“He’s . . . not doing well,” Terrance says when I meet him outside the classroom. Terrance doesn’t look like he’s doing too well, either. The right side of his face is still puffy from where Surf struck him, and his eyeball is red and veiny. The Selkie’s punch must have burst some capillaries. I want to offer him help, some kindness, but at this point the awkwardness of treating him like a stranger for the last few days is keeping me away more than my father’s warnings about him. “You may not like what you see.”
I frown. I was hoping Fathom would be in a good mood. I could use a little peace right now, but can I really expect it? Mr. Cranky Pants’s moods are hot and cold, unpredictable in their intensity, yet predictable in their attendance. Just ’cause the boy grinned at me and told a joke doesn’t mean anything has changed.
I take a deep breath and enter the room. Inside, I find him curled on the floor in a battered heap. His face is shades of black and blue. The territory around his cornea is encroached by blood. Both of his ears are mangled and pink. There are deep cuts and nasty scrapes from his hands all the way up his arms, and what looks like road rash all along his collarbone. I’m not even sure how he got to school. I’m not even sure he’s alive.
I drop my books and rush to him. “Fathom, can you hear me?”
He lifts his head weakly. “Hello, Lyric Walker. What stories did you bring today?”
I feel terribly guilty. He wasn’t in homeroom, and I didn’t see him in the halls, either. I didn’t give it a second thought that he might be seriously injured or even dead.
“I know you’re going to fight me, Fathom, but I’m begging you. Please let me get a doctor,” I cry.
“We have talked about this,” he says.
“You’ve talked about it. I’m getting some peroxide and bandages.”
He shakes his head. “The soldiers already offered. I will not take them.”
“It won’t hurt,” I say.
“Do you believe that is my concern?” he snaps, then winces.
“I can’t just watch you suffer,” I say.
“We have different definitions of suffering,” he says. “But there is one thing you can do for me.”
“What?”
“I need you to hold my hand.”
“Huh?”
He struggles to stand, tremors shaking through his chest. He’s in terrible pain, but he’s so proud. He waves off my help.
“Just hold on tight,” he says as he reaches out to me.
“Okay,” I say, though I’m confused. I weave my fingers into his. His hand is hot, like the oven on Thanksgiving, but slippery like glass.
“Tighter,” he says. He holds me firmly. “I need you to stand very still and not let go no matter what.”
“Why?”
“Because my shoulder is out of its socket, and I have to pop it back into place,” he says as he lifts his arm. A groan escapes his throat, and he bites his lip.
Shocked, I let go of his hand and he moans even louder.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but that’s not going to happen. I can’t do that, Fathom.”
He reaches out again. “You asked if you could help.”
“I didn’t offer to help you pop a bone back into its socket! What happened to trophies and tough-guy Alpha stuff?”
“I am allowed to tend to wounds that prevent me from defending myself.” His eyes water from the pain. “Lyric Walker, my injury is two days old. I have been facing challengers with it ever since, and as you can see from my other wounds, a one-armed fighter is not as dangerous as one with two working limbs. My subjects are sensing my weakness. They are growing bold. Please.”
I take his hand again, this time with trembling fingers.
“Don’t let go,” he says.
I squeeze hard and shut my eyes. With a sudden twisting jerk, I’m lifted off my feet, flying around him but hanging on. I hear a snap and a low grunt, and then he sets me back down on the floor.
“It worked?”
“It worked.” And then he drops to the floor.
I cry for help, and Terrance rushes in with a handful of soldiers.
“He passed out.”
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Bonnie says.
Terrance shakes his head. “Ambulances do not come to Fish City for a human. Do you think they’ll come for him? Don’t worry, he’ll be okay.”
Bonnie shrugs and leads her team back into the hall. Once the door is closed, Terrance helps me cradle Fathom’s head in my lap.
“I’ve never seen him this beat up,” I say.
“Tensions are running high in the camp. His challengers come every day,” he says. “After the incident at school last week, he had to take on seven adult Selkies. Surf’s father is an elder in the Selkie clan. He felt Fathom embarrassed his son. It had to be answered.”
“And the rest of you stood around and watched? Why doesn’t anyone help him?”
“That would be humiliating to him and the prime,” he says. “Alpha, and Triton specifically, strive to raise children who go through life unassisted.”
“But he’s a prince! He’s supposed to sit on a throne and wear expensive robes and have people feed him grapes.”