by Anna Banks
Muffled footsteps plod down the stairs. Emma’s mother emerges, clipping something to her shirt. When she sees Galen, she stops. “Oh.”
Galen knows the shock on her face is mirrored in his own expression. Is she Syrena? All her features—dark hair and skin and lean muscular build—scream yes. Except those blue eyes. Blue eyes that rake over him with a familiarity, as if she knows who he is, knows why he’s here. Then, with the next blink, those blue eyes change from guardian to hostess.
Emma transitions with grace. “Mom, this is my company. This is Galen Forza.”
He smiles and holds out his hand to greet her, just as Rachel instructed him. “Hi, Mrs. McIntosh. It’s nice to meet you.”
She meets him halfway and accepts his hand. Her grip is confident but not overbearing, and without the slightest tingle. Not that he really expected electricity, but she is Emma’s mother. Up close, he notices thin slithers of gray weaving through her hair. Signs of aging; a human trait. Her tone is the epitome of politeness, but her eyes—blue without contacts, as far as he can tell—are wide and her mouth never quite shuts. “Oh. Galen.” She turns to Emma. “This is Galen?”
He can tell she’s asking Emma a question within that question—one that has nothing to do with being Syrena. He shoves his hands in his pockets, abandoning his scrutiny of her in favor of memorizing each thread in the carpet. He can’t meet her eyes, knowing what she, at this moment, is envisioning him and Emma doing. Idiot! She’s not worried why Galen the Syrena would be at her house. She’s worried why Galen the human boy would.
Emma clears her throat. “Yep. This is him.”
“I see. Will you excuse us for a moment, Galen? Emma, can I talk with you privately please? Upstairs?”
She doesn’t wait for a reply from either of them. Before Emma follows her up, she throws him an I-told-you-so smirk. He acknowledges with a nod.
Since he doesn’t feel welcome to wander around the house and take in all the pictures, he trudges to the window, staring into the dune grass without seeing it. No noises—yelling, or otherwise—escape from upstairs, but he’s not sure if that’s good or bad. Humans resolve problems differently than Syrena, and even differently from each other. Sure, the Royals tend to have bad tempers. But most Syrena enlist the help of a third party, a mediator to keep things fair. Humans almost never do. They resort to yelling, fighting, sometimes even murder—how he found Rachel is proof enough of that. Tied to a cement block and thrown into the gulf. He was only thirteen years old at the time, but he still remembers how fast she sank, wriggling like live bait and screaming through the tape over her mouth. And the knots. He tore his fingers bloody and raw getting those knots loose.
When he took her to shore, she begged him not to leave her. He didn’t want to stay, but she shook so hard he thought she might be dying anyway. Grom had just taught him how to build a fire—something most Syrena don’t learn until it’s time for them to mate on the islands—so he caught a few fish and cooked them for her. With guarded curiosity, he lingered while she ate. Any other adult human would have been rattled at seeing his fin. Not Rachel. In fact, she ignored it so well he thought she might not have noticed—until she told him she’d spent the last thirty years keeping secrets for people, and why should he be any different? So he stayed with her all night while she drifted in and out of sleep. In the morning, he announced it was time to part ways. She wouldn’t accept that, said she wanted to pay him back. Reluctantly, he agreed.
In exchange for saving her life, he asked her to tell him about humans. He met her on the beach every night, in a place she called Miami, and she answered all the questions he could think of and questions he wouldn’t know to ask. After he felt she’d repaid the debt, he insisted again on parting ways. That’s when she offered to be his assistant. She said if he really wanted to learn about humans, to protect his kind from them, he would need her particular set of skills. When he asked her what skills she meant, she’d said simply, “I can do just about anything. That’s why they tried to kill me, sweet pea. To humans, there’s such a thing as knowing too much.” And many times over, she’s proved just what she can do. Their running joke is how he’s the richest nonhuman on the planet.
Footsteps from the stairwell startle him out of the past. He turns around as Emma’s mother takes the last step into the dining area, Emma right behind her.
Mrs. McIntosh glides over and puts her arm around him. The smile on her face is genuine, but Emma’s smile is more like a straight line. And she’s blushing.
“Galen, it’s very nice to meet you,” she says, ushering him into the kitchen. “Emma tells me you’re taking her to the beach behind your house today. To swim?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her transformation makes him wary.
She smiles. “Well, good luck with getting her in the water. Since I’m a little pressed for time, I can’t follow you over there, so I just need to see your driver’s license while Emma runs outside to get your plate number.”
Emma rolls her eyes as she shuffles through a drawer and pulls out a pen and paper. She slams the door behind her when she leaves, which shakes the dishes on the wall.
Galen nods, pulls out his wallet, and hands over the fake license. Mrs. McIntosh studies it and rummages through her purse until she produces a pen—which she uses to write on her hand. “Just need your license number in case we ever have any problems. But we’re not going to have any problems, are we, Galen? Because you’ll always have my daughter—my only daughter—home on time, isn’t that right?”
He nods, then swallows. She holds out his license. When he accepts it, she grabs his wrist, pulling him close. She glances at the garage door and back to him. “Tell me right now, Galen Forza. Are you or are you not dating my daughter?”
Great. She still doesn’t believe Emma. If she won’t believe them anyway, why keep trying to convince her? If she thinks they’re dating, the time he intends to spend with Emma will seem normal. But if they spend time together and tell her they’re not dating, she’ll be nothing but suspicious. Possibly even spy on them—which is less than ideal.
So, dating Emma is the only way to make sure she mates with Grom. Things just get better and better. “Yes,” he says. “We’re definitely dating.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why would she tell me you’re not?”
He shrugs. “Maybe she’s ashamed of me.”
To his surprise, she chuckles. “I seriously doubt that, Galen Forza.” Her humor is short lived. She grabs a fistful of his T-shirt. “Are you sleeping with her?”
Sleeping … Didn’t Rachel say sleeping and mating are the same thing? Dating and mating are similar. But sleeping and mating are the exact same. He shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”
She raises a no-nonsense brow. “Why not? What’s wrong with my daughter?”
That is unexpected. He suspects this woman can sense a lie like Toraf can track Rayna. All she’s looking for is honesty, but the real truth would just get him arrested. I’m crazy about your daughter—I’m just saving her for my brother. So he seasons his answer with the frankness she seems to crave. “There’s nothing wrong with your daughter, Mrs. McIntosh. I said we’re not sleeping together. I didn’t say I didn’t want to.”
She inhales sharply and releases him. Clearing her throat, she smoothes out his wrinkled shirt with her hand, then pats his chest. “Good answer, Galen. Good answer.”
Emma flings open the garage door and stops short. “Mom, what are you doing?”
Mrs. McIntosh steps away and stalks to the counter. “Galen and I were just chitchatting. What took you so long?”
Galen guesses her ability to sense a lie probably has something to do with her ability to tell one. Emma shoots him a quizzical look, but he returns a casual shrug. Her mother grabs a set of keys from a hook by the refrigerator and nudges her daughter out of the way, but not before snatching the paper out of her hand. She turns in the doorway. “Oh, and Galen?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“
Have your mother call me so I can get her number programmed into my phone.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You kids have a good time. I won’t be home until late, Emma. But you’ll be home by nine, sweetie. Won’t she, Galen?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Neither Emma nor Galen say anything until they hear the car pull out of the driveway. Even then, they wait a few more seconds. Emma leans against the fridge. Galen is growing fond of hiding his hands in his pockets.
“So, what did you two chitchat about?” she asks as if uninterested.
“You first.”
She shakes her head. “Uh-uh. I don’t want to talk about it.”
He nods. “Good. Me neither.”
For a few seconds, they look at everything in the room but each other. Finally, Galen says, “So, did you want to go change—”
“That idea is fan-flipping-tastic. Be right down.” She almost breaks into a run to get to the stairs.
9
WE PULL into his cobblestoned driveway, and I have to lean back in the seat to take in the whole thing. The beach house of my dreams. Four stories, maybe five—depending if that square on top is a room or not. All wood, painted sea green with white shutters. A huge front porch complete with white rocking chairs and matching wooden planters overflowing with red pansies. A wrought-iron gate leads to the back, which must overlook the beach—we drove so deep into the woods I thought we would hit water before we found his house.
“Nice shack,” I tell him.
“Trade you.”
“Any day.”
“Really? You like it?” He seems genuinely pleased.
“What’s not to like?”
He stands back and studies it as if for the first time. He nods. “Huh. Good to know.”
We climb the three steps on the porch, but I grab his arm as he reaches for the door handle. The contact sends heat through my body, toasting me to the core. “Wait.”
He pauses mid-motion and stares at my hand. “What? Is something wrong? You’re not changing your mind are you?”
“No. I just … have to tell you something.”
“What?”
I force a nervous laugh. “Well, the good news is, you don’t have to worry about me rejecting you anymore.”
He shakes his head. “That is good news. But you say it like it’s not.”
I take a deep breath. Where is a good lightning bolt when you need one? Because even if I take a hundred deep breaths, this will still be humiliating.…
“Emma?”
“I told my mom we were dating,” I blurt. There. Doesn’t that feel better? Nope. Nope, it doesn’t.
While his smile surprises me, it mostly mesmerizes me beyond rational thought. “Are you kidding?” he says.
I shake my head. “It’s the only thing she would believe. So now … now you have to pretend that we’re dating if you come to my house. But don’t worry, you don’t ever have to go over there again. And in a few days, I’ll pretend that we broke up.”
He laughs. “No, you won’t. I told her the same thing.”
“Shut. Up.”
“Why? What’d I say?”
“No, I mean, did you really tell her that? Why would you do that?”
He shrugs. “Same reason you did. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
The realization that we could have had the same conversation with my mother makes this pretty porch spin. Then this pretty porch gets black spots all over it. When we were little, Chloe and I used to spin each other around and around in my father’s office chair. One time, she whirled me so fast and for so long that when I stood up, I walked in the exact opposite direction I meant to. As kids, we found that hilarious, like inhaling helium to talk like a chipmunk. Now though, it’s just not as entertaining. Especially since Galen’s face just disappeared behind a black spot. “Oh, no.”
“Emma? What’s wrong?”
The rest of the porch is sucked into the black hole of my vision. The welcome mat beneath me pitches like a rowboat during a hurricane. I reach for the door or the wall or Galen, but somehow I miss all three. Suddenly, my feet are swept out from under me, and my face smacks into his chest for the second time in my life. This time, my only option is to cling to him. I hear the door open and shut. The inferno of his touch is the only thing I’m sure of. Everything else—like up, down, left, and right—all seem to run together. “I … I might pass out. Sorry.”
He squeezes me. “I’m laying you on the couch. Is that okay?”
I nod that it is, but I won’t let go of his neck.
“Tell me what you need. You’re scaring me.”
I bury my face in his chest. “I can’t see anything. I don’t want to lie down because … because I won’t know where I am.” Already, the world has stopped spinning. I decide his arms are the healthiest place to be right now.
Until I start to fall. I scream.
“Shhh. It’s okay, Emma. I just sat down. You’re on my lap.” He strokes my hair and rocks me back and forth. “Is it your head? Tell me what I can do.”
When I nod into his chest, the tears on my cheeks bleed onto his shirt. “It’s got to be my head. This never happens to me.”
“Please don’t cry, Emma.”
He stiffens when I snicker into his shirt. As punishment, my head throbs. “Bet you’re regretting bringing me over here,” I say.
He relaxes. “I wouldn’t say that.”
His tone is like a balm. Within the confines of his capable arms, my body relaxes beyond my control. The panic flows away from me like water from a shattered vase. My eyes refuse to open. “I’m kind of tired.”
“Should you sleep, though? Everything I read about head injuries said you shouldn’t go to sleep.” Even as he says this, he allows me to pull my legs closer, to nestle my shoulder into his armpit and scoot higher on his lap. He secures my new position with tight arms. The heat simmers between us and wraps around me like a winter coat. Snuggling up to a sculpted block of granite just shouldn’t be this comfortable.
“I think that’s right after you hurt it. I’m pretty sure I’m okay to sleep now. I mean, I slept last night, right? Actually, I’m not sure I can even stay awake right now.”
“But … you’re not passing out, you’re just sleeping? There’s a difference.”
I yawn again. “Just sleep. Maybe I just need a nap.”
He nods into my hair. “You did look tired today after school.”
“You can put me on the couch now.”
He doesn’t move, just keeps rocking me. Staying alert is a slippery slope right now.
“Galen?”
“Hmm?”
“You can put me down now.”
“I’m not ready yet.” He tightens his hold.
“You don’t have to hold—”
“Emma? Can you hear me?”
“Uh, yes. I can hear fine. I just can’t see—”
“That’s a relief. Because for a minute there, I thought maybe you didn’t hear me when I said I’m not ready yet.”
“Jackass.”
He chuckles into my hair. “Go to sleep.”
It’s the last thing I remember.
* * *
The bad thing is, he’s not holding me anymore. The good thing is, I can see. I glance around the room but don’t try to sit up yet. If I had to guess, I’d say I’m still at Galen’s house. Everything about this room screams luxury. Art that you know is expensive because it’s so ugly. Odd-shaped furniture made for looks instead of comfort. A huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall over the fireplace. The cashmere blanket draped over me, so soft it wouldn’t bother the worst sunburn. And yep, it overlooks the beach. The entire back wall of the house is a glass window. No dunes block the view. Even lying down, I see the waves rolling in, a storm percolating in the distance.
Sitting up is a big mistake for two reasons. First, it makes my head throb and my vision spotty. Second, it makes someone yell, “Gaaaaaa-len!”
Groani
ng, I cover my ears and retreat into a cave of cashmere.
“Triton’s trident, Rayna, you’re going to wake her up!”
Rayna? Fan-flipping-tastic. Galen’s rude sister. But that voice wasn’t Galen’s. Does he have a brother, too?
“She’s already awake, squid breath. Why else would I call for him?”
“Well he’s not here, princess.”
I hear shuffling and am almost curious enough to peek out from the blanket. Instead, the blanket is ripped from my face. Rayna stares down at me and points. “See? I told you she’s awake.”
The boy next to her shakes his head and leans toward me. “Emma?” I’m shocked to see yet another pair of violet eyes. And, of course, this boy is good-looking too—not as gorgeous as Galen, but really, who is?—with the same thick black hair and olive skin as Rayna and her brother.
In response to his question, I nod.
“Emma, I’m Toraf. I guess you already know Rayna?”
Toraf? His parents really named him Toraf? But I don’t ask, just nod.
“Listen, you don’t have to get up or anything. Galen just … uh … went for a swim. He’ll be back real soon.”
I look between them and past the beach. I shake my head.
“What? What’s wrong, Emma?” he asks. I like Toraf. He seems genuinely concerned about me, without ever having met me. Rayna looks as if she might want to stomp on my head and finish the job I started with the cafeteria door.
“Storm,” I say. The one syllable word polka-dots my vision.
Toraf smiles. “He’ll be back before the storm. Can I get you anything? Something to eat? Something to drink?”
“A taxi?” Rayna pitches in.
“Go to the kitchen, Rayna,” he says. “Unless you’re ready to go find an island?”
I’m not sure how far away the kitchen is, but it seems like she stomps for a good five minutes. Finding an island doesn’t really seem like a fitting punishment for being rude, but since I do have a head injury, I give them the benefit of the doubt. Plus, there’s always the possibility that I imagined the whole thing.
