Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

“Sir, you keep referring to these creatures as ‘Alpha,’ and I’m wondering if there is a distinction? Is there no difference between the community who lived on the beach in Coney Island and these monsters who don’t appear to be as intelligent? Can you please clear that up for us?”


“At this time, the State Department is not making a distinction. If it’s in the water, we’re shooting at it.”

“That’s all I need to know about your war,” I say. “I’m just another monster.”

The waitress returns with a smile.

“I’ve got one slice of cherry left.”

“I’ll take it,” he says, and then waves his cup in a circle. “And some more coffee. She’s going to have the turkey burger with bacon, sweet potato fries, and a chocolate milkshake. I’m going to have the stir-fry with tofu, and is the broccoli soup made with cream?”

She nods.

“Salad, then, and two big glasses of water.”

The waitress nods and jots it all down, her pencil bouncing around like a rabbit. She scoops up our plastic menus, and Doyle gives her a wink before she disappears again.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat something,” he says before I can argue further. “I need you strong and healthy.”

“You have my parents, and I want them back. I want Bex and Arcade!”

He nods. “I can make that happen, but you have to come to the camp with me.”

I place my gloved hand on the table, then will it to come to life. It radiates blue, turning the entire restaurant into a bright sky. I put it in his face, then command the coffee in his cup to swirl up and out and dance around his face. He retains his composure, but there’s fear in his eyes.

“You must think I’m stupid.”

“Lyric, I’m not going to say the people I work with are good people, but we do have a good mission—saving the United States from an invading force. I can’t figure out how to make it a success without you.”

Filthy words line up in the back of my throat, jostling with one another to be the first to fly out of my mouth. Instead, I get up from my seat and head for the door.

“I’m trying to avoid a confrontation, Lyric. I told them that I could bring you in peacefully, and—”

I spin around to face him.

“Go to hell!”

He leaps from his seat and grabs me by the arm. I try to pull away and nearly fall from the effort. He’s too strong. I can’t get free.

The waitress peers out from the kitchen, and she’s not happy.

“What’s going on over there?” she says.

“He’s a murderer. He killed people. He kidnapped my friends and drugged me. Please, help me,” I beg.

“Jake, call 911,” she shouts to someone I can’t see.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s no need to call the police,” Doyle says, attempting to turn on his charm again. “My daughter was out all night with a bunch of boys, drinking and doing heaven knows what, and I thought I’d sober her up here before I took her home to her mother. I apologize for any trouble.”

He tosses a twenty on the table.

“I think we’ll let the sheriff figure this one out,” the waitress says. “Hey!”

Doyle pulls me out the door and into the hot parking lot. It’s completely empty except for one lone red pickup truck.

“What did you really do to Lucas? Did you kill him like the others?” I scream.

“Lyric, stop! You have to listen to me.”

“No, I don’t. Not as long as I have this,” I say, waving the glove at him once more. “Go back to your death camp, and let them know I’m coming. When I get there, I’m going to knock it down!”

“If you don’t give this a chance, I can’t help you later,” he begs.

“If I ever see you again, I will kill you,” I promise.

“Then I’m sorry, Lyric. I didn’t want it to go down like this, but you’re too important,” he says, waving his hands in the air. Before I know it, I’m surrounded by a dozen armed soldiers, all dressed in black and pointing rifles at my head. They look exactly like the soldiers that invaded the theater.

“Get out of my way!” I shout. Reaching down into the bottom of all my pain, I call to the whispers, demanding they be fast and furious and merciless. What comes is the most violent upheaval I have ever created, a shock wave of mud and concrete that cracks pavement. Thirteen spouts erupt beneath the soldiers, and the men flip into the air like rag dolls. Doyle is among them, and as he recovers, I dig into his pockets and find a set of keys. I assume they once belonged to Lucas, and I head toward the truck.

Doyle calls out to me.

“Fathom is there,” he chokes.

I spin around and stare at him. My body feels hot and nauseous. I shake like my blood sugar has bottomed out. “You lie,” I whisper.

“He’s alive, Lyric. He surrendered to the Navy three days ago, just a few miles away from Coney Island. They brought him to us. He’s at Tempest.”

“Fathom would never surrender,” I cry.