Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(57)

“Is there a wild rumpus inside you?”

Doyle crosses the room and stands close.

“Maybe I can help,” he says. “What is it that you want them to do? Give me the instructions, and I can help them understand.”

“There aren’t instructions,” I snap. “This isn’t a microwave. It’s fueled by feelings, the more powerful the better. It doesn’t have to be happiness. It can be aggression or arrogance or rebelliousness or even overconfidence. It’s like punk rock. It’s like a first kiss. It’s like a fistfight. They need to tap into something that rocked their world. This stupid park you’ve created for them is—”

Doyle looks at me skeptically.

“He’s doing it!” Priscilla cries. I turn to the pool and watch the water rippling back and forth until it becomes a violent wave that sloshes over the sides.

“I can’t believe it,” Riley says.

“You made it move! What did you think about?” I cry.

He gives me that grin again but keeps the answer to himself.

“Let’s let someone else give it a shot,” Doyle says.

“Riley, are you okay?” Chloe whimpers, then points to his face.

Blood is trickling out of his nose.

“Amy!” Spangler shouts, and from his mob of groupies comes everyone’s favorite nurse, urging the boy to tilt his head back and pinch his nose. She leads him away while Spangler stares at me like I’m mold.

“It’s okay. That happens to me sometimes too. He’s not hurt.”

Spangler punches a couple of buttons on his tablet.

“Is he sick?” Emma asks.

I shake my head, but to be honest, I don’t know. These gloves could be killing us all.

“Let’s take a break,” Doyle says.

He takes my arm and walks me out of everyone’s earshot.

“You’re confusing and scaring them,” he says. “They don’t need to know the Rusalka were mistreated. You don’t tell a soldier to empathize with the target. You tell them they eat babies and will kill us all in our sleep.”

“I’m not trying to scare them. They need to understand what they’re getting into and why they’re fighting,” I argue.

“That’s not your job,” he says with a sigh. “You’ve also got to get specific about how to make these things work.”

“I can’t be specific. I’ve tried to explain this the best I can. The glove is fueled by their spirits.”

“We don’t have time for spirits!” he says. “And what’s this about the nosebleeds?”

“Hey, look!” someone shouts from the crowd.

Doyle and I turn toward them, only to see Chloe hovering near Samuel. She slips her glove onto his hand, and it clicks into place.

“Chloe, no!” Spangler shouts, but it’s too late. Samuel’s eyes glow and then dim.

“It wasn’t fair he didn’t have one,” she tries to explain. “I want everyone to play.”

Samuel lowers his head and looks at the glove on his hand, then looks up at me. For a moment, he seems like his old self again, but then it fades.

“That is a very big problem,” Spangler says to me.





Chapter Seventeen


WHEN I GET BACK TO MY ROOM, IT’S FULL OF NEW FURNITURE—someone has even patched the holes in the wall. But Bex and my parents are gone. The soldier who escorted me has no idea where they are but uses his radio to find out, while I have a panic attack.

“They’re okay, Lyric,” Doyle says when he finally shows up. “Your dad is in the infirmary getting x-rays on his ribs. Bex is eating lunch with your mother. They’re safe.”

“Spangler is going to hurt them. He thinks I made Riley’s nose bleed.”

“I told him you didn’t, and he believes me,” he says.

He reaches out to take my hand, but I swat it away like it’s the mouth of a rabid dog. “There won’t be any repercussions, but what happened with the little girl has made him apoplectic. We don’t have any more Oracles.”

“Stop calling them that!” I snap. “It’s not some fancy gadget you buy at the Apple store.”

“I’ve offered a solution that he’s going to consider. I hope it makes everyone happy. In the meantime, you’re making your life harder every time you open your mouth. Stick with what you’re supposed to do, and keep your opinions to yourself. Get smart, Lyric.”

He turns to leave, but then stops.

“Tomorrow you’re starting your combat training,” he adds.

“I don’t want your help.”

“Spangler is going to drop you into a pack of Rusalka and heaven knows what else. You’re going to need to know how to fight and defend yourself.”

“I’m from Coney Island. I know about fighting.”

“Your first class is after you train the kids. If you don’t show up, I’ll have you dragged there,” he threatens.



The next day, Calvin arrives to take me to the park. He’s nervous and keeps reaching for his gun. His nose is still swollen.

“Hey, old friend,” I say, enjoying the panic I create in him.

“Don’t talk to me. Just keep moving,” he orders.