breaking apart. Poof , into nothing.
“I think he’s been dead for days,” Gwen says.
The oracle shakes her head. “And now you have more to worry about
than putting pieces back together.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“You’re welcome to stay here,” she says, which emits squeals from
the little fairy girls. “But I’d think you’d want to get a move on.”
She looks up to the sky, and I wonder what she sees.
I unzip my backpack, and the chest hardly fits. I pull the dagger
out of Elias’s back. It comes away dripping black. I dip it in the
shallow pond to clean it.
“Let’s go, girls,” the oracle says. She takes one last look at
Elias’s form. “The squirrels can have him. Won’t take long for him to
dissipate. Our kind, we don’t leave many traces behind in this world.”
After rinsing and repeating about three times, I don’t smell like
rotting fish anymore.
At least I smell like rotting fish washed in my mom’s lavender and
honey shampoo. I trade my muddy backpack for a gym bag that has enough
room for the treasure box, a change of clothes for the girls, clean
shorts for me and Kurt, a bag of trinkets my mom thought might come in
handy, a loaf of bread, peanut butter, jelly, beef jerky, and some
regular old junk food.
“I think you forgot I’m the one carrying this thing,” I tell her,
opening the trunk door to the car.
Dad’s still in the driver’s seat. The sound of the Beach Boys hits
me right in the gut, familiar and distant all at once.
“I’m not going. I can’t keep saying good-bye to you,” my mom says,
pulling a sheer scarf around her shoulders. Her red hair falls like
flaming waves around her, and the turquoise of her eyes glistens in
the light of the street.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve got good company.”
Gwen sort of curtseys at my mom. She’s wearing one of Mom’s long
blue dresses.
My mom nods back at her but doesn’t say much else. She kisses my
forehead. “Don’t forget, you have school on Monday.”
“I know, I know,” I say, taking on her tone: “ I didn’t become a
human in this country just so you could drop out of high school .”
She turns on her sandaled heel and marches back upstairs, where
she’s going to curl up on the couch, pull out one of her fairy-tale
books, and wait for my dad to come back home.
•••
Dad leans against the Mustang in the Coney Island parking lot. I
grab the gym bag and hoist it over my shoulder.
“I don’t have to tell you-”
“Be careful, and don’t take candy from strange mermaids.”
Dad shakes his head. “No, if you break another cell phone, I’m
cutting you off.”
“I can’t-you guys-I’m trying to save our skins and that’s the
thanks I get.”
Dad laughs, a real chuckle like I haven’t heard in a long time.
•••
Arion’s ship bobs in the steady water. Layla stands talking to
him. I can see her from here. My stomach tightens in that nervous way
before you see the person you’ve been thinking about for days, the
person whose face you see right before you think you’re going to die.
Because that’s what it was like. Before the wave hit, before the
merrows attacked each time, before Elias had a death grip around my
windpipe, I saw her face.
Kurt stands at the deck, waiting for us. He holds out his hand,
and I look at it for a second too long before realizing that he’s
trying to take my bag.
“Are you angry with me?” His violet eyes scan my face for any
lies. His mouth is tight. “For letting-”
“My mom packed some beef jerky and a clean pair of shorts.” I give
him my best smile, because I know that I need Kurt on my side. I hand
him the bag, but first I take out the piece of the trident. I don’t
want to let it out of my sight. “Where’s Thalia?”
“Below deck, sleeping.” I don’t know if the tension across his
forehead is because we both know there’s nothing we can do to help
Thalia feel any better, or because he notices Gwen standing behind me.
They nod at each other without saying a word, and we gather around the
ship’s captain.
“Lady East,” Arion says, bowing to Gwen.
“Not anymore, I think,” she says.
Arion looks confused, and I offer, “I’ll give you all the riveting
details later.”
“I see you’ve acquired the quartz scepter. I’ve sent word to
Toliss. Soon everyone will know you are not to be trifled with.”
“Oh, thanks.” Really, you shouldn’t have.
“Where to, Tristan?” Arion steadies his arms, ready to steer us in
any direction.
Layla folds her chin on her hands and stares out at now-dark Coney
Island. The rides have probably been turned off for hours. The only
light comes from the sliver of moon that hits the deck and from the
oil lamps that are hung around the ship.
“The Florida Keys,” I say. It’s an amazing feeling, this is. It’s
different from being captain of the swim team or just a good
lifeguard. It’s having people look to me for real answers. The sudden
shift of the boat takes a second to adjust to.
“The Florida Keys it is.”
I hold on to the hilt of the trident.
Layla laughs. “It’s like a giant rock candy.”
“I wouldn’t try to put my mouth on it,” I say. I can feel the glow
of it down to my bones. We step back, surprised, as it shoots sparks
of light.
I look to Arion, who laughs the way he does at my clumsy humanity.
“Don’t worry, sire,” he tells me. “It is always good to have a little
more light when heading into such dark seas.”
This book would not have been possible without Adrienne Rosado,
friend, agent, and were-mongoose. We are the proverbial
little-engine-that-could.
My mother, Liliana Vescuso, the most selfless and hardworking
woman in the world. Thank you for having the strength to leave your
homeland to start a new life in New York City. For giving me
everything I ever wanted, even when I didn’t always deserve it.
Para mi Mami Aleja, por ser el corazón de nuestra familia y porque
siempre ha creído en mí.
Joe Ponytail, Tio Danny, Tio Rob, Ne, Adrianna, Ginelle, Adrian,
Gastonsito, and my awesome little brother, Danny. I couldn’t ask for a
better family and support system.
The wonderful staff at Sourcebooks Fire-the Duo of Awesome, Leah
Hultenschmidt and Aubrey Poole; Kristin Zelazko and the production
peeps; Tony Sahara for the breathtaking cover; and my publisher,
Dominique Raccah.
Mr. David A. Johnson, the best teacher in New York City. You teach
more than social studies. You teach us that we can be our very best
selves. Yes, the train is moving.
To the awesome English department at Martin Van Buren High School
(2001–2005) for letting me express myself, even if it meant painting
on the department walls.
Meg Kearney, a lover of words and writers. Thank you for all the
writing opportunities you’ve given so many of us over the years. You
are a goddess to the writing community.
Ann Angel for reading my very first manuscript and showing me what
to look for when self-editing.
Sarah Jane Jaramillo for the beautiful photography portraits.
Kelly, TS, Hannah, Steph-who were my cheerleaders, outline
readers, and playlist givers.
And to the real Röaan Recklit for every nugget of inspiration I’ve
taken from you. But especially for knowing I could do this, even
though I always threatened to quit.
Write on, like,
Zoraida