Without another word, she slinks below the surface.
And he learns something new about Nalia. She is very fast. He cannot keep pace with her, but finds that the best he can do is not get left behind altogether. She moves farther and farther ahead, deflecting the attempts of others who try to greet her. They toss confused looks in his direction as they realize he’s actually chasing her, calling out to her. And she’s ignoring him.
He can’t imagine the size of the spectacle they’re making, but right now he doesn’t care. He knew they would eventually have their first fight. Triton’s trident, they started out fighting, didn’t they? He knew they couldn’t live in euphoria for their next two hundred years together. But he’d been expecting to argue about silly things first, like who is the better kisser, or what to name their first fingerling. Things that he’d be more than willing to surrender on.
But this fight is big. It’s not just about her interest in humans and he knows it. It’s about her freedom. And about how much control he’ll have over it once they’re mated. This is not a fight he’s anticipated. He’s always known she is fiercely independent, but he thought he could reason with her, coax her into seeing that there is always more than one point of view to any situation. And maybe he could, if the first words out of his mouth hadn’t sounded like some unbending command.
He curses under his breath. “Nalia, please stop,” he calls out. “Please.”
She doesn’t. Already they’ve passed the central hub of Syrena society, and they’re well on their way past the Human Pass, where they were nearly killed. Just one more sandbar and they’ll be close to another human shore altogether.
He reaches the hump of the last sandbar. And freezes.
She tries to stop too, but her momentum catches up with her and she slides into the human mine. Hundreds of round metal balls floating above long chains, waiting to be touched, to be set off, to explode. It’s a trap meant to kill humans, but now Nalia, his Nalia, is inside the mess of it, the slightest move of her fin setting the chains swaying haphazardly. There’s barely enough room for her to fit between them, let alone maneuver with any kind of speed. It’s a miracle that she’s still alive, that the wake of her entrance didn’t knock two of the balls together. It will be an even greater miracle to get her out.
“Don’t move,” he says, terror clutching at his throat like an actual hand. This can’t be happening.
She nods, eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “This is my fault.”
“I’m going to get you out,” he tells her, but he has no idea how.
“Grom. Don’t come any closer. Get away.”
He eases forward. “Be still.”
“If you come any closer I’ll set them off on purpose.”
“Nalia. Don’t be stupid. I can help.”
“This is how it’s going to work. You’re going to swim in that direction until I can’t see you anymore. Then I’m going to get myself out of here.”
He crosses his arms. “You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m leaving.”
“There’s no point in both of us…Just go. I can get out. But I can’t concentrate with you so close to—just go. Please.”
They both hear it at the same time. Two distinct plunks from the surface. Grom looks past Nalia. Two metal ovals, distinctly human-made, with red angular symbols painted near the tails. Two miniature death ships falling sinking falling.
No no no no.
There is no time.
A flash of light. Once. Twice. Uncountable times.
Deafening thunder.
Devouring heat.
Blackness.
Quiet.
He senses Freya first, the closest to him. Then his mother, his father. Even Nalia’s father, King Antonis. But the pulse so familiar to him, the one he cherishes most, the one he’d sense half the world away, is gone.
He knows. Before he opens his eyes. Before he looks up at what he knows will be Freya’s stricken face. Before he feels the pain of his burns over the length of him. He knows.
“She’s dead,” he says. There is no question.
“I’m sorry,” Freya chokes out. “I’m so sorry, Grom.”
It takes great effort for him to open his eyes, since he doesn’t see the point in doing so ever again. He drinks in the somber faces surrounding him, keeping their distance from him and each other in different corners of his chamber. He tries to push himself up out of the pit where he sleeps, but groans when pain shoots through him.
Antonis swims over to him, but doesn’t offer to help him up. Instead, the Poseidon king hovers over him. “What did you do to my daughter?”
Grom’s mother gasps. “Antonis, please—”