Undertow (17 page)

“You knew,” I gasp.

He shakes his head. “I did careful background checks on every staff member in this school. I know more about them than they know about themselves. Mrs. Eleanor Sullivan graduated from the University of Michigan in 1954, she's been divorced twice, at one time she was prescribed antipsychotic medications for a bout with depression, and her son is Charlie Sullivan, a captain and founding member of the CI9. I had hoped she would prove my suspicions wrong, but I couldn't be sure unless I could test—”

I want to leap out of my chair and scratch his eyes out, but then I imagine him having me arrested too. “Do you know what you've done? I have to come to school surrounded by cops. Gang members followed me here today.”

He holds up his finger to silence me. “It's a temporary problem and easily remedied. By the time the final bell rings, Lyric, I will be the focus of all the fear and hatred at this school. It will take all the attention off you. But to make that happen, we need to work together.”

“We? We're not a team!”

“Governor Bachman is here. She has a court order that gives her the right to walk through my halls, visit my classrooms, and interview my students. It's unfortunate, but there's nothing I can do about it at the moment. It's especially unfortunate because I have big plans for today, plans that will fix both of our problems, but to ensure their success I need you to keep her busy while I get things going. And in return I will give you a reward,” he says, then hands me an envelope from his pocket.

I look down at it, unsure of what it means. “What's this?”

“Open it.”

It's not sealed, so I reach in and find several slips of paper. One is a birth certificate with my mother's name on it. It has a date of birth that makes sense for her age, fake names for her mother and father, and even a place of birth at a hospital in Buffalo. It looks real right down to the aged paper and the raised seal of the State of New York. There's a fake driver's license inside too. It has my mother's photo on it, our address, and her exact weight.

“Look again and you'll find a Social Security card as well. She'll need all three when you decide to go.”

He knows.
HE KNOWS.

My body takes over even before my mind has time to tell it to run. I'm on my feet in a flash with my hand on the doorknob, but Doyle wheels his chair to block my escape.

“Lyric, if you keep doing as I have asked, you can have the envelope. It's really quite simple, and the reward is life changing,” he says, steady and slow, allowing me time to process what he means.

“You aren't going to turn us in?”

“I was sent here to do a job, Lyric. Hunting down Alpha and their families is not that job.”

He takes the envelope and its contents away from me. “Does that seem like a fair trade?”

“Who are you?” I ask.

He shakes his head. Not today. “I've got to get started,” he says. “The governor will be here soon. Keep her busy and try not to look so shell-shocked.”

But I am shell-shocked. A moment later he leaves me in his spy room, alone. I watch him hurry from one screen to another, mobilizing soldiers, rushing down hallways with a radio, and checking emergency exits. When he's satisfied, his voice comes across the schoolwide PA system. He welcomes Governor Bachman to the building and urges everyone to cooperate with her. Then he calls all the teachers and staff into the lounge for an emergency meeting. I watch them drift toward the lounge and then watch as Doyle locks them all inside. He posts armed guards to make sure no one gets out. What is he up to?

“Hello, Ms. Walker,” a voice says. I jump with a start. Governor Bachman is standing in the doorway. I was so busy with my own questions, I didn't hear her enter. “I'm Governor Pauline Bachman.”

She offers her thin hand to me. It's cold and slippery, and I want to pull away, but my father's voice fills my head, reminding me to show authority figures respect, especially ones who make careers out of being nasty. Then there's Doyle's voice telling me to do my best or I'm staying in the Zone forever.

“Um” is all I can muster.

“I'm so glad to meet you, honey,” Bachman says as she peers into the monitors, confused at first, but then she realizes what they are and she smiles. “Very interesting. How are you? Are you having a good day? That's great. It's a real pleasure to meet you. You and I are going to be great friends.”

Her words, her smile, her face: they're all saccharine, meant to earn my trust. She's cooing to me like I'm a toddler on the first day of preschool.

“First of all, I want you to know that whatever we talk about here will be held in the strictest of confidence,” she continues.

“Oh, good.”

She reaches into her suit jacket and removes a digital recorder and pushes the button. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

My mind is a blank. Doyle should have prepared me. What would I want to talk about with her?

She gives me a pouty frown. “I heard what has happened, Lyric, and I want you to know I don't like it. Mr. Doyle should not have forced that . . . that thing on you. You must be terrified having to meet with him all by yourself. I heard there are guards, but the Alpha are unpredictable, aren't they? I want to help you, Lyric, if I can. There are powerful people waging a war against the good people of this state, but that doesn't mean we can't fight back. Right?”

I nod, a little too long and a little too enthusiastically.

“So, I was told you wanted to see me, and I am very eager to lend a helping hand. Is it about Fathom? You've spent a week with the prince, is that correct? That must be very uncomfortable.”

“It is?” I say, then frown. I can't stop thinking about the driver's license. It looked official. It solves a thousand problems that have given everyone in my family ulcers. All I have to do is keep playing Mr. Doyle's game, no matter how insane it seems. All I have to do is have a pleasant chat with the devil without looking like I'm on drugs.

“Ms. Walker, I hope we're not wasting each other's time,” Bachman says as she reaches over and stops her recorder.

“I'm sorry.”

“You zoned out there for a second.”

“I'm just tired,” I lie, just as mayhem erupts on every one of Doyle's monitors. Cops are swarming into classrooms and pulling kids out of their seats. I see students forced into the halls, and every single one of them has on a red shirt. Svetlana fights a soldier all the way down the hall. Jorge is pushed to the floor and handcuffed. Bachman can't see a thing, because she's looking right at me, eager but impatient. “I've been under a lot of stress.”

Bachman sticks out her bottom lip to sell her faux sympathy. Then she pushes Record on her device once more.

“Lyric, you can tell me anything, just let it all out. Honesty is the purest form of bravery. It's patriotic, so I don't want you to think you're betraying anyone. I'm sure a good person like you has a little sympathy for those things. It's understandable, but they aren't like us. They killed nine of our soldiers in cold blood. Sharing what you know about them can help us prevent that from ever happening again. I assure you that you aren't alone. Proud Americans are coming forward every day. For instance, we've recently learned something very helpful and”—she leans in conspiratorially—“well, as you know, the Alpha sent some of their people here many years ago to spy on us. There were twenty of them.”

“Twenty.”

She nods. “Twenty spies. We've captured seventeen so far. One of them was killed in a car accident and his body was stolen from the city morgue. But there are two more of them still walking free, right here in this neighborhood. Their kids could go to this school! Did Fathom mention them to you?”

I shake my head.

She pouts. “What do you and the prince talk about? Has he ever mentioned why they are always fighting each other? Do they have any weapons or technology that might pose a threat? Any little detail could make a very big difference.”

“I read to him.”

“You what?”

“He wants to learn to read English.”

“Well, that's very interesting,” she says, slightly irritated. “Does Fathom talk about his war plans or weapons?”

“No, never,” I say.

Bachman shakes her head and stands. She's lost patience with me, but I can't let her go. The halls are still full of soldiers and kids.

“He keeps talking about some island with monsters on it,” I blurt out.

“Lyric, I think he's playing a game with you. There's no island with monsters on it.”

“Three years ago I didn't believe in mermaids. Now I go to school with them,” I say.

Bachman nods and sits back down. Her eyes are wide and eager. “Has he described these monsters?”

“A little. They're like goat people, though some of them sound more like birds.”

“Bird people?”

“It's someplace called Sendak Island. I have no idea where it is,” I continue while I watch the monitors. It looks like the show is wrapping up. The soldiers are dispersing and the halls are emptying. Not a moment too soon, either. I sound dumber and dumber by the second. I can't believe this woman is buying my nonsense.

“Ms. Walker, this has been a very helpful meeting,” she says. She's so excited, she almost forgets her recorder. “And again, this is just you and me. If you have anything else you want to share, please reach out to me.”

“I will,” I say. “We're all in this together, right?”

She nods and beams that horrible smile. “We are indeed.”

I'
m spinning like a top, slamming into everything around me,
and banking in every direction. My best friend's stepfather is beating her. The principal of my school is dangling a golden ticket over my head, and the governor of the state wants to gossip with me about the prince. These are not the problems of a seventeen-year-old.

Oddly enough, Fathom is the least of my worries. I'm suddenly seeing our time together as an escape, a break from the surreal nightmare I am stumbling through.

“He's . . . not doing well,” Terrance says when I meet him outside the classroom. Terrance doesn't look like he's doing too well, either. The right side of his face is still puffy from where Surf struck him, and his eyeball is red and veiny. The Selkie's punch must have burst some capillaries. I want to offer him help, some kindness, but at this point the awkwardness of treating him like a stranger for the last few days is keeping me away more than my father's warnings about him. “You may not like what you see.”

I frown. I was hoping Fathom would be in a good mood. I could use a little peace right now, but can I really expect it? Mr. Cranky Pants's moods are hot and cold, unpredictable in their intensity, yet predictable in their attendance. Just 'cause the boy grinned at me and told a joke doesn't mean anything has changed.

I take a deep breath and enter the room. Inside, I find him curled on the floor in a battered heap. His face is shades of black and blue. The territory around his cornea is encroached by blood. Both of his ears are mangled and pink. There are deep cuts and nasty scrapes from his hands all the way up his arms, and what looks like road rash all along his collarbone. I'm not even sure how he got to school. I'm not even sure he's alive.

I drop my books and rush to him. “Fathom, can you hear me?”

He lifts his head weakly. “Hello, Lyric Walker. What stories did you bring today?”

I feel terribly guilty. He wasn't in homeroom, and I didn't see him in the halls, either. I didn't give it a second thought that he might be seriously injured or even dead.

“I know you're going to fight me, Fathom, but I'm begging you. Please let me get a doctor,” I cry.

“We have talked about this,” he says.

“You've talked about it. I'm getting some peroxide and bandages.”

He shakes his head. “The soldiers already offered. I will not take them.”

“It won't hurt,” I say.

“Do you believe that is my concern?” he snaps, then winces.

“I can't just watch you suffer,” I say.

“We have different definitions of suffering,” he says. “But there is one thing you can do for me.”

“What?”

“I need you to hold my hand.”

“Huh?”

He struggles to stand, tremors shaking through his chest. He's in terrible pain, but he's so proud. He waves off my help.

“Just hold on tight,” he says as he reaches out to me.

“Okay,” I say, though I'm confused. I weave my fingers into his. His hand is hot, like the oven on Thanksgiving, but slippery like glass.

“Tighter,” he says. He holds me firmly. “I need you to stand very still and not let go no matter what.”

“Why?”

“Because my shoulder is out of its socket, and I have to pop it back into place,” he says as he lifts his arm. A groan escapes his throat, and he bites his lip.

Shocked, I let go of his hand and he moans even louder.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but that's not going to happen. I can't do that, Fathom.”

He reaches out again. “You asked if you could help.”

“I didn't offer to help you pop a bone back into its socket! What happened to trophies and tough-guy Alpha stuff?”

“I am allowed to tend to wounds that prevent me from defending myself.” His eyes water from the pain. “Lyric Walker, my injury is two days old. I have been facing challengers with it ever since, and as you can see from my other wounds, a one-armed fighter is not as dangerous as one with two working limbs. My subjects are sensing my weakness. They are growing bold. Please.”

I take his hand again, this time with trembling fingers.

“Don't let go,” he says.

I squeeze hard and shut my eyes. With a sudden twisting jerk, I'm lifted off my feet, flying around him but hanging on. I hear a
snap
and a low grunt, and then he sets me back down on the floor.