Of Poseidon (12 page)

Yep, I defi nitely like Toraf
. Galen rolls his eyes and extracts me from his lap. He hops up and leaves me there, and in the refl ection, I see him ram his fi st into Toraf ’s gut as he passes. Toraf grunts, but the smirk never leaves his face. He nods his head for me to follow them.

As we pass through the rooms, I try to admire the rich, so-phisticated atmosphere, the marble fl oors, the hideous paintings, but my stomach makes sounds better suited to a dog kennel at feeding time.

“I think your stomach is making mating calls,” Toraf whis-

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pers to me as we enter the kitchen. My blush debuts the same 0—

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time we enter the kitchen, and it’s enough to make Toraf laugh out loud.

Rayna is at the counter, sitting Indian- style on a bar stool while trying to paint her toenails with the six diff erent colors lined up in front of her. If she’s trying to make them look like something other than M&M’S, she’s got a long way to go.

Mmmm . . . M&M’S . . .

“Emma, I’d like you to meet my mother,” Galen says. He puts his hand on his mother’s back and launches her forward from the stove, where she’s stirring a pot bigger than a tire. She extends an oven- mitted hand for me to shake. She giggles when I grasp it. Galen’s mother is the most Italian person I’ve ever met.

Big brown eyes, black curly hair piled like laundry on her head, and shocking red lipstick that matches the four- inch heels she’s got to wear to reach the top of that pot.

“I’m so excited to meet you, Emma,” she says. “Now I know why Galen won’t shut up about you.” Her smile seems to contradict the de cades’ worth of frown lines rippling from her mouth.

In fact, it’s so genuine and warm that I almost believe she
is
excited to meet me. But isn’t that what all moms say when introduced to their son’s girlfriend?
You’re not his girlfriend, stupid. Or does
she
think
we’re dating, too?

“Thanks, I think,” I say generically. “I’m sure he’s told you a million times how clumsy I am.” Because how else am I supposed to take that?

“A million and one, actually. Wish you’d do something dif-ferent for a change,” Rayna drawls without looking up.

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Rayna has outstayed her welcome on my nerves. “I could teach you how to color in the lines,” I shoot back. The look she gives me could sour milk.

Toraf puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. “I think you’re doing a great job, my princess.” She wiggles out of his grasp and shoves the polish brush back into its bottle. “If you’re so good at it, why don’t you paint your toes? They probably stay injured all the time from you running into stuff . Am I right?”

Yeah? And?
I’m about to set her straight on a few things—

like how wearing a skirt and sitting Indian- style ruins the eff ect of pretty toes anyway— when Galen’s mom puts a gentle hand on my arm and clears her throat. “Emma, I’m so glad you’re feeling better,” she says. “I bet dinner would just about complete your recovery, don’t you?”

I nod.

“Well, you’re in luck, hon, because dinner is ready. Galen, can I get you to pull that pan out of the oven? And Rayna, you only set the table for four! Toraf, grab another place setting, will you? No, other cabinet. Thanks.” While issuing orders, she walks me to the table and pulls out a chair. After she rams it into the back of my legs until I fall on it, she scampers in her heels back to the stove.

Toraf sets the dish in front of me so fast it warbles like a spun penny. “Oops, sorry,” he says. I smile up at him. He slaps his hand on it to make it stop, then tosses a fork and knife on top.

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As he’s lowering my drinking glass, Galen catches his forearm 0—

and snatches it from him.

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“This is glass, idiot. Possibly you’ve heard of it?” Galen says.

He sets it down as if it’s a cracked egg, then winks at me. I’m glad he’s taken the contacts out— his are the prettiest of all the violet eyes here. “Sorry, Emma. He’s not used to company.”

“Very true,” Toraf says, sitting beside Rayna.

When everyone is seated, Galen uses a pot holder to remove the lid from the huge speckled pan in the center of the table.

And I almost upchuck. Fish. Crabs. And . . . is that
squid
hair?

Before I can think of a polite version of the truth— I’d rather eat my own pinky fi nger than seafood— Galen plops the biggest piece of fi sh on my plate, then scoops a mixture of crabmeat and scallops on top of it. As the steam wafts its way to my nose, my chances of staying polite dwindle. The only thing I can think of is to make it look like I’m hiccupping instead of gagging.
What did
I smell earlier that almost had me salivating?
It couldn’t have been this.

I fork the fi llet and twist, but it feels like twisting my own gut. Mush it, dice it, mix it all up. No matter what I do, how it looks, I can’t bring it near my mouth. A promise is a promise, dream or no dream. Even if
real
fi sh didn’t save me in Granny’s pond, the
fake
ones my imagination conjured up sure comforted me until help arrived. And now I’m expected to eat their cousins?
No can do.

I set the fork down and sip some water. I sense Galen is watching. Out of my peripheral, I see the others shoveling the chum into their faces. But not Galen. He sits still, head tilted, waiting for me to take a bite fi rst.

Of all the times to be a gentleman!
What happened to the guy who

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sprawled me over his lap like a three- year- old just a few minutes

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ago? Still, I can’t do it. And they don’t even have a dog for me to feed under the table, which used to be my go- to plan at Chloe’s grandmother’s house. One time Chloe even started a food fi ght to get me out of it. I glance around the table, but Rayna’s the only person I’d aim this slop at. Plus, I’d risk getting the stuff
on
me, which is almost as bad as
in
me.

Galen nudges me with his elbow. “Aren’t you hungry? You’re not feeling bad again, are you?”

This gets the others’ attention. The commotion of eating stops. Everyone stares. Rayna, irritated that her gluttony has been interrupted. Toraf smirking like I’ve done something funny.

Galen’s mom wearing the same concerned look he is. Can I lie?

Should
I lie? What if I’m invited over again, and they fi x seafood because I lied about it just this once? Telling Galen my head hurts doesn’t get me out of future seafood buff ets. And telling him I’m not hungry would be pointless since my stomach keeps gurgling like an emptying drain.

No, I can’t lie. Not if I ever want to come back here. Which I do. I sigh and set the fork down. “I hate seafood,” I tell him.

Toraf ’s sudden cough startles me. The sound of him choking reminds me of a cat struggling with a hair ball.

I train my eyes on Galen, who has stiff ened to a near statue.

Jeez, is this all his mom knows how to make? Or have I just shunned the Forza family’s prize- winning recipe for grouper?

“You . . . you mean you don’t like this kind of fi sh, Emma?” Galen says diplomatically.

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I desperately want to nod, to say, “Yes, that’s it, not this 0—

kind of fi sh”— but that doesn’t get me out of eating the

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crabmeat- and- scallop mountain on my plate. I shake my head.

“No. Not just this kind of fi sh. I hate it all. I can’t eat any of it.

Can hardly stand to smell it.”

Way to go for the jugular there, stupid!
Couldn’t I just say I don’t
care
for it? Did I have to say I
hate
it? Hate even the
smell
of it?

And why am I blushing? It’s not a crime to gag on seafood. And for God’s sakes, I won’t eat
anything
that still has its eyeballs.

“You mean to tell me you don’t eat fi sh?” Rayna barks. “I told you, Galen! How many times did I tell you?”

“Rayna, be quiet,” he says without looking at her.

“We’re wasting our time here!” She slams her fork down.

“Rayna, I said—”

“Oh, I heard what you said. And it’s about time you listened to someone else for a change.”

Now would be a good time to blackout. Or ten minutes ago, before they unveiled the seafood surprise. But I don’t even feel remotely dizzy. Or tired. In fact, Rayna’s ranting seems to be igniting a weird charge in the room, sparking some sort of hidden energy all around us. So when Galen stands so fast his chair falls over, I’m not surprised. I stand, too.

“Leave, Rayna. Right now,” he grinds out.

When Rayna stands, Toraf does, too. He keeps his expression neutral. I get the feeling he’s used to outbursts like these. “You’re just using her as a distraction from your real responsibilities, Galen,” she spits. “And now you’ve risked us all. For
her.
”

“You were aware of the risks before you came, Rayna. If you

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feel exposed, leave,” Galen says coolly.

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Responsibilities? Exposed?
I’m waiting for someone to admit they’re part of some violet- eye cult, and I didn’t make initiation.

“I guess I don’t understand,” I say.

“Oh, well, that’s a real shocker, isn’t it?” Rayna says. Turning back to Galen she says, “Seems like you’re always trying to send me away.”

“Seems like you never listen,” Galen returns.

“I’m your sister. My place is with you. Who is
she
to us?” she says, nodding toward me.

I shrug Galen’s arm off my shoulder, moving away from the table to put distance between his sister and me. The energy in the room is no longer a spark, but a full- blown inferno.

“Are you okay?” he says. “You should sit down.” Rayna rounds the corner of the table and clutches the back of a chair. “Why are you still here, Galen? It’s obvious she’s just a pathetic human who couldn’t even save her own friend. Course, we know how bloodthirsty they are, how little a reason they need to kill each other. Maybe she let her die on purpose.” I push away from the counter. “What did you just say?”

“Rayna!” Toraf bellows. “ENOUGH!”

“Emma, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Galen says, pulling my wrist to come back to him.

Rayna’s smile is vicious when she says, “Oh, yes, I do, Emma.

I know exactly what I’m talking about. You. Killed. Chloe.” I’ve never been in a fi ght before. Technically though, this won’t count as a fi ght— this will be murder. For the fi rst time

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in my life, precision replaces clumsiness. Even in bare feet, I 0—

run fast enough to knock the breath out of her. Ramming my

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shoulder into her gut, I pick up her legs and sprint her into the closest wall. She’s more muscular than me. About two seconds ago, she thought she was angrier, too. But Rayna doesn’t know what beyond- pissed- off really means— and I’m about to school her on it.

She clenches her teeth with the impact and grinds out, “See Galen? Her true colors are coming out!”

I punch her so hard my fi st and her face should be broken.

But both still work fi ne, because she head- butts me right between the eyes, and I use that same not- broken hand to box her ear. Somehow we scrap our way into the living room. I’m vaguely aware of Galen and Toraf scuffl ing. Galen’s mom is screaming as if her leg’s been amputated.

I’ve outstayed my welcome here. I will never be invited back.

My chances with Galen ended when I tackled his sister. And when I punched her. And just now, when I kick her so hard she dry heaves.

So when she says, “Is this what you did to Chloe when you had her under the water?” I have nothing left to lose. Which is why I drive my shoulder into her rib cage, hoist her off the fl oor, and bulldoze us both through the glass wall, into the storm outside.

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10

FOR THE fi ve seconds it takes them to stir around in their bed of shattered glass, Galen tries to swallow his heart back down into his chest. When Emma moves— then growls when Rayna pulls herself up— he’s able to breathe. Rayna shields herself when Emma kicks her legs out from under her. And it begins again.

Toraf shuffl

es up beside him in the living room and crosses his arms. “Rachel left,” he says, sighing. “Says she’s never coming back.”