Page 64 of Barely Breathing

Massive cargo ships float at their berths, though at least half are glamours hiding supernatural vessels beneath. Supposedly, some of the older artifacts fare better inside Viking longships and pirate sloops rather than a metal haul. The way I understand it, this has something to do with natural wood instead of high-tensile steel and the imprint of past events giving them power. I suppose any ship that survived since the Medieval period and still floats has to have some kind of ancient power infused into it. Then there are those creatures that must becontained with iron hulls, like the 19th-century warships. I once saw the manifest for the iron warship was a single fairy.

I had to learn all this when I took the job. Shipping manifests for the containers cannot be altered, and their vessels are not interchangeable, no matter how much logistical sense it makes.

“We’re not a human shipping company,” my father reiterated repeatedly.

To my right, an underwater loading bay opens in the pier. The sound of flowing water erases all else for a brief moment. I watch as the current settles. A mermaid surfaces, her webbed hands clutching manifests in waterproof cases as she crawls on the dock. Merfolk look nothing like they’re portrayed on television… well, okay, that’s not true. Some horror movies come close. She nods as she passes, her gills flickering in the security lights.

I scan my badge at three more checkpoints before finally reaching the office building. Each floor serves a different supernatural shipping need. There are pixie-sized mail rooms for internal communications, reinforced receiving areas for beastly cargo, temperature-controlled storage for sensitive, magical items, holding tanks beneath the water, and a deep shaft under armed guard that drops into the earth. I don’t ask what goes down into the pit.

My tiny office is on the third floor, overlookingthe water. It’s nothing special. There is a desk, computer, filing cabinets, and a coffee maker that’s seen better days. But it’s mine, and I’m kind of proud of the fact.

The fluorescent lights flicker to life as I enter, casting harsh shadows. I hang my coat on the rack, settling into the night shift routine. Out of habit, I look out through the wire-reinforced windows to the water. The view helps pass the long nights. I watch the play of moonlight on the water and the graceful arcs of merfolk diving between ships. The sound of waves mingles with distant foghorns and the occasional splash of merfolk surfacing to check sensors. A strange glow emanates from some containers, but I’ve learned not to look too closely at those. It’s the boxes that don’t have visual warnings that scare me the most.

I start a pot of coffee and get ready to settle in. The shipping office feels different at night. I like the late shift. It’s calmer, quiet.

Yes, my father owns everything around me, and he gave me this job—an entry-level position, the bottom of the corporate ladder, supernatural nepotism at its finest. But, hey, it’s a start. For once in my life, I’m not just the mortal Devine daughter who needs protecting. I’m employee number 38655, a shipping clerk on the night shift. Knowing about the supernatural world makes me qualified to behere, or at least that’s what I tell myself. There are days I’m way over my head.

I need this to work. I need to prove I can take care of myself.

During the day, this place bustles with supernatural energy. There are merfolk negotiating passage through their territories, pixies delivering internal mail between departments, and even the occasional dragon representative discussing Norwegian air space regulations. But at night, when I’m alone entering manifests into the system, I can pretend it’s just a regular office. Just me, a computer, and endless shipping records that need to be digitized.

I boot up the ancient machine and pull up the current manifests while my coffee brews. The irony is not lost that for all my family’s magic and money, I’m staring at a green screen, first generation, older than me piece-of-shit computer. The shipping world loves its paperwork, supernatural or not, and every item needs documentation. I have filing cabinets full of special permits for dragon-flame forged metals, environmental impact studies for merfolk cargo routes, quarantine certificates for magical creatures, and wizard council approval forms. My security clearance is nonexistent, which means I can only read the manifests of the more mundane cargo—art, antiquities, and specialty items that need to cross between human and supernatural territories.

A massive shadow glides past my window. One of the guards is doing the rounds. Its wings scrape softly against the building’s edge. I’ve started leaving snacks out, though I’m not supposed to. They’re security, not pets, but I swear the harpies check on me more often since I started sharing my candy stash.

My coffee mug, proudly declaring “Devine International Shipping,” sits on a coaster beside my keyboard. A small protection charm hangs from my lamp. It was a gift from the office pixies after I helped them reorganize their mail room. My filing cabinet is plastered with notes in multiple languages, including Atlantish, which looks like water spots. It’s not much, but it’s mine.

Wait, why is my coffee mug on my desk? I always put it away before I leave. I reach to pick it up and notice a chip on the rim. My arm brushes the computer, and it feels warm.

Someone was in my office.

I take stock of my surroundings and find that the stack of finished manifests in the basket is misaligned. I frown, grab the stack, and begin flipping through it. I have my own system to remember where I left off the night before. This isn’t it.

Pulling out a form that’s not where it should be, I frown and take it to the computer to check it. This manifest doesn’t make sense. Container FMNT-666lists art supplies, paintings, designer clothing, cigar crates, and the usual Freemont family imports. But the weight is wrong. Way wrong. And someone altered the order from a regular cargo ship to piggybacking on an ironclad.

The cargo hasn’t been cleared from the ship yet. There is no way the form belongs in the done bin. I pull the original documents from my filing cabinet to compare against what’s in the system. According to the record, FMNT-666 is still two days out in the middle of the Atlantic, even though the ironclad just docked.

My stomach drops.

That absolutely cannot happen.

Shit. I’m screwed. This is a big fuck up.

Three months into my attempt at independence and I’ve stumbled onto what looks like fraud. If I report it, I’ll probably be fired. If I don’t report it, I’ll definitely be fired when someone finds out. So much for proving I can make it on my own.

And why did it have to be the Freemonts? They’re family frenemies. No part of me thinks they’ll be understanding.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Think, Tamara, think,” I whisper, my hands shaking. Who could bypass the shipping yard security? No one will believe I didn’t have something to do with this.

A splash outside draws my attention. One of the merfolk guards is gesturing urgently at the water. Others surface, their webbed hands making quick signals I’m not trained to understand. The dock runes flare a bright yellow.

This is worse than I thought. There is no time to think.

The harpies react first, launching from their lookouts with screeching sounds that set my teeth on edge. They circle the water where the merfolk are gathered, their wings casting massive shadows in the security lights. One hovers near the windowsill, studying me before darting along the building.

Warning chains begin to clank. Their ungodly sound rises in pitch until my ears pop. On my computer screen, a warning message scrolls past in green,“Unauthorized magic detected in shipping lane four. Multiple containment breaches detected. Security protocols engaging. Lockdown.”

---