They start the engine and gun it into deeper waters. Beet runs at full speed on the beach, her six legs buried in the sand. She looks terrifying in the darkness, like a massive insect that has crawled out of the earth. She looks like an avenging god.
I try to jump over the boat and into the water, but the older man hits me on the back of the head with the handle of the army knife. A galaxy explodes behind my eyelids.
When I come back to reality, we’ve traveled farther out at sea, and theBeetleis on the shore, the water reaching to the bottom of her body. She can’t follow.
“Helios, try to jump! Griffin is following,” says Beet through the bracelet. “He’ll bring you back to shore.”
Hearing her voice reassures me, but my hands and feet are tied. They must have done it while I was out. I try to crawl, but my movements are too limited.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“We’ll find you, Helios. Don’t do anything stupid. We’re coming,” she says.
It sounds like a promise, and I believe her.
“Who are you talking to?” asks one of my captors. “The fuck is that?” He grabs my wrist and tears the bracelet away. I bite his hand, trying to save my last connection to Griffin and Beet.
“If you don’t release him, we’ll find you and kill every last one of you—” Beet’s threats are swallowed by the sea as the man throws the wristband into the water.
I stare at the dark waves behind the boat. My bracelet was a tracking device. With it, Griffin could have found me. Without it, the slavers can take me wherever they want, and nobody will ever find me.
I let my head fall on the side of the boat, defeated. Pain radiates from the back of my skull.
Once again, life has decided to send me a curved ball. But this time, I have allies looking for me. And one is none other than the Devil of the Wastes.
The boat travels along the coast for half an hour as darkness falls. The sea reflects the moon. I don’t want to think about what could be lurking in the water. There are five known gods who dwell in the North Pacific Ocean. But it’s a large territory, right? What are the odds of being found by one?
From personal experience, the odds are rarely in my favor.
There is a large shadow on the horizon. For a heartbeat, I fear that this is it; we’re screwed. But as we get closer, I realize it’s a bigger boat. Some kind of yacht with three sails. More men and women are waiting for us to board. They carry me out of the motorboat like a bag of potatoes and throw me deep into the yacht, in what looks like a large storage unit. They lock a chain to my right foot like the other prisoners and leave me. There are a few dozen souls around me.
Back to square one, I think, remembering the caravans in the desert a few weeks ago. Although it feels like a lifetime ago that Griffin rescued me.
Most prisoners are men and women in their prime years. Some children too. And there are a few young blonde men like me. I remember what Sarah said about someone in power with a weird fetish for blonde men. I’m not eager to arrive at our destination. She said they were taking the slaves to the mountains of the Sierra Nevada. Something about people building an underground city. It sounds like a terrible idea, and I don’t want to be part of it. Especially as a slave.
I look around. There are no windows in this part of the yacht. I think we’re below sea level. Which means if some god decides to attack the boat, we’ll be the first ones to drown. Wonderful.
Our only solace is that the Kraken prefers the parts south of Japan, close to the Mariana Trench, where he emerged. He’s by far the worst of them. He can sink an oil tanker, one of the biggest ships, in less than three minutes. I’ve seen the footage.
“Here, let me untie you,” says one of the prisoners.
He looks younger than me, twenty-years old at most. With short ginger hair and blue eyes, his face is slightly tanned and covered by freckles. He takes a hold of my hands and starts working on the ropes.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“No problem. Are you thirsty? They left us some bottles.”
I nod. He grabs a bottle that another guy is holding on to. The man tries to slap him to protect his loot, but my new friend punches him in the throat with efficiency. The man coughs and lets go.
“Learn to share, asshole,” says the ginger before handing the bottle to me.
I have to admit, he’s kind of cool. He has a pretty face and a lean body, but he seems to know how to defend himself.
There’s a lot of dry blood on his shirt.
“Are you wounded?” I ask, gesturing at the blood.
“Oh, this? Nah. I just gutted one of the fuckers when they caught me.”
