Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera (52 page)

“He doesn’t like you?”

“Kind of the opposite.”

I tugged Noah’s hand. This wasn’t a conversation for the middle of the hallway, where any pink-scrubbed nurse or lab-coated intern could be a spying reporter. I found an open door and empty room. Rows of shelving held boxes of surgical supplies, scrubs, masks, and other things I didn’t recognize. I closed the door so only a sliver of hall light remained.

“He has feelings for you?” Noah asked.

“He did,” I admitted. “I don’t know if he still does, because we don’t really talk much. Onyx—Marco and I were very close when I first joined the Rangers. He was the first one
to befriend me, and we got along so well. He was my best friend.”

Those memories came to life in my mind. Helping me choose my first uniform. Late-night snacks and cheesy movies we religiously tore apart and made fun of. He was there when I called my estranged father and asked for control of my trust fund. Marco came to the bank when I put down the deposit on our current house. He laughed at my bad jokes and cheered me up when I needed it.

“He wanted more?”

I nodded and started to turn away. Noah grabbed my hands and squeezed. “I tried, I really did. I care about him so much, but I wasn’t attracted to him. We haven’t really spoken about it since.”

“How long ago?” His expression remained unreadable, interested by way of detachment.

“A month and a half, maybe.”

“You should talk to him, Dahlia, because I’d hate to spend our relationship wondering if a pissed-off superhero is out for my blood.”

“Relationship?” The word released the butterflies again. “We just met. What makes you think we’ll have one?”

His mouth quirked. “Well, technically, we’ve known each other for years.”

“That doesn’t count, and you didn’t answer my question.”

He grew serious. “I’ve lost a lot of people I care about, Dahlia, I know how short life is. When I see something I want, I go for it. I can’t afford not to.”

Afford—a loaded word and he didn’t even see it. Or did
he? Did he really see me, or did he see a girl with money and power?

“Anyway, that’s not entirely why I came here tonight,” he said.

Oh. “No?”

“I brought something I thought you should see.” He rifled around in the pocket of his jacket and produced a handheld recording device. I eyed it, immediately suspicious. “It’s okay, Dahlia. Most of the footage shot by the reporters was confiscated as evidence, but I got this from a friend who was in the crowd. I thought you’d want to see it.”

I recoiled from the device. “You just happened to have a friend in the crowd?”

“He works for one of those online conspiracy websites and thinks all Metas were originally possessed by aliens, or something. He isn’t technically press, so the police didn’t search him.”

“What’s it show?”

“What do you remember about the shooting?”

Everything and nothing. So many of the details had blurred together. “The gun firing. Someone pushed me down. A lot of screaming, and then Trance bleeding. Why?”

“Do you know who pushed you down?”

It never occurred to me, and I shook my head no. My stomach twisted, eager butterflies replaced by cold fear. Noah turned on the recorder. A paused image of the back of someone’s head popped up. He held the recorder out. Long seconds passed before I took it and pressed Play.

The angle changed, moved past the head and fixed on myself and Trance, standing in front of the gaggle of reporters. I looked downright silly in that sweatshirt. Trance was speaking, letting them ask questions. I studied how we stood, me just behind her and to her right, Trance perfectly relaxed. In her element. Alive.

“So what are you calling yourselves?”

“Labels only serve to pigeonhole people. You all know who we are. Does it really matter what we call ourselves?”

The camera wobbled, as though someone had jostled the elbow of the person holding it.

“Now, if there is nothing else of pressing importance—”

“I have a question.”

I swallowed hard. A shoulder moved into the foreground. The videographer stepped sideways, giving the asker more room. His voice was so loud, right next to the recorder. I cringed, wanting desperately to stop watching.

“What is it?”

The muzzle of the gun glinted in the foreground of the screen. In the background, Teresa stepped to her right, and the bullet struck. She fell backward, hitting me in the chest, and we both went down. The camera jostled hard and went out of focus. The recording stopped.

Pain blossomed in my lip, and I loosened my jaw before I bit right through. Bile scorched the back of my throat, tinged with the flavor of cola. I swallowed, unwilling to vomit in front of Noah.

“Did you see it?” he asked.

“No, I basically saw what I remembered.” Except for the part about Teresa slamming me to the ground. It happened so fast the first time.

Noah took the recorder, pressed a few buttons and handed it back. “Watch it, slow motion. Look at how she moves.”

I did, and this time it sunk in with heart-wrenching clarity: as Arnold Stark raised his gun, Teresa stepped in front of me. The bullet struck her and knocked us both down, missing its intended target: my heart. Me.

Noah caught the recorder before I dropped it. I slid to the floor, numb, cold. He crouched in front of me, reaching out to clasp my hands. My head swirled and tumbled, and I was tottering on the edge of passing out altogether. I clung to him, to his warmth and presence.

“He was trying to kill me,” I choked out. “She saved my life. Saved me.”

“She did.”

“Why, though?” Tears stung my eyes, threatened to pour out again. “I don’t know Arnold Stark, why did he want to kill me?”

“I don’t know, Dahlia, but you had to see this.”

The tears stuck in my throat. “Do the police know?”

“I’m sure they do. Everyone’s camera caught the same thing as this one. I just didn’t want them to hit you with that when they interview you.”

I found little comfort in his words. Arnold Stark had tried to kill me, and I didn’t know why. Could be he hated Metas on principle. Maybe he was having a bad day, and it seemed
like a good idea at the time. I had to know, and the only one who could tell me was sitting in an L.A. County jail cell, not talking.

Yet.

“Thank you, Noah, for bringing me this,” I said, finally finding my voice and my resolve.

“What are you going to do?”

“Talk to Gage and see what he thinks.”

Noah’s jaw twitched. “Is he your boss now?” Something new crept into his voice, hollow and annoyed. Had he expected me to handle this on my own, without involving my peers? I didn’t work alone. I needed guidance.

“With Trance hurt, yes. We don’t have an official chain of command beyond Trance in charge, but it’s understood that he’s her second.” Ethan was who I really wanted to tell and receive direction from. He was the only other person who knew what happened between me and Marco, and he’d confided his own personal secret, his sexuality, to me once. I never felt judged by Ethan.

Noah stood, pocketed the recorder, then offered his hands. I let him haul me to my feet. Blood rushed to my head; I swayed. He caught me around the waist and brushed a chunk of dirty hair from my face. “Can I come with you?” he asked.

I hesitated, then thought of how much it would annoy Renee. “Sure, you brought me the recording.”

We left the storage closet. A passing orderly gave us a funny look, but didn’t comment. Heat rose in my cheeks. Noah’s step faltered as we approached the waiting room. I
tugged him forward, drawing confidence from him and his statement about taking what he wanted. I wanted him with me. The officer at the door stepped aside without question.

Heads turned. Ethan, my best ally in this, wasn’t in the room. Another food run, maybe, or the bathroom. Dirty looks from Marco and Renee sailed right past me, flung over my shoulder at Noah. Agent McNally glanced up from her novel, as though expecting to see a doctor with news.

“Have we heard anything from the police?” I asked, directing the question at Gage and no one else.

His head listed to the side, confusion clouding his expression, followed quickly by curiosity. “No,” he drew out. “Why?”

I took a few more steps inside, Noah matching me pace for pace. The irritation radiating from our resident shape-changers was stifling. And a little satisfying. “Can we talk to you for a few minutes? In private?”

Gage frowned, eyebrows knotting. He nodded. “Can we have the room?”

For a moment, I thought he wanted me to leave. Then Agent McNally stood up without a word, tucked her book under her arm, and slipped past us. Renee and Marco didn’t argue the request. I hadn’t expected Gage to make them leave, but they followed his order without question. If only he could tell Renee to lay off.

Gage leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Tension knotted his forehead. Dark smudges deepened the set of his eyes, making him look ten years older. The unnatural silver streaks in his hair only added to the illusion. “What is it, Dal?”

Noah gave me the recorder. I sat down next to Gage and
handed it to him. “The police have to have seen this by now, but they haven’t said anything to us about it.”

“What is it?” The grim line of his mouth indicated he knew. He just needed to hear it.

“The shooting.”

He watched the scene twice. His skin was a few shades paler when he handed the recorder back. He looked up, his suspicious, silver eyes fixing on Noah. “Where did you get that?”

“I know someone who was there,” Noah said. “The cops confiscated everyone else’s tape for evidence. They didn’t know he had this one.”

Gage’s attention flickered to me. “This doesn’t prove he was targeting you, you know.”

“He was aiming right at me.” A worm of fear wiggled into my stomach. So close to dying. So very close.

“What do you want to do with it?”

“Talk to him.” The admission came without thought. “Talk to Arnold Stark and ask him why he tried to kill me.”

Gage nodded. “How about you?” he asked, gazing up at Noah. “What’s your angle?”

“I don’t get what you mean,” Noah said. Bright spots of color appeared high in his cheeks. He shifted his weight, no longer relaxed or comfortable. The change in his entire demeanor occurred in the space of a breath.

“You’re our electrician, Mr. Scott. You’ve known Dahlia for less than twelve hours. She’s like a kid sister to all of us, which makes me a little protective. So forgive me for sounding like an overbearing creep, but . . . ?”

I cringed.

“Are my intentions honorable?” Noah finished.

God. I wanted to hide behind a chair.

Noah considered the question without ever breaking Gage’s stare. “I’m not a crazy stalker, and I’m not a serial killer. We were classmates once, so I’m not a perfect stranger, either. I’m just a guy who runs his dead parents’ lighting store and tries to take care of his family. I want to get to know her again, even if it’s just as a friend. Most of us don’t have enough friends nowadays.”

Silence. Gage said nothing, and the pair stared at each other. My heart thudded so loudly I knew they could both hear it. Certainly Gage could. More likely, though, he was listening to Noah’s heart, judging his truthfulness. I wanted assurance that Noah was being honest, and that I wasn’t making a huge mistake befriending him. Trusting him.

After several long minutes, Gage blinked. He turned his head, finally looking at me. He winked, grinned. Relief drenched me like ice water.

“Do you want anyone to come with you to the police station?” he asked.

“I’d rather do this on my own,” I said. “But you’ll call me as soon as we hear from Teresa’s doctor?”

“You know I will.”

I did. I still had to ask. Leaving the hospital felt wrong, but I couldn’t do anything more to help her in the waiting room than I could out in the city. At least this way, I was seeking answers. I needed answers, even if I might not particularly like the ones I found.

Nine

Arnold Stark

N
oah offered to drive. We walked silently to the parked van, side by side. I replayed his words over and over, awed by them. And they were all true. Unless Noah was the most skilled liar Gage had ever encountered, which I seriously doubted.

He unlocked and opened the van’s passenger door, then waited for me to climb inside. I reached across to pop the other lock. He cranked the engine and backed out of the parking space.

“I’m sorry about that,” I said.

“About what?”

“Gage.”

Noah chuckled, shifting into drive. “I’ve never been interrogated like that before, but it’s understandable. He cares about you.”

“I always thought dads were supposed to ask those kinds of questions.”

“Will he?”

I turned sideways in my seat. “Will who what?”

“Will your dad ask those kinds of questions, too?”

Hah! “My father and I don’t really have a relationship. He wasn’t around when I was a kid, and I don’t want him in my life now. Seems like a betrayal to my mom, and she doesn’t deserve that.”

“You’re close to your mom, then?”

“I was. She died two years ago.”

“I’m so sorry, Dahlia, I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

“It’s okay, I can talk about it now without bursting into tears.”

Not so just six months ago, when even after a year and a half, the pain of her death was still fresh, sharp. Agonizing. As Noah navigated the freeways, taking us toward the police station in Pasadena, I described my mom’s short, painful bout with cancer. Tired and fluey for a whole year, but too concerned with my college tuition to bother paying for a doctor’s visit. Collapsing at work. Dying at home over the summer, pale and weak and worried I wouldn’t survive on my own.

Noah didn’t ask questions, just listened. He clutched the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, his jaw clenched, muscles tight. As if knowing my horrible secrets was painful for him. I left out the worst details. The rotation of colorful pills and night nurses, the diarrhea and skeletal weight loss. He didn’t need to know those things. Hell, I didn’t particularly like knowing those things, but no amount of time could make you forget certain details. They were burned into my mind, forever.