Chapter 2
Jack
As soon as my boots hit the concrete slab, the water is there, a violent, churning intrusion. Swirling around the ironbark stilts, the flood is shin-deep and rising, sucking at my ankles with a force that threatens to drag me down.
It’s warm, unnaturally warm, and it feels like bathwater that’s been left to go stagnant, teeming with silt and the rot of the mangroves.
Sweeping the Maglite beam across the darkness, light cuts a solid, white cone through the driving rain. The noise down here is deafening. The wind is howling through the lattice, the water is slapping against the piles, the house is groaning above me like a dying ship.
“Hello?” I yell, but the wind tears the word away before it leaves my lips.
Swinging the light toward the central support beam, I spot it.
Wedged against the thickest pillar holding up the kitchen is a chaotic mass of debris.
It looks like a beaver dam made of garbage, tangled green fishing nets, heavy driftwood, plastic jerry cans, and seaweed, all knotted together in a heap.
The surge has hammered it against the pylon, locking it in place.
Suddenly, the mass moves.
Freezing, I tighten my grip on the machete handle.
A hand slaps the water. It shoots out from the tangle, pale and stark white against the dirty brown flood, clawing at the surface with splayed fingers.
“Hey!” I bellow, wading forward. “I see you! Hold on!”
Assuming some poor bastard got caught in the surge and swept up the estuary, my old SES instincts kick in. Pushing against the current, I fight my way forward as the water splashes up to my knees.
“I’ve got you,” I shout, aiming the light directly at the hand. “Don’t fight the net, you’ll just…” The words die in my throat.
I edge closer. The debris jerks wildly as a slender arm breaches the surface, but it's the shape moving beneath the water that freezes me in place.
A tail.
Thick as a python, muscular and terrifying, it thrashes wildly against the wood. Caught in the flashlight beam, the scales flash with a sudden, blinding iridescence of emerald green, deep violet, and a wet, slick obsidian. It scrapes against the ironbark with the sound of sandpaper on bone.
Stopping dead in my tracks, I let the water swirl around my thighs.
The shape in the net snaps its head toward me, and the light hits her face.
Staggering back a step, my boot slips on the algae-slick concrete.
She doesn’t look like a victim but a nightmare.
Her skin is the color of moonlight on a tombstone, luminous and pale, with wet, dark hair plastered to her skull.
But it’s the eyes that freeze my blood. They are solid, void-like black with no whites or pupils, just endless, liquid darkness that reflects my torchlight like oil.
Her mouth opens in a snarl, revealing teeth that are too sharp and serrated, designed for tearing raw fish, not smiling. Just below her jawline, three vertical slits flare open and shut, gasping for air that isn’t there.
Gills.
“I didn’t think your kind came this close to the surface,” I whisper, the sound lost to the storm.
Everyone in Deception Point knows the hierarchy. We tolerate the Reef Mer who trade pearls for whiskey at the docks. We ignore the shifters who run the salvage yards. But this… she isn’t one of the locals, she comes from the deep.
The drunks at the tavern talk about them when the rum runs low, the royalty of the trench. The things that pull the tides. It’s supposed to be a myth. But seeing her tangled in my gear makes my stomach turn over. The deep water is spitting up things that belong in the dark.
A low vibration rattles up through the wet deckboards into my boots. It takes a second to realize the sound is coming from her throat. A hiss.
Before I can blink, she snaps forward.
The heavy netting barely slows her down. She lashes out, pale hands hooking toward me. I scramble backward, boots slipping on the slick wood, but I'm too slow. Glassy claws catch my arm. They shred right through the thick canvas of my oilskin and tear straight into the meat of my forearm.
“Ah, shit!” Splashing backward, I nearly drop the machete. I clutch my arm as the pain flares, stinging in the salt spray.
She screams again, a high, piercing shriek that makes my teeth ache. Thrashing in frustration, her tail slams against the pylon with enough force to shake the floorboards above us.
That’s when I see the wound.
The violent movement shifts the net, revealing her side.
A jagged, broken piece of driftwood is driven deep into her flank, just above where her hips would be if she were human.
The nylon rope is fouling the wood, twisting it every time she moves.
Dark, viscous blood pumps out of the injury, staining the floodwater a deep, bruising purple.
She’s not attacking me because she wants to eat me. She’s attacking because she’s trapped. And she’s drowning.
Coughing a wet, rattling sound that sprays water from her gills, her head lolls forward. The black eyes lose focus for a second before snapping back to me with feral intensity. She’s suffocating in the open air.
Outside, the wind howls a banshee scream, signaling the next band of the cyclone. A massive surge of water rolls in from the yard, carrying a heavy log that slams into the outer stilts with a loud CRACK. The water level jumps to my knees.
Glancing at the rising water, then at the stairs, I know I could turn around. I could go back up, lock the door, drink the whiskey, and wait for the storm to clean up the mess. No one would ever believe me anyway.
But she looks up at me. The aggression fades for a split second, replaced by a stark, terrifying intelligence. She knows I’m debating it. Stopping her thrashing, she just watches me with those endless black eyes, judging me.
My hand throbs where she cut me, blood dripping into the water to mix with hers.
“Goddammit,” I growl.
Tightening my grip on the machete, I step back toward her. She bares her teeth, a low growl building in her throat as her muscles coil to strike again.
“Shut up,” I yell over the wind, raising the blade. “If you bite me again, I’ll leave you here.”
She freezes. It’s not because she understands English, but it’s the tone. The primal, guttural sound of a larger predator asserting dominance. For a split second, the dynamic shifts. I am not prey. I am a threat with a sharp edge.
Wading into the strike zone, I widen my stance, digging my heels into the slime-coated concrete to fight the current pushing against my thighs.
“Don’t move,” I mutter.
Clamping the Maglite between my teeth to free up my hands, I aim for the thickest knot of the green nylon netting pulled taut against the pylon.
Thwack.
The blade bites deep, severing a dozen strands. The tension releases with a snap. She flinches violently, her tail slapping the water, sending a spray of brine into my eyes.
“Stop it!” I roar around the flashlight, spitting the plastic barrel out of my mouth and catching it with my left hand.
Taking the opening, I chop downward, dangerously close to her body. It’s a gamble, but I have to get through the rope fouling the driftwood shard.
The net gives way.
Gravity and the current take over instantly.
Without the suspension of the net holding her up, she collapses, hitting the concrete slab with a heavy, brutal thud.
She tries to crawl, clawing at the submerged concrete, but she’s built for weightlessness.
Here, in the gravity of the surface world, she makes it only two feet before her arms give out.
My chest heaves as I stand over her. A plastic lawn chair floats by and bumps my legs.
“We can’t stay here,” I say.
She looks up at me, her black eyes dulling. Violent tremors rattle her scales against the floor. Between the blood loss, the cold wind, and the lack of oxygen, she is going into shock.
Sheathing the machete, I look around my understory workshop. Hanging from a nail on the bracing is a heavy-duty canvas tarp, stiff with salt and paint stains. Ripping it off the nail, I wrestle the fabric down and wade back to her.
“I’m going to wrap you up,” I tell her, keeping my voice low and steady like I’m talking to a spooked horse. “It’s going to hurt. I’m sorry.”
Kneeling in the water beside her, the smell is overwhelming—ozone, copper, and deep, cold brine.
Shoving the edge of the tarp under her tail, I work quickly to swaddle her, tucking the ends in tight to trap her razor-sharp claws against her chest. She hisses as the fabric brushes her wound, but the fight is draining out of her.
Now comes the lift.
Squatting down, I position my arms under the bundle. One arm under the thickest part of her tail, the other under her shoulders.
“On three,” I whisper to myself. “One. Two. Three.”
I lift.
A groan tears out of my throat, and my spine pops audibly.
Jesus Christ. She is incredibly, impossibly heavy, a solid mass of dense muscle and bone compacted to withstand the crushing pressure of the deep sea.
It feels like lifting a grand piano filled with lead.
My bad knee flares with hot, electric pain.
Gritting my teeth, I force my legs to straighten and find my center of gravity.
Turning toward the stairs, the wind hits us as soon as we step out from the shelter of the floor joists. It’s a physical blow that slams me sideways.
Taking the first step, my boot slips on the wet algae. I lurch forward, my shoulder slamming into the handrail, hugging her tightly to my chest to keep from dropping her.
Step five.
Step six.
My biceps are burning as lactic acid floods my muscles.
The thrashing stops.
She goes completely limp inside the canvas. I brace myself, expecting another trap, but she just shifts her weight and slumps against me. Her face presses hard into my chest, burrowing in like she’s trying to steal my body heat.
A weird, electric hum rolls off her skin. It bleeds right through the thick fabric, making the hair on my chest prickle and stand on end.
“Almost there,” I wheeze, pushing upward.
Reaching the top landing, the deck is awash with an inch of water. The wind here is ferocious, tearing at my clothes. Stumbling toward the back door, I have to balance her weight on my raised thigh, pinning her against the doorframe so I can fumble for the door handle.
The wind catches the door, ripping it out of my grip and slamming it open against the interior wall with a crash like a gunshot.
Stumbling inside, my boots skid on the linoleum. I spin around, using my shoulder to heave the door shut against the gale, and throw the deadbolt.
Or rather, the sudden, shocking muffling of the storm.
My legs finally give out. Sliding down the kitchen cabinets, I sink to the floor, cradling her head so it doesn’t crack against the linoleum. We land in a heap. Gasping for the dry, stale air of the kitchen, I lean my head back and wait for the black spots in my vision to clear.
A rustle of canvas draws my attention.
I open my eyes just as she weakly pushes the tarp away. She lies there on the kitchen floor, a creature of myth bleeding onto cheap linoleum. Slowly, she props herself on one elbow. A webbed hand pushes the wet hair from her face, and she meets my gaze.
“You’re heavy,” I wheeze, the adrenaline crash hitting me hard.
She tilts her head, bird-like, but then she convulses. Her eyes roll back, revealing a milky-white nictitating membrane that slides across the blackness. She is gasping, her gills fluttering wildly as her skin begins to gray.
She’s dying.
The wound.
Scrambling to my feet, I run to the hallway closet and dig through a pile of old coats until I find my orange SES trauma kit. Grabbing it, along with a bottle of cheap whiskey from the side table, I slide back into the kitchen.
She hasn’t moved. Her breathing is a shallow, wet rattle.
Ripping the canvas open further, I expose her side. The piece of driftwood is jagged, splintered, and driven deep into the soft flesh. The scales around it are shattered.
Cracking the seal on the whiskey, I take a long pull to ground myself, then pour the alcohol over my hands.
“This is going to hurt,” I tell her. “I’m sorry. But it has to come out.”
I dump the rest of the whiskey over the gash.
The sound she makes isn't human. It’s a high, piercing shriek that rattles the windowpanes and makes my teeth ache. She violently arches off the floorboards, her hand snapping up to lock around my wrist. Her grip is like a vise. The bones in my arm grind together as her claws bite into my skin.
I don't give myself time to think. I grab the slick piece of wood with my free hand and rip it out.
It gives way with a sickening tear. Dark blood surges up immediately, spilling over her ribs and soaking into the floorboards.
I drop the splinter, grab a thick stack of trauma pads from the kit, and shove them hard against the hole.
I lean all my weight into it, pinning her down to stem the bleeding.
The fight drains right out of her. Her grip on my wrist goes slack, and her head rolls to the side, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
“Stay with me,” I command, pressing down harder.
We stay like that for a long time. Me, kneeling in a pool of purple blood and whiskey, and her, breathing in shallow, ragged hitches. The lights flicker twice, then die completely with a loud pop from the transformer down the street.
In the darkness, I see her eyes. They are glowing with a faint, bioluminescent pulse, fixed directly on me.
“You better not eat me when you wake up,” I whisper into the dark.
She doesn’t respond, but her breathing is steadying.
Reaching for the roll of gauze, I gently ask her to lift herself. She understands the intent, groaning with effort as she lifts her torso just an inch. Sliding the bandage under her, I wrap it tight around her midsection and tie it off.
Sitting back against the refrigerator, I leave the machete on the floor between us. Perhaps it’s a peace offering or maybe just a surrender to the insanity of the night.
“I’m Jack,” I say.
Blinking, the nictitating membrane slides across her eye and back. She opens her mouth. I tense, expecting a hiss, but instead, she makes a sound. It’s a click, followed by a low, melodic trill that sounds like water running over stones.
“Right,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
Closing my eyes, I listen to the rain hammer the roof and the steady, wet breathing of the thing from the deep.