Of Neptune (The Syrena Legacy) (2 page)

I wade into the Atlantic, not caring to roll up my pajamas this time. I pass a large crab who looks like he’s tempted to nip at me. I squat in the water, submerging my entire head, and come face-to-face with the crab. “If you pinch me,” I tell it, “I’ll pick you up and throw you on the beach for the gulls.” The Gift of Poseidon—the ability to talk to fish—does have its advantages. Bossing around marine life is just one of them.

I’ve come to realize crabs in particular throw mini temper tantrums. I wonder if that’s where the term “crabby” came from in the first place. He scuttles away, as if I’ve ruined his whole day. When I resurface and reach Grandfather, I can no longer touch the ground. Gliding up to him, I say, “So? We’re as private as we can be.”

Then he smiles at me like I am the reason he is floating instead of the waves or his powerful fin. “Before you leave on your adventure, young Emma, I need to tell you about a town called Neptune.”

2

GALEN GRABS
an orange from the fruit basket in front of him. If only he could channel his rage into the orange. Somehow inject his fury into the confines of the peel instead of showing his indignation all over his face.

The same way his older brother Grom wears indifference as a second skin.

But I am not Grom, the impervious Triton king
. Galen squeezes the fruit so hard it becomes a disemboweled mess of peel, seeds, and juice on the kitchen counter. It feels good to squeeze the innards out of something. Galen can think of a million feelings inside himself right now that he’d like to pour out onto the counter next to the juice of the orange. But it would have no effect on Grom. Grom is immune to feelings.

Grom rolls his eyes, while Nalia casually grabs some paper towels from the cabinet.

“Was that really necessary?” Grom says.

Nalia makes quick work of cleaning up the orange. Galen gives her an apologetic look. He would have cleaned it up eventually, after he and Grom came to an agreement on the matter of this road trip. But then Nalia returns a look of pity. Galen’s so tired of everyone’s pity. But Nalia’s pity isn’t about Rachel. Nalia feels sympathetic toward Galen because she thinks he won’t win this argument. That he is no match for Grom.

Galen decides she can clean up the mess after all.

“Actually, I could think of something better to squeeze than an orange,” Galen drolls. Like his brother Grom’s hard head, for instance. Or maybe his throat. Rachel’s expression “take a chill pill” comes to mind. Galen counts to ten, just as she taught him. Then he counts to twenty.

“You have much maturing to do, brother,” says Grom.

“And you have an entire kingdom to run, Highness. Which is why I don’t understand why we’re still here. And those are my boxers.”

Grom raises a brow, then shrugs. “I thought they seemed small.”

“Grom—” Nalia starts, but he cuts her off with a huff.

“You just graduated from human school a few days ago, Galen. You don’t want to relax for a little while?” Grom takes a sip of his bottled water, then screws the cap back on so tightly it makes a cracking sound.

“High school,” Galen says. “We graduated from
high school.
If you keep calling everything ‘human’ this and ‘human’ that—”

“I know, I know.” Grom waves his hand in dismissal. “Very well. High school. What is so high about high school, anyway? No, no, don’t bother to answer. I don’t care enough to know. But, little brother, why are you in such a hurry to leave the beaches?”

“For the hundredth time,” Galen grits out, “I’m not in a hurry to leave the beaches. I’m in a hurry to spend time with Emma before we go to college, or before the Archives change their mind about their agreement with us, or before something else catastrophic happens. Can you not handle the kingdom without my help, brother? You should have just said as much.”

This cracks the shell that is Grom’s face. “Careful, Galen. Will you never learn that diplomacy is an asset?”

“So is being direct,” Galen grumbles. He runs a hand through his hair. “Look, I honestly don’t know what the problem is here. We’re taking a two-week road trip.”

“Our treaty with the Archives is still delicate, Galen. It takes time to build trust. Your disappearing with Emma for so many turns of the sun will cause murmuring. You know this. And we’ve just witnessed how powerful murmuring can be.”

Galen rolls his eyes. Grom’s referring to Jagen’s near takeover of the houses of Triton and Poseidon, a conspiracy that started with hushed whispers and speculation, and nearly cost the Royals their freedom and throne. But this is different. “Why would the kingdoms care about our spending private time together?” He doesn’t mean to yell. But he doesn’t regret it, either.

“Well, for starters,” Nalia injects so calmly it irritates Galen, “I’m sure there will be rumors flying about whether or not you’re respecting the law and not mating before your ceremony.”

Galen can’t argue that. And he can’t argue that the rumors would be somewhat founded. He can barely keep his hands off of Emma. And she’s not exactly helping the situation, being such a willing recipient of his frequently wandering hands. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “They’ll just have to trust us. They could give us the benefit of the doubt on this one thing.”

Grom shrugs. “They could. But they’re also eager to get to know the new Poseidon princess. She needs to spend more time in the kingdoms.”

“So they can whisper about the Half-Breed behind her back?” The very thought makes Galen want to pick up another orange. Still, he knows Grom is right. Galen wants Emma to spend more time in the water, too. Dr. Milligan said she may eventually be able to hold her breath for much longer. Right now she’s only able to hold it for hours at a time. Maybe that could be extended to days, with enough practice. And if it could, he and Emma wouldn’t have to alternate between land and sea so often once they had mated.

“The more she’s around them, the less her presence will affect them, Galen. They’re giving her a chance. The least you can do is reciprocate. Someday, they won’t even notice that she’s a Half-Breed. Or at least, they’ll learn to accept it and move on.”

He must be joking. Everything about Emma screams Half-Breed, starting with her pale skin and white hair and ending with the fact that she doesn’t have a fin. A stark contrast in every way to the Syrena.

Galen stands up from the bar stool. Maybe stretching his legs will keep him from satisfying the urge to jump across the counter.
Where has all this anger come from?
“It’s just two weeks, Grom. Two weeks is all I’m asking for. Antonis is okay with it.” At least, Antonis hasn’t expressed any feelings
against
their trip.
And there I go again, raising my voice.
In front of a different audience, Grom would be forced to admonish him.

“Antonis is in agreement because he’s so eager to please Emma, having never known his granddaughter. You’re my brother. I’ve put up with your antics for too many seasons already.”

“What does that have to do with anything? Why can’t you just give me your approval so we can move on?”

“Because I get the feeling you’re going whether or not you obtain my approval. Tell me I’m wrong, Galen.”

Galen shakes his head. “I want your approval.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all I can give you.” He does want Grom’s approval. Truly he does. But Grom is right—Galen wants to get as far away from here as possible. Even if it means infuriating his older brother. The need to flee is almost overwhelming, and he’s not sure why. The only thing he’s sure of is that he wants Emma with him. Her touch, her voice, her laugh. It’s like a seaweed salve to the gaping wounds inside of him.

Grom sighs, pulling open the refrigerator door. With deliberation he places the half-empty bottle of water next to a container full of green something. “I appreciate your honesty. You’re no longer a fingerling. Emma is of the age of independence by human standards. You both know the difference between right and wrong. Your decisions are yours to make. But I have to wonder, little brother. I have to ask. Are you sure this is what you need? Because two weeks does not change everything. Some things … Some things cannot be undone, Galen. I hope you understand that.”

“Stop making everything about Rachel.”
Please.

“Stop making nothing about Rachel. Grieve her, Galen.”

“So I have your approval then?” Galen shoves the bar stool back in place. “Because Emma and I have to pack.”

I wish Emma would come back in.

3

I DON’T
deserve the way my grandfather smiles at me. It’s as if I’ve never done one single bad thing in my whole life. It’s as if he thinks I’m capable of anything—except wrongdoing.

Clearly he missed out on a good portion of my childhood. I hope he never finds out that Chloe and I baked chocolate chip cookies for my ninth-grade science teacher—only the chips weren’t chocolate at all, they were laxatives, and we … Well, we got more time to study before a particularly hard exam.

I wonder if Syrena have or even need laxatives. What would they use? That’s something I’ll have to ask Mom. I don’t think I could ask Galen without passing out.

I realize then that I’ve been contemplating laxatives instead of acknowledging Antonis. I don’t know why it surprises me when my grandfather speaks or takes me into his confidence. Maybe it’s because all the stories Galen and Toraf used to tell me painted the Poseidon king as an unsociable recluse. Or maybe it’s because I’m not used to having a grandfather at all, let alone one who wants to talk to me. Or maybe, for the love of God, I should try to swallow the novelty and answer his freaking question.

Only, what was the question? Oh, yeah. If I’m up for an adventure.

“Sure,” I tell him. “If Galen is up to it.”

Grandfather scowls. “I was hoping you had one of those drawings on hand, Emma. The ones humans make of land.”

Drawings humans make of land … “A map?”

The older Syrena scratches at his beard. By now I know him well enough to figure out he’s stalling. Stalling must run in our family. “Yes, yes, that’s it. A map. But before we talk about any map, I trust you’ll keep this between us? Oh, no,” he says quickly. “It’s nothing bad. On the contrary, really. But it’s something that I only want to share with you. The others wouldn’t … appreciate it as much as you will. And you may not appreciate it as much if they were to know.”

I’m still trying to grasp not only the fact that my grandfather knows what a land map is but why he would need to know what it is in the first place. Apparently, “the others” are not aware of this knowledge. And it’s clear he doesn’t want “the others”—including Galen—to know. I’m not sure how I feel about this. But I’m too curious not to promise. Besides, Antonis said it wasn’t bad. Maybe it’s like when grandparents give you cookies and candy when your parents aren’t looking. It’s not bad per se, but your parents certainly wouldn’t approve. That must be all it is. An innocent grandfather-granddaughter secret.

“I can pull up a map on my phone, but I left it on the beach. You’ll have to come ashore with me, and if you come ashore, you’ll need shorts. They’re over there,” I say, pointing in the opposite direction I originally sent him. “Under the driftwood stuck in the sand.”

He nods. Grandfather gives me a quick piggyback ride to the shorts, then lets me loose so he can change to human legs.

When he’s properly covered and sitting next to me in the sand, he gives me a knowing smirk, accentuating the small wrinkles tugging at his eyes. Syrena age well. For hundreds of years old, Grandfather’s smirk is youthfully vibrant. The only telltale sign of his age is some saggy skin on his stomach—and that could just be the angle at which he’s sitting right now. I pull up a map on my phone. “I can search the phone and find Neptune on the map.”

He shakes his head. “It’s been a while since I’ve been there, but last time I visited, Neptune was not on any human maps.” He rubs his chin. “I know it from the waters offshore here. Show me the land map with the water next to it, and I’ll know where it is.”

“Sure.” I pull up the East Coast of the United States, hoping I’m interpreting ancient Syrena speak correctly. “How about this?” I show him the face of the phone. The map is a bit detailed, with labeled highways and interstate signs. I doubt he’ll understand what we’re looking at.

Until he says, “Chattanooga. That’s very close to it, if I remember correctly.”

My half-fish grandfather knows how to read? What the what? “Um. Okay, I can zoom in a little more.” With a swipe of my fingers, Chattanooga and its suburbs are the only thing on the screen now. I can’t help but notice that Chattanooga is quite a distance from the Atlantic Ocean. In fact, I have to scroll over a few times. My curiosity is about to erupt into an onslaught of questions.

Grandfather studies me a few more moments, as if gauging whether or not he should tell me. Or maybe he’s trying to decide where to begin. And maybe he should hurry up before I burst.

Finally, he sighs. “Emma. You haven’t heard my story yet. The story of what I did when your mother disappeared.”

This is the first time anyone from the Syrena world has said “disappeared” instead of “died,” when referring to what happened to my mother all those years ago in the minefield. Or at the very least, now that she’s been found, they all say, “when I thought she had died.”

I have heard multiple versions of the story. First from Grom’s point of view, as told to me by Galen: Mom was blown to bits in a minefield blast and assumed dead. Then my mother filled in the rest of the crevices with details from her perspective on what happened that fateful day in the minefield: She somehow survived, came ashore, met my father, and … then there was me.

But sometimes stories aren’t just crevices and holes waiting to be filled in. Stories, real-life stories, have layers, too. Layers built on foundations laid centuries and generations ago. It’s those kinds of layers I see etched on my grandfather’s face right now.

“I did what any father would do if their child disappeared,” Antonis continues. “I searched for her.” And just like that, another layer adds on to the story. A layer only Antonis could contribute.