She closed her eyes.
The ship moved.
The headache pulled her down into it.
She was asleep in six minutes.
The cabin was quiet.
Outside, the storm had found its voice — the specific, consistent tone of sea weather that has arrived at its intended intensity and is now simply present, not escalating, just occupying. The porthole showed black water and intermittent white.
Raven sat with his back against the wall at the head of the fold-out.
Not planning to sleep. The Incubus biology didn't require it, and the tectonic sense was running the structural assessment of the ship at a low, continuous hum — hull integrity at seventy-three percent, the compromised section in the starboard bilge, the coast guard vessel approaching at fourteen knots, seventeen minutes out. The upper deck had people on it. They would be fine.
The cabin was fine.
He looked at the ceiling.
Nara shifted.
