Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera (35 page)

“Could a telepath actually take someone’s powers?” As soon as I said it, I had my answer. The Wardens had done exactly that to us—stripped us of our powers. But they hadn’t taken them to use as their own; they stored them away. Whoever took Spence’s powers did so with another intent.

“How could that work?” I asked. “Dr. Seward told me once that as MetaHumans, our bodies adapt to accommodate our powers. I’ve had firsthand experience in adapting to new things, and it’s not pretty.”

“Things have changed, Trance. You know that better than anyone.”

My hands clenched. We were now facing an unknown enemy with a stolen ability, hell-bent on destroying every living Ranger (and probably Psystorm, now that he was helping us). No name, no leads, no way to ferret this person out.

“We’ll take him with us,” I said. “Let’s get out of here before the fire gets worse. We can try to get into his mind again back at HQ.”

Psystorm stood up and stepped behind the wheelchair. I bent and unlocked the wheels. As I straightened, a shadow moved in the apartment’s shattered doorway, a familiar shape loomed, and the equally familiar snap-clack of a shotgun slide broke the room’s silence.

Andrew Milton stepped into the foyer, shotgun against his shoulder, eyes glowing yellow-orange, and fired at Psystorm. I threw up a shield too fast to brace myself, and the impact of the buckshot against the shield tossed me sideways. The report thundered in my ears, and the shock of my tailbone cracking on the hard floor sent bolts of pain up my spine.

Milton loaded again, another snap-clack. Psystorm shouted. I sat up, despite my body’s angry protests, and lobbed a cherry-size orb at the landlord. It hit center mass like a bullet and sprayed blood as it entered his chest. He screamed and squeezed, shooting off one more blast that hit the ceiling and took out a fluorescent light fixture in a cloud of sparks and glass.

“Psystorm!” I shouted over the fire alarm still wailing in the hallway.

“Got him!”

He stood stiff and straight behind the wheelchair, eyes fixed on the figure in the doorway. His entire body seemed to ripple with energy. Both eyebrows dug in and knotted. Beads of perspiration broke out across his forehead and upper lip. His breathing sped up.

“He’s strong,” Psystorm hissed. “Too strong.”

“Hold on to him.”

“Trying.”

I scrambled to my feet, ignoring my bruised butt. My head spun. The stale air didn’t help. I crouched next to Milton’s body. Felt for a pulse. Nothing. The light was gone from his open eyes. The power of Specter was somewhere in the room now, caught by Psystorm.

Into my Vox, I shouted, “Cipher, it’s Trance, we need backup here.”

“Yeah, apartment five E. We’ll need emergency extraction. Can the copter meet us on the roof?”

“Good. Two minutes. Out.”

I heard the concern in Gage’s voice, and all of the unasked questions. I was proud of him for keeping it as short and professional as possible. If Psystorm could keep Specter’s doppelganger under control, perhaps we could get them both back to HQ and figure out our next step. The force controlling Specter’s power was stronger than we’d anticipated. Psystorm had paled considerably, and sweat dribbled down his cheeks in thin rivers. He’d bitten through his lower lip and blood flowed freely.

“Damn you,” Psystorm muttered. “I’m losing him, Trance. He’s trying to take me.”

“What can I do?”

He hissed through his teeth, buckling under the strain of his mental battle. “Collar.”

“What?”

“Use the collar.”

Outside, sirens created a disturbing symphony of background music that punctuated his agonized statement. Pain radiated from his pores; desperation clung to every word. Specter’s power was tearing him apart from the inside out. Knocking out Psystorm would either trap the power, or set it free. Set it free so it could make me kill again.

No, dammit.

“What will happen to him?” I asked.

“I’ll hold on to him.”

I pulled the fail-safe device out of my belt pocket and used my thumbnail to flick open the plastic cover. Spence’s body jerked; his weeping eyes closed. Psystorm screamed, doubling over like he’d been stabbed in the gut. The air in the room crackled like a static-filled sweater. I had to stop this, had to push the button. Dread squeezed my heart, and for one brief moment, time stopped.

My hesitation cost us.

Psystorm and Spence raised their heads in perfect unison and fixed matching sets of glowing yellow eyes on me. My thumb twitched. Psystorm lashed out with an uppercut that caught the bottom of my jaw. My head snapped back. Pain blossomed, coloring my vision red. I hit the floor. The fail-safe dropped. Skittered away. I rolled toward it; didn’t see the boot until it connected with the side of my head.

Consciousness ebbed and flowed in colorful rivers of pain. I grasped for something, anything to ground me. Footsteps shuffled across the laminate floor. Wheels squeaked. Someone rifled through cabinets and drawers. Then a smell,
sickly sweet and eye-watering, overpowered the room’s existing stench.

My Vox squawked. I opened my eyes. The room reeled, spun, and finally settled. The unused fail-safe lay on the edge of a tattered rug, just a few inches away. My right hand crawled toward it, inch by inch. Focus, focus. I ignored the throbbing in my jaw and temple. Focused on the black box.

The boot—Psystorm’s—came down on my hand. Bones snapped and blood vessels exploded. Agony screeched up my wrist and arm. I screamed and kept screaming as he ground down. My senses numbed. I pulled my left hand around and summoned whatever power I could. Lobbed the orb at his leg. My shrieks became his as the point-blank blast shattered his ankle. He fell, releasing my hand.

I surged forward and grabbed the fail-safe. Finally pressed the trigger. Psystorm’s prone body jerked, then fell silent.

One down.

Wheels squealed again. I rolled, drawing my broken hand to my chest. Spence gazed at me from the kitchen—how the blue hell had he gotten over there?—the yellow haze in his eyes fluctuating rapidly. He wasn’t contained; Psystorm hadn’t been able to hold on to him. If he had, then Spence’s eyes should be normal, uncontrolled.

God, no.

I coughed, overwhelmed by the sickening odor. Nauseated by pain. Spence raised one palsied hand and grabbed a dial on the stove. His expression was as weary as his eyes were mad.

Gas. “Shit,” I said.

Spence sneered.

I launched myself at Psystorm and landed across his legs, mustering every ounce of strength I still possessed. The stove burner snicked once, twice. A blue flame appeared. I tossed up a force field, closed my eyes, and held on as an inferno swept through the apartment and consumed us.

I
f I lost consciousness, it was only for a moment. The force field dissipated seconds after the initial maelstrom; I had no strength to maintain it. Heat raged in the apartment. Flames clung to the furniture, drapes, and bookcase. Another odor ravaged my battered senses. I didn’t look. I didn’t have to. I could imagine the burning body, probably still upright in his wheelchair.

My lungs seized. I coughed until my chest hurt. With my undamaged left hand, I checked Psystorm for a pulse and was relieved to find one. I’d never forgive myself if I made little Caleb fatherless. Of course, that ultimately remained to be seen. We were surrounded by crackling, leaping fire. It licked the walls, bubbling paint and scorching the ceiling, where gray smoke swirled.

I used one hand for leverage and stood up. Everything tilted. My broken hand throbbed, my head pounded, and my jaw probably sported a pretty welt. Certainly felt swollen. I grabbed Psystorm’s wrist and pulled. He slid forward an inch. I pulled again, the muscles in my biceps straining. A
few more inches. At this rate, we’d be out of the apartment by next week.

I let go and turned in a circle, desperate for something to use. Anything to get him out of here and back to his son. A bit of cool air wafted through the raging heat, drawing my attention to the window. The blast had shattered it and burning curtains rustled in the wind. I dashed over and knocked the curtain rod off and away.

A fire escape presented itself, a rusty structure that overlooked the city street. A crowd had gathered below. Someone saw me and screamed. I didn’t see the familiar faces I wanted.

I grabbed my Vox from my belt. “Cipher, I need you guys up here now,” I said without preamble. “Anyone there? Hello?”

I’d never heard anything as sweet as Renee’s voice.

“Long story, no time. I’m at the fire escape on the fifth floor, street side. Psystorm is out cold, and I can’t move him myself. Is the copter still nearby?”

“Get on it, and get up here, now. This fire is getting hot.”

I put the Vox away, uninterested in a reply. Just results. I inhaled the fresh air, getting what I could, and then plunged back inside. The fire’s intensity had increased considerably in only a few minutes. Heat pressed in, squashing me from all sides, shrinking the room. Orange and red flames licked the carpet, edging closer to Psystorm. I squatted by his head.

“You are so going to make this up to me.”

Nothing could prepare me for the agony I felt as I looped
both hands beneath Psystorm’s armpits and lifted. My right hand shrieked and pulsed. I swore over and over—words I’d forgotten, or didn’t realize I knew. Tears streaked my cheeks. I concentrated on my feet, on each careful step backward. Toward the window. Breathing as shallowly as possible.

Air whirled around us, pushing the fire away. The roar of the copter’s motor mixed with the rumble of the blaze and created a cacophony of noise that stabbed into my brain. My hip hit the window sill. I sobbed, relieved. One leg over the edge, ignoring the broken glass. I pulled him through. Balanced, then the other leg. His lower half was still inside. Another burst of strength tugged him out, and we both fell over onto the metal grillwork of the fire escape. It rattled, strained. Held.

“Trance!”

I opened my eyes. Renee’s head loomed over the rail of the escape, her stretched-out neck disappearing from sight. I tried to speak and coughed instead. Her hand appeared, holding a rope and straps.

“Here’s a harness,” she said.

“Can’t. Hand’s broke.”

She looked over her shoulder, back at the hovering copter. I turned my head and saw its location, once again amazed at how far Renee could stretch her body. Gage was in the cab, holding her around the waist. She seemed confident that he’d secured her and brought her other hand out.

I helped when I could, and we managed to get the harness around Psystorm and locked into place. Renee retracted to the copter’s interior, and it began to ascend. The rope grew
taut, slowing drawing Psystorm into a standing position. Once there, the copter paused. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, cinched my legs around his waist, closed my eyes, and held on as we rose into the sky.

The pain medication started kicking in around the time I finished my story, told in fits and starts from the back of a parked ambulance. The paramedic kept shoving an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose. I kept pulling it back because the others couldn’t understand me. He finally gave up and let me talk. I’d inhaled smoke before and lived; I wasn’t going to worry about it now. I did, however, thank him for wrapping my hand and giving me that lovely shot.

Gage sat by my side, listening intently. I caught him staring at my chin several times. A blood knot had swelled there and must have looked awful. I was grateful Psystorm hadn’t knocked any teeth loose.

“So we don’t know if Psystorm has Specter caged or not,” Renee said. She stood outside the ambulance with Dahlia, the day’s resident hero. Her power had kept both the first and second fires from incinerating the entire building. The only two lives lost were Andrew Milton and Marcus “Specter” Spence.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think he is, because this Specter-wannabe was still controlling the old man after I knocked out Psystorm.”

“Well, shit.”

That about summed it up.

“So the new theory is, someone else has been manipulating Specter’s powers this whole time,” Gage said. “It had to be someone who knew the original Specter wasn’t on the island, someone who wanted to use his notoriety.”

“But you can’t just steal and use someone’s powers, right?” Dahlia asked.

Gage shook his head. “We can’t, and I’ve never heard of anyone who could, but nothing is like it used to be. People are getting powers who didn’t have them before. You’re proof of that.”

“Can’t be a power thief,” I said. “If it’s even possible, why not take the powers of everyone he’s killed so far? Janel and William and Angela and all the others. He’d be collecting the powers, not just killing us off.”

“It’s pretty obvious Marcus Spence never got his powers back last week,” Gage said. “Maybe someone else did, and they wanted us to hunt for Spence. Keep us distracted and away from whoever is really doing this. This person could have helped keep him out of prison.”

“But why stop taking care of him? He suffered up there for a long time.”

“He was a murderer, T,” Renee said. “Who cares?”

The drugs made my indignation difficult to find, so I settled on a grunt. She hadn’t seen the rotting shell Marcus Spence had become.

Renee came up with the obvious observation: “Someone had to have been paying his rent for him these last couple of months, since the final stroke. Can’t we trace that?”

“Not when it was paid in cash,” Gage said. “And he’s dead, so it’s not like we can just ask. Who could possibly benefit from wiping us out?”

Renee shrugged. “The Banes?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “Psystorm was pretty adamant about most of Specter’s followers during the War disliking him, hating him even. They were led by the strongest among them. I doubt this has been some sort of elaborate plot they’ve been cooking up since the War ended.”