“Snakes suck,” the taller and blonder of the two surfers agreed. “It was a perfect barrel, too. The big mama is fully macking some sick grinders. For a couple of groats I’d shove a tin of surf wax up that snake’s . . . whoa, femmes.”

“Er . . . hello,” I said as the taller man noticed us. The other two men turned to look at us. “I’m sorry, this is completely random, but snakes? In the ocean?”

All three men looked at me as if I was the crazy one.

“You didn’t actually mean snake snakes, did you?” I asked the largest of the men. He had an air of relaxed command that I took to mean he was the head of all the water elementals.

“Dude, a snake is someone who drops in out of turn.”

“Not epic,” the dry man said, shaking his head. “Totally.”

“No, of course not,” I agreed, not having the slightest clue what they were talking about, but deciding to leave the surfer lingo alone. I turned back to the large man. “Are you by any chance Neptune?”

“Name’s Ned when I’m on the circuit, but you two femmes aren’t heavies, are you?” the man said, flashing me a very white-toothed smile before his gaze slid over to Cyrene. His eyebrows rose a smidgen. “Dude! You must be the naiad with the dirty doppel! Tasty! But weren’t you like totally owned last week?”

“I don’t suppose any of you speaks actual English?” I asked.

Cyrene gripped my arm and made a half bow, half curtsy, hissing at me as she did, “May! You don’t speak to Lord Neptune like that!”

“Groms,” the dry man said with a little shake of his head as he headed out into the surf.

“I meant no disrespect, I assure you,” I told Neptune as he hoisted up his board and started up the beach. “Maybe we’d better start all over. I’m May Northcott, and this is my twin, Cyrene. What exactly is a Grom?”

“Grommit,” Neptune said, setting his board down on a blanket. “Wallace and Grommit, you know? Groms are noobs, kinda clueless. What are you two beach bunnies doing here? Yo, dude, I’m starving. Go find us some grindage?”

“On it,” the other man said, and headed off to where some food vendors had set up.

Neptune cocked an eyebrow at us, clearly waiting.

“Lord Neptune,” Cyrene said, making another of her odd little curtsies. “My twin and I have come to explain about the recent unpleasantness with my spring. You see, May is a wvyern’s mate, and also, through a very complicated series of circumstances, bound to Magoth, the demon lord.”

“Totally gnarl,” Neptune said, nodding. He leaned a hip up against a wooden table that held the surfboard. “But nothing to do with your puddle.”

“I can see why you would think that, but . . .” Cyrene shot me a pleading glance.