Of Poseidon 02: Of Triton (12 page)

I put my backpack down and sit on the bar stool next to her. “Dangerous how?”

She shrugs. “He didn’t say. But I could tell he was serious.”

I don’t like this. This new explanation doesn’t make sense. In the beginning it made sense to leave Rayna behind because of her fat mouth. It made sense for Galen to ask me to stay out of the water. I’m a Half-Breed. The danger to me is obvious. But Rayna is a Royal. If anything, Royals are the most protected of all Syrena. Theoretically, the safest place for Rayna
is
the water. Or so I’d thought. No wonder she was so listless when they’d left. I wish she had told me this sooner.

I feel my throat closing up. If Toraf thinks Rayna is in danger, does that mean Galen is in danger, too? And what about my mom? Would Galen—would
Grom
—lead my mom into danger?

The biggest obstacle was supposed to be getting Paca and Grom unsealed. Danger was never a factor in all this.

Rachel hands me my backpack, her expression full of meaning. “I’m sure everything is fine. You have the luxury of going to school to keep your mind off things for a while. Be glad. In the meantime, I’ll take sweet pea here shopping or something. And I’ll try to find you both a distraction for
after
school.”

“I’d rather go shopping than to school,” I offer, but she pushes me toward the door and hands me the keys to Galen’s SUV. Arguing with her is like arguing with Mom. She wins, I lose, and it’s usually for the best anyway. I take the keys and go.

* * *

I don’t know how I ever survived school before Galen. Then I realize exactly how—Chloe. There was never an uninteresting day of school with Chloe around. I pass the locker we shared our junior year. The grimy outline of the stickers we slapped all over it still mar it in places. Our initials are still carved in the corner. I wonder if the school decided to leave it that way out of respect because of what happened over the summer. I wonder if after I graduate, they’ll clean it up and repaint it. Right now Chloe would be texting me, or walking beside me, or waiting for me at that locker.

But last summer changed all of that. When a shark plucked her from our surfboard and pulled her into the Gulf of Mexico by the leg. Her life ended soon after that. And my life changed. That day marked the first time I used my Gift since I was a small child, though I didn’t realize it then—and I certainly didn’t realize it while flailing for my life in Granny’s pond. It was also the day I met Galen. The first time I sensed him. Really, it was the summer of many firsts.

And now I feel guilty. Have I allowed Galen to replace Chloe? Or worse, have I
used
Galen as a replacement for Chloe? Did I grieve long enough for her? Did I cry hard enough? What if she never died? What if she were still alive? Would there have been room for Galen
and
Chloe in my life? Would they have liked each other, or would I have had to choose between them? And who would I choose? And why do I feel guilty even thinking about who I would choose?

I feel like the person who takes her mind off a headache by stomping on her own toe. I’ve just exchanged one anxiety for another. Worry about Galen and Mom, or worry about what-ifs over Chloe. It’s all the same. It’s all worry. I look around the school hall and begrudgingly watch all the kids whose problems amount to homework, getting grounded, or what to wear to prom. Even now, a group of them has gathered around a prom poster, probably discussing how they’ll get there, who they’re going with, blah blah blah.

This time last year, I’d be standing next to that poster doing the same thing. Chloe and I had decided in the sixth grade that when we got to be seniors, we would go stag (or “stagette,” as Chloe called it), even if we both had boyfriends. We declared at the age of eleven that prom was for
us,
not for anyone else, and it would be the best night of our entire existence. Period.

Now that she’s gone, I wonder what I should do. Should I uphold that agreement, and go stagette and deprive myself of the sight of Galen in a suit, squirming under the pressure to dance with some kind of grace in front of humans? Or would I even get the chance to go with Galen, given all the things going on right now?

That’s when I decide that prom is stupid. It’s just a dumb dance that might have meant something to the old me, but the new me doesn’t really give a flying frick.

And that’s when Mark Baker, whom I now refer to as Galen’s BFF because of their testosterone-enhanced run-in last year, walks up to me. “You got your dress picked out for prom? Let me guess. It’s violet, to match your eyes.”

I raise a brow at him. Since Galen has been gone, Mark has been awfully attentive. Not that Mark isn’t nice, and not that if it were a year ago, I’d be a babbling idiot if he took the time out of being godlike to ask what I planned on wearing for prom. But like everything else, Mark is
so
one year ago.

And I don’t know if I like that.

I shrug. “I’m probably not going.”

Mark is not good at hiding surprise. “You mean Galen won’t allow you to—”

“Knock it off. I know you think Galen is controlling or whatever, but you’re wrong. And anyways, I can hold my own. If I wanted to go to prom, you can bet your sweet Aspercreme I’d be going.”

Mark holds up his hands in surrender. “Simmer down, skillet. I was just asking a polite question. Did you want to talk about starving children or government conspiracy instead?”

I laugh. I’d forgotten how easygoing Mark is. “Sorry. I’m just in a bad mood I guess.”

“You think?”

I punch his arm, then feel guilty about how flirty it looks. “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

The bell rings and he starts walking backward, away from me. “But some people who shall remain nameless are pretty close to it.” He winks, then faces the other direction.

Mark is so likeable and good and boy-next-doorish. For a second I fantasize about not being a Half-Breed whose mother is a long-lost mer-monarch and whose boyfriend has a fin or hairy legs, whichever the situation calls for, and whose whole life isn’t toppling like a stack of dishes in an earthquake.

I allow myself to think that I am just me, and that Mark is taking me to prom, and that I am going to buy a violet prom dress now because he suggested it, and we will be pronounced prom king and queen and we will dance some of the night and kiss for the rest of it. A small part of me wants it. Not Mark, not exactly. A tiny fraction of me just wants to be
normal
.

But the bigger part of me remembers what my dad taught me about the undertow when he was trying to coax me into the water to teach me how to swim. “If you ever get caught in the undertow,” he’d said, “just let it take you. Just let it pull you right out. Whatever you do, don’t fight it and waste your energy and oxygen. That’s how people die. The people who don’t die wait it out. The undertow lets go eventually, right when you think you can’t hold your breath any longer. You just have to be patient.”

Because right now I’m caught in an undertow. And I’ve got to hold my breath, be patient, until it gives me my life back.

So I stop thinking about everything in the entire universe and I go to class.

14

THE BOUNDARY
has never been so full—at least not as far as Galen can remember. This thin strip of neutral territory runs around the entire earth and is the only place where a tribunal may be held. It reminds Galen of an upright, human version of the equator because it’s exactly that—and invisible boundary separating half the world. Syrena from both houses of Royals, and those who crossed over to Jagen’s “house”—the house of “Loyals” as they call themselves—cram into the Arena.

The shape of the Arena reminds Galen of the giant bowl Rachel uses for her breakfast cereal. Surrounded by a ring of hot ridges—the humans call them volcanoes—the Arena is a natural valley, flat and boring in contrast to the surrounding landscape. The hot ridges haven’t erupted in many years, since before Galen was born. Some of the Archives living today remember stories passed down from older Archives, but no one living today has ever seen an eruption here.

Not to mention, this area is protected by some human law that prohibits fishing here; any time boats or divers come in, some of the humans who live on a nearby island run them off. Very little human activity is ever sighted here. But Galen is certain that if they don’t get on with the tribunal, some kind of human technology will detect the activity and investigate—interference or no.

Which, for once, could be a good thing.

So far, Romul has been the only person to give testimony. The old Archive eloquently expressed that he felt the Gift could conceivably pass on to non-Royals under certain circumstances. Galen couldn’t agree more—they’ve already had the genetics discussion. But since Romul isn’t familiar with genetics, and he’s arguing for the sake of
Paca’s
Gift, then Galen can hardly look his one-time mentor in the eye.

As Romul leaves the center witness stone, he says, “And who knows? Perhaps the Royals have … strayed in the past. Perhaps Paca has more Royal blood than we suppose?”

The implication is outrageous. More than that, it’s treasonous. But Romul is in no danger of being arrested. Right now, the crowd moves as one, alive with whispers. Romul’s testimony glides through the water with momentum, building into a wave of shock and awe that cannot be undone. The words are forever imprisoned in their minds, trapped, demanding to be analyzed and picked apart. A hint of distrust will forever taint the relationship between the Archives and the Royals, the Commons and the Royals. Or rather, a hint of distrust will forever just taint the Royals.

Galen looks to Grom, scrutinizing his reaction and finding next to nothing. His brother is stationed next to Paca, his smiling queen, but it’s Nalia with whom he shares his-and-her matching expressions of indifference. Next to the Triton Royals, Toraf clenches and unclenches his jaw, but gives no other outward reaction. Galen’s gaze shifts to Antonis, across to the Poseidon side of the Arena. The wizened king looks slightly amused. Of course, after having spent so much time in self-imposed isolation, Galen supposes the king may not know how to act appropriately anymore. Otherwise, he’d have to question His Majesty’s sanity in allowing a genuine smirk to tug at the corners of his mouth. As if Romul had told a joke.

Galen wonders what his own expression betrays. Fury? Disbelief? Nervousness? But he’s not given much time to contemplate.

Tandel, an Archive from the Triton house and elected leader of the council for this tribunal, takes the center stone and hushes the Arena. “My friends, Romul has given us something to consider, and it is much appreciated. But he is the first to give testimony. If we are to resolve the matter, we must hear from the rest.” This seems to placate the masses. Tandel nods in self-satisfaction more than graciousness. “Now, we have Lestar, respected Tracker of House Poseidon, to give testimony.”

Lestar is seasoned, of an age to remember Nalia’s unique pulse, her identity. Toraf says a Tracker never forgets a pulse. If that’s true, Lestar can positively identify Nalia as the Poseidon princess. His testimony, along with Yudor’s, will end this ridiculous trial.

To Galen’s relief, Lestar wastes no time in doing so. “My friends, thank you for hearing my testimony today. I am honored to be a part of such a happy occasion. Happy because our lost Poseidon heir has returned to us. Many of you older ones are aware that I led the search party after the mine explosion all those seasons ago.” This incites nods from among the assembly. Both houses know the story; it’s one of the worst tragedies in the history of their kind. “You younger ones have heard the tale passed down through the generations. If you have, you would know that I was one of the last to give up hope of ever finding our princess alive. I searched many days after the last Tracker party was sent out.” Lestar turns to Nalia, an affectionate smile pursing his lips. “My friends, please believe when I say this one you call ‘newcomer’ is not new at all. I swear on the law and my ability as a Tracker, she is Nalia, heir of House Poseidon. I have known this one since the day she released from her mother’s belly. Please join me in welcoming her home.”

This coaxes a small cheer from some, but mostly a rash of disgruntled moans from the Loyals. Tandel is quick to quiet all, raising both palms toward the crowd.

After a few moments, silence reigns once more. Tandel places a hand on Lestar’s shoulder. “Thank you, Lestar, for your fine testimony. We will be happy to take this into consideration as well.”

At this, Antonis speaks up. The smirk has vanished from his face. “I wonder that we need to consider further, Tandel. Lestar has just identified my daughter and welcomed her home, as did Yudor upon her arrival. What more is there to say?”

If Galen thought the crowd was silent before, it’s speechless now, probably marveling at his mere presence. Antonis has kept himself hidden so many decades. Syrena from both houses seem captivated by his gravelly voice. Galen just hopes that their wonderment isn’t keeping them from listening to the king’s actual words or to his reasoning.

Tandel recovers with a smile. “Your Majesty, I think I speak for all in attendance when I say how thankful we are that you have honored us with your presence at this tribunal. I do see your point, Highness. But if we are to come to a thorough and satisfying agreement, would it not be wise to listen to all the testimony available to us now?”

Antonis rolls his eyes. “I well know the proper proceedings of a tribunal, Tandel. But she is my daughter. Who else would know her better than I? Why would I bother myself with
honoring
the Boundary with my presence if that were not the case?”

Galen can’t help but be amused by Tandel’s floundering under the scrutiny of the Poseidon king. He wonders if Antonis was always so blunt and impatient, or if he developed these savory characteristics while isolating himself in his Royal caverns. The king’s fit has Toraf grinning like a mischievous fingerling.

“If I may,” a voice calls from the crowd. A voice Galen is all-too familiar with. Jagen makes his way to the center stone, and turns to his section of Loyals. He smiles wide and bows before his traitorous followers. “If I may, friends, I would propose a very good reason why His Majesty would claim this stranger as his daughter.”