“Don’t erase them,” my mother says as she crosses the room. “Your dad will want to keep records.”
She sits down next to me and puts her cool hand against my forehead. I lean into it, enjoying the delicious pain the pressure creates. For some reason it eases my migraine. “Mom, it was a really bad one, the worst ever. I think we have to add an F6.”
She flinches. “They’re getting worse?”
I nod.
She tries to smooth the wrinkles out of my sheets. “Samuel’s were getting worse before . . .” she says, then trails off.
“This is an Alpha thing?”
“More like a half-Alpha, half-human thing,” she explains. “All of our children suffer from them, some worse than others.”
“Is it some sign of a change? Am I going to grow a tail?” I cry. The words catch in my mouth and come out as a stuttering whimper. My biggest fear, greater than being discovered, greater than being dragged off to some camp like Terrance Lir and his family, is waking up to find that I have transformed into a Sirena. I have never fully recovered from the time my mother dragged me into the bathroom and showed me her legs congealing into a long blue fin that unrolled like a scroll and flopped over the side of the tub. I don’t want to be like her. I want to be normal, no matter how many times I have to redefine its meaning.
“No, Lyric, you aren’t changing, at least I don’t think so. If the headaches were some sort of early warning system, then we would have seen changes long ago. You have been getting them since you were a baby. You and Samuel used to cry all night and nothing helped: aspirin, Tylenol, teas, honeys, herbs, acupuncture—nothing. We even took you in for CAT scans, though we were terrified the doctor would see something that screamed Alpha. We were that desperate. One doctor told us the two of you have overactive electrical systems in your brains, but nothing he prescribed helped much. The yoga on the beach was really the only thing that eased the pain, that and the cold baths. Terrance used to joke that you both were part Rusalka.”
“Rusalka? Is that another clan?”
“Not exactly a clan. More like servants.”
“Slaves?”
She looks away. “I never thought it was right.”
I shake my head. “The more I learn about the Alpha, the more I’m disgusted. Are there any of these slaves on the beach?”
“No, I haven’t seen any of them on the sites I’ve watched. They don’t really transform much when they come out of the water. I think the locals would freak out if they saw one, so they’re probably still in the water waiting with the others.”
“Weirder than the Nix or the Ceto?”
“Not weird—different.”
I go back to watching the sky. People are carrying umbrellas down on the street and eyeing the clouds warily. There is, however, a group of people on the corner who do not appear to be concerned about getting wet: a half-dozen soldiers are milling around outside my building. A few of them are looking up at me and talking into their radios.
“Mom, there are soldiers outside,” I say.
Before she can look for herself, there’s a knock at the door.
“Mom?”
“Don’t panic,” she says as she tiptoes into the living room.
“I am looking for Lyric Walker,” a voice says when she opens the door.
“No way!” I know that voice. I sprint into the living room, nearly killing myself on the coffee table.
Fathom is in the doorway wearing jeans and sneakers, as well as a hoodie to cover his head. He peers into our apartment like it’s full of dangerous animals.
“What are you doing here?” I cry as I poke my head into the hall. There’s no sign of Mrs. Novakova, but that won’t last. I grab his arm and pull him into our apartment, then I lock the door and slide the chain.
“The one you call Doyle had the soldiers bring me here. I am ready for my lesson.”
“Did you see anyone when you came into the building—a little woman who looks like the devil?”
“What is a devil?”
“How about the elevator?”
“I took the stairs. The elevator was . . . small.”
“Hello, Your Majesty,” my mother says, stumbling over her words. “Can I offer you a drink or something to eat?”
Fathom shakes his head and turns to me. “It is good to see that someone in your family knows about respect.”
I frown.
“I have said something wrong again. I apologize,” he says, throwing his hands up to protect his face.
“Huh,” I say. Was that a joke? No, it couldn’t have been.
“Your daughter is a warrior in disguise,” he says to my mother.
“I’ve always thought so,” my mother says, proudly.
He cranes his neck and looks at the ceiling and the walls. That’s when I notice the new gash beneath his ear. It’s red and angry. The others are healing but if he doesn’t do something about this one, it will get infected.
“Wait here.”
I head into the bathroom with my mother at my heels.
“What is he doing here?” she cries.
“I have no idea,” I say as I fumble through the medicine cabinet.
“Should I call your father?”
“Maybe. No. I don’t know, Mom. I didn’t invite him. He says the principal sent him over. This is our meeting time. If we send him away, then Doyle’s going to go back to being a hard-ass.”