Mermen In The Deep

I woke before dawn because my body still kept time with the tides.

For a suspended moment, I lay there in the unfamiliar quiet, waiting for the distant hush of surf against sand, for the call of gulls, for the steady breath of the Atlantic beyond a balcony that no longer existed.

Instead, the wind moved through the trees.

Leaves, not waves, made the sound that stirred my body awake.

A long, low howl threaded through the gray quiet, rising somewhere deeper in the woods. It carried differently than sea sound, sharper and more deliberate. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling of the spare bedroom Morgan and Simon had insisted I take. Dark wooden beams cut across pale plaster. The room still felt borrowed, even after three weeks.

I rolled onto my side and reached for my phone, which displayed 5:12 a.m.

High tide would have been around now if I were still near the coast I’d lived on for the last six years.

The thought landed without the sharpness it had carried those first few days. The university email had been clinical and efficient. My department had been dissolved. Marine Ecology had folded into a broader environmental sciences program, so they no longer required me. Funding had been redirected, and grants were suspended. “Thank you for your dedication,” was the last line of the email.

I hadn’t cried when I read it. I’d simply stared at the screen until the words blurred and then made coffee as if nothing had shifted beneath my feet.

Another howl drifted through the trees, closer this time. I pushed back the covers and padded toward the window. The forest beyond the glass was a layered lattice of trunks and undergrowth, and dawn filtered through in pale ribbons. The air here smelled of pine and damp earth. I missed the salt. I missed the way coastal air felt heavier, thick with brine and something alive.

Three weeks, I reminded myself. It’s not a lifetime.

I dressed quietly and made my way down the hall toward the kitchen. The house carried Simon’s presence even when he was nowhere in sight. Old wood. Old books. There was something metallic beneath it all that never quite faded. If houses could brood, this one would.

Morgan was already there, leaning against the counter with a mug in hand, her hair still tangled from sleep. She glanced up and smiled. “You’re up early. Let me guess. Tide charts?”

“Muscle memory,” I admitted, reaching for a second mug. “High tide would’ve been around now.”

Morgan’s expression softened in a way that made me look away first. “You don’t have to keep checking.”

“I know.” I poured coffee and wrapped both hands around the warmth. “It’s just habit.”

She studied me for a moment, then brightened deliberately. “Good. Then tonight will be therapeutic.”

I blinked. “Tonight?”

“Cinco de Mayo,” she said, as if the holiday required no explanation. “There's a shoreline festival tonight where pack territory meets the water, with food trucks and music and fireworks. It’s the one night everyone pretends we’re a perfectly normal town.”

The word shoreline caught somewhere behind my ribs. I hadn’t been back to the sea since arriving. I told myself I was settling in, giving myself time. The truth was simpler. I didn’t know what it would feel like to stand at the edge and no longer belong to it.

Morgan nudged me gently with her elbow. “You need salt air, Hazel. And you need to meet everyone when they’re distracted by street tacos.”

I huffed a small laugh. “That is a compelling argument.”

“I’m serious.” Her voice softened. “You can’t hide in Simon’s spare room forever.”

“It’s not hiding,” I protested mildly.

“It’s absolutely hiding.”

I glanced down the hallway toward Simon’s closed office door. Morgan and I had been roommates in college, close enough that when I lost my position and didn't know where to turn, she was the first person I called. She had offered Simon's spare room without hesitation, and Simon had agreed with the detached pragmatism of someone who found human distress mildly inconvenient but manageable. Living in a vampire’s house in the middle of wolf territory hadn’t been on my life plan. But neither had losing my position in the department, which I loved. At least here, the unknown had faces. Sharp teeth, maybe, but faces.

“Does Simon go?” I asked.

Morgan smirked. “He claims he doesn’t. I guarantee he stands at the tree line and observes everyone’s interactions.”

“That feels ominous.”

“That’s just Simon.”

I nodded slowly. In this town, power rarely shouted, but watched from a distance.

“Six p.m.,” Morgan said firmly. “Wear something that says you’re open to new beginnings but not cult recruitment.”

I blinked. “Is that a category?”

“In this day and age? Yes.”

She disappeared down the hall to get ready, leaving me alone with my coffee and the view of trees stretching toward a coastline I couldn’t see but could almost feel.

A little later, in the shower, I let the water run longer than necessary. It was the closest thing to immersion I had allowed myself since moving. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes as it flowed over my shoulders and down my ribs.

For a fleeting second, the sensation shifted. The water felt heavier somehow, warmer against my skin. I frowned and pressed my palm to the tiled wall. New plumbing, I told myself. Different mineral content. Entirely normal explanation.

Still, when I stepped out and toweled off, my skin tingled faintly along my sides. I glanced down, half-expecting to see something unusual.

There was nothing. It was just damp skin and imagination layered over longing.

I dressed simply—denim, a soft knit top, and sandals. I braided my hair loosely over one shoulder and studied my reflection. Hazel. Thirty-one. Former associate professor. Currently unemployed.

That last part still felt like an error in my resume.

I stepped into the hallway and nearly collided with Simon.

He stood there as if he had always been part of the architecture. Dark eyes, composed posture, a presence that filled the space without effort.

“I’m sorry,” I said automatically.

“You are up and moving earlier than I expected,” he observed.

“I’ve always been an early riser.”

His gaze held mine for a long time, unreadable but not unkind. “You will go to the shoreline tonight,” he said. It was not a question.

I hesitated only briefly. “Yes.”

He inclined his head once. “The tide is unsettled.”

A faint chill traced down my spine. “In a storm way?” I asked carefully.

“In a waiting manner.”

That clarified nothing.

He stepped aside, allowing me to pass. “Enjoy the festival,” he added, his voice low and even.

I nodded and continued down the hall, my heartbeat a little faster than before. The sea did not wait. It shifted and rebuilt without asking permission. I was the one struggling to find steady ground inside a vampire’s house. The place had its own energy, old and watchful, and it kept me unsettled just enough that I never fully relaxed. Maybe I was just allowing paranoia to get the better of me. I had to focus on the new life ahead of me. And tonight, I would stand at its edge again. Not as a professor nor as a researcher. Just as Hazel.

Outside, the forest stirred in the growing light. I paused at the front door, my hand resting on the knob. For the briefest moment, beneath the rustle of leaves and distant wolves, I thought I heard something else.

Not the wind or an animal.

I could feel a low, deep pulse.

I drew in a slow breath.

It was probably just my imagination, longing dressed up as something larger. Still, as I stepped onto the porch, the faintest whisper of salt rode the air.

And somewhere far beyond the trees, I could sense it. Something waited.