Page 3 of Kept By the Kraken

Long ago, when my people were plentiful and the Vikings ruled the northern seas, my Beast and I were one. Then, we did not need distinction and simply moved our form as desired. Now, we are something else. Something broken.

My kraken form is large. Though, of course, the legends of our raids on the seas exaggerate our size. The myths made our swarm of warriors into one monolithic Beast that brought sailors to their deaths.

The shift into my warrior form did not hurt as it does now. It was a breath from one to the next. Then, magic was plentiful, a sacred gift we took for granted. We feared nothing but the gods themselves and believed we were invincible. We were fools.

I force my body to move. Taking the slick staircase cut into the jagged rock, I make my way slowly toward the lonely white beacon at the top of the cliff. My stomach rumbles in protest and I blink against the harsh light after so long in the ocean. My kraken doesn’t sense less than my human side, but the sensations are different, jarring in their emotional complexity. Already I long for the comfort of the mud and the lure of the water, for the oblivion the creature provides from my human memories.

Don’t think of them.

Despite my command, their faces, aged only with the imperfection of memory, flit through my mind. Not their beauty or their fierce tongues or laughter. That, I might welcome. But of course, it is only their mouths gaping open in a never-ending scream and the blood. So much blood.

I close my eyes and lean against the cold rock, willing the memories of my dead wife and child to fade until the bracing pain becomes manageable, then I climb again. You would think I would have grown accustomed to the pain after so many years. That it, too, would have lessened with the imperfection of memory.

I let myself in the back door and find a pair of sweats before heading into the kitchen. Taking long gulps from the faucet, I drink until water leaks down my chin. When my thirst is satisfied, I open the fridge only to find it empty of any real nourishment and smelling stale.

How long was my shift?

Too long.

What could have kept me?

I rack my brain, the certainty that I am missing something important festering like an old wound that won’t heal.

All he shows me is a hunt for lost treasure. A camera? Some kind of underwater box? It doesn’t register. Whatever he’s gotten up to, we need to be more careful, or we risk exposure. Long ago our magic was discovered, and we were exposed. As a result, our people are no more.

Centuries ago, our people warred with the crusaders. When they came to our lands, the devout knight warriors had already discovered shifter magic and made an alliance with the serpent shifters who taught them how to strengthen their blades with dragon’s blood. The dragons and kraken clans were lost and the wolves numbers decimated. The treacherous serpents remained,though for their work in helping the humans they should have been wiped out.

Those of us who survived banded together and hunted the last of the crusaders until we had destroyed them and their records of our existence. Once we were successful, the remaining shifters created a permeant shifter settlement hidden from humans by magic wards. But I refused.

I’m disgraced. I have no family. No one to protect. Only those whom I have failed.

The world has long moved beyond my gods, our people a distant blip in history. But I did not die with honor on the battlefield. I lived while our warriors fell, and the knights took our land. Took my family. I can’t stand the idea of being discovered and meeting a dishonorable end, of failing them in death too.

The gnawing pit in my stomach forces me to focus on the present. I raid the pantry, tearing into cans. Peaches and tuna. Beans and cold tomatoes. At the back of my mind, my kraken tugs, a warning or a cry that I still don’t understand. I ignore it. With each passing moment, the sensation of looming dread grows.

When I have run through the measly stockpile, I ransack the kitchen for moonshine. Every jug I find is empty. I need to run to town and gather supplies, but I’m too exhausted after my long shift.

I curse and stumble to the bathroom, hoping the warm water and food will be enough after the physical exertion of the shift to lull me to a dreamless sleep. As I turn on the shower, I notice a new rune etched on my wrist amid my old marks. I look closer, horrified by the twisting lines that turn into the shape of a familiar brand. Pain lances my heart.

It’s impossible.I scrub at the new rune, trying to rub the lines off my skin. They shimmer with a happy golden light, mocking me.

No. This can’t be. I scream into the empty room, the sound drowned out by the pounding water.

“I refuse! Do you hear me? I refuse,” I yell like a madman, cursing the gods and the sea, though I am alone.

Despite my anger, the mark does not fade, etched there like a brand of ownership.

I curse the dragon and her visit last winter. After centuries in exile, she found me and asked me to help her restore shifter magic. One vial of my ink and she promised to leave me in peace. Randi did not let me forget how we fought together against the crusaders.

Fool.

I should have never helped the dragon. Now, magic has come for me.

But thiswill notbelong to me.

Not again.

I wipe off the cracked mirror enough that I can see my reflection. Desperate, I lean in, hands splayed against my heart.

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