Of Poseidon 02: Of Triton Read Free

quarterback?
    The urgency level for a quick decision elevates to right-freaking-now. I decide that screaming is still best for everyone—it’s nonviolent, distracting, and one of the things I’m very, very good at.
    I open my mouth, but Rayna beats me to it—only, her scream is much more valuable than mine would have been, because she includes words with it. “Stop it right now, or I’ll kill you all!” She pushes past me with a decrepit, rusty harpoon from God-knows-what century, probably pillaged from one of her shipwreck excursions. She waves it at the three of them like a crazed fisherman in a Jaws movie. I hope they don’t notice she’s got it pointed backward and that if she fires it, she’ll skewer our couch and Grandma’s first attempt at quilting.
    It works. The bare feet and tennis shoes stop scuffling—out of fear or shock, I’m not sure—and Toraf’s head appears at the top of the counter. “Princess,” he says, breathless. “I told you to stay outside.”
    “Emma, run!” Mom yells.
    Toraf disappears again, followed by a symphony of scraping and knocking and thumping and cussing.
    Rayna rolls her eyes at me, grumbling to herself as she stomps into the kitchen. She adjusts the harpoon to a more deadly position, scraping the popcorn ceiling and sending rust and Sheetrock and tetanus flaking onto the floor like dirty snow. Aiming it at the mound of struggling limbs, she says, “One of you is about to die, and right now I don’t really care who it is.”
    Thank God for Rayna. People like Rayna get things done. People like me watch people like Rayna get things done. Then people like me round the corner of the counter as if they helped, as if they didn’t stand there and let everyone they love beat the shizzle out of one another.
    I peer down at the three of them all tangled up. Crossing my arms, I try to mimic Rayna’s impressive rage, but I’m pretty sure my face is only capable of what-the-crap-was-that.
    Mom looks up at me, nostrils flaring like moth wings. “Emma, I told you to run,” she grinds out before elbowing Toraf in the mouth so hard I think he might swallow a tooth. Then she kicks Galen in the ribs.
    He groans, but catches her foot before she can re-up. Toraf spits blood on the linoleum beside him and grabs Mom’s arms. She writhes and wriggles, bristling like a trapped badger and cussing like a sailor on crack.
    Mom has never been girlie.
    Finally she stops, her arms and legs slumping to the floor in defeat. Tears puddle in her eyes. “Let her go,” she sobs. “She’s got nothing to do with this. She doesn’t even know about us. Take me and leave her out of this. I’ll do anything.”
    Which reinforces, right here and now, that my mom is Nalia. Nalia is my mom. Also, holy crap.
    “Emma, you can’t ignore me forever. Look at me.”
    This startles me. I pull my gaze from the decrepit ceiling and settle it on my fruitcake mother. “I’m not ignoring you,” I tell her, which is the truth. I’m aware of every infinitesimal move she makes. Since I woke up, she’s crossed and uncrossed her legs six times while sitting at the mini-table by the door. She’s tightened her ponytail eight times. And she’s peeked out the window twelve times. I figure it’s my duty as a captive to keep tabs on my kidnapper.
    Mom crosses her legs again, and leans forward on her forearms, resting her chin on one hand. She looks tired when she says, “We need to talk about all this.”
    At first, I snort. Then the absurdity of the statement—the understatement —really takes hold, and I start to laugh. In fact, I laugh so hard that the headboard taps the wall with each out-of-breath giggle. She lets me go on for a long time, clutching my own stomach, filling and emptying my lungs until I reach a natural pause in my amusement. I wipe away the tears of unjoy before they stain the hideous, stiff bedspread.
    Mom starts to shake her leg, which is her sitting-down version of foot tapping. “Are