Salt Storm: The Salted Series: Episodes #31-35 by Galvin, Aaron (top 5 books to read TXT) 📗

inferior, smaller race. One of his tentacles shot forward to grab at the escaping Mako Shark leader. Missing on his first attempt, another of the monster’s tentacles burst from the darker water to snatch the Mako by the tail, then tightened instantly like a noose yanked to close. Two more tentacles erupted from unseen places to slither around the wrists of the Mako leader also, each preventing him from reaching for his weapon to fight for freedom. In moments, the demon squid-man had turned the Mako leader over like a marionette awaiting its master to give the puppet life once more. All the while, his other tentacles maneuvered about in warning that the others should expect the same if chancing their own escape.

For all the hollowed looks Garrett witnessed from the other squid-creatures, he found himself drawn back to the lone familiar face he would have recognized anywhere. Kellen . . . he dared to privately whisper to his high school nemesis. Kellen, is that really you?

He knew it for true when Kellen’s head snapped in search for the direction of Garrett’s voice.

Kellen! Garrett cried out, even as his mind warned him not to draw attention to himself. For a moment, Garrett swore that his former classmate’s hardened features softened at the sight of him. That all the bullied looks and arrogance he had ever associated with Kellen Winstel was taken from him like a mask that had been ripped away. In its place, Garrett thought Kellen looked more like a frightened and injured child with questions aplenty. Then, just as quickly as the mask had dropped, Garrett found himself staring back at the same Kellen Winstel he remembered fighting against since the pair of them were in grade school.

Weaver? Kellen replied, his lip curling at the question.

Yeah, said Garrett, drifting forth that they might see each other better. For all the questions burning in him, Garrett could not find his voice to ask them in that moment. His gaze lingered across all the scars littering Kellen’s body, the squid-like form that was his lower body, and the tenseness emanating from Kellen even at a distance. How did you get here? Garrett asked of his former classmate, noting that Kellen’s eyes worked over him also. What happened to you?

Kellen sneered. Happened? No, I’ve always been this way, Weaver. Just like you, right? He pointed at Garrett’s shark tail. Except I remember that being black and shiny the last time I saw you . . . an Orcinian tail.

The old hates rose in Garrett then also, his face tightening at the coldness in Kellen’s voice. The same taunting measure he had used countless times when cornering Garrett for another bullied session. Black and shiny, right, Garrett replied. And I seem to remember you having legs.

Kellen smirked as he brought all of his tentacles together, the lot of them like a nest of rattling snakes beneath him. I prefer these . . . He slowly opened them all in a threatening show. Lucky for you, I didn’t have these when I took you twelving back at school, huh, Weaver? Kellen gave a sideways look to the she-squid pair lingering on either side of him before resettling on Garrett again. Not so lucky now though, are you?

One of Kellen’s tentacles began to reach across the distance between them.

Cursion White Shadow swam between them. With one of his hands raised in surrender, he used the other to make a fist and knock against his breast. Then, the Nomad high chieftain bowed his head in respectful show to the eldest of the monsters. Hail, Sancul, said Cursion, his voice quivering despite the calm with which he acted.

The eldest of the Sancul came forth to separate from Kellen and the others, his withered gaze searching the faces of the other Nomads before settling on Cursion. Greetings, Salt Child. Who are you that speaks for the others of your kind?

I am called the White Shadow, son of White Death. The high chieftain of our people. And you?

The Father of mine, said the elder Sancul. Kanaloa is my name.

Garrett tensed when Cursion looked up suddenly.

A smile crept across the face of the Sancul leader. By your actions, Salt Child, it would seem I am known to you.

Aye, said Cursion, dipping his head once more. Your name is remembered, Deep Dweller. It has been many years since I have heard stories of you whispered in the above.

No doubt, said Kanaloa. It has been lifetimes since my people allowed any Salt Child to see us and live to carry the tale.

The Salt favors us this day, then, said Cursion.

Perhaps, said Kanaloa, his brow wrinkling in question. Tell me, Salt Child, why have so many of your people gathered in the waters above our realm? Aye, what brings you and your kin down unto the boundary of our domain? Kanaloa pointed to the rocky shelf ledge and the darkness beyond from which the Sancul had ascended from.

A vision, Deep One, said Cursion, glancing back at Ishmael and Watawa before looking to the elder Sancul again. Or, say rather, several of them.

Several, you say? Kanaloa asked. And all of them the same in nature? All luring you here into our depth to witness our ascendency?

No, said Cursion. Only one of our kind asked that we other tribal leaders dive here in private gathering. He motioned toward Ishmael behind him. The one we call Red Water had such a dream of this depth . . . and of your people too, it would seem.

No sooner than the name had left Cursion’s lips, Garrett saw Kellen’s head snap in recognition. His former classmate sprang forth from his position so quickly that Garrett instinctively swam backward into the arms of Atsidi Darksnout in fear that Kellen came for him.

But his old classmate was no longer looking at Garrett. Like a flurry of thrown spears, Kellen’s tentacles shot among the Nomad ranks before most could react.

The only one who did was Ishmael. Snarling, the Bull chieftain