Page 2 of Guarded By the Vodnik

There were over a dozen shipwreck graveyards dotting the bottom of Lake Superior. Since the bodies of the sailors stayed down here with their ships, protected from decomposing by the low temperature and the purity of the water, they were places of burial. Contracted by the humans, the vodniks built structures protecting the graveyards. Each was a latticework dome made of light gray concrete. The holes were big enough to let water flow freely but too small to admit adult sentient species entry.

Hulking over the sunken ship, the structure would give my pursuer cover and cut me off from following them around the dome. I had to stay close to the walker.

The graveyard swung into view, a darker shadow in the murky water. I kept my movements relaxed, my pace even. And still, a shiver ran down my spine as I approached. The water here seemed colder, stiller. It was a place of death.

Vodnik bodies were decomposed to nourish shanta after passing. We didn’t keep our dead around the way humans did.

My unease wasn’t irrational. I knew there were no ghosts here. Some vodniks loved to tell dark stories about the souls trapped in the dead human bodies, forced to endure the darkness and the cold for eternity, but I knew better. Death took everyone equally, regardless of their species.

And yet, I couldn’t shake the dread that crawled down my tentacles. It never fully went away. Not since I’d been trapped inside one of the graveyards when I was four.

The faintest brush of current from above made me clench my jaw.

A dark shape dove for me, detaching itself from the concrete cage surrounding the shipwreck. I had barely a moment to brace before it was on me, its slimy, long tail slamming into my side.

Lamia.

Lamias were the dumber, uglier, and more violent cousins of the vodniks, except while our lower bodies comprised of eight strong tentacles, a lamia had a thick, powerful snake tail.

That tail hit me with force, but I was ready. I stood my ground, spread out to hold my balance. As soon as the impetus slowed, I wrapped my tentacles around the lamia’s tail, making it impossible for him to wrap it around me.

He sneered, showing me a maw filled with black, sharp teeth, his flat, snakelike features contorting in hate. I swung a punch at his face and wrapped more tentacles around his torso and arms to keep him in place.

Something crunched under my knuckles.

The lamia screeched, the sack in his throat bulging with the sound. He struggled with so much force, I had to let him go. He sped away and turned, making the sand from the lake bottom rise around him in a cloud.

He was a big one, black and covered with swirling red scale patterns that broke in places, indicating scars. A warrior, then. Sharp fins ran down the back of his head and spine, growing bigger on his lower back. They were raised in a challenge now, the four barbels around his mouth spread out like whiskers.

His white, milky eyes narrowed a second before he charged.

I let him barrel into me. We both tumbled along the sandy bottom, but while he recovered from the hit, I was already wrapped around him so tightly, his ribs caved in under pressure. He struggled and roared in pain, but I held fast, reaching for the knife strapped to my waist.

“Do you know the punishment for stealing shanta?” I asked through gritted teeth, letting out bubbles.

I had a voice sack just like the lamia, allowing me to speak without expelling air, but agitation made me say it using my above-surface organs. The lamia probably didn’t understand me, but he saw the black blade in my hand. His eyes bulged, and he struggled harder. I wrapped a tentacle around his face, covering the gills at the sides of his head.

“Wonder what piece you’ll miss the most,” I gritted out, releasing more bubbles.

I hated that loss of control over my voice, but at least I had him in a chokehold. The lamia’s struggling grew weaker while I deliberated. I could burst his voice sack easily, but then, it would grow back. To do permanent damage, I’d have to pierce his vocal cords, but they were close to important blood vessels.

If my knife slipped, I’d kill him,

And I made a point of never killing lamias. Death was a mercy compared to letting them live knowing I’d cut off a part of their body, but it was more than that.

I refused to follow in my grandfather's footsteps.

Yet, the urge to snap the creature’s thick neck rose in my blood, colder than the coldest fury. I gritted my teeth with the effort of holding myself back. It was a matter of pride. Of self-control.

As long as I didn’t give in to my base instincts, I was in charge.

So no, I would not take away his voice. The lamia seized in my hold, rousing for one last effort to free himself, and I grabbed the end of his tail lashing uselessly by my side.

I slashed with my knife, holding the cold, slimy tail taut. Black blood inked the water around us, and the lamia screeched in agony.

One more slash, and the piece of tail fell, still writhing, onto the bottom. The lamia sagged in my hold with a pitiful sound of pain, and I pushed him away. He didn’t spare me a look before he swam away, his movements uneven and jagged. I’d cut off a piece longer than my forearm, effectively crippling him. He lost a chunk of his natural speed and balance.

Ahead, the cargo walker moved steadily onward. My communication chip buzzed, announcing an incoming call.

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