“What is that foul thing?” Penn mutters, moving to stand close behind me. His blade is in his hand. I do not think it wise to point out it will be less than effective against such a massive sea monster.
“An octopaeron,” Deke says grimly, making a protective hand sigil in the air. “Let us hope it is satisfied with the offering of one ship and does not turn its eyes this way.”
Chari and Xio are muttering an incantation under their breath: a prayer to the God of Seas, pleading for his mercy. Even so, their hands are taking more practical measures—reaching for the tangled rigging so we might pull in our slackened sails and take off at a moment’s notice.
The orange tentacles furl over the other ship until it is fully ensconced. The underside of each flexible limb is covered with huge suckers that, once affixed, can rip wood planks and tear through rigging with laughable ease.
No wonder the other crew wants out of the water.
Deke tosses another rope ladder over the starboard rail for them to scurry aboard. Vaughn makes it first, hauling his hulking frame over the side and collapsing against the deck so hard, I think he might smash straight through it. Alaric scrambles up after him far more elegantly.
At the same time, I send out my wind to pluck the Paexyrian from the swells one by one, depositing them onto our ship spluttering and dripping wet. Yara is cursing with a colorful variety that would impress any seaman as Farley helps her to her feet. Mabon does the same for a far less vocal Harpina. And Jac, in a show of uncharacteristic sweetness, fumbles through several rudimentary signs to make sure Bretiax is all right.
I bend far out over the rail, eyes scanning the surface for the rest of their crew. My pulse spikes as the seconds tick by and, still, I see no sign of them.
Deke drops into a crouch beside the sprawling half-Titan. “Where is your skipper?”
“Eaten.” Cursing, Vaughn sits upright. “Along with our deckhands.”
Farley gasps.“Eaten?”
“Unless the bloody red froth that bubbled up after thatthing”—Vaughn spits the word—“sucked them under was wine…”
“And Soren?” I ask, trying to bury the thick streak of fear in my voice but not quite able to manage it.
“Is he not here?” Vaughn is abruptly serious. His head whips toward his brother-in-law. “Alaric, was he not with you?”
“He was at the stern with me, trying to hold back the wave before it struck.” Alaric’s voice is edged with tension. “I lost sight of him when we went over, but—”
“But what?” I stride closer. “Alaric,where is he?”
“The boom clipped him across the chest. He went flying. Cracked his head on the rail just before we capsized.”
My heart hits the deck. “And you did not think to check on him?”
“I…I…” Alaric shakes his head. “This is Soren we’re talking about! I have never seen a better swimmer. I figured he’d recover his senses the second he hit the water.” His expression drops and he goes pale. “There is no way he is…”
Dead.
Gods, tell me he is not dead.
I run back to the rail, watching with horror as the last of the ship is sucked fully under by suctioning orange tentacles. Only a few splintered pieces of wood remain floating amid the swells. I see no bodies among the wreckage. Nothing but black water, everywhere my eyes turn.
Beside me, Penn clears his throat. “Rhya—”
“Shh!”
My maegic spirals outward, seeking Soren. I home in on the feeling of him. His signature—that cool, crisp current; that melodic, mercurial tide.
He is not here. Not at the surface. I search deeper, widening the radius of my sensory pursuit, trying not to allow my increasing panic to interfere.
There.
He is there.
Somewhere deep, somewhere dark.
Sinking down, down, down, like a stone toward the bottom.