I shake my head. “The more I learn about the Alpha, the more I’m disgusted. Are there any of these slaves on the beach?”
“No, I haven’t seen any of them on the sites I’ve watched. They don’t really transform much when they come out of the water. I think the locals would freak out if they saw one, so they’re probably still in the water waiting with the others.”
“Weirder than the Nix or the Ceto?”
“Not weird—different.”
I go back to watching the sky. People are carrying umbrellas down on the street and eyeing the clouds warily. There is, however, a group of people on the corner who do not appear to be concerned about getting wet: a half-dozen soldiers are milling around outside my building. A few of them are looking up at me and talking into their radios.
“Mom, there are soldiers outside,” I say.
Before she can look for herself, there’s a knock at the door.
“Mom?”
“Don’t panic,” she says as she tiptoes into the living room.
“I am looking for Lyric Walker,” a voice says when she opens the door.
“No way!” I know that voice. I sprint into the living room, nearly killing myself on the coffee table.
Fathom is in the doorway wearing jeans and sneakers, as well as a hoodie to cover his head. He peers into our apartment like it’s full of dangerous animals.
“What are you doing here?” I cry as I poke my head into the hall. There’s no sign of Mrs. Novakova, but that won’t last. I grab his arm and pull him into our apartment, then I lock the door and slide the chain.
“The one you call Doyle had the soldiers bring me here. I am ready for my lesson.”
“Did you see anyone when you came into the building—a little woman who looks like the devil?”
“What is a devil?”
“How about the elevator?”
“I took the stairs. The elevator was . . . small.”
“Hello, Your Majesty,” my mother says, stumbling over her words. “Can I offer you a drink or something to eat?”
Fathom shakes his head and turns to me. “It is good to see that someone in your family knows about respect.”
I frown.
“I have said something wrong again. I apologize,” he says, throwing his hands up to protect his face.
“Huh,” I say. Was that a joke? No, it couldn’t have been.
“Your daughter is a warrior in disguise,” he says to my mother.
“I’ve always thought so,” my mother says, proudly.
He cranes his neck and looks at the ceiling and the walls. That’s when I notice the new gash beneath his ear. It’s red and angry. The others are healing but if he doesn’t do something about this one, it will get infected.
“Wait here.”
I head into the bathroom with my mother at my heels.
“What is he doing here?” she cries.
“I have no idea,” I say as I fumble through the medicine cabinet.
“Should I call your father?”
“Maybe. No. I don’t know, Mom. I didn’t invite him. He says the principal sent him over. This is our meeting time. If we send him away, then Doyle’s going to go back to being a hard-ass.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Band-Aids, Neosporin,” I say. “An excuse not to be alone with him.”
“He won’t dress his wounds,” my mother says. “It’s dishonorable.”
“Mom, your people are really screwed up,” I groan as I throw the medicine into the sink. “Every day he has new ones. This Alpha tough-guy thing is going to get him sick.”
“It’s more a Triton royal family thing,” she says as she sorts through the medicine cabinet. “Though the other clans subscribe to the idea. Regardless, he considers them trophies, proof of his bravery and strength.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the whole crazy story. What are you looking for?”
She snatches an orange prescription bottle out of the cabinet. “Your father has some leftover antibiotics he didn’t finish that time he put a rusty nail through his hand.”
“Will Fathom take it?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Absolutely not, but if I dissolve it into a glass of water, he won’t even know.”
Moments later, we’re back in the living room and he’s downing the medicine mixture in one gulp. My mother gives me a wink. She’s proud she just dosed a teenage boy. Who is this woman?
I take him to my room because I’m tired of seeing my mother walking into walls while staring at him. We sit awkwardly on my bed while he rubs his neck and stares at the ceiling. I can see he’s going to lose it, and I brace for another temper tantrum.
“Let’s read,” I say, bouncing to my feet and digging into an old box of books my mother saved from when I was little. Then I return to my spot only to watch Fathom stand and pace the room. He goes to the window and looks at the blinds.
“Is it okay to open this?” he asks.
He’s so frantic, I can’t deny him, but when he pulls the cord he rips the whole contraption off the wall. I jump, remembering our last encounter in the classroom.
My mother rushes in and sees the mess, then looks at Fathom, who is still pacing.
“Why don’t you two go up on the roof?” she says.