Trance (12 page)

No, I couldn’t think that way. This was a minor setback. I’d figure out how to channel the energy, even if I had to blast it to the sky every three days.

“We’ll get you started on metabolic supplements,” Dr. Seward said. “For now, get some rest. At least until morning. And I do mean rest.”

“I’ll rest, I promise,” I said.

With another pointed look, Dr. Seward left and pulled the door behind him. I stared at it, unsure why he’d done that.

“I promise to be a perfect gentleman,” Gage said, “if you let me stay with you tonight.”

I arched both eyebrows; I’d have been less surprised if he’d asked to shave my head bald and paint it with green polka dots.

He chuckled. “I didn’t mean it like that, Teresa. We don’t know when or where Specter will attack again. You’ve just been through a trauma, and I’d feel better staying close than being halfway across the complex.”

I wanted him to stay; I was also scared for him to do so. Not that I’d ever admit to the fear—a fear that had nothing to do with thinking he’d hurt me, not like in the motel—so I put on some false bravado. Teasing him was easier than trying to understand why I trusted him so easily when I’d made an art out of keeping men at arm’s length. “Perfect gentleman, huh? That’s very selfless, Gage. You aren’t even going to try to steal a kiss? Something to remember me by, just in case Seward is right about my life expectancy?”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t really a joke.” Our lives were full of so many uncertain variables. Always at the top of that list was death, as we both knew well. I hated entertaining the idea that Seward might be right, but could I afford to ignore the possibility? “Look, I’m sorry—”

His head dipped, and his lips found mine, silencing the halfhearted apology. The kiss was tender, almost platonic, and it sent a shock of excitement through my system that settled deep in my belly, leaving me breathless. And frightened. I hadn’t expected him to actually kiss me.

It was brief, but wonderful.

Lips still tingling, I lowered the bed to a better angle for
sleeping. “Don’t tell me you’re going to spend the night in that chair,” I said, pointing.

He eyeballed the hard, plastic piece of furniture in question. “Well, it seemed a better alternative to the floor.”

I shifted over until half of the smallish bed was empty; he stood still, hesitating.

“You said you’d be a perfect gentleman.”

“This wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

“I know. And don’t take this wrong, but get your ass in my bed. I’m exhausted and want to sleep.”

He considered me a moment, his expression a mix of amused and wary—as if he thought I’d shock him with an orb if he got frisky. Not that I had any fear of that happening. Not with Gage. He shed his belt and sneakers, then slid under the thin blanket with me, still clad in jeans and shirt. I turned away to give him more room in the small bed, and I was careful to not tense when his elbow brushed the small of my back.

My inner ten-year-old smiled at his nearness, while my external grown-up slowly relaxed. I closed my eyes and drifted, lingering close to wakefulness, soothed by the sound of Gage’s steady breathing.

T
he monitor above the bed casts the only light in the room. A gentle blue glow outlines the shape of the door and the woman in bed. Her head is shaved bald and dotted with wired electrodes. A tube down her throat leads to a machine that breathes for her. The pulse monitor beeps slow, steady. Her skin is smooth, ageless.

I should know her, but I don’t.

Her face unfocuses, sharpens, unfocuses. She opens her eyes. Pale light glints off lovely luminescence. I know those eyes.

Who are you?
I ask.

Her eyes flicker sideways, at a second bed. Another shape on it, impossible to see. She looks at me again. Her words come, though her lips don’t move.
Stay the course.
Her voice is ethereal and lingers like a mist.

I fall into her eyes, into an abyss of color and light and sound and warmth as inspiring as it is terrifying. Voices speak all around me, unified and alone, one and many. Sanity and madness exist together, and I burn.

A pleasant warmth all along my back greeted me as I woke, and I was grateful for it. Grateful to Gage for being there last night, and even more grateful that he was still there in the morning. I held onto the moment of pure contentment as long as possible, unsure I’d get it again.

Until my very full bladder forced me out of bed.

The dream stayed vividly on my mind during breakfast. I didn’t mention it to Gage. Getting the wrong powers was no accident, I felt certain of that now. Had this woman I dreamed of taken them away? Been responsible for giving them back?

No one truly knew how the first MetaHumans received their powers. Reports of people with superhuman powers existed as far back as the American Civil War. The Pinkertons employed Metas, and some historians have argued that Billy the Kid and Harry Houdini were Metas. As our numbers grew in the early part of the twentieth century, so did our notoriety.

It wasn’t until our people were formally asked for help during the First World War that the divisions between us took hold, and it planted the seeds of what would become the schism between MHC’s Ranger Corps and the more nebulous “bad guy” Banes. And, while we could narrow down the start of the Rangers and Banes, we still didn’t know where Metas came from to begin with; no one seemed to know the source of it all. God. Radiation. Space aliens. Evolution. The words held no real meaning; they didn’t rationalize what we were, or why we existed. We did, we didn’t, we did again.

Dr. Seward came in as we finished eating breakfast. I half expected to see William at his side, as he’d been every other time. Then I remembered that he was in New York with Renee. “Sleep well, Trance?”

“Pretty well, yeah.” Except for the strange dream.

“All of your vitals have returned to normal levels, so you’re free to return to your room. I would like you to come back after lunch for some tests.”

“What kind of tests?”

“I want to see how your body reacts to the use of your powers and study its absorption rate. Your electrolyte levels were dangerously low yesterday, which is one of the reasons you felt so sick. If we can figure out a way to supplement your system with nutrients, it won’t be as dangerous for you to use your powers when you need to.”

“So we
are
rewiring the lamp.” Maybe I wasn’t dying after all. That would be great.

He nodded. “Over time, your body may adapt, but it also may not. This isn’t a cure, just a trial run. You still need to limit your power usage today, until we run our tests.”

“I will try, I swear.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Gage said.

I did not need a babysitter. “How’s Frost?”

“Still in a coma,” Dr. Seward replied. “There’s little we can do for her now, except wait and hope.”

“Can I see her?”

“Of course.”

Janel “Frost” Murphy looked like a ghost against the stark white bedsheets. Her silver hair framed her narrow face in a limp curtain. Deep purple bruises shadowed the skin below her eyes, the only noticeable color on her face. Bandages covered her throat and arms, leaving just a few patches of translucent skin visible.

I shivered and could see my breath in the room. Janel liked cold; the temperature must have been to keep her comfortable. I wanted to hold her hand, but was afraid. Her cold skin would only get me thinking she was dead, and I didn’t want to think that way. We needed her.

I remembered the tall, timid twelve-year-old she’d been those last few weeks before being sent to New York. She’d mastered her power over ice by the age of nine, but she resisted using it. She’d given Mellie severe frostbite the year before, when she first heard that her father had been killed in battle. No one blamed her for the accident, but Janel blamed herself. She tried to withdraw from the rest of us. Renee refused to let her. She and I smothered Janel with friendship and understanding, and after a few months, Janel started smiling again. She taught me how to French-braid my hair. And she fought so bravely that day in Central Park.

“We should have protected her,” I said.

“We had no way of knowing,” Gage replied, standing by my left shoulder. “They got there as fast as they could. She survived this long, Teresa. She’ll make it through.”

“There has to be a way to stop Specter, to keep him from doing this again.”

“And we’ll find it. You know that.”

“I don’t know that.” Had that really just come out of my mouth? “I really, truly wish I did, Gage, but I don’t. This is the most bizarre situation we’ve ever been in. We can’t track Specter. We can’t fight him because he always attacks in someone else’s body. So far he’s forced us to kill everyone he’s possessed. And the minute defenses around Manhattan Island break down, we’re royally screwed.”

“I know all that, Teresa. It doesn’t mean we can’t win.” Gage tugged my hand and tilted my chin until I looked up at him. “I need you to believe we can win. That you’re going to live a long, happy life, and that we’ll
win
.”

My stomach quaked. I wanted so much to live a long life, to grow old and crotchety and eccentric. For Gage and Renee and Marco and the others to look back on this moment forty years from now and laugh at our worries. The lovely dream lingered in the shadows of my mind, with distant knowledge that I had some unfulfilled path yet to walk. A path Gage could not follow me down.

“I believe that you believe it,” I said. “Can that be enough for now?”

“It’ll have to be, I guess.”

He didn’t like my answer—I saw it in the downturn of his mouth and slant of his eyebrows. Why couldn’t I just lie and pretend I believed it? For Gage’s sake. He didn’t look at me like a prize to be won or body to be conquered. He’d given me friendship and loyalty from the start, and I hated hurting him. He’d had enough hurt in his life without me compounding it—we both had—but I couldn’t bring myself to lie. Lying felt like a worse sin than not believing.

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

“That’s supposed to be my question, boss,” Gage said.

Surprised, I looked up—at the twinkle in his eyes and the broad smile. He was looking at me to lead, even though I couldn’t see our path any more clearly than he could. I was chosen—not only by my fellow Rangers, but by something bigger than any of us.

Lucky me.

“Do we have satellite coverage in this place?” I asked.

“In the conference room, I think.”

“Good. I want to know what’s happening in New York.”

“Then, let’s go find out.”

A
strange man and woman sat inside the conference room. I tensed, immediately checking their eyes for signs of yellow light. They didn’t appear bothered by our arrival; in fact, they seemed to be expecting us.

The woman was older, in her late fifties, with immaculate silver-blond hair that seemed shellacked into place. She wore a plain blue business suit and skirt, and she had a black briefcase on the table in front of her. Her companion, a weasel of a man in an expensive black suit and an unfortunate comb-over, stood up as we entered. He had to be six inches shorter than me (and I’m not very tall) with an air of authority that demanded immediate attention. They made me wish Gage and I were in something other than blue jeans.

“Good morning, Trance,” the man said. “Good morning, Cipher. It’s good to meet both of you.”

I remained partially in front of Gage and didn’t move from the door’s entrance. “I’d say it’s good to meet you, too, only I don’t know who you are.”

“Direct and suspicious, I like that,” the woman said. She had an accent, something of a New England snarl.

“Glad you approve.”

Gage’s hand squeezed my elbow, and I reined in the sarcasm. These folks had been given permission to come onto the property, so they were potential allies. I just had a thing about unannounced guests who smelled like federal agents.

The gentleman said, “My name is Agent Alexander Grayson. This is my partner, Agent Rita McNally.”