Page 12 of Claimed By the Deep
"How many of these caves are there?" I ask, treading water beside him.
"Dozens of interconnected chambers run along the coastline." His voice bounces weirdly off the close walls. "The rum-runners during Prohibition only found a fraction of what's actually down here."
Before I can ask how the hell he knows so much about century-old smuggling routes, he guides me toward another passage. This one looks longer, darker. I grip his hand tighter as we get ready to dive again.
"Ready?" he asks.
I nod, filling my lungs with the deepest breath I can manage.
We plunge into blue-green darkness, and that's when I start noticing things that don't add up.
Cyreus moves through water like it's his natural habitat. No wasted movement, no fighting against currents, like the water itself is making way for him. I find myself staring at the fluid movement of his shoulders, the strong line of his back narrowing to slim hips. Even in the dim glow, his body is something to behold—not just inhuman in its efficiency but damn beautiful in motion. When my wetsuit drags me back, the rope between us goes tight, and he adjusts without even seeming to try.
Even weirder: his navigation. These passages twist and turn through darkness, branching in a million directions. Yet he moves with absolute certainty, never hesitating at intersections, never stopping to get his bearings.
Our third surfacing brings us to a larger chamber with multiple exit passages. I'm breathing hard from the exertion while Cyreus looks like he's just been taking a casual stroll instead of swimming through underwater caves.
"How do you know your way around down here so well?" I ask, trying not to sound like I'm interrogating him.
"I've explored these waters extensively over the years."
"How many years exactly?" I study his technique, his impossible comfort in this environment. "Are you some kind of professional diver? Free-diving champion? Search and rescue specialist?"
He hesitates, like he's weighing how much to tell me. "I used to do recovery work. Bodies, mainly. People who got into trouble in these waters."
That would explain some things—the swimming skills, cold-water tolerance, knowledge of cave systems. Coast Guard divers and recovery specialists train for exactly these conditions.
"Used to?"
"I work independently now."
Something in his tone suggests there's more to the story. "How long have you been working these waters?"
"Long enough."
His non-answer triggers memories of stories I've heard around the harbor for years. Tales of drowning victims mysteriously showing up on shore when they should have been lost forever. Bodies recovered from impossible depths, washing up miles from where they disappeared. The harbor master always blamed currents and tides, but the fishermen whispered other theories.
"The unexplained recoveries," I say, pieces clicking into place. "People found when they should have been lost forever. That was you, wasn't it?"
His silence tells me everything while saying nothing.
"How many people have you saved over the years?"
"Not enough." His voice carries the weight of countless losses, people he couldn't reach in time.
This answers nothing while telling me volumes. I study him in the cave's glow, noticing details I missed before. His skin isn't just pale—it has this almost translucent quality that catches and reflects the natural light. His breathing is so controlled it's barely visible, like his lungs work differently than mine. Water beads along his collarbone and traces the muscles of his chest, drawing my eye despite the mystery staring me in the face. I'm torn between wanting answers and being distracted by how otherworldly beautiful he is.
"What are you?" The question slips out, barely above a whisper.
"What do you mean?"
"You swim through near-freezing water wearing nothing but shorts like it's a heated pool. You navigate these caves like you built them yourself. You found me unconscious at depth and somehow got me here without any diving equipment." I drift closer, unable to help myself. "So I'll ask again—what are you?"
The only sound is water lapping against stone. I watch him calculating, measuring how much truth he can afford to share.
"I'm someone who has spent a very long time in these waters," he finally says.
"That's not an answer."
