Of Poseidon Page 2

  Shark.

  3

  I SPLASH enough water in Chloe’s face to put out a small house fire. I don’t want to drown her, just exfoliate her eyeballs with sea salt. When she thinks I’m done, she opens her eyes—and her mouth. Big mistake. The next wave rinses off the hangy ball in the back of her throat and makes it to her lungs before she can swallow. She chokes and coughs and rubs her eyes as if she’s been maced.

  “Great, Emma! You got my new hair wet!” she sputters. “Happy now?”

  “Nope.”

  “I said I was sorry.” She blows her nose in her hand, then sets the snot to sea.

  “Gross. And sorry’s not good enough.”

  “Fine. I’ll make it up to you. What do you want?”

  “Let me hold your head underwater until I feel better,” I say. I cross my arms, which is tricky when straddling a surfboard being pitched around in the wake of a passing speedboat. Chloe knows I’m nervous being this far out, but holding on would be a sign of weakness.

  “I’ll let you do that because I love you. But it won’t make you feel better.”

  “I won’t know for sure until I try it.” I keep eye contact, sit a little straighter.

  “Fine. But you’ll still look albino when you let me back up.” She rocks the board and makes me grab it for balance.

  “Get your snotty hands off the surfboard. And I’m not albino. Just white.” I want to cross my arms again, but we almost tipped over that time. Swallowing my pride is a lot easier than swallowing the Gulf of Mexico.

  “Whiter than most,” she grins. “People would think you’re naked if you wore my swimsuit.” I glance down at the white string bikini, offset beautifully against her chocolate-milk skin. She catches me and laughs.

  “Well, maybe I could get a tan while we’re here,” I say, blushing. I feel myself cracking and I hate it. Just this once, I want to stay mad at Chloe.

  “Maybe you could get a burn while we’re here, you mean. Matterfact, did you put sunblock on?”

  I shake my head.

  She shakes her head too, and makes a tsking sound identical to her mother’s. “Didn’t think so. If you did, you would’ve slipped right off that guy’s chest instead of sticking to it like that.”

  “I know,” I groan.

  “Got to be the hottest guy I’ve ever seen,” she says, fanning herself for emphasis.

  “Yeah, I know. Smacked into him, remember? Without my helmet, remember?”

  She laughs. “Hate to break it to you, but he’s still staring at you. Him and his mean-ass sister.”

  “Shut. Up.”

  She snickers. “But seriously, which one of them do you think would win a staring contest? I was gonna tell him to meet us at Baytowne tonight, but he might be one of those clingy stalker types. That’s too bad, too. There’s a million dark little corners in Baytowne for you two to snuggle—”

  “Ohmysweetgoodness, Chloe, stop!” I giggle and shiver at the same time and accidentally imagine walking around The Village in Baytowne Wharf with Galen. The Village is exactly that—a sleepy little village of tourist shops in the middle of a golf-course resort. During the daytime anyway. At night though … that’s when the dance club wakes up and opens its doors to all the sunburned partiers roaming the cobblestoned walkways with their daiquiris. Galen would look great under the twinkling lights, even with a shirt on.…

  Chloe smirks. “Uh-huh. Already thought of that, huh?”

  “No!”

  “Uh-huh. Then why are your cheeks red as hot sauce?”

  “Nuh-uh!” I laugh. She does, too.

  “You want me to go ask him to meet us, then?”

  I nod. “How old do you think he is?”

  She shrugs. “Not creepy-old. Old enough for me to be jailbait, though. Lucky for him, you just turned eighteen.… What the … did you just kick me?” She peers into the water, swipes her hand over the surface as if clearing away something to see better. “Something just bumped me.”

  She cups her hands over her eyes and squints, leaning down so close that one good wave could slap her chin. The concentration on her face almost convinces me. Almost. But I grew up with Chloe—we’ve been next-door neighbors since the third grade. I’ve grown used to fake rubber snakes on my front porch, salt in the sugar dish, and Saran wrap spread across the toilet seat—well, actually, Mom fell prey to that one. The point is Chloe loves pranks almost as much as she loves running. And this is definitely a prank.

  “Yep, I kicked you,” I tell her, rolling my eyes.

  “But … but you can’t reach me, Emma. My legs are longer than yours, and I can’t reach you.… There it is again! You didn’t feel that?”

  I didn’t feel it, but I did see her leg twitch. I wonder how long she’s been planning this. Since we got here? Since we boarded the plane in Jersey? Since we turned twelve? “Yeah right, Chloe. You’ll have to do better than that if—”

  Her scream is blood-congealing. Her eyes balloon almost out of their sockets, and the creases on her forehead look like stairs. She grabs her left thigh, holding it so tight one of her fake nails pops off.

  “Stop it, Chloe! It isn’t funny!” I bite my lip, trying to keep up my show of indifference.

  Another nail pops off. She reaches for me but misses. Her leg jerks back and forth in the water, and she screams again, only much, much worse. She clutches the board with both hands, but her arms are shaking too much to stay anchored. Real tears mix with seawater and sweat on her face. Her sobs come in huge gulps, like she can’t decide if she wants to cry or scream again.

  And I am convinced.

  I lunge, grasp her forearm, scoot to her on the board. Blood clouds the water around us. When she sees it, her screams become frantic, un-human. I lace my fingers through hers, but she barely grips back.

  “Hold on to me, Chloe! Pull your legs up on the board!”

  “No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” she sobs, choking between breaths. Her whole body shakes, and her teeth chatter as if we’ve somehow drifted into the Arctic Ocean.

  And the fin is all I see. Our hands separate. I scream as the surfboard tilts and Chloe is wrenched from it. The water snatches away her shriek as she’s pulled under. Blood trails behind as she becomes a shadow, moving deeper and deeper, farther and farther away from light, from oxygen. From me.

  “Shark! Shark! Help! Somebody please help us! Shaaaaaaaaark!”

  I flail my arms and scream. Kick my legs and scream. Bounce up and down on the surfboard—and scream and scream and scream. I slide off, stick the board in the air, wave it with all my strength. The weight of it forces me under. Terror and water cocoon me. For a second, I’m four years old again, drowning in my grandmother’s pond. Panic settles on me like stirred-up muck. But unlike then, I keep tethered to reality. I don’t detach; I don’t let my imagination take over. I don’t dream of catfish and striped bass pushing me to the surface, rescuing me.

  Maybe it’s because I’m older. Maybe it’s because someone else’s life depends on my staying calm. Whatever the reason, I keep my grasp on the surfboard and pull myself up, swallowing part of a wave as I surface. The saltwater stings my raw throat even as the fresh air chases it.

  The people on shore are specks, moving around like fleas on a dog. No one sees me. Not the sunbathers, not the shallow-water swimmers, not the moms hunting shells with their toddlers. There are no boats, no Jet Skis nearby. Just water, sky, and a setting sun.

  My sobbing turns into lung-bursting hiccups. No one can hear me. No one can see me. No one is coming to save Chloe.

  I push the surfboard away, toward shore. If the waves carry it in, maybe someone will see that its owner didn’t return with it. Maybe they will even remember the two girls who took it out. And maybe they will look for us.

  Deep inside, I feel I’m watching my life float away on that glistening board. When I peer down into the water, I feel I’m watching Chloe’s life float away with that faint trail of blood, blurred and weakened by each passing wave. The ch
oice is clear.

  I breathe in as much air as my lungs can take without popping. And then I dive.

  4

  TOO LATE.

  As fast as he is, Galen is too late. He powers through the current as the floor of the gulf slants steeper and steeper. Every time he hears Emma’s desperate screams, he pushes harder, harder than he’s ever pushed himself before. But he doesn’t want to see it. Whatever is happening to her to make her scream like that, he doesn’t want to see it. Already, he knows he’ll be haunted by those screams forever. He doesn’t want to add to his torment with the sight of it. Chloe has already stopped screaming—he doesn’t want to think about what that means. And he refuses to acknowledge how much time has passed since he heard Emma. He clenches his teeth and slices through the water faster than he can see ahead of him.

  Finally, finally, he finds them. And he is too late.

  He groans when he sees Emma. She clutches Chloe’s limp arm, pulling and tugging and twisting, struggling to pry her friend from the bull shark’s jaws. She doesn’t see that each jerk, each yank, each inch she gains only tears more flesh from Chloe’s leg. And she doesn’t see that her friend stopped fighting long ago.

  She and the beast are at war. It shakes and writhes, mirroring her actions, pulling them both into deeper water, but Emma won’t let go. Galen glances around, wary for other contenders the blood might attract. But the haze of red is dissipating—Chloe is almost drained.

  Why didn’t Emma change? Why didn’t she save her friend? Doubts mingle with remorse. He swallows the eruption of bile shooting up his throat. Rayna is right. She isn’t one of them. If she was, she would have saved her friend. She would have changed, would have carried Chloe away to safety—all healthy Syrena can swim faster than sharks.

  I was wrong. Emma is human. Which means she needs oxygen. Now. He starts toward her but stops.

  The several minutes she has been fighting that shark should have sapped her strength. But her tugs are becoming stronger. A few times, she even makes headway toward shallower water. She is making headway with a bull shark. Galen remembers Dr. Milligan saying humans make something called adrenaline, which makes them stronger, gives them more energy when they need it to survive. Maybe Emma’s body is making extra adrenaline.…

  Why are you thinking about it? Even if it is adrenaline, she’s still human. She needs help. And where is Rayna? She should have been here by now, with those useless humans who call themselves lifeguards. Lifeguards who sit in their tall wooden stands, keeping careful vigilance of the beach to make sure no one with a bikini drowns in the white sand.

  Galen doesn’t have time to wait for any adolescent savior. Even if Emma’s making enough adrenaline to stay down here, it’s a miracle the shark hasn’t given up on Chloe and attacked her. He starts toward her a second time. And for a second time, he stops.

  It’s just that … she doesn’t look as though she needs help. Her pale face is contorted with anger. Not fear. Not distress. Just fury. Her white hair floats around her like an aura, jerking in delayed reaction with each of her capable movements. She grunts and growls in frustration. Galen’s eyes widen as she lifts her leg to kick. Her human legs are not powerful enough to do damage; water slows the movement, blunts the force of the blow. Still, she lands her mark on its eye, and the impact is enough to make the beast let go. It doesn’t leave, just makes a wide circle around the girls. And then it swims directly at them.

  Galen charges. Of his kind, he is the fastest. He can make it to her before the shark, snatch her away, and probably even change back to human form before she sees him. But why bother to change back at all? He’s in blended form right now, his skin mimicking the water all around him. All she would see is a watery glob carrying her to shore. Even if he un-blended, if he let her see him, no one will believe her if she tells. They’ll insist she lost consciousness, that she swallowed too much saltwater, that she was too traumatized to know what she saw.

  But he wants her to know, wants her to see him. For some reason beyond sense, he wants Emma to remember him. Because this will be the last time he ever sees her. There’s no need to follow her, to watch her. After today he has no interest in her. A human cannot unite his people. Not even a breathtaking one.

  Breathtaking? Rayna’s right—you’ve lost your mind! He groans and speeds up. Emma’s scream almost chokes him.

  “Stop!” she yells.

  Galen stops. But Emma’s not talking to him. She’s talking to the shark.

  And the shark stops.

  Emma wraps both arms around Chloe and hugs her to her chest, leaning her friend away from the attack. “You can’t have her! Leave her alone! Leave us both alone!”

  The shark turns, saunters away as if sulking.

  Galen gasps. He watches until the smooth sway of its tail disappears in the distance. He tries to comprehend it. Because what he knows, absolutely knows, about bull sharks is that they don’t back down. Aggressive and ruthless, they are one of the most feared creatures among Syrena and humans alike—the most likely to attack the young of either kind. And this one just surrendered his meal, his rightful kill.

  Galen’s attention whips back to Emma when he hears her strangled cry. She is still clutching Chloe, and they are sinking. Emma kicks her legs and flails with her free arm. Her face is not angry now but full of distress. Fear. Exhaustion. Emma looks like a real human.

  Galen hears a noise approaching, the soft thrum of a boat getting closer. Rayna. But will she be in time? Each passing second drains the spirit from Emma’s fight. Her kicking becomes erratic, her arm thrashes without any clear purpose.

  Galen is frozen in indecision. She isn’t human—she can’t be. Adrenaline might help a human hold her breath, but not for this long. Plus, humans don’t talk underwater—especially when doing so sacrifices precious oxygen. And bull sharks do not back down from humans—especially one as puny as Emma. Still, they don’t back down from Syrena either. Unless Dr. Milligan is right. Unless Emma has the gift of Poseidon.

  But if she is Syrena, then why didn’t she change? She could have saved her friend’s life. Why doesn’t she change now? Surely she knows her friend is dead. Why make a show of struggling in human form? Can she sense me the way I sense her? Galen shakes his head. There is not enough time to consider these things. For whatever reason, Emma is willing to drown to stay in human form.

  And Galen will not allow it.

  He launches toward her. The boat is visible a short distance away, breaking the waves on the surface. One way or the other, Emma will be saved. The boat stops overhead and Galen pauses. He can reach Emma if he needs to.

  A white light strikes through the water, and the beam rests on Emma and Chloe; it is the first time Galen notices the absence of natural sunlight. The sun must be completely set. Two humans plunge in and swim directly to the girls. Galen knows Rayna must be on board, directing the light; without the Syrena’s ability to see into the water, these helpless humans could never have found them, even with a spotlight.

  Emma releases Chloe to the lifeguards, nodding to them in understanding as they pry her lifeless friend from her protective grip. The two exchange a surprised expression as they kick their way to the surface. They lift Chloe onto the boat, but not before Emma catches a glimpse of her leg—a dangling bone from knee to ankle. Her anguished cry siphons the last of her oxygen, the last of her will to fight. Her body falls limp, her eyes close.

  Galen wraps his arms around her before she sinks an inch.

  Ignoring the two splashes on the other side of the boat, he pushes Emma to the surface and into the waiting arms of his sister. Rayna heaves her over the rim of the craft.

  When Galen falls back to the water, he spots the two lifeguards and rolls his eyes. They don’t even realize Emma is already safe on board. They wade themselves stationary, not willing to search beyond an arm’s length ahead of them. Without the spotlight, these pitiful creatures can see nothing. If Galen weren’t here, Emma would be dead.

 
; Infuriated, he torpedoes between them. The momentum spins them around like tiny whirlpools. He hears their startled cries as he swims away.

  * * *

  Galen dislodges his swimming trunks from under the rock; with a beach full of humans, he’d had to pull them off in the water. He slides them on, digs his feet in the muddy floor, and walks toward shore.

  Rayna is waiting for him, sitting in the sand with her knees drawn to her chest. She wrings a piece of clothing in her hands until it resembles a rope; Galen recognizes it as the shirt Emma wore when he first saw her on the boardwalk. Even in the moonlight, he sees that his sister is crying.

  He sighs and sits beside her. She accepts his arm around her shoulders without a fight, even leans her head on his chest when he draws her to him.

  “Chloe’s dead,” she chokes out. For all her venom, his sister cares about life—human or not.

  He nods. “I know. I didn’t get there in time.”

  Rayna snorts. “Galen, this is one thing you can’t take responsibility for. I said she was dead. I didn’t say you killed her. If you couldn’t get to her, then nobody could have.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I waited too long to intervene.”

  “Galen—”

  “Forget it. What about Emma?”

  Rayna sighs. “She came to right when we got to shore. They let her ride in the white truck with Chloe.”

  “But how is she?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. She’s breathing. And crying.”

  Galen nods, lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “So she’s okay.” His sister pulls away and leans back. He lets his arm drop but doesn’t look at her. “I think you should go home,” he says quietly.

  Rayna stands up and angles over him so that she’s blocking the moonlight. She plants her feet in the sand, hands on hips. Still, he doesn’t expect her to yell like she does. “She isn’t one of us! She’s a pathetic human who couldn’t even save her own friend. And you know what? Even if she is one of us, I don’t want to know! Because then I’d have to kill her for letting her friend die!”