Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera (47 page)

“Here I thought you and your singed fingertips would thank me.”

“Says the Human Fire Extinguisher.”

“Windbag.”

He winked. “Thank you for refraining from a very bad pun.”

Cipher twisted around in the front seat, amusement dancing in his silver-flecked eyes. “You mean by saying you’re full of hot air?”

I groaned. Tempest blew Cipher a kiss. Cipher blew a raspberry. The pair looked more like feuding siblings than adult superheroes. I started giggling.

“Children,” Trance said, watching us in the rearview mirror, “I will turn this car right around—”

“He started it,” we three said in perfect unison. A moment of utter silence preceded a long dissolve into laughter. After the horrors of the human skin and the unsettling nature of Weatherfield, the release felt wonderful.

I relaxed into the backseat, still grinning, and pondered our electrician problem. That, at least, I could solve.

Four

Scott & Sons

A
fter a quick change back into street clothes and a glance through an outdated phone directory, I left Hill House in one of our tinted-window Sport utilities, air-conditioning blasting full speed, and music pumped up. One of the things I missed most about my old apartment was listening to anything I wanted at any volume that I wanted. My neighbors were either deaf, stoned, or never at home, so no one complained. No one ever noticed my presence, as a matter of fact, unless rent was late. Then the landlord noticed plenty. Working for a struggling gossip rag and writing freelance articles is no way to earn a living in this gasping-for-life town.

Growing up here, I knew the area by heart and had no trouble navigating my way into West Hollywood. My intended destination was Scott & Sons Electrical, and I hoped it still existed. The ad had caught my attention and jogged my memory. I’d attended high school with a boy named Noah Scott, until I changed districts in the middle of my junior year. I vaguely recalled him saying his parents owned
an electric supply store. If I was going to trust our sanctuary to anyone, my first choice was someone I had a quasihistory with—as long as his parents hadn’t sold the shop to someone else, or closed down along with hundreds of other businesses during the post–Meta War years.

I turned onto Vine and spotted the colorful storefront situated between two discount liquor stores, each advertising the lowest prices in town. The walls were relatively free of graffiti and seemed freshly painted. The red-and-white sign over the glass-and-iron doors announced Scott & Sons Electrical.

The windows were papered over, as was the front door, giving the place an air of disuse. But a plastic sign said Open and listed the business hours. I pulled the handle; an interior bell chimed.

Nerves settled into my stomach like a cloud of butterflies. I pulled harder and the door squealed as it opened. To my immediate left, a long row of fixtures dangled from the ceiling, each one apparently connected. On the wall was a bank of switches, each labeled with a code, probably for the individual chandeliers and lanterns. All shapes and sizes, from gaudy jeweled monstrosities to simple curved bamboo balloons.

On the right was a wall of inset shelving, and dozens of lamp displays. Most of them were the kind you attach directly to the wall, but several were table lamps.

Two more steps in and a warm vanilla-sugar scent sent the nervous butterflies packing. It could have been incense, or a crock of scented oil. At the far end of the narrow room,
an empty sales counter stared back at me. A door stood open behind it, a gaping black hole. No music, only the gentle squeaks of my sneakers on the polished wood floor.

“Hello?” I said, too softly. I cleared my throat, making a point of it. “Is someone here?”

A thud directly above my head promptly preceded the sound of footsteps thundering down a flight of stairs. I watched the door behind the counter, waiting halfway between it and the door. My fight or flight reflex was starting to kick in, and flight was winning.

Dirty sneakers descended from the darkness, followed by tight, ripped jeans and a T-shirt clad torso. An unbuttoned flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, flapped in the wind he created as he charged forward. I looked up, past a narrow jaw, and into the brightest green eyes I had ever seen on a human being (except for Marco, but his eyes weren’t quite natural).

If he wasn’t Noah Scott, he was definitely related. He was about my age, with spiky auburn hair and a light smattering of freckles on his sharp nose. He stood about my height, thinwaisted, muscles rippling beneath his tight T-shirt. A runner, maybe, or a swimmer. Nothing like the skinny, gangly boy I remembered from high school. That boy had enjoyed loose clothes, kept his hair shaggy and long, and he couldn’t possibly have been so handsome. Even his eyes seemed a brighter green than before.

Of course, a distance of eight years can change your perception of a person.

Slim eyebrows arched as he studied me back. Wide lips
puckered into a silent question, and he tilted his head to one side.

“Can I help you?” he asked. His voice had a rough quality, like sandpaper.

I licked my lips, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach. “Yes,” I said. “I, um, need lights.” I could have slapped myself. Obvious and stupid.

His smile broadened, baring bright white but somewhat crooked teeth. Some small amount of recognition had crept into his eyes—it could have as easily been knowing me as Ember as remembering me as Dahlia from school.

“You’re in luck, because that’s all we sell here,” he said.

I laughed, feeling like an idiot, and walked confidently up to his counter and squared my shoulders. His eyes dropped briefly to my chest, and I had the sudden, irrational urge to flee this shop and never look back.

“What kind of lighting do you need?” he asked.

“All kinds. We’re, um, remodeling an older home and a lot of the ceiling fixtures need to be replaced. That’s our biggest need right now. And installation. Ethan’s not so good at it.”

“Your boyfriend?”

“My what?”

“You said Ethan isn’t good at installation. Is he your boyfriend?”

Laughter bubbled in my chest, but I tamped it down. Maybe-Noah was much more Ethan’s type than I was. “No, he’s not my boyfriend. One of my roommates. A bunch of us are fixing up the house together.”

He walked around the counter and stopped an arm’s length away. I liked that we were the same height; I didn’t have to strain my neck to stay under his intense gaze. His eyes roamed all over. Most days, I would have walked off in a huff after being openly appraised like that. With this maybe-not-a-stranger, I rather enjoyed the attention. Even living with five other people, I was often lonely.

“Do you see anything you like?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah.” His eyebrows shot up, and I realized what I just said. “I mean, I haven’t really looked at your lights.” Eyebrows higher. “What you have to offer, I mean.” Lordy, there was nothing coming out of my mouth that didn’t sound like innuendo. Teresa would kill me if I screwed this up.

“How about some track lighting?” he asked, indicating the wall behind me. “Brightens up a room pretty quick, and you can set it on a dimmer switch. How many rooms?”

“Quite a few.” Good, simple answer to a simple question. I was back on track to having an intelligent conversation. “We don’t need all of them done at once, but there are half a dozen rooms downstairs, and at least six on the second floor.”

“The house sounds huge.”

“It’s in Beverly Hills.”

His lips parted in surprise. “Wow, that’s an interesting neighborhood to pick. Few people can afford those houses.”

Dollar signs danced between us, taunting. It was a social barrier that I’d never dealt with, growing up—at least, not from the rich side of the line. I never wanted money from my father, and I ignored my trust fund when I turned eighteen. Mom’s insurance paid most of her medical bills. Everything I
had, I earned on my own. I was no different than this man in front of me, self-made and struggling to be independent. But the squint in his eyes, the harder line of his mouth, indicated he didn’t know that. He just knew I had money. Money he could make.

“It’s a group effort,” I said. I wanted him to understand and didn’t know why. “We needed a big place with good security. A bungalow in Inglewood wasn’t going to do it for us.”

“So you’re looking for at least a dozen fixtures,” he said, as though I hadn’t spoken. “Plus installation and any necessary rewiring. Some of those old places can have exposed wires that cause shorts. Fires. You should definitely have a thorough inspection.”

I bristled. Yeah, he was milking those dollar signs. Ass. “Do you provide those services?”

“As a matter of fact, we do. Why don’t—” Footsteps thumped down the back stairs, cutting off his train of thought. We both turned toward the sound.

A girl appeared behind the counter, maybe eighteen or twenty years old. She had long black hair and equally long legs that disappeared beneath a short, white skirt. “Hey, Noah, how come I always—” Her almond-shaped eyes landed on me. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize you had a customer.”

Okay, so he was definitely my old schoolmate. Someone I obviously hadn’t made an impression on, since he’d yet to indicate he remembered me.

Noah eyed the girl’s outfit, from the white stiletto sandals to the low-cut orange tank top barely reining in her breasts. “Are you going out in that?”

“Sure.” She twirled, the flared skirt riding up a little too high for decency. “Why the hell not?”

“You look like a hooker.”

She belted out the perfect flirtatious giggle. “You think I’m going to go out and pick up some strange man to bring home? Be serious.”

“Just be careful.” He sighed, and I wondered if he’d had this conversation before.

She blew a kiss and flounced out the front door.

“Sorry about that,” Noah said.

I shrugged. “What were you saying?”

“I was going to suggest I make an appointment to inspect the property. I’ll be able to get a better idea of your needs, see the wiring as it is, and know where things are going to fit. Then I can order what I don’t have in stock, and we can start getting you guys set up.”

“Sure. What’s good for you?”

“How about right now?”

Right now?
“Um, can you just leave the shop?”

“I kind of run it myself, so I make my own hours.”

“Your brothers don’t help?”

He stiffened. No longer a businessman, he tensed up like an animal who’d been spotted by a predator. Stupid me.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” I asked, hoping to put his mind at ease so he didn’t think I was some crazy stalker. “Parker High School?”

A light came on behind his eyes and he blinked. His lips parted, and I finally saw recognition. He relaxed in the space
of a breath, going from attack-ready to laid-back with the ease of someone used to putting up a strong front. “I knew you looked familiar, I just couldn’t place you. Darla . . . no, that’s not right. A flower. Dahlia.”

I grinned. “Yeah, Dahlia Perkins.”

“We had a lot of classes together in ninth grade, didn’t we? Not so many in tenth.”

“Yeah, and then I moved.” Mom’s job necessitated the move farther south to Anaheim. It was still years before she realized six of her organs had been eaten up by cancer.

It occurred to me that if Noah was running a family-owned shop at his age, there had to be tragedy in his recent past. Had his parents died?

“Yeah, I wondered about that.” He waved one hand to indicate the shop. “My younger brother, Jimmy, helps out when he can, and Aaron, the older one, he . . . isn’t in the city anymore. He likes to travel.” He cleared his throat. “So, do you want me to follow you back to your place?”

And just like that, we’re off Memory Lane and back on topic. “Sure, I’m a block up in a black SUV.”

“Give me three minutes to lock up and get my van.”

I leaned back
in the driver’s seat, cool air trickling from the Sport’s vents, trying to catch my breath. Noah Scott. Just thinking his name made my heart race with all of my pent-up loneliness. My relationships were few and far between, the last one ending with acute mental illness. It made sense
that I’d be attracted to a cute, former-friend electrician who looked great in tight denim.

It didn’t hurt that we had a history. Sort of. Between keeping up with classes and nursing my mother through to the end of her illness, I hadn’t maintained an outside social life. No friends called me on weekends. No guys were lining up to take me out to nice restaurants. My entire dating history for the last year consisted of two awkward dates with Marco and a nonbreakup that nearly destroyed our working relationship. I just hadn’t returned his feelings, and even six weeks later I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all my fault. That if I’d just tried harder, I wouldn’t have broken his heart.

But Noah . . . I could easily be attracted to him, if I let myself.

Doubt crept in on stealthy feet as I remembered the Asian girl and her mile-long legs. Him asking about her outfit meant she kept clothes there. The banter was familiar, protective. And the look in his eyes when he realized I had money—a wall had gone up immediately, putting a distance between us where none had existed.

Why are you worrying about this when there’s a job to do?

A white service van trundled down the block to my vehicle. Work was my priority; everything else had to wait.

Five

Noah Scott

F
ifteen minutes later, I entered the security code on the gate at Hill House and it squealed open. I drove forward and waved out the window for the van to follow. His engine ground. He backed up a few feet, and then made a sharp turn toward the driveway. I watched in the rearview, amused, wondering if he had just learned to drive in the last few days. He pulled up behind me and hopped out. He wore the same jeans but had changed shirts, swapping the flannel for a blue polo with his name stitched over the right breast pocket in yellow thread. Sunlight glinted off his eyes, making them radiate emerald fire.