Deep Water

by Nicola Cameron

  And after that—the hospice was a good one, he’d made sure of that. The brochure was in his luggage now, all pastel rooms, well-kept grounds, and nurses with kindly expressions and gentle hands. With any luck, he wouldn’t be there long.

  Enough of that. He turned his focus on starting the engine. It took a few pulls, but the outboard finally coughed to life, settling down to a cheerful rumble. He cracked the throttle and moved the boat away from the dock, guiding it out into the cove proper.

  The breeze blew into his face, and he grinned at it. This was where he belonged, out on the wide blue water he loved more than practically anything else in his life. Just you and me for a bit more, girl. The way it ought to be.

  Unfortunately, his boat had other plans. As he approached the cove exit the outboard started coughing, then died. Bloody engines. He leaned over and grabbed the starter cord, giving it a yank.

  The world abruptly started spinning around him, and his stomach knotted with nausea. Swallowing hard, he let go of the cord handle and sat back, willing himself to breathe slowly. Not now, God, please. Just two more weeks, that’s all I’m asking. Two bloody weeks.

  “Problems?” a voice called.

  Startled, Griffin opened his eyes. A tall bearded man stood on the sloping headland of the cove, dressed incongruously in linen slacks and a short-sleeved Oxford shirt. He lifted a hand in a wave.

  Griffin blinked again, trying to kick his brain into gear. Holy Christ. It’s the big ginger rugby player. He firmly squelched the ping of desire that fired at sight of the man.

  Instead, he waved back. “Engine stalled, I think,” he called. “Dunn, right?”

  “Yes. Need any help?”

  “Nah, I—” He stopped, clutching the gunwale as another dizzy spell hit him. All he could do was breathe slowly and deeply and wait for the buggering thing to pass.

  When it did, he looked blearily back up at the headland. Dunn was gone.

  “Hello.”

  He flinched as a drenched ginger head popped up over the gunwale, one muscled arm casually thrown over the wood. “Thought this would be faster,” Dunn said easily.

  Griffin gawped at him. “Jesus. You jumped in fully dressed?”

  “The nice thing about tropical weight clothing is that it dries quickly. But I’m afraid that will never happen if I have to stay in the water.” Dunn tapped the gunwale. “Permission to come aboard, captain?”

  “Huh? Oh, right, yeah.” Griffin leaned back to counterbalance the action.

  Dunn clambered into the boat, dripping unconcernedly into the bilges. “Shall I see if I can get the motor started?” he offered. “I’ve been told I have a touch with temperamental things.”

  “Be my guest,” Griffin said, sliding over. Dunn squeezed in closer to the motor, checking the ports and settings, then grabbed the handle and gave it a measured yank. It roared into life before settling down into a steady rumble. “I’ll be damned. You’re hired.”

  Dunn chuckled. “I don’t suppose you could maneuver a bit closer to the headland, could you? I might be able to step out onto it if we’re careful.”

  The reality of the situation smacked into Griffin. He couldn’t go out today, not if he was having dizzy spells. “No need. I’m heading back to the dock,” he said. “You can ride back with me if you like.”

  Dunn frowned. “You’re going back already? But it’s a perfect day for sailing.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Griffin didn’t want to see the look of pity that was guaranteed to bloom if he explained. “I get vertigo sometimes,” he lied. “Makes me dizzy. It’s hard to sail when the world’s spinning around you.”

  “Ah, I see. Is it constant?”

  “It comes and goes.”

  “Well, in that case, may I offer my services as first mate? That way you don’t miss out on the day.”

  A polite rejection had already formed on Griffin’s lips. He preferred to sail by himself, something that neither of his ex-wives had understood or appreciated. For some reason, however, the big man with his dripping clothes and dignified attitude didn’t rub on him like other people did. And he really did want to take advantage of the day. “Yeah, all right,” he said, grateful he’d decided to pack the extra beer just in case. “Uh, do you know how to handle a sailboat?”

  One thick red eyebrow rose in amusement. “I do.”

  “Well, then.” He jerked his chin at the mast and the still-furled sail. “Let’s get out of the cove, and then you can go to work.”

  Dunn gave him a crisp salute. “Aye aye, captain.”

  As his unexpected passenger worked the rigging, Griffin took the opportunity to study him. The twins with the odd names had said he was their father, but Dunn didn’t look old enough to have kids their age. There was no grey whatsoever in the man’s auburn hair, and his beard was just as glint-free.

  Lucky bastard. Griffin ran a hand through his short hair, aware that the same couldn’t be said of him. It had finally started growing back after the last round of radiation, but the dark hair was now thickly thatched with silver. After he’d gotten over the initial shock he found he kind of liked it. It gave him a sense of authority that had worked in his favor at the institute. Plus he’d heard a couple of the interns whispering something about a “silver fox” when he’d passed them in the hallways.

  Wonder how I would’ve looked with all of it grey.

  He pushed the thought away firmly. He still had two weeks to himself, dammit. No drugs beyond what was absolutely necessary to keep the pain and dizziness at bay, no nurses hovering over him, no hospital walls or reminders that he had maybe two months left at the outside, and they would be extremely unpleasant ones. While he still could, he intended to live.

  The triangular sail came up and bellied, filled with a brisk wind. Griffin shut off the engine and took the tiller, guiding the boat into the open water.

  The day was as clear and warm as promised and the breeze was steady, pushing the Seabird smoothly across the waves. Once Griffin was sure of Dunn’s sailing competency they started taking turns at the tiller, guiding the sailboat around the barrier island chains lining the shore.

  The next time Dunn took the tiller Griffin opened the cooler, pulling out two beer bottles coated with condensation. “Here,” he said, handing one over. “Hope you don’t mind—it’s not the usual diabetic cat urine they pass off as beer over here.”

  “Thank the gods for that,” Dunn said appreciatively.

  Griffin noted the odd phrase, but ignored it as they opened their bottles, flicking the caps into the cooler. He watched Dunn take a deep swig, eyebrows rising in appreciation. “Not bad at all,” the other man said.

  “I packed some lunch, too.” Feeling optimistic, Griffin had stopped off at a Publix the day before to pick up groceries, and was delighted to find a British section in the international food aisle with his favorite condiment. Unfortunately the deli counter didn’t have the white Cheshire cheese he preferred, but he figured cheddar would do in a pinch. “Like cheese and pickle sandwiches?”

  To his surprise, Dunn’s face lit up with enthusiasm. “Branston pickle?”

  “None other.”

  “Original or sandwich style?”

  “Original, sorry. They didn’t have sandwich style.”

  Dunn waved it off. “I’m not complaining. I prefer the original version. It doesn’t seem right if it’s not chunky.”

  Griffin grinned at that. “Bloke after my own heart. Let’s eat.”

  ****

  Poseidon accepted the sandwich and a handful of salt and vinegar potato chips from a large bag. It was utterly unlike his usual meals at Olympus, and all the more enjoyable for that. He bit into the sandwich, wondering why he hadn’t ordered the daimons to stock his larder with the delicious British chutney.

  “So what about you?”

  He paused in mid-chew. “I beg your pardon?” he said after swallowing.

  Griffin grinned at him. “Well, I know you’ve got the two lads that you appar
ently had while you were in middle school, but that’s really all I know about you,” he said. “So tell me some more about Dunn Seaton—the man, the myth, the legend.”

  Poseidon grinned back. It felt surprisingly good. “There’s not much to tell,” he said. “I own an environmental remediation company that I operate with my sons. When I’m not working, I like to putter around the house or read. All rather boring, I’m afraid.”

  “Not much for the telly, then?”

  “Not really. Sometimes I get out on the water for pleasure, but that tends to be rare. I suppose I’m a bit of a workaholic.”

  “Yeah, I understand,” Griffin said. “My last ex-wife got so hacked off at me working all the time, she mailed the divorce decree stuffed in a fish. Said it was the only way she’d be sure I’d read the damned thing.”

  “You were married?”

  “Twice. More fool me.”

  Poseidon tried to show sympathy, but all he could feel was relief. “Bad?”

  “Nah, just…” Griffin shrugged. “I don’t know. I met Miranda in uni. We were together for two years before she got finally fed up with me never being home and packed it in. Ten years later I met Leilani at a Sea Shepherds fundraiser. Gorgeous girl, had a mouth on her that could make a sailor blush. A real firecracker.”

  “She was the fish mailer?”

  Griffin smirked. “Yeah. They’re both better off without me, I suppose.” He took a quick sip of his beer. “So what about you? I assume there’s a missus somewhere, what with sons and all.”

  There was something almost painfully ironic about Griffin asking that particular question. “We’re separated,” Poseidon said.

  “Not divorced?”

  He wondered if that mortal practice even applied to gods. “It’s complicated.”

  “Marriage usually is.”

  That was the understatement of the millennium. Poseidon searched for a way to turn the conversation onto happier topics. “I noticed your Sea Shepherds shirt last night,” he said. “I take it you’re a supporter?”

  Griffin brightened. “Definitely. You can’t be afraid to kick arse now and then, you know?”

  With relief, Poseidon allowed himself to be pulled into a spirited discussion about marine conservation projects, which led onto Griffin’s work at the institute. The mortal had Poseidon laughing with a story about an octopus that had learned how to break out of his tank, wandering across a hallway to another tank full of shrimp and helping himself to the occupants. “All he needs is some sort of reverse scuba gear, and he could knock over a jewelry store,” Griffin said, shaking his head in admiration.

  “I could have told you that,” Poseidon said. “Never turn your back on an octopus or they’ll pick you clean.”

  “Too right, mate.” Griffin lifted a bottle in salute, and Poseidon joined him. “To octopuses, the best damn sneak thieves in the world.”

  ****

  It was one of the better days in Griffin’s recent memory. The weather was perfect for sailing, and his muscles had that happy ache that came after a really good workout on the lines. And Dunn, miracle of miracles, had turned out to be a fine sailor.

  Not to mention decent company. After that first uncomfortable exchange about wives, they started trading anecdotes like they’d known each other for years. It was with a real sense of regret that Griffin had to admit he was getting tired, even with Dunn taking turns at the tiller.

  Dunn took over the piloting duties, letting Griffin relax in the bow. Before he knew it they were gliding into the cove’s entrance. Dunn started the recalcitrant engine without a problem and handed the tiller over to Griffin while he took down the sails.

  Tying up the boat was blessedly smooth and quick. “This was fun,” Griffin said, grabbing the cooler and climbing onto the pier. “If you’re around any time in the next two weeks, we should do it again.”

  “I’ll be popping in and out as duties permit, but I believe I can set aside some sailing time,” Dunn said, smiling. “Pick a day and I’ll arrange it.”

  “Great. I—”

  Actinic lightning sizzled across his vision, whiting out Dunn, the beach, everything. He smelled ozone and tasted metal, sharp and nauseating.

  And then there was nothing.

  ****

  Shocked, Poseidon watched as the laughing man he’d just spent the morning with went rigid, then collapsed onto the pier. He lunged forward, grabbing Griffin before the mortal could tumble into the water.

  Muscles twitched hard under his hands as Griffin began to shudder, limbs twitching awkwardly. His eyes rolled up, showing a sliver of white.

  Poseidon scooped the man into his arms and scanned the cottages. Thank Gaia he’s home. He opened a portal directly to Nick’s cottage, stepping through to a tiled living area.

  “Nicholas!” he bellowed. “I need help!”

  There was a clatter in the kitchen before Nick ran into the room, a small dog at his heels. Both of them skidded to a halt as they saw Poseidon and his cargo. “What happened?” Nick asked.

  “We were out sailing and he collapsed,” Poseidon said quickly, cradling the twitching man. “Help him!”

  Nick switched over into doctor mode. “Okay, lay him out on the floor, carefully,” he ordered. “Keep your hands under his head. Don’t let him bang it on the floor.”

  Poseidon did as instructed, dropping to his knees without a flinch and laying Griffin out on the cool tile. He slid both hands under his mortal’s skull, cradling it as Nick checked his pulse.

  Just then Griffin relaxed, arms dropping to the tiles in a boneless flop as the seizure ended. There was a sharp smell, and Poseidon saw a dark stain bloom across the front of the man’s shorts.

  Nick caught the god’s glance. “People can lose bladder control during a seizure. It’s no big deal,” he said.

  “All right.” Unsure of what else to do, Poseidon remained in a crouch, still cradling Griffin’s head as Nick examined him. “Does he need any medication? I’ll fetch whatever is required.”

  The doctor sat back on his heels, shaking his head. “If he was still seizing I’d have you go get some Keppra, but right now we just have to wait until he wakes up.” He grabbed a cushion from the sofa and offered it to Poseidon. “Here, put that under his head so you can sit back.”

  “No,” Poseidon said fiercely.

  Nick’s expression turned wary. “Some patients are really freaked out by people hovering over them as they wake up from a seizure,” he said carefully. “Also, I may need you to help me get him up.”

  “Oh.” That made sense. Poseidon accepted the cushion and slid it under Griffin’s head, settling back to wait. The dog trotted to his side and sat there, quiet but watchful.

  After a few minutes Griffin’s eyelids fluttered, opening slowly and blearily. “Wha’ happened?” he mumbled.

  “You had a seizure,” Nick said calmly. “I’m a doctor. Have you had seizures before?”

  Griffin’s brown eyes swiveled, focusing on Poseidon. To the sea god’s dismay they filled with shame and anger. “Yeah. I thought—” Griffin grimaced, looking back at Nick. “Where am I?”

  “My living room,” the doctor said. “I’m Nick—I hosted the cookout last night.”

  “Yeah, I remember.” Griffin glanced back at Poseidon. “Shit. I’m sorry, mate.”

  Poseidon was mystified at the apology. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

  “Yeah, I do. Must’ve scared the shit out of you.” Griffin struggled to get up and Poseidon leaned in to help, sliding an arm under the mortal’s back and easing him into a sitting position. “I didn’t think that was going to happen. I—” He stopped, jaw clenching briefly.

  “Feel like you’re going to throw up?” Nick said.

  Griffin shook his head, then frowned, looking down at his lap. He went crimson and clasped his hands over the stain. “Shit.” His voice was raw with humiliation. “I’m sorry—”

  Nick waved it off. “It’s tile. Easy cleanup, don’t wo
rry about it,” he said. “Do you want to sit there for a bit, or do you want to try getting up?”

  Griffin’s face was still red. “I want to get up.”

  “Okay. Dunn?”

  “Oh. Yes.” Scrambling to get his feet under him, Poseidon helped Griffin stand up. He didn’t want to let go, but the man almost tore out of his grasp.

  “I can do it,” Griffin growled. “Where’s the loo?”

  “This way.” Nick stayed off to one side, ready to grab his patient if he started heading south again. Helpless, Poseidon followed with the dog (Norma, he remembered belatedly) in tow.

  Once the bathroom door closed in their faces, Poseidon pulled the doctor to one side. “Do you know what’s wrong with him?” he asked.

  Nick looked uncertain. “It could be a lot of things. I can check him with the Rod if you want.”

  “Do it.”

  Nodding, he ducked into his bedroom and came back with what looked like a novelty pen with a tiny golden snake wound around it. He held it up and aimed at the door, eyes going distant with concentration.

  After far too brief a time, Nick lowered the miniaturized Rod of Asclepius and sighed. “Shit. I was afraid of that. It’s cancer.”

  At first the word didn’t register with Poseidon as something that deserved such a grave response. It was the name of an astrological water sign, the Latin word for crab.

  And then he remembered the human meaning—cells mutating, running wild and killing off healthy cells, draining the body of vitality.

  “What kind?” he said, his lips feeling strangely numb.

  “Cerebral glioblastoma multiforme. Looks like stage four.”

  More nonsensical terms. “What does that mean?” Poseidon demanded.

  Nick gave him a sympathetic look. “It means it’s terminal. He’s going to die.”

  —she was never meant to be with you forever, Lord Poseidon. Medusa was mortal, after all. I would suggest that you move quickly before her thread ends.

  The Fates had warned him. He’d seen it himself in Griffin’s aura. But he’d thought his agapetos’s ending would be due to Thetis, or some sort of an accident—something he could ward against, something he could evade. Not a fatal illness.