Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(4)

“It’s nothing,” Bex says as she applies a thick layer of eyeliner in the side-view mirror of our Dodge Caravan.

“It’s something,” I mutter. The tension between us grows like weeds these days. I assumed it was due to sleeping in construction sites and wearing the same clothes for days on end. Or maybe that’s what I wanted to think. My friend is an enigma, the queen of the emotional stiff-arm, and few can see the trouble behind her happy eyes. I’ve learned ways to get around it, but nothing seems to work now. All I know for certain is that “nothing” is about me.

“Forget it, Lyric,” she whispers as she touches up her lip gloss, then steps back to get a better look at herself in the tiny mirror. She looks like she just stepped out of Lolita. When you combine all the tiny clothing, makeup, and her natural sun-kissed California-girl face, she’s impossible not to notice and, we hope, impossible to resist.

“How is it that we have both been washing our hair in park fountains, eating the same diet of Snapple and Swedish Fish, and yet you look like you’re ready for the runway, while I look like that thing that lives in the folds of Jabba the Hutt’s skin?”

“Let’s get this over with, all right?” she says, then walks across the empty street.

“I do not approve of this behavior,” Arcade seethes. She sits on the hood of the Dodge, staring at our target, the Piggly Wiggly across the street. Unlike Bex, Arcade’s stiff-arms are not so emotional. They’re more like angry uppercuts. There’s no beating around the bush with her feelings. Right now she’s looking at me like I’m something on the bottom of her boot.

“We’ve been through this a hundred times, Arcade. We’ve got to eat,” I explain, reaching into the back of the Caravan for my water bottle. I eyeball it to make sure it’s full, then slip it into my backpack.

“There is honor in hunger.”

“If we starve to death before we get to Tempest, that would be disappointing.”

She grunts.

“In the hunting grounds, my people threw thieves into the black chasm to feed the Leviathan.”

“Leviathan?”

“A mammoth beast as big as a ship with a thousand teeth and a taste for brains,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Is there anything where you’re from that’s not gross?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead she turns her disapproving gaze back toward the store. Out front is a sign featuring a cartoon pig with a big “Come on in, folks!” grin on his fat pink face. I don’t think he’d be smiling if he knew what I’m planning.

“Stay in the car and try to stay out of sight,” I beg her. Like Bex, Arcade is a beauty, but there is something slightly nonhuman about her appearance that draws a lot of attention.

“A Daughter of Triton does not hide,” she barks.

There’s no point in arguing with her, so I hurry to catch up with Bex.

I find her out front peering through the store’s big windows. A large NO COASTERS! sign is taped to the glass.

“He’s perfect,” she says.

I take a peek. The cashier inside is watching a football game on a tiny TV set he’s propped up on the counter. He’s in his late twenties, chubby, balding, and pink, not unlike the pig on the sign. He’s exactly what we hope for when we do this. Teenage boys are nervous as pigeons around Bex; same with the sad forty-year-olds we sometimes come across. The mid-twenties guy is our sweet spot. He’s trapped in a dead-end job, insecure about it, and desperate for some attention from a pretty girl.

“Lyric, make me a promise,” Bex asks as she reaches for the door. “Once you do your thing with the water bottle, turn off the magic mitten.”

“Why?” I say. I can hear the defensiveness in my voice.

“You scared the guy at the last store.”

I laugh.

“When that Slushy machine blew up, I thought he was going to have a heart attack,” I say.

“It wasn’t funny.” She’s dead serious.

“Bex, he wasn’t hurt, and besides, I need the practice for when we get to Tempest.”

She scowls and shakes her head.

“Promise me you won’t use it in here, or I’m not going in,” she says, and I can tell she means it. She takes her hand off the door as if she might march right back to the car.

“Okay,” I say. I hide the glove behind my back.

She nods a thank-you, then steps into the frosty, over-air-conditioned shop. The bell tied to the door jingles a hello. I watch her approach the counter, suddenly wearing a smile she used to wear for me. She says something, bats her eyelashes, reaches out, and touches the cashier’s arm, throwing out the bait. A grin stretches across his face as wide as the Rio Grande. Reel him in, Bex.

It’s time for me to get to work. I unscrew the cap on my water bottle and pour the contents onto the sidewalk. Then I shove my hand up under my shirt and, with the slightest amount of concentration, turn on the “magic mitten.” The metal glows blue but, hidden beneath the fabric, it’s not so noticeable if someone happens to drive by right now. Above the crackling power, I hear voices fluttering in my ear.

What would you have us do?

“Make some mischief.”

I send the puddle into action, watching it seep under the crack of the door and into the store. I nudge it along so that it crawls up the wall to the ceiling, leaving a wet zigzag trail behind, until it finds its target, one of the dozen surveillance cameras mounted on the walls. The liquid invades the lens, swirls around in its electrical guts, and shorts out the entire system. A moment later it’s blind, and I direct my little wet sidekick to the next camera, then the next, then the next, until all twelve are busted. Proud of myself, I power down my glove and push open the door.