Trance (32 page)

I filled Gage in on everything Psystorm said about Specter, the fires in Maryland, and his involvement in those final battles. Even though the information would be hashed and rehashed later, I needed Gage to support me when we talked to Renee, Marco, and Ethan. He had to understand that this was our only option.

“You have a fail-safe for his collar?” he asked. Figured of all the things I’d said, he focused on that.

“Yes, Gage, I have a fail-safe.” I patted the pocket next to my Vox. “But I truly don’t think I’ll need to use it.”

He stepped closer and took my other hand. “I know you
don’t, and that’s why you need it. If Specter somehow takes over Psystorm, we’ll need the fail-safe to put them down.”

“I just hope we can keep Psystorm a secret from Specter. Not like I’ve got a clue how to do it.” And if we truly had a mole among us, he probably knew already. Damn it. “How’s Renee doing?”

“She’s quiet, mostly. I think she’s projecting her anger onto Dahlia. She’s been pretty rude, even for Renee.”

“She’s grieving. She’ll come around.” I leaned my hip against the sink, wishing I had something to do with my hands. Damned uniform needed pockets. “How about Dahlia?”

“Adjusting. Dr. Seward had her over here for a few hours, testing out her abilities. She can absorb an awesome amount of heat. He thinks she can learn to push the heat back out, use it kind of like an expulsion of force.”

“Did she say anything about being able to do this before?”

“No, but she would have been five years old back then. I doubt the powers had manifested yet.” He took a few steps forward. His hand lifted, as though to touch me, then fell back to his side. Concern shone in his expression. “How are you doing?”

“No side effects, or purple vision.”

“Good to know, but that’s not what I meant.”

Of course it wasn’t. “I’m angry. I keep telling myself I can’t let anger get in the way of good judgment. I’m tired, but I don’t feel like I have time to rest. I’m so sick of being afraid that I want to crawl under a rock and forget all of this exists. More than anything, I’m …” Something blocked the words. They seemed selfish.

“What?”

I didn’t respond. The words wouldn’t come. He dipped his head and a hundred emotions—all usually so blocked off from me—seared through his kiss. Things spoken and kept silent, secrets revealed and past pains let loose. I responded gently, not allowing it to deepen. His admission still rang in my head—it would take a lot longer than five minutes to absorb. And we still had people counting on us. On me.

He sensed my hesitation and pulled back, hands loosely framing my cheeks. “What is it?”

“I’m scared, Gage. Scared of failing again and getting the rest of you killed.”

His eyebrows knotted. “You didn’t fail William.”

“Didn’t I? I let him stay in there and die.”

“He chose to stay behind. William understood the risks, and he knew it was the only way to get the rest of us out safely.”

“I should have tried something else.” My fists ached. I unclenched them, then stepped back. Away from Gage. The tears were back, and I tried to force them away. “I should have saved him for her.” I was crying anyway, damn it.

I couldn’t do this, and damn the Wardens anyway for putting me in this position. For giving me powers I didn’t want and making me responsible for lives I couldn’t save. For proving I’d never live up to the legacy my father left behind. A sob choked me, and I gave in to the grief. “He promised Renee a date and now he’ll never take her, and I should have brought him home, like I brought you home. I failed. I’ll always fail.”

“You’ve succeeded more than you’ve failed,” he said quietly.

The last thing I wanted was for him to make me feel better—to make this failure smaller than it was. “Don’t patronize me, Gage. Not ever.”

“I’m not. But you can’t save everyone, Teresa.”

The sincerity in his words enraged me in a way I couldn’t control. I wanted my grief, damn it. I wanted to be allowed to wallow in this misery for two goddamn minutes. Alone. My hands clenched into tight fists.

“I can’t save everyone?” Falling back on old habits, I said the one thing I knew would push him away: “Look who’s talking.”

He backed off. Anger flickered in his eyes briefly, followed by hurt, then was gone. Switched off and put away and I felt like shit for having said it. “Don’t you ever fucking throw that in my face,” he growled, then spun on his heel and stormed out of the bathroom.

The bang of the door shutting echoed for a long time as I sat alone and cried.

The fight left my nerves frayed and my stomach queasy, and I needed to get my mind off it. To calm down so I could figure out how to apologize. I needed to do something, so I headed to the fourth floor of Medical. The majority of activity seemed to be happening there, so it was my best source for a distraction.

Familiar voices from one of the patient rooms slowed my pace.

“Is this really a good idea?”

“You will not know unless you try.”

“That sounded way more ominous than I bet you intended.”

“One attempt,
por favor
?”

I slipped up to the door and peeked inside. It was empty of equipment, furnished only by two metal folding chairs. Marco sat in one, awkwardly holding a box of matches between his chest and sling with one unlit match in his good hand. Dahlia stood a few feet from him, hands clenched by her sides, dressed in a set of extra-baggy sweats. She’d cleaned up since the fire and seemed less flighty, more in control.

Neither noticed me lurking in the doorway. Marco struck the match; the red tip flared and ignited. Dahlia’s face pinched. The flame went out with a tiny tail of smoke.

“Crap,” she said.

Marco took another match from the small pile on his lap. “Try again.” He struck it.

The flame burned. Flickered. Extinguished. Four more matches met the same end. I started to break my silence and ask what they were trying to accomplish.

“Are you only drawing the heat to you, or are you attempting to connect to it first?” Marco asked. “To truly feel the energy?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “How do I do that?”

“I am uncertain. My powers are quite different.”

I stepped full into the room. “When you feel the heat of the flame, imagine it as an extension of yourself,” I said, startling them both. “Make it part of you, like another limb you can control.”

Dahlia’s startled expression quickly melted into determination. “I can do that.”

“It’s how I work with my orbs.”

Marco struck a match. This time, Dahlia raised her right hand and extended it toward the flame. Concentrated. It flickered. Shrank. It seemed to go out, then flared back to life. Shrank again. Flared again. She repeated the activity until the fire crept too close to Marco’s fingers. Then she extinguished the flame completely.

“I did it.” The absolute joy on her face made me smile back. “I didn’t just absorb the heat, I actually controlled it.”

“Excellent,” Marco said.

“How long have you guys been working on this?” I asked.

“About seven matches,” Dahlia said.

“You’re a fast learner.”

“How long did it take you to learn to control your powers?”

I thought back to Cliff and the parking lot in Bakersfield. “I kind of learned on the job. In some ways, I’m still learning to control it, so don’t rush yourself. One match is a lot different than a four-alarm fire.”

My reality check dimmed some of her excitement, but she recovered her poise quickly. “You’re right, and I will definitely keep practicing. Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Are you all right, Catalepsia?”

I hesitated. I might have shared my Gage-related stupidity with Marco if Dahlia hadn’t been in the room, but it was
too personal to talk about in front of a semi-stranger. “I’m just tired,” I said. “Keep at it, Dahlia. I’ll see you guys later.”

As I walked back out, I heard the unmistakable hiss of another match igniting.

I found Renee in one of the waiting rooms playing a board game with Caleb. They sat on the floor, surrounded by chair cushions, intent on something involving colorful plastic pieces and a pair of dice. I watched from an observation window. They were alone together, an odd pairing, and he seemed unbothered by her smoky blue skin. Her mouth was pinched, her eyes puffy. The cloud of effervescent energy that followed her everywhere was gone, and I ached for her pain.

I could only assume Psystorm was still being examined by Dr. Seward, hence the impromptu babysitter. They continued to play for several minutes, oblivious to my presence.

Caleb rolled the dice and squealed, delighted by the spaces he could advance his green playing piece. He grinned toothily at Renee, and then spotted me over her shoulder. He waved. Renee turned. She narrowed her eyes, and I braced for a verbal onslaught.

“You look awful,” she said.

Not quite what I was expecting. I slipped in through the half-open door and crouched between them. “I thought the dark circles under my eyes would complement the lavender hue of my forehead.”

She cocked her head, and I saw unexpected forgiveness. Grief, too, that would take much longer to erase. She had opened up to William, despite her fears. I hoped the loss didn’t shut her down again. She deserved happiness. We all
did. Even those of us who couldn’t stop pushing happiness away.

“Hi, Caleb,” I said, sitting next to the boy. “I see you met my friend Flex.”

“She’s teaching me to play a game,” he said proudly. “I never played this one before, but she said it was fun.”

“Is it fun?”

“It’s easy. Flex said she liked it when she was my age, so I said we could play. She’s sad, and games make me happy when I’m sad.”

I blinked. “Yes, she is sad, Caleb. How did you know?”

“I can tell.” He rolled the dice, moved his piece forward, and looked up at me with solemn eyes. He spoke so matter-of-factly I was almost frightened. No five-year-old talked like that. “Daddy says I’m special like him. I know when people are sad.”

“Could your mommy do that, too?”

He shook his head. “She used to turn into a cat. Now she’s sick, and she can’t do it anymore.”

Interesting. A Bane shapeshifter. I touched the boy’s hand. He stopped fiddling with the dice and looked up at me. “Do you know why your mommy is sick?”

He shrugged a thin shoulder.

“Were a lot of people sick?”

“Mostly grown-ups. Not everyone, though, because Daddy never got sick. Me, either.”

Something to add to my list of questions for the ATF. I hadn’t seen Grayson since yesterday. He was probably busy spinning our publicity from yesterday’s fire and our first,
aborted attempt at being proactive in addressing the public. Or ratting us out to Specter.

Ugh, I needed to get my rampant paranoia under control until I had proof stronger than a hunch. I asked Caleb, “How long has your mom been sick?”

“I don’t know.” He puckered his lips and blew air between them. A frustrated raspberry—the questioning would have to end soon, or he’d simply clam up. He reminded me of my own therapy sessions just after the War ended. I didn’t want to talk about it, and no one could make me.

“Two years, give or take,” Psystorm said.

Renee and I turned together, our collective attention snapping toward the door. He stood just inside the waiting room, Dr. Seward a few steps behind. Caleb leapt to his feet and bolted into his father’s arms. Only apart for a few minutes, yet they embraced as if it had been days.

“I think they started putting something in the drinking water,” Psystorm said as he shifted Caleb’s weight to his hip. How that skinny man kept the child—small or not—in his arms remained a mystery. “It started to taste odd, so I stopped drinking it for a while. Made Caleb stop, too. We had some bottled water stored away. A lot of people who didn’t have it bottled up started getting sick.”

“Sick how?” I asked.

“Stomach cramps and vomiting, mostly. No one died from it. Most of them got really lethargic, disinterested. Like they were drugged, and then when we got our powers back, they didn’t seem to care. Didn’t try to use them or practice, or even discuss a, uh, breakout.”

“Did you?” I asked, standing quickly. “Discuss a breakout?”

He stared, seeming quite surprised. “Wouldn’t you? None of us wanted to be there, Trance. We just hadn’t possessed the means to escape.”

“It’s been a week, Psystorm, why hasn’t anyone tried?”

“Lack of motivation, I suppose. We’d all be on the run, criminals worse than before, when all we are now is unwanted and forgotten. As much as I hated the island, I couldn’t drag Caleb into that kind of life and make him a fugitive.”

“Let’s hope the others share your reasoning skills.”

“They won’t lay down for you forever, Trance. Sooner or later, someone will try to get out. It only takes a tiny fissure to create a chasm.”

“I’ve considered that, believe me. I just can’t think about it right now. Not until Specter is neutralized. Once that’s done, I’d like to hear more from you about life on the island. Others you think have … not changed sides, exactly. Have stopped wanting to fight.”

He snickered. “Looking for new recruits?”

“No, just fewer enemies.” I gave him a pointed look. “I think you’ll agree we can all use fewer of those.”

“Indeed.”

Dr. Seward hung back by the door, trying to melt into the wall and out of the conversation. He had a chart in his hands.

“So what’s the verdict, Doctor?” I asked.

He cleared his throat. “Aside from needing a good dose of vitamin supplements, father and son are both relatively healthy,” he replied. “Caleb is within the ninetieth percentile
in growth for his age group. I recommend a visit to a dentist in the near future, but all in all, he’s doing very well.”

“Hear that, kiddo?” Psystorm said. “Fit as a fiddle.”

“Strong as a horse,” Caleb said with a toothy grin.

“Do we have a room for them over in Housing?” Renee asked, standing next to me. The shadow of sadness that had enveloped her on the helipad lingered. Only time and patience—and maybe a distraction like Caleb—would chase it away.