The transition from the crushing depths of the Atlantic to the creaky floorboards of a Maine summer cottage was a whiplash of the soul. Hailey slept, her breath hitching occasionally in the back of her throat—a lingering reflex from the moment the ocean had tried to claim her lungs. Beside her, Baphomet was a mountain of dark velvet and radiant heat. He didn't sleep; gods of his lineage merely drifted into a state of watchful stasis, their senses expanded like a net cast across the surrounding miles.
The wood-burning stove had settled into a steady, comforting hum, the iron glowing a dull cherry red in the dimness of the pre-dawn light. Hailey stirred, her cheek pressed against the coarse, warm fur of Baphomet's chest. The scent of him—ozone and cedar—was the only thing that kept the nightmares of the "Sub-Merged" lab at bay. In her dreams, she still saw her father's face, a mask of calculated greed dissolving into the white-noise of the abyss.
