The Butterfly Code (29 page)

Hunter’s ankles are still tied down, yet he’s on King and reaching into his vest. He comes up with the gun and fires, and Jarhead falls sideways. The cockpit rumbles as he smacks down.

Hunter squeezes off a shot between his ankles and he’s free. The commotion rouses King to his senses, and he dives for the gun and they’re fighting. The chopper is out of control. Clouds and sky spin outside the windows. I leap into the pilot’s seat. I have no idea how to fly this thing. The ground is coming up fast.

"Jump!" Hunter screams.

I wrench a lever and we angle hard, still going down.

"Jump!" Hunter yells again.

I glance back.

"Go, I’m right behind you. Go, dammit!"

Flinging open the pilot door, I jump. The abandoned dirt lot rises up with sickening speed. Sixty feet. Fifty-five. I can’t survive this, can I? The metal bird descends with me, whipping up a small tornado from below. A sudden spinning motion takes hold of the aircraft. Long blades hammer the air.
Hunter, get out!
The engine lets out a sickening whine, and the helicopter turns faster and faster, gyrating and rolling almost upside down.

Hunter’s dark head appears through the door.

It’s keeling farther, the angle precarious.

King’s got him in a headlock. Hunter’s hands latch onto the doorframe, and he extends one leg out. They’re standing now, both struggling on the landing skid. The helicopter continues to whirl and they disappear and reappear at dizzying speed. Dust and gravel fly up around them, a wild cloud of grit. We’re ten feet from the ground. They’ll be pulverized.

"Jump!" I scream.

Hunter leaps, pushing off the skid hard, kicking the helicopter away. The kick sends it only a few feet. Then Hunter’s caught against it as a gust rolls it end over end.

My body punches into the earth, and the world turns red.

I
’m
alive in a world that’s blurred crimson. Dirt clogs my mouth.

I raise my head to see the helicopter crash down with a deafening bang, the blades still turning and flipping the aircraft. One blade stabs swordlike into the earth, pinning it in place. There’s a sucking sound like air being drawn in.

I throw my arms over my head and press myself into the dirt.

The whole thing explodes in a ball of fire so hot that it scorches my skin.

Hunter.

Horror surges through me as I stagger painfully to my feet. Beyond the wreckage, across the broad stretch of dirt, the train is clacking and swaying along the tracks. Brown shipping containers, headed for their destination, the busy world carrying on like nothing’s changed. Yet it has changed. Because there’s no sign of him.

And then arms catch me from behind.

"Got you," comes Gage’s voice.

Desperate, I snap my head back into his jaw with a power that shocks me.

He lets go. I sprint into the smoldering ruins.

King lies on the periphery, motionless. I claw through the wreckage. Beyond the flaming hulk of metal, Hunter’s dark hair is just visible under a piece of fuselage. I run to him and seize the scorching steel, wrenching upward. It’s stuck.
Come on! Move!

Suddenly I’m five and it’s my mother in the flames. A howl, inhuman, issues from my lips and I wrench again. The sound of fire roars in my ears, the awful, familiar scent of burning fuel and metal and plastic singe my nose. The smell that turns my legs frozen in my nightmares. I’m here now. This is real. I’m alive and this is happening. I won’t give up. I’ll never give up.

The metal groans.

Then I’m lifting it and screaming Hunter’s name, and his eyes, those beloved eyes, open and meet mine. I cry out as emotion ricochets between us. Kneeling, I wedge him loose inch by painful inch. He groans, gripping his chest and stumbles upright.

Gage is ten feet away, watching, his form shimmering in the mirage-like heat waves.

Hunter lets out a roar of fury and charges.

Something’s wrong, though. Gage stands dumbly, staring from the lifeless King to me to Hunter’s raging attack. He’s uncertain, surprised, even. He shakes his head like an injured dog.

"Aeris?" he calls out.

Hunter reaches him then. Their clash sends them tumbling.

A siren screams in the distance. The police are coming. Dozens of cars from the sound of it. At the far side of the lot, King’s men climb into their SUVs, hauling their injured with them. Ian detaches from their midst, bloodied and angry as he strides toward us.

Gage is losing the fight. He’s losing fast. Blood streams from his nose and mouth. His eyes are wild.

"Kill the bastard and let’s get out of here," Ian shouts.

"Stop," I shout. Louder, "Stop. Let Gage go!"

They roll through the dust, sending up clouds of brown and red. Hunter’s two big hands latch onto Gage’s jaw. Suddenly I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to twist hard and bones will snap, and Gage, my dear friend, will be no more.

"I’ll never forgive you! That’s not Gage!"

As I say it, I know it’s true. King captured him and changed him. Took control of his mind and body. I’m sure of it. King turned him into the pawn, the supersoldier, the tool Gage feared men could become.

This is my fault. I did this to you. I abandoned you on the road.

"Stop it," I shout.

I throw myself forward and wedge between them. Hunter’s head snaps up to face me. His hand loosens a little.

That brief moment is all Gage needs to wrestle clear. His eyes meet mine, one bleeding, the other ice blue and baleful. My heart catches in my throat. My Gage is gone.

He turns and lopes, sprinting, toward the fallen King.

The train with its long load still clacks and rattles in the distance. I can see the tail end of the snake, though. The last car, a dirt-brown rectangle, whips along on its frenzied transit toward some unknown destination.

Gage scoops King up in his arms, and his running picks up speed.

Eyes on the train, it dawns on me what he plans to do. "No!" I scream.

"Shit!" Ian shouts, sprinting. Trying to catch him.

It’s too late, though.

Gripping King in his massive arms, Gage leaps. He catches hold of the last train car, his blood-crusted gold hair gleaming and blowing in the wind.

He flies away, disappearing into the gloom, just as the first drops of rain begin to fall.

H
unter’s arms
are around me.

For a moment, Gage had been lucid. I failed him. I failed my dear friend.

"Thank god," Hunter murmurs, his hand stroking my hair. "Thank god."

I clutch Hunter, sick with guilt and, at the same time, crawling into the comfort of his embrace. He’s alive. I never want him to let me go.

"I thought I lost you," I whisper, my hands moving over his bloodied chest. He hunches forward. The wound has stopped leaking, yet it’s clear he’s in pain.

Coughing, he says, "I’m tougher than you think."

"No kidding," I murmur.

"I guess we’re even now," he tells me.

"How’s that?"

"King almost got his wish to carve me up into pieces and store me in jars. And I’m strong, but that fire would’ve killed me if you hadn’t got me out. So you saved me back. Twice."

Our supercharged emotions meet, my agony-twisted ones tangling with his. I press my face into him, unsure if the wetness is from the rain or my tears. He feels good. He feels like home.

Ian says, "Enough with the mushy stuff. Let’s move."

Hunter takes my hand. "We’re heading back to the house."

For once, I’m glad to let him call the shots. I’m too spent, too numb to care. Charlie’s dead. Gage is gone once again. Lost. So lost. Is he still in that body somewhere, trying to get out?

"You want to go back there? Are you insane?" Ian says, glancing in the direction of the approaching sirens.

"I’m not leaving Charlie."

"Charlie’s dead."

"I’m aware of that."

Ian swears.

"Then run. But after all these years, Charlie deserves a hell of a lot more than that."

We’re walking fast now. Rain drenches our skin.

"Listen, he’s gone. It doesn’t matter."

"It does to me. He’ll be buried with honor. He’s family. I’m not going to hide and cower and leave him to the state."

The three of us make it back to the house before the flashing cars catch up. There are more police there, though. King’s vehicles are gone. Official cars fill the driveway. Officers are surrounding the house with yellow police tape. An ambulance has its doors open.

"Leave the talking to me," Hunter says.

"Gladly," Ian replies.

Hunter detours past the Cayenne, which is parked halfway down the road. He throws on his jacket, zipping it over his destroyed shirt. His face is pale, but he keeps walking.

At the house, he approaches the nearest man and speaks quietly to him. Then we’re ushered inside. There’s no trace of King’s people, only the damage to Charlie’s house and his precious artifacts. In the kitchen, given what happened, the destruction seems pathetically small. A broken cabinet. A smashed chair. An overturned table.

A police photographer is taking shots of the room.

Charlie is being placed on a stretcher. He appears to be sleeping, although I know he’s not. It’s an illusion. It’s my mind struggling to believe the soul has left the body when he’s so clearly right in front of me. He made a mistake contacting King and paid the ultimate price. I should hate him for betraying Hunter, yet I can’t. I just wish he’d come back.

Hunter goes to him, and, despite the medic’s protest, he bends over his cousin. I feel his pain as his hands go around Charlie’s shoulders. He squeezes him hard.

"Good-bye," he whispers.

Then he’s pulling the sheet up over his face.

The medic nods at him, and the three of us—Hunter, Ian, and I—stand together as he’s wheeled from the room. I’m awash in Hunter’s emotions. Less strong come those of Ian’s. Maybe he’s too worn down to put up a barrier. Maybe he no longer cares. And so I feel him, too. Remorse. Regret. Sadness. The feelings flood into me, mixing with my own. From farther away, like fires lighting on hilltops, the consciousness of others blazes to life. They know a terrible thing has happened. They feel it. They’re sharing in it. You’d think it would be horrible, an awful amplification. It’s not. It’s a comfort, a sort of tribute.

The chatter around us brings me back to the room.

Officers are making note of Charlie’s vast collections. Was this some kind of heist? Others, however, aren’t so sure. Reports are coming in of the downed helicopter, and of people climbing over houses and moving cars.

A man with a thick, bulbous nose and a red scalp shining through sparse hair appears. He’s got his thumbs tucked into his belt and glares from Ian’s face, to mine, to Hunter’s.

"I’m taking you three down to the station."

"Fine, but I’d like to make a call first," Hunter tells him.

"I’m sure you would."

"Charlie was my cousin. We’re not the criminals here."

The officer nods. "One call. I’m in no rush."

"Great," Ian mutters. "Just what we need. They’ll own us after this."

Whoever
they
are, I have no idea. Just like I have no idea how one call is going to help get us out of this mess.

It does, though. Hunter takes the call outside on the back porch. When he comes in again, he hands the phone to the man with the bulbous nose. His expression goes from impatience to surprise. Finally he nods. "Understood," he grunts, and hangs up.

His men shoot him expectant looks.

"This is no longer our job, boys. Head on out. Let’s move it."

I stare in awe. I can’t believe it. They’re leaving. They’re clearing out completely. Whoever was on the other end of that line had more power than the police chief. A lot more. Given Ian’s simmering rage, I’m not sure I want to know, or the price we’ll have to pay for their help.

O
utside
, the rain has dwindled to a dismal trickle. Blurred lines streak Charlie’s windows and sliding-glass door. With the men gone, the house has taken on a stunned silence. Ian and Hunter right the kitchen table and overturned chairs. They raise the toppled cabinet and replace it against the wall.

Shattered glass and blood are sprayed across the floor.

Hunter crunches across it, sinks into a chair at the table and presses his forehead to his bloodied knuckles. "I can’t believe he’s gone."

Ian shoots me a glance. "What I’m wondering is how King found this place." He drills into me. "Any ideas?"

"How would she know?" Hunter snaps.

My hands, however, are fisting at my sides and I’m thinking about Charlie. I’m reliving his resentment toward Hunter. His regret that he called King to hand over my blood. My promise to keep that truth from Hunter. My emotions are clearly streaming right out of me because Ian takes a step closer and Hunter speaks.

"What’s going on, Aeris?"

"She called Gage!" Ian says. "Look at her! She’s guilty as hell."

"No. I didn’t call Gage." I lick my lips.

Ian continues to glare. I sense his disbelief, and he lets me feel the full force of it. It twists into me so that I’m confused. I can’t match it with my own convictions. The contrast is physically painful, and I think I’m going to throw up. I struggle to shut him out. For the first time, I see how emotions can be used as a weapon. It’s awful.

"Quit that," Hunter says. "Of course she didn’t contact him. Right, Aeris?"

"Right." I throw the word out with the force of truth behind it.

Ian’s pressure backs off. "Fine." His emotions turn directionless, trailing out into a generalized, fuzzy annoyance. To Hunter, he says, "You should have killed him. This needs to end."

"King? I’m not sure I didn’t." Hunter’s face is grim.

"Not King—Gage."

"That wasn’t Gage," I say. "He was under King’s control."

"Great, even worse," Ian sneers. "So now what? King’s out of commission and your friend is a maniac drone gone wild?"

"Maybe. But she’s right. The guy’s a victim."

"We need to find him," I say.

"A little reminder," Ian says. "He’s the enemy now. That ship has sailed."

I glance at Hunter.

"She’s right," Hunter says. "We have to help him."

"Not happening."

"We need to know what kind of hold King has on him."

"He was lucid for a moment. I know we can turn him back to normal," I say.

"Maybe." Hunter rises. "I need to call Martin Potter back. He’s going to want an explanation."

"Who’s Martin Potter?" I ask.

"The guy who just saved our asses. I’m afraid this could take some time."

"Yeah. Time isn’t what I’m worried about," Ian snarls, rubbing his flaming hair. "It’s what we’re going to owe him and his people for their help."

"What about King and his men?"

"My guess is they’re done for a good while," Hunter says.

Ian starts opening and slamming cupboard doors. "What does a guy need to do to get a decent glass of whiskey around here?"

"Liquor cabinet’s in the living room. Near the piano. Potter knows his duty," Hunter says. "King stepped way over the line coming here."

"Want to talk about stepping over the line? What about you? She wasn’t supposed to happen."

"Neither were we." His words fall into dead silence.

I want to shrink. So Potter’s with the authorities. The ones Hunter mentioned earlier.

"I made the right decision when she was on our operating table," Hunter says. "And if you don’t see it, Ian, I hope someday you will."

My heart surges with gratitude.

Ian’s face is splotched with suppressed anger. He frightens me, his brash manner, his abrasive attitude. Still, I step over the broken glass and take his hand.

He looks startled.

"What’s this?" he demands.

"I’m sorry," I say. "I’m really sorry for everything I’ve put you through."

From the table, Hunter says, "Don’t apologize to him. It’s not your fault."

Ian pulls his tense hand free.

"I mean it. You helped me climb houses, leap over cars."

His emotions are gripped to mine, even stronger than if we were still holding hands. He’s a good person. I feel that.

"If you hadn’t shown up, I’d be dead."

Without meaning to, I’ve made him see that he made the same decision Hunter did all those weeks ago. In the heat of danger, he chose life. My life. He reached out to me with his powers, shared them with me, and carried me through.

Looking into my face, a faint, chagrined expression fills his pale eyes.

"Damn," he mutters. Then he lets out a short bark of laughter. "Damn."

"Someday I hope it will be my turn to help. If I can, I will. I promise."

He swears again under his breath, gives me a curt nod, and leaves, heading in the direction of the living room and the whiskey.

Hunter looks amused. With a laugh, he says, "Huh! Well, that’s a new one. Ian changing his mind about something? I think he actually forgave you a little. Not that this was ever your fault. Amazing. Unheard of!"

"I can hear you perfectly clearly in here," Ian shouts.

"You’d almost think there’s a nice guy under all those Irish freckles."

"I heard that, too," Ian shouts.

Hunter laughs again.

I doubt Ian’s resentment toward me is gone, but my shoulders relax a little listening to their banter. I pick my way across the glass-strewn floor to the tall broom cupboard next to the fridge. The partially sliced baguette is still on the counter, a startling sight, almost as though Charlie might walk in and resume making lunch. My stomach clenches and I avert my eyes. They go to the floor, right to where Charlie had lain. His blood is still there, a deep crimson stain.

Will it come off? Or will it forever color this favorite room of his, a genetic mark, a ghostly presence, his way of remaining immortal in his house forever?

Then it hits me.

I’d pushed everything to the back of my mind. The chambers beneath the earth. The recasting. The agonizing meltdowns. My anger. His immortality.

Hunter is immortal.

While I’m going to wither and fade and crumble back to the earth.

What had Charlie said?
It happens quicker than you think.

I do have an idea. The hours fly by with Hunter. The days zoom past. In four or five years, I’ll be his age. After that, while he marks time, I’ll be growing old. Ancient and curled and turning to dust. And he never told me.

"How are you doing?" Hunter asks, rising from the table.

"Fine."

"Still worried about Gage?"

He might be able to sense my turmoil, but he can’t read my mind. I have to give him time to grieve. And then we’re going to talk.