The hold had become a personal kingdom of shadow and salt. Ainmire had claimed a corner near the bilge, where the constant drip of water matched something in his chest that might have been a heartbeat. Three days since he’d woken. Three days since Lanson’s careful questions and the crew’s terrified staring through the hatch.

  He was learning to exist in this body. The way his joints moved—not wrong exactly, but differently. Like wearing someone else’s clothing. The cold that radiated from him constantly, freezing the damp planks beneath him into a crust of rime. The hunger that wasn’t hunger, a thirst that wasn’t thirst.

  Mostly, he made a game of ignoring Bob.

  (Bob)

  Ainmire the Meat-Thing rests. Good. Repair requires stillness.

  “Could you not, pal? I’m trying to have a moment here,” Ainmire grumbled against the dark.

  (Bob)

  Moments are for the living. Time is outside of you.

  “Charming as ever.”

  He’d taken to counting the crew by their footsteps. Eighteen pairs of feet above deck, moving in the rhythms of the shipboard life. Three pairs that passed by the hatch regularly—Lanson’s fancy stride, the boatswain’s heavy tromp, and the quick, nervous patter of the kid that shot him.

  “What was his name again?”

  (Bob)

  Leonard.

  Lenny hadn’t come near the hold since. Ainmire couldn’t blame him. He also couldn’t stop thinking about the look on the boy’s face when the pistol fired. The terror. The way his hand had shaken.

  (Bob)

  Thought wasted on the insignificant. The small human fears you.

  “He’s a kid, Bob. Kids shouldn’t have to—” Ainmire stopped. Shouldn’t have to what? See a man they had shot sit back up? Kind of a fair point.

  Above, the footsteps changed. Quicker now. Voices raised.

  The commotion started near the forecastle and spread through the ship like fire through dry canvas. Ainmire heard it all from his hole—the running, the shouted orders, the way the rhythm of the vessel changed as hands abandoned their posts.

  (Bob)

  Something has happened. The light has dimmed.

  “Yeah, I gathered that.” Ainmire stood, then sat back down. “Nah, not our business. Lanson said stay put.”

  (Bob)

  You do not obey Lanson. You obey me. We are curious. Go.

  “Speak for yourself. I’m right comfortable sitting on my ass.”

  (Bob)

  Ainmire the Meat-Thing will move. Will see. And will learn.

  “You make it really hard to like you.” But he was already walking.

  It was chaos on the main deck.

  Crew clustered near the starboard rail, their backs to Ainmire as he emerged from the hatch. No one noticed him at first. All attention was on something—someone—laid out on a tarp.

  Lanson’s voice cut through the mutterings: “Clear a path, damn you. Sam, get the surgeon. Now.”

  Ainmire drifted closer. It was hard to be subtle. Wide as two men and easily two heads taller. The cold left in his wake offered no help. His chest pulsed harder with every step.

  The body lay on its back, arms at awkward angles, mouth open in a final gasp. Old man. Sixty, maybe sixty-five. Leather skin from decades of sea, sun, and salt. Gray beard fleck with something that might have been biscuit crumbs or might have been—

  (Bob)

  Blood. From the mouth. He died from within.

  “Finn,” someone whispered. “Old Finn! He was fine this morning. I saws him!”

  “Seen it before,” another voice. Older as well. “Heart. Man just… stops.”

  Ainmire reached the edge of the crowd. The men parted automatically, then realized who they were parting for and scrambled backward. He ignored them, eyes fixed on the corpse.

  Old Finn. The man’s chest was still. His skin held the gray-white pallor of recent death, not the waterlogged horror Ainmire had been blessed with. Just… empty. A shell without an occupant.

  (Bob)

  Warmth leaves quickly. Always first. Feel it?

  Ainmire could. Something was there, though. A faint… glow. A residue of life that was fading even as he watched. The men around him had it too, brighter, pulsing with their every heartbeat. But Finn’s was dimming.

  (Bob)

  It does not have to.

  “What?”

  (Bob)

  Light does not need warmth. But it will return to the world. To the sea. To the nothing. But you could save it. The cold. The cold can hold.

  Ainmire’s hand moved. Reached out. Fingers pressing against Finn’s forehead. And the cold erupted.

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  There was only the cold, and the warmth, and the sudden understanding that he stood between them,

  Ice spread from his fingertips across Finn’s face. The crew screamed—he heard them distantly, like gulls crying from distant shores. Lanson shouted something. Footsteps pounded. All Ainmire saw was the warmth. It struggled in the body beneath his hand. Dying. Dying. And then—

  (Bob)

  Catch.

  He pulled.

  The warmth snapped back into Finn’s chest like a struck sail. Ainmire felt it—felt everything. The old man’s stiff joints, his failing eyes, the last terrified moment of his heart seizing. Felt the life rush back into flesh.

  Finn’s eyes flew open. But they were wrong. Not a shared shade of Ainmire’s own undead gaze, but something else. Something between. The whites were shot through with thin veins of ice, and when the old man’s mouth opened to scream, frost formed from his breath.

  He screamed. A reedy sound that cut through the stunned silence.

  “The fuck—” someone yelled.

  “Get back, you lot!” Lanson’s voice. “I said get back!”

  Ainmire’s hand was still on Finn’s forehead. He didn’t remember touching him. The old man’s skin beneath his palm was cold. Not cold like the dead, but cold like nothingness. The cold of the crushing depths. A place where light had never reached.

  Finn’s eyes found his. Wide. Terrified. Painfully aware. The old sailor tried to speak, but nothing came out. He stopped. Looked down at his own hands. Watched veins turn blue as ice creeped through them.

  (Bob)

  The first.

  The words slid through Ainmire’s mind. A simple, and true, statement of fact.

  (Bob)

  The cold holds the light now. You hold him, Ainmire the Meat-Thing.

  Ainmire opened his mouth to deny it. To say no, this was an accident, he didn’t mean to, he didn’t want this—Finn sat up. Too fast. Years of arthritis should have barricaded his joints with resistance. But he stood. Stared at Ainmire.

  And knelt.

  He looked up, and there was something in his eyes that gave Ainmire pause. Not fear, not devotion. Something that belonged to the deep as much as it belonged to him.

  The crew stared in horror. Lanson stared in confusion. In calculation.

  Ainmire watched the kneeling man and felt something crack inside his chest. Something that remembered what it felt like to have a family.

  (Bob)

  Ainmire the Meat-Thing learns fast. Has done well. Will do more. This is only the beginning.

  “Bob,” Ainmire whispered. “What did you just do?”

  (Bob)

  Do? No, Ainmire the Meat-Thing. Not we, but you. The cold is yours. The power is yours. We only opened the door. You walked through.

  Old Finn has joined the party!

  Another gun shot. Old Finn fell backwards as a point-blank wheellock pistol made short work of him. The one holding the gun this time was Lanson. And he didn’t look too pleased.

  Old Finn has left the party!

  The aftermath was a sight to behold.

  Lanson cleared the deck in minutes, barking orders that sent men scrambling for tasks now invented. Within a quarter bell, only four remained: Lanson, the boatswain—a thick-necked woman who went by Greer who looked ready to fight anything, the surgeon, and the dead Finn.

  “Explain.” Lanson’s voice was calm. Impressively calm considering the speed of his heart and the shaking firearm now aimed at Ainmire. “Now.”

  “Not really sure what to yell ya. Don’t know what happened.”

  (Bob)

  Deceit. Liar.

  “I don’t!” He swiped at empty air, then caught himself. Lanson raised an eyebrow as he stepped back. “I mean it. I touched him, and you saw the rest.”

  “Came back, yes.” Lanson cleared his throat. “He was quite dead. Checked him with the surgeon myself. No measurable breath or heartbeat. Dead for the better part of an hour. But there he was.”

  The surgeon kneeled, quickly catching his spectacles in his hand as the ship lurched. He placed them back on the bridge of his nose and held them in place with his index finger. He nodded solemnly as he examined Finn. “He's dead.”

  (Bob)

  Brilliant.

  “I am telling you, I didn’t mean it.”

  Lanson studied him. “Finn was my sailing master for twelve years. I don’t appreciate what just happened.”

  Ainmire chuckled, clasping his hands on his protruding belly. “Hate to split hairs, but you're the one who shot'em.”