Galen nods and pools water from the faucet into his mouth to rinse out the leftovers. Drying his face and hands with the paper towel, he stalks back to the table, but leans against it instead of hoisting himself back up. Just in case he has to make a run for it again.

“Still sick from the flight?” Emma whispers.

He nods. “Dr. Milligan, you were saying?”

The doctor sighs. “Thirty-two beats per minute.”

“And in years?” Galen says, his stomach tightening again.

“Roughly? Right around one hundred and seventy-five years, I think.”

Galen pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why? Why does her heart beat faster than other Syrena?”

“I wish I could tell you, Galen. But we both know Emma is different than you in other ways, too. Her hair and skin, for instance. Maybe these differences have something to do with her inability to change into Syrena form.”

“Do you think it has anything to do with her head injury?” Galen says.

Emma shakes her head. “Can’t be.”

“Why is that, Emma?” Dr. Milligan says, crossing his arms thoughtfully. “Galen said you hit it pretty hard. I’d say it’s at least reasonable to consider the possibility that you may have damaged something.”

“You don’t understand, Dr. Milligan,” she says. “I didn’t have any Syrena abilities before I hit my head. Hitting my head is what changed everything. Besides, I’ve been white as the moon all my life. That’s got nothing to do with a concussion.”

“That’s true,” Galen says. “But you could hold your breath for a long time before you hit your head. And you had the Gift before that, too. Maybe the abilities were always there, you just never knew to test them.” Stupid, stupid. The hurt on her face confirms his mistake.

“You’re talking about the day Chloe died,” she says quietly.

Slowly, he nods. No point in lying about it. Even if he wasn’t talking about Chloe, she’s already thinking about it, already traveling back in time to that day, torturing herself with if only. If only she had known about her Syrena blood, if only she had known about her Gift of Poseidon. Chloe would be alive. She doesn’t need to say it. It’s all over her face.

“Everyone wrote it off as adrenaline,” she says. “I should have known better.”

Dr. Milligan clears his throat. “Just to be thorough, let’s take some X-rays before you go tomorrow. Is that all right with you, Emma?”

She nods, but Galen can tell it’s just a reflex.

Galen calls for a cab to drive them back to the hotel; he can’t subject Emma to another walk on the beach where her best friend died. Especially since he’s not sure how long he can stay in the same room with her without using his arms—or his lips—to comfort her.

It’s going to be a long night.

19

DR. MILLIGAN taps the X-ray lit up on the screen. “See here, Galen, this is where your bones thicken to protect your organs. Where people have ribs, you have an enclosure of bone plating, like a shell, really. And this is Emma’s X-ray,” he says, flipping on the light behind the other image on the white box. “See how hers looks like ribs at first? It barely shows up, but if you look closer, you can see that thin layer of bone plating connecting the ribs. Not quite as thick as yours, though. In fact, none of her bones hold the same density.”

“But what does that mean?” Galen says, frowning. I’m glad Galen’s not the only one having a difficult time following Dr. Milligan. My thoughts keep vacillating between the draft that feels more like a gust in this sizes-too-big hospital gown, and Dr. Milligan’s proposal that I’ll live to be 175 years old. This is getting a little weird, even under the circumstances. I’m hundreds of miles from home, half naked in a room with two guys I barely know. Taken out of context, I’d have to question my common sense. Heck, even in context.

Dr. Milligan shrugs. “I’m not sure. Could be a few different things, I guess. There’s still so much about your kind I don’t know, Galen. Growth patterns, for instance. Maybe since Emma spent her life on land, her bones didn’t develop fully. Like her coloring. Maybe the Syrena body reacts to something in the water that triggers pigmentation development. That’s just a guess though. Really, I have no idea.”

Galen looks at me, concern lurking in every crevice of his expression. I know it bothers him when I’m quiet. He’d probably be surprised to find that I’m usually quiet, just not around him. “Emma, do you have any questions for Dr. Milligan?”

I bite my lip and pull the hospital gown tighter around myself. “How can I talk to fish? Why do they all understand English? And don’t say it’s magic.” It’s not the question I want to ask, but it’s a good one nonetheless, and the answer will give me more time to sponge up the confidence I’ve been hemorrhaging since changing into this gown.

Dr. Milligan smiles and takes off his glasses. Wiping them with his lab coat, he says, “Well, my dear, Galen is convinced that’s genetic as well. If it is genetic, I hardly think it could be magic. And I’m not convinced they could understand a language as complex as English. If they did, there’d be no point in baiting a hook ever again, right? A fisherman would simply drop a bucket in the water and tell his catch of the day to swim into it.” He chuckles. “If I had to guess, I’d say it has to do with the sound of your voice. We already know that many species of marine life communicate between each other with sound. Whales and dolphins, for example. It’s possible your voice has a one-size-fits-all frequency, or some special inflection that they understand. It’s possible that what you want them to do translates not in what you say but in how you say it. Unfortunately, I don’t have the equipment to test that theory, or even the ability to get my hands on it right now.”