Page 48 of Claimed By the Deep
Relief and gratitude hit me in a wave. Fergus has been covering for me without even knowing what he's covering up.
"Thank you," I squeeze his arm. "I owe you an explanation."
"You don't owe me anything." His voice has that gruff affection that's kept our friendship solid through years of business and personal crises. "But I'm worried, Meri. This guy isn't just writing some fluff piece. He's digging, and he's got backing from people who take 'unusual marine activity' seriously."
"What kind of backing?"
"The kind that comes with university grants and research vessel access." Fergus nods toward the far end of the harbor, where an unfamiliar boat is docked - bigger than a pleasure craft but smaller than commercial vessels, its deck loaded with what looks like sophisticated sonar equipment and a small submersible launch system. "That's the research vessel Horizon. Connected to Coastal Marine Biology Institute. Arrived yesterday, scheduled for two weeks of 'habitat mapping' in our waters."
The timing's too perfect to be coincidence. "And Donovan?"
"Been on board since they arrived. Only came ashore this morning to find Pete, who's famous for telling wild stories about strange things he's seen while fishing these waters for fifty years."
The pieces connect into a pattern I don't like at all. Whatever Donovan is investigating, it goes way beyond a magazine article. He's got institutional support, equipment, and clearly some information that led him specifically to these waters, to Pete Miller, and eventually to me.
"I need to unload some finds and get back out there," I decide quickly. "Can you handle the bell and the other artifacts? Standard commission arrangement?"
"Of course." Fergus helps me transfer the items to his cart. "But Meri? Whatever you're mixed up in... be careful. This Donovan character isn't just asking questions. He's recording answers, taking notes, building a case for something."
"I will be." I finish securing Deep Pockets, then hesitate, making another decision. "Fergus, what I'm about to ask might sound weird, but I need you to trust me. If anything happens - if I don't come back to harbor as expected, if authorities start asking more pointed questions - there's a cove about five miles east of Whaler's Point. Small inlet, not on most charts. Can you remember that?"
His eyes widen slightly, but he nods. "Five miles east of Whaler's Point. Small inlet."
"If something goes wrong, go there at sunset. Wait an hour. You might... see something unexpected."
"Meri?"
"I can't explain now. Just promise me you'll remember."
"I promise." His expression is troubled but determined. "But you make me a promise in return - don't do anything reckless. Whatever's going on, it's not worth your safety."
If only he knew how much was actually at stake. Not just my safety or livelihood, but Cyreus's freedom, possibly his life. The revelation of his existence could change human understandingof the universe - and destroy the one being who's given my life new purpose and meaning.
"I'll be careful," I assure him. "Just need to warn my diving partner about our nosy journalist friend."
Meridian
TWENTY TWO
The cove hides like it was made for secrets. I navigate the tricky approach with muscle memory, cutting the engine to let Deep Pockets drift into the sheltered spot.
As the boat settles, I scan for Cyreus. The sun's already gone, leaving behind purples and deep blues, but the water's still as glass.
"Cyreus?" I call, knowing he can probably hear me even if I whispered.
Nothing. Not even a ripple.
I check my watch. Still ten minutes before our meeting time. One thing I've learned about Cyreus – he's punctual to the second, like he's got an atomic clock in those three hearts of his.
The minutes drag like they're stuck in molasses. Right on the dot, the water swirls and Cyreus surfaces, all tentacles and grace, his upper body rising while the rest stays submerged.
"You look like hell," he says immediately, those eyes missing nothing. "What's wrong?"
I dump it all out – Donovan sniffing around the harbor, that research vessel with its fancy equipment, Fergus warning me about targeted questions. "This isn't just some nosy reporter. This is organized, funded research with us as the target."
"The timing's suspicious," Cyreus agrees, drifting closer. "They might not know exactly what they're looking for, but they've seen something weird enough to come hunting."
"Could it be another one of you?" The question's been eating at me since I realized how serious this is. "Another survivor or something?"
