Of Poseidon Page 5

  “Stop smiling like you know something. It’s not like that.”

  “Well, what’s it like then? I’m a tracker remember? Maybe I can help you out on this one.”

  Galen nods. If anyone could help him figure out his sensing, it would be a Tracker. “It feels like … like … wrestling with an electric ray. And then when we touch, it’s like swimming over a volcano vent. Hot, all over. But it’s more than that. You know how you feel when one of our own is near? You feel their pulse, and you just know they’re there?”

  Toraf nods.

  “Well, it’s not like that with Emma, not exactly. I’m not just aware of her. I’m … I’m…”

  “Drawn to her?”

  Galen looks at his friend. “Yes. Exactly. How did you know that?”

  “You remember the tracker who trained me?”

  Galen nods. “Yudor. Why?”

  “Well, he told me once that … you know what? Nevermind. It’s stupid.”

  “I swear, Toraf, I’m going to knock every one of your teeth out if—”

  “He said it means she’s your mate,” he blurts. “And not just any mate, your special mate. You feel the pull toward her, Galen.”

  Galen rolls his eyes. “I’ve heard that before. Romul says that’s a myth. Nobody has a special mate.” And as the oldest living Triton, Romul would know. Galen started visiting him years ago when he became ambassador to the humans. Romul taught him all the laws of the Syrena, the history of their kind, and the history of their relationship with humans. He also taught him about the ways of males and females—long before his parents ever intended him to know. Normally, when a Syrena male attains the age of eighteen, he becomes attracted to several match-worthy females at once. After spending time with each one, he is able to discern the most suitable for producing heirs and providing companionship. In cases of “the pull” though, he would only be attracted to one—and that one would be his perfect match in every way. It is thought that the pull also produces the strongest offspring possible, that it’s something in the Syrena blood that ensures the survival of their kind. A few among the Syrena still believe in it. And Galen isn’t one of them.

  “Some think Grom felt the pull toward Nalia,” Toraf says softly. “Maybe it’s a family trait.”

  “Well, there’s where you’re wrong, Toraf. I’m not supposed to feel the pull toward Emma. She belongs to Grom. He’s firstborn, third generation Triton. And she’s clearly of Poseidon.” Galen runs his hand through his hair.

  “I think that if Grom were her mate, he would have found Emma somehow instead of you.”

  “That’s what you get for thinking. I didn’t find Emma, Dr. Milligan did.”

  “Okay, answer me this,” Toraf says, shaking a finger at Galen. “You’re twenty years old. Why haven’t you sifted for a mate?”

  Galen blinks. He’s never thought of it, actually. Not even when Toraf asked for Rayna. Shouldn’t that have reminded him of his own single status? He shakes his head. He’s letting Toraf’s gossip get to him. He shrugs. “I’ve just been busy. It’s not like I don’t want to, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  “With who?”

  “What?”

  “Name someone, Galen. The first female that comes to mind.”

  He tries to block out her name, her face. But he doesn’t stop it in time. Emma. He cringes. It’s just that we’ve been talking about her so much, she’s naturally the freshest on my mind, he tells himself. “There isn’t anyone yet. But I’m sure there would be if I spent more time at home.”

  “Right. And why is it that you’re always away? Maybe you’re searching for something and don’t even know it.”

  “I’m away because I’m watching the humans, as is my responsibility, you might remember. You also might remember they’re the real reason our kingdoms are divided. If they never set that mine, none of this would have happened. And we both know it will happen again.”

  “Come on, Galen. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I don’t think you do either.”

  “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. I wouldn’t want to talk about it either. Finding my special mate and then turning her over to my own brother. Knowing that she’s mating with him on the islands, holding him close—”

  Galen lands a clean hook to Toraf’s nose and blood spurts on his bare chest. Toraf falls back and holds his nostrils shut. Then he laughs. “I guess I know who taught Rayna how to hit.”

  Galen massages his temples. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from. I told you I was frustrated.”

  Toraf laughs. “You’re so blind, minnow. I just hope you open your eyes before it’s too late.”

  Galen scoffs. “Stop vomiting superstition at me. I told you. I’m just frustrated. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

  Toraf cocks his head to the side, snorts some blood back into his nasal cavity. “So the humans followed you around, made you feel uncomfortable?”

  “That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”

  Toraf nods thoughtfully. Then he says, “Imagine how Emma must feel then.”

  “What?”

  “Think about it. The humans followed you around a building and it made you uncomfortable. You followed Emma across the big land. Then Rachel makes sure you have every class with her. Then when she tries to get away, you chase her. Seems to me you’re scaring her off.”

  “Kind of like what you’re doing to Rayna.”

  “Huh. Didn’t think of that.”

  “Idiot,” Galen mutters. But there is some truth to Toraf’s observation. Maybe Emma feels smothered. And she’s obviously still mourning Chloe. Maybe he has to take it slow with Emma. If he can earn her trust, maybe she’ll open up to him about her gift, about her past. But the question is, how much time does she need? Grom’s reluctance to mate will be overruled by his obligation to produce an heir. And that heir needs to come from Emma.

  Toraf nudges him from his thoughts. “You know whose advice I need?” He nods toward the gigantic house behind them. “Rachel’s.”

  “Actually, you don’t,” Galen says, standing. He reaches a hand down to help his friend.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Rachel’s expertise lies more along the lines of communication. You won’t need to worry about communication when Rayna finds out you’re already mated.”

  “We’re what?” They both turn to Rayna who has stopped mid-stride in the sand. The emotions on her face change from surprise to full-blown murderous rage.

  “You’re gonna pay a special price for that, minnow!” Toraf calls before he hits the water.

  Galen grins as Rayna slices through the waves in bloodthirsty pursuit. Then he heads for the house to talk to Rachel.

  7

  I PICK up the compact and smear porcelain all over my face. The pressure makes me wince and sends a shooting pain to my eye sockets. At least I don’t have a bruise. Bruises—and zits—show up especially well on white skin. I glide on some sheer lip gloss and pucker in front of the mirror. Then wipe it off. Who am I kidding? That sticky stuff will bother me all day. The mascara tube mocks me from the sink in the bathroom, daring me to put some on. I accept the challenge—I’m not in any danger of crying today. I seize the tube, giving my lashes two good swipes. Funny how a little sleep, a little makeup, and a lot of contemplation can make you feel like a different person—a stronger version of yourself.

  Mom wants me to stay out of school for one more day. But that’s not going to happen. I spent all of yesterday in bed, alternating between crying and sleeping. Finally, at midnight, the waterworks stopped and my brain started working. This is what I decided:

  Chloe is gone. She is never coming back. And the way I’ve been acting would hurt her. For at least an hour, I switch places with her in my mind—I am dead and Chloe is alive. How would she handle it? She would cry. She would be sad. She would miss me. But she wouldn’t stop living. She would let peop
le comfort her. She would sleep in her own room and smile at the memories as she drifted to sleep. And she would probably punch Galen Forza. Which brings me to what else I decided:

  Galen Forza is a jerk. The details are hazy, but I’m pretty sure he had something to do with my accident Monday. Also, he’s a bit weird. Staring habit aside, he keeps popping up everywhere. Every time he does, I handle it with the grace of a rhino on stilts. So I’m switching my schedule as soon as I get to school. There is no good reason I should humiliate myself for seven periods a day.

  I smile with satisfaction at my plan as I pull up a chair at the table. Mom serves me garbage eggs again today, and this time I eat them. I even ask for seconds. She sets a glass of milk on the table for us to share. I accidentally guzzle it all. I don’t even glance at Dad’s place setting. Or Chloe’s.

  “You must be feeling better, then,” Mom says. “But I wish you’d just stay home one more day. We could have a girls’ day, you and me. Rent some chick flicks, eat chocolate and drink diet soda, exchange some small-town gossip. Whataya say?”

  I laugh, which makes my head throb as if my brain is trying to escape. When she puts it like that, staying home is tempting and not just because of the chocolate. Watching Mom try to act girlie would be entertainment in itself. Our last attempt at a girls’ day started with a pedicure and ended with a monster-truck rally. That was five years ago. And so was her last pedicure.

  Still, I’ve already decided that today starts the rest of my normal life. Dragging a comforter and half gallon of ice cream to the couch feels like a cop-out, and risking another monster-truck rally is about as appealing as growing a third nostril. Picking up my dishes and walking them to the sink, I say, “Actually, I really want to go to school. Change of scenery, you know? How about a rain check?”

  She smiles, but I know it’s not real because it doesn’t crinkle her eyes. “Sure. Some other time.”

  I nod and grab my car keys. Before I flip the light on in the garage, she’s behind me, tugging on my backpack.

  “You want to go to school? Fine. But you’re not driving. Give me the key.”

  “I’m okay, Mom, really. I’ll see you tonight.” I plant a quick kiss on her cheek and turn to the door again.

  “That’s nice. Give it to me.” She holds out her hand.

  I clench the key in my fist. “You practically shoved that car down my throat Monday, and now you’re taking the key. What did I do?”

  “What did you do? Well, for starters, you used your face to stop a cafeteria door from swinging open.” Foot tapping, check. Angry eyebrows, check. I’m-about-to-get-grounded tone, check, check, check. All the signs are there—I’m in trouble and I don’t know why.

  “Uh, I said I feel better. Dr. Morton said I could resume normal activities if I feel better. And I’m about to be late for school.” Dr. Morton said no such thing. Since he was my dad’s best friend though, he waited until Mom left the room to tell me I probably had a concussion. He knows how obsessive she can be. She has an affidavit on file at school not to call an ambulance for me in case of emergency, since Dr. Morton’s office is across the street.

  “School, huh? Are you sure that’s where you’re going?” Her hand is still outstretched, waiting for a key that she isn’t getting. After a few empty seconds, she crosses her arms.

  “Where else would I be going with my backpack and books?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe Galen Forza’s house?”

  Yep, didn’t see that one coming. If I did, I might have stopped the blush sprouting on my cheeks. “Um. How do you know Galen?”

  “Mrs. Strickland told me about him. Said you were arguing with him in the hall and that you were upset when you took off running from him. Said he carried you to the office himself when you ran into the door.”

  I knew he had something to do with my accident. And Mom talked to the principal about it. My lips turn so dry I expect to taste dust when I lick them. The blush spreads all over my body, even to my ears. “He carried me?”

  “She said Galen wouldn’t leave your side until Dr. Morton got there. Dr. Morton said he wouldn’t go back to class until he assured him you would be okay.” She taps her foot faster, then stops. “Well?”

  I blink at her. “Well, what?”

  Did my mother just growl? She throws her arms up and walks to the sink, leaning back and clutching the counter until her knuckles look like white beans. “I thought we were close, Emma. I always thought you would be open with me about this stuff, that you felt comfortable talking to me.”

  I roll my eyes. You mean like the time I almost drowned and you laughed in my face when I told you how the fish saved me? Who is she kidding? We both know Dad was my parental trash can, the fatherly receptacle on whom I dumped my emotions. Does she think because she offered me a blanket and chocolate-covered whatever that I’ll just hand over the keys to my inner diary? Uh, no.

  “I know you’re eighteen now,” she huffs. “I get it, okay? But you don’t know everything. And you know what? I don’t like secrets.”

  My head spins. The first day of the Rest of My Normal Life is not turning out as planned. I shake my head. “I guess I still don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

  She stomps her foot. “How long have you been dating him, Emma? How long have you and Galen been an item?”

  Ohmysweetgoodness. “I’m not dating Galen,” I whisper. “Why would you even think that?”

  “Why would I think that? Maybe you should ask Mrs. Strickland. She’s the one who told me how intimate you looked standing there in the hall. And she said Galen was beside himself when you wouldn’t wake up. That he kept squeezing your hand.”

  Intimate? I let my backpack slide off my shoulder and onto the floor before I plod to the table and sit down. The room feels like a giant merry-go-round.

  I am … embarrassed? No. Embarrassed is when you spill ketchup on your crotch and it leaves a red stain in a suspicious area.

  Mortified? No. Mortified is when you experiment with tanning lotion and forget to put some on your feet, so it looks like you’re wearing socks with your flip-flops and sundress.

  Bewildered? Yep. That’s it. Bewildered that after I screamed at him—oh yes, now I remember I screamed at him—he picked up my limp body, carried me all the way to the office, and stayed with me until help arrived. Oh, and he held my hand and sat beside me, too.

  I cradle my face in my hands, imagining how close I came to going to school without knowing this. How close I came to walking up to Galen, telling him to take his tingles and shove them where every girl’s thoughts have been since he got there. I groan into my laced fingers. “I can never face him again,” I say to no one in particular.

  Unfortunately, Mom thinks I’m talking to her. “Why? Did he break up with you?” She sits down next to me and pulls my hands from my face. “Is it because you wouldn’t sleep with him?”

  “Mom!” I screech. “No!”

  She snatches her hand away. “You mean you did sleep with him?” Her lips quiver. This can’t be happening.

  “Mom, I told you, we’re not dating!” Shouting is a dumb idea. My heartbeat ripples through my temples.

  “You’re not even dating him and you slept with him?” She’s wringing her hands. Tears puddle in her eyes.

  One Mississippi … two Mississippi … Is she freaking serious?… Three Mississippi … four Mississippi … Because I swear I’m about to move out.… Five Mississippi … six Mississippi … I might as well sleep with him if I’m going to be accused of it anyway.… Seven Mississippi … eight Mississippi … Ohmysweetgoodness, did I really just think that?… Nine Mississippi … ten Mississippi … Talk to your mother—now.

  I keep my voice polite when I say, “Mom, I haven’t slept with Galen, unless you count laying on the nurse’s bed unconscious beside him. And we are not dating. We have never dated. Which is why he wouldn’t need to break up with me. Have I missed anything?”

  “What were you arguing about in th
e hall, then?”

  “I actually don’t remember. All I remember is being mad at him. Trust me, I’ll find out. But right now, I’m late for school.” I ease out of the chair and over to my backpack on the floor. Bending over is even stupider than shouting. I wish my head would just go ahead and fall off already.

  “So, you don’t remember what you talked about? You definitely should stay home and rest then. Emma? Emma, don’t you walk away from me, young lady.”

  She doesn’t come after me, which means this conversation is over.

  * * *

  I pull into my parking spot and check my makeup in the rearview. The porcelain foundation hides my blush as well as a magnifying glass. It’s bound to get worse if I run into Galen. Taking a deep breath, I open the door as the bell rings.

  The front office smells of fresh paint, crisp notebook paper, and coffee. I sign in as an unexcused tardy and wait for my hall pass. Mrs. Poindexter, a nice older lady who’s worked in the front office since she was a nice younger lady, pulls a pad from a drawer and scribbles on it. She’s recognizable in old faculty photos because, like then, she still stacks her white hair into an honest-to-goodness beehive, using enough hairspray to get the attention of the EPA. Oh, and she shows more cleavage than most prom dresses.

  “We’re all so happy you’re feeling better, Miss McIntosh. Looks like you still have a good bump on your noggin, though,” she says in her childlike voice.

  Since there is no bump on my noggin, I take a little offense but decide to drop it. “Thanks, Mrs. Poindexter. It looks worse than it feels. Just a little tender.”

  “Yeah, I’d say the door got the worst of it,” he says beside me. Galen signs himself in on the unexcused tardy sheet below my name. When his arm brushes against mine, it feels like my blood’s turned into boiling water.

  I turn to face him. My dreams really do not do him justice. Long black lashes, flawless olive skin, cut jaw like an Italian model, lips like—for the love of God, have some dignity, nitwit. He just made fun of you. I cross my arms and lift my chin. “You would know,” I say.