Of Poseidon (24 page)

I hope I don’t look as sick as I feel. “The generals couldn’t have picked a worse candidate for that Gift!” Holding my stomach doesn’t stop it from churning. I can’t imagine befriending Goliath and then leading him to the Syrena to be eaten. But I also can’t imagine letting Galen or Toraf starve. Probably not Rayna either. It’s time to introduce my new friends to the world of pizza. . . .

“The generals are dead, Emma. They didn’t pick you. It’s a gift passed through bloodlines. Dr. Milligan calls it ge ne tics.” Ge ne tics means that my parents really aren’t my parents.

I know Galen has thought this all along, but I still can’t accept it. I also can’t completely shun the possibility either. Especially after I just conducted a symphony of fi sh. How would I even start that conversation with my mom? “So, Galen thinks you’ve been lying to me for the past eigh teen years.” Even if I didn’t say it directly, that’s what it amounts to. And when she asks where I’d get an idea like that? “Well, I recently discovered I can hold

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my breath for almost two hours and tell fi sh what to do. I

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couldn’t help but notice that you can’t.” Yeah, not happening.

There’s got to be some other way, . . . “Hey!” I almost shout, startling Galen. “Isn’t that Rachel’s specialty? Finding out stuff ?

She could investigate where I came from.”

“She’s already done that.”

“What do you mean? She did a background check or something? I’m talking about digging deep—”

“Your birth certifi cate says you were born in a hospital.

Both your parents signed it, and so did the attending physician.

He happens to be a college professor now who teaches aspiring doctors how to birth humans. Rachel also found a picture in a newspaper of your father and mother celebrating an award he received. Your mother was pregnant in the picture. From the date of the article, it looked reasonable to assume she carried you in her womb.”

My mouth hangs open but no words come out. Galen doesn’t notice. He says, “Your school rec ords showed attendance since kindergarten to present, and your address never changed. Your medical rec ords can pass as human, though you’ve never had the chicken pox. You broke your arm when you were four years old, you’ve never had surgery, and all your immunizations are up to date—”

“Ohmysweetgoodness!” I yell, standing up. I kick as much sand on him as I can. “That’s none of her business! And none of yours! She had no right to—”

“You just said you wanted her to dig deep,” he says, stand-

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ing, too. “I thought you’d be pleased that we already did that.” 0—

“You invaded my privacy!” I say as I step into my fl ip- fl ops

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and stomp toward the hotel. Heat wraps around my wrist as he jerks me back.

“Emma, calm down. I had to know—”

I point my fi nger in his face, almost touching his eyeball.

“It’s one thing for me to give you permission to look into it. But I’m pretty sure looking into it without my consent is illegal. In fact, I’m pretty sure everything that woman does is illegal. Do you even know what the Mafi a is, Galen?”

His eyebrows lift in surprise. “She told you who she is? I mean, who she used to be?”

I nod. “While you were checking in with Grom. Once in the Mob, always in the Mob, if you ask me. How else would she get all her money? But I guess you wouldn’t care about that, since she buys you houses and cars and fake IDs.” I snatch my wrist away and turn back toward our hotel. At least, I hope it’s our hotel.

Galen laughs. “Emma, it’s not Rachel’s money; it’s mine.” I whirl on him. “You are a fi sh. You don’t have a job. And I don’t think Syrena currency has any of our presidents on it.” Now “our” means I’m human again. I wish I could make up my mind.

He crosses his arms. “I earn it another way. Walk to the Gulfarium with me, and I’ll tell you how.” The temptation divides me like a cleaver. I’m one part hissy fi t and one part swoon. I have a right to be mad, to press charges, to cut Rachel’s hair while she’s sleeping. But do I really want to risk the chance that she keeps a gun under her pillow? Do I

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want to miss the opportunity to scrunch my toes in the sand

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and listen to Galen’s rich voice tell me how a fi sh came to be wealthy? Nope, I don’t.

Taking care to ram my shoulder into him, I march past him and hopefully in the right direction. When he catches up to me, his grin threatens the rest of my hissy fi t side, so I turn away, fi xing my glare on the waves.

“I sell stuff to humans,” he says.

I glance at him. He’s looking at me, his expression every bit as expectant as I feel. I hate this little game of ours. Maybe because I’m no good at it. He won’t tell me more unless I ask. Curiosity is one of my most incurable fl aws— and Galen knows it.

Still, I already gave up a perfectly good tantrum for him, so I feel like he owes me. Never mind that he saved my life today.

That was so two hours ago. I lift my chin.

“Rachel says I’m a millionaire,” he says, his little knowing smirk scrubbing my nerves like a Brillo pad. “But for me, it’s not about the money. Like you, I have a soft spot for history.” Crap, crap, crap. How can he already know me this well? I must be as readable as the alphabet. What’s the use? He’s going to win, every time. “What stuff ? What history?” There he goes again, wielding his smile as a thought-preventative. “I recover things lost at sea and sell them to humans,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “When it’s too big to handle myself, like old war submarines or planes, I give the human governments the location— for a price. Rachel handles the legal stuff , of course.”

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I blink at him. “Really?”

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He shrugs, uneasy, as if my full attention suddenly makes

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him ner vous. “I have some private buyers, too. We give them fi rst pick, since they tend to pay more than most nations.”

“What about shipwrecks? Pirate trea sure?” The possibilities are endless— or at least, only restricted by the boundaries of the Triton territory, which spans from the Gulf of Mexico to dead- center Indian Ocean.

He nods. “Plenty. My biggest was an entire Spanish fl eet carry ing gold.”

I gasp. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It occurs to me that I might be the only other person he’s told, besides Rachel. “How much gold? Did they question how you found it? Where was it?” My questions bubble up like a shaken soda.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, then laughs. “Rachel has everything saved on the computer, including pictures. You can go through it all you want when we get home.” I clap like a trained seal. I also ignore the fl utter in my stomach at hearing him say, “When we get home.” As if ‘home’ could be on dry land.

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18

THE SECURITY guard lets them into the Gulfarium and ushers them inside the living sea exhibit to wait for Dr. Milligan. In awe, Emma shuffl

es to the fl oor- to- ceiling tank and taps on the glass. Galen stands back, leans against the wall. He watches her coo at the tropical fi sh grappling for her attention. A sea turtle lazily treads over to investigate.

She paces back and forth in front of the glass, tracing her hand along the surface. The tank transforms into one giant multispecies school of fi sh. Stingrays, sea turtles, eels. More kinds of fi sh than Rachel puts in her seafood- surprise casserole. Even a small shark joins the parade.

“She’s amazing.”

Galen turns to Dr. Milligan, who’s standing beside him and

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staring at Emma as if she were fl oating in midair. “Yes, she is,” 0—

Galen says.

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Dr. Milligan looks at Galen, a knowing smile plastered on his face. “Looks like she’s enchanted more than just the little fi sh.

In fact, looks like you’re worse off than any of them, my boy.” Galen shrugs. He’s got nothing to hide from Dr. Milligan.

Dr. Milligan lets out his breath in a whistle. “What does Rayna say?”

“She likes her.” The good doctor raises a thin gray brow.

Galen sighs. “She likes her enough.”

“Well, can’t ask for more than that, I suppose. Shall we, then?” Galen nods. “Emma. Dr. Milligan is here.” Emma turns. And freezes. “You!” she chokes out. “You’re Dr. Milligan?”

The older man bows his head. “Yes, young lady, I am. You remember me then.”

She nods, walking slowly toward them as if she smells a trap.

“You tried to give me free season passes. You talked to me at the petting tank.”

“Yes,” he says. “Of course I off ered you season passes. How else could I study your fascinating interaction with the specimens?” She crosses her arms. “I didn’t know I could talk to fi sh at the time. How did you?”

“At fi rst I didn’t,” he says, closing the distance between them and gently taking her hand. “But when I saw your eye color, I knew you had to be Syrena. I remembered Galen telling me about that gift, but I never really believed it. Which is silly, I suppose. I mean, if I believe in mermaids— ahem, excuse me Galen, Syrena— then why not a gift like that?”

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“And what do you think now, Dr. Milligan?” Galen says, a

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little perturbed at the revelation that his friend thought he lied.

Also, “mermaids” was uncalled for.

Dr. Milligan chuckles softly, rubbing Emma’s hand. “I think I stand corrected, as usual. Emma, how about a private tour?” She nods, excitement dancing in her eyes.

They follow Dr. Milligan into the hallway and to a set of stairs. He shepherds them to each exhibit, spouting off facts and statistics about each animal. Every one of the creatures remembers Emma. The sea lions bob their heads and make a noise only Emma could fi nd charming. The otters do the same.

Even the alligators respond to her commands, rotating in a circle like synchronized swimmers.

The doctor leads Galen and Emma into an exhibit called Dune Lagoon. He explains it’s a sanctuary for injured birds cared for at the Gulfarium. Emma walks around, talking and murmuring to the winged creatures. None of them care. In fact, they seem more excited to see Dr. Milligan. A duck walks right past Emma and quacks at Dr. Milligan’s feet. “Fascinating,” he says.

Emma laughs. “There’s nothing fascinating about getting rejected.”

Dr. Milligan smiles and pulls some brown pellets from his pocket, scattering them on the fl oor for the impatient duck.

“This fellow just knows about my treats. Listen, how about we visit the penguins?”

“Aren’t penguins birds?” she says. “I mean, I know they can’t

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fl y or anything, but they’re still birds. They wouldn’t respond to 0—

my Gift would they?”

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Dr. Milligan nods. “Aquatic birds. And there’s only one way to fi nd out, isn’t there?”

The penguins love Emma. They waddle around, dive in and out of their pool, call out to her. She laughs. “They sound like donkeys!”