Brass warm under her palm. The deck vibrated through her shoes. A low, grinding rhythm. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.

  It wasn’t just machinery. It was breath.

  Camella closed her eyes. The salt air stung. The rhythm beat against her ribs.

  Life. Motion. Purpose.

  “Cammy! Come inside before the sun burns you.”

  Elara stood in the doorway to their cabin, one hand shading her eyes against the afternoon sun. Auburn hair whipped around her face.

  “I’m fine, Mum.”

  “You’ve been out here for twenty minutes. Your father wants to go over the notes.”

  Camella slipped the small cloth pouch she’d been holding back into her pocket. Lavender and iron filings.

  The cabin smelled of starch and stale tobacco.

  “The opening needs impact,” her father said. He shuffled papers, sweat beading at his temples.

  “The blade is the centerpiece,” her mother replied. Eyes closed. She sank onto the narrow bed. “It’s what the board wants to see.”

  Camella sat on her bunk. Opened her book. The words blurred.

  Inside the walls, the ship kept breathing. Safe. Steady.

  Then it stopped.

  Not the engine. The engine kept grinding.

  The other sound. The breath.

  Silence slammed into her ears. A vacuum.

  Camella dropped her book.

  Her stomach turned over. Once. Hard.

  She stood.

  “Where are you going?” Her mother didn’t open her eyes.

  “Just… for a walk.”

  “Don’t disturb the crew.”

  She stepped out. The corridor stretched long and gray. Doors shut. Silence.

  Footsteps thundered from the deck above. Running. Men shouting.

  Camella pressed herself against the wall. Two deckhands raced past. The stocky one yelled something about the cargo hold. His companion had gone pale.

  “Look at the skin,” the tall one gasped. “Look at her skin!”

  They disappeared around the corner. Above, more footsteps. Orders barking.

  The corridor was empty.

  Heat flared in her pocket.

  She gasped, slapping her hand against her dress. The cloth burned. The iron filings inside weren’t buzzing. They were screaming. Vibrating so fast they blurred against her hip.

  She should go to the cabin. Tell them. But tell them what?

  The vibration cut out. Dead stop.

  Camella pulled the pouch free. The skin of her palm went numb. Cold spread up her fingers, into her wrist. Not winter air. Dead air.

  The temperature plummeted.

  Her breath fogged.

  The deck tilted.

  Something was down there. In the dark.

  It wasn’t a person.

  A mouth opening. Wide. Wet.

  Watching her.

  She sagged against the wall, gasping. Her hands shook. The ward in her hand was ice.

  “Cammy?”

  Elara stood at the end of the hallway. Crease in her forehead.

  “What’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet.”

  Camella couldn’t stop shivering.

  “Something’s wrong. Down in the hold. Mum, it’s—”

  “Slow down.” Elara crossed to her. Pressed a palm to Camella’s forehead. “You’re overheated. Too much sun.”

  “No. I’m not. There’s something down in the hold.”

  “Oh, you mean the reported stowaway?” her mother asked. Pulling Camella up. “Just a poor woman. Captain has her in the brig now.”

  Elara’s hand was feverish against Camella’s freezing skin. Normal. Human.

  But the cold didn’t leave the hallway. It lingered. Heavy. Oily.

  Camella looked back.

  The silence from the hold wasn’t empty.

  It was listening.

  *****

  The death smell filled the hallway.

  Camella pressed into the wall. Shoulders boxing her in.

  Dr. Aris blocked the doorway. His bag rattled.

  Not fear. Something worse.

  A gap in the crowd. She looked.

  Thomas.

  On the bunk. Eyes wide. Jaw unhinged.

  “Sweet Jesus.” One deckhand crossed himself.

  No pulse. Dr. Aris didn’t even check long.

  “Rigor?” Captain Silver asked.

  “Too fast,” Aris said. “He’s still hot. But stiff as stone.”

  Camella flinched.

  A needle in her temple. Digging deep.

  Not a headache. A warning.

  The iron in her pocket screamed against her leg.

  “Where’s Jonas?” someone asked.

  Heads turned.

  “On watch,” Jenkins said. Voice cracking. “Same as Thomas.”

  Silver’s jaw tightened. “Find him.”

  They found Jonas in the cargo hold. Wedged between crates of rum. Face the same. Mouth open. Silent scream.

  The lounge was too quiet.

  Mr. Abernathy paced. Three steps left. Three steps right. He smelled of brandy.

  “Safe passage,” he muttered. “I paid for safe passage.”

  Marcus polished his glasses. Over and over. The lens was going to crack.

  “Captain has it under control,” Marcus said. He didn’t look up.

  “It’s a Soucouyant,” Elara whispered. Reading from her notes. Her hands shook.

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  “Folklore,” Abernathy spat.

  “Of course,” Elara agreed. Too quickly. “Toxins. Or shared illness.”

  “Mother,” Camella said.

  Elara turned.

  “It’s not illness.” Camella’s voice was small.

  “Camella,” her father warned.

  “I’m not making it up.”

  “No one said you were.” He crouched beside her. Eyes tired. “But nightmares—”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  A scream.

  Glass shattered.

  Camella was up before her chair hit the floor.

  The corridor. Mrs. Abernathy on her knees. Clawing at the wood.

  “He’s gone!”

  Silver kicked the door open.

  Empty bed. Latch distinct on the window.

  Locked.

  Jenkins vanished next. Bunk still hot.

  The ship changed. No creak of wood. Just hissing. Murmurs.

  Sunset. The water looked like bruised iron.

  The deck was empty.

  Except it wasn’t.

  A figure by the lifeboats.

  Still. Too still.

  Camella froze. The wind died.

  The woman turned.

  Pale skin. Eyes like holes in the world.

  The stowaway.

  She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. She pointed. Down.

  Camella ran.

  Dining room. Doors banged open.

  “She’s out,” Camella gasped. “The stowaway. On the deck.”

  Silver stood up. Napkin falling. “Impossible.”

  “I saw her.”

  “I have the key, Miss.” He tapped his chest pocket. “She is under lock and key.”

  A thud.

  From the floorboards. Deep down.

  Then the screaming started.

  *****

  The floorboards stopped shaking.

  No rumble. No thrum. The Wistaria died.

  Camella dropped her pen.

  Silence pressed against her ears. Heavy. Absolute.

  Outside, the porthole framed a wrongness.

  Not sunset. A bruise. Purple and sick.

  Her door burst open. Marcus stood there. Face pale.

  “Stay here. Lock the door behind me.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “The crew—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Something’s wrong. I need to find your mother. Lock. The. Door.”

  He left.

  Camella’s hands shook. She reached for the salt.

  The ship listed. Not much.

  She grabbed the journal, chalk, and the iron scissors. Stepped into the corridor.

  Lights blinked. On. Off. On.

  A wet drag sound.

  Something turned the corner.

  A woman’s dress. A woman’s hair.

  But the knees bent backward. Snap. Snap.

  The hem trailed slime.

  The jaw unhinged. Too wide.

  It didn’t speak. It shrieked. A metal grinding sound. Like the dead engines.

  Camella ran.

  Parents’ cabin. Door swinging.

  Empty.

  Bed unmade. Reading glasses cracked.

  She heard her mother scream.

  From the deck.

  Camella moved. Up the stairs. Hands slapping the rail. The journal slipped. Tumbled down.

  No time.

  She burst onto the deck. The purple sky pressed down. The air tasted metallic.

  Crew members sprawled on the planks. Not dead. Emptied. Mouths open. Chests rising in shallow gasps.

  Her mother stood near the rail. Frozen.

  “Mum!”

  Elara turned. Face gray.

  “Don’t—” Her voice cracked. “Don’t come closer.”

  Marcus stepped up. Shirt torn. Chest gray.

  He opened his mouth.

  The thing rose behind him.

  Not a woman now. A flayed shape. Muscle and fire.

  Long fingers wrapped around his neck.

  He didn’t scream. It cut off his sound.

  His skin went white. Paper white.

  The thing drank.

  It dropped him. A husk on the planks.

  “Stop!” Elara lunged. “Take me!”

  The creature turned. Smiled.

  It didn’t wait.

  A hand around her throat. Lifting her.

  Her feet kicked air.

  Camella froze.

  Elara looked at her. Mouth moving. Run.

  The thing fed.

  This time Camella watched. She couldn’t stop. Her mother’s hair went white. Skin pulled tight. The life drained from her eyes. Leaving them dull as river stones.

  When it finished, it dropped her.

  Elara hit the deck.

  Gone. Just meat and bone.

  The creature swiveled. Eyes on Camella.

  Cold washed through Camella’s chest. Numbing the fear. Cauterizing it.

  She didn’t run.

  She reached into her pocket.

  Iron scissors. Heavy. Sharp.

  The creature cocked its head.

  Camella opened the blades.

  “You’re right,” Camella said. Voice dead flat. “I’m just a child. But my grandmother wasn’t.”

  She turned and ran.

  *****

  Doors slammed. Lock clicked. Deadbolt.

  Camella backed away.

  The library was too big. Too many doors.

  She grabbed a table. Heaved.

  It screeched across the floor. Loud. Too loud.

  She didn’t stop.

  Another table. A chair. Piling them up.

  Her hands shook. Sweat stung her eyes.

  She opened the journal. Pages tearing in her grip.

  The price is always the self.

  She dropped to her knees.

  Salt.

  She poured a circle. White grains on dark wood.

  Imperfect. Jagged.

  It had to be enough.

  Outside the door, something moved.

  Not footsteps. The wet drag of meat across wood. A rhythm. Patient. Deliberate. Coming closer.

  Camilla’s hands went to the journal. The binding spell.

  She read. Mouth forming syllables. Testing them. Her tongue struggled with the shapes. The sounds tasted wrong. Bitter.

  The door shuddered.

  Her voice cracked.

  “By root and bone—”

  Another impact. Wood splintered. A crack appeared in the mahogany. The barricade shifted. One table leg scraped backward an inch.

  “—by salt and stone—”

  A boom.

  Wood shattered. The barricade flew apart.

  A table hit the wall. Books rained down.

  It was there.

  Skinless. Wet red muscle.

  No face. Just teeth.

  It stepped over the wreckage. Slime dripping from its heels.

  Camilla forced her voice steady.

  “I bind you to this circle, this ship, this grave.”

  The creature moved. Fast. But she stopped at the salt line.

  A hiss. Smoke rose from invisible burns.

  It stopped. Head cocked.

  No words. Just a pressure in Camella’s skull. A needle digging in. Hunger.

  Camilla opened her mouth. She tasted blood. Bit her tongue without realizing it.

  “By the life I’ve lived, by the breath I’ve drawn—”

  The creature laughed. The sound rattled Camilla’s teeth. Lamps flickered.

  “—by every moment, every fear, every joy—”

  The circle began to glow. Faint. Blue-white. The salt grains brightened one by one.

  The creature snarled. She slammed against the barrier. The light flared. Heat washed over Camilla’s face. The creature reeled, smoking.

  Camilla pulled.

  She didn’t have magic. She didn’t have skill.

  She had a life.

  She grabbed it. The spark in her chest. The thing that beat.

  And she tore it out.

  Pain whited out her vision. Hooks in her ribs. Ripping.

  She screamed.

  The light exploded. The circle blazed. Camilla screamed, but she didn’t stop. Can’t stop. She poured herself into the spell.

  The creature shrieked. The sound shattered a lamp. There were cracks in the shelf. Books cascaded to the floor. The creature thrashed against the barrier, but the light spread now, crawling up the walls, across the ceiling. Tendrils of blue-white fire.

  The ship groaned. Deep. Primal. The walls creaked. Something in the hull buckled.

  Camilla’s eyes snapped to the porthole. Beyond the glass, fog rolled in. Gray. Impossibly thick. It swallowed the ocean.

  She understood.

  Wistaria stopped moving. Slipping sideways.

  The fog pressed against the glass. Seeped through the cracks. Fingers of vapor curled around the window frame. Filled the room. Camilla’s breath misted. Her skin prickled.

  The creature lunged again. The light burned her. She weakened. Camilla saw it—the creature’s form flickering, losing cohesion. Parts of her faded to see-through. The muscles shimmered, unstable.

  The fog was inside now. Wrapping around the bookshelves. The broken chairs. Camilla’s ankles. Cold seeped through her dress. Her bones ached with it.

  She pulled harder. Gave more. The spell was a knot, and she tied herself into it. The creature. The ship. Every thread wound tight. Every connection locked.

  The world went gray.

  The sound drained from everything. Her heartbeat faded. Her breathing quieted. The ship’s creaking stopped.

  The creature screamed one last time. The sound faded into nothing. The creature collapsed, frozen mid-lunge, its clawed hand inches from Camilla’s face. The fingers curved. Reaching. Wild.

  Unmoving.

  Trapped.

  The fog settled. Thick as cotton. The ship was still. No waves. No wind. No motion. The lamp flames froze in place.

  Camilla slumped forward. Her hands looked like ghosts. She could see the floor through them. The wood grain visible through her palms. Her skin faded at the edges.

  The light blinded her.

  Then gray.

  Fog rolled through the porthole. Thick. Cold.

  It swallowed the creature. Frozen mid-lunge.

  It swallowed the shelves. The lamps.

  Camella looked at her hand.

  She could see the floor through it.

  Fading.

  The ship stopped rocking.

  Silence.

  Nothing moved.

  Nothing ever would.