Page 54 of Claimed By the Deep

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"It's me," I say, lowering my voice though I'm alone in my cottage. "I need to talk to you. Not at the shop. Somewhere private."

A brief pause. "Everything all right?"

"Yes and no. It's complicated."

"Isn't it always with you?" The warmth in his voice steadies me. "My place, after closing. I'll make that fish stew you pretend to hate but always have seconds of."

"Thanks, Fergus."

"And Meridian? Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. We always do."

I hang up, his simple confidence providing more comfort than it should. Fergus has been my sounding board, my business partner, and occasionally my conscience for fifteen years. If anyone might understand my impossible situation, it's him.

***

Fergus's house sits on a bluff overlooking the northern coastline, a weathered Cape Cod with a widow's walk where sailors once scanned the horizon for returning ships. The property extends to a private cove that's been in his family for generations—prime real estate that developers have tried and failed to acquire for decades.

He opens the door before I knock, as if he's been watching for me. "Been a while since you wore that expression," he observes, ushering me inside. "Not since you were forced to dry dock for repairs."

"This is bigger than that." I follow him to the kitchen, where the promised fish stew bubbles on the stove, filling the housewith thyme and white wine aromas. "I need to tell you something that's going to sound impossible."

"Let me get you a drink first." He reaches for the cabinet where he keeps a bottle of decent scotch for what he calls "conversations that need lubrication." After pouring two fingers for each of us, he settles at the kitchen table. "All right. Hit me."

I take a fortifying sip, then place my notebook between us. "You know I've been working with a diving partner these past few months."

"The mysterious assistant no one's met. Yes, I've noticed the improved quality of your finds." He taps the notebook. "This about them?"

"Yes. But it's not what you think." I open to the houseboat sketches, turning them to face him. "I need your help building this."

Fergus studies the drawings, his brow furrowing. "Interesting design. Specialized diving vessel?"

"Not exactly." I flip to the next page, showing the underwater access chamber. "It's a home. For both of us."

"Both..." His eyes narrow as he examines the unusual configuration. "This moon pool here—it's designed to remain filled with water while the rest of the vessel is dry. That's not standard in any dive boat I've seen."

"No, it's not." I take another sip of scotch. "Fergus, my diving partner isn't human."

To his credit, he doesn't laugh or immediately call for psychiatric intervention. He simply looks up from the drawings, eyes sharp with focused attention. "Explain."

"He's not from Earth. His ship crashed in these waters in 1917, and he's been here ever since." The words sound insane even to me, but I press on. "He can shapeshift to appear human for limited periods, but his natural environment is oceanic. He needs water to survive."

Fergus leans back in his chair, takes a deliberate drink of his scotch, and sets the glass down with careful precision. "You understand what you're asking me to believe."

"I do."

"And you understand why, despite fifteen years of friendship and business dealings, I might have questions."

"I'd be worried if you didn't."

He nods slowly. "Tell me more."

For the next hour, I explain everything—our first meeting when Cyreus saved me from drowning, our developing partnership, the Coast Guard's increasing suspicion, Donovan's research expedition, and finally, our desperate need for a solution that allows Cyreus to exist safely in my world without abandoning his own.

Fergus listens without interruption, his expression giving nothing away. When I finally fall silent, he gets up and refills both our glasses.

"You've always been the most rational person I know," he says, returning to the table. "Practical to a fault. Not given to flightsof fancy or delusions." He gestures with his glass. "Which leaves me with limited options here. Either you're experiencing some kind of breakdown, which seems unlikely given the coherence of your story and these detailed plans, or..."

"Or I'm telling the truth."