Cassidy Jones and the Seventh Attendant (Cassidy Jones Adventures, Book Three) (4 page)

I heard Chazz running up the stairs. “Guys, more friends are here.”

My little brother appeared, decked out in his Captain America costume. Trevor Young and Chad Dunham followed him. Trevor definitely qualified as a friend, but Chad was a friend only to himself, and a fair-weather one to his stuck-up friends at best. I hadn’t actually talked to him before, being neither conceited nor popular nor mean enough to register on his radar. In other words, I wasn’t Robin Newton or one of her remoras.

How to describe Chad?
I mused, observing his deep dimples and brown hair that I suspected he had put as much time into styling that morning as I had mine. He and Trevor approached us. Captain America went back downstairs
.

Chad Dunham... Looks like a god but as shallow as a mud puddle. Oh wait, even better: Looks like a god but as shallow as the mirror he spends hours gazing into.

I smiled to myself. That was a good one.

“Dudes.” Trevor gave Nate a high five. “Hope it’s cool Chad came with.”

Chad shot Trevor a look that said,
Need you ask?
His haughty baby blues cut to Emery. “What form are you doing?” he asked, crossing his arms all superior like. His muscles flexed. I caught a snicker and heard Nate call Chad a name under his breath that also adequately described him.

“Nothing specific,” Emery replied, looking bored, which likely wasn’t an act. Chad was a yawn a minute. “What form are you into?”

“Taekwondo,” Chad said, too full of himself to have picked up on the fact that Emery didn’t give a rip. He strutted to the center of the mat and bent his hand back in a
come
gesture. “Who’s first?”

A laugh shot up my throat. I masked it with a cough.

There were no volunteers, partially because Chad was too lame for words, and partially because some of the boys were afraid of him.

“Not how we do things, Chad.” Nate said his name like it had a bad taste.

Disregarding my brother, Chad looked smugly at Emery. “Phillips?”

Yes
, I thought, rubbing my palms together.
A much-needed humbling will be delivered shortly.

“I’ll pass,” Emery replied dryly.

Chad had the nerve to make a chicken sound.

“I’ll do it,” I spoke up. Humiliating Chad might not be worth Emery’s time, but it was worth mine. Who did he think he was, waltzing in here and ruining our fun?

Surprise crossed Chad’s face, followed by laughter.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Jared push past Zach Guzman, probably lowering himself and volunteering to fight Chad now that I had. I jumped to my feet and ran for the mat, skidded to a stop in front of Chad, and bowed.

He laughed harder.

“Cassidy,” Emery cautioned.

I gave him the
A-OK
sign to show it was cool. My temper was in check. I was totally in control. The jerk would be perfectly safe, once I knocked him on his rear.

“Don’t worry, Phillips,” Chad said, grinning at me. “I’ll go easy on your girlfriend.”

“I am
not
his girlfriend,” I corrected.

At the same time, Nate said, “See that you do, Dunham, or I’ll kick your ass.”

Chad smirked at us both.

I smirked back at him
. Just desserts are on their way.

“I’ll go easy on you,” Chad promised, giving me the dimples.
Translation:
I’m taking you out swiftly, silly girl
.

No sooner had we bowed than Chad swung his leg at me in a roundhouse kick. Instantly, my vision adjusted, and I saw his foot coming at me in slow motion. My skin hardened as my brain registered a potential threat. If his foot connected with me, it would be like kicking a block of cement.

How predictable,
I thought, and swept Chad’s other foot out from underneath him. He hit the mat hard, knocking the wind out of him.

After a moment of stunned silence, cheers erupted, hands slapped in high fives, and Chad was mercilessly razzed. He appeared to hear none of it as he lay on the mat, blinking up at the ceiling.

A bruised ego is a tragic thing
, I thought smugly, bending over him. Ponytail dangling, I smiled down at him and offered my hand. “Want some help?”

Chad stared at me as if he had never seen me before.

Three

Daddy’s Home

After Fight Club, Emery and I went across the street to his house. I was going to do housework for Serena.

“Does Chad think he’s God’s gift or what?” I remarked at the Phillipses’ front door, watching Chad strut down the street. “Just look at him.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Emery replied as he unlocked the door. “I must admit, Dunham handled defeat better than I had anticipated.” In other words, Chad had kept his mouth shut and played nicely, stealing occasional glances at me, the girl who had proven he wasn’t all that.

Emery pushed the door open and stepped aside so I could go in first. We headed down the hall of his Victorian home to the basement where Serena had created a makeshift laboratory.

“Hey, Serena,” I said as we descended the stairs.

Her doe-brown eyes glanced up from the microscope. Surrounding the microscope was a variety of glass vessels, some containing liquid substances; scattered lab equipment and glass slides smeared with who-knows-what; dirty coffee mugs, wadded paper napkins, and food-encrusted plates that were a science experiment in and of themselves. There were probably all kinds of microscopic nasties crawling on them.

Bottom line, Serena was the messiest person I knew, and her appearance reflected her untidiness. Wrinkled lab coat, straight brown hair pulled back in a sloppy bun, and an ink smudge on the tip of her nose, which was actually sort of cute. Her perpetually disheveled appearance, heart-shaped face, fair skin, and petite figure gave her an elfin look.

“Happy birthday, my dear,” she returned, smiling. Her expression was warm, which wasn’t always the case. Serena had a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality. Jekyll was caring, consoling, and motherly, where clinical Hyde gave me a strong desire to take inventory of her scalpels.

“Thank you.” I approached Serena. The slide under the microscope screen was dotted with blood—my blood, or some animal’s. In addition to studying my virus and developing a vaccine to combat it, Serena was also trying to recreate her experimental gene therapy, Formula 10X.

Arthur King Jr.’s henchman, Raul Diaz, had set fire to her previous laboratory, destroying the data for her secret formula. Being a little old-fashioned, Serena had stubbornly not kept backups on her computer—something she regretted dearly, as did I. If she had saved her files, I might be cured today.

Formula 10X had been comprised of animal DNA and a biological weapon called Assassin, which Serena had been developing for the military sixteen years ago before she closed the program down, having decided it was too dangerous.

The Assassin “catalyst,” as Serena called it, had birthed the virus that I was infected with—an unnerving thought, considering what it had been designed to do: spread rapidly from person to person, without displaying symptoms, until it made contact with its target’s DNA. Upon exposure, the target would have less than an hour to live before the virus liquefied his or her organs.

Guess that’s one thing to be thankful for
, I thought.
The virus likes me and plans to keep me around for a long, long time . . .

To Serena, I hinted, “So are you giving me the ultimate birthday gift?”

Serena took the question literally. “I wouldn’t call it the
ultimate
. However, it is a gift a girl your age will appreciate, according to the saleswoman—”

My face heated up over the misunderstanding.
I would never ask someone if they had gotten me a present.

“I didn’t sense she was deceiving me,” Serena went on, oblivious. Emery grinned to himself as he opened a drawer on the steel cart that held syringes. “But one never knows with these salesgirls—”

“S-Serena,” I fumbled, embarrassed beyond belief.

She stopped and waited for me to continue. Emery chuckled as he prepared a syringe.

“I was asking if you found a
cure
, not if you bought me a present—but thank you. I’m very, uh, touched that you thought of me.”

“You’re welcome.” She stared at my red-stained cheeks with fascination as she always does when I blush. “But what an odd question. No, I have not found a cure. As I have told you, the likelihood of success is abysmal—”

“I know, I know. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack high as Mount Rainier.”

“Mom, look at Cassidy’s eyes,” Emery chimed in. I supposed this was his way of changing the subject, though it was a topic I would have preferred to avoid. If anything was going to make Serena go all Hyde, it was a new mutant anomaly.

However, just like a Phillips, Serena did the opposite of what I had anticipated.

She pulled my face down to hers and studied my eyes. “Interesting,” was her only comment. Releasing my face, she made a beeline for her desk.

“What’s interesting?” I asked. Emery hadn’t even hinted at what to look for. “The color? Did you notice the green is, like, jade now?”

“Jade is an adequate description,” she said by way of reply as she wrote in her Mutant Girl journal. No problems with interpretation, though. She had noticed the color change.

But what did it mean?

“Serena, is this something I should worry about?”

“No,” Emery answered for her. “Come on, Cassidy. Let’s get on with this. Your mom will be taking you and your friends to have your nails done soon.” He grinned. “Believe it or not, that is the first time I have said that in my entire life.”

“Having your nails done?” I said absently, distracted by Serena. “What do you think she’s writing?” I asked Emery as I slipped off my coat and sat on the exam table.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said lightly. He tied the tourniquet on my arm.

I frowned, because that so wasn’t the case. Emery had a very good guess about what his mom had written. He just didn’t want to tell me.

“After I transcribe her notes tonight, I’ll text you relevant details,” he whispered.

My scowl deepened, because he would do no such thing. I was on a need-to-know-basis about the microbes that had invaded my body, and as far as Emery and Serena were concerned, I needed to know very little.

Emery removed the tourniquet. I concentrated on keeping my skin from reacting and hardening as he slid the hypodermic needle into a bulging vein. I hated needles.

Hunched over, I watched the tube fill with blood and fumed about being treated like a child.
Don’t I have a right to know everything?
It is my body—

My senses abruptly sharpened. I heard footsteps on the front porch and straightened with alarm.

“Someone’s here,” I said. “On your porch, I mean.”

“Mom, will you answer—”

“The door is opening!”

Emery and Serena’s heads snapped to one another like the ends of a rubber band.

“Dad,” Emery said at the same time Serena said, “Your father.”

My blood ran cold.
Mr. Phillips cannot be here!

Emery pulled the needle from my arm, and he and Serena kicked into high gear, hiding evidence wherever they could cover or stash it. Problem was, where were they going to stash me?

“Cassidy, get up,” Emery ordered in a whisper. Terrified, I hopped down from the most incriminating piece of evidence in the room: a medical exam table.

It’s not totally inconceivable that a geneticist would have an exam table in her lab
, I assured myself as I listened to Mr. Phillips walk past the stairs to the kitchen. “He’s in the kitchen,” I warned, apparently too loudly, because Emery and Serena shushed me.

“Dishes,” Emery commanded, motioning to Serena’s lab table.

I hustled to the table and swiftly stacked the dirty dishes.
Good cover.
I am being paid to keep things tidy
, I thought. The basement door opened, and I almost dropped the stack of dishes I was in the midst of picking up.

“Serena, Emery,” Mr. Phillips called.

My stomach plunged. Man, he scared the bejeezus out of me.

Serena stared at me. “Gavin?” Her next reaction was completely unexpected. Her face lit with unadulterated joy, and she sang—yes, sang, “You’re home!”

Mr. Phillips came bounding down the stairs, and Serena ran to meet him. He swept her off her feet and turned her in a full circle, kissing her. It was the hottest, most romantic thing I had ever witnessed.

“Dad,” Emery said, beaming.

My throat tightened as I watched Emery join them. I had never seen him or Serena so happy before, and this made me happy. The six-foot-four-inch mountain of a man placed his tiny wife on her feet and gathered his son into his hulking arms.

“How are ya, Tiger?” Mr. Phillips said to Emery, squeezing him in a big hug.

A laugh escaped me, and I covered my smile with my free hand, soaking in the scene. Emery had a nickname. How sweet was that?

Mr. Phillips looked over Emery’s shoulder at me. The grin disappeared from my face.

“Hello, Cassidy,” he greeted with a friendly smile, releasing Emery from the embrace. He seemed genuinely pleased to see me.

I drummed up another smile, wrestling with my memory of him and the man before me now. “I’m fine, Mr. Phillips, thanks. Welcome home.”

I truly meant it in that moment. Emery and Serena were so happy. How could anyone who made them this happy be all bad?

“Thank you, Cassidy.” Mr. Phillips pulled his family to him, one on each side. “It’s good to be home.”

“Well,” I said brightly, “I’ll let you all visit then. I’ve got dishes to do upstairs. See you later.” With that, I made my retreat.

~~~

While rinsing and stacking dishes in the dishwasher, I ruminated over what had terrified me about Mr. Phillips the last time I’d seen him. He was totally intense and watched me like he thought I was going to steal something.
Well, duh,
I reasoned.
His wife and son decide to move to this rental the same day they’re rescued from Junior. Who wouldn’t be suspicious?
Then Serena had left her cushy Wallingford University position to do research in her basement, and Emery turned down Stanford University to go to high school. His excuse? “I have a crush on the girl across the street.” Yeah, that made sense. Mr. Phillips must have thought his family was taking crazy pills. No wonder he acted crazy himself . . .