Of Poseidon (18 page)

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baby crabs. “The usual” is visiting Dr. Milligan to get caught up

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on the latest marine news. Or spending a few days with Rachel moving her most recent purchases around one of his many houses.

“The usual” is
not
living as a human, going to their schools, driving their cars, or wearing their clothes.

“Did Dr. Milligan have anything interesting for you?”

“A few things. Nothing to worry about, though.” Grom nods. “Good. The last thing I need is something else to worry about.”

Finally, Galen notices his brother’s tense profi le. Clenched jaw, taut biceps from tightly crossed arms. White knuckles where his hands grip impressions into his shoulders.

Galen stiff ens. “What? What is it?”

Grom shakes his head, hoarding his misery to himself behind a scowl.

“Tell me.”

“It could be nothing,” Grom says.

“It could be, but I can tell it isn’t.”

His brother sighs. He faces Galen, eyes hard. “I’ll tell you, little brother. But fi rst, promise me a few things.”

“What things?”

“Promise me that what ever happens, you’ll get Rayna to safety. I don’t care if you have to live as humans for the rest of your lives, you keep our sister safe. Promise.”

“Grom—”

“Promise!” Grom bellows, uncrossing his arms.

“You already know I will.” In fact, he’s insulted his brother

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would doubt it.

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Grom nods, relaxes. “I know. But I needed to hear it.” He looks away when he says, “I had a private meeting with Jagen.”

“You
what
? Have you lost your mind?” A distant cousin of King Antonis, Jagen is the bluster behind the storm of conspiracy brewing in the Poseidon territory. Anyone can see he’s making a play for the throne, but over the de cades, Antonis’s infl exibility has bloated the ranks of Jagen’s followers.

A good reason for Grom to be concerned with his siblings’

safety. If Jagen is truly ambitious enough to plot against his own king, he can’t be trusted not to try to overthrow the house of Triton. Plus, if anyone saw Grom meet with him, they might assume Jagen gained the support of the new Triton king. Or worse, King Antonis might assume that. The question is,
should
they?

“I know what I’m doing, Galen,” Grom growls.

“Apparently not. What does Father say?”

“You know I didn’t tell him.”

Galen nods. Grom would be a fool to tell their father. King Herof and King Antonis were friends long before they were enemies. And now King Grom would widen the chasm between them? “What did Jagen want?”

Grom sighs. “He requested permission to use Toraf. He needs him to track someone. Someone the other trackers can’t fi nd.”

Nothing extraordinary. Because of their value, trackers are the only Syrena able to cross kingdom borders without fear of arrest. Of course, Jagen would want Toraf— he’s the best tracker in the history of their kind. Out of respect for Galen’s family,

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though, Toraf never crosses the borders. And he would never agree to do Jagen’s bidding without royal permission from the house of Triton. Even then, he might not do it. “That’s it? Who does he need to track?”

“I wish that were it. It’s not so much
who
he needs to track, but
why.
”

“I swear by Triton’s trident if you don’t start talking—”

“His daughter Paca is missing. He thinks Antonis took her.”

Galen rolls his eyes. “Why would Antonis take her? If Antonis cared about Jagen’s treason, he would have done something about it years ago.” But Antonis didn’t seem to care about anything these days. Since Nalia died, he’s holed himself up in the royal Caverns. Some Poseidon trackers told Toraf he hasn’t come out since he declared the house of Triton an enemy.

“According to Jagen, Paca has the gift of Poseidon.” The words knock the breath out of Galen. “That’s not possible.”

Slowly, Grom shakes his head. “It’s not likely. But it’s possible. She’s got royal blood in her, no matter how diluted.

And if she is of Poseidon, I can’t ignore the ramifi cations of her ability.”

“But that’s not how it works. The gift has never shown up in anyone but a direct descendant.”
What am I saying? Won’t I be trying to convince Grom of the same thing about Emma, with even less proof than
this? At least Paca can prove
some
royal blood.
But Emma’s father isn’t

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trying to claim the throne. In fact, Galen found Emma
by acci-0—

dent. Which makes Paca’s gift seem suspicious, at best.

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“I spoke to the Archives. Of course, I didn’t tell them about Jagen’s accusation. They believe I’m just a new eager king, exploring our legacy.” The Archives are the collection of ten of the eldest among their kind— fi ve from each house— entrusted with remembering the history of the Syrena. Galen agrees it would be natural for Grom to seek their counsel.

“And?”

“In their collective memory, they don’t recall it ever happening. But one of the Archives, your friend Romul, believes it would be possible. He reminded us that the Gifts were to ensure the survival of our kind, not just the survival of royal lineage. He said he wouldn’t be surprised if Triton and Poseidon thought of this beforehand, that a royal might abuse his power. He thinks they might have made a provision somehow.” Galen crosses his arms. “Huh.”

Grom chuckles. “That’s what I said.”

“But you said you didn’t tell them about Jagen.”

“I didn’t. I’m a new king without a mate inheriting a bloodless war against the only other kingdom of our kind. It’s only natural for me to be asking creative questions.” Galen nods. “But if the Gifts can be transferred to someone else, why even bother forcing the Royals to mate? The law of Gifts has always been strictly enforced. Romul’s theory renders that law— and the Royals— pointless.” And it doesn’t sit well with Galen. Especially that Romul gave his opinion at all. The Archives are bound to tell the facts— nothing more, nothing less. Romul had told him that himself when Galen fi rst visited

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him as a youth. But Romul is more than just an archive to

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Galen, he’s his mentor. No, more than that, he’s his friend.

Friends share opinions with each other.

But Archives have no place speculating before kings.

“Well, it’s like you said, it’s just a theory. But it’s one I can’t ignore. I’ve decided to let him use Toraf. If Paca’s alive, Toraf will fi nd her.”

Galen nods. And if Paca has the Gift of Poseidon, there won’t be a need for Emma . . . at least not for Grom. His heart races with an emotion he can’t name. “If this gets out—”

“It won’t.”

“Grom—”

“But just in case it does, keep Rayna with you, wherever you’ve been. I don’t want to see your faces again until this is resolved.”

“We’re not fi ngerlings. Rayna’s even mated.”

“No, but you’re what’s left of the Triton Royals, little brother.”

The words hover between them, prodding them with the gravity of the situation. So much at stake, so much dependant on if. Does Antonis have Paca? And if he does, will he turn her over peaceably? And if he doesn’t have her, will Grom’s investiga-tion incite Antonis to make a bloodless war bloody?

But it’s worth the risk. If Paca does have the Gift, mating with Grom will ensure the survival of the Syrena. And Galen will be free and clear to chase after a certain white- haired angelfi sh.

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But is anything ever that simple?

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Grom stares out over the canyon, entombed in his thoughts,

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emotions absent from his face. Galen clears his throat, but it doesn’t pull his brother out of his trance. He considers dropping the subject altogether. Opening old wounds is the last thing he wants to do, but he has to know. There will never be a good time to talk about it, but this might be the only appropriate time. “Grom, I need to ask you something.” Hesitant, Grom tears his gaze from the abyss and settles it on his brother, but his eyes still hold a distance. “Hmm?”

“Do you believe in the pull?”

The question visibly jolts Grom, replacing the detachment in his eyes with pain. “What kind of question is that?” Galen shrugs, guilt stabbing him like a trident. “Some say you felt the pull for Nalia.”

Grom massages his eyes with fi ngertips, but not before Galen sees the torment deepen. “I didn’t realize you listened to gossip, little brother.”

“If I listened to gossip, I wouldn’t bother to ask.”

“Do you believe in the pull, Galen?”

“I don’t know.”

Grom nods, sighing. “I don’t know either. But if there is such a thing, I guess it would be safe to say I felt it toward Nalia.” With a fl it of his tail, he swims forward, turning away from his brother. “Sometimes I swear I can still sense her. It’s faint, and it comes and goes. Some days it’s so real, I think I’m losing my mind.”

“What . . . what does it feel like?” Galen almost can’t ask.

He’d already determined to never have this conversation with

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Grom. But things have changed.

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To his surprise, Grom chuckles. “Is there something I need to know, little brother? Has someone fi nally hooked you?” Galen doesn’t quite get his mouth closed before his brother turns around. Grom’s laugh seems foreign in this dismal place.

“Looks like she’s got you hooked and reeled. Who is she?”

“None of your business.” At least not yet.

Grom grins. “So that’s where you’ve been. Chasing after a female.”

“You could say that.” In fact, his brother can say anything he wants. He’s not telling Grom about Emma. Not while Paca is out there somewhere, just waiting to be mated with a Triton king.

“If you won’t tell me, I’ll just ask Rayna.”

“If Rayna knew, there would have already been a public announcement.”

“True,” Grom says, smirking. “You’re smarter than I give you credit for, tadpole. So smart, in fact, that I know I don’t have to tell you to keep her away from here, whoever she is. Just until things settle down.”

Galen nods. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

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15

THE SMELL of blueberry muffi

ns usually sweetens my mood,

but after the lukewarm shower I just took, blueberry muffi ns

don’t stand a chance at making my mood any sweeter than vinegar. Mom’s pulling the pan from the oven as I take the last step down the stairs.

“Is the water heater broken?” I say, pulling a bowl from the cabinet.

“Good morning to you, too,” she says, forking a muffi n onto wax paper to cool.

“Sorry. Good morning. Is the water heater broken?” I scoop a mound of oatmeal from the pot on the stove and slop it into my bowl. A muffi n hits my foot— we always have at least one casualty because the pan sticks.

“Not that I know of, sweetie. I showered this morning and

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didn’t notice anything diff erent.”

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“Probably broke on my shift,” I grumble, grabbing a muffi n and sauntering to the table. My legs are too sore to lower myself with any kind of dignity, so I drop into the chair and spoon oatmeal into my mouth to keep from complaining more. Mom worked all night, then cooked me breakfast. She doesn’t deserve vinegar.