Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

Riley gives me a shy smile. He’s got it bad for me and if we weren’t locked up in this madhouse, I would probably enjoy it. He’s got the worst timing in the world. A crush is just stupid right now.

But all these kids are stupid. They don’t have a clue. To combat their naiveté, I push harder in our training sessions, trying to teach them to think of themselves as giants or dragons or whatever fierce beast they can imagine, though I’ve found that if I meet with each one of them individually, I have better luck with yoga. Within a week, ten of the kids can command the water nearly as well as I can.

Geno is my prize pupil by far. Despite his age, he’s capable of complicated creations, and for such a little boy, he’s not easily shaken or distracted. Doyle is pleased with him as well and tells me he will most likely lead the charge when we deploy. The very thought fills me with dread, and my instinct is to focus on the older kids, work on their abilities until they surpass his. I’m sure it hurts his feelings, but I’m doing it for his own good. None of these kids are meant for fighting, no matter what age, but I’m not going to help the littlest one lead the war.

Riley is ever present, hovering and joking and flirting, always showing off his growing control. I don’t want to encourage him, but I do find myself smiling when he’s around. He’s thoughtful and kind with the little ones, and I suppose it’s nice to have someone in this world who still thinks I’m hot. Or maybe it’s nice to be around a boy who is allowed to like me, who doesn’t have some weird tradition that keeps us apart, who isn’t a liar. Riley and I are a lot alike, from the same neighborhood, with the same weird genetics, too, with the same secrets. But mostly, and I know this is selfish, what I like about him is that he’s so obvious. He’s into me, and he lets me know and I don’t have to have a degree in Triton facial expressions to decipher what he’s thinking. He reminds me of Shadow in a way—always there, dependable, fun.

There are moments when I see him in the park or pass him in the hall and I get a little thrill when his whole face brightens. If we were a couple of kids hanging out on the beach, he would be a more-than-suitable rebound boyfriend, but now, in here, I feel shut down, like my heart is dead. Fathom ruined me for any future boys. I’m smooshed, and my feelings are unreliable. I can’t trust anything. It’s also hard to get excited about someone when you know his future is bleak.

“He says you’re beautiful,” Chloe whispers to me. “He tells me at night when he reads me bedtime stories.”

“He tells you that so you will repeat it to me,” I say.

“You think so?” she asks, suddenly angry with his manipulation.

“It’s a boy trick,” I say.

I rub my head beneath my hat, feeling the patchy hair slowly growing, and feeling self-conscious. I don’t feel beautiful.

“I think you’re beautiful,” I tell Chloe.

“Yeah, I know,” she says, then bursts into giggles, and I smile. I’m making a mini-me.

Chloe and I spend a lot of time together. I can’t help but care for her, stepping in to act as the mom when her real mom is probably floating in a tank not four floors above us. I find myself prodding her to eat more vegetables at lunch. She draws me pictures where the two of us are walking on rainbows. I hang them in my room. She sits with me in the grass, and we talk about home and how much she misses it. I rub her temples when her migraines attack. One thing I’ve noticed is how she changes the subject every time I ask about her parents. All she will say is that her daddy is a hero and her mother is fighting the war. She tells me it’s her turn to fight now, and she will, just as soon as she gets a glove.

“I’m glad you gave yours to Samuel,” I say, but I leave out that I can’t bear thinking about her on that beach, fighting things that will try to eat her.

“I know, but I don’t get to have fun like everyone else. I asked Donovan for my own glove this morning. He said he would get me one tomorrow.”

I hope it was an empty promise.



Fathom holds up his end of the deal and doesn’t talk to me about anything other than fighting. He focuses on our training and pushes hard. He wants me to swing faster, kick with more intensity. Fighting underwater is so impossibly difficult, and he has no patience with my excuses. He slams into me, pushes me around, and knocks me over with his speed and strength. He shouts at me and criticizes every move I make. He shoots derisive looks my way, which just spark a fight when we get out of the pool.

“You can’t come here and bark at me!” I shout.

Fathom springs out of the water, landing on the lawn in an effortless leap.

“You’re not working hard enough. The Rusalka are fast and merciless, and you are like a sea turtle fighting the current.”

“You and Arcade are clearly meant for each other!” I cry. “She was always telling me I was a loser too. I don’t care if the two of you think I can do better. This is all you get!”