Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

I turn to Bex and give her a little “I’m sorry” frown. I have to break my promise. She flashes me an angry look, but what choice do I have? We can’t go to jail. There are too many people counting on us. I will my weapon to life, admiring how it crackles, and quietly giggle when I hear four grown men gasp. Yes, I am awesome, thank you very much.

The whispers call out from every corner of the store, in the plumbing, behind the refrigerator doors, dripping out of the soda machine. There is so much water here, and all of it is as eager as a child waving her hand in class and hoping the teacher will call her name. All I have to do is ask for its help. So I do.

It starts with a banging in the refrigerator case behind the four cops, causing everyone to jump with surprise. A fizzy bottle of orange soda slams against the glass door, dancing a hyperactive jig.

“Lyric, no,” Bex whimpers.

“Don’t worry. I got this,” I say to her as more bottles join the fun.

“Are you doing that?” Casto shouts at me. “Turn that thing off or I’ll shoot!”

“You should have let us go,” I remind him.

All the bottles shake violently, a deafening crescendo that cracks the air. There is an explosion of broken glass. Syrupy drinks splatter the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. Before the cops can react, they are soaked in water, beer, and sports drinks. Bottles rocket across the room like missiles, zinging past my head. A jug of coconut water tags Casto in the head and knocks him completely off his feet. He lands with a painful thud. His gun skips across the slippery floor just as a bottle of cola clobbers one of his colleagues in the jaw. A jug of iced tea streaks through the air and hits the cashier in the chest. A dozen cans of energy drink track the third officer like drones, hitting him in the temple, the back, and the gut. He slips and falls fast on the wet linoleum, face-planting the microwave counter on the way down and knocking himself unconscious.

Perry finally scrambles to his feet. The gun that he holds in his hands shakes like a leaf in a strong breeze.

“What are you?” he asks. It’s a good question.

“I’m a Coaster, don’t you remember?” I say, then urge a two-liter bottle of mineral water to barrel into the back of his skull. He falls forward and his pistol fires. I hear the bullet whiz past me. It tugs the tail of my shirt, and when I look down, I see a faint trail of smoke drift out of the hole it made. My hands reach underneath frantically searching for a wound and the tacky traces of blood, but I can’t find anything. He missed me, but now I’m angry. I stalk over to him, lying on the floor, terror in his eyes, and suddenly knocking him down doesn’t feel like it was enough. This one needs to learn a lesson, one he can tell the whole world when the reporters come to ask him about his meeting with the terrorist teen, the Alpha monster, the girl who killed Coney Island. I can make sure he tells them all what I want them to hear: Don’t be stupid enough to get in my way.

My hand glows as bright as my rage.

Bex grabs the pack, then me, and pulls me through the door and out into the parking lot.

“No!” I cry, trying to free myself.

“C’mon!” she screams. “There will be more cops any minute.”

I’m frustrated, but she’s right. We need to go. We sprint across the road, where Arcade is still sitting on the hood.

“You were attacked?” Her glove blazes to life. “Why are you running?”

“We have to go now,” Bex shouts.

“A Daughter of Triton does not run from challengers!” Arcade says, releasing her second weapon, two jagged blades she calls her ‘Kala,’ serrated on their edges, which live in her forearms. They slide out with a shhhkkkttt!

“They’re not challengers. They’re police officers, and Lyric attacked them.”

Arcade gives me a pleased expression. It’s not a smile. She doesn’t do that, but it still makes me proud.

“More are on the way,” Bex continues as she pushes me into the driver’s-side seat, “and thanks to that stupid stunt, every cop in the world is going to join them. Get in the car!”

Bex opens Arcade’s door for her. The two of them share an unspoken battle of wills, then Bex throws up her hands in surrender and rushes around to the other side. She hops into the passenger seat and slams her door shut. Then she stuffs the key into the ignition and turns the car over for me.

“Lyric! Drive!” Bex shouts at me.

“This is shameful,” Arcade mutters, then begrudgingly gets into her seat. Once her door is closed, I throw the car into drive and stomp the gas pedal all the way to the floor. Tires scream on asphalt, and we shoot down the road, steering haphazardly as Bex calls out turn-for-turn directions. Arcade watches the windows, her gauntlet glowing and ready.

“Turn that off,” I shout to her. “You can see the light halfway down the road.”