Undertow Read online

  “Your words are soaked in disrespect, Selkie. They will not go unanswered,” she says.

  “A challenge I will be happy to accept, Arcade, once I’ve taken care of these bottom feeders,” Surf says, then turns back toward Svetlana and her gang. “Know this: today you taste your own blood.”

  Arcade swings hard, crashing knuckles into Surf’s face. The giant steps backward several feet but stays on his feet. He shakes off his surprise, then charges again. This time I hear the click of blades erupting from Arcade’s forearms. Like Fathom’s, they are black, sharp, jagged, and eager to cause damage.

  Surf turns his angry face to Fathom. “You would have your female fight for you? You are unworthy of your crown.”

  “Your mouth is too big, Surf,” Arcade says. “It can’t hold back all the dumb things in your brain.”

  “I will kill you,” he seethes.

  “A perfect example,” she says, then leaps for the boy. Her fist catches his open mouth, and I hear the sound of breaking teeth. He staggers back, but not before her foot catches him in the gut. He’s twice her size, but Arcade’s beat-down is almost effortless. She raises her arm, and the blades come out again.

  “Here is what happens when I am insulted,” she rages.

  I gasp, knowing she intends to bury the tip in his chest.

  “Stop this now!” Terrance shouts. He’s standing, by some miracle still alive. “You have mde promises to not draw blood in this school.”

  Soldiers rush into the room with guns drawn and stern warnings. They circle Surf and Arcade and demand that the two of them back away from each other. A few others try to pull the students off the chairs, but the Niners kick and fight. Some have to be tackled to the floor, handcuffed, and violently dragged from the room, but it doesn’t stop their chant.

  “GO HOME, FISH HEADS, GO HOME. GO HOME, FISH HEADS, GO HOME. GO HOME, FISH HEADS, GO HOME!”

  As they drag Svetlana past me, she spits in my face. “We’ll get you, fish lover.”

  I wipe the spittle from my cheek and look at it. She knows I’m meeting with Fathom—everyone knows. Terror enters my bloodstream. I’m trembling, nauseous, drowning in panic.

  “Lyric Walker, are you well?” Fathom asks.

  “I’m not—” A migraine slams into me like a truck. I have never experienced pain so sudden or so savage. Everything is red and molten. I’m blind. I hear a sickening crack, then realize it was the sound of my head slamming onto the marble floor.

  Thunder wakes me. When I get out of bed and pull up the blinds, I find a purple sky filled with charged and menacing clouds. If it could talk, it would all be threats. I will unleash hell on you. I will open up and drown you like ants. A storm of biblical scale is on the way. I can’t help but feel it’s the best thing that could happen to this neighborhood. I’m ready to be washed away.

  I hear a buzz and realize my phone is sitting on my bedside table. My father must be home, because he took it when I went into school. Oh, yeah, school. I did a face plant in the cafeteria. I reach up and feel a warm, spongy knot on my head. It aches when I touch it.

  The phone buzzes again. It could be a text from Bex, and I need to find out what everyone is saying. But when I scroll through my messages, I realize I don’t need her after all. Everyone in the world has sent me a text of their own.

  F U AND UR FISH HEAD FRIEND.

  FISH LOVER.

  FILTHY WHORE.

  YOU’RE DEAD.

  WATCH YOUR BACK YOU PIECE OF TRASH.

  I’M GOING TO PUT A BULLET IN YOUR EYE.

  I don’t recognize most of the numbers, but there are some I do. They’re from people in the neighborhood, people I used to consider friends—Mark, Kelli, Talia, too many to count—all wishing me dead, promising they will have a hand in it.

  And then there are Bex’s.

  R U OK?

  U DROPPED LIKE A ROCK.

  I THOUGHT U WERE DEAD.

  FATHOM CARRIED U 2 THE OFFICE. IT WAS LIKE AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN.

  VERY HOT.

  Really? I’m surprised. Why would Fathom do that?

  PLEASE CALL ME!

  DAMN U 4 MAKING ME WORRY.

  U R MAKING ME OLD BEFORE MY TIME.

  I FOUND A GRAY HAIR.

  I LUV U. WILL CALL SOON.

  I’m pecking out a message to make sure she’s okay when I look at the time. It’s noon. How can it be noon? Did I really sleep an entire day? Oh, Bex! She was supposed to stay with me last night. I was her escape from Russell. I send her a text and then realize she’s at school right now. She doesn’t have her phone.

  There’s a light knock at the door, and it swings open. My mother is there, looking tired and doing that nervous thing with her hands.

  “I’m the worst friend,” I say. “Bex needed to stay here last night. Russell is smacking her around.”

  A crease appears between my mother’s eyes. “I’ll call your father and have him bring her here after school. Right now I have to worry about you.”

  I gesture to my phone. “They’re sending me messages.”

  “Don’t erase them,” my mother says as she crosses the room. “Your dad will want to keep records.”

  She sits down next to me and puts her cool hand against my forehead. I lean into it, enjoying the delicious pain the pressure creates. For some reason it eases my migraine. “Mom, it was a really bad one, the worst ever. I think we have to add an F6.”

  She flinches. “They’re getting worse?”

  I nod.

  She tries to smooth the wrinkles out of my sheets. “Samuel’s were getting worse before . . .” she says, then trails off.

  “This is an Alpha thing?”

  “More like a half-Alpha, half-human thing,” she explains. “All of our children suffer from them, some worse than others.”

  “Is it some sign of a change? Am I going to grow a tail?” I cry. The words catch in my mouth and come out as a stuttering whimper. My biggest fear, greater than being discovered, greater than being dragged off to some camp like Terrance Lir and his family, is waking up to find that I have transformed into a Sirena. I have never fully recovered from the time my mother dragged me into the bathroom and showed me her legs congealing into a long blue fin that unrolled like a scroll and flopped over the side of the tub. I don’t want to be like her. I want to be normal, no matter how many times I have to re­define its meaning.

  “No, Lyric, you aren’t changing, at least I don’t think so. If the headaches were some sort of early warning system, then we would have seen changes long ago. You have been getting them since you were a baby. You and Samuel used to cry all night and nothing helped: aspirin, Tylenol, teas, honeys, herbs, acupuncture—nothing. We even took you in for CAT scans, though we were terrified the doctor would see something that screamed Alpha. We were that desperate. One doctor told us the two of you have overactive electrical systems in your brains, but nothing he prescribed helped much. The yoga on the beach was really the only thing that eased the pain, that and the cold baths. Terrance used to joke that you both were part Rusalka.”

  “Rusalka? Is that another clan?”

  “Not exactly a clan. More like servants.”

  “Slaves?”

  She looks away. “I never thought it was right.”

  I shake my head. “The more I learn about the Alpha, the more I’m disgusted. Are there any of these slaves on the beach?”

  “No, I haven’t seen any of them on the sites I’ve watched. They don’t really transform much when they come out of the water. I think the locals would freak out if they saw one, so they’re probably still in the water waiting with the others.”

  “Weirder than the Nix or the Ceto?”

  “Not weird—different.”

  I go back to watching the sky. People are carrying umbrellas down on the street and eyeing the clouds warily. There is, however, a group of people on the corner who do not appear to be concerned about getting wet: a half-dozen soldiers are milling around outside my build
ing. A few of them are looking up at me and talking into their radios.

  “Mom, there are soldiers outside,” I say.

  Before she can look for herself, there’s a knock at the door.

  “Mom?”

  “Don’t panic,” she says as she tiptoes into the living room.

  “I am looking for Lyric Walker,” a voice says when she opens the door.

  “No way!” I know that voice. I sprint into the living room, nearly killing myself on the coffee table.

  Fathom is in the doorway wearing jeans and sneakers, as well as a hoodie to cover his head. He peers into our apartment like it’s full of dangerous animals.

  “What are you doing here?” I cry as I poke my head into the hall. There’s no sign of Mrs. Novakova, but that won’t last. I grab his arm and pull him into our apartment, then I lock the door and slide the chain.

  “The one you call Doyle had the soldiers bring me here. I am ready for my lesson.”

  “Did you see anyone when you came into the building—a little woman who looks like the devil?”

  “What is a devil?”

  “How about the elevator?”

  “I took the stairs. The elevator was . . . small.”

  “Hello, Your Majesty,” my mother says, stumbling over her words. “Can I offer you a drink or something to eat?”

  Fathom shakes his head and turns to me. “It is good to see that someone in your family knows about respect.”

  I frown.

  “I have said something wrong again. I apologize,” he says, throwing his hands up to protect his face.

  “Huh,” I say. Was that a joke? No, it couldn’t have been.

  “Your daughter is a warrior in disguise,” he says to my mother.

  “I’ve always thought so,” my mother says, proudly.

  He cranes his neck and looks at the ceiling and the walls. That’s when I notice the new gash beneath his ear. It’s red and angry. The others are healing but if he doesn’t do something about this one, it will get infected.

  “Wait here.”

  I head into the bathroom with my mother at my heels.

  “What is he doing here?” she cries.

  “I have no idea,” I say as I fumble through the medicine cabinet.

  “Should I call your father?”

  “Maybe. No. I don’t know, Mom. I didn’t invite him. He says the principal sent him over. This is our meeting time. If we send him away, then Doyle’s going to go back to being a hard-ass.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Band-Aids, Neosporin,” I say. “An excuse not to be alone with him.”

  “He won’t dress his wounds,” my mother says. “It’s dishonorable.”

  “Mom, your people are really screwed up,” I groan as I throw the medicine into the sink. “Every day he has new ones. This Alpha tough-guy thing is going to get him sick.”

  “It’s more a Triton royal family thing,” she says as she sorts through the medicine cabinet. “Though the other clans subscribe to the idea. Regardless, he considers them trophies, proof of his bravery and strength.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard the whole crazy story. What are you looking for?”

  She snatches an orange prescription bottle out of the cabinet. “Your father has some leftover antibiotics he didn’t finish that time he put a rusty nail through his hand.”

  “Will Fathom take it?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Absolutely not, but if I dissolve it into a glass of water, he won’t even know.”

  Moments later, we’re back in the living room and he’s downing the medicine mixture in one gulp. My mother gives me a wink. She’s proud she just dosed a teenage boy. Who is this woman?

  I take him to my room because I’m tired of seeing my mother walking into walls while staring at him. We sit awkwardly on my bed while he rubs his neck and stares at the ceiling. I can see he’s going to lose it, and I brace for another temper tantrum.

  “Let’s read,” I say, bouncing to my feet and digging into an old box of books my mother saved from when I was little. Then I return to my spot only to watch Fathom stand and pace the room. He goes to the window and looks at the blinds.

  “Is it okay to open this?” he asks.

  He’s so frantic, I can’t deny him, but when he pulls the cord he rips the whole contraption off the wall. I jump, remembering our last encounter in the classroom.

  My mother rushes in and sees the mess, then looks at Fathom, who is still pacing.

  “Why don’t you two go up on the roof?” she says.

  “Why?” I reply.

  “I think the prince is feeling a little locked up,” she says. “Maybe the open sky will help.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s claustrophobic,” she mouths when he isn’t looking. Of course he is!

  I hurry him to the elevator. While waiting for it to arrive, I watch Mrs. Novakova’s door. She’ll charge into the hall the second she hears the call bell, so I have to time this just right.

  “Can we not take the stairs?” he begs.

  “The roof is on the twenty-fourth floor,” I say. “By the time we get there I’ll be dead.”

  I hear the elevator slowing down at our floor and then the ding. As predicted, Mrs. Novakova’s door opens just as I shove Fathom inside. It’s like trying to push a statue, he’s so big and solid.

  “What are you doing lurking out here in the halls?” the old woman snaps.

  “Hi, Mrs. Novakova. Hope you’re well,” I say as I dart into the elevator. I can hear her heavy feet hobbling down the hall as I fumble with the buttons, hitting the top floor and the Close Doors button at the same time.

  “Why aren’t you in school?” she growls. As the doors slide shut, her fat, creepy head appears. I have to stiff-arm Fathom against the wall to make sure she doesn’t spot him. She tries to shove her foot into the gap, but she’s not fast enough and it shuts in her face. “You’re up to something, girl!”

  Fathom cocks a curious eyebrow but says nothing.

  At the top floor, I push open the fire door that leads to the roof. Fathom blinks into the murky sky and smiles wide. It’s such a beautiful thing, calm and carefree, and for a moment I forget I hate him.

  “You’re claustrophobic,” I say.

  “I do not know this word.”

  “It means you’re afraid of enclosed spaces,” I explain.

  “I am afraid of nothing,” he growls.

  “I’m not trying to insult you. I’m saying I understand the freak-outs in the classroom now. You don’t like the walls.”

  “It is the ceiling that troubles me,” he says. “I am not used to having something over my head.”

  This explains so much about him and about my mother, too. Before the Alpha arrived and she was stuck in the house, she couldn’t stand to be inside. If she wasn’t on the beach, she wasn’t happy. No wonder she’s so miserable and stressed-out.

  “You fell,” he says as he peers toward the beach. From up here we can see the entire shore, the Wonder Wheel, the derelict roller coaster, and the crumbling sideshow museums. He walks to the edge and stares out at the ocean. The storm is stirring it up. The waves look dangerous.

  “I passed out. I get these headaches, and the pain can get pretty bad.”

  “But you are well?”

  “I have a knot on my head as big as a clementine, but I’ll be fine. Were any of your friends arrested?”

  “My friends?”

  “Yes, Surf—”

  “Surf is not a friend. He is a subject,” he says stiffly. “And no, none of the Alpha were arrested.”

  “Oh, okay. And your bodyguard, is she a subject?”

  He eyes me carefully, then nods. “You mean Arcade.”

  I nod.

  “She is a friend,” he says, then turns back to the beach. Not exactly subtle, but I get the hint. He doesn’t want to talk about her.

  “Come and sit.”

  I lead him to a couple of old chairs. No one is sup
posed to be up here, but Kelly, our super, must be ignoring the rules. There are a couple of spent joints, an empty liter bottle of Mountain Dew, and four Louis L’Amour novels tucked inside a Ziploc bag to protect them from the rain. Kelly has made himself a little reading oasis up here, and the cool breeze that blows unhindered from the ocean is heaven. No wonder we can never find him when something is broken. I notice a yoga mat stashed near a ventilation shaft. I guess Mom uses the roof too.

  “Your name is musical.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “The woman with the red cross said that your name comes from songs.”

  He’s asking about me. Why is he asking about me?

  “Oh, yes, lyrics are the words in songs. My mother is sort of a free spirit,” I say.

  He frowns. “Your mother is not dead.”

  “No, a free spirit is someone who does things her own way.” I laugh, which only enrages him. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I’m, well . . . I bet I say lots of things that don’t make any sense to you.”

  “Nothing in your world makes any sense to me,” he grumbles.

  Ugh, he’s so prickly. Everything I say jabs some sensitive spot or, worse, completely offends him. I really don’t want this to go south again, especially up here on the twenty-fourth floor, where he could easily toss me off without any effort.

  “The red-cross lady, her name is Fiona, she tries to explain things, but there is much that I am sure I will never understand,” he continues, shifting from anger to melancholy.

  “Did Fiona tell you what your name means? Fathom is a measurement of depth. It means you are six feet deep.”

  “Fathom is not my name,” he says.