The Fierce Reads Anthology(2)

When Grom senses the Trackers directly below, he swoops down and approaches them at the entrance. Both—one from each Royal house—move aside for him.

“Is there a Royal function here today, my prince?” the Triton Tracker says.

Grom pauses before he passes. “No. Why do you ask?” And then he senses her. Nalia. Why is she here?

The Tracker nods when he sees that Grom recognizes Nalia’s pulse. “Her Highness arrived not long ago, my prince. We just thought…” The Tracker shrugs, unable or unwilling to theorize further.

Grom presses his lips together in a tight line. “Did she say why?”

This time, the Poseidon Tracker shakes his head. “She did not, my prince.”

Grom nods. “As you were, then.” Careful to hide his grimace until he passes, he makes his way into the enormous first chamber, a cavern filled with long rocks that look like icicles dangling from the top and protruding from the bottom. It reminds Grom of the mouth of a piranha.

You don’t have to see her. Just find what you came for and leave. But the more he winds through the maze of caverns, the more his heart sinks. He passes the Scroll Chamber, full of human and Syrena relics, none of which are actual scrolls; all the true scrolls, the ones scrawled onto papyrus and birch centuries ago, have disintegrated into bits of nothing to be stolen by the current. Then there’s the Tomb Chamber, the final resting place for all Syrena dead, preserved by the freezing water and, most importantly, kept from washing ashore on any human beaches. He eases past the Civic Chamber, full of monuments from many human civilizations. Each tunnel, each chamber, brings him closer and closer to the Ceremony Chamber—and closer to her.

Finally, he reaches the entrance, and the female Tracker on guard meets him with a surprised look. “Your Highness,” she says, bowing her head in reverence.

Grom scowls. Nalia’s pulse pounds against his chest, his head, his entire body. He doesn’t remember her pulse being this strong, this intrusive. She’s in the Ceremony Chamber. Why, why, why?

“As you were,” Grom nearly growls, making his way through the elongated opening.

The Ceremony Chamber is nothing but century after century of Syrena records etched and carved into aged rock—a much more practical material than the humans’ papyrus, Grom is sure—stacked atop one another, maintained for an eternity by the Archives and the Trackers and the freezing waters. Grom has always been in awe of this chamber, even before it meant something to him personally. Before it meant his possible escape from the law. He’s always felt as if past lives, past experiences called out to him from the stone tablets, as if this place held answers to future questions he might have one day as a Triton king.

But now, it feels as if this place has closed off access to itself, replaced by the suffocating pulse of her.

Deciding the meeting is inevitable—he knows she senses him just as clearly as he senses her—he chooses the diplomatic course and follows her pulse until he finds her draped over a stone tablet in a far corner of the cave.

Nalia is all grown up.

From head to fin-tip, she takes up the length of the tablet and then some. She’s twisted her long black hair into a braid and tied a knot at the end to keep it in place. Though a strand of seaweed is wrapped tightly around her torso in the traditional female cover, it doesn’t quite hide the swell of her breasts. Without looking up, she says, “What are you doing here?”

Though her voice is full of disdain, it’s not unpleasant. In fact, it has a rich texture to it, velvety as a fin, and it fills up the cave with her presence. He doesn’t like it. Not at all. Grom clears his throat. “I might ask the same of you, princess.”

She huffs, but still won’t look at him, which is sure to drive him mad. “Yes, you might.”

It occurs to Grom that he really does want to know why she’s here. Is she here for the same reason I am? Does she seek a way out of this arrangement too? Hope licks at his insides, but then a sense of rejection instantly quells it. After all these years, she still dares to snub him.

I won’t have it, not again. Not with all the females I have throwing themselves at me at every change in the current. What makes her so special?

Then Nalia, firstborn, third-generation Poseidon heir, looks up.

And Grom almost falters. “You’ve…you’ve changed, princess.”

Yes, it’s the same pulse he remembers from years earlier. But it’s not the same face. Not the puffer fish face with hammerhead tendencies. No, this face, this new Nalia, this grown-up Nalia, is breathtaking. Her eyes are still huge, yes, but in a way that makes his mouth go dry despite the ocean around him. And the color of them! Didn’t he remember them being dull and plain? Could they always have been this vibrant, this crystalline violet? And her lips. So full. So alluring. So pouty.

So contrary.

“You haven’t changed at all,” she counters, crossing her arms. “Except, your mouth hangs open wider than I remember.”

Grom clamps his mouth shut.

“And you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?” she says.

Grom offers his most charming grin, but from the look on her face the effort is wasted. “Surely you know. I’m here to make sure there is no mistake in the records. That I am the only Syrena lucky enough to be your mate.”

Her eyes declare him full of whale dung. “Liar,” is what she says out loud.