Attempting to dispel the thought from my mind, I move to the bathroom, where she has jars of potions along the shelves. Some are in plastic, some in glass. I’ve seen them in the human stores before, and I am unsure what purpose they serve. But if Cindi bought it, she must have use for them, no?
They go in the clam-chest as well.
As do the packets in the kitchen cupboards. The bottles of thick liquid. A large grey box she was tinkering with. The blankets on her bed. A cushion.
Once the chest is full, I heft one side of the clam over the other, and the zipper glides around the rectangular shell, shutting it tight so none of the items fall out. I lift it by the handle, pleasantly amused to find the wheels rolling along the floor.
Yes, I will keep the clam-chest. Cindi is a good procurer.
I jog down the steps to the dinghy I carried from the shore. I have to move the carved stone about arm injuries I took from the palace library aside to fit the clam-chest, placing it over the tools and other hardware I found in Cindi’s workroom and kitchen. The pans and the bowl-like instruments go in next, as well as the big board and a tire—just in case. Then I cover it all with a bright blue plastic I found in the building beside the house that acts as a messier, dirtier workroom for my mate’s land vessel. I strap it down with the rope I found there too.
With one last survey of Cindi’s house for things she might want, I close the door behind me, waiting for the beep to indicate it’s locked.
There’s not a cloud in sight. The water was calm on the way here, and the only time I can use the boat is under the cover of night to not alert the humans of an unmanned vessel traveling across the sea.
With the slightest grunt, I haul the boat above my head to make for the beach, then set it out to undress from my mainland clothing once I hit the shore. I thread thick ropes through the hoops I fastened beneath the vessel and tie it across my chest so the two cords intersect over my sternum.
I wade into the water, tugging the boat behind me. Once the waves hit my stomach, I check no one is around to witness my shift and then grab hold of the magic to release my true form. I dive into the water, swimming as hard as I can, careful to stay close to the surface so the dinghy doesn’t capsize.
I want the den to feel like home to Cindi, or else she’ll spend the rest of her life seeing it as a prison, and me, her jailer. But it is the truth. There’s no other way to put it. She didn’t come back to the island with me because she wanted me.
She didn’t choose me for me. She came because she had to. Because whoever it is she’s scared of is worse than me.
I’ve had days to come to terms with the fact that I will always be the problem, but it isn’t any easier to accept.
She wants to be on the mainland. She wants her cabin and her workshop and the loud music along the busy streets. I can’t give her everything, but I can bring her house to her. I’ll give her space, keep my mouth sealed shut, and watch her from afar, because my presence will only make matters worse.
My distance will be my gift to Cindi. She’ll be happier if she forgets I’m there. I’ll keep my silence—even if it eats me alive.
It’s one of the only things I can do for her.
20
Cindi
Breathe. It’s not Tommy.
My house is inside a cave. One minute, I’m asleep on a bed of moss—which isn’t as comfortable as being all cocooned by Ordus—and the next, I awake to clattering in the main cavern.
I thought I’d find a brigade of Gallagher men with weapons trained on me while Tommy does his bloodcurdling, sadistic laugh. I imagine the gleeful pity in his eyes as he berates me for being caught. He’d hold up the knife I stabbed him with and promise to use it on me.
But none of those things happened. Apparently, I’m well and truly moving in.
My luggage is here, bedside table, bookshelf, more food, the car tire that has a slow leak, a couple plastic bags with stuff inside, tools, nuts and bolts, a stud finder near the pool, the cushion that was on my sofa, the sofa pillows themself.
The gun trembles in my hand as I drag my eyes over Ordus and the items.
Not Tommy.
I blow out a ragged breath and tuck the gun in the waistband of my shorts. “You brought me my things.” It’s obvious. There’s no point saying it. But he’s barely acknowledged my presence, and it feels—wrong, like I made a mistake somehow and I need to fix it.
Ordus gives me a sideways glance and grunts, using a single tentacle to suction onto a bookshelf and move it to a solid surface.
What I should be asking is how in the fuck he brought it all here without getting a single drop of water on it? And, follow-up question: why didn’t I get the dry mode of transport option? I’m ashing up like a motherfucker from living life like a drenched sea rat.
Oh, right, and lastly,whyare my things here?
But he still doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at me. His shoulders are stiff, muscles bunched, vibrating with an emotion I can’t pinpoint.
