She jerked her hand back. The hum stopped. The ambient sound of the ocean returned—the distant groan of a freighter’s propeller, the snap of shrimp.
“My father said the engines failed before she ever left the bay,” Marina replied, her voice low. “He said the owner, Mr. Correia, insisted on sailing anyway. Full of insurance debt and desperate hope.”
Not a collision , she realized. An explosion. Ilhabela 2
The hunt had begun.
“Evidence,” Marina said, though she didn’t know of what. She unlatched the tiny gold clasp. She jerked her hand back
“We dive at dawn,” Marina announced. The water was a cold, green cathedral. Marina’s dive light cut through the murk like a knife, revealing the Ilhabela 2 in terrible glory. Her brass fittings were verdigris-green, her wooden hull encrusted with feather stars. She lay on her side, as if sleeping.
“No,” she said quietly. “We’re taking it to the maritime authority in Rio. Whatever woke up down there? It’s not the Ilhabela 2 anymore. It’s the thing that ate her. And now it knows we’ve touched its cage.” “My father said the engines failed before she
Marina slammed the box shut. The vision vanished. The sea was calm again.
But Marina looked at the coordinates on her GPS, then at the jade box. Her father’s voice still echoed in her skull.
The Ilhabela 2 .
