Hamish dragged his protesting body to its feet.

Behind the front door, Doaty waited on the step with hands in his pockets.

‘’Ullo,’ Doaty grunted.

Hamish glared mutely back.

Of course, it was Doaty’s fault that Rory had left. Hamish had trusted the scurvy prick to see his son right all his life, and Doaty had failed him.

The deep, dark part of him raised its head. It was your job to protect him, Hamish .

Doaty mumbled through his beard. ‘Drink?’

Hamish looked beyond him to the outside world. The sun was bright in a clear sky. Somewhere out there, Rory walked or sailed under the same sky.

Hamish stepped out of his house. ‘Nah,’ he said, voice like sandpaper in his throat. He didn’t use it much. ‘Let’s walk.’

Doaty nodded, his dour expression lifting in hope.

On this warm summer’s day under a clear sky, two old friends shuffled down the road together to some undecided destination. Perhaps to something new.

* * *

In the Aft Tower, King Aonghas studied his notes in deep thought. He didn’t hear the swish of kelp as Iomhar entered without formally announcing himself.

‘ This again? ’ Iomhar remarked, looking over his shoulder. ‘ Have you come to any new conclusions? ’

‘ No, ’ Aonghas replied heavily.

Iomhar placed his palm over the clay tablet. ‘ You should eat, Aonghas. I hear you missed the meal set out for you again. ’

The king sighed and turned away. ‘ Perhaps I should speak with Liath once more. ’

‘ It worries you, this news of the Rot in the fae realm. I understand. ’ Iomhar reached out, about to place his hands on Aonghas’s shoulders, then pulled back at the last second. ‘ But for now it is contained in their realm. We have time to think about creating some defence. ’

‘ It worries me how placid we have been. ’ Aonghas’s eyes roved over the wall of records in front of him, personal logs from kings past. ‘ Our two tribes are so caught up in the power struggle created by the bargain that we have forgotten how to truly cooperate. For centuries we have taken it for granted that Redfolk magic can protect us from anything—threats from our world and their own. And this was deemed enough to justify the sacrifice of our sons and brothers. ’

Sensing the looming cloud of melancholy about to engulf him, Iomhar closed the distance and gently laced his fingers with Aonghas’s.

‘ Drest did not consider it a sacrifice, ’ he reminded.

‘ He went with high hopes of fostering the same cooperation you speak of. We can hope he is achieving his aim there. ’

‘ Mmm. Where the Rot is. ’ Aonghas shook his hand loose and pinched the bridge of his nose. He abruptly changed the subject. ‘ Any news on Fionn and Rory? ’

Iomhar respectfully backed away. ‘ Brudus met them as they rounded the tip of the Isle of Lewis. It sounds as though they are on course to meet Drostan in a week’s time. ’

Aonghas smiled wanly. ‘ My heart is glad for Fionn. But also crestfallen, for it seems my son may be destined to be Wandering Bluefolk, kept far from home after all. ’

‘ I suspect his heart has always wandered. ’

Aonghas regarded Iomhar’s impassive bearing for a moment. ‘ It strikes me that you have always known him better than I. ’

‘ Perhaps. ’

‘ Did you know he felt failed by me? ’

Iomhar’s brow creased, his face softening into an expression both compassionate and a little wretched. ‘ I thought to protect you from his resentment. A misguided motive, it’s clear to me now. But I witness your low spirits and I cannot bear to bring them lower. ’

For the barest moment, Aonghas caught a taste of heartache in his gills. Iomhar was so practiced at stoicism; despite his sometimes careless touches, it was uncommon for any hint of his emotions to bleed into the water.

Aonghas drifted closer, laced their fingers again. ‘ Come. Take me to dinner. ’

Iomhar’s hand tightened around his. ‘ With pleasure, Your Majesty. ’

* * *

Out in the North Atlantic Ocean, some fifty miles west of the Isle of Harris and the rest of the Outer Hebrides, Gus Williams cut loose his trawler’s broken fishing net and cast it over the side.

Blasted thing had gotten snagged on the seabed and torn in several places.

Easier to ditch it than repair. No one would know, after all. Who was watching, way out here?

As he turned from the side, something smacked him in the back of the head. He stumbled. ‘What the fu—?’

There was a protracted thump of something wet and heavy hitting the deck in several stages, and the back of Gus’ knees. He hopped away from it, cursing and clutching his legs.

Then he stared, astounded and slightly terrified by the sight of his soggy fishing net heaped up in front of him.

Cautiously, he peered over the side of the trawler.

A monster bared its teeth from below.

It looked liked a man with dark hair, but had fangs and claws and evil barbs protruding from its back. ‘ Keep your shit out of my ocean! ’ it snarled at him in a Scottish accent.

Gus fell onto his arse and scrambled backward. From below he heard the musical chuckling of another voice. ‘ I think he has understood you. ’

‘ I’ll be watching you, ’ the first voice called. ‘ Don’t even think about dumping those nets again. ’

Sweat poured down Gus’ face. How was he going to explain this to the skipper? Would he rather take his chances with an angry boss or a furious sea monster?

Gus was a sailor at heart, so he knew which way the wind was blowing.

‘Aye, aye!’ he croaked back.

There was no reply.

Slowly, Gus crawled on hands and knees to the edge. Clutching the side with both hands, he peered over the rail.

The ocean rolled beneath him, dark and silent but far from empty. Two shadows floated ominously below the waves.

Two monsters. Two wandering souls.

The shadows flittered away, sinking into the depths, leaving only soft ripples in their wake.

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