“Inconvenient for who?”
“Shut up.” Tyrden pauses. “Where are Jagen and Paca now?”
No wonder they’re so hungry for information about the kingdoms. Now that Jagen and Paca are imprisoned back home for what they did, Neptune has probably had no communications about the kingdoms—until Galen and Emma showed up.
“Where are Jagen and Paca now?” Tyrden barks.
“They’re in the Ice Caverns. Where they belong.”
Tyrden stands with the plate and scoops more fish onto the fork. He extends it to Galen. But just before he can wrap his mouth around it, Tyrden snatches it away, pitching the fish to the floor. Then Tyrden puts all his strength and frustration into throwing the entire plate of food at the wall, shattering the glass and scattering what was left of Galen’s meal.
“Enjoy dinner, Highness,” Tyrden snarls. “Now for dessert.” He rears back and Galen closes his eyes, preparing for the blow. There is more anger behind it than he originally expected.
Tyrden’s fist connects with Galen’s cheek, whipping his neck back. The impacts don’t stop there. They keep coming from each side, different angles, landing blows on his nose, his jawbone, his mouth. Over and over and over.
Galen tastes blood, feels it running down the back of his throat. Feels it pooling in his ear.
Then everything goes black.
17
IT TAKES a minute to adjust to the darkness, even though we made a gradual descent into the cave. Reed swims ahead, as if he can see perfectly or as if he’s been here a million times before. Probably both.
Maybe my eyes don’t adjust as well in freshwater. Maybe the saltwaters of the oceans help them in some way, which strikes me as funny. Usually saltwater in the eyes sucks. Unless you’re part fish, or fish mammal, or whatever. Either scenario, Reed is impatient to get started. “Are all ocean dwellers this slow?”
He grabs my wrist and pulls me behind him. His pulse wraps lightly around me, like the whisper of a fishing line not pulled tight. A tangle of sensations. “Can you sense me?” I say, almost to myself.
“Of course. Don’t you sense me?”
“I do, but it feels different than the way I sense Galen.”
“Oh, geez.” Reed rolls his eyes. “You don’t believe in the pull, do you?”
This is the legend that Galen is on the fence about. Normal Syrena tradition says that when a Syrena male turns eighteen years old—or “seasons”—he suddenly becomes attracted to several match-worthy females—females who would complement him well. Then he gets to “sift” through them, which is the Syrena version of dating. But in cases of “the pull,” the male is only attracted to one female, and that one is supposedly the perfect match in every way. The explanation is that the pull produces the strongest offspring possible, that it’s some natural phenomenon among Syrena that ensures the survival of their kind.
Galen didn’t believe in the pull—until he met me. Now he’s torn, because I’m the only one he was ever drawn to. Our mating would actually back up all the hype behind the pull, and since I have the Gift of Poseidon and Galen has the Gift of Triton, our offspring could potentially have both.
Still, the law and Syrena customs appear to be crunked-up superstition. If our child was to possess both gifts I’d rather chalk it up to genetics than to some magical, whimsical myth that always makes the Syrena generals right.
“No,” I pronounce. “I don’t believe in the pull exactly. I believe in love. And genetics.” I didn’t mean for it to sound like, “so screw you,” or anything, but by his expression, I think Reed takes it that way.
“I told you I get it, Emma. You’re in no danger from me stealing you from Galen. Great guy that he is,” he mutters. He swims close to me, so close I think he’s going back on his word. His mouth is just inches from mine when he says, “Not that I don’t want to steal you away. Oh, I do. And would if I thought you’d let me.”
I try to back away, but he holds my wrist. I could snatch it out of his hand if I wanted to, but his eyes tell me he’s being sincere instead of creepy or possessive. “I would steal you in a heartbeat, Emma McIntosh,” he continues, his voice devoid of any kind of games or sarcasm or Reed in general. “But I’d have to kiss you first, and I don’t want to do that.”
For some reason, I’m offended by that. He notices and smiles.
“Don’t get yourself all worked up. You’re very kissable. But I won’t kiss you. Not until you want me to. Because I know if I do, I won’t be able to turn back. I won’t ever be the same.” He leans impossibly closer, tightening his hold on my wrist, and I swear I’m being bombarded by both his heartbeat and his Syrena pulse. “So know for sure, Emma. When you kiss me—and I think you will—know for sure who you’re going to choose.”
I ease my wrist from his grasp and give a lighthearted laugh. Even though lighthearted is the opposite of what I’m feeling. Reed seems so easygoing and laid-back, but now he’s practically handing me his beating heart for me to do with as I please, which kind of waylays me. I mean, what kind of crazy speech is this? We’ve only known each other for days and he’s putting this on the table for me to consider. Does he think we’ve been going on dates or something instead of him just acting as my (devoted) tour guide?
I feel guilty now. Because spending more time with Reed feels like leading him on. It’s clear his intentions are not strictly platonic, but I’ve been transparent from the beginning that I love Galen. Our relationship is obviously not perfect, but isn’t that the “work” part of it? I’ve always felt that the dynamics between us are like a musical snow globe. Wound tight sometimes, shaken and shaken, but never broken. Always intact and really something to behold on the inside.
It would help if Galen showed me a sign that he still loves me. That our snow globe isn’t leaking. Or worse, shattered.
And there is still my need to explore Neptune. Reed is my guide—and that’s all. I’ve already chosen who I want. A kiss from Reed will never change that. I’ll simply continue to rebuff him, and eventually (freaking hopefully) he’ll lay off the whole “let me love you” spiel.
I realize I haven’t answered him. I wonder what he sees on my face that has him so fascinated. “Got it,” I say casually, which makes him wince. But this conversation has to come to an end for so many reasons, and the only way that’s happening is if I start a new one. “Tell me about how Neptune came to be.”
He blinks, once, twice. Then his lazy smile appears once more, free of anguish or jealousy. “I would, but Father is best at telling it, really. He has Archive abilities, you know. So don’t ever try to argue with him based on memory. You’ll lose.”
“You have Archives here?”
He nods. “And Trackers. We have everything you have. Except the ocean.”
I’m starting to understand Reed’s obsession with the ocean. It’s not the ocean itself, although the oceans are endlessly fascinating. Reed’s problem is the freedom of choice. He wants something he can’t have, which makes him want it even more. And can’t I relate to that?
I decide to give Reed a break. “But your father seemed reluctant to tell us at dinner the other night. I wouldn’t feel comfortable asking him. You don’t have to do that if you don’t want to.”
“I think your precious Galen was weaving awkward into the air or something at dinner. I’ll talk to my dad. He’ll call a Huddle.”
“A … ‘Huddle’?”
Reed nods. “You know how humans have city hall meetings and everyone gets to attend and talk about how the town is run? Well, a Huddle is just like that, only we meet secretly because what we have to talk about has nothing to do with streetlights or sidewalks.”
“We?”
“Sometimes the whole town. Sometimes a few of us. Just depends on the occasion, really. But this Huddle will be big, I can guarantee that.”
“Oh, well. I don’t really want to put your dad through all that mess. Couldn’t you just summarize for me?”
Reed grins. “Oh, yeah
. I definitely could. But if I did that, you might decide that you learned everything you need to know from me. Then I won’t see you anymore.”
“Reed, I—”
He holds up a quiet-child hand, startling some minnows around us. “Besides, he really does love to tell the story. And everyone loves to hear him tell it. It will be great—you’ll see. Worth not getting rid of me. And then you can meet even more Neptune citizens. You’re going to have a long list of people to e-mail when you leave.”
When I don’t appear convinced, he crosses his arms. “If you promise to come, I’ll show you a secret about yourself. One that I’m pretty sure you haven’t figured out.”
Crap, crap, crap. “What is it?” I blurt, sealing the deal. Well, what did I expect? I’m sure Grandfather sent me here to learn about Half-Breeds. If I didn’t agree, then I’d be wasting this informative—and very weird—trip.
“That’s what I like to hear.” He pulls me to one side of the cave, where the light fades into shadows.
Reed holds up his hand, ceremoniously turning it side to side like a magician does when he’s about to produce something from thin air. “You see these are my real hands right? Would you like to touch them?”
“I trust you didn’t pack any extra hands with you, thanks.”
I’m not sure if he’s conscious of it or not, but Reed slightly sticks his chest out. The only reason I notice is because I’m a bit compelled to float away. Confidence like that is dangerous, especially after the talk we just had. “I’m going to start from the beginning,” he says, “because I’m not sure how much you already know.”
I nod. Even if I already know it, getting a mini refresher course couldn’t hurt. Of course, I don’t know what we’re talking about yet, so that helps the surprise factor.
“Okay,” he says, almost preening. “So. Syrena can Blend when they feel the need to, and it works from the inside out. Say they need to Blend because they’re afraid or whatever. Their skin reacts to what their brain tells them, so the stimulation to change comes from within. In our bodies, we still have the same pigmentation points as a full-blood Syrena, but ours responds to outside stimulants. Watch.”
He holds out his arm against the cave wall beside us, then starts rubbing it furiously with his other hand for what seems like for-freaking-ever. If we were on land, he’d be giving himself one heck of a friction burn. Minute after minute drags by. I realize this is why I never figured this out on my own. I would have quit after the first forty-five seconds.
Finally, something happens. The middle of his forearm seems to be disappearing. There is a hand and then cave wall and then an elbow. After a few more seconds, the middle of his arm becomes altogether invisible. Reed has just Blended in front of me. With my eyes, I trace where his forearm should be between his hand and elbow. Only a vague outline shows, kind of like looking at a hidden 3-D puzzle. “Cool, huh?” he says, still rubbing madly. “You have to get through a few layers of human skin before you hit the Blending skin cells. That’s why it takes so long.”
“Holy crap,” is what I think I say. Half-Breeds can Blend. If we don’t mind being refurbished one patch of skin at a time.
When Reed stops scouring, his Blended state quickly materializes into a now-red forearm.
He shrugs. “So obviously it’s too much trouble to try to use as protection, but it’s still pretty impressive. Ready to try yours?” He takes my hand and puts it against the wall, which puts us in a more intimate position.
I pull away. “I’m more than capable of rubbing myself.” Then I blush at how that sounds. I want to squeeze Reed’s lips together, to discontinue the knowing smile sweeping across his face. Without giving myself further opportunity for embarrassment, I start rubbing my own arm. Ferociously. It’s exhausting. The water resistance hinders my efforts a little, so I have to work harder and faster to get the job done. Suddenly, I wish for Reed’s muscular biceps. No, Galen’s. I wish for Galen’s arms, and not just rubbing me mindlessly, but I wish for them to be wrapped around me.
It takes me much longer to produce the same result. But I do. When it starts to fade, I can still feel that it’s there, but my eyes refuse to see “arm” instead of “cave wall.” It’s kind of like the sensation when your foot falls asleep and you can touch it with your hand, but it doesn’t feel like it’s attached to your body. Your hand doesn’t register what it’s touching and your foot doesn’t register that it’s being touched.
A big part of my arm has disappeared now, and for once it’s not my pale skin camouflaged by white beach sand. “Whoa,” I say, more to myself than to him. “That’s crazy.” It doesn’t feel any different, except maybe for a warm sensation creeping up my arm. Other than that, I’d never know I was Blending.
And if I can’t feel it, I definitely can’t initiate it with feelings, like an octopus does when it’s afraid or nervous. Which might be a good thing. If my whole body turned invisible instead of blushing, I’d never need a mirror.
“So I did teach you something new.” Reed beams. And at that moment, he’s all child-like wonder and adorable and harmless. Until he comes to his senses. “If you want to make your whole body disappear, you’ll clearly need my help. And for the record, I’m in.”
This time I shove him. Hard. “Sounds like you need my help with a concussion.”
And I’m not even joking.
18
GALEN AWAKENS with a groan. No part of his face was left untouched by Tyrden. His lips are crusted with dried blood and dehydration. His nose carries the steady thrum of his heart in it, beat for beat. His left ear rings, and he can hear the muffled sound of his own breath from the inside out.
But now his scalp crawls with what feels like tiny fingers exploring through his hair. His legs throb with the need to stretch. His feet tingle to the point of hurting.
He feels a drop of something hit his forehead. Slowly he peers up, willing his neck to stop trembling with the weight of his head. Small tributaries of what feels like water roll down his face, his neck. Above him hangs a blue tarp stretched across the ceiling, heavy at the center, where a small hole allows a drop to fall on him every few seconds.
It’s then that he notices that what’s left of his shirt is soaked through. The rim of his jeans is dark and wet. But he doesn’t care about that. He has water. One precious drop at a time.
Opening his mouth, he leans farther back, aiming for the next drop. It hits his cheek and stings an open cut there. Again.
He repeats the process, three, four, five times. Finally a drop hits his tongue and spreads like a single tear on tissue paper. Salt.
It’s saltwater. Soaking through his shirt, his hair, down the length of him.
A frustrated growl escapes Galen’s lips, echoing off the walls.
I have to get out of here.
Tyrden opens the door then, walking in with a bucket in tow and an evil grin. Without a word or warning, he pitches the contents on Galen, dousing everything the tarp failed to saturate. The force of the splash is so great that some of the new saltwater finds its way into Galen’s mouth, his nose, all the cuts and scratches. He spits vehemently.
Tyrden snickers. “I thought you were thirsty?”
Galen doesn’t trust himself to speak. His throat is too dry to close around the words inside him. Anything he says will sound like a wheeze. I won’t let him think he’s broken me.
Tyrden drags the other chair across the room to face Galen, his usual interrogation move. Galen settles in for what could possibly be next, though he can’t imagine anything quite as bad as this.
Tyrden smiles at him through tight lips that maneuver a toothpick back and forth. “You look rough, Highness.” He removes the pick and rolls it between his fingers. Galen eyes it, wary. Tyrden glances up at the tarp above Galen and scoffs. “It’s almost half empty already.”
Galen groans in reply. It’s all he has left. Beneath him his legs begin trembling with the need to unfold, to elongate.
“What’s th
at?” Tyrden says, delighted. “Oh, you got a frog in your throat? Let me help you.” He pulls a silver flask from his shirt pocket and shakes it. The liquid in it makes a swishing sound. “Can I interest you in some fresh water?”
Galen nods, which makes his head throb harder. He’s in no mood to play games.
Tyrden stands and unscrews the flask. Galen doesn’t trust that there’s really freshwater in it, but what choice does he have? He’s been three days without a drop to drink. It’s a chance he has to take. Besides, if Tyrden wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be sitting here now. Right?
The older Syrena eases the flask to his lips and Galen takes a swallow. It’s fresh. He leans in for more but Tyrden pulls back. “Oh, sorry. I’ve got to save this for more questions.” He settles back down in his chair and tucks the flask away. Galen feels his shoulders sag.
“So I’ve been thinking,” Tyrden says. “Jagen and Paca failed, obviously. But how many followers did they round up? A lot? A few? Remember, a drink for an answer.”
Galen complies quickly; this is an easy question. “I don’t know,” he rasps. The words feel parched and he coughs.
“Guess for me.”
Shaking his head, Galen coughs again. He tastes blood in his mouth this time instead of the precious water. “I don’t know. Maybe a third. Maybe more.” It was more, he knows. Jagen’s number of Loyals multiplied each day Paca displayed the Gift of Poseidon. There were enough of them to persuade the Archives to put the Royals on trial at the tribunal.
Tyrden gives Galen a heaping drink from the flask. “See how that works? Honesty goes a long way.”
Another maddening drop of water falls on Galen’s head and his legs ache with the need to wrap around each other, to become one. It’s been three days since he used his fin to maneuver through the freshwater caves where they found Reed. It’s been more than that since he used it to glide through his own saltwater territory.
“Jagen obviously convinced a good amount of followers in a short time,” Tyrden says. “Someone more competent could pull twice those numbers. Sounds like the ocean dwellers are ready for change. Maybe the Royals are out of style, eh?” He scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Did you know that we don’t have Royals here? Sure, those who possess the Gift of Poseidon are obviously descendants of the general himself. But we don’t put much stock in that. Here, we elect our leaders.” He makes a face as if the words taste tart in his mouth. “Sometimes democracy works. Not lately though.” With a blank expression he scrutinizes the flask in his hand.