Riven Isles

17 | The Notebook Knows

"Ah. Geology," I drawl, in the most exasperated, sardonic, condescending tone I can muster. "Even more thrilling than werewolfism."

"It isn't about the thrill, it is about the knowledge, and as it turns out, this book is more or less useless!" He slams his hand down on the pages, startling me with his aggression. "There is no such thing as a rock that glows in the dark, Walter! No such thing according to the most up to date record of geology in the northern hemisphere!"

"Perhaps it is from the southern hemisphere," I suggest uncertainly.

"No, we know where it is from," he snaps. "What makes the Riven Isles so special that its endemic rock glows? And the Aquians are convinced it is the cure to the werewolf disease! I cannot fathom how. I can't find anything remarkable about it. I am not a geologist!" He smacks his palm to his forehead and moans. His freshly oiled hair jumps with the movement.

It could do with a wash. But, so could mine. It beats me why he bothers with trying to look neat. He manages it well enough, but why? Everyone looks a mess aboard the ship. At least, our party does—the ruggedness seems to suit the rest of the sailors. Ruggedness would not suit Simon and his dainty little spectacles. I can't imagine him with a scruffy beard, or disheveled hair, or ridiculously wrinkled clothes. Can he even grow a beard? Is he physically mature enough?

I take my sword and sheath out of my hammock and strap the belt around my waist. "You should find a better hobby," I dismiss. At this rate, he'd mature too fast, physically. I can see it happening: wrinkles. Stress lines. It simply wouldn't befit him. "Elian asked for you. You're supposed to be helping him clean up the brunch bowls."

He draws his notebook from his waistcoat. "Last night made me certain of everything." He doesn't really listen to me, I don't think. He just carries on with his own train of thought. His own peculiar train of self-absorbed, paranoid thought. He thumbs through the pages. "There are eight."

"Eight what?"

"Werewolves." I should have known. "Come the full moon, we'll be torn to shreds. They are savages, these beasts."

"Right." I roll my eyes and open the door again.

"You won't be rolling your eyes when you find that I am right, you impudent boy!" he barks, offended. "Why don't you ask your best buddy, the captain? He's a wolf. A wolf, I say. My notebook knows! My methods of investigation are flawless."

As if. I may not know much about werewolves, but I have heard that a main identifier is their aggressive dispositions. Captain Clarke has shown no aggression towards me. Harvey Cobbe; now, him, I could see as a wolf. Still, it's a preposterous accusation.

Clarke handpicked the crew himself and had sailed with them all in the past. He wouldn't have hired an unstable werewolf that would tear us to shreds come the full moon. Stuck on a ship, in such close proximity, it would be a great danger. They are powerful creatures. They say the moon's light becomes their stamina and grants them strength until dawn.

That's what they say. It's sounds a bit bogus to me.

"Go help Elian."

"Yes, I shall," he sniffs. That's good enough for me.

I leave the door open as I depart, because if it's open it might inspire him to move sooner—even if just to close it. Up the stairs I go, out into the open. The deck is in far better shape, but Pete and Mike are still grouchily sloshing their grubby water over the wood and carrying on cleaning under Leslie's supervision.