Raging Sea (23 page)

“How did you deal with that feeling before you got your Oracle?”

“Yoga,” I say, suddenly realizing that it’s true. I don’t think I gave it much thought until just this moment, but yoga was the calming effect on my life. It helped quell the headaches and center me. I used it to channel all the bad mojo into something I could manage. Suddenly I know how to help Riley and all the others.

For the next thirty minutes, I teach Riley a few poses. We work on downward dog and sun solstice and mountain, and even resting warrior. He finds it embarrassing at first. A lot of guys do, but then he starts to understand that it’s hard and he’s not as strong as he struts around thinking he is. When it’s over, I can see he’s found some respect for it and a little
Om.

“Now let’s try again. You’ve gotten all the clutter out of your head, so focus on that moment you used yesterday.”

“My happy thought,” he says.

“Good, so focus on the happy, Riley.”

He closes his eyes, and there’s that grin. I have to admit he’s cute—naive, sheltered, dumb—but very cute. Bex would dig him. He’s a fixer-upper, and maybe someday when Shadow’s death is not looming over her, she might want to give him a chance.

The pool starts to churn into a bubbling soup. It’s unruly at first, much like the things I made when Arcade started coaching me, but then it takes form. I’m expecting some kind of weapon. That’s what I usually create, but this is something entirely different, and it takes me a while to realize it’s a soda bottle. It spins and spins in place, finally slowing so that the end is aimed right at me; then the water falls back into the pool with a splash.

“Big moment,” he says, getting to his feet.

I look up into his face and he’s giving me that grin, and it’s charming, cocky, and confident. Now I remember him. I kissed him during a game of spin the bottle three years ago.

“I better get going,” he says. He strolls off through the double doors without another word.

Fathom enters and approaches, and suddenly my nice little surprise melts into anger.

“I have been sent to train you to fight, Lyric Walker,” he says.

“No!” I cry.

“The one called Doyle insisted,” he says.

Fathom takes off his jumpsuit, revealing a pair of tight swimming trunks.

“We will train in the pool,” he says, leaping into the water with a splash. I look down at the clothes he left behind and scream. I’m not doing this. I refuse. I turn and walk, only to hear a
whoosh!
He soars over my head and lands in my path.

“I cannot let you die,” he says.

“You pretty much killed me already, and the kids, too. If you hadn’t given Spangler those gloves, he would never have been able to send us to face the Rusalka.”

“You don’t understand,” he says.

“Then explain it to me! Tell me why you’re helping him.”

A couple of soldiers enter the park, walk toward us, and then stop to watch what we do.

“I do not wish to speak of it with others around. I will meet you here every day and I will teach you to survive.”

“I don’t want anything to do with you, Fathom. I don’t believe anything you do or say anymore. For all I know, you’re here to kill me or teach me something that will get me killed. Do you understand me? That’s how little I think of you now. We are not friends. Whatever we were or could be is dead. I don’t want to be your selfsame or your girlfriend. I don’t even want to be your friend. I want to be a stranger. I want to forget what we did so I can share that with someone who deserves it!”

He takes a deep breath and drops his eyes.

“I will respect any request you have, but I will not let you die. When I am confident you can fight, I will take myself out of your life,” he says, then leaps back into the pool. I watch him swimming below, seeing how the water bends and twists his image into something I don’t recognize.

“Ms. Walker, this is part of the deal!” Spangler shouts from across the room. His tablet glows at his hand. He’s got a weapon too, and I know he’s not afraid to use it to kill everyone I love if I don’t give him what he wants.

For the next two hours, Fathom silently teaches me to fight, and for two hours, I punch and kick him with every brokenhearted fiber of my being.

O
DDLY ENOUGH, MY LIFE STARTS TO TAKE ON A ROUTINE.
I spend half my days helping my mother take care of my father’s injuries and letting Bex bitterly complain about Fathom’s “dumb face.” In some ways it feels like we’re all back in our apartment in Coney Island.

Everyone is slowly getting stronger. Bex and I put on weight, and our bruises fade. Her old self is returning as well. One day I come back to the room and find she’s cut up one of the jumpsuits into something that borders on scandalous. She even yanked the White Tower logo off the chest and threw it in the trash. I ask her if she can do the same to all of mine.

My father is obsessed with getting back to his former self, and my mother and I take turns scolding him for overexerting himself with sit-ups, pushups, and jogging in place. He says he’s going stir-crazy and needs to do something. He wants to be ready in case there’s a chance to escape. He doesn’t want to be the one who holds everyone back. I worry he’s making his injuries worse.

My mother frets about us all, sliding back into her role as Summer Walker, hot neighborhood mom, but I catch her doing exercises as well. She lifts the sofa over her head and does pushups for hours.

The other half of my day is spent with the children, four hours of training with the gloves, then two hours of fight training with Fathom. Spangler hovers over it all. He pushes me to get closer to the kids, so I eat meals with them. I agree to lunch in their own fancy cafeteria, complete with a salad bar, an ice cream machine, and a taco buffet. A chef will make them coal-oven pizzas that look a lot like New York–style thin-crusts but for some reason aren’t as good. Huge television screens play prerecorded cartoons and MTV all day. The children sometimes gather around, asking questions about the Alpha like they are characters in comic books or Greek mythology. They have an endless desire to know more about their Alpha families.

“What does a Selkie look like, Lyric?” Geno asks. He’s been in this camp for almost three years. He has no memories of Coney Island or the arrival of the Alpha.

“They’re big. Even the teenagers are almost seven feet tall, and they have spikes on their shoulders.”

“I saw a Ceto once,” Tess says.

“They’re probably the most dangerous of the Alpha. They’re electrified, like an eel, and one touch can kill a person,” I explain.

I realize I’m telling ghost stories around a campfire.

“Donovan says there are hundreds of different kinds of Alpha. And there’s something that eats your brain,” Georgia says.

“He told me the same thing,” William says.

“He showed us a news story where thousands of them came out of the water,” Leo says. “If they come at me, I’m going to stomp them with my feet.”

“Who is that boy who meets with you? Is he your boyfriend?” Priscilla asks.

Suddenly, all eyes are on Riley, but he’s staring at his shoes.

“He’s a Triton, and his name is Fathom. He’s a prince, and his father is the prime.”

“He’s the king’s son?” Chloe asks. “Is he bad too?”

I realize I don’t know the answer to that anymore.

“He’s not like his father,” I say. It’s the kindest thing I can muster.

“When I see the prime, I’m going to punch him in the face,” Leo says.

Riley gives me a shy smile. He’s got it bad for me and if we weren’t locked up in this madhouse, I would probably enjoy it. He’s got the worst timing in the world. A crush is just stupid right now.

But all these kids are stupid. They don’t have a clue. To combat their naiveté, I push harder in our training sessions, trying to teach them to think of themselves as giants or dragons or whatever fierce beast they can imagine, though I’ve found that if I meet with each one of them individually, I have better luck with yoga. Within a week, ten of the kids can command the water nearly as well as I can.

Geno is my prize pupil by far. Despite his age, he’s capable of complicated creations, and for such a little boy, he’s not easily shaken or distracted. Doyle is pleased with him as well and tells me he will most likely lead the charge when we deploy. The very thought fills me with dread, and my instinct is to focus on the older kids, work on their abilities until they surpass his. I’m sure it hurts his feelings, but I’m doing it for his own good. None of these kids are meant for fighting, no matter what age, but I’m not going to help the littlest one lead the war.

Riley is ever present, hovering and joking and flirting, always showing off his growing control. I don’t want to encourage him, but I do find myself smiling when he’s around. He’s thoughtful and kind with the little ones, and I suppose it’s nice to have someone in this world who still thinks I’m hot. Or maybe it’s nice to be around a boy who is allowed to like me, who doesn’t have some weird tradition that keeps us apart, who isn’t a liar. Riley and I are a lot alike, from the same neighborhood, with the same weird genetics, too, with the same secrets. But mostly, and I know this is selfish, what I like about him is that he’s so obvious. He’s into me, and he lets me know and I don’t have to have a degree in Triton facial expressions to decipher what he’s thinking. He reminds me of Shadow in a way—always there, dependable, fun.

There are moments when I see him in the park or pass him in the hall and I get a little thrill when his whole face brightens. If we were a couple of kids hanging out on the beach, he would be a more-than-suitable rebound boyfriend, but now, in here, I feel shut down, like my heart is dead. Fathom ruined me for any future boys. I’m smooshed, and my feelings are unreliable. I can’t trust anything. It’s also hard to get excited about someone when you know his future is bleak.

“He says you’re beautiful,” Chloe whispers to me. “He tells me at night when he reads me bedtime stories.”

“He tells you that so you will repeat it to me,” I say.

“You think so?” she asks, suddenly angry with his manipulation.

“It’s a boy trick,” I say.

I rub my head beneath my hat, feeling the patchy hair slowly growing, and feeling self-conscious. I don’t feel beautiful.

“I think
you’re
beautiful,” I tell Chloe.

“Yeah, I know,” she says, then bursts into giggles, and I smile. I’m making a mini-me.

Chloe and I spend a lot of time together. I can’t help but care for her, stepping in to act as the mom when her real mom is probably floating in a tank not four floors above us. I find myself prodding her to eat more vegetables at lunch. She draws me pictures where the two of us are walking on rainbows. I hang them in my room. She sits with me in the grass, and we talk about home and how much she misses it. I rub her temples when her migraines attack. One thing I’ve noticed is how she changes the subject every time I ask about her parents. All she will say is that her daddy is a hero and her mother is fighting the war. She tells me it’s her turn to fight now, and she will, just as soon as she gets a glove.

“I’m glad you gave yours to Samuel,” I say, but I leave out that I can’t bear thinking about her on that beach, fighting things that will try to eat her.

“I know, but I don’t get to have fun like everyone else. I asked Donovan for my own glove this morning. He said he would get me one tomorrow.”

I hope it was an empty promise.

Fathom holds up his end of the deal and doesn’t talk to me about anything other than fighting. He focuses on our training and pushes hard. He wants me to swing faster, kick with more intensity. Fighting underwater is so impossibly difficult, and he has no patience with my excuses. He slams into me, pushes me around, and knocks me over with his speed and strength. He shouts at me and criticizes every move I make. He shoots derisive looks my way, which just spark a fight when we get out of the pool.

“You can’t come here and bark at me!” I shout.

Fathom springs out of the water, landing on the lawn in an effortless leap.

“You’re not working hard enough. The Rusalka are fast and merciless, and you are like a sea turtle fighting the current.”

“You and Arcade are clearly meant for each other!” I cry. “She was always telling me I was a loser too. I don’t care if the two of you think I can do better. This is all you get!”

“Arcade would never be this lazy,” he says.

I smack him so hard, it echoes off the rafters. Then I turn and stomp toward the door, mad at myself for needing to cry, but he’s in front of me so fast, I feel the wind blow against my wet swimsuit.

“I’m trying to keep you alive,” he says. “I can’t lose you.”

“You don’t have me,” I say bitterly, my eyes blinded by tears. “I always worried you would pick Arcade. In fact, I was prepared for it. Now I wish you had.”

He looks stricken. Can’t he see what he’s done? This is us now: we’re done, and it’s underlined in red. It’s what we’re going to be from now on, and it’s his fault.

“I don’t want to be part of some stupid clichéd love triangle, anyway.”

“What is a love triangle?” he asks.

“It’s when one person treats two others like losers, and the losers love it,” I say.

A soldier enters the room.

“Mr. Spangler would like to see you,” he says to me.

“Lyric Walker, you must talk to me,” he begs, but I turn and stalk out of the room.

Doyle is waiting outside Spangler’s office when I arrive.

“He wants to see us both,” he explains, but says he has no idea why. He knocks on the door, and after a moment it opens and we enter.

Spangler is sitting at a fancy glass desk littered with electronic gadgets. He smiles and gestures for us to enter.

“Doyle, Lyric, I believe you both know Samuel.”

Samuel Lir is sitting in his wheelchair off to the side, so I didn’t spot him at first. When we turn to face him, he does something I never thought I’d see him do again. He stands. It’s awkward and difficult, but he gets up and stays put. I cry out in both surprise and joy.