The Cecaelian matriarch’s presence presses through the line. Even in her desperation, she commands respect. I open the notes app with my free hand and take a deep breath, sensing the weight of the job I’m about to undertake.
“You’ve come to the right place. What kind of transportation are we looking at?”
A hiccupping sob crackles through the line, jagged and raw, and I fall silent. My thumb tightens on the edge of the phone, but I force myself to wait, to give Nerithis the space she needs to catch her breath. It’s not the first time I’ve listened to someone unravel on the other end of the line, and it won’t be the last. So, I wait patiently.
My wolf shifts uneasily at the sound of her pain. He’s restless, agitated, wanting to do something instead of being a passive observer.
After a time, Nerithis clears her throat. “My apologies. You see, human machines have started scraping the sea floor, but my clutch lies deep in the trenches. The humans, they call it exploration, but Mr. Benyamina, if they breach the cavern, my young will be exposed. The humans will take them and do experiments on them. You know what they are like. You have to help me, I can’t let anything happen to my clutch. They are too young for me to transport them on my own. I can’t let anything happen to them. Please. I must have emergency transportation. Do you understand how dire this situation is? Please, you have to help me.”
Her panic punches through the line and straight into my chest, squeezing until it feels like my ribs might splinter. It’s too familiar, too close to the hollow ache that’s lived inside me since the moment my family turned to stone. The echo is sharp, merciless, and it drags me back to that helplessness I can’t outrun.
If I let myself sink into that desperation, if I dwell on what I lost, what I failed to protect, I don’t know how I’d survive her grief on top of mine. My wolf bristles, claws scraping at the inside of my skin as if he can tear free and fix this through sheer force. But nothing will make the dead breathe again.
I force my voice steady, tamping down the grief that wants to devour me whole. She doesn’t need my ghosts. She needs my clarity. My strength. I’m grateful I’ve been putting so much time into my research.
“I understand the risk,” I say, tone firmer than I feel. “How far away are the humans from your clutch right now?”
Her voice wobbles. “We have mere days. There was no warning. They just showed up with their drills and mechanical arms to destroy my family’s home. Please, you have to help me. I don’t care about the cost. I can pay you in pearls or gold. Whichever you prefer.”
I spend the next forty-five minutes pulling every scrap of information I can out of her. Numbers first. How many are in her clutch, how many lives she’s desperate to keep breathing. Then family history, because bloodlines have a way of tangling into politics, and politics are often the true enemy. Or maybe it’s just my circumstances making me paranoid.
She talks about the tides, voice trembling but steadying as she finds something familiar to cling to. Cecaelians—half-human, half-octopus, with dark, slick skin that shimmers like oil on water, and long tentacles in place of legs—have always lived by the sea’s rhythms. They read the swells and currents as easily as I read the moon. I listen carefully, piecing it together. I already track the moon phases religiously—wolf instincts won’t let me do otherwise—but hearing how the Cecaelians read the tides adds another layer, one I can map against what I know. Patterns. Cycles. Any variable that might tip the balance in our favor.
My fingers keep moving across the notes app, but my mind runs deeper, cataloging things she doesn’t need to know about.
“Do you have an idea of where we can relocate you to?” I ask.
“Yes, there is a new cavern about fifteen hundred miles due south of here. It’s quite a bit deeper. I need to make sure those dreadful machines can’t come anywhere near us again.”
“I understand. Give me a couple of hours, and I’ll see what I can do. Prepare to move tomorrow at any time. I mean that. When I say go, you need to be ready to go. No questions. No hesitation.”
“I will be ready. And Mr. Benyamina, may the current flow in your favor.”
“Thank you. Expect my call.”
I end the call and stare at my phone. My fingers ache from how tightly I’ve been gripping it, knuckles pale, joints stiff, like I could crush the damn thing to powder if I didn’t let go. My chest feels hollowed out, carved by something sharp and merciless. Nerithis’s panic lingers in my ears, clinging to me and dredging up memories.
Home invaded. Home destroyed. That kind of violation leaves a scar no one can see, but one you never stop feeling. I know that wound too well. Know it will fester in me until I get revenge. I may be helpless when it comes to my own shattered house, but Nerithis? Her clutch? I can fight for them. I will fight for them.
I shove down the ache and scroll through my contacts, until I land on the aquarium. With her voice still ringing in my head, desperate and breaking, my thumb hits dial. I don’t have time to waste.
Hours blur past in a haze of phone calls, logistics, and sharp barks of command. My watch says it’s been nearly three, but I only notice when I finally set the phone down, and my body protests, every muscle stiff and sore. Somehow, in that blur, Imanaged to secure a truck and aquatic transport big enough to relocate her clutch to a new cavern.
The relief in Nerithis’s voice when I gave her the news had cracked something open in me, reminding me that even in the dark, there’s still a way forward. A way to fix something, even if it isn’t everything.
I push back from the patio table, legs trembling. Bone-deep weariness drags at me. My wolf whines low inside me, restless but tired, too drained even for teeth and growls. I stagger through the doors, into the living room, where Esmerelda, Leonard, and Min are still in front of the board, scribbling names and scratching possibilities. Their faces are drawn, but they keep going.
I want to join them. I want to carry this weight with them. Instead, all I can think is how much my body aches, how my mind feels fogged, shredded thin. Gods, I’m so damn tired I can hardly breathe.
Leonard looks up as I walk through the door and whistles. “You looked wiped.”
I drag a hand through my hair, the strands catching between my fingers. My scalp aches from how many times I’ve done it tonight, a nervous tic I can’t seem to shake. My reflection in the window would probably make me laugh if I weren’t exhausted. I’m an alpha turned scarecrow.
“Tough case,” I mutter, though the words feel flat. Inadequate.
“Anything I can help with?” Leonard asks.
I shake my head. “It’s all sorted.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. My gaze sweeps the table, the tangle of notes and names, Esmerelda in front of the board with that sharp focus that never seems to waver, Leonard’s restless tapping, Min’s determined scrawl. The air in here is thick with ink and exhaustion.
