Of Poseidon

by Anna Banks

  The mines make him nervous, always have. Fish and plants have long abandoned this part of the Triton territory. In fact, as far as Galen knows, Grom is the only visitor this place hosts. Holes big enough to swallow a fishing boat pock the seafloor from the blasts. The mud around each pit is stained a darker color, as if the explosion left its shadow behind. Just two of the hundreds of bombs remain intact, defective and impotent, as if a silent monument to what was lost here. And with Nalia’s death, the Syrena lost more than a future queen. They lost unity. They lost trust. They lost legacy. And they might have lost their ability to survive.

  Galen shudders as he passes one of the decrepit bombs. Anchored to the floor by a chain, the metal ball floats undisturbed, consumed by rust, left behind by the humans after they finished investigating the sudden activity. As if the scars in the mud weren’t enough.

  When he sees his brother, he calls out to him, though he knows Grom sensed him before he entered the minefield. Grom hovers on the precipice of the deep canyon beyond the mines, arms crossed. “It seems I’ve missed your kingship ceremony, Your Majesty,” Galen says.

  The corner of Grom’s mouth curves into an almost-grin. “Pity Father didn’t make good on his promise to remove your tongue, little brother. I thought he might do it this time.”

  Galen laughs. “I did, too. But Rayna insisted I keep my tongue for just a little while longer.”

  “You’d do well to keep that one happy. If it weren’t for her, you’d be dead, disinherited, or both by now. I think she deserves a special trip to the tropics for her efforts.”

  Galen chuckles. Rayna’s favorite place to scavenge for human rubble is along the commercial cruise routes in the Gulf of Mexico. She insists people on the ships intentionally throw their belongings overboard, to leave a small part of themselves behind. At least that’s what Rachel told her. “I just might. If she stays mated to Toraf.”

  Grom whips his head toward his brother. “She accepted Toraf ?”

  “No. That’s what I’m talking about. She wants to ask you for a dissolution.”

  “A dissolution of what?”

  “Of their sealing.”

  “Rayna and Toraf are sealed ?” Grom asks. “When did this happen?”

  “Very funny.”

  Grom smirks. Galen tries to picture his brother as an eighty-year-old human. Gray hair, more wrinkles than a shell has ridges, and that boyish grin would probably be toothless. But as an eighty-year-old Syrena, he looks as young as Galen. Has more teeth too, thanks to Toraf. Despite it all, he’s still all wrong for Emma. Too calm, too composed, too set in his ways to deal with a hurricane like Emma Stubborn McIntosh.

  “I’ve been waiting for the day I could make Rayna someone else’s problem,” Grom says. “I do feel bad about it though. I always did like Toraf.”

  “So you won’t dissolve it?”

  “Not even if Toraf asks me to. It’s been so peaceful around here without her. Where have you two been anyway?”

  Galen shrugs. “The usual.” Guilt nips at his conscience like baby crabs. “The usual” is visiting Dr. Milligan to get caught up on the latest marine news. Or spending a few days with Rachel moving her most recent purchases around one of his many houses. “The usual” is not living as a human, going to their schools, driving their cars, or wearing their clothes.

  “Did Dr. Milligan have anything interesting for you?”

  “A few things. Nothing to worry about, though.”

  Grom nods. “Good. The last thing I need is something else to worry about.”

  Finally, Galen notices his brother’s tense profile. Clenched jaw, taut biceps from tightly crossed arms. White knuckles where his hands grip impressions into his shoulders.

  Galen stiffens. “What? What is it?”

  Grom shakes his head, hoarding his misery to himself behind a scowl.

  “Tell me.”

  “It could be nothing,” Grom says.

  “It could be, but I can tell it isn’t.”

  His brother sighs. He faces Galen, eyes hard. “I’ll tell you, little brother. But first, promise me a few things.”

  “What things?”

  “Promise me that whatever happens, you’ll get Rayna to safety. I don’t care if you have to live as humans for the rest of your lives, you keep our sister safe. Promise.”

  “Grom—”

  “Promise!” Grom bellows, uncrossing his arms.

  “You already know I will.” In fact, he’s insulted his brother would doubt it.

  Grom nods, relaxes. “I know. But I needed to hear it.” He looks away when he says, “I had a private meeting with Jagen.”

  “You what? Have you lost your mind?” A distant cousin of King Antonis, Jagen is the bluster behind the storm of conspiracy brewing in the Poseidon territory. Anyone can see he’s making a play for the throne, but over the decades, Antonis’s inflexibility has bloated the ranks of Jagen’s followers.

  A good reason for Grom to be concerned with his siblings’ safety. If Jagen is truly ambitious enough to plot against his own king, he can’t be trusted not to try to overthrow the house of Triton. Plus, if anyone saw Grom meet with him, they might assume Jagen gained the support of the new Triton king. Or worse, King Antonis might assume that. The question is, should they?

  “I know what I’m doing, Galen,” Grom growls.

  “Apparently not. What does Father say?”

  “You know I didn’t tell him.”

  Galen nods. Grom would be a fool to tell their father. King Herof and King Antonis were friends long before they were enemies. And now King Grom would widen the chasm between them? “What did Jagen want?”

  Grom sighs. “He requested permission to use Toraf. He needs him to Track someone. Someone the other Trackers can’t find.”

  Nothing extraordinary. Because of their value, trackers are the only Syrena able to cross kingdom borders without fear of arrest. Of course, Jagen would want Toraf—he’s the best Tracker in the history of their kind. Out of respect for Galen’s family, though, Toraf never crosses the borders. And he would never agree to do Jagen’s bidding without royal permission from the house of Triton. Even then, he might not do it. “That’s it? Who does he need to track?”

  “I wish that were it. It’s not so much who he needs to track, but why.”

  “I swear by Triton’s trident if you don’t start talking—”

  “His daughter Paca is missing. He thinks Antonis took her.”

  Galen rolls his eyes. “Why would Antonis take her? If Antonis cared about Jagen’s treason, he would have done something about it years ago.” But Antonis didn’t seem to care about anything these days. Since Nalia died, he’s holed himself up in the Royal caverns. Some Poseidon Trackers told Toraf he hasn’t come out since he declared the house of Triton an enemy.

  “According to Jagen, Paca has the gift of Poseidon.”

  The words knock the breath out of Galen. “That’s not possible.”

  Slowly, Grom shakes his head. “It’s not likely. But it’s possible. She’s got Royal blood in her, no matter how diluted. And if she is of Poseidon, I can’t ignore the ramifications of her ability.”

  “But that’s not how it works. The Gift has never shown up in anyone but a direct descendant.” What am I saying? Won’t I be trying to convince Grom of the same thing about Emma, with even less proof than this? At least Paca can prove some royal blood. But Emma’s father isn’t trying to claim the throne. In fact, Galen found Emma by accident. Which makes Paca’s Gift seem suspicious, at best.

  “I spoke to the Archives. Of course, I didn’t tell them about Jagen’s accusation. They believe I’m just a new eager king, exploring our legacy.” The Archives are the collection of ten of the eldest among their kind—five from each house—entrusted with remembering the history of the Syrena. Galen agrees it would be natural for Grom to seek their counsel.

  “And?”

  “In their collective memory, they don’t recall it ever happening. But one of the
Archives, your friend Romul, believes it would be possible. He reminded us that the Gifts were to ensure the survival of our kind, not just the survival of Royal lineage. He said he wouldn’t be surprised if Triton and Poseidon thought of this beforehand, that a Royal might abuse his power. He thinks they might have made a provision somehow.”

  Galen crosses his arms. “Huh.”

  Grom chuckles. “That’s what I said.”

  “But you said you didn’t tell them about Jagen.”

  “I didn’t. I’m a new king without a mate inheriting a bloodless war against the only other kingdom of our kind. It’s only natural for me to be asking creative questions.”

  Galen nods. “But if the Gifts can be transferred to someone else, why even bother forcing the Royals to mate? The Law of Gifts has always been strictly enforced. Romul’s theory renders that law—and the Royals—pointless.” And it doesn’t sit well with Galen. Especially that Romul gave his opinion at all. The Archives are bound to tell the facts—nothing more, nothing less. Romul had told him that himself when Galen first visited him as a youth. But Romul is more than just an Archive to Galen, he’s his mentor. No, more than that, he’s his friend. Friends share opinions with each other.

  But Archives have no place speculating before kings.

  “Well, it’s like you said, it’s just a theory. But it’s one I can’t ignore. I’ve decided to let him use Toraf. If Paca’s alive, Toraf will find her.”

  Galen nods. And if Paca has the Gift of Poseidon, there won’t be a need for Emma … at least not for Grom. His heart races with an emotion he can’t name. “If this gets out—”

  “It won’t.”

  “Grom—”

  “But just in case it does, keep Rayna with you, wherever you’ve been. I don’t want to see your faces again until this is resolved.”

  “We’re not fingerlings. Rayna’s even mated.”

  “No, but you’re what’s left of the Triton Royals, little brother.”

  The words hover between them, prodding them with the gravity of the situation. So much at stake, so much dependant on if. Does Antonis have Paca? And if he does, will he turn her over peaceably? And if he doesn’t have her, will Grom’s investigation incite Antonis to make a bloodless war bloody?

  But it’s worth the risk. If Paca does have the Gift, mating with Grom will ensure the survival of the Syrena. And Galen will be free and clear to chase after a certain white-haired angelfish.

  But is anything ever that simple?

  Grom stares out over the canyon, entombed in his thoughts, emotions absent from his face. Galen clears his throat, but it doesn’t pull his brother out of his trance. He considers dropping the subject altogether. Opening old wounds is the last thing he wants to do, but he has to know. There will never be a good time to talk about it, but this might be the only appropriate time. “Grom, I need to ask you something.”

  Hesitant, Grom tears his gaze from the abyss and settles it on his brother, but his eyes still hold a distance. “Hmm?”

  “Do you believe in the pull?”

  The question visibly jolts Grom, replacing the detachment in his eyes with pain. “What kind of question is that?”

  Galen shrugs, guilt stabbing him like a trident. “Some say you felt the pull for Nalia.”

  Grom massages his eyes with fingertips, but not before Galen sees the torment deepen. “I didn’t realize you listened to gossip, little brother.”

  “If I listened to gossip, I wouldn’t bother to ask.”

  “Do you believe in the pull, Galen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Grom nods, sighing. “I don’t know either. But if there is such a thing, I guess it would be safe to say I felt it toward Nalia.” With a flit of his tail, he swims forward, turning away from his brother. “Sometimes I swear I can still sense her. It’s faint, and it comes and goes. Some days it’s so real, I think I’m losing my mind.”

  “What … what does it feel like?” Galen almost can’t ask. He’d already determined to never have this conversation with Grom. But things have changed.

  To his surprise, Grom chuckles. “Is there something I need to know, little brother? Has someone finally hooked you?”

  Galen doesn’t quite get his mouth closed before his brother turns around. Grom’s laugh seems foreign in this dismal place. “Looks like she’s got you hooked and reeled. Who is she?”

  “None of your business.” At least not yet.

  Grom grins. “So that’s where you’ve been. Chasing after a female.”

  “You could say that.” In fact, his brother can say anything he wants. He’s not telling Grom about Emma. Not while Paca is out there somewhere, just waiting to be mated with a Triton king.

  “If you won’t tell me, I’ll just ask Rayna.”

  “If Rayna knew, there would have already been a public announcement.”

  “True,” Grom says, smirking. “You’re smarter than I give you credit for, tadpole. So smart, in fact, that I know I don’t have to tell you to keep her away from here, whoever she is. Just until things settle down.”

  Galen nods. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  15

  THE SMELL of blueberry muffins usually sweetens my mood, but after the lukewarm shower I just took, blueberry muffins don’t stand a chance at making my mood any sweeter than vinegar. Mom’s pulling the pan from the oven as I take the last step down the stairs.

  “Is the water heater broken?” I say, pulling a bowl from the cabinet.

  “Good morning to you, too,” she says, forking a muffin onto wax paper to cool.

  “Sorry. Good morning. Is the water heater broken?” I scoop a mound of oatmeal from the pot on the stove and slop it into my bowl. A muffin hits my foot—we always have at least one casualty because the pan sticks.

  “Not that I know of, sweetie. I showered this morning and didn’t notice anything different.”

  “Probably broke on my shift,” I grumble, grabbing a muffin and sauntering to the table. My legs are too sore to lower myself with any kind of dignity, so I drop into the chair and spoon oatmeal into my mouth to keep from complaining more. Mom worked all night, then cooked me breakfast. She doesn’t deserve vinegar.

  “Galen picking you up for school?”

  “No, I’m driving myself.” Vinegar turns to acid. Sure, it’s irritating to take a lukewarm shower when you intended to scald the flesh from your body. But not being able to see Galen today is more disappointing than not having hot water all winter. And I hate it.

  Spending all of yesterday with him slaughtered my intention of keeping him at a distance. Even if he weren’t worthy of his own billboard underwear ad, he’s just too likeable. Except for his habit of almost-kissing me. But his obsession with trying to order me around is too cute. Especially the way his mouth gets all pouty when I don’t listen.

  “You two fighting already?”

  She’s fishing, but for what I don’t know. Shrugging seems safe until I can figure out what she wants to hear.

  “Do you fight often?”

  Shrugging again, I ladle enough oatmeal into my mouth to make talking impossible for at least a minute, which is more than enough time for her to drop it. It doesn’t work. After the exaggerated minute, I reach for my glass of milk.

  “You know, if he ever hit you—”

  The glass in mid-tilt, I swallow before the milk can escape through my nose. “Mom, he would never hit me!”

  “I didn’t say he would.”

  “Good, because he wouldn’t. Ever. What’s with you? Do you have to interrogate me about Galen every time you see me?”

  This time she shrugs. “Seems like the right thing to do. When you have children, you’ll understand.”

  “I’m not stupid. If Galen acts up, I’ll either dump him or kill him. You have my word.”

  Mom laughs and butters my muffin. “I guess I can’t ask for more than that.”

  Accepting the muffin—and the truce—I say, “Nope. Anything mor
e would be unreasonable.”

  “Just remember, I’m watching you like a hawk. Except for right now, because I’m going to bed. Soak your bowl in the sink before you leave.” She kisses the top of my head and yawns before she shuffles up the stairs.

  * * *

  I’m exhausted when I get home, even though the school day was the equivalent of a seven-hour yawn without Galen or Chloe. Mom is darting around the house like an agitated wasp. “Hi, sweetie, how was your day? Have you seen my keys?”

  “Nope, sorry. Did you check yesterday’s pockets?” I say, opening the fridge door to pull out some strawberries.

  “Good idea!” The carpet on the stairs muffles her stomping. She reappears a few seconds later as I pop a strawberry in my mouth and hoist myself onto the counter. “I didn’t have pockets yesterday,” she says, tugging on her hair to tighten her ponytail.

  “Why don’t you just take the Honda? I’ll keep looking for your keys.”

  Mom nods. “You don’t need to go anywhere this afternoon? Still fighting with Galen?”

  “The only plans I made for tonight is make-up work.” That is, after I step out back and try to turn into a fish.

  When Mom’s doubtful frown doesn’t escalate into another interrogation, I know she’s trying to uphold our truce from this morning. “Okay. There’s leftover stew in the fridge. If Julie doesn’t show up again tonight, I’ll be working another double so I might not see you until later tomorrow. Don’t forget to lock up before you go to bed.”

  When I hear the Honda’s gears grinding in the driveway, I pick up my cell phone. Galen said Rachel never answers, but she calls back if you leave a message. After an automated woman from Trans-Atlantic Warranty Company gives me the option of leaving a message or calling back during normal business hours, I wait for the beep. “Hey, Rachel, it’s Emma. Tell Toraf he’s off the hook for tonight. I can’t make it over there for practice today. Maybe I’ll see him tomorrow.” NOT. I don’t need a babysitter. Galen needs to get it through his thicker-than-most head that I’m not one of his royal subjects. Besides, Toraf earned a place on my equivalent-to-zoo-dirt list, forcing Rayna to marry him and all.