I nod in silent acknowledgment. Easing the heavy iron wheel to the left, the shell groans in protest as it changes trajectory.
I look down at the white sand floor of the shell.
We have vulnerable passengers tonight.
Vaelis sits on the woven net-bed in the corner, polishing the silver hand-mirror with a repetitive, nervous motion. Swipe the glass. Check his reflection. Swipe the glass. Check his reflection. He practices our clumsy, makeshift language in the polished surface, his fine fingers moving in silent, jerky rhythms.
He tries to learn my signs, spending hours memorizing the placement of my hands so I don't have to live in the quiet alone. The devotion of the act makes my heart ache.
And then there is Mira.
The disgraced Vanguard lies crumpled on the sand near the radiating warmth of the engine, wrapped in a blanket I made from salvaged human sailcloth.
She has not moved a muscle in two full tidal cycles.
I leave the steering wheel, locking the heavy column in place with a carved bone-pin. I swim over to her resting place on the floor.
The stench of her failing biology hits me before I reach her.
She smells of burning chemicals and bitter herbs. The rotting scent of the Abyssal Draught. A scent I know from the cautionary stories my mother used to tell us in the dark of the trench. She told us horrific stories about the desperate things soft surface-dwellers do to survive the crushing pressure of the deep.
The Draught only borrows time from the ocean, Mother had said, her voice a heavy rumble in the dark. And the ocean always collects its debts.
I kneel in the sand beside her, pulling back the frayed edge of the sailcloth blanket.
Her skin, once the smooth, vibrant tan of a proud Reef Guard, has turned a dull, sickly shade of slate gray. It looks dry and fragile, mimicking crumbling paper. Her short blue hair, has thinned out, floating white and listless in the water. She has lost all her color.
She looks old. Not ancient and powerful like the Trench Witches. Worn. A fragile stone tumbled in the punishing surf.
Her eyes have closed.
Reaching out, I touch her thin wrist to check her fading pulse.
Her eyes snap open. Milky, confused, and filled with raw terror.
She gasps, moving for the first time. A dry, rattling sound deep in her throat. She tries to recoil from my touch. She reaches for a heavy iron weapon no longer strapped to her belt.
Her ruined body betrays her intent. Her thin arms tremble under the strain, collapsing back onto the sand. She lacks the physical strength to lift them.
"Don't," she wheezes. Fresh tears spill from her milky eyes. "Please don't eat me."
I freeze, looking down at her terrified face.
I am a trench shark. I have rows of jagged, serrated teeth. I am covered in brutal scars from a lifetime in the dark. I understand why she expects the violent end of her life. But the cruel accusation still stings my chest.
A flash of motion catches my attention.
Pip darts across the sand floor. The small shrimp ignores the heavy dread in the cabin, scuttling up Mira's arm and over her pale face. His tiny appendages tap a quick rhythm across her nose.
Mira tenses. Her eyes widen as Pip then inspects each strand of her white hair, finding nothing of value. She lacks the strength to shake him off as her eyes continue to widen in horror.
The absurd sight shatters the dark tension in the room. I let out a low rumble of amusement.
Shaking my heavy head, I pick up Pip, dropping him to the side where he scurries off to do whatever the creature spends its day doing. Cleaning the outside of the shell, most likely.
Reaching for the warmed stitched water-skin kept near the engine, I pull out the bone plug. I hold it out to her trembling hands.
She stares blankly at the offering, then looks back up at my dark eyes in fear.
