Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

“What would you have me do for her?” Fathom snaps.

“I don’t know! Sit with her! Read to her. Sing her a song. She’s your selfsame, isn’t she?” I know it comes out spiteful. My bitterness is ever ready when he’s near, but the actual words I’m saying are completely rational. Yes, I know that I’m a walking contradiction. A week ago I wanted to steal him away from her. I’ve envied her. Now she’s seriously hurt and he should be with her. It’s the kind, human, sane thing to do. Staying would prove to me that he’s not soulless, but he can’t bring himself to do it, for her or me. I’m starting to see that he isn’t worthy of either of us.

Fathom goes to the door.

“Is this how you would have treated me if I was hurt?”

He stops, but he does not face me.

“I would have learned a new way with you,” he says.

“You know, I used to think she was lucky!” I shout. “But now I’m thinking she’s cursed!”

He turns. For a moment he looks as if I have stabbed him, but it vanishes just as quickly, and once again he is made of stone.

Then he leaves.



Bex and I move our beds so that we are on either side of Arcade. Mine is on the left, hers is on the right. We all lie in the dark, listening to the Triton girl’s halted breathing, fearful of sleeping, in case she needs something. My parents whisper to each other in the adjacent room. My mother gets up and pours a glass of water, then paces the floor. I know she’s watching over us, kneading the meat of her palm with her thumb as she does when she’s nervous. Bex tosses and turns in her sheets.

It’s torturous. The last thing I need is silence, because my mind fills the quiet with troubles. In three days, the children will be dropped onto a beach crawling with Rusalka, and they will die. Most likely, so will I. It was a miracle I survived that day on the beach, with the Rusalka leaping out of the waves with their hungry teeth, the prime and his insane wife trying to kill me, and the black tidal wave that nearly tore the world in two. Tens of thousands of people didn’t share that miracle with me: Mr. Ervin, Gabriel, Luna, Thrill, Ghost, Surf, Mrs. Ramirez, Tammy, even Bex’s stepfather, Russell—probably all dead, smashed to bits by the towering water, their bodies dragged out to sea. I don’t suppose I’ll get lucky again. I was so sure I would find a chink in the Tempest armor and get us all out of here, but the opportunity to find the EMP and escape never revealed itself.

What will it feel like to die? I wonder if it hurts. I wonder what happens next, or even if there is a next. The priests at church talked about heaven. They said all my friends and family who had already died would be waiting there for me. Everyone I ever knew—well, not Russell, but Shadow and the others. It would be nice to see them again. Then there’s the Alpha belief—the return to the Great Abyss, the beginning and the end, the big nothing. It’s hard to wrap my head around nothing. The concept of not existing, that all of this life and its troubles were pointless. It’s depressing. I suppose it’s why the Alpha live so fiercely. If this life is all there is, why not barrel through it?

I think of Chloe, with her sweet, hopeful eyes. I have grown to adore all the children, despite my best efforts, but she’s special to me. She squirreled into my heart, with her stuffed bunny rabbit and her freckled nose. A whole life that should have been hers will probably be smashed into nothing.

And then there’s Riley. I want him to live.

“Where are you going?” Bex whispers to me as I crawl out of bed.

“I’m going down to the park to train. I’ve got to save these kids,” I tell her.

I find the guard outside my door. He looks surprised to see me this late.

“I need the team in the park,” I explain.

“It’s two in the morning,” he argues.

“We’re out of time. They can sleep if they live.”



I work the kids the way Fathom works me, strictly and impatiently. They are not prepared for my change in attitude. A few cry. Tess actually curses me out, and the others stand by, bewildered, but it starts to get results. Finn makes a sudden and shocking improvement. He might even be better than me. Pierre and Harrison make great leaps too. Still, William, Dallas, Priscilla, the three sisters Tess, Emma, and Jane, and a few others are having troubles. Chloe, who I am particularly tough on, manages to do something remarkable, creating a butterfly from the pool water. It rises over the surface and flutters around the room, only to splash down like rain all around us.



“A butterfly?” Doyle says, unimpressed. “It sounds like you’ve got two problems, Lyric. You’ve got kids who aren’t inspired and kids who are inspired by the wrong things.”

I wave my arm around at his park, with its perfect trees and grass and the seesaw and tire swings.

“This place isn’t helping them. You’ve built a fantasy world to keep them happy, and it’s messing with their heads.”