Charlotte McConaghy

It’s almost dawn when he takes this night and destroys it with naught but a handful of words, as most things are destroyed.

Creatures that have learned to survive anything, everything, except us.

“How do you do it without a suit?”

I shrug, grin. “Seal blood.”

“Oh, aye, you’ve the dark look of them, too.”

I’ve been told this before. It’s the black hair and the black eyes and the pale, pale skin. It’s how the black Irish used to look, back in the days when folktales were true and people might really have come from the sea. It’s how my mother looks.