“Triton’s trident! Ever since she was born you and father have twisted my fin to accept her. Now you’re upset that I’m willing to mate with her. I do wish you’d make up your mind.”
His mother grimaces in obvious shame.
“Truth be told,” he says, almost choking on the words, “I think it’s more than love. I think it’s the pull.”
“The pull!” she says, gliding over to him. “Grom, are you sure? What makes you think so?”
Grom shrugs. He should have looked into the whole ridiculous legend further before going around spewing “the pull” all over the place. He has no idea of the supposed symptoms. And symptoms they are, since Grom has always considered the pull a mental defect, at best. The idea that nature could force a couple together in order to produce stronger offspring has always been nonsensical to him.
“Do you think about her all the time?” The queen’s eyes light up. “Do you always sense her, no matter how far apart you are?”
There is nothing fake about his scowl as he realizes he does. Not possible. It’s not possible that I actually do feel the pull for Nalia. He clears his throat. “Er…yes.” The words taste like squid ink in his mouth.
“Oh, this is wonderful. I can’t wait to tell your father.”
“No! Do we have to tell anyone? I mean, it doesn’t matter if it’s the pull or not, right? We would still have to mate, even if it’s not.”
“But wait. If you feel the pull toward her, shouldn’t Nalia feel the pull toward you? Isn’t that how it works?”
Triton’s trident, what a stupid legend. “I’m sure she reciprocates, mother. But given our history, she might be stubborn enough to fight it.” Again, Nalia’s pulse jolts through his veins. He grits his teeth. “And that’s what I need your help with. I want to charm her. Win her over.”
Grom swears he hears pity in the Triton queen’s chuckle. “Oh, my dear boy. Who could resist your charms? I’m sure you’ll have no trouble at all stealing her heart. You don’t need my help. The little princess has no idea what’s coming for her.” With that, his mother flits out of the cave in a wave of feminine innocence. And Grom is sure he’s just been had.
He follows Nalia’s pulse to the shallow waters off the coast of the Old World, in Triton territory. What is she doing in the Human Pass? Is she brainless?
The Human Pass is just that—a stretch of barren waters where the humans pass through in their underwater death ships. As best as Grom can figure, these humans think this is their territory, and they do their best to patrol it regularly. It’s a dangerous place for any Syrena, and a careless place for a Poseidon Royal.
Which is why he’s not really surprised to have found her here. In the weeks since their confrontation in the Cave of Memories, he’s found her in all sorts of unpredictable places. Unpredictable seems to be her specialty.
As he nears her pulse, he senses another one—the female Tracker he first met at the entrance of the Ceremony Chamber. Freya, Nalia’s accomplice in all things bad. He finds them both in Blended form on the bottom of the passage, their bodies mimicking and reflecting the color and texture of the rocky muck. Not bothering to Blend himself, he swims down to the barely discernible shapes. “Why are we hiding?” he says loudly.
Nalia materializes before him and rolls her eyes. “What are you doing here?” she hisses.
Grom crosses his arms. “I’m here to rescue you. I was very alarmed to find my future mate in dangerous waters. I’ve come to help.”
She Blends again and huffs. “You can help by Blending, and shutting your mouth.”
“What are you doing?” he asks, exasperated.
“I don’t answer to you.” Grom is left imagining just what kind of superior expression she has on that lovely face.
“No, but she does.” He raises a brow at the transparent silhouette next to Nalia.
Freya materializes. “We’re waiting for one of the long boats to pass so we can ride it.”
“Freya!” Nalia hisses.
“What?” Freya says, her voice full of whine. “I have to answer him. He’s a Triton Royal.”
Nalia appears again and scowls up at Grom. “Look, if you’re not going away anytime soon, then would you please just Blend so you don’t blow our cover?”
“You’re both out of your minds. Don’t you know how dangerous—”
“Shhh! They can pick up sounds down here somehow. They’ll come and investigate,” Nalia whispers.
Grom doesn’t even want to know how she knows this. He Blends and crouches down next to her, tucking his fin under him. “So this is your plan? To get yourself killed so you don’t have to mate with me?” He’s glad she can’t see the dejection he knows is all over his face.
She scoffs. “Not everything is about you. If you must know, we come here all the time. And since you’re here, I was going to invite you to come with us, but if you’re too scared—”
“I’m not,” he says, though he’s not sure he believes it. Hitching a ride on any human boat is dangerous, but hitching a ride on a human death ship is downright madness. Their sole purpose, as far as he can tell, is to pick fights with other human death ships, which makes them all moving targets. But, begrudgingly, he admits he’s a little thrilled that she thought to invite him this time. He’d love to reject the invitation, but if he does, it will look like as if he’s afraid, instead of like he’s just plain rejecting her.
Nalia seems pleased. “Good. One should be along soon. Here, take this. You’ll need it to hold on.” She hands him a chopped-off tentacle of what used to be a very large squid; the suckers are as big as his face. He wants to believe it was dead before she found it. But he doesn’t.
He swallows, turning the tentacle over in his hands. “You’re not serious.”
“Change your mind?” she coos. Freya giggles.
Grom swallows. “No.”
“Shhh! Here it comes.”
All three Syrena stiffen, almost invisible against the current. In the distance, a shadow emerges, slow and stealthy, like a wary shark. A giant, wary shark. It glides through the water, looking every bit the predator it is. When it’s just overhead, Nalia and Freya shoot up expertly, leaving Grom behind in the wake of their swirling muck. He watches as Nalia’s clear form latches on to the metal hull with her squid tentacle. Dangling by one arm, she materializes just long enough to grin down at him.
Stupidly, he grins back. And he’s thankful he’s still in Blended form. Otherwise, she might think he’s flirting with her. Am I flirting with her? In the next second, he springs up and attaches his own tentacle to the hull, his half grunt full of disbelief and thrill.
Up close, the ship doesn’t look as smooth. Where the metal is chipped in places, rust rings have settled in, and even a few barnacles have taken up residence in sporadic clumps along the length of it. But Grom suspects the humans aren’t so concerned about the beauty of it as they are about the deadliness of it. And deadly it is.
He keeps an eye on Nalia, who is now sneaking her way to the top of the vessel. He copies her movements as she sticks and unsticks her tentacle, careful not to make noise. Which is why his heart almost stops when Nalia starts pounding on the metal with a rock.
“What are you doing?” he says, feeling foolish for bothering to whisper.
She snickers and knocks again in an unmistakable rhythm. She materializes briefly, and presses her ear against the hull, motioning for Grom to do the same. “She really is insane,” he mutters as he does as he’s told. Inside the vessel, he hears a squall of human commotion. Each time Nalia knocks, the humans chatter in an alarmed tone, in a language Grom doesn’t understand. Then they knock back.
Nalia makes her way down to Grom at the middle of the death ship while Freya maneuvers to a long ladder on the side. He watches as the Tracker wraps her fin into the rungs to give her arms a rest.
“They always knock back,” Nalia says, proud. “Not just this one, but all of them.” Grom smiles at the excitement in her voice. “Wha
t does it mean?”
“Not sure. My knocking doesn’t mean a thing, but I think theirs means something to them.”
Grom looks around. “We’re heading into deeper water. How long do we plan on risking our lives? I’m getting hungry.”
Nalia laughs, a genuine, tickled sound, and Grom realizes it could be his new favorite sound in all the ocean. Get a hold of yourself, idiot. This is your game. Play it.
“Sometimes we can drive them crazy enough to surface,” she says. “Then Freya likes to make faces in their little hole at the top. That really drives them mad.”
“Triton’s trident! How have you not been caught?”
Nalia materializes. “Who says we haven’t?”
“You’ve been caught by the humans? Does your father know?”
“Oh yes, of course he does. Because I tell him of all the illegal things I do.” She rolls her eyes. “No, we’ve never really been caught. Freya came close though. Sometimes she misplaces her intelligence.”
Freya materializes long enough to stick her tongue out at them. Nalia laughs, removing all doubt that it’s his new favorite sound.
Then a loud, foreign pitch startles him, one that seems to promise impending doom. He accidentally releases his tentacle and, in a shaved second, he’s falling behind the vessel. “What’s that sound?” he shouts to Nalia, trying to keep up, not caring if the humans on board can hear him.
“It means there’s another ship somewhere around here. An enemy one.” Her face is full of dread.
Grom’s gut wrenches. “Let go! Don’t be stupid. Please!”
“I can’t! Freya’s stuck on the ladder.”
Indeed, Freya wriggles within the confines of the ladder, as if it’s a living thing keeping her trapped. Nalia is right. Freya really does misplace her intelligence. It would be a simple thing to free herself, if she would just calm down long enough to think it through. But he can see the panic settle in, the calm leave her eyes. She’s working on survival instinct alone.
Then Grom sees it. In the distance, a huge shadow moves toward them. No, toward the human death ship. With speed, with confidence, with purpose, as if the two vessels were connected by a rope and their coming together were as natural as high tide.
Only, the other ship is much, much bigger—and there is nothing natural about this gross imbalance.
Freya sees the shadow too—and loses what little control she has left. She cries out, and her wiggling becomes more frantic, only serving to make her more stuck. Finally, Nalia reaches her, just as the sound of the alarm from the other vessel reaches them through the current. With one sweeping motion, Nalia shoves Freya’s fin through the last rung of the ladder, bending the tip at a painful angle. But even Freya recognizes the necessity of it, and nods her thanks to her friend as she swims from the metal monster.
Then another sound, metal against metal, resonates through the water. Our death ship is firing. Grom watches with horror as a cloud of fire lights up the front, then disappears, leaving only a trail of a shadow snaking from the ship. Unable to look away, he holds water in his lungs, not breathing out until he sees that the missile missed the other ship.
Which is worst case scenario.
“They’re going to fire back!” Grom shouts to Nalia and Freya, who are still too close to the ship. “We have to get out of here!”
“Yelling at me won’t help anything!” Nalia points down. Freya’s bent fin is making it impossible for her to keep a steady direction. Nalia bites her lip. “Leave us, Grom. There’s no reason for us all to die.”
He rolls his eyes and swims toward them. Grasping Freya’s other arm, he jerks her forward and gives Nalia a hard look. “Let’s. Go.”
Nalia nods. Grom tamps down a feeling of admiration when her expression changes from hopelessness to determination. Together they drag Freya, one of them on each of her arms, but it feels like slow motion, as if the water has thickened, as if the ocean itself is working against their escape.
A dull thud in the distance lets them know that the other ship has fired. And they are still too close. Freya screams and writhes from Grom’s grasp to turn, to see it launching toward them at the speed of death. Grom considers knocking her unconscious. But there’s no time.
Impact. Heat. Suddenly the whole world seems pushed forward. Even Nalia screams. Grom decides he never wants to hear that sound again. Gritting his teeth, he pulls both of them toward the seafloor. “Get down!” he orders. “Lie flat.”
They do as they’re told. Debris, sharp and heavy, showers down on them like bits of fallen prey. A rush of heat swooshes over them, between them, finding even the smallest spaces to fill. A hand grasps his. He doesn’t need to look down to know it’s Nalia’s.
When the loud ends, and the silence chases behind it, Grom looks up. The ship is gone. Obliterated. As if it never existed. He squeezes Nalia’s hand. “Are you alright?”
She eases up, shaking off the silt like an octopus coming out of hiding. Her lip quivers and she points to the back of her head. Grom tries to swallow his heart. “You’re hurt.”
She shakes her head and reaches around to pull a tangle of hair forward. “My hair,” she says, her eyes bigger than he’s ever seen them. “It’s singed.”
Grom cocks his head, flirting with the idea of strangling her. “Seriously?”
She shrugs, dejected. “I know it sounds petty. It’s just that…well, I really loved my hair.” She dangles it in front of her as if it’s a crispy dead eel.
They both remember Freya’s existence when she groans—apparently something else did the job of knocking her out without Grom’s assistance.
Nalia snaps out of it first and helps her friend, who gasps at the sight of her. “Oh, your hair! What will your father say?”
Grom pinches the bridge of his nose. Has the entire world gone mad? “It’s just hair,” he grits out. “It’ll grow back.”
Freya scolds him with a look. “It’s never just hair, Highness.”
“No,” Nalia says quietly. “He’s right. It’s time I let it go.” Throwing Freya’s arm over her shoulder and hoisting her up, she looks at Grom. “My father always said my hair was the exact same color as Mother’s. It felt like keeping a part of her with me, I guess.”
Grom stares at her, stunned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Freya, you simply have to cut it for me,” Nalia says, setting her jaw.
Her friend pulls back, eyes wide. “Oh no. Not me. I’m not doing it. Your father will have me arrested.”
Nalia settles her gaze on Grom. “Will you do it?”
He tries to look away, but the pleading in her eyes softens him. He nods.
She scans the floor, picking up pieces of debris and inspecting them, presumably looking for something with a sharp-enough edge. Grom and Freya can’t bring themselves to help. At least Freya can claim an injury, he thinks to himself. But how can I cut off her hair if it means that much to her?
Finally, Nalia finds what she’s looking for. She swims over to Grom and hands him a thin piece of metal, disfigured and burnt, but sharp enough on one side to accomplish the task at hand.
He palms it, inspecting its capacity for cutting hair, and doubting his own. “You’re sure?” he says, unable to look at her just yet. “You’re sure this is what you want?”
“Someone’s coming,” Freya says, stiffening into the classic Tracker pose. “Better get on with this.”
Nalia nods. “Do it,” she tells him. “Before anyone sees me like this.” She turns her back to him and offers up her burnt locks.
He turns the metal shard in his hand. “You’re sure?”
“Poseidon’s beard, just do it already!”
Before she’s done yelling, he’s holding her severed hair in his hands. She gasps and whirls around. He hands it to her. “I’m sorry.”
She cradles it in her hands like one of his mother’s human relics. Then, of all things, she laughs. “Can you believe that just happened? And we lived through i
t?”
When he doesn’t immediately respond, she shakes the mangled locks in his face. “Admit it, Triton prince. That’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to you. And you’re welcome.”
Grom bites back a smile and swats her hand away, but she persists until he’s forced to grab her wrist and restrain it behind her back. By now, he too senses Yudor, the Tracker trainer, approaching with others he doesn’t recognize. “I saved your life, then cut your hair,” he says, letting her go. “You’re welcome.”
The smile fades from her face. She looks back, obviously sensing the party coming to investigate the explosion. She turns back to Grom, hesitant. “About that,” she says, inching closer. The water between them seems to heat up, but that can’t be right, can it? When her nose almost touches his, she says, “Thank you for not leaving us.” Then she presses her lips against his, soft and slow, and he feels an explosion, just like the one from the death ship, only this one is coming from inside, and it feels like a hundred electric eels slithering over him, every part of him, shocking him to life.
There’s no reason to think about pulling her closer; his hands do that all on their own. There’s no reason to worry about who sees; he couldn’t care less. There’s no reason to think about his plan to woo her, then reject her; he knows now that there will never be a time when he will reject these lips.
These lips, this kiss, they’re everything he never knew he wanted.
Nalia pulls away suddenly, looking every bit as stunned as he feels. She clears her throat. “I’d better get going.” But her expression tells him that maybe she’d rather stay, that maybe she’d rather keep kissing.
Grom nods, in agreement with it all. She’d better get going. He wants her to stay. He wants to keep kissing.
She lets the carcass of her hair sink to the mud below them, and for the longest time, she only stares at it, won’t meet his eyes. The Tracker party is close, within sight, Grom knows, but still she stays, immobile and hesitant and stunning.
Then, without another word, without meeting his eyes, she turns and swims away.