Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(43)

In one tank at the back of the room are five small creatures that at first appear to be octopuses, but on closer look, they have dozens and dozens of tentacles, and that’s pretty much it—no head, no eyes, no body—just tendrils lined with suckers, all whipping around in a frenzy and smacking against the glass. It’s the creepiest, most unnatural thing I have ever seen. They’re what nightmares are made of.

I shake off the chill they’ve given me and turn down another aisle, searching tank after tank. I stop before a huge creature with charcoal-colored skin and a round, puffy body. It has quills sticking out of it and a foul expression on its big face.

“Nathan.” I met him in the Alpha camp back home.

The tank next to him contains three Feige with murky green skin. The one after that hosts something that looks an awful lot like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. There are others, some with skinny legs, others with claws like lobsters, and some that have huge shells on their backs. There are so many different kinds, it’s hard to process them all. Arcade told me there were other people in the ocean. Now I believe her.

“My God.” I gasp when I come across the next tank. It’s filled with body parts: limbs, heads, hands, like some kind of nightmarish junk drawer where these bastards keep the stuff for which they don’t have a place.

Some tanks have Alpha who look like they have been experimented on. They’re missing limbs, and their chests are split open from neck to naval, so their internal organs are exposed. There are some so wounded that it seems a miracle they are still alive. This is the horror show Terrance Lir warned me about, the one he swore he would die before going back to, but Tempest has Rochelle. I’m sure he’s here somewhere.

“Lyric, you have to hurry!” Bex shouts to me.

I turn a corner and finally find my mother. She looks intact, healthy and serene, like she’s taking a long bubble bath. Her mermaid tail swishes back and forth in the water. She’s more beautiful than I have ever seen her.

“If they’ve hurt you—”

“She’s never been touched, Lyric.”

Donovan Spangler appears behind me with two armed guards. I turn and point the gun at him.

“Let her out.”

“There are a few specimens we have decided to keep as is, you know, in case we needed them as bargaining chips. Like her, for instance,” he says, gesturing behind me. “And, of course, this one.”

I follow his gesture to another tank. Inside it floats a boy with golden hair and skin, his arms marred by scars, and a face that has visited my dreams almost every night since the last time I saw him.

Fathom.

I peer through the thick glass, suddenly wondering if I’m dreaming or, worse, hallucinating, and that Spangler actually broke me and this is all a delusion. I slam my hand against the tank until my knuckles split open and spill blood onto the floor.

“Is he alive?” I ask.

“Oh, yes,” Spangler says, smacking the tank himself. “In fact, he seems to prefer being in there.”

Guards escort my father and Bex. They hobble toward us with guns pointed into their backs.

Fathom opens his eyes, and he smiles at me. He says something, but I can’t make it out.

“Miss Walker, I’d like to make you an offer. Just hear me out, and if you do, I’ll let your mother and your boyfriend out of these tanks. How does that sound? Just five minutes of your time?”





Chapter Fourteen


SPANGLER HAS AMY BRING MY FATHER A WHEELCHAIR. She’s jumpy and angry at the same time. I suspect she was hoping for a little sympathy after what she just went through. I’m too shocked and confused to enjoy her disappointment.

Doyle meets us at the elevator. He gives me a pleading look, a Please, will you behave? expression I used to see on my parents’ faces when I was little. He won’t look at my father or Bex at all. He keeps his head down and escorts us out into a hallway until we enter an employee cafeteria. There are round tables and plastic chairs, a salad bar, and a soda machine. Everything is painted bright white. A rich and savory aroma wafts into my nose, and my stomach rumbles. I can see it’s having the same effect on Dad and Bex.

Doyle leads us to a big table in the center.

“What does he want?” my father asks Doyle.

“He wants what we all want,” Doyle says as he points to me. “Her help. And if you’re smart, you’ll tell her to give it to him.”

“Is that some kind of threat?” my father says. He tries to stand, but his face turns white. His ribs must be killing him, but he doesn’t cry out. He’s tough, and I’m sure he wants Doyle to see it.

“It’s not a threat. It’s a plea for common sense. I know you have done a great job with her, Leonard. She’s strong and smart and stubborn as hell. Right now she needs to make a good decision,” Doyle says as he takes a seat at the table next to us. “He’s not going to take no for an answer.”

Spangler enters with his tablet in one hand and his smartphone in the other. He’s got a pair of fancy headphones some hip-hop guy invented strapped to his ears, and he’s talking about delivery dates and shipments. Whoever he’s talking to needs a lot of assurance, and Spangler seems to be a pro at appeasing fears. He makes promises and promises, then says that when the person he’s talking to arrives, he wants to take everyone out to dinner. When he’s done, he unplugs his headphones and pulls them down so they wrap around his neck.