But I feel like I don’t have a choice.

Toby shakes his head. “You have to go to the Huddle, Emma. Sheriff Grigsby will find Galen. Please don’t leave. I don’t want you to go missing, too.” The boy’s eyes are filled with raw emotion.

Reed scowls. “Toby, buddy. Emma’s not going to go missing. Right, Emma?”

I nod but Toby’s not looking at me. “Alexa went missing and didn’t come back.” His voice is tight. He’s trying to stop whatever’s inside him from erupting.

Reed takes a turn down a red-clay road, and we’re temporarily blinded by the setting sun at the end of it. “Alexa was a TV character, minnow. It’s not real.”

“They looked for her forever, Emma,” Toby nearly wails. “They never found her car or anything. She just disappeared.”

Reed peers at me over Toby’s head, a look that clearly says, “Can we talk about this later?”

I nod. The last thing I want to do is upset Toby. I slip my arm around him. “I’m sure she’s okay.” Because what else am I going to say?

“That’s what everyone says, but they don’t really know for sure.” Toby leans into me, lets me comfort him. I suppress a grin at his utter adorableness and try to remember what it’s like to be so innocent.

Reed gives his brother’s arm a light punch. “Listen, you let it out of the bag about my fin, little monster. Do you want to tell Emma the story, or shall I?”

20

GALEN WORKS at the ropes holding him to the chair. He wriggles and squirms but can hardly budge the expertly tied knots.

I just have to keep loosening them, wear them down somehow.

Still, the knots refuse to give even a breath of slack.

The tarp hanging above has long since run out of the saltwater, but the effect on Galen’s body stayed. His need to shape a fin burns through him like fire on an oil slick.

But timing is everything; second only to loosening the ropes, injuring himself during transformation might cost him his only chance for escape. The looser they are, the easier to break free.

Footsteps fall heavy on the dirt outside, and Galen lets his arms and legs fall instantly. Seconds later, the door swoops open and Tyrden strolls in. He’s carrying a bottle of water and a lantern. Setting the latter on the floor in front of Galen, Tyrden paces around Galen’s chair. His shadow takes turns dancing on each wall.

“Evenin’, Highness.”

Galen glares at him, which is not a little painful with swollen eyes.

“I’ve brought you more water.” Tyrden chuckles to himself, shaking the bottle. He makes several more laps around the room, circling Galen with the smell of sweat and fish. Finally, he takes his usual seat across from him. “I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. I’ve decided I don’t want to make an enemy out of you, Galen.” He unscrews the bottle and hands it to Galen’s helpless torso. “Oh,” he smiles. “You’re all tied up.” He leans close enough for Galen to take a sip.

But Galen hesitates. Tyrden’s newfound hospitality has all the makings of another trick. He regrets not having the ropes loosened by now.

This amuses the old Syrena. “What? Don’t trust me? Well, I guess I can’t blame you. Here, take a tiny sip. It’s fresh, I swear.”

Galen decides that a sip doesn’t make or break his plans. Worst-case scenario, this is saltwater—another mind game, plus another step toward dehydration. Best-case scenario, it’s actually fresh water, in which case Galen needs it very badly. He angles forward and tastes it. Fresh.

Tyrden stands abruptly then, and to Galen’s amazement, unties one of Galen’s wrists and hands him the bottle to hold. A small twinge of hope whirpools in his stomach.

Tyrden backs away from him slowly and takes his seat again, pulling the big knife from the inside of his boot. “Try anything and I’ll fillet you. Keep your hand in front of you.”

Galen nods, downing the bottle of water in all of three gulps. Now is not the time, he realizes. He won’t be effective with one hand free. But he can possibly use this as an opportunity to earn Tyrden’s trust. Something he should have thought of much earlier. He says he doesn’t want to make an enemy out of me, right? So let’s take him at his word.

Galen turns the empty bottle over and over in his hands. “Thank you,” he says quietly, without lifting his gaze to his captor. If he did, Tyrden would know how insincere his gratitude is.

“You’re welcome.” He spits on the floor between them. “Are we friends yet?”

“No.” Galen yawns for causal effect. Then a real one takes over, one so big it tugs at the corners of his cracked lips.

“How have you been sleeping?”

“In a chair.”

Tyrden smiles. “Well, you’re in luck. I’ve come to tell you a bedtime story.”

Suddenly, Galen feels exhausted. He supposes that’s normal, with no food and hardly any water for days, plus the effort he’s been putting into escape. Plus, Tyrden is a taxing person in general.

“Do you know what a Huddle is?” Tyrden continues.

“No.” Another yawn escapes him. The room seems to get smaller. Or am I closing my eyes?

Tyrden seems pleased. “Go on and make yourself comfortable. Tonight, my friend, I’m going to tell you about the story of Tartessos.”

“I already know about Tartessos.”

“What you know is what you’ve been told.”