Of Poseidon (30 page)

“My prince,” Romul says, “it is possible that they inherited

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his Gift. The Law of the Generals requiring the two houses to 0—

mate was not put in place until after Tartessos was besieged by

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humans. We cannot confi rm if any of Poseidon’s half- human off spring inherited the Gift, as they were all destroyed in the great waves of Triton.”

Emma can hold her breath for a long time but not indefi -

nitely. Depending on how long Triton pounded the shore, the Half Breeds very well could have been wiped out. Still, some could have lived, couldn’t they? He stares at the half breed on the wall, the one who reminds him of Emma. It turns his stomach to think she drowned.

Lost in his self- torment, he stares at the image long enough to bore his archive companions. “Highness, may we be of further use to you at this time?” Atta gently coaxes him from his trance.

Galen nods. “I have one more question, Atta, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, Highness,” she says graciously.

“The Half Breeds. Were they very bad? Did they turn against us? Is that why Triton destroyed them with the humans?”

“No,” she says. “Triton felt they should be destroyed because of what they stood for. He did not want Poseidon to be reminded of his human mate or his half- human off spring. He did not want any more of our kind to be tempted to live— to die— on land. He believed our survival depended on our staying below the surface, away from humans.”

“May we help you with anything else, young friend?” Romul asks, after a few moments.

Galen shakes his head. “No. Thank you for your time today, both of you.”

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“It’s our plea sure to serve you, Highness,” Atta says, bowing

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away from him in her retreat. Her long hair undulates behind her like a piece of fabric.

Galen turns to leave as well, but something catches his eye on the wall. He scans it again, searching for a glimpse of it. He fi nds it a few feet away. Swimming up to an image of a Syrena male, he traces his fi nger around the shape of his eye. “Blue?” he asks Romul. “Are his eyes blue?”

Romul shakes his head. “No, my prince. Some of the paint the humans used to depict our brethren was apparently inferior.

Over the years, the color seems to have faded.”

“Of course. Purple is made from blue.” Galen nods at the picture, then at Romul. “Well, thanks again, Romul. I’ll see you later.”

Romul inclines his head toward him. “Always an honor, young friend. Be well.”

Galen follows the pulse of the two Trackers to fi nd his way out of the cave. Traveling home seems to take longer than getting there. He suspects the weights burdening his mind are responsible for slowing him down physically as well.

Dr. Milligan is right. Emma is defi nitely a half breed. But she still possesses the Gift of Poseidon. The law requiring the two houses to mate every third generation must be for show—

Royals aren’t the only ones who can inherit the Gift. Galen suspects it must be another reminder from Triton to stay loyal to each other instead of to the humans. That makes Paca as good a candidate as any, royal blood or not. If she has the Gift, she’ll pass it

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on to her off spring. And so will Emma.

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Could it be possible that some of Poseidon’s half- human

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children did survive and reproduced? Could Emma somehow be a descendant of those off spring? She says her father had fair skin, light hair. Could he be the link they’re looking for?

And what if he is? Which would be more important to Grom— upholding the law by not mating with a half breed, or mating with one to ensure the survival of the Gifts? Galen doesn’t know. But even if Grom chooses not to reproduce with Emma, will he allow Galen to take her as his mate? Because if Romul and Atta are right, Emma will never sprout a fi n. Which means Galen will have to live with her on land.

Is it worth it? To give up years of my life to be with her? Galen thinks of the curve of her hips, the fullness of her lips, the way she blushes when he catches her looking at him. And he remembers how sick he felt when Dr. Milligan indicated Emma would die before him.

Oh, yes. It’s absolutely worth it.

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23

OFFICER DOWNING pulls into the driveway next to Mom’s car. Of course she’s home. I don’t know why I even wasted hope that she wouldn’t be. Maybe because I’m eigh teen, which means they don’t bother calling your parents to the scene. But even if I’m not a victim of the law, I’m a victim of the small- town grapevine.

A victim of fl ashing blue lights, whispered scorn, and heads shaking in disapproval. And, boy, do I feel like a victim, because not only is she home, she’s standing on the front porch, arms crossed. Waiting.

Offi

cer Downing opens the back door to the low- budget cop car that smells like vinyl, BO, and humiliation. I step out. He hands me my back pack, which Rachel was so kind to bring out when we dropped Rayna off at Galen’s house. She was also kind

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enough not to kill me for showing up at her house with a cop.

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“You get some rest, young lady,” Offi

cer Downing says.

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“You’ll likely be sore tomorrow. It usually takes a day or two to feel the eff ects of an accident.”

“Thanks for the ride home, Offi

cer Downing. I appreciate

the help,” I say sheepishly.

“You’re certainly welcome, Miss McIntosh. Have a good eve ning.” He waves to my mom in sort of a clipped salute, then gets in the car and backs out.

I trudge toward the porch, entertaining the idea of running the other way. But technically, I shouldn’t be in any trouble. It wasn’t my car. I’m not the one who got a ticket. Samantha Forza did. And the picture on Samantha Forza’s driver’s license looks a lot like Rayna. She told Offi

cer Downing that she swerved to

keep from hitting a camel, which Offi

cer Downing graciously

interpreted as a deer after she described it as “a hairy animal with four legs and a horn.”

Since no one formed a search party to look for either a camel or a unicorn, I fi gured we were in the clear. But from Mom’s expression, I’m miles from clear.

“Hi,” I say as I reach the steps.

“We’ll see about that,” she says, grabbing my face and shin-ing a pen light in my eyes.

I slap it away. “Really? You’re checking my pupils? Really?”

“Hal said you looked hazy,” she says, clipping the pen back on the neckline of her scrubs.

“Hal? Who’s Hal?”

“Hal is the paramedic who took your signature when you declined medical treatment. He radioed in to the hospital after

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he left you.”

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“Oh. Well, then Hal would have noticed I was just in an accident, so I might have been a little out of it. Doesn’t mean I was high.” So it wasn’t small- town gossip, it was small- county gossip.

Good ole Hal’s probably transported hundreds of patients to my mom in the ER two towns over.

She scowls. “Why didn’t you call me? Who is Samantha?” I sigh and push past her. There’s no reason to have this conversation on the porch. She follows me into the house. “She’s Galen’s sister. I didn’t call because I didn’t have a signal on my cell. We were on a dead road.”

“Where was Galen? Why were you driving his car?”

“He was home. We were just taking it for a drive. He didn’t want to come.” Technically, all these statements are true, so they sound believable when I say them.

Mom snorts and secures the dead bolt on the front door.

“Probably because he knows his sister is life threatening behind the wheel.”

“Probably.” I stalk to the kitchen and set my backpack on the counter. After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I sit at the dining- room table to unlace my tennis shoes.

She pulls up a chair beside me. “You’re not hurt? Hal said you hit your head. I was worried.”

“I did hit it, on the airbag. But I’m fi ne. Not even dizzy.” Mom’s tone morphs from motherly concern to all business.

“So, you want to tell me what really happened? Because I’m not buying the whole we- decided- to- take- a-BMW- down- a-dirt-

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road crap. A deer? You’re kidding, right?” 0—

I hate when she pulls this. The whole good cop/bad cop

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thing. She doesn’t get that she’s supposed to pick one, not be both. “I’ll tell you if you tell me,” I say, washing my hands of maturity. I’m tired of the double standard— she keeps secrets, but I’m not allowed. Also, I’m tired period. I need sleep. Which means I need answers.

“What do you mean? Tell you what?”

“I’ll tell you what we were really doing out there. After you tell me who my real parents are.” There, I opened it. A chunky can of wiggling worms.

She laughs, just like I expect her to. “Are you serious?” I nod. “I know I’m adopted. I want to know how. Why.

When.”

She laughs again, but there’s something false in it, as if it wasn’t her fi rst reaction. “So that’s what this is about? You’re re-belling because you think you’re adopted? Why on earth would you think that?”

I fold my hands in front of me on the table. “Look at me.

We both know I’m diff erent. I don’t look like you or Dad.”

“That’s not true. You have my chin and mouth. And there’s no disinheriting the McIntosh nose.”

“What about my skin? And my hair?”

“What about it?”

“Oh, never mind,” I say, waving my hand at her. I stand to walk away. She’s not going to budge, just like I knew she wouldn’t.

“I don’t feel like getting laughed at. I’m getting in the shower and going to bed.”

She grabs my arm. “What do you mean laughed at? Why

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would I laugh?”

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Aside from the fact that she’s already laughed twice in this conversation? I raise a skeptical brow but sit back down. After a deep breath, I blurt, “Because that’s what you do every time I try to talk to you.”

She blinks. “Since when do you ever try to talk to me?” she says quietly.

Huh. She has a good point. When she puts it like that, it doesn’t really sound fair of me. I open and shut my mouth a couple times. What, am I supposed to say, “Since I was four”?

After all, she’s the reason I don’t talk to her, right? “When those fi sh saved me—”

She throws her hands up, startling me. “For God’s sakes, I thought you wanted to have a real conversation, Emma. You’re bringing that up? You were four years old. How could you even remember that?”