was on land, he never smiled this much.

“Brendan might be young, but he can cut a man into ribbons with

nothing but a spearhead.”

Block .

I can’t let him get to me. It’s like when Coach Bellini swims

alongside us during practice, shouting, “You call that swimming? I met

a turtle in Vietnam that was faster than you!”

Sure, Adaro, champion of the Southern Seas, and Brendan, champion

of the Northern Seas, have been fighting longer than me. But my

grandfather chose me . That’s got to count for something.

Doesn’t it?

“Dylan’s so fast on his feet that you’d swear he was born

sparring.”

Right, Dylan, the golden boy, champion of the Western Seas.

And then there’s Kurt, King of the Show-Offs, who does some

ballerina shit across the deck. I push hard, metal banging on metal. I

hit his solar plexus and he braces, trying to regain his breath. He

switches arms. Every five strikes, he switches arms to not tire one

over the other. That creates the gap I need to strike.

I make my blow count, aiming where I know it will hurt Kurt the

most. The swipe is painfully accurate, and a lock of his precious hair

falls to the deck. His brow trembles, giving way to the first drip of

sweat from his too-tight pores.

I’m about to say, “Don’t worry, it’ll grow back,” but he raises

his blade with a deep grunt and charges at me until I find myself

stuck between Kurt and the edge of the ship once again.

Note: Don’t mess with a merman’s full head of hair.

It’s the reaction I want-careless, reckless, thoughtless. Until

we’re stuck in a mirror image with my sword at his throat and his at

mine.

“Draw?” Kurt suggests.

“I don’t think so, bro.” I shake my head, pressing the cold metal

of his own knife to his abdomen. My heart is pounding, partly because

I can’t believe I did it. Partly because Kurt digs the edge of his

sword into my throat some more.

“Easy,” I say. Neither of us stands down. “If I show up to the

oracle without a head, she’s going to think I’m rude.”

With a loud harrumph , he steps back, lowers his weapon, admits

defeat by bowing. It takes all of me, and I mean years of discipline,

to not shout, “Yeah, in your face!”

But this is not me beating my buddy Angelo at Mortal Kombat . This

is how grown-up mermen fight. I bow back to him, accepting his defeat

but keeping my eyes on him at all times. The clapping above us breaks

our warrior trance. Kurt blinks into the blinding sun beating through

the sails. I flip the small knife in the air, catch it on its blade,

and hand it back to him. He grunts a short “Thanks.”

“Well done, Master Tristan,” says a baritone voice. Arion, the

captain of our ship, hovers over us. He’s a merman just like Kurt and

me, but he’s royally bound to the vessel. Enchanted black vines twine

around his wrists and his tail. The black and silver fins lick at the

empty air beneath him. The binding stretches all over the ship,

allowing him to go as far as the topmast, but never into the sea. A

punishment carried over from father to son.

I reach up and shake his hand. “Thanks, man.”

“You’re a fast learner,” Kurt says, nodding. I can tell he doesn’t

say this easily. “A natural, really, if you adjusted your focus.”

“You should have more faith in me,” I say.

Kurt takes one step closer. Whatever he’s going to say is

interrupted by blue and purple blurs.

It’s the urchin brothers, pulling sails and tying ropes to create

a little bit of shade. When they stop running around, you can see

their true shapes. Their almond-shaped eyes are big and black, like

their gums, which freaked me out when Blue woke me up this morning.

True to their name, the urchin brothers have spiky heads that are

surprisingly soft to the touch.

Note: Don’t mess with an urchin’s head of hair, either.

The food they’ve spread out on silver platters, tarnished from

being stored below deck, is decadent. Dried salmon skin, pink stuff

that jiggles without touching it, and whole calamari jerky that looks

like Buddha hands coming to get you. There’s caviar in the brightest

colors on top of crunchy dried seaweed. Steamed seaweed. Seaweed

noodles. Seaweed chips. There’s a great big seaweed party in my mouth.

Blue is studying my face. He’s been working hard to make something

that I’ll like. “Special, for Lord Sea Tristan.”

My smile is strained. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to a mer

diet. But he’s trying so hard and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

“Uh-thanks, little dude.”

I make to sit down, but Kurt stands in my way. He flips his hair

back, splashing me on the way. I knew he was a sore loser, but damn,

let me live.

“What?” I ask irritably.

“Don’t you think it’s time, Tristan?”

“Time for what?”

“You said you’d tell us.” He turns back to Layla, then to me.

“About the other night. With the oracle.”

Friday night. The night I claimed one of the three trident pieces

from the oracle in Central Park. I’ve been putting off the details,

but I’ve run out of reasons.

“It might help us with the next oracle,” Layla urges.

“Perhaps later-” Gwen starts.

“Not later,” Layla presses, sitting up on her knees. “I mean, you

just left . Then you return with your giant metal toothpick and

Princess Snowflake here, and you won’t tell us what happened.”

“Tristan doesn’t have to tell you everything,” Gwen says.

Layla ignores her and looks up right at me. “What did she do to

you?”

I’m not sure if she means the oracle or if she means Gwenivere.

I hold my hands up in defense. “You guys. It’s just-”

It’s just what? They’re my team. They’re here for me. I hadn’t

considered that they might’ve thought I was dead. I didn’t consider

them at all. I sit down at our makeshift floor table and cross my legs

meditation style. “Come. Let me start from the beginning.”

Ryan was dead.

“I heard his neck snap, but I didn’t know who it was until he hit

the ground. Everyone was screaming. Police sirens were getting closer.

I was ready to give up.

“I figured, what the hell is the point? Maddy was screaming and

drunk. She wouldn’t give me the Venus pearl. Until the merrows came.”

I pull down the zipper of one of my pockets and pull out a thin

silver chain. A fat, smooth pink pearl hangs on a tiny hoop. “My

mother stole it from Shelly, the oracle, a long time ago. I gave it to

Maddy as a gift before I knew what it was. What I was.

“That’s when Gwen found me. She figured out how to find the

oracle.”

“That I did.” Gwen smirks. “So we stole-what was it?”

“A bicycle,” I say. “We went to the train.”

“How did you know where to go?” Kurt glances between me and Gwen.

“Scrying, my dear Kurtomathetis,” Gwen answers sweetly.

“How do you know how to do that?” Kurt leans forward.

“I know many things.” Gwen leans forward, too, just to show how

unintimidated she is by him. “What would you have done? Threaten the

pretty necklace with your sword until it answered you?”

“Easy,” I say, putting hands between them. “Gwen held the necklace

up to the map, and it hit right on Central Park like a magnet. Shelly

was there, waiting for us near Turtle Pond.”

“What did she look like?” Layla asks.

“Like a blobby fish,” Gwen says, shivering. “Drooping and

wrinkled. I had no idea oracles were so hideous.”

“They aren’t,” Kurt says softly. “Not all of them.”

“Shelly-don’t laugh at her name, you guys. She’s cool, okay? Said