Monstrum by Ann Christopher Page A

antelope carcass. A crew member in white bustles back and forth, handing out bowls of tossed salad and pouring iced tea.
    Not everyone’s recovered an appetite enough to eat, I notice as I take my first bite of seafood risotto, which is delicious. Maggie and An pick at their plates, and An dabs at her eyes with the cloth napkin. Espi and Axel, who are next to each other on the other side of the table, are sitting motionless and wearing identical haunted expressions. I feel terrible for them because I know that vacant look. I’ve lived that look. When your eyes have seen your parent die, it’s hard to get them to focus on anything else.
    Murphy also doesn’t eat, although there’s nothing shell-shocked about his look. His nostrils are flared, and the only thing in sight redder than his cheeks are the tomatoes on our salads.
    The crewman who’s been serving us, having finished passing around the sourdough rolls with butter, eyes Murphy with concern. “Is everything okay, Señor? Can I get you something?”
    Murphy cracks open one side of his mouth and manages to speak around his gritted jaw. “This is all bloody civilized,” he says softly, “but we’ve got dead that need to be accounted for and families that’ll be looking for their children. Children I’m now solely responsible for. So if it wouldn’t trouble your good captain too much, I’d appreciate it if he’d put in an appearance.”
    The crewman blinks. I’m sure he was hoping for a simpler request, like a glass of ice water or cup of coffee.
    â€œHere I am,” interjects a deep new voice from the doorway. “And I do hope my crew has been giving you everything you need and treating you like family.”
    Captain Romero strides into the dining room flanked by another man and the boy from the rescue mission. The rest of us all stand, ready to greet our host and his companions, but Murphy seems distinctly unimpressed and rises just enough to give the captain a gruff nod and shake his hand. After that, Captain Romero makes his way down the table to meet us individually. The other two newcomers, meanwhile, take the remaining seats near the head of the table.
    I put my fork down, dinner forgotten. My heartbeat kicks with sudden excitement as I study our host.
    â€œI’m Captain Romero,” he says solemnly, extending his right hand to Gray and covering his heart with his left. “I am sick about the plane crash. I want to make sure you’re comfortable. You must tell me if there’s anything—
anything at all
—you need.”
    Gray murmurs a response, and then the captain comes to me, hands outstretched.
    His double-handed grip is powerful, and he focuses on me with the kind of direct attention that’s a little unsettling—as though it’s been his life’s ambition to have me aboard his boat, and nothing could please him more than shaking my hand.
    â€œCaptain Romero,” he tells me, and for the first time, I detect the vague remnants of a Spanish accent. “Welcome to the
Venator
.”
    He pronounces it
vee-nah-tohr
. A bell chimes distantly in the Latin-speaking portion of my brain, but I’m not trying to translate anything now. Not with that unblinking black gaze glued to my face.
    â€œBria Hunter,” I say, fighting the urge to snatch my hand away from his cool fingers. “Thank you for helping us.”
    â€œIt is my great honor,” he says, hanging on to my hand and taking a closer look at me.
    Something about him compels me to stare back, and I decide that it’s because he reminds me of this one movie actor whose name I forget.
    Olive-skinned and probably around fifty-ish, with sleek black hair that tries to curl around the ears of his ruthlessly short cut, he’s tall and square-shouldered. His face has the weathering and fine lines of someone who spends a lot of time in the sun. He wears a starched khaki shirt