by Anna Banks
He reaches the portal of the cavern. Two Syrena trackers allow him entry without question. No doubt they sensed him before he even made it as far as Greenland. The narrow portal opens into a wide corridor that looks like a giant jaw full of thin, sharp teeth. The rocks growing down from the top almost touch the growths from the bottom. Galen hopes that if humans ever do infiltrate this site, they’ll feel like a meal.
Even if they dared to travel past the mouth and into the belly, they’d be hard-pressed to find anything foreign that hadn’t been a natural part of this place for thousands of years. The Cave of Memories spans for hundreds of miles, a maze of passages and tunnels and chambers. Some are too narrow for even an eel to slip through. Others could accommodate an army of humans. The relics, the history of Galen’s kind, are hidden away in the deepest parts, through the most complicated passageways. Finding the way out would be impossible, even with the most advanced human technology.
But the Syrena have a natural tool to guide them: sensing. The Archives no longer need sensing in the cave; having exercised and stretched their memories to full capacity, they can find their way without it. Galen grins, thinking of Emma’s irritated expression at learning Syrena have photographic memories, according to Dr. Milligan. She’d almost fallen out of her chair when Galen scored higher than her on their first calculus test.
As he rounds a narrow bend, Galen picks up on Romul’s pulse and follows it through another convoluted mess of passages. Romul is waiting for him in the ceremony chamber, the place where mating records are kept. Galen has never found Romul here before. He wonders if it might have something to do with Paca’s lineage. Is he trying to prove she has Royal blood?
Romul bows before Galen, but it’s Galen who feels humble. “Ah, my favorite of the Royals,” Romul says. “How do things go with you, young Galen?”
“I’m well, Romul. Thank you.”
“What brings you to this distant part of existence, my prince? More importantly, how may I be of service to you?”
“I need some information about the humans again, Romul,” Galen says without hesitation. He’s still wary of Romul’s involvement in Grom’s search for Paca, but asking about the humans is one of Galen’s most common requests. Romul isn’t likely to suspect anything unusual, especially since Galen is ambassador to the humans.
Romul smiles and nods, his black hair long and wispy. “Of course, my prince. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to view the Tartessos remains. I have questions about the half-breeds.”
Romul raises a surprised brow. “As you wish, young prince. This way, please.”
Galen follows his mentor deeper into the cave. They pass the Scroll Room, which is an inaccurate title for what’s contained there. The fragile papyrus scrolls of mankind’s lost civilizations have long since disintegrated, but the freezing waters of the Arctic keep the other records—tablets, pottery, jewelry, and sometimes whole walls of hieroglyphics—well-preserved.
The freezing temperatures also keep the Tomb Chamber—the giant catacomb of Syrena dead—intact. Galen has never been in the tomb himself, but Rayna used to visit their mother in the first few years after she died. The tomb ensures that Syrena remains will never fall into human hands. Galen shudders as he thinks of the worldwide search that would surely ensue if a Syrena body—or even a bone—were to wash up on a beach somewhere.
They reach the Civic Chamber, the biggest of all the chambers where the ruins of cities are kept. Galen has been here before, many times, but never with a human eye, so to speak. Or rather, the eye of a Half-Breed. Emma could get lost in here for days, maybe months. And he’d love to bring her here to do just that.
Romul leads him past the large remnants of Alexandria, Egypt, and artifacts from Cleopatra’s quarters. Past some ancient temples of Thailand, painstakingly removed from their underwater site and rebuilt here in the Cave of Memories. Past a towering pyramid deconstructed centuries ago off the coast of the island called Japan and reestablished here for a well-deserved eternity. Finally, they reach Tartessos, perhaps the most important of all the cities here, because of its connection to their kind.
Out of them all, Tartessos is the most intact city. Built like an enormous target, the metropolis would have been circular, with streets curving around the central structures. Romul and Galen cross the first salvaged bridge, whose water now flows over it instead of under it. They swim past statue after statue of Poseidon himself—or at least, the humans’ version of him. Even fractured and chipped, missing pieces of tails and parts of his trident, the statues are striking.
The Syrena commissioned for the task of re-creating the roads proved meticulous in placing each recovered cobblestone paver into a perfect sphere of winding paths leading to the palace in the middle. Though gliding through the water above it, Galen and Romul follow the fragmented road as they pass buildings and fountains and public baths. Galen can easily imagine an ancient population bringing life to this desolate, inanimate place, exchanging their abundance of gold, silver, and copper for food, clothing, and services. But what about people who look like Emma?
Galen gets his answer as they round the last bend to the palace. His breath catches as they approach a wall he’s seen a thousand times before but never really looked at. Images of humans sacrificing large bulls in honor of Poseidon. Most of them have black hair, olive skin, violet eyes. Rigid lines are drawn on their torsos, probably to emphasize their physiques. But in the corner of the panorama, there are other humans. Humans he’s never noticed before because their outlines almost blend in with the wall. White skin. White hair. Violet eyes. Humans who look like Emma.
Galen clears his throat. “These humans here,” he says, running his finger over one whose soft curves remind him of her. “Who are they?”
“My prince, none of the images on this wall are of humans. These are our Syrena brethren in their human forms. And these,” he says, his voice filled with disdain, “are the half-breeds. These in particular, sired of Poseidon himself.”
Galen stiffens against the bitterness in Romul’s tone. “Right. I think you mentioned them before. Something about abominations … I can’t remember exactly. Why were they hated?”
Romul shakes his head. “They themselves were not hated. No, my young friend. In fact, Poseidon loved his half-human offspring very much. That was part of the problem. Many of our brethren sacrificed themselves for their human mates.”
“Sacrificed themselves? What do you mean?”
“It is in our collective memory that many of our ancestors chose to spend most of their time on land,” another voice calls from behind them. Galen and Romul turn to see Atta, an Archive of the house of Poseidon.
Romul smiles warmly at her. In the Cave of Memories, there is no division of houses. “Atta, welcome.” He turns back to Galen. “Yes, she is correct, young friend.”
“But what’s wrong with that? Spending time on land?” Galen wishes he would have phrased the question better; it sounds a little like questioning the law. Like treason.
“Our bodies are not suited for land, my prince,” Atta says, skimming her small hand along the wall in a sort of reverential way. “The … heaviness … on land makes our bodies work harder than they do in the water. It makes us age faster.”
“Heaviness?” Galen says, mulling over what she could mean. He turns to Romul. “Is she talking about gravity?” Of course. That’s why he’s so tired at the end of a school day. It takes more energy to move his body around on land than floating, almost weightless, in the water. Much more energy. A small flick of his fin gets him triple the distance than using the same effort to move his human legs.
Romul nods. “Yes, gravity, very good, Galen. The Syrena population began to decrease very rapidly, because many of our brethren chose to stay on land with their human mates and die a human death. Triton knew if that continued, our kind would eventually disappear.”
It makes us age faster. Galen remembers what Dr. Milligan said about heart rates.
The faster the heart rate, the shorter the life. During this last visit, Dr. Milligan had said Galen’s heart rate was faster than when he’d checked it just months before. Because I’ve been spending so much time on land.
His throat constricts. “These half-breeds. What were they like?”
Atta and Romul exchange a look. Romul says, “I’m afraid we don’t understand the question, my prince.”
“What I mean is, were they able to change into Syrena form? Did any of Poseidon’s half-human offspring inherit his gift?”
Romul knits his brows. Atta folds her hands in front of her. She says, “Not that we recall, Highness. It is our shared understanding that the half-breeds were never able to change into form. It is thought that none inherited Poseidon’s Gift.”
“It’s thought? You’re not sure?” Galen says, his frustration growing.
“My prince,” Romul says, “it is possible that they inherited his Gift. The Law of the Generals requiring the two houses to mate was not put in place until after Tartessos was besieged by humans. We cannot confirm if any of Poseidon’s half-human offspring inherited the Gift, as they were all destroyed in the great waves of Triton.”
Emma can hold her breath for a long time but not indefinitely. Depending on how long Triton pounded the shore, the Half-Breeds very well could have been wiped out. Still, some could have lived, couldn’t they? He stares at the Half-Breed on the wall, the one who reminds him of Emma. It turns his stomach to think she drowned.
Lost in his self-torment, he stares at the image long enough to bore his archive companions. “Highness, may we be of further use to you at this time?” Atta gently coaxes him from his trance.
Galen nods. “I have one more question, Atta, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not, Highness,” she says graciously.
“The Half-Breeds. Were they very bad? Did they turn against us? Is that why Triton destroyed them with the humans?”
“No,” she says. “Triton felt they should be destroyed because of what they stood for. He did not want Poseidon to be reminded of his human mate or his half-human offspring. He did not want any more of our kind to be tempted to live—to die—on land. He believed our survival depended on our staying below the surface, away from humans.”
“May we help you with anything else, young friend?” Romul asks, after a few moments.
Galen shakes his head. “No. Thank you for your time today, both of you.”
“It’s our pleasure to serve you, Highness,” Atta says, bowing away from him in her retreat. Her long hair undulates behind her like a piece of fabric.
Galen turns to leave as well, but something catches his eye on the wall. He scans it again, searching for a glimpse of it. He finds it a few feet away. Swimming up to an image of a Syrena male, he traces his finger around the shape of his eye. “Blue?” he asks Romul. “Are his eyes blue?”
Romul shakes his head. “No, my prince. Some of the paint the humans used to depict our brethren was apparently inferior. Over the years, the color seems to have faded.”
“Of course. Purple is made from blue.” Galen nods at the picture, then at Romul. “Well, thanks again, Romul. I’ll see you later.”
Romul inclines his head toward him. “Always an honor, young friend. Be well.”
Galen follows the pulse of the two Trackers to find his way out of the cave. Traveling home seems to take longer than getting there. He suspects the weights burdening his mind are responsible for slowing him down physically as well.
Dr. Milligan is right. Emma is definitely a Half-Breed. But she still possesses the Gift of Poseidon. The law requiring the two houses to mate every third generation must be for show—Royals aren’t the only ones who can inherit the Gift. Galen suspects it must be another reminder from Triton to stay loyal to each other instead of to the humans. That makes Paca as good a candidate as any, Royal blood or not. If she has the Gift, she’ll pass it on to her offspring. And so will Emma.
Could it be possible that some of Poseidon’s half-human children did survive and reproduced? Could Emma somehow be a descendant of those offspring? She says her father had fair skin, light hair. Could he be the link they’re looking for?
And what if he is? Which would be more important to Grom—upholding the law by not mating with a Half-Breed, or mating with one to ensure the survival of the Gifts? Galen doesn’t know. But even if Grom chooses not to reproduce with Emma, will he allow Galen to take her as his mate? Because if Romul and Atta are right, Emma will never sprout a fin. Which means Galen will have to live with her on land.
Is it worth it? To give up years of my life to be with her? Galen thinks of the curve of her hips, the fullness of her lips, the way she blushes when he catches her looking at him. And he remembers how sick he felt when Dr. Milligan indicated Emma would die before him.
Oh, yes. It’s absolutely worth it.
23
OFFICER DOWNING pulls into the driveway next to Mom’s car. Of course she’s home. I don’t know why I even wasted hope that she wouldn’t be. Maybe because I’m eighteen, which means they don’t bother calling your parents to the scene. But even if I’m not a victim of the law, I’m a victim of the small-town grapevine. A victim of flashing blue lights, whispered scorn, and heads shaking in disapproval. And, boy, do I feel like a victim, because not only is she home, she’s standing on the front porch, arms crossed. Waiting.
Officer Downing opens the back door to the low-budget cop car that smells like vinyl, BO, and humiliation. I step out. He hands me my backpack, which Rachel was so kind to bring out when we dropped Rayna off at Galen’s house. She was also kind enough not to kill me for showing up at her house with a cop.
“You get some rest, young lady,” Officer Downing says. “You’ll likely be sore tomorrow. It usually takes a day or two to feel the effects of an accident.”
“Thanks for the ride home, Officer Downing. I appreciate the help,” I say sheepishly.
“You’re certainly welcome, Miss McIntosh. Have a good evening.” He waves to my mom in sort of a clipped salute, then gets in the car and backs out.
I trudge toward the porch, entertaining the idea of running the other way. But technically, I shouldn’t be in any trouble. It wasn’t my car. I’m not the one who got a ticket. Samantha Forza did. And the picture on Samantha Forza’s driver’s license looks a lot like Rayna. She told Officer Downing that she swerved to keep from hitting a camel, which Officer Downing graciously interpreted as a deer after she described it as “a hairy animal with four legs and a horn.”
Since no one formed a search party to look for either a camel or a unicorn, I figured we were in the clear. But from Mom’s expression, I’m miles from clear.
“Hi,” I say as I reach the steps.
“We’ll see about that,” she says, grabbing my face and shining a pen light in my eyes.
I slap it away. “Really? You’re checking my pupils? Really?”
“Hal said you looked hazy,” she says, clipping the pen back on the neckline of her scrubs.
“Hal? Who’s Hal?”
“Hal is the paramedic who took your signature when you declined medical treatment. He radioed in to the hospital after he left you.”
“Oh. Well, then Hal would have noticed I was just in an accident, so I might have been a little out of it. Doesn’t mean I was high.” So it wasn’t small-town gossip, it was small-county gossip. Good ole Hal’s probably transported hundreds of patients to my mom in the ER two towns over.
She scowls. “Why didn’t you call me? Who is Samantha?”
I sigh and push past her. There’s no reason to have this conversation on the porch. She follows me into the house. “She’s Galen’s sister. I didn’t call because I didn’t have a signal on my cell. We were on a dead road.”
“Where was Galen? Why were you driving his car?”
“He was home. We were just taking it for a drive. He didn’t want to come.” Technically, all these statements are true, so they sound believable wh
en I say them.
Mom snorts and secures the dead bolt on the front door. “Probably because he knows his sister is life threatening behind the wheel.”
“Probably.” I stalk to the kitchen and set my backpack on the counter. After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I sit at the dining-room table to unlace my tennis shoes.
She pulls up a chair beside me. “You’re not hurt? Hal said you hit your head. I was worried.”
“I did hit it, on the airbag. But I’m fine. Not even dizzy.”
Mom’s tone morphs from motherly concern to all business. “So, you want to tell me what really happened? Because I’m not buying the whole we-decided-to-take-a-BMW-down-a-dirt-road crap. A deer? You’re kidding, right?”
I hate when she pulls this. The whole good cop/bad cop thing. She doesn’t get that she’s supposed to pick one, not be both. “I’ll tell you if you tell me,” I say, washing my hands of maturity. I’m tired of the double standard—she keeps secrets, but I’m not allowed. Also, I’m tired, period. I need sleep. Which means I need answers.
“What do you mean? Tell you what?”
“I’ll tell you what we were really doing out there. After you tell me who my real parents are.” There, I opened it. A chunky can of wiggling worms.
She laughs, just like I expect her to. “Are you serious?”
I nod. “I know I’m adopted. I want to know how. Why. When.”
She laughs again, but there’s something false in it, as if it wasn’t her first reaction. “So that’s what this is about? You’re rebelling because you think you’re adopted? Why on earth would you think that?”
I fold my hands in front of me on the table. “Look at me. We both know I’m different. I don’t look like you or Dad.”
“That’s not true. You have my chin and mouth. And there’s no disinheriting the McIntosh nose.”
“What about my skin? And my hair?”
“What about it?”
“Oh, never mind,” I say, waving my hand at her. I stand to walk away. She’s not going to budge, just like I knew she wouldn’t. “I don’t feel like getting laughed at. I’m getting in the shower and going to bed.”