Of Neptune

by Anna Banks

  “So he didn’t eat you. You’re a horrible storyteller, you know that?”

  So much for awe. “I realized that he was gentle—and that he responded to my voice when I told him what to do. I knew then that he wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “How often do you see him?”

  I’m aware that my shoulders sag a little as the regret broils from my stomach to my throat. “Actually, a few months ago he was harpooned by some idiot fishermen. I didn’t see him for a long time after that. Then one day a few weeks ago, he came to me out of nowhere. I could still see the scar, and I gave him some extra love. But I don’t care what scientists say about how fish have no feelings. Goliath acted differently. He wasn’t as playful as he was before that happened. It’s like he was traumatized or something.”

  Reed gives a solemn nod. “Um. Whales are mammals. They definitely have feelings. But touchy-feely feelings? Not sure about all that.”

  “Well, I’m telling you they do.”

  “Right. So. We don’t have to fish if you don’t want to. We can turn around and go back.”

  I tilt my head at him. “But you said we weren’t going to keep the fish. Did you mean it?”

  “Of course I did. I would never lie to you, Emma. I’m way too scared of you.” He chuckles. “But sometimes when you’re fishing, they swallow the hook. I’ve never thought of it, but to me, swallowing a hook and having it ripped out of you could be kinda traumatizing, don’t you think?”

  Of course it would. Which is why I never intended to let him catch a single fish. But I still want to see his face when I thwart his plans. “Are you trying to back out now? Afraid you can’t beat Toby after all?”

  Reed sits a little straighter. “I changed my mind. We’re not turning back now. Not even if you ask.”

  I’m becoming very good at baiting males. The rest of our ride is spent in silence. I can tell we’re getting close to our destination because every time I try to chit-chat, he mumbles his answer and glances over his shoulder. Guys really take this sport-fishing thing to a whole new level of weirdness.

  At last, Reed holds up his fist and shuts off the engine. The lulling song of frogs and the fast-moving current over a sandbar contrast against any silence we might have had. We come to a halt in the widest part of the creek so far. Reed makes quick work of hooking two crickets on his line. I can’t help but wonder if the scientists are wrong about insects, too. What if they actually do feel pain, and here I’ve let him impale two live crickets?

  “Life’s too short to use dead bait,” he says almost superstitiously. I wonder what kind of fishermen’s lore he just satisfied by telling himself that. Ridiculous.

  So Reed is not in an eco-friendly mood right now. He’s all determination and focus and testosterone. He turns his back to me and casts off the back of the boat in one smooth motion.

  Finally, my time has come.

  With glee, I pull back my hair and shove my face in the water. I open my mouth to shout and large air bubbles escape first, tickling my face as they rise to the surface. But I will not be deterred. “Swim away!” I scream. “You’re all in danger! Swim away!” I see the backends of fishtails scatter, just as they’re told. Minnows, a water moccasin, a turtle. Other bigger, striped fish that I can’t identify make a whooshing sound with their speedy departure. When I come back up, Reed is reeling his line in with a scowl.

  “I just knew you were going to do that,” he grumbles.

  “I should have done it before you murdered those two crickets. See something, say something, you know?” His pouty face is borderline adorable. It makes him look like an older version of Toby. And Toby corners the market on pouty face.

  “Are you going to do that every time then? Is there any use in trying to find another hot spot?”

  “Pretty much, yes. And if wasting time is your hobby, by all means, look for another fishing hole.” Or whatever they’re called.

  A mischievous smile stretches across his face. Oh no.

  My startled cry never hits the air, only the water as he bulldozes me off the boat. The water is clear, more clear than any part of the ocean I’ve been in. Even through my thick skin, I register the drop in temperature from Tennessee summer day to Tennessee summer creek.

  Reed grins so big his dimples look almost like holes punctured in his face. “You realize you had that coming.”

  “I didn’t figure you’d take it lying down.” I laugh. In fact, I sound delighted under the circumstances.

  “With you, I’ll take it any way I can get it.”

  Awk-ward. Also, ew. “Reed—”

  “Too much too soon?”

  “Too much anytime. I’m with Galen. We’re going to be mated.” But I recognize the trace of doubt in my declaration.

  He makes a show of looking around. “Really? I’m not seeing Galen anywhere. As far as I can tell, it’s me and you here.”

  “That was a low blow.” I turn away from him, intent on swimming back to the boat. Within seconds, I feel his pulse grow stronger, and I know the exact moment he’s about to grab my wrist. I swirl around. “Don’t touch me, Reed.”

  His face is all remorse. Genuine anguish. “I’m so sorry, Emma. I know he’ll come back. Heck, he’s probably on his way right now. If you want, I’ll take you to the hotel so you can wait for him.”

  I don’t like how pitiful that sounds. So you can wait for him. My emotions engage in a tiny skirmish. On the one hand, I left my phone in my room, telling myself that taking it fishing would be asking the universe to throw it in the water. On the other hand, I didn’t take it because I already doubted Galen would call, and I’m sick of checking my phone every thirty seconds to see if he has at least texted me.

  My phone and Galen’s empty hotel room are anchors weighing me down. Things will work out with him, I just know it. But for now, I have to let it go. Yes, Reed is morphing into a scandalous flirt. But once he realizes I won’t budge, he’ll give up.

  All I really know is that I can’t stay locked away in my room waiting for a phone call that may not come for days. I have to live life. I have to have my own identity outside of Galen. It’s only fair.

  “Why don’t you take me cave diving?” I say finally. “If Galen does come back and finds me gone, he’ll know that I’m exploring Neptune. He knows that’s why I wanted to stay a few more days.”

  Reeds nods. “Are you sure? I’m so sorry, Emma. That was mean, what I said.”

  “I’m positive. Stop groveling. It doesn’t suit you.”

  He grins. “Well, then. The nearest cave is quite a swim away and against the current. You up for it?”

  I eye the boat behind him. “I want to cave dive. Not exhaust myself getting there.”

  “Come on, princess,” he laughs. He tries to put an arm around me, but I slither away from him. He takes it in stride. “We’ll take the boat until we have to make a swim for it.”

  And that’s when I discover that getting into a boat from the water is like trying to catch a fish with my mouth. Not gonna happen.

  16

  GALEN WON’T look up at his captor, which forces him to look down at his now-shredded shirt hanging like a loose net from his body. There are still small cuts on his side and on his back where Tyrden missed the fabric and connected with skin. Every time Galen adjusts in his chair, the shallow slices burn in protest, reminding him that they’re still there.

  Tyrden had used the blade quickly, in quick chopping motions, stripping Galen’s shirt from his body piece by piece, sometimes forcing him to suck in or lean away to avoid getting deep gashes in his skin. Every time Galen gave an evasive answer—which was most of the time—Tyrden took to swiping the blade erratically, not caring if he hit or missed. Galen maneuvered away as best he could. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. The scratches were mostly grazes, but some nicks here and there were just large enough to cause Galen some discomfort.

  He wonders what Tyrden will use the blade for once the clothing is gone. He has come to learn th
at the older Syrena is very good at the art of anticipation. It would help if I could figure out his motives. At least then he could give him passable—though untrue—answers while also avoiding the lacerations he’d earned by being impassive.

  But so far, Tyrden has asked such random questions that Galen can get no sense of what his purpose is, which is probably the point. Questions like, How many Syrena are loyal to the kingdoms? Have they started any new traditions? How far can your Trackers sense? What do the ocean dwellers do for fun? Do they still use lionfish venom for their spears? How many come ashore nowadays? What is the ratio of males to females?

  All Galen knows is that Tyrden has an insatiable curiosity about the makeup of the kingdoms—and that he’s designed at least one weapon that easily cuts through Syrena skin. Not a good sign.

  The sound of the heavy boots walking back toward him makes his stomach simmer. This could be much worse, Galen tells himself. He thinks of Rachel and what she’d told him about methods the Mafia used for torture. This isn’t torture, not compared with that. This is … intimidation.

  Suddenly, the air is saturated with the smell of cooked fish and Galen can’t help but look up this time. Tyrden takes a seat in front of Galen and crosses his legs, careful not to spill the steaming plate of food in his hand. Galen hates his stomach for growling so loudly.

  Tyrden chuckles. “Nothing like a big pile of fish to keep you going, huh, boy?” He scoots the chair closer to where Galen sits, so that their feet almost touch. Then he waves the food inches from his face, making sure the white steam undulates right into Galen’s nose. Galen’s stomach groans ferociously. Traitor.

  His last meal was at the Conway’s house—and even then, he’d barely touched his dinner. He’s guessing that was two days ago—two days that have passed with Emma thinking he’d returned to the ocean to tell Grom about Neptune. Two days since he all but disappeared from existence, with no one realizing he’s missing.

  Did Emma stay? Did she go home? Did she come to look for me? He hopes she didn’t go in search of him and stumble across Tyrden herself. Or what if she did? He quickly dismisses the thought. If Tyrden had Emma, he would have already used it against him.

  The older Syrena leans back in his seat. He forks a big chunk of fish into his mouth and moans in appreciation. The plate could easily feed two. “I have some more questions for you, Highness. I’m hoping you answer them this time, because to miss out on a meal like this would be a shame.”

  Watching Tyrden eat makes Galen slightly delirious. Even more so than the hovering and cutting technique his captor used the day before. But it’s not so much about enduring the agonizing hunger as it is about regaining some strength. Each day he stays here without food or water, he loses energy and strength—both things necessary to escape. And by how comfortable Tyrden has made himself here, he looks like he might be in it for the long haul.

  My best chance is to escape—but how? For all he knows, there could be someone standing guard at the door, though only Tyrden comes and goes. Galen remembers the men who captured him in the woods. Where are they now? Not to mention the thick ropes holding each of his limbs to the metal chair, cinched so tightly they threaten to cut off circulation.

  “What do you want to know?” Galen grinds his teeth. Think of the energy food will give you.

  “Emma already divulged to Reed how you came to be in the good town of Neptune. So Antonis sent you here. Why do you think he would do that?”

  “Reed?”

  “Oh, yes. They’ve been spending all their time together. Does it hurt not to be missed?”

  The idea of Emma spending enough time with Reed to tell him anything worries Galen, but at least he knows she’s not being held prisoner somewhere like he is. Still, Reed has the presence of a trumpet fish slithering around, stalking its colorful—and unsuspecting—prey on the reef. So slow and casual that it looks harmless. Until it strikes.

  Galen clears his throat of bitterness and concentrates on the question. Why would Antonis send us here? “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Reed? He seems helpful enough.”

  Tyrden helps himself to another heaping bite, taking his time to savor it. “Reed is an entitled fool who uses his daddy’s position for his own gain. I have no use for Reed.”

  Galen can’t decide if Tyrden is purposely all over the place or if he’s genuinely skittish.

  If he’s not on speaking terms with Reed, where is Tyrden getting his information? Then Galen realizes the full picture. He must be getting the information from Reder himself. Reder must be the one who ordered his capture. It makes perfect sense, given the way Reder was withdrawn at dinner, the way he scrutinized Galen under the pretense of hospitality. Reed must tell his father about his ventures with Emma. Then Reder tells Tyrden.

  Which means Tyrden could just be a pawn—pawns are much more pliable than leaders.

  Tyrden seems to read his mind. “I’ll tell you a secret, Highness, about Reed’s father. Reder isn’t all he’s cracked up to be. He’s not the savior of this town, as he would have you believe. Too soft, if you ask me.”

  This is too soft? “When will Reder be visiting us?”

  Tyrden tilts his head. “Why would you think Reder would bother himself to come visit you? Maybe he wants to give Emma and Reed a chance to bond. Get you out of the way for a while.” At this he seems amused. “Seems to be working all right.”

  “Reed is not Emma’s type.”

  Tyrden swallows another bite and leans forward, eyeing Galen. “No? But what if it’s not about types? What if it’s about what Reed can offer her? That’s one thing I’ve learned about women. They like security.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s say you get out of here by some miracle and somehow you two run off into the sunset. All you can offer her is a life of hiding what she is. Or … you’re not considering living in the ocean, are you? Let her surface for air every few hours like a whale?” Tyrden chuckles. “Reed—Neptune—can offer her so much more. She told him all about how your Archives begrudgingly voted to let her live. How generous of them.”

  Galen closes his eyes against the truth. “Neptune is still in hiding. You’re not all completely safe from humans.”

  Tyrden makes a show of looking around. “What humans? Oh, you mean the rest of the world? Let me tell you something, Highness. The rest of the world couldn’t care less about this little speck of a town. Do you know what I do for a living?” Tyrden sneers. “There’s a cannery on the edge of the city limits. Real shack of a place. We’ve got three full-blooded Syrena, descendants of Poseidon himself, using their Gift to keep the cannery busy stocking fish. We’ve got shipments going out daily to big cities. We can hardly keep up with the demand. To them, we’re just a quiet little fishing village etching out an existence in the mountains. We’re beneath them. What do they care about us?”

  “Someday they will.”

  Tyrden waves in dismissal. “Just like a Triton to be skeptical. We’ve survived this long without discovery, haven’t we? Heck, we’ve survived this long without even the kingdoms knowing!”

  Galen can’t argue that.

  Tyrden places the fork on the plate and slowly lowers it to the floor next to his chair. He clears his throat and dabs the corner of his mouth with his shirt collar. When he looks at Galen again, he’s all focus. “Tell me about Jagen.”

  This is unexpected. Galen’s mind races. How does he know about Jagen? How does Neptune connect with Jagen’s attempt at taking over the kingdoms? Galen decides to use a favorite strategy of his—answering a question with a question. “What about him?”

  “Are Jagen and his daughter Paca in power yet?”

  “No.” Yet. So Tyrden and Reder don’t know that Jagen’s attempt to rule the Triton kingdom failed. Galen figures it’s a good exchange, trading simple answers for telling questions.

  And this answer seems to infuriate Tyrden. He sits straighter in his chair. “What happened?”

  Galen glances at
the food on the floor. “Don’t I get a bite first?” The sound of longing in his voice is genuine.

  At this Tyrden’s lips pull up in a menacing smile. “Excellent idea, boy. We’ll swap, you and I. A bite for an answer.” He picks up the plate and forks up a piece of fish—smaller than Galen would have liked—then gestures for him to open his mouth.

  Galen complies, and Tyrden makes a point to jab his tongue with the fork before retracting it. But Galen doesn’t care because the fish is delicious and warm and his stomach seems to bubble up in anticipation of the next bite.

  Tyrden waits impatiently while Galen appreciates the small sample. “Now, tell me what happened.”

  “Do you think I could have some water?”

  Tyrden’s eyes narrow. “Oh, I’ll give you plenty of water. After you tell me what I want to know.”

  Galen thinks about negotiating, but he can tell Tyrden has reached his threshold for patience by the way he taps the fork on the edge of the plate. “Jagen was removed from power when we discovered that Paca was a fraud. That she didn’t really have the Gift of Poseidon.”

  “And how was that discovered?” Tyrden holds up another forkful of fish. Instead of tapping the fork, the energy moves down to his leg, which bounces with a fast rhythm.

  “Emma. She showed the council her own true Gift, which proved that Paca’s was inferior.” Galen remembers the pride he felt when Emma put Paca on the spot, telling her to save her father from two sharks that Emma would have ordered to kill him—or so Paca thought. Paca crumbled right then and there. If Emma wouldn’t have come to the tribunal, Galen is sure that things would have turned out differently. The Royals would no longer be in power, and Jagen would be ruling the Triton kingdom under false pretenses.

  But how does this relate to Tyrden? To Reder? What interest do they have in Jagen’s rule? Were they the ones who trained Paca to use hand signals to control the dolphins? He accepts the next bite of food from Tyrden, watching his captor closely. Something about his expression has changed.

  “That’s very inconvenient,” Tyrden says.