Bloomer

2. The Scavenger's Airship

Rancid smells pollute the air like the cook has been serving up road kill.

I control the gag in my throat as I ease down the steps to the galley. There's only grey light down here, from the open door and a single porthole. But there's plenty of holes in the hull that help illuminate the dingy space.

A yellow dot flickers against the back wall, the source of which is hidden in the dim. I use it to guide me further in, and I gasp when a grumble echoes from the recesses.

Stupid nerves. The last thing I want to do is show fear. 

Bastian follows me in, probably staring at my butt as I sway with the lunges of the ship. My feet reach the floor and I grab for a handhold, coming up empty. I lean against the closest wall, willing my stomach to stay calm. I really hate boats...or whatever this thing is.

Bastian's arm brushes against mine as he walks past me, igniting a shiver. "It's always warmer in the galley. Sometimes too warm. Let me know if you get uncomfortable. Female passengers have an open invitation to my cabin. It's what any decent captain would do."

"I'm good here, thanks." I stare at the floor, rubbing away the goose bumps Bastian triggered and pretending he isn't sizing me up for dinner later. I've already seen his wicked grin from the rock. Fancy words and flashy smiles aren't fooling anybody. His mind is just as dirty as the wolf-faced boy.

"Where are your manners, Whiskers?" Bastian says to the room. "We have a new passenger, and she's shivering."

The yellow light lowers and a thin, bearded silhouette appears over it. He's crouched beside a metal, barrel-shaped contraption that is sending up sooty smoke signals, which is probably why my eyes are burning.

"Ah, it's a Miss this time," the silhouette croaks. "It'll be good to talk to someone with a pretty face."

"Are you saying I don't have a pretty face?" Bastian picks up a mug smeared with grease. He grimaces and tosses a black liquid out the porthole. A second later, water splashes back in, dousing a counter cluttered with tools and plastic junk. "Whiskers is our chief mechanic and cook. That is, he cooks when there's something to eat. But don't worry, young lady. Rake won't come back empty-handed if he knows what's good for him."

My stomach clenches at the possibility of food, but Bastian's reassurance doesn't help. The only things found in that ocean are already dead or likely to kill me.

"He better make it quick." Whiskers points to the tube thumping against the galley floor. "Them holes in the hull are lettin' in the water faster than this blasted machine can pump it out."

Bastian clunks down the mug and rubs his hands together, as if to remove the nasty residue. "I'll see what's keeping that sorry excuse for a first mate. If we're lucky, he's drowned himself." He catches my eye and offers a charming smile. "Make yourself comfortable."

Ignore the polite scavenger, Ivy. He just wants to lure you into his net.

When Bastian disappears up the steps, Whiskers jerks his thumb at a wooden chair. "Have a rest here by the boiler and warm yerself."

I squint at the chair, assessing its sturdiness and proximity to the exit as my legs walk me over without asking. Whiskers strokes his beard as he watches me sit down.

Goddess protect me and grant me strength.

"'Scuse the noise," he says. "Gotta make sure we get back in the air."

He starts banging on the boiler, muttering something about a hopeless pile of bolts, and I sneak a glance at him. His skin sags over his bones, a sign he once was a heavy man, like Dad. His beard also reminds me of Dad's, thin and wiry. But Dad didn't live long enough to have as much grey as Whiskers. Not even close. This guy is ancient.