“I plan on it.”
“If one is coming for you, climb the razor wire.”
So, getting shredded by razor wire was preferable to facing down a saltie? Good to know.
Suddenly, a mud-colored creature rocketed out of the water, teeth glistening in its open mouth. The sound of the crocodile’s jaws closing on the tuna reverberated through the stadium like the slamming of a vault door. I nearly swallowed a tonsil. No shark could shut its mouth with such explosive force.
The crocodile ripped the tuna from the hook and crashed back into the brackish water, sinking under the surface with its prize. Adrenaline blasted through my body, leaving me shaky. When Ratter had said that a saltwater crocodile came as big as a shark, I’d pictured a tiger shark. But the beast I’d just glimpsed had to have been twenty feet long and weigh well over a ton. As in, the size of a great white … but with legs. I twisted on the seat, searching for another way over the razor wire. No way was I going toe-to-toe with a predator that massive.
A gong rang out, and splashes erupted along the edge of the flooded area as the three surfs who’d been holding their knives between their teeth dove into the water. I froze, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. The other surfs dashed along the row of submerged seats, tridents raised, scanning the water. Ratter must have pulled these lunatics out of mental institutions. They were suicidal—every last one of them.
Across the stadium, spectators lurched to their feet, hollering encouragement. Seeing the Topsiders screaming for blood didn’t surprise me. But then I noticed that the surfs on my side of the stadium had risen as well and were also cheering.
That’s when I understood.
These people hadn’t been forced to cross the razor wire. They wanted to be on this side. One crocodile provided over a ton of white meat, according to Ratter. Enough to feed a whole township. No wonder the surfs displayed their scars with pride. They’d risked life and limb to feed their townships and survived. Which made me wonder how many people hadn’t.
A pair of knobby eyes broke the water’s surface and I saw that the crocodile had catlike pupils—a fact that kick-started my heart. Not only was the beast close, but vertical pupils meant it had excellent night vision. As if a two-thousand-pound reptile needed another advantage.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
“On the other side of the settler, Plover,” a voice behind me called to the woman.
She nodded in response. “Coming through,” she said to me.
I leaned back against the razor wire and felt it slash my diveskin. It was the only way to give her enough room to pass safely, which she did in a blink. But as soon as she raised her trident, the creature submerged.
“Thank you,” said the voice behind me. I glanced back to see a girl not much older than Zoe, with yellow mud plastered along her hairline like the woman. “Most hunters won’t let another go by,” she explained. “Or sometimes they pretend that they will and then push the other person in.”
“Ty isn’t a hunter,” Gemma said, stepping over the last row to join the girl by the razor wire. “He was forced to climb in there.”
“We saw. But no surf is going to cross one of Mayor Fife’s goons.” The girl stopped talking to watch as Plover scanned the water with her trident held high, but the croc showed no sign of resurfacing. The girl exhaled with relief and said, “I’m Eider. And that’s my sister, Plover. We’re from Shearwater.”
Pressed as close to the razor wire as I dared get, I waited for Gemma to ask her about Drift. I would’ve, but figured shouting it over my shoulder wasn’t going to get results. And I wasn’t about to take my eyes off the water.
“Does this go on every night?” Gemma asked Eider.
Another worthwhile question.
“Oh, no,” Eider replied. “Only at sundown on the fifteenth. When our rations are gone and the next delivery isn’t for another two weeks.”
Gemma gasped. “No one forced them in there?”
“’Course not,” Eider said, surprised. “The meat tides us over and the leather is worth a lot. But we can only hunt them inside the stadium once a month, one hunter per township. As soon as one croc is killed, the match is over.”
“That’s crazy,” I heard Gemma sputter.
In the center of the stadium, the water thrashed and churned. A moment later a woman scrambled onto an island of rocks. A crocodile dashed after her as she climbed to the top. Luckily it stopped about halfway up. When the woman lifted her trident, I saw that her arm had been badly mauled. The second she hurled her weapon, the crocodile whipped around and crashed back into the water. The trident grazed the submerging crocodile’s back but must not have pierced its skin because the animal swam off. I felt a stab of pity for the woman who’d now lost her trident on the bottom of the stadium. But then an inflated seal bladder popped up. When she easily fished out her floating trident, I understood why the surfs attached the bladders to all of their weapons. They couldn’t afford to lose them.
A new bout of thrashing erupted on the other side of the stadium. A man whirled out of the water, knife raised, only to crash under again as the enormous crocodile he was wrestling rolled over. The churning water took on a red tinge—blood. But whether it was the man’s or the crocodile’s I couldn’t tell. The spectators jumped to their feet, shouting and cheering. I felt sick watching it. Knowing that it was just as likely to be the man who floated to the surface, lifeless.
The surfs who’d been standing along the perimeter now dove into the water as if fearing the opportunity to kill a crocodile was about to end. The woman, who I’d thought was trapped on top of the rock pile, caught hold of a grip bar sent to her via the zip line. Grasping it, she kicked off from the rocks. With her arm so bloody and sliced up, I was sure she’d lose her hold, but she drew up her knees and held on, flying over the crocodile pool. She could have easily sailed past the razor wire and into the stands, but she wiggled the grip bar to make it slow. When she was over the row of seats inside the fence, she let go and resumed hunting.
On the other side of the stadium the thrashing and rolling continued. With each passing moment, I thought it was less likely to be the surf who emerged the winner. But I was wrong. The man surfaced with a whoop, holding his knife in the air. Beside him the crocodile floated upside down, revealing the long gash down its pale underside.
When the gong sounded again, the surfs scrambled out of the water. Many were cut and bleeding. Grip bars whizzed along parallel zip lines. Each ran directly over several boulder piles. The surfs who were trapped on top of the mini-islands seized the grip bars and flew to safety while crocodiles circled below.
Something bright splashed into the stadium near me. I jerked, thinking a crocodile had swum close. Then more glowing objects streaked down from the stands. Like falling stars, they hit the water and sank.
“What are they throwing?” Gemma asked Eider.
She scowled. “Money. The tourists put it in glow-in-the-dark pouches to make it easier to find underwater. Supposedly it’s a consolation prize. But really they just want to see more—no, Plover, don’t!”
I turned to see Plover dive into the water.
“No!” Eider clutched the razor wire, cutting her hands. “It’s not worth it!” she cried.
That’s when I saw a line of rippling water heading that way. A crocodile had seen Plover go under, and now it was homing in on her like a shark following a chum trail.
Without another thought, I hit the lagoon’s surface in a long dive. Once under the water, I released the fins in the tips of my boots and power stroked toward Plover. Using sonar, I sensed her scooping up the pouch. What she didn’t see in the brackish water—couldn’t see—was the enormous crocodile swimming right for her.
I didn’t know which sense was a crocodile’s sharpest. Sight, hearing, smell? So I thrashed like a wounded animal and once again mimicked a dolphin’s distress cry. And it worked. The crocodile angled away from Plover and headed for me. I saw its long, poi
nted snout perfectly in my mind’s eye. And its powerful body cutting through the water, propelled by a whipping tail as long and wide as me.
Did I dare try using a sonar blast to stun the beast? I seriously doubted that it would work. Not the way it had on the eels. As massive as the croc was, it would probably do no more than blink.
I swam as fast as I could toward the edge of the arena. But when I sent clicks over my shoulder, I saw that the crocodile was gaining on me. I’d never make it out of the water in time—not that being on land would help much. Sucking Liquigen from the tube in my neck ring, I filled my lungs as I dropped. Now I didn’t have to worry about breathing, but as I touched down between two rows of seats, I realized I’d crossed into the flooded stands. It would be harder to maneuver here.
Just as I sent out more clicks to see how close the crocodile was, I saw a pouch hit the water. The croc snapped it up like a fish taking a hook. The moment was over before I’d had a chance to use the distraction. And the croc was back on track, plowing toward me. But now I had an idea.
I unhooked my helmet from the back of my neck ring and found the manual switch for the crown lights. Holding the helmet in front of me with shaking hands, I waited for the croc to close in. As an apex predator, it would fear nothing. But any creature with a nervous system could be startled.
When the croc burst forward, jaws wide, I switched on the helmet lights—cranked to blinding—while blasting out sonar, amped way past “up.”
And it worked!
Hit with the explosion of light and sound, the crocodile froze. Tail midwhip, jaws agape. I’d probably bought myself two seconds at most. Enough to jam my fist inside my helmet and thrust it into the beast’s open mouth. I was counting on the flexiglass to protect my arm from those five-inch teeth, and it did. I drove the helmet as far down the croc’s throat as I dared and snatched back my hand, leaving the flexiglass orb behind. I kicked away just as the beast thrashed back to life. Hoping the flexiglass could withstand the pressure exerted by those jaws for more than a millisecond, I stroked for the surface.
Gemma’s scream rang in my ears the moment I emerged. I swam for the edge and felt many hands haul me out of the water.
“You’re insane, you know that?” a woman’s voice scolded.
Surprisingly, not Gemma’s.
I looked up to see Plover. “But thank you,” she finished.
The other surfs, who’d helped pull me out, now retreated down the row of seats, clearing a path to the ladder for me. The stadium lights had grown dim again as the stands on the opposite side began to empty. I picked my way across the row of wet seats toward the platform, only to jerk to a halt when the pool erupted to my left.
The crocodile burst out of the water and belly flopped with a smack so loud it echoed through the stadium. And then the beast threw itself against the water again. Flinging itself back and forth, the croc pounded the pool’s surface with growing violence—in the throes of death or attempting to dislodge the helmet? I didn’t know. But it was agonizing to watch. I’d shoved the helmet down the croc’s throat out of self-preservation, yet seeing the animal’s torment sickened me to the core.
Coming up beside me, Plover said, “Go,” while putting a hand on my back, urging me forward.
“Lend me your knife,” I said, turning to her. At least I could end the creature’s suffering.
“You can’t!” Her tone held a vehemence that startled me. “The match is over. Kill it now and you’ll be arrested for theft.”
I jerked my hand toward the pool. “It’s suffocating because of what I did. I have to—”
My words were cut off by screams from every direction. And I saw why. The crocodile had stopped flailing and was now cutting through the water toward us—jaws shut—clearly having spit out my helmet or swallowed it. Crazy as it seemed, I could swear the croc was coming solely for me, bent on revenge.
I wasted no time in scrambling for the ladder, leaving room for Plover to climb alongside me. Just as we heaved onto the platform and rolled away from the edge, the crocodile ripped into the ladder from below.
With the sound of crunching aluminum in my ears, I dropped to the other side of the razor wire, where Gemma was waiting. Throwing her arms around me, she squeezed so tight, I couldn’t breathe—not that I was complaining—and then she shoved me. “Must you always swim with monsters?”
The stadium seemed to have grown darker still as Eider stepped forward and offered me the glowing money pouch. “You earned it,” she said solemnly. Plover and the other surfs from Shearwater joined her, radiating their approval.
“Thanks, but I’d feel better if you kept it.”
When Eider continued to hold out the pouch, I added, “I didn’t know how bad the surfs have it. None of the settlers know.” I wished I could promise to do away with the ordinance that prevented them from fishing in Benthic Territory, but that was nothing I had a say in.
“Ain’t you noble?” mocked a voice from one row up. It was Ratter, of course, with his harpoon gun aimed at my head once again.
“He didn’t break the rules,” Plover snapped.
“Stay out of it,” Ratter warned her. “‘Less you want another cut in Shearwater’s rations.” He waved me toward the stairs. When I didn’t budge, he flipped off the harpoon’s safety clasp.
Plover whipped out her knife. “We’re not going to let you kill him.”
By the time she’d finished the sentence, the other Shearwater surfs had taken out their weapons—rough-hewn blades and tridents—to face off with Ratter. The surfs were to my right and Ratter on my left. Gemma rounded it out by slipping behind me. With one tug of my diveskin, she persuaded me to retreat.
Before we’d shuffled back more than a few yards, Ratter shouted, “Where do you think you’re—” His words cut off sharply as something over my head caught his attention.
In unison, the surfs lowered their weapons—even Plover—as they too stared at the stars with alarm.
Before I could turn to look up, a voice boomed from the heavens: “What the heck is going on down there?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Gemma and I whirled to scan the night sky, though I already knew who we’d see, having recognized the voice that had boomed down at us. And there he was—Mayor Gideon Fife—leaning out a window of his striped airship, a megaphone to his mouth.
“Ty, Gemma, stay right there,” he ordered, voice blaring. “I’m coming down.”
As soon as the airship swung toward the top of the stadium, Plover and the other surfs scattered. I figured they had the right idea. Noting that Ratter was headed back to the booth as if he had work to attend to, I met eyes with Gemma. “Let’s get out of here.”
“What, you don’t trust Fife’s intentions?”
Her question was rhetorical, yet I asked, “Do you want to stick around to find out if they’re good?”
“Not for a second.”
With that, we sprinted up the steep aisle between the rows, heading for the corridor that would take us back to the hanging bridge. But before we could make it to the top, a dark figure appeared in the archway. When I stopped short, Gemma bumped into me from behind.
“Why—” Without finishing the question, she followed my gaze and saw the large man descending toward us. His face was still too dark to make out, but with each step down he favored one leg—Shade.
He paused on the stairs above us. “See you two are still alive.” He didn’t sound angry, but he wasn’t smiling, either. He looked off to the left. “Been keeping an eye on them?”
I turned to see Fife strolling between the seats one row up. “Just arrived myself,” he told Shade. “You must admit, when I say I’ll take care of you, I always do.”
“Was just at your stall, dropping off my thank-you,” Shade replied as they clasped hands. “Fresh oysters.”
Fife grinned. “Now that’s my kind of thank-you.”
“You have a stall in the black market?” I asked Fife. That
seemed wrong somehow, since he was the ’wealth’s surf agent.
“Of course,” he said. “Who knows better than me what the surfs need? Shade and I have been working together for years. He and the boys provide the supplies, I sell them, and the surfs buy them. Everyone wins.”
“You’re the one who asked Shade to bust up our deal with Drift and steal our crop.”
Fife’s brows rose in surprise. “That’s a strong accusation.”
I noticed that he didn’t deny it. “That was your stall selling the laver, wasn’t it? But Shade didn’t steal it for you. So what, when he refused, you forced the Drift surfs to do it?” My anger mounted as I began to see how all the elements fit together. “You’ve known where my parents were all along because you forced Hadal to kidnap them.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Fife exclaimed, holding up his hands. “You’re going to have me assassinating President Warison next. Look, I admit that when I buy goods to sell in Hardluck Ruins, I don’t ask how they were obtained.” He and Shade exchanged a look of amusement. “So as far as I know, it’s all legit. Now kidnapping, well, that doesn’t even have the patina of legal. Wouldn’t do it. Wouldn’t ask someone else to.”
“You got us to break him out of jail.” Gemma pointed at Shade.
“I didn’t ask you to,” Fife replied smoothly.
I knew my shine must be glowing over how stupid we’d been. How easily they’d used us. Forcing myself to stay calm, I asked Shade, “How did you know that we’d free you?”
“Didn’t think you’d let me sit and rot.” His gaze settled on Gemma. “Not when someone is so good at picking pockets.”
Fife grinned. “I never even felt you lift it.”
She flushed with anger. “Why couldn’t you just let him out yourself?”
“A mayor set loose a fugitive?” Fife said with mock horror. “Besides, this way a hundred mainlanders can swear that during the time of the breakout, I never left the sundeck. I didn’t even tell Ratter the plan. He’s a great thug, but a terrible actor.” He looked at me. “Sorry about the dunk in the eel pool.”