“You’re learning the language?” my father asks.
“Not really. I mean, I’ve picked up a few words, but these guys still struggle with it, and they made it up. It’s meant for speaking underwater, something about the bubbles and the vibrations, I guess. Truth is, they only talk about three or four things—honor, how humans are disgusting, their trippy religion, and war. It’s easy to guess, and when I get it wrong they are all too eager to correct me. They all speak a little English even if they like to pretend that it’s beneath them.”
We circle until we find stairs leading to the lower levels, then make our way to the bottom. There I see what all the cheering is about. A full-grown Selkie, maybe the biggest one I’ve ever seen, is fighting Fathom. He stands nearly eight feet tall with a jagged white scar running from the top of his head down the center of his right eye, leaving it milky and dead. He’s much older than Fathom—possibly sixty years of age, with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and deep lines in his forehead—but his movements defy the ticking clock. Each swing of his crescent-shaped sword is like a lightning strike, eliciting a rousing cheer from the crowd. They are clearly rooting for the big man over their prince.
Fathom stands in the Selkie’s immense shadow, looking exhausted. The Selkie’s attacks are relentless, and Fathom seems barely able to defend himself. The shoulder I helped pop back into place has not had time to heal. Every time he moves his right arm, he winces.
“He’s going to get killed!” I cry.
“It happens,” Foster says, as if it’s as unavoidable as insects splattering against a car window.
My father gapes. “You don’t interfere?”
“My orders are to let them do what they want as long as it doesn’t spill into the streets.”
The Selkie punches Fathom in the face, sending him reeling to the ground. More blood erupts from a gash below his left eye and paints the lower half of his face in red.
I have to stop this. I can’t let him die. My feet take over and I rush forward, but Foster grabs my arm and pulls me back.
“Whoa, kid! Don’t get involved in this. If you do anything to stop this fight, his old man will lose it,” he says, pointing across the arena. There stands a Triton with long, golden hair. He wears a crown made from sea glass and, like his son, a suit of armor. Next to him is his wife. Both clap wildly whenever the Selkie hits Fathom.
“He’s cheering for the other guy?” my father cries.
Foster shrugs. “I guess it’s supposed to toughen him up.”
“It’s disgusting,” I say. “They should be stopping this, not cheering it.”
Another punch from the Selkie, and Fathom is rattled. He falls to one knee, and the audience boos. They want more fighting. Even his father and stepmother shake their heads in shame. The Selkie throws up his arms in triumph to a smattering of applause. Then he raises his sword directly over Fathom’s neck.
“No!” I cry.
Fathom extends the blades in his arms and leaps back into the air, bringing his jagged saws across the chest of his opponent. The skin divides, exposing pink flesh, and a waterfall of blood pours down his abdomen. The crowd cheers as the Selkie presses his hands to the wound. He’s clearly surprised as he watches his life pour out between his fingers, but instead of crying out or asking for help, he lets out an uproarious laugh. He drops his sword and kneels to the boy. He barks a few things at him, but not in anger. He’s smiling and cheering Fathom, celebrating his own loss.
Fathom’s blades retract and the crowd cheers, all except his family. His father and stepmother boo. The only one on Fathom’s side is the bald Triton with the goatee who stands behind them. My mother told me the prime has a brother. He must be Fathom’s uncle.
Terrance pushes through the crowd and approaches. His presence causes an angry uproar everywhere he goes. Alpha push and shove him, shout angry words, and spit at him. He keeps his head down and continues his approach, even when a Selkie kicks him in the behind.
“You got one seriously screwed-up way of life, Lir,” Foster says to him.
Terrance ignores him. He shoots my father and me a look but quickly turns his gaze to the ground. “His Majesty sends his appreciation for you coming to the camp, Ms. Walker. He will meet you at the end of the pier. Please come alone.”
“I’m not leaving her with that kid,” my father says. “He just nearly cut a man in half.”
“He won’t harm her, Mr. Walker. But he will not be watched, either. The Alpha camp is not for spying humans,” Terrance says.
“Spying humans? Ouch,” I say as my father and I are led to the pier.
“At least he’s playing along,” my father replies.