I stand and wrap the blanket around my shoulders, not because I’m cold but because, stupidly, I feel better protected against the unknown with an extra layer. Each time the lightning illuminates the room—which, thankfully, is often—I memorize the next few steps ahead of me before the dark takes over again. Making my way to the kitchen, I wait for the next lightning to flash so I can open the cabinet where Mom stores her heavy-duty flashlight. As I reach for it, the silhouette of a man’s shadow flashes like a black stain against the white cabinets.

I turn around and clutch the flashlight to my chest. What do I do? If I turn the flashlight on, the intruder will know exactly where I am. He’ll be able to follow the light right to me. But if I keep it off, I might miss my opportunity to see him.

I duck down and peer around the counter. Whoever was standing in the living room isn’t there anymore. Goose bumps spring up everywhere—he probably already saw me in the kitchen and is on his way to get me. I wait for a bolt of lightning, then another before I have the courage to crawl across the linoleum and into the hallway.

Which I immediately realize is a stupid move. If he were to appear in front or behind me, there’s nowhere to go. I back up, hoping I don’t bump into anything. Lightning illuminates the short distance back to the kitchen. My only chance is to make it to the garage. I have to be quick, because the door makes a god-awful noise and sometimes it sticks without shutting all the way. As soon as I open it, he’ll know where to find me. But it’s the only chance I get.

My hand closes around the knob.

His hand closes around my arm.

I turn around screaming, and slam the flashlight into his face, his neck, his shoulder, I’m not sure which. Suddenly my weapon is ripped from my hands. I hear it land a few feet away on the kitchen floor.

A flash of lightning shows that he is very big. Muscular. And he’s not wearing a shirt.

“Were you really crawling around on the floor?” Toraf says.

“Ugh!” I shove him back. “Is that your favorite thing to do? Scare me?”

He snickers. His outline moves toward the living room. “If you’re so scared you should lock the doors.”

I open my mouth and shut it a couple of times. I had forgotten to lock the door to the back deck but it doesn’t mean he has to go out of his way to scare the snot out of me. I follow him to the living room and slink to the couch. “What are you doing here? Where’s Galen?”

Nothing good ever follows silence like this.

“Emma, I need you to come with me to the Boundary. Right now.”

The dark hides his expression, but he sounds dead serious. I try to imagine Toraf dead serious and can’t. The Boundary? Galen had told me about the Boundary before. It’s where they hold the Syrena version of a court trial. It’s where people who are troublemakers go. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“A lot. I’m not sure how he’s done it, what he’s promised them, but Jagen has turned both the houses against the Royals. There are Trackers and Archives who have sworn that they don’t recognize your mother’s pulse. And now Jagen has accused the Royals of straying.”

“Straying?” I know what that means in human terms, but in Syrena lingo I have no idea.

“Of adultery. Maybe not these Royals, but he says that some Royals down the line somewhere had to have strayed because how else would Paca have the Gift of Poseidon?” He scoffs. “I can’t really believe this is happening. How could they believe a slimy eel like Jagen?”

Lightning hits close and I get a good look at Toraf. He’s as stressed out as he sounds. I let him talk, because it seems like he has more to say, and if not, he needs to vent. “The Royals can’t even leave the Boundary now because King Antonis—he’s your grandfather, did you know that?—tried to choke Jagen when he made up all these stupid accusations.”

He’s your grandfather. Technically, I did already know that. I already knew the story of Nalia and Grom, and that Antonis, her father and the Poseidon king, accused Grom of murdering her. But that was out of context. That was when these people were strangers. That was before Mom was Nalia. I have a grandfather. I have a king for a grandfather. A king fish.

I clear my throat. “So … This isn’t just about my mom’s identity. This is Jagen making his move to take over the kingdoms? And … you think he’s getting away with it?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“But I don’t understand. What could I do to stop him? I’m just a Half-Breed.”

“You can come with me and show them that you have the true Gift of Poseidon. That Nalia is your mother. It will prove her identity, that the Royals aren’t lying, and that they haven’t strayed.”

“Won’t it technically prove that they have strayed? I mean, you know how babies are born right? That means my mom and my dad—”

“I know how it works. And, uh, I don’t want to talk about it with you. And I’m pretty sure Galen doesn’t want me to, either. But I’m hoping Nalia can be forgiven for all of that, since she thought Grom was dead. But they don’t even believe she is Nalia.”

I nod, but the action is lost in the dark. Outside, the storm seems to be losing momentum. “Galen sent you to get me?”

The long silence gives me the answer. “He doesn’t know you’re here?” I ask, licking my lips.

“He knows,” Toraf says softly. “But he thinks I’m bringing you back to turn you over to Jagen.”