“It died.”
“You were five years old, and that cat was going to die anyway. You gave it the best two weeks of its life. You’ll be fine, and your dad and I will help, and you’ve got Bex and the kids.”
“Can I say something terrible without being judged?”
She nods.
“I want it out of me,” I whisper, the guilt tripping me up before I can even finish. “I’m afraid it’s not normal.”
“Honey, why wouldn’t it be normal?”
“You know what I mean. What if it has flippers or a blowhole, or what if there are a million of them in there? What if it has blades in its arms and opens them inside me?”
“Because he is Triton and—”
“Not just Triton. This kid is, like, a million different things. Grandma is Sirena, and Grandpa is human, and I’m a freak.”
“Lyric, I happen to love the person you’re insulting,” my mother scolds. “You are not a freak. You are beautiful and unique. Your child will be the same, and it will not have flippers or a blowhole. I promise. There aren’t any Alpha that have blowholes.”
“And this world! Is it fair to bring a baby into this chaos? People are so terrible. It will never have a normal life. People will hate it wherever it goes.”
My mother is quiet for a very long time, so long that I worry she’s backed out of her promise not to judge me.
“The tide washes everything away,” she finally says.
“And that means what?”
“Nothing is permanent. The waves destroy everything we build. Right now a lot of people are building hate, but it can’t last. Little by little, it all breaks apart until there’s nothing left. You know there was a time in this country when a black person could not marry a white person. Not long ago, a gay person couldn’t marry their true love. By the time your child is old enough to recognize a hateful person, there might not be many left. But I suspect, if he’s anything like his family, he’ll be a fighter. The world won’t destroy him. It will make him strong, and if you raise him well, he’ll grow up to make it easier for his children.”
“Why do we keep referring to him as a boy?”
“It’s a strong, healthy boy. I know.”
“Please don’t tell me you can smell it,” I groan. “I can’t believe you’re not disappointed in me. I’m disappointed in me! Don’t you think if I can let something like this happen that maybe I’m not ready to be responsible for another person? Maybe I need to do something about it.”
“You are entitled to make choices for your future, Lyric. You’re old enough, and I will support you. Your father may have a problem because of his beliefs, but maybe he won’t. It’s hard to tell sometimes. But there is only one thing you have to consider. You are the prime. The baby is not only your child, he’s the heir to a struggling empire who may need him. For the Rusalka, and I assume, the Alpha, he represents the future of our people. The empire has never had a prime who refused to have a child.”
“Why not?”
“That is just how it has always been. The prime continues the bloodline. The heir takes the throne,” she says.
“What if he doesn’t want to be the prime? I don’t even want to be the prime.”
“You will teach him about his responsibilities—”
“You mean brainwash him?”
“That’s a harsh word for tradition,” she says.
Something about what she says makes me cry. Maybe it’s the responsibility heaped on my shoulders. Maybe it’s because I know I’m not equipped to handle any of it.
“Nothing has to be decided today,” she says.
My belly rolls. I fight the nausea by taking deep breaths. It helps a little.
“What am I going to tell Dad?”
My mother lies on her back and looks up at the ceiling. “We’ll tell him together. Bex can help us. He can’t stay mad when she’s around.” She pats at my loose locks again, but they still won’t stay in place. “Sleep, honey,” she says, then wraps herself around me.
Chapter Thirteen
THE CHILDREN PACK FOOD AND WATER, FIRST AID KITS and warm clothing. They make second trips to the Walmart and the pharmacy to get shoes and socks, pocketknives, sleeping bags, and tents. Jane is kind enough to bring me some extra-strength pain medicine for my back. The pills have all the potency of a couple M&M’s, but I appreciate the thought.
My mother makes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on rice cakes because the only bread they can find is green. There are Fig Newtons and granola bars and single-serving applesauce containers with their own collapsible spoons. In at least one way, our mission is a little kid’s dream come true. Mom would never have let me eat this crap when I was their age. Now, we’re having junk food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Riley avoids me by trying to organize. He unpacks and repacks whatever the kids have finished. I still feel terrible that he is hurt, but I’m irritated at how complicated he’s making things. When he’s nearby, everything has a sharp corner; everything might hurt if I bump into it. We need to talk, but really, everything sounds stupid. Hey, I know we’ve got this thing between us, but sorry, I’m pregs. Oh, yeah, I need you to risk your life to help me rescue my baby’s daddy. I should be grateful he’s giving me the Typhoid Mary treatment. I can’t think of a single thing to say that will make either of us feel better. Though I know exactly what I want him to say to me. In my fantasy world, it doesn’t matter to him. He says he’s going to be here for me. He’s going to be sweet and charming and, oh, he wants to run off for half an hour and make out. I know there’s nothing quite as fun as a girlfriend carrying someone else’s baby, but it’s my fantasy, and that’s how I want him in it. He should swoop me up in a kiss and then help me pick out baby names.
He should be everything Fathom would never be.
I suppose if I were in his shoes, I’d keep running off to Walmart for Fruit Roll-Ups rather than face me, too.
Getting to Brooklyn is not as simple as it sounds. The boat is gone, and Dad is convinced we’d be spotted if we stole another one and took it up the coastline. I’m not too excited about going into the water anyway. The Tardigrade voice gets louder by the hour.
“FIND THE BROKEN ONES. MAKE ROOM FOR THE NEW FAMILY.”
My head aches every time they speak.
Driving will not be easy, either. The plan is to go at night without using our headlights. That means Bex and I are on car acquisition duty, otherwise known as teen girl grand theft auto. She and I have a bit of experience in stealing cars, not that I’m bragging. Actually, I am.
Unlike Texas, there aren’t a lot of options out here in Toms River, New Jersey. When the evacuation was ordered, people must have taken everything they could with them, including their automobiles. We find several motorcycles and a handful of Vespas, but they’re pointless. We walk blocks and blocks for every car we spot. We thought we’d try to focus on SUVs because they have room for lots of people and our packs, but soon we’re considering everything we come across, including a Mini. Sadly, we can’t get it started.
Eventually, we stumble across a used car lot packed with choices. The words Deal! and Near Mint! are painted on the windows. Bex tosses a brick through a window in the office door and finds a drawer full of keys. With a little trial and error, we manage to unlock a few SUVs on steroids that I swear seat eighty people comfortably. Bex takes one and I take another, and we drive them back to the house.
“Not even a scratch!” she cries when we park them at the curb. She gives me a high-five, then we hoof it back for one more. We’re going off to war in style.
Dinner is a hodgepodge of packaged foods—cheese crackers, ramen noodles with “artificial chicken flavor and other natural flavors,” breakfast cereals eaten with cans of Yoo-hoo, and more applesauce. There’s lots of pasta smothered in Prego and Ragú. I have no appetite. It’s mostly nerves for what we’re about to do, mixed with a self-conscious worry that my morning sickness (which seems to be happening all damn day)
is going to become obvious to the others. I don’t need them worrying about me. I need them focused and confident.
“You feeling all right, L?” my dad asks.
I nod my head a little too vigorously. I’m lucky I don’t give myself whiplash.
Bex tries to divert his attention by telling him he needs to triple-check the batteries on the cameras and find a room with some decent light to make today’s video message. Much to my disbelief, he does what she wants.
“I’ve got the Big Guy right where I want him,” she brags.
Coney Island is approximately eighty miles from Toms River. Husk promises he and the other Rusalka will meet us there, coming in quietly from the water. I wish them luck and tell them to be careful. They stare at me like I’m crazy.
“A prime has never cared about their safety,” Husk explains.
“Oh, brother,” I sigh. “If we survive this, I’m putting all of you into therapy.”
The rest of us leave shortly after sunset, when the colors in the streets are consumed by the hungry night. We move at a turtle’s pace, rarely breaking twenty-five miles an hour. We can’t use our headlights for fear of being spotted, but the roads are clear. I drive the first car with Finn, Renee, and Chloe. My father is in the second, with Riley, Brady, and Maggie. Bex drives the third car with my mom, Sienna, Jane and most of our gear. I can’t see a thing without lights, which only adds to my anxiety. Luckily, we have walkie-talkies from Walmart, along with the laptop.
“So, Husk? Is he single?” Bex says over the radio.
“I don’t think you’re his type,” I respond.
“I’m gonna try not to be insulted by that. How is he going to find us?”
“He can sense me,” I confess. “I can do the same to him.”
“So, like, you can read his mind?” Sienna says, joining the conversation.
“No, I mean, not really. We can send each other short messages and images of things. We have access to each other’s memories.”
“So he knows you made out with Anna Bowman at the ninth-grade dance?” she jokes.
“It was a tiny kiss, and it was a dare!”
“Can we use the walkie-talkies for emergencies only?” my father’s voice growls.
Bex chuckles on her end.
We travel at a stressful crawl. The drive is unsettling, not only due to how deeply dark it can get when there are no streetlights to guide you, but also how lonely it feels out here on the roads. I wasn’t underwater so long that I’ve forgotten what a night drive is supposed to feel like, the low rumble of cars passing on either side, the honks, the sudden whine of tires braking on asphalt.
But it’s more than the empty houses and deserted streets that are disquieting. This might be one of the last days of our lives. This trek could end right at death’s door. It shouldn’t be so quiet and anxious. As many times as I have faced my ending, I’ve grown accustomed to the bang and shock that preceded each near-death scenario. I guess I’m just not used to taking the scenic route.
We stop for gas in a place called Old Bridge Township. It’s as sad as the miles of road that brought us here. Ranch homes and cars on blocks are how they roll here. Old Bridge didn’t get hit by the storm that slammed Toms River, maybe because even a hurricane feels bad about kicking a town when it’s already down. It’s like one of the dusty dots on the map that Arcade, Bex, and I drove through in Texas, sans the signs on the door reminding intruders that the Second Amendment is alive and well in the Lone Star State.
We decide to crash in the cars rather than find another house. Mom keeps a group of kids busy with yoga. Chloe works on her coloring books.
“Riley is upset,” she whispers.
“I know. He’s mad at me,” I say when I step out of the car to stretch my legs the next morning. I inhale a huge crispy-cold breath of Jersey air and blink into the brutal sun.
Riley is repacking his car. He loads with calculated detail, making the most out of the space. It’s exhausting to watch. I’m tired of his pouting. I’m going to fix this right now.
“Stop it,” I say. I know. It’s very profound, but it’s a start.
He looks at me, then turns back to his work. I guess he needs more.
“I’m scared,” I continue. “I know that’s not how you start a conversation like this.”
“It’s kind of unfair, too,” he says.
I realize it was a little manipulative, but it’s true. He gives me a few seconds, waiting for me to say something else, but the hinge on my jaw is jammed, so he gives up and turns back to loading.
“Riley.”
“No,” he says, and for a while I wonder if that’s all he’s going to say. Then he turns to face me. “I won’t be your plan B.”
“You’re so not,” I say, reaching for his hand. He pulls it away, denying it to me.
“ ’Cause you’re my plan A. You’re the one I want. There’s no one else I’m thinking about. I’m not hanging on to you because I’m trying to figure something out and don’t want to lose you if I take too long.”
I’m so embarrassed my scales rise up on my arms. They’re as red as tomatoes.
“That’s not what you are,” I say, but my voice has no conviction. I might as well have given him a teddy bear for guessing correctly.
“I’m not stupid like he is,” Riley says, firing a shot at Fathom. “I was actually okay with giving you some time to figure it out, because I thought if you could just see me and not him, everything would fall into place. I was sure you’d see he’s not right for you, but now, well, I can’t . . .”
“Riley?”
“You don’t know how important parents are until you don’t know where they are. A kid needs his mom and dad. How can I get in the way of that relationship?”
“Whoa! Fathom and I aren’t going to be a family.”
“But you love him,” he says. “And whether or not the two of you end up together, you will always wonder what that would be like. You tried to hide that from me ’cause you are hiding it from yourself.”
I’m a garbage person. I’m Gabriel. Hell, I’m as cold as Fathom. I might as well be a full-blooded Alpha the way I smash through lives like a wrecking ball.
He nods as if having some internal conversation. There’s a debate going on inside his head, and I wonder if he’s trying to find a way to keep trying with me. Could he really be that great? Wouldn’t it be amazing if he was really that great?
“Do you love him, Lyric?”
“I don’t want to love him, so I’m not going to,” I say.
“That’s the most honest thing you’ve said to me,” he says. “But it’s not the answer to my question. Or maybe it is.”
He takes a step back, then looks around him as if trying to find a place he can run, somewhere to hide.
“I didn’t plan this,” I cry. I need to sit down. I feel hot and tired.
He gives me one of those smiles you give a child who has fallen and scraped her knee. He bites his lip, and turns and walks down the street. I call after him.
“What?” he says, turning to face me. His voice is irritated and stung, but it’s so full of hope. He’s giving me a last chance to say something that will make him stay, but I have no idea what it would be.
“I really care about you.”
I don’t need to be able to read his mind to know what he’s thinking. I really care about you is a kick to the groin. I know that as well as anyone. I’ve had to say it a few times, and I always knew what it meant. It’s relationship-ese for “you have no mojo.” I am not attracted to you. You are like my brother. You are better off in the friend zone. I want something else, someone else. You will never have me.
“Great,” he whispers.
“Riley, you have to give me some time to figure this out.”
“You’ve got a day,” he says over his shoulder. “Tomorrow we’re probably all going to die.”
I spot my pack in the car. The zipper is open, and Harrison’s glove is poking out. I take it an
d slip it onto my hand. If I had some power, maybe I could make things right, but it won’t click shut. The gloves are done with me, just like Riley. I slip it back into the bag, only to cause his neat stack to tumble onto the ground. I messed it all up. I mess everything up.
I’m too exhausted to drive, so Bex takes over for me. My mother slides behind the wheel in the other car. Dad tells me he has been teaching her to drive over the last three months and she’ll be fine, but I keep checking my rearview mirror, sure she’s going to steer the SUV into a ditch. Everyone is quiet but wide-eyed, anxious about what will happen when we arrive in Brooklyn. We’ve been on the road for hours, and I’m exhausted. I put my head against the window and close my eyes. I just need a little sleep.
“We should have made some mix CDs.” Shadow appears in the driver’s seat. He smiles at me, then turns his attention back to the radio, stabbing the buttons in hopes of finding something to listen to, but static is the only option on every station.
“I have an idea I’d like to run past you. Let’s not do the mysterious, vague-advice thing anymore. I saw it in Star Wars, and you’re plagiarizing Yoda something fierce. Let’s try clear, precise answers to my questions,” I say.
He chuckles. “You know, you really suck the fun out of everything. How did the real Shadow put up with you?”
“What happened to my upgrade?”
He points to my belly.
“Oh, I get it,” I cry. “The baby is the blessing, right? Thanks for nothing!”
“No, Lyric. Think about it.”
I look down at my belly as if I’ll find a clue written there for me. What does the baby have to do with anything? Oh. Dammit!
“The baby got the upgrade.”
“Plot twist,” he says. “My work here is done, Walker. I won’t be bothering you anymore. This is our last visit.”
“Where are you going?”
He winks and points to my belly. “He needs me more than you.”
Heart of the Storm Page 17
