The Eel narrows its golden eyes, slithering closer to the copper bars until its sparks nearly touch the metal. It senses the heavy void in the water where my voice should be.
"What?" it snaps irritably, the mental words sharp as teeth. "Did a trench hound get your tongue? Or are you too high-and-mighty to talk to the engine room?"
I shake my head slowly, the motion feeling impossibly slow in the charged water. One heavy finger rises to point directly at my throat, at the deadness within. Both scarred hands lift in surrender, palms open, fingers slightly curled.
The Eel freezes completely. Its bright eyes sweep critically across my pale skin, my brutally scarred flank, and the hollow starvation that must be evident in my face. It takes in every detail of my broken form.
Then it snorts, a violent exhalation that sends a shower of bright blue sparks flying from its nostrils. For a moment, it illuminates the entire chamber in searing light.
"Mute," the Eel's voice crackles in my mind, a bitter hiss of static. "Exactly what I needed today. A mute shark."
Its body slumps back against the copper coils, the searing blue light dimming to a tolerable glow that still makes my dark-adapted eyes ache. The copper pipes groan under its weight, a sound that travels through the water as vibration.
"Well, don't just hover there leaking your misery into the water," it grumbles, the mental words sharp with irritation. "Either come all the way in or get out. But close the curtain behind you. You're letting all the heat out."
My fins flutter in the warm water, confusion warring with instinct. This creature, this impossible being of light and electricity, is not attacking. It’s not driving me back into the crushing darkness of the Wastes.
Slowly, I enter fully into the center of the shell, allowing the heavy kelp curtain to fall back into place behind me. Thetransformation is immediate as warmth envelops me like a living thing, seeping into my frozen bones, slowly loosening the painful knot of tension that has been locked in my chest since I was cast out. It is the first true warmth I have felt since the venom took my voice.
My eyes scan the chamber more carefully now.
The shell is a chaotic treasure trove. Large piles of scrap metal, human detritus from the surface, stack haphazardly against the curved walls. Large glass jars, cloudy with age, hold collections of sea-glass that catch the Eel's light and throw it back in fractured rainbows. Strange artifacts I cannot identify lie scattered among the debris. Metal tools with unknown purposes, ceramic shards, corroded coins. A dragon's hoard of the deep.
"I am Bolt," the Eel says abruptly. The formal introduction hangs in the water. "And if you are foolish enough to try to eat me, I will fry your tiny brain before you can even close your heavy jaw. Do you understand me?"
I nod once, the motion feeling unnatural in this strange sanctuary.
"Good." Bolt shifts his long body, sending a bright ripple of light through the chamber that momentarily blinds me. "And do not touch anything on the floor. Especially the shiny bits. The shrimp gets upset if you move his trash."
As if summoned by the name, a small shape darts rapidly out from behind a pile of rusted iron gears.
A creature, no larger than my palm. Its body is nearly transparent, revealing the delicate workings within. Perched on its head is a hollowed-out barnacle, worn like a warrior's helmet.
A Cleaner Shrimp.
It scurries toward me, antennae waving frantically. I can’t hear the rapid clicking of its tiny legs, but I feel the vibrations ripple through the water, a nervous energy against my skin.
"Oh, don't bother, Pip," Bolt's voice crackles in the water. "He's not a paying customer. He's a stray."
The shrimp—Pip—pauses mid-scuttle, tilting its helmeted head. Beady black eyes study me with unnerving intensity. Then, without hesitation, it fearlessly scales my arm, its tiny legs finding purchase on my scarred skin. It reaches my shoulder and begins to meticulously pick at a stubborn patch of algae that has taken root there.
I freeze completely.
No living thing has touched me since the Anvil. No living thing has touched me since Vaelis.
The precise movements of Pip's legs are strange against my deadened skin, but not unpleasant. There is a deliberate gentleness in its work, a purposefulness that feels almost like care.
"He actually likes you," Bolt observes, the mental words laced with dry amusement from within his copper cage. "It seems he has terrible taste in company."
Slowly, I sink down into the fine white sand near the copper bars. The intense heat from Bolt's glowing body radiates outward, wrapping securely around my shivering shoulders like a heavy blanket. The shrimp continues its work, small but steady movements across my skin.
I close my eyes.
The terrible silence remains inside my head, a void where my voice once was. But here, amidst the electric crackle of the Eel and the busyness of the Shrimp, the silence feels a little less heavy.
Just for a single night, I tell myself. Just to rest my muscles before returning to the cold.
Morning reveals the House of Drift's true nature.
