Page 41 of Claimed By the Deep
"I never thought I'd find someone who respects my independence without using it as an excuse to keep distance." I rest my head against his shoulder. "We're both getting things we never expected."
As the sun sets, I notice the subtle signs of strain as Cyreus maintains human form.
"You need to change back," I say gently. "Go. I'll anchor here tonight and see you in the morning."
He kisses me thoroughly before moving toward the dive platform. "First thing tomorrow. We should discuss which site to explore next."
"It's a date." I follow him to the rail, watching as he prepares to return to the water. "And Cyreus? Today was everything I hoped our partnership could be."
The expression he gives me before slipping beneath the surface carries a contentment I've never seen in him before. For a century, he's been alone in these waters, watching humanity from the outside. Now, finally, he has someone to share the depths with.
Meridian
NINETEEN
Afew weeks into our partnership, Cyreus takes my hand at the rail of Deep Pockets, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
"There's somewhere I'd like to take you. Something I want to show you."
"Another wreck?" I ask.
"No." His voice drops. "Something personal. My home. Where I've lived since the crash."
My pulse quickens. In all our time together, Cyreus rarely speaks of his origins or the circumstances that stranded him here.
"How far?"
"About an hour out. Deep, but accessible with your technical diving equipment."
"Your home?" I can't hide my excitement. "I've wondered where you go when we're not together."
"It's time you saw it." His mouth curves in a slight smile. "I've never shown anyone before."
"When do we leave?"
"Now, if you're willing. Before that storm hits."
An hour later, we're geared up at coordinates far from shipping lanes. The technical dive requires extra preparation—mixed gas, redundant systems, careful planning. As we descend, Cyreus stays close, his natural bioluminescence providing better illumination than my dive light. The water darkens around us, but his gentle glow creates a sphere of visibility that makes the depth less intimidating.
At our target depth, he guides me toward what appears to be an underwater cave entrance, cleverly concealed between rock formations. As we swim through the narrow passage, it widens unexpectedly into a large cavern. And there, partially embedded in the cave's rear wall, rests a section of hull about twenty feet long.
The material isn't anything I recognize. It's not metal, not fiberglass, but something with a pearlescent quality that seems to shift colors in our lights. Unlike the deteriorating shipwrecks we normally explore, this material shows no signs of corrosion or marine growth, despite clearly being decades old.
I turn to Cyreus, eyes wide with understanding. He nods, confirming what I've realized—this is a piece of his ship. The vessel that brought him to Earth nearly a century ago.
The cavern itself has been transformed into a living space. Shelves carved into rock walls hold various artifacts—objects collected over decades, items salvaged from shipwrecks, tools created from materials I don't recognize. In one corner, a workarea with surfaces that emit soft light. In another, what must be his equivalent of sleeping quarters, though entirely alien in design.
As we circle the space, I notice symbols etched into the ship fragment—angular patterns in his native language. A control panel remains partially intact, though the cave's arrangement suggests he's removed and repurposed components over the years.
Cyreus leads me to what appears to be a storage area. From a water-tight container, he removes an object about the size of a book—flat, rectangular, with no visible controls. He motions toward the surface, indicating we should end our dive.
Back aboard Deep Pockets, storm clouds gathering overhead, Cyreus sits across from me with the device between us. Now I can see it clearly—a rectangular object about an inch thick with a smooth, mother-of-pearl surface that feels warm to touch.
"What is it?" I ask, fascinated but not touching it without permission.
"A log recorder." His fingers trace its edge with familiar precision. "Standard equipment for all exploratory missions. I've been using it to document my time here."
"It still works after all this time?"
