The western beach was nearly invisible from the road.
Weston followed a narrow path through wind-bent trees and tall grass until the ground began to slope toward the sea. By the time he reached the rocks, the town had disappeared behind him. The harbor bells were too distant to hear, and the few lights shining through the trees looked like stars caught low against the earth.
The tide was coming in.
Waves rolled over the dark sand and broke against the rocks with enough force to send cold spray across his boots. Clouds had gathered above the water, hiding most of the moon, but the storm had not yet reached the shore. The air felt charged and restless, as though the weather were holding its breath.
Weston pulled his coat tighter and looked toward the place where he had seen the face three nights earlier.
Nothing moved beyond the waves.
He had expected that.
A reasonable man would have gone home.
Instead, Weston walked farther down the beach.
The western shore had never attracted many visitors. There were no docks, no easy trails for wagons, and no gentle stretches of water where children could safely swim. Jagged rocks divided the beach into narrow coves, and the current farther out was strong enough to carry an experienced swimmer away from land.
It was also one of the quietest places Weston knew.
He had come there often as a boy, usually when he wanted to avoid chores or escape the noise of town. His mother had known exactly where to find him but rarely came looking until sunset. She claimed the ocean was good company as long as he remembered it did not care whether he lived or died.
At the time, he had thought she was being dramatic.
Standing alone beneath the darkening sky, he understood what she meant.
The ocean was beautiful, but there was nothing gentle about it.
Weston stepped onto a broad, flat rock and searched the water again. He felt foolish almost immediately.
“Come to see the sea demon?”
The voice behind him made him turn sharply.
Old Silas Reed stood near the edge of the path with a lantern in one hand and a length of rope looped over his shoulder. His heavy beard was damp from the mist, and the coat hanging from his narrow frame looked old enough to have belonged to his grandfather.
Weston relaxed. “I thought you were one.”
Silas grunted. “Too handsome.”
“That must be it.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“Walking.”
“At night.”
“The sun makes it harder.”
Silas gave him a long look. Weston had never been certain whether the old fisherman enjoyed humor or simply tolerated it.
“You hear what happened offshore?” Silas asked.
“Hard not to.”
“Owen Mercer woke up.”
“So I heard.”
“He keeps saying they let him live.”
Weston glanced back toward the waves. “People say a lot of things after nearly dying.”
“People say a lot of things before dying too. Doesn’t mean all of them are lies.”
Weston stepped down from the rock. “You really believe pale creatures climbed out of the sea and attacked that boat?”
Silas adjusted the rope on his shoulder. “I believe men are quick to laugh at anything that frightens them.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Silas walked toward a small rowboat tied beyond the rocks. He had dragged it high enough onto the sand to keep the rising tide from stealing it, though the waves had already begun reaching the stern.
“You’re going out?” Weston asked.
“Not tonight. Checking my knots.”
“With everything you think is out there?”
Silas bent to examine the rope. “Whatever hunts in those waters has been there longer than either of us. Staying home one night won’t change that.”
“You make it sound comforting.”
“It isn’t supposed to be.”
Silas tugged the line once, then turned back toward the path. Before leaving, he paused beside Weston.
“If you see something in the water, don’t assume it wants saving.”
Weston watched him disappear between the trees.
“That man needs friends,” he muttered.
A wave struck the rocks, and something splashed farther out.
Weston turned.
A dark shape moved briefly beneath the surface before vanishing.
He waited.
Nothing returned.
He walked closer to the water until foam curled around the soles of his boots. The tide was colder than he expected. It soaked into the worn leather almost immediately.
“Perfect,” he said.
Another shape crossed the water.
This time, it was closer.
Weston held still.
At first, he saw only dark hair floating across the surface. Then a face slowly emerged between the waves.
The woman watched him from several yards offshore.
She was the same one he had seen before. He was sure of it now.
Her wet hair clung to her cheeks and shoulders, darker than the water surrounding her. Only her head and the upper curve of one shoulder remained above the surface. Her skin looked pale in the weak moonlight, though not sickly. Her eyes were wide and fixed on him with an intensity that made him feel as though he were the one being discovered.
Weston’s mind reached for every ordinary explanation it could find.
A swimmer.
A woman from the islands.
Someone stranded.
None of them made sense.
The current would have dragged an ordinary swimmer against the rocks.
He raised one hand slowly. “Hello.”
The woman disappeared beneath the water.
Weston stared at the place where she had been.
A laugh escaped him, though there was no humor in it.
“Of course.”
He waited for her to resurface.
One minute passed.
Then another.
No one could remain underwater that long.
Weston moved along the shoreline, searching between the waves. “Are you hurt?”
There was no answer.
He climbed onto the nearest rock for a better view. The surface had grown rougher, broken by the approaching wind. If she had been pulled beneath the current, he might not see her again until it was too late.
He began removing his coat.
“You shouldn’t do that.”
The voice came from his left.
Weston froze.
The woman had surfaced behind another rock, much closer than before. Her voice was soft but clear despite the waves.
“You speak English,” he said.
She tilted her head. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m surprised by several things.”
Her gaze dropped to the coat in his hands. “The water will take you.”
“I thought it might have taken you.”
“It cannot.”
Weston studied her face. “Why not?”
She did not answer.
He looked toward the place where her body disappeared below the surface. The water distorted everything beneath it, but for a moment he thought he saw a flash of muted green and violet.
Not legs.
Something wider.
Something moving with the current.
Weston stepped down from the rock.
The woman immediately retreated several feet.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
Her expression changed. Not fear exactly. Amusement, perhaps.
“That is what humans say before they hurt something.”
Weston stopped.
“That sounds unfair.”
“Is it?”
He considered the blood on the fishing boat, the hooks hanging in sheds throughout town, and the nets repaired every morning along the harbor.
“No,” he admitted. “Probably not.”
The answer appeared to surprise her.
She moved closer again, though not close enough for him to reach her.
“What is your name?” Weston asked.
She looked toward the trees behind him, then back at the open water.
“Why?”
“So I know what to call you.”
“You may not call me anything.”
“That makes conversation difficult.”
“You speak too much.”
“I’ve been told that.”
A faint smile touched her mouth before disappearing.
Weston noticed it.
“So you do understand jokes.”
“I understand when humans make noise to hide that they are afraid.”
He looked down at the water around his boots. “I’m not afraid.”
“You came here searching for something you do not believe exists.”
That silenced him.
She had seen him before.
Perhaps more than once.
“What do you think I’m searching for?” he asked.
The woman sank lower until the water covered her mouth. Her eyes remained on his.
“Proof.”
Before Weston could respond, thunder rolled across the sea.
She turned toward the sound.
The clouds had thickened, and rain had begun falling beyond the rocks, moving steadily toward shore.
“You should leave,” she said.
“Because of the storm?”
“Because others may come.”
Weston thought of Silas’s warning. “Others like you?”
Her expression hardened.
“There are no others like me.”
Then she slipped beneath the surface.
Weston waited for her to appear again. He searched until the rain reached the beach and began falling hard enough to blur the water.
She did not return.
By the time he started toward home, his coat was soaked and his boots were full of sand. He had learned almost nothing about the woman in the sea. He did not know her name, where she came from, or how she had remained beneath the water without breathing.
He only knew she was real.
For the first time in his life, Weston had witnessed something impossible and found himself unable to explain it away.
He should have been frightened.
Instead, he was already wondering when she would return.