Private Dreaming of an Absent Word

Mako sat in a chair plush for its wear, ankle over knee. A wrinkled map rested on the table before him, held down by emptied bottles that reeked of day spoiled wine and cider. Wrought of thin linen, ink sun-faded, it lent an appearance of undeserved age. Medleys of glass and pottery presided him.

"You know," he said, knowing he was drinking, knowing that the words tumbled from lips like frenetic bees, and caring not at all. "Sometimes—often, I think my mother must have been a noblewoman of Seax, some great mistress. Too important to abandon home and hearth for the flotilla, for, me."

He was rambling. To himself, to another. It mattered little. He wiped a heavy palm over his brow, dragged fingers hard over cheeks. Loosed a breath held a bottle past its prime.

"My funds take me no further. The last of it goes to you, the last job I can afford. You'll find it in the top drawer."

A shrug.

"Tomorrow, I suppose, we'll be done with each other. Unless you bring happier news. What say the captain of my proposal? A thousand bundles of figurative grain on promissory lean."

He plucked the corners of his map up from the table, taking care not to disturb the bevy of bottles.

Fray frowned, the crease in her brow deepening. He always talked so damned much and she didn't even know what the fuck he was saying half the time, drunk or not. But he had coin, could hold his own in a fight, and had a better way with words than she when the occasion called for it, so she stayed.

Unfortunately, the price was that when the occasion didn't call for it, he philosophized in a slurred, sad way that made her head hurt. Like he was doing right now.

Sometimes, Fray wondered if he rambled to anyone and everyone, or if it was some shitty honor only she was privy to. Granted, being stuck on a ship for weeks on end kept one's options for company rather limited. Even still, it wasn't like he was grotesque or intolerable. People seemed to revolve around him whether they wanted to or not, and Mako could be compelling when he wanted to be. It was when he didn't that Fray grew concerned. His mind would wander off somewhere far away and an air of hopeless yearning wrapped around him like a moldy blanket. Fray hated when he got like that. She almost preferred the senseless rambling at that point. Drunken foolishness, she could deal with. Watching his mind drift out into oceans past or future with no assurances it even wanted to come back...that, she had no idea what to do about.

Well, she could punch him. But it would probably only work the one time, after which her continued employment would become shaky at best.

Fray didn't move to take the money. She just stood there, arms crossed, face pensive. What she wanted to say was, "Mak, I'm starting to think I might be the closest thing to a friend you've got in your sorry ass life right now. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I think it actually makes me feel pretty fucking bad. Like, you have to know how pathetic this looks. There's a guy who peels potatoes all day long down in the galley. He's not allowed to do anything else. He's stuck there. He'd have no choice but to listen to you. I mean, come on. Literally anyone else. Any."

Instead, she looked down at the raggedy map for the hundredth time, at the way he fingered its careworn edges in a tired, defeated sort of way, and said, "Keep the money. We might need it later."

From one of her trouser pockets, she fished out a folded note of parchment. It was covered in all manner of suspicious stains, but the ink within was (mostly) in tact and legible. She placed it on the table and slid it over beneath brown, calloused fingers. "It's not much, but there's a good chance this leads to one of her old acquaintances. One we haven't hunted down yet. Soon as we dock tomorrow, we can start."

Before he could respond, she jammed both hands in her pockets and wheeled around toward the door. "Also, you should join us in the mess tonight. We're having your favorite."

She turned to give him a shit eating grin right before the door closed. "Smoked Mackerel."

Mako watched her go, pouch untouched, the glimpse of a tempest come through his quarters. He lost track of how long he spent frowning after the woman. The words cascaded past him. Tumbled from lips that, to his buzzing ears, could as well belonged to countless effervescent bees. It was always like that with Fray.

He washed his face in the basin. Lukewarm, stale water that reeked of sweat. Nothing like what they had on a Kharsagan vessel. Always fresh, there. Sanitized at the very least, handled by a navigator before being rationed out to the crew. He'd not considered it a luxury on the flotilla, but it certainly seemed one among the shoreborn.

Weeks aboard the riverboat Mhear dispelled many similar preconceptions. Her captain proved a simpering man, hands a wringing mess and voice cast to squirrel about the value of trinkets. At a glance, Mako guessed the man's love language to be of coins; silver, primarily. Slivers of value, of worth. Little surprise, then, that an offer of trade along the 'twain lit his eyes up with a greed often seen in such folk.

More the pity that Mako had no more than promises to pay his way. Promises and a pouch of coin partitioned aside for Fray's contract.

Drying his face, slicking water from hair and cheek, he shrugged into the coat he'd purchased. A fashionable thing, he was told, a matter many lent great credence to. Perhaps it helped him in securing this passage, such as it was. When he could truly call himself king, and this he swore upon what integrity he had, he would repay the seamstress. But that was a far-off promise, a future beyond the morrow's ken. The here and now, in which he brushed his coat and departed from his quarters.

The mess, housed squarely in the Mhear's belly, contained a pair of long tables bolted to the deck. Most spots were occupied with sweat stained sailors partaking of frenetic leisure. Belayed business. By the odor, the overnight nets came up favorably; an assortment of fish acted as the tables' centerpieces. Steamed rice accompanied it, but given the quality of his bathwater, Mako deigned to avoid it.

He made his way over to Fray, ensuring a proper gait. A measured gait. A pace that did not succumb to a drunken sway. Mostly.

"Mackerel," he said, deadpan as though he did not rehearse it the climb down from his quarters. "That's the best you came up with? May as well call you sticks, then, for all the use you've put those things to. Besides, that's bream."

Drawing a hand over his brow, he fumbled for a bowl. In what started as a whisper: "I don't see the quartermaster, nor tell of the captain."

His voice raised near the end in the manner of conspiracies.

Boss man came down at last to join them, looking a bit like someone had just hit him in the face with a shovel. Fray didn't really blame him, since the overall stench of the mess could be described as "fish market on a hot, humid day" at best. She watched, amused, as he ambled stiffly to her side, his eyes ever so slightly out of focus. Well, at least he didn't stick out or anything. Most of the men were already piss drunk, and dinner had only just begun.

"Okay, not my best work," she conceded as they each grabbed bowls and shuffled forward. The mess was packed today. Smoked fish was always popular amongst the crew. "And I resent that. I seem to remember someone giving me explicit orders not to start fights. Besides, I bet mine are still bigger than yours."

This earned a few guffaws from the men around them. Fray waggled her eyebrows up at Mako.

She was about to make more jokes, this time rhyming bream with something lewd, when he whispered a new concern. Caught off guard, Fray's mouth hung slightly ajar as she found herself unsure of how to reply. "Yeeaahh...now that you mention it, they do seem to be missing..."

Settling into one of the long tables, she waited in a rare show of patience for her employer to do the same. It wasn't often that he agreed to join them for anything other than a quick meeting or light breakfast. Fray figured it would be good for the crew to see more of Mak; the rumors they'd spun in his absence were getting rather out of hand.

Piling food into her bowl, the mercenary peeked over and noticed something conspicuously missing from Mako's portion. Pursing her mouth, she scooped a fistful of steamed rice and plunked it into his bowl.

"Eat up, boss," she encouraged. "You're looking peaky. Gotta have energy for tomorrow."

Several sailors groaned in promised pleasure. They shouted over one another about all the things they'd do as soon as they docked, mouths full of rice and fish and hearts full of yearning.

One of them looked eagerly at Mako. He was young and fresh faced, and if Fray were to guess, highly impressionable.

"And you, sir? What will you be doing once we reach land again? Exciting business, I'm sure, for someone as important as yourself."

Fray snorted into her rice. "Yeah, you know they don't call him Mackin Maky for nothin'."

A chorus of whistles and cheers rippled through the crew. One by one, they banged their fists on the table, until their chant grew deafening. "Story, story, story, story!"

"Story?" he asked. "Fetch me a cup of what passes for wine and I'll tell."

Mako straddled the bench, weight hefted on elbows planted firm to the table. He'd already forgotten the meal; the odor enough to sustain him. As long as it did not touch his tongue, the contents of his stomach were safe.

"Good lad." It came quiet as he grabbed the offered cup. A sip, a swig, a sigh.

He began:

"Three months ago on the queen's eastern highway I stumbled across a traveling menagerie. All manner of beasts were kept there with a good dozen performers to accompany them. A penchant for the exotic if my guess's color true. I can still see it if I close my eyes.

"The wagons with their colorful lacquer, the horses and oxen and donkeys latched up to this chaotic lead. A constant clatter of pans and other such travelware. The rarely pleasant hum of music from so many out of tune voices... Well. I assure you it was a sight to behold. Far better than the plod of trees and open river we've seen on this sorry swim."

He let a pause roll over them. Drained the cup of its contents. Set it aside. Extended his silence.

"Yeah yeah. I'll get to the point: Mackin Maky. Why do they call me that? They don't. She does. If you do"—he cast a thumb over the lad's way—"I'll break your nose back the way it was when you were born."

A shrug. He kicked a foot up onto the table.

For a moment, the stuffy room and everything in it collectively held their breath, listening to Mako weave the beginnings of a colorful tale. Fray's chewing slowed as a picture began to form in her mind. Every word filled in another detail, and a quick glance around the mess suggested the same was happening for all the sailors. They were listening in rapt attention, food forgotten, eager to know what came next.

Mak's words faded into a dramatic silence, followed by a draining of his cup. Fray seriously reconsidered punching him.

And then, as per usual, he ruined the dreamy tapestry he had woven with a verbal jab. The sailors all groaned in disappointment, though some did laugh, while others demanded the story be continued. Fray, however, scowled as she waited for the first one to catch on and say something.

"Oy," a red headed lad of no more than seventeen or eighteen years eventually piped. Aaaand, here we go, Fray thought glumly to herself. "If she's the only one that calls you that..."

A chorus of hooting began as the others followed this line of logic, and even though what the merc wanted to do was jam her spoon in someone's eye, instead she decided to finish the rest of her fish. It had only been a matter of time, of course. And largely Mak's fault, as things so often were. He was a man, she was not, they were working together, and he was always drunk in that little room of his with no real visitors other than herself. Never mind that every time she checked in, it was either about yet another obscure clue surrounding his mother's whereabouts to chase down, or just to make sure he hadn't actually drank himself to death. Which, she would leave reassured each time that he hadn't, because he would have held her hostage for hours with strange, misty philosophies that made her brain cramp. In their infinite boredom, the crew was bound to embellish in whatever way amused them the most.

"I call him that," she said as she set down her empty bowl, and not particularly loudly, so as to force the room to quiet again to hear her, "for two reasons."

They stared at her in a pained way. When she only grinned back in response, their agitation became nearly palpable. "Aw c'mon, miss. You've gotta tell us," the first boy pleaded, the one who had looked up at Mak with actual stars shooting out of his eyes.

Fray nearly gagged. "I will, if you promise never to call me that again." There was an over eager chorus of agreement. She held up her spoon. "Alright, well the first reason is because he did, in fact, once lose a bet and...if you can believe it, kissed a fish...on the mouth."

The laughter had already started up at the mention of fish, but it turned into a raucous roar at mouth.

"And the second?" the ginger boy shouted over all the noise.

As the mirth died down, Fray turned gleefully to Mak. "I think you should do the honors, boss. Seems only right, what with how many of Madam Nadine's finest maidens you, ah, so generously serviced." Her grin turned feral at the memory. "What a wild night that was."

The sides of the ship practically shook with the clamor of story-hungry sailors.

"That night, drunk off vapors and brandy stronger than any I've smelled since, thinking surely if this lithe twit could handle it, what harm could there be? Wrong, how wrong, how naive I was for not seeing the violence made flesh in that one. Serviced, you say? Serviced? As if that would somehow make it any better, dressed up in fancy euphemism rather than to say I..."

He was long in the telling before a flare of lucidity seized him.

"No," he said, more a slurred cry than any semblance of reason, "I will not tell of how I pissed myself at sight of pennywhores brandishing knives the size of my—"

He scowled, puckered his lips tight, and kicked off from his seat on the bench as though in flight from the ensuring bubble of laughter. Embarrassingly little of his act needed staging; his tongue was thick with wine, his steps staggered in a skirmish for control of equilibrium.

"Fucking piss myself again at this rate." It came as a mumble, shaded scarlet by the blush that accosted his cheeks. He made haste for the ladder that took him from the galley.

"Fray, the captain," he called back over his shoulder, working the slur from his speech. "If he's not come here to see my embarrassment for himself, we'll just have to pay him a visit ourselves. Come."

Gods, he was getting red. Fray struggled not to devolve into fits of laughter, choosing instead to focus on chewing rather than choking on her dinner. He really seemed to hate that memory.

All the more reason to bring it up every chance she got.

The sailors groaned again as Mak eventually fled in that very Mak-ish way of his. Ah, well. He'd left enough clues for them to embellish long into the night with that special, creative touch only men bored out of their gourds possessed. No doubt come morning—or whenever they arose from their drunken slumber—the gaps would all be filled, and the men would have their own version to tell in full, lurid detail.

Fray downed the rest of her bowl and mug, gave the crew an apologetic shrug, and made to follow after her employer.

She breathed deep as they emerged in the clean, ocean air once more. It was always something of a trial being down in the galley, what with all the smells trapped in so small a space. As Fray took in appreciative lungfuls of sea air to cleanse the senses, the pair picked their way towards the captain's quarters.

Out over the ship's rails, she could see the foamy, moonlit lines of waves curling over dark waters. The Deva shuddered once before refocusing her attention on the slightly uneven slant of Mak's inebriated shoulders. The sailors often told tales of what lay beneath those glassy, obsidian waves. Of men being lured to their deaths by songs lovelier than words could describe, or strange leviathans punching holes into hulls. Fray wasn't one to fear the dark, but she was not keen on meeting monsters she couldn't simply butcher with her swords.

Upon approaching the captain's cabin, she abruptly stopped short, putting a hand on Mak's shoulder to halt him as well.

"Since when does the captain leave his door unlocked?" she whispered from behind, peeking over his shoulder to stare at the wooden door left ajar, a crack of golden light shining through.

"What?" Mako rubbed a thick hand over his face, forcing wide eyelids that quavered at touch of that sliver of golden light. He groaned.

"Knives ready," he said, barely a whisper, and laid a hand to the door. Mouthing a count, he shoved it open and...

"Fuck."

A pair of bodies entwined in a macabre lover's tryst, naked to the chest and clothed in red. Puncture wounds made gaping maws of mirrored throats. A second set of holes opened their stomachs, more to make a point than to serve any measure of efficiency. They were strewn about the cabin's floor, piled atop one another in clear display. Whoever killed them had no qualms of discovery.

Mako scanned the room.

Blood pooled in what little space remained between the planks, too thin to be taken holistically. Bits of foam blended in with it, some liquid Mako could not place. Noseblind from the mess and the reek of fouled rockfish, he placed no trust in scent to guide him. Eyes instead, then. He kept looking around: a chest peeked out from under a bolted down bed, poorly concealed by the corner of a linen sheet.

"Check the chest," he said, pointing even as he hastened his tone. "Might solve our impending financial ruin." Might also hold a clue about to these murders, or perhaps another shroud for the mystery. Either way, sensible not to leave his coin in a dead man's hand, should any remain.

He needed time to think, a luxury ill afforded to him.

"That's the quartermaster, I think. Was he always missing that many teeth?"

Fray was already drawing Fang from its sheath when Mak braced a hand against the door. As soon as he shoved it open, the metallic scent of blood hit her nose, and her eyes widened as they took in the gory scene.

There was blood everywhere. One the floorboards, on the corpses, and even some splattered against the walls and furniture. Whatever had happened here involved violence unchecked. Savage, brutal. Almost animalistic.

The Deva was craning her neck closer to inspect one of the stomach wounds when Mak suddenly insisted they check the chest. And by they, evidently he meant just Fray, since he remained where he stood, scanning back and forth as his mind whirled. Rolling her eyes, Fray walked over to where he pointed and yanked the chest out from under the bed. There was a rusty lock keeping it shut, which she bypassed by baring Fang’s pommel and smashing down decisively. The old lock gave way without much fuss, clattering to the floor in pieces as Fray threw open the lid.

A strange smell rose to mingle with the tang of blood. Incense, perhaps, or medicine, though none Fray had ever had the displeasure of encountering.

She was rifling through the contents of the chest when Mak wondered out loud if the quarter master had always been missing that many teeth. Pausing, Fray glanced over her shoulder at the mangled bodies. Both had eyes blown open in fright, but only the quarter master’s mouth was hanging wide, as if in mid scream.

Fray squinted and her eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “Yes, and no,” she answered after a time. “The ones he’s missing now were gold. I remember, I counted once.”

What she didn’t say was that whoever had done this must’ve had the same idea, and she was actually quite miffed that the mystery murderer had beat her to it. Of course, she hadn’t been planning something as laborious as disemboweling the man. She was just going to wait until he met some unfortunate, untimely end, after which she would simply rehome that which dead men could no longer appreciate.

She returned to searching the chest, stopping only when she felt the distinct shape of coins. Grinning, she fished out the sack of coins and tossed it at Mak’s feet, which happened to also be standing on a clean section of floorboards.

But then, something else caught her attention. Fray frowned and dug deeper. This time, the thing she fished out was not a sack of coins, but of…

“Bones…” she muttered, feeling through the cloth as she listened to the way its contents clacked. “Who the fuck carries around a bag of bones?”

“Bones, what?” He caught the bag, the hollow click rattling even as it molded to fit his hand. Maybe it was the shroud of liquor, but it was an oddly satisfying weight, light enough not to overstay its welcome.

He frowned.

“Cap was one sick fuck.” That damnable slur returned, stronger now as he diverted himself to think about the mess they found themselves in.

“No blood on these, collectibles maybe”—momentary lucidity interrupted him—“I’m not thinking straight, I apologize. Reckon we’ve a few options,” Mako said. He drummed them out against the bag of bones:

“One, we jump ship. The Mhear will set anchor Twain’side of Seax’s docks late morning if all goes to schedule. We take the coin, collect our shit, and fuck off. Just have to skip town this side of the range a few years, small setback.

“Two, we go to bed. Someone else finds this mess, maybe they come get us all angry in the morning. We talk our way out of it. Bit harder, they saw us leave the mess already. Might say I was piss drunk and passed out in a puddle of my own vomit if we’re lucky.

“Three, we figure out who killed the cap, string them up, and maybe walk away with a loyal riverboat under our belt.”

Another shrug. His shoulders were going to sting in the morning at this rate.

Fray stopped searching to watch Mak inspect the bones. Evidently, they were just harmless trinkets and not the freshly harvested trophies of victims. That was a little disappointing. A killer hiding amongst the crew made more sense than…whatever had happened here. The whole thing carried a distinct sense of unnaturalness, leaving the bodies to be on gruesome display with no clear motive in sight. Valuables left untouched and no obvious grudges held against either victim.

Speaking of victims…

Using a spyglass she had fished out from the chest, Fray pulled it to full extension and then nudged the quarter master’s head to one side. It was hard to tell, but the other victim looked enough like the captain…barrel chested, greying hair, swarthy complexion. Although, without his signature jacket and covered in blood as he was, she couldn’t be sure.

Fray squinted at the bodies, prodding and lifting with the spyglass, while Mak rattled off their very limited, very shitty set of options. Honestly, it was a small miracle he was even this lucid. One had to count their blessings where ever they could.

“I’m not jumping in those waters,” Fray spat. She thought of the curling foam, of the faint echoes she often heard at night that sounded eerily like singing, and shuddered once. “I can’t fight in the water, and I’m not dying without a fight.”

Going to bed was a much less terrible idea. It might even work, if luck was on their side. But given how their night was going so far, Fray hazarded to guess that their luck was on the ass end of fucked. Besides, Mak had announced they were going to see the captain in front of the entire mess hall. Even a hungover idiot of a sailor could put two and two together.

“They won’t believe us,” she admitted reluctantly, as much as she wanted to crawl into her cot and pretend none of this had happened. “You see how imaginative they get. They’ll make something up when nothing’s there.”

Which left the third option. Fray sighed deeply. Of course, the only viable path left to them would be the one involving the most work.

“I say we’ve got maybe three hours tops before someone comes looking for the cap. More if we’re lucky and they’re down there getting properly sloshed,” she offered. “But if one so much as comes up to piss, we’ve got to make sure they have no reason to get curious.”

Fray’s Devahni eyes flicked over to the lanterns and candles currently illuminating the cabin. “It would be safest to work in the dark. I can see well enough, but you and your weak, human eyes…”

She tapped the spyglass against one of the dead men’s arms. “I suppose I could describe to you what I see? Unless you’ve got better ideas with what you can do in your current state. But whatever you come up with, boss, make it quick.”

Drink addled and thoughts a lurid slurry of anxieties that riddled his brain, Mako held himself aloft of surety. Three hours. Less, given their luck. If anything, scarce enough time for him to sober up. A sigh beat back the anxiety, steadied him enough to send a nod Fray's way.

"Kill the lights," he said, crouching down to take a last clean look at the corpses. Resting on his ankles, elbows propped against knees and chin cupped in a divot of knuckles, he squinted hard, scanned for any hint of a clue.

He had seen bodies before, most recently those of his shipmates on the Aetochi outskirts when that serpent, that raakgui tore his life asunder. Blood on the water, in the frothing brine of a turbulent sea, and blood on the deck of a riverboat; it made little difference. Then or now, death was a thing to confront, not avert his eyes from...

An idle thought, that, made all the more ironic when the lanterns were snuffed by Fray's hand. Dark enveloped him alongside the white and purple afterglow of his eyes adjusting to the sudden change.

He fumbled around for a moment, calling upon tactile memory as he fished at the collar of one of the corpses. His fingers found purchase in the slick, wet edges of a wound, that gash where once muscle had once stood. He felt around it, intuition guiding him through the macabre.

"Here," he said, pulling his hand free and drying it on the nearby bedding. "The wound's got an odd feel to it, or maybe I'm drunker than I thought. Look, the bone's fucked, almost like it splintered out from him? Whatever the fuck that's supposed to imply."

A click of irritation. He tongued the back of his teeth a moment, scrubbed a wrist against his eyes.

"Give it another look, you're better at this. Were I a poet I'd have a line likening it to 'the puncture of an elken-horn,' uh, an antler? Bone, maybe claw. Not metal."

At his agreement, Fray rose and began methodically snuffing all the candles and lanterns. Silver wisps of smoke curled up each time, leaving a faint smell of burning in her wake.

Task finished, Fray returned to the pile of corpses and crouched down beside Mak. She was tempted to tell him to shut up, as he was yammering enough to draw unwanted attention, but then thought better of it. The walls were thick and Fray suspected that the talking was the only thing keeping him calm.

At his announcement of the odd feeling wound, she leaned closer to the bloody gash, Deva eyes scanning back and forth. The metallic scent of blood filled her nose, along with other fluids typically released upon death. Mercifully, the murders had been quite fresh; the bodies weren’t fully stiff yet and still maneuverable. He was right, of course. It was odd. Too messy for a blade, even a serrated one. It seemed more like something had exploded up and through the poor sod’s rib cage. Even stranger, it was just one hole…a fucked up one, but a singular point of entry and exit nonetheless.

“Nasty work,” she replied in a low murmur. “A horn of some kind, maybe…but not claws or teeth. I mean, what are the odds that only one antler or claw hits their bodies? Pretty fucking slim, if you ask me.”

Standing up carefully, Fray made a slow circuit around the bodies. At some point, she propped them up to inspect their backs, studying the wounds from various angles, until at last she said to Mak, “The hole seems smaller in the back and wider in the front. So, definitely not a horn. Maybe more like…a flail? Morning star?”

Or, a fist, she mused. But that was ridiculous. What kind of fist could punch straight through a man? And remain unnoticed aboard this ship?

Fray craned her neck closer, nose just millimeters from mutilated flesh. Her eyes narrowed as she caught a glint of something under the pale light of the moon filtering through a porthole. Raising a hand, she used the sharp tip of one of her nails to prod at the wound. It took some effort, but she managed to lift the glimmering object away from the bloody mess.

“Well, well…what do we have here?”

She held the morsel of a clue up so Mak could see. And, just in case he didn’t recognize it, she breathed, “A bloody fuckin scale.”

Mako, busy nodding along, was caught by surprise at the sudden appearance of an object shoved right under his nose.

"The fuck?" he said, pulling back reflexively before leaning in. He squinted, struggling to make some sense of it through blurred eyes, blinking a few times in the process.

What Fray held up to him certainly resembled a scale, in form if not entirely in fact. It belonged to no riverfish he knew, boasting a width near to that of his own palm. It glistered faint in the unlight, catching some phantom glow from his eyes; or, as he continued looking at it, rather it mimicked that effect. His gaze slipped from the harsh sides of it, affected by some unknown aversion to perception.

"Slippery as it looks?" he asked, refusing to take it into his own hand. His lip churned at the notion, and it pulled from him a deeper reaction than sight of the corpses had.

He considered that with what cogency remained.

"Wait. I'd thought the floors slick just with blood. Any water mixed in? I can't see it." He shoved a booted toe against the deck, sloshing into carpet.