Undertow (12 page)

“Any trouble?”

“Handcuff free,” I say, and hold up my hands.

I can tell he's got a million questions, but he doesn't press. He reaches into his pocket and hands Shadow and Bex their phones, then offers them a police escort home. They don't hesitate, leaping into the squad car and cranking up the air conditioning.

“Can we turn on the siren?” Bex begs.

“Like you need any more attention in that dress,” Shadow says.

Her whole face lights up. He made her wait all day for that compliment. The boy's got game. I just wish I had the energy to enjoy it.

After we drop off Shadow, I have a ten-minute uphill argument with Bex about her staying at our place. Tammy wants her home and swears Russell won't be there, so she's going. I think she's nuts, because Russell has a way of showing up when he's supposed to be gone forever. But I eventually let it go. Having her with me is purely selfish. Bex makes a great shield to the interrogation I'm going to have to sit through when I get home.

Dad drops off the squad car at the precinct, and we walk the rest of the way home in silence. I guess his questions can wait. Even Mom cuts me a break when she sees my face. I guess it says it all.

“I'll run you a bath,” she says.

Minutes later I'm sobbing in the cold water while she holds my hand.

A
n
F3
greets me in the morning.
Hello, Lyric, let me punch you behind your eye socket. Did that hurt? Well, get used to it, because I'll be doing it again any second now.
The pain makes me nauseous and I see flashes in my vision. According to the weatherman on TV, it's going to hit 102 degrees today. By noon I'll be struggling with an F4.

I get dressed and head into the living room. Dad's head is in the freezer. My mother is pressing a glass of ice water against her forehead.

“Please!”

They know what I want. We have the same argument every day.

“We can't use the money, Lyric. We might need it,” my dad says.

I fall to my knees with my hands intertwined. “For the love of God!”

“At least you can go outside,” my mother grumbles. “I'm on house arrest until the mob goes away.”

My dad throws up his hands, then reaches into his wallet. He slaps a fifty on the counter.

“Summer, go down to the dollar store and pick up a couple of window fans,” he growls as he gives us both the stink eye.

“Yay!” my mother cries, seemingly more excited to have the freedom than any comfort a crappy window fan could provide.

“Window fans? They're just going to move the heat around,” I grumble.

“Window fans,” my father repeats sternly. He plops a bag of frozen peas on top of his head, then turns back to me. “Get ready. I want to get an early start.”

I feel even less inclined to wear something nice than I did yesterday, so I snatch whatever my hand finds, run a comb through my hair, and send a handful of aspirins swimming down my throat. Minutes later we're walking to school in ninety-nine-degree Fahrenheit sun. I daydream of strapping a window fan to my head.

You would think it would be too warm for a protest, but when we turn the corner, we find even more lunatics than yesterday, and this time they have gotten crafty, bringing huge fish puppets and effigies of mermaids to burn. Some of these creations are easily ten feet tall and grotesque, with exaggerated features and tails. All of them look like devils, sporting fangs and holding tridents. Ah, papier-mâché! With a little flour and water, there's no limit to the hate you can make. Now I'm glad it's hot. I look up at the sun and dare it to do its worst. Let these jerks roast out here. Maybe the sun will set the puppets on fire and take everyone out in the blaze.

Shadow is in the middle of it all, taping everything on his phone, talking into the lens, and musing on every moment. Bex is nearby, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt. It's more clothing than she wears in the winter. I give her outfit a once-over and then shoot her a questioning look.

“Laundry day.” It's a lie. I don't care if she's worn everything she owns both inside and out, she wouldn't wear what she has on. If it were true, she would have been pounding on my door at the crack of dawn to raid my drawers. There's something under those long sleeves that she doesn't want anyone to see, especially me.

“You're staying with me tonight,” I whisper to her.

She nods. No argument. She knows better.

When Irish Tommy gives us the go-ahead, we rush inside. Unfortunately, trouble is waiting: fifteen of my classmates in Niner colors. They stand defiant with arms crossed, a small army of red shirts, wanting to be seen, waiting and watching the door. It causes a bottleneck in the doorway that Ervin has to push his way through.

Ervin is speechless.

The Niners don't have to wait long. Fathom, Luna, and Ghost enter with Terrance and the soldiers. Everyone sees the shirts. Everyone is frozen in place.

Jorge chuckles silently.

The Niners' message is in every hallway, classroom, and stairwell. One kid has a locker full of T-shirts he hands out for free to anyone who asks, and there are a lot of people asking. The tension is so thick, it feels like a physical object, a membrane of hate that slows your every step. I look up at a camera in the hall and wonder when Doyle is going to do something. I want to shout at him,
Hey, wake up! This place is going to explode!

By the time I have to meet with Fathom, I'm almost happy to get away from it all—almost.

“Just breathe,” the female soldier says when I arrive for my meeting with Fathom. “We're right outside the door, Lyric. By the way, I'm Bonnie.”

I nod, but I'm not convinced she and her team could stop him. Aside from his arm swords, he's incredibly strong. All the Alpha are. My mother can lift our couch over her head with one hand, and she doesn't have nearly the muscle that the prince has. No, I don't think Bonnie would be able to put up much of a fight against him.

Fathom is lying on the floor beneath one of the windows. He has ripped a tiny hole in the brown paper just big enough for him to peek out at the sky but too small for anyone to see through from the other side. Light tumbles through it and paints his face in yellow and white. He waves his hand around the beam, caressing it, letting it dance across his bruised knuckles.

“How do you creatures stand this?” he says.

“Let's make some rules. First, let's stop with the insults. I am not a creature. I am a person,” I say.

He looks at me for a long time, as if he's considering whether or not he agrees.

“How do you persons do this?”

“Do what?”

“Live in these little boxes. My people put criminals in prisons like this to punish them. It's considered torture.”

“It beats sitting in the rain,” I say. I slide into the desk nearest to the door, far from where he is lying. He looks up, frowns, then crawls over to sit nearby. That's when I see the blood on his other hand and the huge purple welt on his right arm. There's a rash poking out of his collar too. “What happened to you?”

He waves his hands dismissively. I'm too concerned to let it make me angry.

“Let's go to the nurse's office. I think there are some bandages there, maybe some peroxide.”

“An Alpha does not tend to his wounds.”

“What? You could get infected.”

He shakes his head. “It is dishonorable. It implies weakness.”

“Says who?”

“All of my people.”

“Who did this to you? Was it one of the Niners?”

He rolls his eyes like I have told a ridiculous joke. “I responded to challenges.”

“Challenges?”

“Yes, one from two Sons of Sirena, one from a Son of Triton, and a Son of Selkie with a very hard face.” He looks down at his knuckles. They are rubbed raw and bloody.

“You were in three fistfights last night?”

“Two of them did not involve fists.”

“How often does this happen?” I ask as I eye a wound on his forehead that looks like it needs stitches.

“As often as necessary. I am the prince of the Alpha, and my responsibility is to fight in defense of my father's decisions.”

“You fight his battles? That's crazy.”

He scowls. “Humans do many things I think are crazy.”

“Humans don't handle their problems with fights to the death.”

“No, they wear brightly colored shirts and throw fish,” he snarls. “You are quite a noble race.”

“Your dad's decisions must not be very popular if you're getting your butt kicked three times a day,” I say.

“The prime cannot concern himself with what is popular. His duty is to lead. He must be free of distractions to make wise decisions.” It sounds rehearsed to me, something he's repeated to himself until it feels true.

“What if you get killed defending him?”

“My father would be overthrown by challengers to his rule. He would most likely be killed and his body tossed into the Great Abyss. The Alpha will not follow a prime who has no heir. The path to the throne must be secure or it will be seized by another with stronger family lines.”

“So killing you would topple your government.”

He nods. “My father's name would be ruined as well. His rule would be condemned for generations, and children would sing songs of his foolishness a hundred years from now.”

“I guess it would suck for you, too,” I say. “Being dead and all.”

“I would be labeled the son of a fool. My people would sing songs about me as well. So, yes, there is a powerful motivation to stay alive, even if it would solve a number of problems for you. I'm told you do not want to meet with me.”

“You were a little unhinged yesterday.”

“Unhinged?” he asks.

“Crazy.”

“And you would prefer to not be around someone who is unhinged?”

“Oh, I'm around crazy people all day. I don't know if you noticed the big crowd of screaming people outside. But none of them have swords that come out of their arms.”

“They are not swords.”

There's a
shtickt,
and the blades on his arms extend. I let out a little scream. I can't help it.

“They are bones, blessings from the Great Abyss. Sons and Daughters of Triton sharpen them as soon as we can hold a sanding stone.”

“The Great Abyss?”

“The birthplace of all life, the mouth of the hunt, the giver and the taker.”

“So, like God?”

“Like your God? The one who loves his creations? Or so say the screaming people who tell us we are monsters. No, the Great Abyss is not like him,” he scoffs. “The Great Abyss has higher standards.”

“My father used to tell me you can't blame God for his fans,” I say.

He stares up at the ceiling again. “I will try to be less unhinged.”

“Deal.”

“Yesterday you asked if there was anything I would like to know about you, Lyric Walker,” he continues. “What did you write on that white wall?”

I look over and see the words I scribbled yesterday in anger.

“I have not yet learned to read your language,” he explains.

Thank God!

“I could teach you,” I say. “If we're going to be stuck in here an hour every day, we might as well do something useful.”

He sits up and stares at me. His gaze is like an anaconda, wrapping me tighter and tighter until I can't breathe.

“I mean I could try,” I say, finally breaking its hold.

He frowns. “The lady with the red cross on her shirt read stories to me when we first arrived. It helped me to understand your language, but learning to read it might present a problem. There are many Alpha who believe it is traitorous to learn anything of the human world, my father included.”

“Would you have to fight your people if they found out you can read English?”

“I am not afraid to fight,” he growls. His eyes smolder with my assumed insult.

I throw up my hands in apology. “I never said you were.”

He crosses his arms with a big huff. It's so childish, I almost laugh.

“I can teach you in secret. No one has to know.”

“Why would you do that for me?” he says warily.

“Let's call it a trade,” I say. “I want you to stop following me through the halls. There are lots of humans who think a friendship between you and me is wrong. I for one am very afraid to fight, and I don't have swords in my arms.”

“They are not swords.”

“Okay, what do you think? I'll bring books and we'll start tomorrow.”

“No,” he says, pointing at the nasty words I wrote on the dry-erase board. “Let's start now.”

Doyle's smug smile makes me sick. I regret telling him Fathom wants to learn to read. I hate that this guy feels like he's winning his little war, and I don't want him thinking like he can say he told me so. I just want to get out of his creepy spy room and go home, but I suck it up and smile at him anyway.

“I don't actually know how to teach someone to read,” I confess.

“I'll have Mrs. Sullivan get you some books about it,” he says. “This is very good, Lyric. See? I knew you would be a big help.”

“That's what you said,” I grumble under my breath.

When the bell rings for the end of the day, Mrs. Sullivan stops me in the hall. She's an older woman, tall and lean, with snow-white hair. She looks like she was born with a limited number of smiles. She's not wasting one on the likes of me.

“Don't ruin these,” she barks, then hands me a burlap tote bag. Inside are some preschool picture books and a few brochures on how to teach phonics and sight words. Then she looks around like someone is watching us.

“I don't like being caught in Doyle's web either,” I say.

She grimaces, then lumbers off down the hall.