Of Poseidon

Now would be the time to back out.”
    He chuckles and opens the door for her. “Don’t lose me on the road.”
    * * *
    Emma tosses her backpack on the counter and pokes her head up the stairwell. “Mom, could you come down a sec? We’ve got company.”
    “Sure, sweetie. Be right down. They just called me in, so I’m in a hurry though,” is the answer from above.
    He shoves his hands in his pockets. Why am I nervous? It’s just one more human to fool. But everything hinges on this human liking him, accepting him. Winning over Emma’s mother is just as important as winning over Emma. Her mother could make his task more difficult, cost him more time if she disapproves.
    Self-doubt settles in. If he hadn’t practiced with Rachel for those two weeks before school, he wouldn’t even be trying this. But Rachel was thorough. She ran through what to expect in school and how to act, what certain phrases meant, what he should wear and when he should wear it. They brushed up on his driving skills. She even anticipated him meeting Emma’s parents—just not under interrogation circumstances. Now he wishes he’d called her on the way here.
    As he again contemplates kidnapping Emma, he glances around the room. From his vantage point in the kitchen, he can see the entire first floor. The only consistency in the decor is the theme of mismatching—mismatch appliances, furniture, paint. All the rooms open into each other without doors, as if in welcome. Beyond the living room, sand dunes tufted with grass peer into the huge window like they’re eavesdropping.
    All of this is already enough to make him covet this house—it makes the one Rachel bought seem cold, distant, impersonal. But what makes him downright jealous are the pictures smothering every wall of every room. Pictures of Emma. Her entire life hangs on these walls—and if he doesn’t find a way to convince her mother of his good intentions, he might not ever get the chance to look at them.
    Muffled footsteps plod down the stairs. Emma’s mother emerges, clipping something to her shirt. When she sees Galen, she stops. “Oh.”
    Galen knows the shock on her face is mirrored in his own expression. Is she Syrena? All her features—dark hair and skin and lean muscular build—scream yes. Except those blue eyes. Blue eyes that rake over him with a familiarity, as if she knows who he is, knows why he’s here. Then, with the next blink, those blue eyes change from guardian to hostess.
    Emma transitions with grace. “Mom, this is my company. This is Galen Forza.”
    He smiles and holds out his hand to greet her, just as Rachel instructed him. “Hi, Mrs. McIntosh. It’s nice to meet you.”
    She meets him halfway and accepts his hand. Her grip is confident but not overbearing, and without the slightest tingle. Not that he really expected electricity, but she is Emma’s mother. Up close, he notices thin slithers of gray weaving through her hair. Signs of aging; a human trait . Her tone is the epitome of politeness, but her eyes—blue without contacts, as far as he can tell—are wide and her mouth never quite shuts. “Oh. Galen.” She turns to Emma. “This is Galen ?”
    He can tell she’s asking Emma a question within that question—one that has nothing to do with being Syrena. He shoves his hands in his pockets, abandoning his scrutiny of her in favor of memorizing each thread in the carpet. He can’t meet her eyes, knowing what she, at this moment, is envisioning him and Emma doing. Idiot! She’s not worried why Galen the Syrena would be at her house. She’s worried why Galen the human boy would.
    Emma clears her throat. “Yep. This is him.”
    “I see. Will you excuse us for a moment, Galen? Emma, can I talk with you privately please? Upstairs?”
    She doesn’t wait for a reply from either of them. Before Emma follows her up, she throws him an I-told-you-so smirk. He acknowledges with a nod.
    Since he doesn’t feel welcome to wander around the house and take in all the pictures, he trudges to the window, staring into the dune grass without seeing it. No noises—yelling, or otherwise—escape from upstairs, but he’s not sure if that’s good or bad. Humans resolve problems differently than Syrena, and even differently from each other. Sure, the Royals tend to have bad tempers. But most Syrena enlist the help of a third party, a mediator to keep things fair. Humans almost never do. They resort to yelling, fighting, sometimes even murder—how