Page 39 of Claimed By the Deep
"Ready?" I call toward the water where Cyreus treads.
"Beyond ready." His mouth quirks up on one side. "Though I remain skeptical about your timing system."
I hold up the waterproof timer with its blinking lights. "Twenty minutes diving, ten minutes warming. Three cycles, then we're done. No exceptions. No heroics."
"And these warming spots?"
"That's your department." I tap my dive computer. "You mentioned underwater caves with air pockets. If we map a few near our sites, I can restore core temperature without surfacing."
He nods, but tension lines his forehead. We've spent a week negotiating protocols that balance his protective instincts with my need for autonomy.
"The site I've chosen should yield results," he says. "Merchant vessel, sank during a 1922 storm. International waters, but deep enough to discourage recreational divers."
Despite all our planning, the reality of what we're attempting finally hits. I'm about to dive beyond normal limits, trusting my life to someone who isn't even human. By any rational standard, I should be terrified. Instead, I feel steadier than I have in twenty years of diving.
"Let's begin," I say, moving to the platform. "Equal partners. Not you protecting me, not me proving myself."
"Understood." Something shifts in his posture—a subtle squaring of shoulders.
I drop beside him, cold water shocking my system despite my improved wetsuit. Cyreus moves closer, and the water around me suddenly warms several degrees.
"Thanks," I say through my regulator. "But conserve energy. I'll warm up once we're moving."
The wreck materializes from murky depths—massive wooden hull still largely intact after a century underwater. Her bow juts from the sandy bottom, cold-water preservation keeping the structure sound.
As we approach, I notice the difference in Cyreus's movements—gone is the carefully controlled stiffness he maintains on land. Here, in his natural domain, each gesture flows with uncanny precision.
We reach the cargo hold, and I activate my metal detector. Almost immediately, it signals a find. Working methodically, I uncover a pocket watch, tarnished but intact, with an elaborate monogram engraving.
Over the next fifteen minutes, I collect several more items—a silver cigarette case, a lady's compact mirror, cufflinks that appear to be platinum and sapphire.
My wrist timer flashes yellow—five minutes until we need to reach a warming spot. Before following Cyreus, I sweep over one more promising area. The signal comes back strong, and I uncover a small metal chest about the size of a shoebox.
My timer flashes red. Time to move.
Cyreus leads me through a narrow opening into a passage I never would have found alone. We surface into an air pocket concealed within the ship's structure.
"How did you know this was here?" I ask, removing my regulator.
"I've explored this wreck since it sank." Cyreus shifts partially to his natural state—human torso above water, tentacles below. "This pocket formed naturally as wood decayed. It's been stable for fifty years at least."
"Perfect." I pull off my hood, letting the warmer air reach my scalp. "What did you think of our first partnership dive so far?"
"Promising." He drifts closer. "What did you find? I saw you collecting several items."
I reach for my mesh bag. "Personal effects mostly. Pocket watch, cigarette case, jewelry." I display each itemcarefully. "And this."
His reaction to the chest is immediate—a sharp intake of breath, a predator's stillness. "Branigan's lockbox."
"You know what this is?"
"William Branigan was the ship's purser." He touches the corroded metal almost reverently. "Among those I couldn't save when she went down."
The casual reference to his century of isolation hits me hard. While I've been alive three decades, he's watched these waters for a hundred years, witnessing death and history completely alone.
"That must be hard," I say quietly. "Remembering people you couldn't save."
His eyes meet mine, surprise evident. "No one has ever... considered that aspect of my existence."
