Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera (91 page)

“You checked the boy in as Andrew McTaggert.”

“Yeah, although the name’s a guess. You’d have to check his birth certificate to be sure.” Okay, so the heaping sarcasm at the end wasn’t totally smart, but I was tired, worried, and Hudson was really grating on my already frayed nerves.

“Was he identified to you as the son of Frederick McTaggert?”

“Yes. I’d say the hair’s a bit of a giveaway, too.”

A muscle in Hudson’s jaw twitched, and I swore I heard his teeth grinding against each other. Poking angry bears wasn’t something I usually did, but Hudson just brought out the snark I usually carried around in my head. Or maybe it was the fact that the brother I never knew I had was in serious condition and still might die.

“Andrew is in surgery,” Hudson said, finally answering my question. “So far, so good, they say, but it will be at least another hour before they know anything for certain.”

As informative answers went, that one sucked ass. “Thank you,” I said. “Warden, can you tell me anything about that copter and why it was shot down?”

“We don’t know much yet, and we won’t until our investigators make a full report. All I know is that the copter came into restricted airspace. It was given three verbal warnings, and it never altered course. The moment it flew over the prison walls, the copter was considered an aggressive combatant, and the order was issued to shoot it down.”

I’d already guessed as much. “Has anyone claimed responsibility?”

“Such as who?”

The first of many today.
“Humankind.” Off Hudson’s surprised look, I said, “What? I watched the news this morning. If this isn’t the perfect anti-Meta statement, then I don’t know what is. At least two are dead—”

“Four.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Possibly five by day’s end. But no, to answer your question, no one has claimed responsibility for the copter. Yet. That’s why we’re not releasing any official statements to the press until we’ve completed our investigation. I’d advise you, Mr. Swift, to keep your remarks in check should you be contacted by any reporters.”

“Understood.”

Hudson’s pocket beeped. He produced a phone, checked the message. “I need to make a call,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

As he walked down the hall, I spared a glare at the three prison guards who didn’t follow him. “Does he always travel with groupies?” I asked Simon.

“Not usually. The guards are here for you.”

“Fantastic.”

“Although I’m sure they’d allow you to visit the restroom.”

I rolled my eyes and sat back down in my uncomfortable chair. “I’ll be sure to ask for permission to pee next time I feel the urge.”

“I meant to clean up, Ethan. You’re a mess.”

Curious, I swiped a hand across my forehead. My fingers came back smudged with gray. “Huh. This has to be freaking Caleb out. Does he know his mother is hurt?”

Simon shook his head. “No, I haven’t told him yet about Mai Lynn. He knows there was an accident, but I instructed Luisa to keep him away from the news tonight.” He scrubbed a hand through his thin, graying hair. “This is why I wanted Caleb off that damned island. I can’t imagine what McTaggert’s feeling right now.”

“He wasn’t happy about being left behind while I brought Andrew here.”

“You took a big risk doing that.”

“Andrew’s just a kid. He deserves a chance.” My eyes stung and I rubbed at them with the heel of my hand. “Listen, do you have a phone I can use?”

Simon hesitated, then gave me his cell. “The warden didn’t say anything about not letting you call anyone.”

“Thanks.” My first impulse was to call Aaron and make sure everything was all right on his end, but he didn’t have a phone on him. It was an odd impulse, when we’d barely been on speaking terms three days ago. I dialed Teresa’s cell instead.

“Simon?” she asked as soon as she picked up.

“No, it’s me,” I said.

“Thank God. Are you all right?”

“Waterlogged, but drying out.”

“The prison has been ignoring my calls all evening. When I spoke with Simon earlier, he said you and Aaron were alive, but that’s all he could tell us.”

“We are. We got banged around a little in the explosion, but no broken bones or internal bleeding.”

“Are you lying?”

“No.”

“Then why does your voice sound like that?”

I hesitated, so many things on the tip of my tongue. So many things I’d never said out loud to anyone, but also things I’d never tell her over the phone. Not with Simon, three prison guards, and a waiting room of curious bystanders around. “Just shaken up, I guess. It’s been a tough day.”

“I imagine so.” Her voice softened, adopting the mother hen tone she used when one of us was upset. “Look, Marco and I are already on the jet and heading your way.”

“Teresa—”

“Save it. We’re coming. You heard the Humankind report this morning, and you know I hate coincidence. My gut tells me that copter crashing right on top of you, out of the entire damned island, was not a coincidence.”

“You know, I might agree with you on that. I’m kind of banned from discussing what I know, though.”

“I understand. I’ll get the information from Warden Hudson when we get there.”

“Good luck with that.”

“I’ll tell the others you’re fine, but have Aaron call his family as soon as he’s able. Noah was having a small fit when I left.”

“I will.” I disconnected and handed the phone back to Simon. “You’re about to have more houseguests.”

Twelve

Wounds

T
wo hours later, I was back on the top floor of the observation tower, as steaming mad as I’d ever been in my life, following Warden Hudson’s delivery of two pieces of bad news.

Bad news the first: Simon and I were not allowed to return to Manhattan for any reason whatsoever. Not to check on our friends, not to inspect the crash site. Nothing. We were temporarily banned, and I was even told point-blank I’d be shot down if I tried to fly over the walls.

Bad news the second: No one except prison investigators and medical personnel were allowed to leave the island until further notice. This meant Aaron was stuck over there with no way to reach us—except that single, dedicated phone, and it would only help if the communications officer told us he called.

Simon was standing in front of his desk, while I stood behind it, needing the buffer between me and Hudson. In the back of my mind, I understood why he was treating this as some sort of quarantine—he needed to control the situation and the information flow. The front of my mind didn’t give two shits. I was worried about the people over there—Aaron and Mai Lynn and Muriel and all the others.

I didn’t even know for sure if Jinx had been told that Andrew was out of surgery, in intensive care, and holding on like a champ. A tiny, wounded champ watched over by two armed guards who looked about as compassionate as prickly pears. I’d asked to see him before we left the hospital, and I’d been denied that, too.

“Until I know who was in that helicopter and why they crossed into our airspace, I need this situation as contained as possible,” Hudson said.

“I get that,” I replied, “but Scott Torres is here as a visitor, and you cannot keep him incarcerated like one of your prisoners.”

“Current federal prison law gives me the right to do just that when we are in a lockdown situation.”

“But—”

“Tempest,” Simon said. My name, but he really said
Shut the hell up
.

“Your man will be fine,” Hudson continued. “We have guards on the ground keeping an eye on the Warren, and they’ll remain there even after our medical personnel pull out. Those people won’t be able to sneeze without my men knowing it.”

Simon bristled like a spooked cat. “Those people are trauma survivors, Warden.”

As much as I joined in Simon’s hatred of the term
those people,
I’d zeroed in on a different part of Hudson’s statement. “Wait, around the Warren?” I said. “You’re keeping everyone confined to the Warren?”

Hudson’s already stoic face went stonier. “As I said, we are in a lockdown situation. Containment is necessary.”

I turned away and stalked to the large windows looking out at Manhattan. One more second looking at Hudson would have ended with me planting a fist in something—probably his mouth—which would have landed me right back on the island, and not in the way I wanted to be there. It was after 8:00 p.m., and except for the occasional searchlights from the guard towers, the island was dark, cast in shadows by the setting sun.

Muriel and those other kids would wake up to a vastly different world tomorrow.

The air shifted behind me. Simon appeared on my left and glared out the same window. “You should sit down,” he said. “You look like hell.”

“Good, because I feel like hell,” I said. “It happens when you get blown up and nearly drown.”

“So relax for a minute. Teresa won’t be here for a while yet. There’s a small cafeteria downstairs—”

“I’m fine.” I didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to sit, didn’t want to go eat. Okay, that wasn’t true—I desperately wanted to do all three of those things, but I couldn’t. Too many other things were out of my control right now. I could control these small weaknesses.

“Teresa will blame me if you pass out.”

“No, she will definitely blame me. She knows me too well.”

“Then I’m glad she’s on her way.”

Me too, Simon. You have no idea.

Almost an hour passed without news, and halfway through, I finally succumbed to the siren call of the cheaply upholstered chair behind Simon’s desk. I very nearly fell asleep again (trying to not think about things was incredibly exhausting), but jerked back to full awareness when two familiar figures arrived on the fourth floor.

Even though we’d come representing our group in Los Angeles, Aaron and I hadn’t worn uniforms. We’d chosen street clothes in an effort to both be comfortable and . . . well, blend in wasn’t quite right. Not stand out, I guess.

Teresa and Marco let their uniforms set a tone right from the start. The style we came up with was fitted black cargo pants and a black jacket over an armored tank top in our “trademark” color. Teresa’s was silver, and when I chose to wear mine, it was green. Marco’s unique uniform was a shimmery black material created just for his power, and it allowed him to shift from human to animal form and back again without ending up naked. Mai Lynn would probably love one of those.

The officers on duty glanced their way, then went back to work. They knew Teresa “Trance” West. She’d been here several times over the last eight months, working with Simon to gain pardons for the prisoners. They also knew how powerful Teresa was, and that she could singlehandedly demolish this entire building with her energy orbs.

She stalked straight over to Simon’s desk—he was noticeably absent—and stopped in front of me just as I stood up. Marco trailed behind, taking in the sights. Teresa’s sharp gaze studied my face, her expression fierce.

“Have you been examined yet?” she asked.

“Nice to see you, too,” I replied.

“I’m serious.”

“So was I, and no, I was not examined, because I’m fine. Bumps and bruises, like I said on the phone.”

“Have you looked at yourself in a mirror? You look like you went three rounds in a boxing ring.”

“Really?” The left side of my face was tender, but I hadn’t realized it had bruised that badly. “Damn.”

“Just bumps and bruises?”

“Yes.”

She nailed me with those lavender eyes that let nothing slide by unnoticed. “If I ask Scott, will he tell me something different?”

Damn it. “He might also add that he had to do CPR because I drank a little too much pond water and kinda stopped breathing.”

A muscle twitched under her right eye, and the air around us crackled with kinetic energy. She was getting well and truly pissed, and I truly had not meant to do that.

“I’m sorry, Trance,” I said. “I am not making light of the fact that I had a near-fatal swim this afternoon, but I’m fine. Really, physically fine, just exhausted and sore and worried.”

“I’m worried, too. I’m worried about you and Simon and everyone still over on that island, and I’m worried someone’s going to fly a copter into Hill House next.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Good. Where’s Simon?”

“I’m not sure. He was just here.”

Marco stood by the windows, staring out at the black ocean of nothing that was Manhattan. I had friends out there, beyond my ability to help, and I hated it.

“Have you spoken to Warden Hudson yet?” I asked.

“Briefly, in the lobby,” Teresa replied. “We made an appointment to speak tomorrow morning at eight.”

My mouth fell open. Marco snickered.

“He’s a piece of work,” I said.

“He’s doing his job in a very intense, very volatile situation.”

“What he’s doing is keeping a father away from his child.”

She frowned, then understanding dawned. “Simon mentioned you flew a wounded boy to the hospital in Hackensack.”

“Yeah, Andrew. He’s not much older than Caleb, and he’s in critical condition.” My temper rose again, as it seemed to do a lot when Andrew and Jinx were concerned. “Hudson won’t let Andrew’s father out to see him.”

“Who’s his father?”

The name stuck in my throat like a guilty secret, and I had to force it out. “Freddy McTaggert.”

Her eyebrows arched. “And it surprises you Hudson said no?”

“Not really, but despite how I may feel about Jinx, Andrew isn’t . . . he’s a kid. No child should ever feel abandoned by their parent.”

The words slipped out almost too quietly, with a lot more emotion than I intended. So many of my own feelings were rolled up into this situation, and I had to separate myself from it, or I’d go crazy. It couldn’t matter that I’d spent nearly five years living with the Bacons and their abuse, well aware that I had a father out there somewhere, and that he’d never come for me. It couldn’t matter that my father was a murdering bastard who didn’t deserve an ounce of my sympathy.

It
could
not matter.

“Maybe the warden will feel differently in the morning,” Teresa said. “Let’s find Simon and get out of here. There’s nothing else we can do tonight.”

Even though leaving felt like some backward betrayal, she was right. Tonight, everything else was out of my hands.

•   •   •

Over a late supper of ham sandwiches and chips, Teresa tried to entertain us with stories about training Kate and Denny. I listened with half an ear until I’d eaten what I could handle, then excused myself to the other apartment for a shower. I was sick of smelling myself—tepid pond water and smoke were not compatible odors—and needed to do a bruise check.

My face was, indeed, purple on the left side from my forehead down to my jaw. I’d either been hit with debris, or that’s where I hit the water. More bruises dotted my shoulders and upper back. A bluish smudge lingered over my heart, thanks to Aaron. He’d saved my life, and I still hadn’t thanked him for that, damn it.

Tomorrow.

Despite my various aches and pains, nothing else was discolored.

True to her nature, Teresa was sitting in my lawn chair when I came out of the bathroom. She offered me a bottle of water. I took it as I sank down into what I’d started thinking of as Aaron’s chair. His absence stirred a dull emptiness in my stomach, despite being full of food.

“Of everyone, Ethan, you worry me the most,” she said.

“What?” I squeezed the water too tight and the plastic crinkled in my hands. “Why?”

“Because you bottle everything up. You hold on to things all by yourself instead of sharing them with your friends. You always have.”

“Some things are impossible to talk about.”

She’d angled her chair to face mine, so I dropped my gaze to her feet instead of her face. My heart was beating too fast, adrenaline kicking in. We were having one of
those
conversations, and I wasn’t in the mood.

“I get that,” she said. “More than you might think. I just hope one day it doesn’t become too much for you. No one likes dredging up the past, or airing old hurts, but some things also need to be said before they tear you up beyond repair.”

A host of old demons came screaming into my head, begging for attention. Demanding I let them loose, share their burden with someone else who might understand. I wanted to—to be able to show weakness to someone else and not fear the consequences; not let it make me feel like a coward. Useless.

Worthless.

“You’re not worth the food we give you, and you never will be.”

Like a well-placed kidney punch, my foster father’s poisonous words hit precisely right to cause the maximum amount of pain, even a decade later.

“Did you like your foster parents?” I asked. I meant for the question to stay in my head, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t come spilling out of my traitorous mouth. And now that I’d said it, I really wanted to know.

“Mostly,” she replied. “I was with my first family the longest, almost two years. I even took their name. But I was moved around a few times.”

“Why?”

“I guess it would get too hard on the parents. They always knew my history, of course. But when other people figured out who I was, my foster siblings or my schoolmates, they’d make my life hell. No matter what, someone always found out.”

“I was with the same family for nearly five years.”

“I know.”

That surprised me for a few seconds, until I remembered that she’d tracked me down at Alicia Monroe’s apartment back in January. I’d been convinced Specter would invade my body and use me to kill my friends, so I’d fled to my friend Alicia’s place in Burbank. It was a stupid, cowardly move on my part, and my friends found me in less than a day. The only way Teresa could have gotten Alicia’s name was by pulling my MetaHuman Control Group file. She knew the glossy version of my past, but not the rusty, dented details.

“Do you know I tried running away several times?” I asked her.

“Yes.” She stretched her legs out and crossed them at the ankles, perfectly mirroring Aaron’s pose from last night.

Has it really only been twenty-four hours?

“The cops always found me and took me back to the Bacons’ house. Everyone in Kingman liked them. Hell, even the other foster kids who came and went liked them. Problem children started doing well in school. Delinquents ended up with college scholarships. And then there was me.”

“They knew who you were?”

“Oh, they knew, and they didn’t hide the fact from the other kids in the house. Not that they could, because I was recovering from a gunshot.” I found myself rubbing my shoulder over the scar, still able to feel the sizzling pain of the wound all these years later. “The agent who handed me over told them to expect symptoms of PTSD. I remember Mrs. Bacon looking right at the agent and saying, ‘We’ve dealt with all kinds of traumatized children. He’ll be in good hands.’ ”

I studied the soles of Teresa’s boots. She didn’t comment, didn’t ask me to continue. I appreciated her ability to coax a story out without using words. She somehow made it okay to talk about this stuff. To finally tell someone. Share a little piece of my own personal hell.

“My first night in that house, I had a nightmare about Central Park.” My stomach rolled and churned, and I put the water bottle down before I crushed it. “I don’t remember the nightmare itself, just waking up sweating and scared. And so fucking ashamed when I realized I’d wet the bed. I mean, I was thirteen. I’d been in a war. Doing something so childish just made me want to . . .” The words stuck. I swallowed hard against something thick in my throat, that wanted to rise up and turn to tears. Crying was so not happening.