Of Poseidon 02: Of Triton (13 page)

Jagen turns to Antonis, careful to keep the poison in his eyes from infecting his voice when he says, “I propose, friends, that King Antonis would rather claim this newcomer as his daughter and pretend to perpetuate his bloodlines than let his house become useless. You see, if my Paca possesses the Gift of Poseidon, as many of you have seen already, then what reason do we have for keeping the Royals in so lofty a position among us? King Antonis knows this. If a Common could possess the Gift, then why should we be under the vigilance of Royals, instead of perhaps a leader chosen from among us, one who is more fit to rule?”

Jagen turns to his followers, who cheer with almost violent enthusiasm. Galen feels a knot in his stomach tighten, a knot that grows bigger with each word that spews from Jagen’s mouth. Mostly because what he says is true—technically. But Galen wasn’t prepared for Jagen to be this blunt, to be this open with his endeavors. And he wasn’t prepared for the spirited acceptance of such treason.

No, Jagen didn’t name himself as that potential leader. But he didn’t have to; he’s the one guiding their thoughts, influencing their decisions. It’s almost as if he’s had this talk with them before, minus the Royals. Jagen had been a very thorough adversary. He continues, “King Antonis has not graced us with his presence nor his leadership for many, many seasons. Only now that his own Royal status is threatened has he bothered to take an interest in our dealings. How can we trust this kind of rulership?”

The Loyals applaud again, but Jagen holds up his hands for silence. “What’s more, the Royals think they are above the law. They present us with this newcomer who they say is Nalia, the Poseidon heir. My friends, even if she
were
the Poseidon princess—which will be proven to you she is not—are we to simply overlook the fact that she has been breaking the law for many years, while she claims to have lived on the Big Land among humans? How much longer will we allow the Royals to dilute the law passed down from our esteemed generals?”

The audience roars with mixed emotions. The Arena is almost deafening. And that’s
before
Antonis closes his large hand around Jagen’s throat.

15

I SET
my backpack on the counter and pull a bar stool next to Rayna, who’s soaking/drowning a cotton ball in nail polish remover. “I think it’s dead now,” I tell her.

She gives me a sour look, then proceeds to scrub her big toe like a dirty pot. Rachel sets a glass of ice water down in front of me and a cookie that has nuts, marshmallows, chocolate chips, cinnamon, and … I can’t tell what else. “What’s this?” I ask.

Rachel shrugs. “Dunno. I made up the recipe this morning, but I can’t think of a good name for it. I was kinda just craving everything.”

I take a bite and all the flavors fight for attention. And I know exactly what to call it. “You should call them Garbage Cookies.” I realize how that sounds, and before she can finish her grimace, I say, “No, that’s a compliment! Mom makes me garbage eggs all the time. She puts all sorts of stuff in them, like jalapeños, cheese, sour cream, grits.” Or at least she
used
to make garbage eggs for me. Before she swam off to play princess.

“Ah,” Rachel says. “Well, I don’t want to steal your name. How about Dump Cookies?”

“Um. Sure.”

“No? How about … Upchuck Cookies?”

“Wow. Don’t hurt yourself.”

She grins. “How about—”

“How about we go check out what Rachel bought us today?” Rayna says, wiping the excess polish remover on a paper towel. She clears her throat in vain. “They’re on the beach.”

“
They?
”

Rayna nods. “I get the purple one.”

I follow her outside and toward the water. It looks like it has rained recently; tiny indents still dot the sand, marking the spot where each little raindrop fell to its death. Where the sand and water meet there are two jet skis, one red, one purple. I stop. “We’re not supposed to get in the water.”

“You only have to put your foot in to get on. Then you’re on top of the water.”

“What if I fall off?”

“Don’t.”

“But—”

“If you’re afraid then just say so. Or are you too afraid to
say
you’re afraid?” She crosses her arms when I don’t budge. “Rachel and I already took them out while you were at school. If you can drive a car, you can ride one of these things.”

Not comforting at all, since Rayna can’t actually drive. Last time she tried, we assaulted a tree with Galen’s little red car and got a free ride home in a cop car. What is Rachel thinking?

I bite my lip and think to myself how Galen would feel if I just stuck my foot in the water, just enough to get on the jet ski. Maybe I wouldn’t even have to; maybe Rachel could push me out. Wait … “Rachel took this out, bum leg and all, huh?”

Rayna scrunches her face. “Well, she came out and watched me do it. But it’s the same thing. She wouldn’t do anything she thought Galen wouldn’t like.”

I step out of my flip-flops and dig my toes in the sand. “I guess not.” But even Rachel must have a breaking point, a threshold for tolerating whining. And if trophies were handed out for whining, Rayna would have the biggest.

“He would want you to have some fun, you know,” Rayna says sweetly. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a fish look like a cat. “He would want you to keep your mind busy while he fixes all the little things wrong with the rest of the world.”

I decide Rayna is a grade-A manipulator. “He wouldn’t want me to risk myself for fun. And he’s not trying to fix the world. He’s doing what he thinks is best. For us.”

“And when is someone going to care what
we
think?” Her words are full of bitter and I wonder if she would have yelled that last part if she had her full voice back. It comes and goes, like a radio station just out of range. Tears threaten to spill through her long lashes. Tears that I’m not sure I can trust.

“What’s up with you?” I ask. “Is something wrong?”

She hugs herself as if it’s freezing cold out here on the sun-drenched beach. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I mean, what’s happening? Why hasn’t someone come for us? And…” She turns toward the water. “I’ve been thinking about how your mother lived on land all this time. And how … how I want to live on land, too.”

If I keep letting my mouth hang open, my tongue will dry up and shrivel inside my head. Before he’d left, Galen had made his intention of spending more time on land clear. Surely if he could do it, Rayna could do it, too, right? But she’s not talking about
more
time on land. She’s talking about
all
her time on land. Pretending to be human. Or is she? Is this all part of an elaborate scheme to tug on my heart strings and give in? She already tricked me into teaching her how to drive.

What would Galen want me to do? Would he want me to encourage her to follow the law? Would he want me to encourage her to live on land? And that’s when I realize what she’s talking about. Scheme or not, I shouldn’t encourage her to do
anything
.

Because I’m not her. All she’s trying to do is be
her
. At least, that’s what I
think
she’s trying to do. Now I feel bad for all the crap I give Toraf. You really can’t tell when she’s playing you and when she’s being serious. “You should do what will make you happy,” I tell her. “I think we should all do what will make us happy. And if living on land will make you happy, I say go for it.”

I can practically see Galen cringe. But Rayna is right. It’s time someone asked what she wants. No one asked her if she wanted to stay here and babysit me. No one asked her about mating with Toraf—even though it turned out that she wanted to. What if she hadn’t? Would she still be forced? I hate to think so. But I can’t convince myself otherwise. Not with this burdensome law the Syrena have clung to for so long.

Sure, there are good things about the law. Galen would argue that same law has kept them safe from humans all these centuries, and he would be right. But I can’t help thinking of my grandmother, my dad’s mom. She had this crystal figure of a clown holding a bouquet of balloons. I’d only ever seen it once, when she showed it to me while she was cleaning it. As she would turn it over and over in her hands, trying to get to every hidden crevice, it cast a rainbow prism on the ceiling, turning the whole room into a giant kaleidoscope. All the colors danced and played. It was absolutely mesmerizing to a six-year-old. After Grammy had made it shine, she wrapped it up in tissue, put it back in the box, then put the box in the attic. I’d asked why she didn’t show it off, put it on display in the house somewhere close to the window, so she could have a ballet of colors on her wall every day. “I want to keep it safe,” she’d told me. “I keep it in the box so it doesn’t get broken.”

That day I learned the exact opposite lesson Grammy was trying to teach me—well, as much as a six-year-old could comprehend of the matter: Grammy’s nuts. Also, breathtaking crystal clowns were not made that way for no reason. They were
meant
to be seen.

Now, years later, I can translate that lesson into: safe isn’t always better than sorry. Sometimes you need sorry to appreciate the safe. And sometimes safe is just plain boring. Rayna’s probably going through a combination of both right now. And who am I to say what’s right and what’s wrong?

And what is the law to say how she should live?

The law prohibits Half-Breeds. Am I really that bad? The law is like a one-size-fits-all T-shirt. And how often do those shirts really fit everyone?

Rayna studies me, as if she can tell what’s going through my mind. No, it looks more like she
planted
what’s going through my mind. Suspicion creeps back in.

“Yes, I can decide for myself,” she says. “I don’t need everyone else telling me how to think or feel about things. I’m a Royal, too. My opinion counts just as much as theirs.” She stares down into the water.

This whole time she was making the argument for freedom to live on land. But now I’m not so sure that land had anything to do with it at all. Somehow it sounds like she’s saying, “I want to live on land,” but meaning something else. Something else, like, “I want to go see what’s going on down there.”

She strips from her clothes, down to her still-wet bathing suit, and gets a running start for the water. “You’re just going to leave me here?” I shout after her.

“I’m not leaving you here, Emma. You’re keeping yourself here.” She leaves me with those crazy words, and then she’s gone.

I am paralyzed on the beach in my school clothes. I can’t help but feel that I’m in huge trouble. But why should I?
She
was babysitting
me,
not the other way around, right? It’s not like I can chase her down and follow her. Her fins have already gone a distance I can’t cover with my puny human legs. Besides, these are my favorite jeans; the salt water would be unforgiving.

Except … There
is
that shiny new jet ski sitting there. I could close the distance between us, put my foot in the water, and find her. She would sense me, come back to see why I was in the water. Wouldn’t she? Of course she would. Then I could talk her into staying here, not leaving me alone to drive myself crazy. I could manipulate
her
into feeling sorry for
me
.

Unless she’s the complete sociopath I think she is.

Still, it’s my only option. I grab the handle to the jet ski and pull it toward the waves. Luckily high tide is coming in and I don’t have to drag the thing far. It makes a trail from the beach to the water, evidence that one of us did what we weren’t supposed to. Or, maybe Rachel will think that we’re riding double.
Yeahfreakingright.
Rachel’s specialty is figuring stuff out.

But the more time I spend thinking about all this, the more time Rayna has to put leagues of sea between us. Good thing I don’t care about grace as I awkwardly climb aboard and stub my toe. I bite back a yelp, and turn the key in the ignition. The thing roars to life beneath me and all at once I’m one part scared and one part exhilarated.

So, I go.

It’s been a few years since I’ve ridden one of these, and even then I never actually drove one. I piggybacked with Chloe and only after she swore on her little brother’s life that she wouldn’t do anything reckless. I marvel at how far I’ve come since then. From scared to get in the water to chitchatting with fish on the ocean floor.

Luckily, my first scream of terror doesn’t come until I’m way out of earshot of Rachel, when I think I’ve grown bored with a lower speed and decide to gun it. The sudden jolt forward almost pitches me off the back end. While my heart rate recovers—along with my pride—I squint into the distance, into the reflection of the setting sun floating like an oil slick on top of the water.

I stare a long time, as if somehow Rayna will give me a sign of where she is if I just keep looking long enough. I let my foot dangle in the water, even as I admit that if Rayna is swimming with any kind of purpose, she’s long gone. Behind me the shore is just a flat line with no sign of Galen’s house. Not even a speck.

I could turn around.

I
should
turn around.

I twist the handles to turn around.

And out comes my second scream of terror.

The violent thrust of water in my face isn’t half as surprising as how loud it is leaving the huge blowhole that has appeared beside me. I cough and sputter and scream again, but this time in frustration. Goliath—my blue whale friend who first convinced me of my Gift of Poseidon—sends another gush of water toward me. “Oh, knock it off!” I tell him.

He makes a high-pitched clicking sound then dives under the surface. Goliath doesn’t speak English (or Spanish or French) but his whole demeanor begs, “Play with Me.” “I can’t play. I have to find Rayna. Have you seen her?” Yes, I really just did ask a whale that. And, no, he doesn’t answer.

Instead, half his body launches from the water and lands in a sideways belly flop. The resulting tsunami topples the jet ski.

I am in the water. Fan-flipping-tastic.