Page 34 of Ghoul Me, Maybe
Breathe.
Rebuild our walls.
But not as high as before.
Because now we both know that the sea isn’t the only thing that’s rising.
CHAPTER 13
SIENNA
The ocean doesn’tinviteyou in—itdaresyou.
And like the brilliant dumbass I am, I take the dare.
It’s not like I haven’t been in worse situations. I once spelunked into a sunken temple off the Turkish coast with a cracked flashlight and a sinus infection. But this? This is different.
This is personal.
The map’s clenched in one gloved hand, damp from sea spray and my own sweat. The X it marks isn’t on land. It’s tucked behind the reef just beyond Wrecker’s Bay—beneath a sharp-toothed ridge locals call the Widow’s Jaw. Which is not, for the record, comforting.
The tide is low, the moon’s still up, and Mira’s protective charm is thudding against my sternum like a warning bell.
I ignore it.
Sorry, Mira. I love you, but your exorcism-grade salt necklaces aren’t going to cut it for this.
I take a breath and wade out until the cold water hits my hips, then my ribs, then my collarbone. My wet suit is definitely not insulated enough, and I’ve already cursed out loud twice. Thethird time I slip on algae-covered stone and nearly eat seawater, I hiss, “You better be worth this, Jonas, you cryptic bastard.”
I’m swimming before my brain can list all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
The reef looms ahead—dark and jagged, like something out of a Lovecraftian nightmare. But just beyond it, a faint shimmer pulses in the water. A glow, too steady to be moonlight. It’s not phosphorescence either. It’s magic. Ancient. Quiet. Hungry.
I spot the vault just before the current grabs me.
It’s carved into the seabed, half-choked by barnacles and coral, with symbols etched in the stone like something out of a wizard’s fever dream. My father’s handwriting annotated the map with “SEAL 3 – CRYPT LOCK. KEEP TO SURFACE UNLESS KEY IS PRIMED.”
I didn’t bring the key.
Because, again:brilliant dumbass.
I reach out anyway, fingers brushing the edge.
The second I make contact, the watermoves.
No, not moves.Reacts.
A crack splits open above the vault, and before I can backstroke my way to safety, tendrils of seaweed shoot from the stone like they’ve been waiting centuries for a hug. One wraps around my wrist. Another curls around my ankle.
“Son of a?—”
I kick, thrash, twist—but it’s like fighting tar. Cold, binding, and deeply uninterested in letting go.
My lungs are already starting to burn.
I reach for my dive knife, fingers slipping. The blade’s dull—thanks, antique collector’s edition—and barely nicks the seaweed. It shrieks.Shrieks, underwater, like a chorus of drowning whispers.
Then ittightens.
