Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(84)

“Where is the traitor?” the prime says, his eyes gleaming with hate.

“Ever the coward,” Minerva hisses.

“No mind. He will learn the new way of things when we root him out,” the prime says. “As for the rest, you may kneel and beg for a quick death.”

“That is merciful,” Minerva says with all sincerity.

“You are no prime,” Arcade cries. “The Alpha Nation is dead and scattered, all thanks to you. You are the leader of memories, not First Men.”

“I think this child has lost her ability to see,” Minerva says. “Isn’t the empire standing before you? Only a small portion of it, of course, but it grows with each passing day. The Alpha live on.”

Arcade looks up and down the beach at the beasts.

“What did you have to say to get them to bend their knees to you?”

“I simply offered them what they have been asking for all along—a place in my kingdom, a voice in my ear,” the prime answers. “I gave them the freedoms that my former advisers refused to allow, and apologized for the disrespect. I appointed several of them to be advisers and then welcomed the rest into my royal guard. Don’t they look fierce in their armor? They will play an integral part in our glorious future.”

“Imagine the lives you could have saved if you had just given them a hug earlier,” I say.

“I see the mutant has survived,” the prime snarls, then turns back to Arcade. “Throwing your lot in with the human filth too, Arcade?”

“Kill her, lover!” Minerva shrieks. She’s so angry, her body shakes. “Kill them both!”

The prime’s blades spring from his forearms with a deadly shhhkkkt.

“Yes, I think that would be fun,” he says, then crouches as if he’s preparing to lunge at me.

The air fills with a pounding rhythm. It begins with a low, plucking tone but grows louder until the air around my head is shaking with a thrum.

Behind the wall of Rusalka, I see a second set of weapons rise. Along the beach for a mile in both directions come the Alpha—Nix, Sirena, Ceto, Triton, and Selkie. At the center is Fathom, dressed in his own armor. Next to him is a boy roughly his own age with long brown hair and an older man with a shaved head and a pointy goatee. I’ve seen them before. They are Flyer and Braken.

The Rusalka part for them, and Fathom walks toward the beach. He looks to me and then Arcade, and nods respectfully.

“You have done well,” he says.

“Glad you could make it before the party is over,” I say.

“Father, I come to you with an offer of peace,” he says to the prime. “Return to the hunting grounds. Rebuild the empire in whatever form you choose. I will not try to stop you as long as you leave the surface world alone.”

“Is that your offer, little minnow?” Minerva mocks. “Shall we retreat now?”

“It is not retreat, Minerva. It is a fair offer to my father!” Fathom shouts at her.

“Yes, I am your father!” the prime rages. “And you should be proud of me, boy. I have taken our people back to a more glorious time, when we took what we wanted—food, weapons, slaves, and territories. The surface world is no different. It is ours for the taking.”

“You are insane!” Arcade shouts.

“The only madness here is the way we live,” the prime cries. “I am setting things back to the way they were always meant to be.”

“And look at the price!” Fathom shouts. “Look at the death!”

“And from it, birth,” Minerva says, rubbing her pregnant tummy. “I will raise the heir in the old traditions. He will bathe in blood and treasure. The surface is his dowry.”

“Father, hear me. Consider peace,” Fathom says.

“I desire war.”

“Is that your final word?” Fathom asks, releasing his Kala.

“It is, pup. Do you wish to challenge it?”

“I must.” Fathom lunges at his father, roaring with war. The prime blocks his attack and sends his son tumbling to the ground. He leaps to strike as well, but Fathom rolls out of the way and springs to his feet right off his back. Father and son trade blows that would kill an ordinary person.

“You have taken our great people and turned them into scavengers, and now you have thrown in with the very beasts that killed so many of us. You are the king of the dead,” Fathom says.

“King nonetheless,” his father roars as he lands a savage hand to his son’s face. Fathom’s cheek opens, and blood pours down his neck.

“This was how it was always going to end, traitor!” Minerva screeches. “The old heir must be removed to make room for the new one.”

The prime leaps onto his son, pressing his forearm against Fathom’s face. If he releases his blades, they will slice off his son’s head.

“It’s over, son!” he shouts. “I have beaten you. I’m sorry to see you go. I would have liked to watch your face when the humans surrender.”

There’s a shkkkkkt!

I scream.

The prime chuckles, and blood leaks out of his mouth.

“Finally, son, you understand what you are. You are Alpha. Take what you want. It is yours.”

He closes his eyes, and Fathom forces the body off of him. He pulls his own blade out of his father’s throat.