Mars Chan Novels & Stories

By sunset it’ll be in everyone’s ears, tidied up and sharpened. The Marinos fleet is the heartbeat you don’t see. Five trawlers with names that all start with “Saint” because Nonna Marinos said so—Saint Lucia, Saint Irene, Saint Maria, Saint George, Saint Spiridon—rolling out before first light, rolling back in when the horizon does that pink-and-gold theatre trick. Their sheds out by the slipway smell like diesel, brine, and coin. People grumble about quotas and bycatch like they grumble about weather and taxes; they still line up for fresh prawns at Christmas like the end of the world’s coming and only shellfish will save them.

I smirked at him, wondering what he was going to say this time. ““Where are your passes boys? I assume you have a reason to be late, Mr. Marshall?” Mr. Jenkins asked. Obviously, he asked me because I was Alpha of the Crescent Pack. I was leader and I was supposed to take care of all the responsibilities. Oh well, I was only in high school. I’ll let Warren take care of it again. He was the most responsible one. I shook my head and smirked. “Mr. Jenkins, you know I’m not the responsible one.”

Ismael had explained to them that ships did not pass near that beach because there were no docks, and the closest one was half a day away from there sailing in parallel with the shore. Charlotte stopped walking, and since she was holding Marina’s hand, the siren stopped as well. Marina was confused by the sudden stop, so she turned around to check on her friend and she could see her with her sight fixed on the horizon. Marina then looked in the same direction and she also saw the silhouette on the water, making her confused.

"I have an idea about that. How do you feel about boats?" Marcus Chen, Cain's childhood friend and now Moonhaven's sheriff, keeps his fishing boat moored at a small private dock on the south side of the harbor—conveniently out of sight from the main marina where most town activity occurs. "You think Marcus will help us?" I ask skeptically. "He's the sheriff. Isn't he obligated to report us or something?" "Marcus and I have history," Cain explains. "We've stayed in touch over the years. He knows enough about my mother to be wary of her, and he's been texting me warnings since I returned to town."

The moon hung low over the Atlantic, a cold silver coin reflecting off black water. The yacht Nuova Leash cut through the swell at twenty knots, running dark no navigation lights, no AIS signal. Marcus stood on the flybridge, wind whipping his shirt open, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. He’d aged in the last five years lines around the eyes, a permanent tightness around the mouth but the deceptive smile still came easily. He didn’t hear the helicopter until it was almost on top of him.

The phone slipped from her hand, landing silently on the thick rug. The Maserati tore through the streets of Chicago, its roaring engine ripping through the afternoon calm. Madeline's foot was pressed to the floor, the speedometer needle quivering. Her hands trembled on the steering wheel. If something happened to him… She couldn't let herself think it. When she arrived, her men were dredging a murky pit of water. "The signal's last ping was right here," Marco said, squatting and stirring the foul water with a stick. "But we haven't found anything yet."

She smiles warmly and observes Naida, awaiting her response. Naida's expression shifts, a hint of nostalgia in her eyes. She gazes into the depths for a moment before responding. She smiles softly, but her eyes reveal a touch of sadness. Naida signs, her hands gently conveying the emotions within her. "Marine, Tasmanridge holds many memories for me. It's a beautiful place, with vibrant coral reefs and currents that make you feel alive. The merfolk there, we have a close connection to the ocean, much like the sharks that roam our waters. But talking about Tasmanridge makes me miss it even more. It's hard to put into words."

March grabbed my upper arm and hauled me out of my seat. I tried to hide the pain that shot through my arm, but a soft groan escaped me. I felt my feet briefly leave the ground as he pulled me toward the door. The humid breeze outside sucked the unsteady breath from my lungs. Marcus let go of my arm and I stumbled against the outside railing leading up to the door. “Who is the Marine,” he spat. I straightened, but didn’t have a chance to answer when Marcus tumbled forward over the railing, landing on the gravel. Madden stood at the door. “Get in your vehicle, we’re leaving.”

To say that I am not going to miss the both of them with be a lie. The anticipation of deploying on the other side is equally just exciting. This time we will be away for a definite six months. This time the stakes are higher, and the danger is far greater. Camp Baharia in Fallujah, the base name, has a tight connection with its operating force; in fact, the Marine Corps are referred to as mushaat al baharia in the Arabian language; hence the free translation, the name describes the navy walkers. Among the military troop and plenty of other officials, including the 2-nd Battalion 1-st Marines, it is referred to as Dreamland.

Mara POV The last full day of the retreat dawns with a sky that looks like a warning. I stand at my window watching dark clouds gather on the horizon, my fingers pressed against the cool glass. The ocean is restless. Gray and churning. “We should cancel,” I heard someone say at breakfast. “Nonsense.” Rowan waves off the concern with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “The captain says we’ll be fine. Little weather never hurts anyone.” I look at the storm forecast on my phone. Severe thunderstorm warning. Small craft advisory. Everything screams danger.