Trance (35 page)

My lungs seized. I coughed until my chest hurt. With my undamaged left hand, I checked Psystorm for a pulse and was relieved to find one. I’d never forgive myself if I made little Caleb fatherless. Of course, that ultimately remained to be seen. We were surrounded by crackling, leaping fire. It licked the walls, bubbling paint and scorching the ceiling, where gray smoke swirled.

I used one hand for leverage and stood up. Everything tilted. My broken hand throbbed, my head pounded, and my jaw probably sported a pretty welt. Certainly felt swollen. I grabbed Psystorm’s wrist and pulled. He slid forward an inch. I pulled again, the muscles in my biceps straining. A
few more inches. At this rate, we’d be out of the apartment by next week.

I let go and turned in a circle, desperate for something to use. Anything to get him out of here and back to his son. A bit of cool air wafted through the raging heat, drawing my attention to the window. The blast had shattered it and burning curtains rustled in the wind. I dashed over and knocked the curtain rod off and away.

A fire escape presented itself, a rusty structure that overlooked the city street. A crowd had gathered below. Someone saw me and screamed. I didn’t see the familiar faces I wanted.

I grabbed my Vox from my belt. “Cipher, I need you guys up here now,” I said without preamble. “Anyone there? Hello?”

I’d never heard anything as sweet as Renee’s voice.

“Long story, no time. I’m at the fire escape on the fifth floor, street side. Psystorm is out cold, and I can’t move him myself. Is the copter still nearby?”

“Get on it, and get up here, now. This fire is getting hot.”

I put the Vox away, uninterested in a reply. Just results. I inhaled the fresh air, getting what I could, and then plunged back inside. The fire’s intensity had increased considerably in only a few minutes. Heat pressed in, squashing me from all sides, shrinking the room. Orange and red flames licked the carpet, edging closer to Psystorm. I squatted by his head.

“You are so going to make this up to me.”

Nothing could prepare me for the agony I felt as I looped
both hands beneath Psystorm’s armpits and lifted. My right hand shrieked and pulsed. I swore over and over—words I’d forgotten, or didn’t realize I knew. Tears streaked my cheeks. I concentrated on my feet, on each careful step backward. Toward the window. Breathing as shallowly as possible.

Air whirled around us, pushing the fire away. The roar of the copter’s motor mixed with the rumble of the blaze and created a cacophony of noise that stabbed into my brain. My hip hit the window sill. I sobbed, relieved. One leg over the edge, ignoring the broken glass. I pulled him through. Balanced, then the other leg. His lower half was still inside. Another burst of strength tugged him out, and we both fell over onto the metal grillwork of the fire escape. It rattled, strained. Held.

“Trance!”

I opened my eyes. Renee’s head loomed over the rail of the escape, her stretched-out neck disappearing from sight. I tried to speak and coughed instead. Her hand appeared, holding a rope and straps.

“Here’s a harness,” she said.

“Can’t. Hand’s broke.”

She looked over her shoulder, back at the hovering copter. I turned my head and saw its location, once again amazed at how far Renee could stretch her body. Gage was in the cab, holding her around the waist. She seemed confident that he’d secured her and brought her other hand out.

I helped when I could, and we managed to get the harness around Psystorm and locked into place. Renee retracted to the copter’s interior, and it began to ascend. The rope grew
taut, slowing drawing Psystorm into a standing position. Once there, the copter paused. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, cinched my legs around his waist, closed my eyes, and held on as we rose into the sky.

The pain medication started kicking in around the time I finished my story, told in fits and starts from the back of a parked ambulance. The paramedic kept shoving an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose. I kept pulling it back because the others couldn’t understand me. He finally gave up and let me talk. I’d inhaled smoke before and lived; I wasn’t going to worry about it now. I did, however, thank him for wrapping my hand and giving me that lovely shot.

Gage sat by my side, listening intently. I caught him staring at my chin several times. A blood knot had swelled there and must have looked awful. I was grateful Psystorm hadn’t knocked any teeth loose.

“So we don’t know if Psystorm has Specter caged or not,” Renee said. She stood outside the ambulance with Dahlia, the day’s resident hero. Her power had kept both the first and second fires from incinerating the entire building. The only two lives lost were Andrew Milton and Marcus “Specter” Spence.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think he is, because this Specter-wannabe was still controlling the old man after I knocked out Psystorm.”

“Well, shit.”

That about summed it up.

“So the new theory is, someone else has been manipulating Specter’s powers this whole time,” Gage said. “It had to be someone who knew the original Specter wasn’t on the island, someone who wanted to use his notoriety.”

“But you can’t just steal and use someone’s powers, right?” Dahlia asked.

Gage shook his head. “We can’t, and I’ve never heard of anyone who could, but nothing is like it used to be. People are getting powers who didn’t have them before. You’re proof of that.”

“Can’t be a power thief,” I said. “If it’s even possible, why not take the powers of everyone he’s killed so far? Janel and William and Angela and all the others. He’d be collecting the powers, not just killing us off.”

“It’s pretty obvious Marcus Spence never got his powers back last week,” Gage said. “Maybe someone else did, and they wanted us to hunt for Spence. Keep us distracted and away from whoever is really doing this. This person could have helped keep him out of prison.”

“But why stop taking care of him? He suffered up there for a long time.”

“He was a murderer, T,” Renee said. “Who cares?”

The drugs made my indignation difficult to find, so I settled on a grunt. She hadn’t seen the rotting shell Marcus Spence had become.

Renee came up with the obvious observation: “Someone had to have been paying his rent for him these last couple of months, since the final stroke. Can’t we trace that?”

“Not when it was paid in cash,” Gage said. “And he’s dead, so it’s not like we can just ask. Who could possibly benefit from wiping us out?”

Renee shrugged. “The Banes?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “Psystorm was pretty adamant about most of Specter’s followers during the War disliking him, hating him even. They were led by the strongest among them. I doubt this has been some sort of elaborate plot they’ve been cooking up since the War ended.”

“Guys?” Dahlia said. Her voice quivered, and she looked at us with the trepidation of someone who feared immediate pain if we disagreed. “What about someone in the MHC? I mean, they knew about the Warden and Fairview, and Spence couldn’t possibly have, right?”

Silence. One day on the job and she was voicing concerns I’d had and never shared out loud.

Dahlia continued: “The feds designed and maintained the prison, right? Someone in the ATF had access to the prisoners and guards, in order to fake Spence’s lock-up. Only three people there supposedly knew about the Warden. It makes sense, right?”

I thought of Rita McNally, a woman who’d been with us through all of this, who stood by the side of our parents and mentors fifteen years ago. She seemed weary, yet steadfast. Could I have been wrong in trusting her? Had Grayson, with his cheap suits and bad attitude, sold us out so he could play supervillain for a while? Was this other agent, McNally’s partner Garth Anders, even really dead? Hadn’t she said three years ago?

“It’s within the scope of probability,” Gage said. “It would help to have access to the old MHC records.”

“What would the ATF agents do if we knocked on their front door and demanded answers and records and personnel files?” Renee asked. “All the stuff you ask for when you’re investigating something.”

“Not a whole hell of a lot they could do, except throw us out or have us arrested for trespassing,” I said.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I, Renee. The Corps isn’t the only operation over-seen by the ATF. We’re a branch to them, and a defunct one, at that.”

“Well, we’re not their employees.”

“No, to them we are potential problems,” Gage said. “Why do you think McNally and Grayson hang around all the time? Support is one thing, but they’re here to watch us and report back.”

Something else was bothering me, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Something to do with Psystorm. “All we’ve got are theories,” I groused.

“Agent McNally has been helpful, yes,” Renee said, “but what has the ATF really done for us?”

“Money,” Gage replied. “They pay for everything we have at the HQ. Our uniforms, our equipment, the copter and cars. It’s not like we could afford going freelance.”

“Still,” I said, “it’s about time we demanded answers and soon. I’m sick of being taunted by this psycho-in-Specter’s clothing and suspecting everyone who’s supposed to be on my side. I want to find him. I want this done.”

Gage draped his arm around my shoulders; I leaned gratefully against his chest and inhaled the clean scent of him. I had to be stinking up the back of the ambulance. Par for the course lately.

“What about Psystorm? Will he be okay?” Dahlia asked.

“I hope so,” I said. “He may be able to tell us something more, but I used his collar. He could be out for hours, and I’m not sure breaking his ankle helped much.”

Renee flinched. “He broke your hand, T.”

“He was being controlled.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Renee, I’m sure.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, amazed at how numb my face felt. Nice drugs. “Look, guys, today sucked. It really did, but we can’t blame everyone who’s trying to help us without more proof.”

“‘Sucked’ does not encompass today,” Renee said.

“If you want poetry, hire a poet. And I’m all out of subtlety, too, so I apologize in advance if I offend anyone now or in the near future.”

“I think you’re also a little high,” Gage said.

“Probably so, my teeth feel kind of numb.” I beamed a smile at him. “The good news is, no purple vision. Not even a fleck of violet.”

“Best thing I’ve heard today.”

My drugged brain couldn’t properly catalogue the conversation of the last ten minutes. It felt as though I’d listened to someone else have it, instead of actually participating. I’d have to rely on the others to refresh my memory. Pain or not, I couldn’t have this haze over my brain for the rest of the day.
We could be attacked again, or not—it didn’t matter. We had to be ready, and I couldn’t lead if I was high. I had to lead.

“So, the way I see it,” I said slowly, measuring my words, “one of two things is going on. One, we’re going to start our search over tomorrow from scratch, because whoever is so hell-bent on killing us is still out there and gunning. Or two, with the original Specter dead, he or she assumes we think it’s over and leaves us the hell alone.”

Renee snorted sharply through her nose. “Do you really believe in option two?”

“No, but it sounds nice.”

Instead of a sneer, Renee produced a smile. She stretched her entire torso far enough to throw her arms around my neck. Her shoulder pressed into my swollen chin; I winced, but still returned her hug.

“It does sound nice,” she whispered.

“That looks so gross,” Dahlia said. “Do you have to do it?”

Renee laughed as she let go and retracted back to her regular size. “It’s my power, darling, get used to it.”

“Come on, let’s get Teresa home,” Gage said. To which Renee added, “We need to get her and Marco matching slings.”

I stuck my tongue out at her—a move that seemed quite serious at the time and not as childish as it would have without the use of narcotics—and said, “For that, you don’t get to sign my cast.”

“Good, I would have put dirty limericks on it anyway.”

The comment struck me as quite hilarious; I started giggling and couldn’t stop. I looked at Gage. His face seemed
contorted, stretched thin, very funny. “Know what really sucks, though?” I asked between intakes of breath. “I may never play the guitar again.”

Someone was snapping their fingers, trying to get my attention. I turned and found Renee in my face asking, “Could you play before?”

“No.”

She looked over my shoulder, presumably at Gage. I refused to look for fear of another giggle fit. Instead, I let them talk about transportation home and settled into a drug-induced euphoria for the duration.

T
he novelty of waking up in a hospital bed ended completely after the fourth occurrence in a week. Throbbing pain drew me from the thick darkness around my mind, from which I had ventured out once. Someone setting a broken bone in your hand will rouse you from anything short of a coma. I remembered muttering about no more meds, and then drifting until my wish came true and the morphine worked its way out of my system.

Same drab walls. Still no clock. Between the drugs and jet lag, I had more trouble than usual orienting myself. Everything felt thick, murky. I managed to turn my head slowly in both directions. I was alone. The room’s door stood open.

My right hand reached up and a bolt of pain stabbed through it. Note to self: learn to be left-handed for a while. I tilted my chin and spotted the fresh white cast from elbow to knuckles. Only the tips of my fingers were exposed, little pink sausages, slightly swollen.

The raging headache was down to a dull roar, pressing gently behind my eyes and across my chin. Great plan I had.
Follow a tip, find Specter 1, get beat up. The only plus side to the fire at the Blue Tower was our discovery of Specter 2. Unfortunately, all plus sides come with downsides, and ours was a doozy: the doppelganger had access. Access to the ATF was the only way to keep Specter out of prison and get rid of the records. Access to and knowledge of the Warden in order to kill the Metas attached to it and release our powers—more that still made no sense. How had the doppelganger managed to secure the Specter powers in the first place?