Trance (2 page)

Specter had found a man with a gun who could cut us kids down as surely as superpowers had taken five of us since the morning.

He strode out to the middle of the stone patio, gun raised but pointed nowhere. We didn’t have a lot of cover, crowding low on the cold stone steps and behind two columns and two bits of waist-high stone wall. The wounded were now in the rear, the most powerful in the front. I was somewhere in the middle beside Gage, whose hands were shaking. His lips were pressed together so tight I couldn’t see them. He looked like he wanted to barf all over the ground.

He was terrified.

Gage couldn’t be terrified. He had to lead us, tell us what to do so we survived this.

“Gage?” I said.

He didn’t look at me. He scrubbed a hand through his spiky blond hair, down over his face, then clenched it in front of his blue jumpsuit. Tugged and pulled at the material.

I tried again. Maybe my powers couldn’t save us, but I could help him save us. “Gage?”

He just wasn’t paying attention to me, like usual, so I grabbed his hand and gave it a solid yank. He looked at me
then, his dark eyes flecked with little bits of silver that made them look like a starry night sky. As soon as I caught his gaze, I locked in and let my Trance powers do the rest.

You’re a brave man, Gage. You wouldn’t be our leader if you weren’t brave. We need you to lead us. We need you to save us. You can do this.

Tears glistened in his eyes. I felt him fighting it, fighting the Trance, the urge to do anything I told him. Being scared was easier—I knew it and so did he. I forced a little more at him, as much as I could muster through my own terror.

Trust me.

His hands stopped shaking. He was calming down, bucking up, accepting my influence. My own fear lessened a little, but not enough. I wished I could Trance myself.

Trust me, Gage, and lead us. Save us.

The Specter-host took three more potshots. Someone screamed—I couldn’t look, didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to see any more of my classmates hurt or dying or dead. A third explosion, horrifyingly close, sent a blast of hot air scorching across the pavilion, layered with the stink of smoke and ash. And something burning sweet.

Death was coming closer.

“Angela, I need a distraction,” Gage said, breaking our lock. He moved away, toward a blond girl who could leave up to twelve copies of herself behind as she walked, like holographic bread crumbs. “Marco, raven form.”

Nearby I heard the funny, wet-Velcro sound Marco made when he shifted. The large black bird hopped over to Gage and waited for orders.

“I can still help,” Ethan said. He was sweating, so pale his freckles looked like pimples, his uniform front soaked with blood.

Gage whispered a plan I couldn’t hear while our attacker shot at us twice more, exploding stone and cement, in no hurry to kill us all. Or he was waiting for something.

“Ready?” Gage asked. The other big kids nodded. They all turned, prepared with their plan.

An energy orb slammed into the Specter-host and spun him around—but it wasn’t from any of us. He squeezed off a wild shot that shattered the stone near Gage’s head, and then the dirty man fell facedown on the cobblestones. The cold rain started falling harder.

A hunched, bleeding figure shambled toward us from around the stairs. Her white hair was stained red, plastered to her skull, and she looked a hundred years old. Gage and Angela ran out to help her, and they practically carried the old woman into the pavilion. She was bleeding from a dozen wounds, her hands and knees scraped from multiple falls. I saw her face and started to cry.

“Granny Dell,” I said, shouldering my way through the older kids. I dropped to my knees next to my maternal grandmother, confused and horrified. She shouldn’t be here. She’d retired forty years ago, long before I was born, and had lived my entire lifetime in Europe. We’d only met once, but had chatted on the phone dozens of times. She told me stories about my mom, who I didn’t remember much.

And now Granny Dell was in Central Park. I’d heard the
grown-ups say that everyone was being called to duty, but I had never imagined they meant my grandmother.

She turned weepy eyes toward me, like someone so desperately tired she wanted to burst out crying. I couldn’t stop my own tears from falling, or the desperate sobs that hurt my chest.

“You kids need to go,” she gasped. She was trying so hard. “They’re coming. He’s coming.”

“We have wounded,” Gage said behind me. “We can’t leave them.”

“Have to, son. You kids … you’re the last. Have to live.”

“We’re not,” I said. “Dad’s still fighting. He’ll save us.” Her sad, sad face told me something about my dad I didn’t want to know. My lungs hitched. I ignored her face. If I ignored her, it simply wasn’t true.

“They’ll be here soon, Teresa,” Granny Dell said. “You have to run. Hide.”

“Rangers don’t hide.” Dad taught me that. All I wanted to do was hide until the bad guys went away, but we couldn’t. If we hid from the Banes now, we’d never live it down later. Unless we died after all.

Was it better to die a hero or live a coward?

I didn’t know. All I knew was that I wanted to live.

Granny Dell choked up blood and stopped breathing. I kept holding her hand, afraid that if I let go, I’d run and hide just like she wanted me to, find a tree to climb or a hole to burrow into and stay there until the battle was over.

“We stand here,” Gage said, rising up and addressing us like a general. Still brave, still saving us. Not giving up. “The
man out there was right. It comes down to what we do tonight. We have to make our parents and mentors proud.”

They were all talking at once, a buzz of voices and sounds and movements, and situating those who were too hurt to fight in the back of the pavilion, down in that rock-bottom hiding place. Forming a defensive line based on powers. Someone dashed outside to retrieve the gun. No one would use it; they just couldn’t leave it lying around for a Bane to pick up. I stayed in the rear with the wounded and the dead, too cold and scared to help. I was useless.

Again.

An agony-filled shriek rose up from the trees surrounding the south side of the castle, carried on a wind that brought more of that awful roasted-sweet odor. Female scream, I thought, unable to think of the other adult Rangers who’d been left. I couldn’t think of anyone except my dad, hurt, maybe … No. Just hurt. Or still battling his way toward us, leading his Rangers as only he could. Hinder would save us.

Renee and William stood together. I was surprised that William could be shot and still standing. He was strong. I thought he had a good power, just like Renee. But he didn’t like her ability to stretch her blue body out like taffy. He said it was creepy, and she loved to torment him. Seeing them together was weird.

Marco was back in panther form. He paced the length of the pavilion, thick tail swishing, a predator. He told me once he’d rather be a big cat than a person. I didn’t understand, but I was always jealous of his being a shapeshifter.

Even hurt, Ethan was waiting to help. He had one of the
strongest powers among us, and he knew it. He was being brave. Everyone was being brave, except me. Might as well only be eleven of us left, instead of twelve.

Stupid, useless Trance.

The castle’s spire exploded. Fire and rock blasted outward and rained down on the cobblestones in front of the pavilion. Some of us shrieked. I know I did. A second blast took out the rest of the turret. Smoke choked me and stung my eyes. Gage was shouting orders.

The first Bane crested the stairs at the far end of the stone patio. I didn’t know her. Just saw her stop, locate us, then let out an excited war whoop. Terror hit me like a blast of fire all over my body as more Banes joined her.

The heat of the fire increased to all-over agony. This wasn’t fear. Something was happening. Marco screamed, a too human sound. Everything went gray, and then the agony swallowed me whole.

H
aving superpowers rudely restored after a fifteen-year disruption is a lot like childbirth: painful, beautiful, messy, and with lots of screaming. Unlike childbirth, superpower restoration was an event I just didn’t see coming. I thought it was heartburn.

Four long hours into my ten-to-three swing shift at Whiskey Jack’s (second job of the day, straight off ten hours at the House of Chicken), I sneaked a handful of leftover chili cheese fries before Freddy the busboy dumped them into the garbage. The owner (whose name is Ted, not Jack) didn’t care if we filched, as long as we did it in the back room. Even for a girl working three jobs (including two glamorous days a week scrubbing toilets for a home-cleaning service), hearty food was still mostly unaffordable. Not if I wanted little luxuries like electricity and heat during Portland’s cold winters.

Cold and congealed, those fries tasted divine. I followed them with a large glass of filtered water. For my empty stomach, it was too much, too fast. Hot, cramping fingers twisted my belly. I doubled over and almost knocked Freddy down.

He grabbed my arm, brushing my left breast quite deliberately. Leave it to a teenager to use an act of compassion to cop a feel. “Geez, Teresa, you okay?” he asked.

Dumb question. “No, do I look okay?” I pulled my arm away and backed up until my hip hit the sink. The back room was small and seemed to grow smaller. Dingy basins reeking of mildew and old detergent pressed in too close. Odors of grease and salty food filtered in from the nearby kitchen. I swallowed, longing for my toothbrush.

“Shouldn’t have eaten those fries, huh?” he said.

I shot him a withering stare. He took the hint, grabbed his basin, and headed out to the floor to clear more tables. With an hour left on my shift, I couldn’t drum up the energy to hit the floor and hustle drinks for the house. Whiskey Jack’s had a reputation in Portland as a high-class-ass bar—the more you paid, the more you could touch. I needed the tips, but the idea of liquor breath and sweaty hands increased my nausea.

I couldn’t afford to leave early, either. This late at night—or early in the morning, depending on your internal clock—men had no trouble giving up a ten-spot for a chance to pour their own shot into a glass nestled between a woman’s breasts. Short black skirts and tight yellow tank tops were the preferred uniform at WJ’s, the better to show off the waitress staff’s assets. I needed an extra-padded bra to give my small chest the bounce the other servers possessed (naturally or surgically, take your pick), but the luxury investment had been worth it.

Another sharp cramp knotted my stomach. Fingers of pain danced through my lower back. For one panicked instant,
I thought my appendix had burst. I would become septic and die. The perfect ending to a perfect week of hell, seasoned with a bounced rent check. Shake and serve with a side of hopelessness.

Appendicitis, while a good way to avoid my default-happy landlord and collect sick pay from my job at the House of Chicken, would be the moldy cherry on the melted sundae. Or whatever that saying is.

I bucked up, splashed water on my face, and inhaled. Held it, exhaled. Rinse, repeat. The cramps calmed somewhat, but shakiness had set into my limbs. Hands trembling and with sweat popping out on my forehead, I returned to the floor for a few more tip attempts. I had about a hundred bucks in my pocket—nowhere near enough to cover the fee for the bounced rent check.

At two in the morning, the bar was still in full swing. Dim lights barely illuminated a South Pacific–themed interior, complete with strung tiki lanterns and fake potted palm trees that doubled as ash trays. Reggae music blared over half a dozen loudspeakers. Drunken men and women lurched around the narrow dance floor. Some laughed in groups at their tables, while others milled about looking for action.

Five paces into the bar, action planted itself right in front of me in the form of a six-foot-four, slobbering giant of a man. His bloodshot eyes leered down, mouth twisted into a drunken grin. “Titty shot?” he slurred, bourbon breath puffing into my face.

The smell curled my nostrils and churned my stomach. Hell, no. This guy was not touching me. “I’m not pouring
right now.” I sidestepped and was in the crowd before his foggy brain caught up.

Bartender Minnie was doing her hourly show of tossing liquor bottles and pouring shots, much to the glazed amazement of the patrons. Money flowed her way. I often longed for that kind of coordination. Better cash might mean not working three different jobs and letting men ogle my boobs for cash. Too bad I could barely walk a straight line stone-cold sober, let alone juggle liquor bottles without breaking every single one (and probably cracking a few heads in the process).

Minnie put on a show for their entertainment, doing her part to amuse the max-capacity 145 lost souls who had come to Whiskey Jack’s to celebrate the fifteenth anniversary of America’s Other Independence Day. Some came (as they always do) as an excuse to party; others came to forget their troubles and expound (in the mystifying way that only drunk people can) upon the struggling post–Meta War years and flatlining economy.

The whole world changed fifteen years ago. The Meta War ended. All the superpowers disappeared. And my dad died; I was ten.

Happy freaking anniversary.

One of the muted televisions was running some feature on Metas, showing stock footage of long-ago battles and burning buildings. The scroll across the bottom of the screen asked: Would the world have been safer without Metas?

I was kind of glad I couldn’t hear the answer to that question.

Depressed and still in some amount of pain, I wandered toward an empty table in the corner, hoping to sit down for a minute. I ignored the pile of dirty plates and glasses that Freddy still hadn’t picked up, and pulled out a wooden chair. A meaty hand closed over mine and squeezed. Sasquatch, the bourbon drooler from a minute ago, leered down at me.

“Too good to pour for me, lady?” he said. His other hand produced a wad of cash and he waved it in front of me like a flag. “If you won’t pour, how much for the whole night?”