Of Poseidon (22 page)

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it left the water.”

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“You’re a tracker. You’ve been introduced to every Syrena from both houses. How can there be someone you can’t identify?”

“Obviously, I haven’t been introduced to everyone. I’m telling you, I’ve never felt that pulse before. Emma didn’t recognize it either. Not that I’d expect her to.”

Galen pinches the bridge of his nose. Emma wouldn’t recognize it because she has held a grudge against water all these years.

If there were Syrena living nearby, they wouldn’t have sensed her until now. He shakes his head. “Someone must know about her.

I need to go over there right now. She’s alone. Her mom works at night.” The dread he feels all over bottlenecks like a dam in his throat. “Toraf, you need to go to Grom. To night. Right now. You need to fi nd Paca before this stranger gets to Emma.”

“Jagen’s daughter? What does she have to do with Emma?” Galen stands. “Jagen claims Paca has the Gift of Poseidon.

If that’s true, I’m going to make sure she’s Grom’s mate, instead of Emma. But that won’t happen if someone— whoever this is— gets to Emma before you get to Paca.”

“Galen—”

“I know, it’s a long shot. But it’s no more unbelievable than Emma having the Gift. And it’s the only hope I have.” Toraf nods as understanding takes hold. “Okay. If she’s alive, I’ll fi nd her, Galen. I swear I will.”

“If there’s anyone who can do it, it’s you. And send Rayna to me while you’re gone.”

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17

BEING A straight- A student doesn’t guarantee anyone common sense. I’m no exception. By the time I fi gure out the steam in the bathroom means the shower is getting hot— I just can’t feel it because of my Syrena fl esh— Mom has called a repairman.

Making up a story even a kindergartner wouldn’t believe is my only option. Somehow Mom buys it— along with the service-fee repairmen charge when teenage girls waste their time and gas.

This all lends to my new theory— hitting my head triggered my Syrena instincts. All the changes in my life seem to center around that. More than hitting my head. What ever happened to me at Galen’s house— seeing spots, getting dizzy—

seemed to seal the deal. That night symbolizes the fi rsts and lasts of a lot of things.

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The fi rst time I held my breath longer than an Olympic

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swimmer. The last time I took a hot shower. The fi rst time I could see in pitch- black water. The last time I trusted Galen.

The fi rst time I sensed another Syrena. The last time I hated Rayna. The fi rst and the last time I put my head through hurricane- proof glass. The list of correlations to that night is as long as the Jersey coast.

And so is the list of reasons I shouldn’t be looking forward to seeing him at school. But I can’t help it. He’s already texted me three times this morning: Can I pick u up for school? and Do u want 2 have breakfast? and R u getting my texts? My thumbs want to answer “yes” to all of the above, but my dignity demands that I don’t answer at all. He called me his student. He stood there alone with me on the beach and told me he thinks of me as a pupil. That our relationship is platonic. And everyone knows what platonic means— rejected.

Well, I might be his student, but I’m about to school him on a few things. The fi rst lesson of the day is Silent Treatment 101.

So when I see him in the hall, I give him a polite nod and brush right by him. The zap from the slight contact never quite fades, which means he’s following me. I make it to my locker before his hand is on my arm. “Emma.” The way he whispers my name sends goose bumps all the way to my baby toes. But I’m still in control.

I nod to him, dial the combination to my locker, then open it in his face. He moves back before contact. Stepping around me, he leans his hand against the locker door and turns me

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around to face him. “That’s not very nice.” 0—

I raise my best you- started- this brow.

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He sighs. “I guess that means you didn’t miss me.” There are so many things I could pop off right now. Things like, “But at least I had Toraf to keep me company” or “You were gone”? Or “Don’t feel bad, I didn’t miss my calculus teacher either.” But the goal is to say nothing. So I turn around.

I transfer books and papers between my locker and backpack. As I stab a pencil into my updo, his breath pushes against my earlobe when he chuckles. “So your phone’s not broken; you just didn’t respond to my texts.”

Since rolling my eyes doesn’t make a sound, it’s still within the boundaries of Silent Treatment 101. So I do this while I shut my locker. As I push past him, he grabs my arm. And I fi gure if stomping on his toe doesn’t make a sound . . .

“My grandmother’s dying,” he blurts.

Commence with the catching- Emma- off - guard crap. How can I continue Silent Treatment 101 after that? He never mentioned his grandmother before, but then again, I never mentioned mine either. “I’m sorry, Galen.” I put my hand on his, give it a gentle squeeze.

He laughs. Complete jackass. “Con ve niently, she lives in a condo in Destin and her dying request is to meet you. Rachel called your mom. We’re fl ying out Saturday afternoon, coming back Sunday night. I already called Dr. Milligan.”

“Un- freaking- believable.”

I stare at the Gulf of Mexico from our hotel- room window.

Today’s storm made the white beach look like sugared oatmeal,

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the rain dimpling the sand and making it clumpy. The freakish

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turbulence from that same storm also made Galen sick on the plane.

I glance to the hideous love seat, where he’s sleeping off the nausea. Judging by his rhythmic snores, the tiny couch isn’t as uncomfortable as it looks. That, or projectile puking takes so much energy, you don’t care where you collapse afterward.

The sun is setting, but we still have a while before we meet up with Dr. Milligan at the Gulfarium. He wants us to come after closing to make sure we have plenty of privacy for the tests.

That’s another fi ve hours.

With time to kill, I change into my bathing suit and head to the beach, careful not to wake Galen. He needs his rest, and besides, I need some time to think. Plus, the rain scattered the remnants of tourists, so there won’t be any witnesses in case I grow a fi n at an inopportune time.

Peeling off my shirt, I wade in. I don’t know how close I am to where Chloe died. I didn’t recognize the hotels around us, but the place Rachel booked for us is more luxurious than the aff ordable- enough room Chloe’s parents reserved. It doesn’t matter. Chloe isn’t here.

And neither am I, not really. At least, I’m not the same Emma she brought down here. The one who followed her around the halls at school like a white shadow. The one who stayed a few feet behind her while she fl itted around like a bee, pollinating each of her social groups. A wispy, forgettable phantom.

I wonder if Chloe’s bigger- than- life personality would have

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room for the upgraded Emma. An Emma who lied to her mother 0—

to jump a plane with a strange boy- fi sh. An Emma who’s already

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waist- deep in the water without an ounce of terror splinter-ing her nerves. An Emma who’s more prone to pick a fi ght than stop one. Maybe upgraded isn’t the right word for the new me.

Maybe it’s more in the neighborhood of diff erent. Possibly even indiff erent.

The humidity is almost thick enough to drown in. Any second I expect rain to mingle with the tears as they slide down my cheeks. So much for indiff erent.

I dive in.

The gulf is nothing like I remember it. Of course, that’s because last time, the salt hurt my eyes. Also, the water felt cool and refreshing against the suff ocating Florida heat. Now, like the hotel Jacuzzi, the Atlantic, and every puddle between here and there, the water feels lukewarm.

It’s almost as frustrating as Galen’s game of hot and cold.

Thing is, I’m not sure it’s a game. From his expression, there’s out- and- out war going on behind the scenes. He leans in, pulls away. Leans in, pulls away. It’s like a battle between good and evil. I’m just not sure which one he thinks kissing me is.

Probably evil.

Which is pathetic. For the next twenty- four hours, I’m going to be stuck in a hotel room, unsupervised, with a guy who’s trying his hardest not to kiss me. Lovely.

I swim my grouchy self along the sloping bottom, making a game out of how many crabs I can irritate into snapping at me.

Most are good sports and have a go at it. Even if one actually latches onto to my fi nger, it won’t hurt anymore than a clothes-

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pin. But my strategy only works for so long before Galen and

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his succulent lips creep back into my thoughts. He’s like the club remix of a song I already hated, one I couldn’t get out of my head the fi rst time around. One that plays over and over and over.

I wonder what Chloe would tell me to do. God, I miss her.

Unlike me, she was a connoisseur of all things male. She knew when they were cheating. She knew when they were talking trash to their friends. She knew when they wanted her number even when all they asked for was a pencil. She would be able to take one look at Galen and tell me why he won’t kiss me, how to make him, and where to hold our wedding reception.

Too irritated to go further, I turn around. The smell of metal hits me like a wave. Smell? Is that even possible? Then I see it.

A cloud of blood. The ripple of a struggle. A fi n. Two fi ns. I scream. It hears me. They hear me. They stop thrashing, pieces of a dead something falling around them like confetti. Bloody confetti.

Turning back around, I already know I’m dead. The good news is, two sharks will kill me faster than one. Two sets of jaws have a better chance of slicing an important artery right away. It should be quick. Part of me wants to stop and get it over with.

The other part, the bigger part, wants me to swim like mad. Fight and kick and gouge. Make this their hardest kill ever. Hope they choke on my thick Syrena bones.

I hear the swish of their approach and tense up. One of them rams into me, knocking air bubbles from my lungs. I cry out

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and scrunch my eyes shut. No one wants to see their own death.

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A jaw clamps around my waist, powerful and tight. It lunges us

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forward so fast my head snaps back. This is it. I wait for the penetration of teeth. It doesn’t come. Just keeps swimming. I’ve heard of alligators doing this, of snatching its prey and taking it somewhere else. Saving the meal for later. Saltwater is probably a great preservative for keeping a corpse like me fresh.

I force one eye open. And gasp. Not a jaw around my waist, so powerful and tight. A pair of arms. Arms I’ve memorized every contour of.

Galen. And he’s so burning mad the water around us should be boiling. Maybe it is. Maybe we’re just moving too fast to see it. By the look on his face, he’s thinking about killing me himself. Maybe I was better off with the sharks.