The boat cuts forward with dull slaps against the water. The shore is already a dark blur behind us, the jungle a jagged shadow against the sky. There’s no sail, no mast, no lantern. Just his huge body moving with steady, relentless purpose as he poles us along the coast.
I test the rope again, carefully. My wrists are numb, but not useless. The fibers scrape against my skin as I shift them lower, closer to the rough beam at the edge of the boat. There’s a sharp ridge there, maybe a stuck shell, maybe a piece of bone. If I can just keep the rope moving…
He grunts and switches from the pole to a paddle. Giant muscles flex in his back and arms, thick as the cables holding up the Brooklyn Bridge.
Yeah. Of course he looks like that.
Sprisk was half dinosaur, but I recognize some of his features in this one. Laughably broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Skin darkened by the sun. In the blue light from the alien moon, it’s difficult to tell what color his stripes are, but they look purple. His hair is pulled back roughly, but loose strands cling to his neck. He moves with a purpose and a calm confidence that’s raw and alive and infuriatingly intoxicating.
This is not the time, Callie. This is absolutely not the time.
“Stop,” I say, clumsily forcing the word out in the caveman language I’ve learned. “Turn. Go. Go to where came.”
He doesn’t even look at me. “Deh.”
No. Just that. Completely flat and final.
I swallow. “My name. Callie.” I tap my chest. “Callie.”
His head turns this time, slow and wary, like I’m a strange animal he hasn’t decided to trust. His eyes are purple in the low light, and they stare right through me.
“Call-ie,” he repeats, testing it. His deep voice resonates despite the ocean breeze. He nods once. “Crat'ax.”
I whisper it to myself. Crat'ax. The hard sounds of it slide under my skin in a way I don’t like. Or maybe I like too much. He’s a weird mix of familiar and alien, strong and dangerous. A master of this planet. Hey, I can’t be expected to control my primal instincts.
I go back to the rope.
The boat rocks gently, deceptively calm, but every swell reminds me how fragile this stone-age vessel really is. It’s held together with string and resin, organic rope, and roughly hewn wood.One mistake and we’re in the water, alone with whatever lives beneath it.
I slide the rope back and forth against the ridge, slow enough that the sound is lost under the lap of waves.
My heart hammers anyway.
Something bumps the hull. I gasp before I can stop myself.
A shape breaks the surface. It’s slick, dark, and finned. It makes a chirping sound, almost playful, and circles the boat.
Crat'ax turns and gives me a quick look. “Skirr.”
The creature lingers. Its big eyes reflect faint starlight, then dip under again.
“What it?” I ask, pulling my legs to me.
He hesitates, then repeats, “Skirr.”
Okay.But nothing too dangerous, then? Nothing to worry about?
The rope fibers begin to thin.
I risk a glance at him. He’s watching the water now, alert. His shoulders are tense. The paddle rests easily in his hands, like an extension of his body. I can’t imagine anyone surviving out here without that kind of competence.
I try again. “My friend.” I gesture inland, toward where the saucer lies hidden. “Ship. Go. Now.”
His entire body stills. “That ship is bad,” he says, jaw tightening. “The Plood sent it.”
I don’t understand all of it, but I understand enough to hear the disgust. “She sleep,” I say. “I go there. You go there.”
He shakes his head sharply. “No. The Plood are bad. And the Deep gave you.” He gestures, first to the sea, then to the jungle. “I found you. The beach. Between.” I understand some of the words, and I don’t like what I’m hearing. It sounds like he thinks I’m his.
