Page 54 of The Demons in the Deep: Extended Edition
“Come on, Goldfish,” Flay called. “You’ve done your part. Let’s ride to second place.”
He extended a hand and Rake gripped it, clambering aboard. Flay pulled him in and gave him a rough embrace. “You saved us just then. We would have been swamped.”
“You’re still holding the sword,” Rake reminded him.
“So I am.” Flay stepped back, laughing, and sheathed it.
Rake reclaimed the physik’s coat and tied it around his waist. And then he sat in the shallow saltwater at the bottom of theKestrel, while Flay and Corklan guided the boat between the two floating platforms that marked the end of the race.
Exhausted and battered they were, with scratches and bruises to spare, but they had made it through in second place—a solid foundation for making it into the top three of the Meridian Games.
Rake settled his goggles over his eyes again and drew a deep breath of relief.
The first round was over.
THE HUNT
15
Rake’s skin was on fire.
He felt as if he was burning from within, heated to the boiling point, and yet he could not relieve the heat through sweat, as the humans did. Though his lung capacity was greater than others of his kind, it was being sorely overtaxed from all the exercise. He staggered in the training circle, struggling to drag enough air into his lungs. He felt scorched, seared, explosive.
His combat training was being done in the warehouse where they’d built the racing boat. Flay’s crew had installed a large metal tank in one corner, where Rake could switch forms and soak in saltwater as needed, without risk of being seen. More saltwater sat in jugs nearby, and Rake had been drinking copiously of their contents—but it wasn’t enough. He needed a salt bath—a long one.
Right after this round.
He’d been training for hours, facing off first against Jazadri, then against Corklan, and then against Baz before facing each of them again. Meanwhile, one or two of Flay’s other men kept watch outside, steering away any potential onlookers or spies.
“Feral and the other captains always try to identify weaknesses in each other’s champions and exploit them,” Flay had warned. “We have to keep Rake’s true form a secret. They’ve seen his gills, but not his tail. As far as they know, he doesn’t have a tail. Let them think he’s some kind of human with amphile—amphry—what was it you called it again, Mai?”
“Amphibious,” Mai had said primly.
“Right. A human with amphibious qualities. A creature of land and water. Which I suppose you are now, technically, with the help of that belt, eh Goldfish?”
As Rake bent his knees, preparing for Jazadri’s attack, he tested that word in his mind, trying out its various forms.Amphibious.Amphibian.It didn’t suit him, didn’t truly explain what he was. And not knowing what he was or where he belonged was beginning to erode his spirit. No matter whether he presented as more human or more monstrous, he never truly fit into his skin, not anymore.
The pain of displacement surged up, coiling with the pain of his dry, baked skin, as Jazadri bore down on him, gloved hands outstretched. Every man Rake had battled that day had been wearing thick leather padding at the least, and full armor at most. None of them wanted to risk being slashed too deeply by his claws.
Ponderous and thickly muscled, Jazadri posed the greatest threat of any man Rake had fought. Jaza had pinned Rake many times, fixed him squirming to the floor.
Rake’s conscious mind was already stressed to the limit, strained with the agony of his parched skin and his aching throat. Reality began to blur—he could feel himself cracking, changing. A raw panic threaded with hunger kicked through his stomach, pounding in his chest.
As Jazadri charged, Rake’s jaws flew wide, unhinged at the corners, stretching as rows of submerged teeth popped out behind his usual set. His throat opened, expanding itself to accommodate prey, to swallow gobbets and chunks of flesh. And he screamed, the ear-piercing cry he’d used on the swarms of merlows in the Realm Below. Even under the sea it had been a shearing, blood-curdling thing—above water, it was twice as loud and far more terrifying.
Jazadri’s eyes went wide, and he halted mid-attack. Rake sank into a taut half-crouch, every knife-like claw yearning to plunge into flesh. Blood-craving seeped from his bones, flooding his body with primal ferocity. Suddenly he could smell Jazadri more strongly than ever—not just the acrid reek of sweat he’d come to associate with most human males, but a deeper, more savory scent—the scent of meat and of warm, pulsing blood.
Rake sprang with a guttural snarl—launched himself at Jazadri, who held no weapon, because the Brawl was brutal hand-to-hand combat.
“Rake, stop!” Flay’s shout echoed through the warehouse. A flash of tanned skin and blond hair, and Flay’s body appeared between Jazadri’s chest and Rake’s claws.
An image whipped through Rake’s mind.
A man with golden hair, poised on the deck of a ship, holding a rope and facing the wind.
That was how Rake had first seen the captain. The emotion of that moment ran deep in him, deep enough that he somehowstoppedthe keen fury of his claws—they only grazed lightly against Flay’s bare chest, drawing scarlet lines. Flay hissed a breath, but he didn’t back down. He stared up at Rake, while Rake panted and slavered and struggled to regain control of himself.
Flay’s palm compressed to Rake’s skin, over his heart, and Rake shuddered violently. His head snapped aside; his teeth clashed.
