Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera (92 page)

“I tried to change the bed myself, but I was one-armed and on medication and I ended up waking the other boy in the room. He went and told the Bacons. They told me that the middle of the night was no time for doing laundry, made me fix the bed, and then sleep the rest of the night in wet sheets and pajamas.”

Teresa made a harsh noise. She uncrossed her ankles and sat up straighter.

I focused on a smudge on the old wood floor. “That first four months or so, I had a lot of nightmares and spent a couple more nights in a wet bed. No one talked about it. No one considered counseling. Not that I would have gone. I was so angry, and I missed you guys so much. And I missed my powers, being able to fly free, to feel the wind inside of me instead of just around me. I was such a mess.”

“Why did you run away the first time?” Teresa asked after a few minutes of silence.

“To see if anyone would notice. Unless I messed up, I was invisible in that house. Mr. Bacon looked me in the face once, a few months into my sentence, and told me I should have been left in Manhattan with the Banes. Left to starve and die because Metas didn’t deserve any better.”

Teresa let out a soft slew of expletives.

“After the police dragged me back, Child Protective Services did a brief”—I made air quotes—“follow-up on my statements about the Bacons. Obviously they found nothing, and the other kids didn’t say a word about the wet sheets. The Bacons used my PTSD as an excuse for irrational behavior and promised to keep a closer eye on me. Case closed.

“I ran away a few more times over the years, pled with CPS to change my placement, but nothing happened. Sometimes I wished they’d hit me or yell at me, because at least it was an acknowledgment that I existed, you know? We were all homeschooled, so I didn’t socialize with anyone outside the house. They treated me like a ghost, something that existed but wasn’t to be acknowledged, especially after—” Shit, I was not going there.

“Especially after what?” Teresa asked.

Especially after I turned sixteen, when they figured out I was gay and made me sleep in the basement so I wouldn’t be
tempted
by the other boys in the house.

I shivered. That final year and a half had been hell. It was bad enough being the power-less son of a Ranger and a Bane, but according to my foster parents, I was also a sexual deviant who couldn’t be trusted to control myself.

“I’m sorry,” Teresa said. “I didn’t mean to push you.”

“Huh?” I finally looked up and met her simmering, tear-filled eyes. Saw sympathy and understanding, maybe a little lingering rage, but not a trace of pity.

“The look on your face just now?” she said. “It was a little bit murderous. I didn’t mean to push you into talking about things.”

“You didn’t. Honestly, you’re now one of two people who know that much about my past. Even when Dahlia and I were close, I didn’t talk about that stuff.” We might have discussed it at some point during these last few months, if Noah hadn’t been in the way. I’d already opened up to Dahlia about being gay and my reasons for not telling the others. She’d been great and incredibly reasonable when picking apart those reasons. I’d considered telling her more, about my experiences with the Bacons, just as I’d told Teresa tonight—and then that first empty skin showed up on Sunset Boulevard, and the Changelings walked into our lives.

Maybe part of me was waiting, desperately hoping Simon would find a way to separate Noah and Dahlia so that I could have my friend back. And maybe I was fooling myself into believing that would ever happen. I didn’t know. Alicia Monroe was the only person to whom I’d ever confided the whole story of my past. Of all the foster kids I’d met during my sentence with the Bacons, Alicia was the only one who’d stuck. The only one I still talked to—who knew all of my secrets.

Six years younger than me, she was only twelve when she was placed with the Bacons. We lived together for five months before I turned eighteen and moved out—all the way to Florida, matter of fact—but we bonded in that short time.

Despite our friendship, I’d had no intention of keeping in touch with her after I left for Florida. But I did. We exchanged emails for years, while I worked my way from job to job (and from anonymous guy to anonymous guy), never staying in one place (or at one beach) too long. When she graduated high school, I gave up my (not so) glamorous life as a professional beach bum and we moved to Phoenix together. We both worked while she took business classes. I enjoyed playing the big-brother role, intimidating her dates and scrutinizing her wardrobe choices. I didn’t actually come out to her until her twenty-first birthday, after a few too many tequila shots led to some fumbled groping and misunderstood feelings. When she sobered up and figured it out, she was just mad I hadn’t told her sooner.

A year after she graduated, she moved to California, and we went back to email communication only. Until January, when I’d blown back into her life for a short time.

Teresa stretched out her foot and tapped my ankle. “I’m glad you could tell me some of it.”

“Me too.”

Only a fraction of the guilt I carried had been lifted by this conversation, but I did feel a tiny bit lighter. Confiding in my friends about certain things wasn’t weak, after all. Other things, though, like my real father? Not so much. Maybe the revelation would happen without my permission, but I saw no advantage in being the one to say it first.

“So tell me more about the meeting yesterday,” she said, effectively taking the topic away from my sordid past. “Before the copter crash.”

This I could talk about. I told her everything, from St. Catherine’s Park and the first meeting with Thatcher at Bloomingdale’s, to confronting the missing Banes at the castle. I filled in what I could remember of the conversation about the Warren and finding a safe place for their children.

“They really do want the same thing,” I said. “Mai Lynn and McTaggert. They want their kids to be safe from violence. They just don’t agree on the best way to achieve that. McTaggert’s convinced that going along with this registration is the first step toward living in a Meta Concentration Camp.”

“I hate to admit it,” Teresa said, “but that’s not an unfounded fear. There’s no telling what will happen if Winstead is elected president in November.”

“I know. And what will do we do if that is our future? We’ve been given some leeway so far, because of who our parents were, but what if one day that’s no longer a valid Get Out of Jail Free card?”

“That’s why we do everything we can now, to prevent that from happening. We need the world to see our value, Ethan. Not just as aggressors against violence, but as protectors of the earth. Some of us are elementals, and our powers can change people’s lives for the better. We need the public to remember that more than the violence in our past.”

“Easier said than done.”

“No kidding.”

There was one other tidbit I needed to confess. “I probably shouldn’t have, Teresa, but I did tell McTaggert and company about the Recombinants.”

She startled, then furrowed her eyebrows. “Why?”

“To get McTaggert to understand that we Metas were in this together, and that we had a common enemy. I don’t know if it worked or not, but it seemed like the best plan at the time.”

“That’s what leadership decisions are about.”

I stared at her. “You’re not mad?”

“No. I’ve made plenty of decisions in my life that I knew other people might not support, but that felt absolutely right at the time. And you are nowhere near as hotheaded as I am, so I trust your instinct with this. Hopefully the information will help McTaggert and the others make a decision.”

“Even if it’s not to register and work toward pardons?”

“Even if. Ethan, you and I can’t predict the future, but we also can’t fear it. Not anymore. We have to listen to ourselves, know what we believe, and make our choices. We have to stand by those choices, no matter what obstacles we face down the road.”

“Listen with your heart, Ethan. Even when your mind is confused, your heart will never steer you wrong.”
My mother’s dying words, echoed again in Teresa’s.

Easier said than done.

Thirteen

The Warren

T
he next morning began with two bits of good news. The first bit was that Andrew was stable and being moved out of ICU. That intense moment of relief almost made up for the serious case of nerves I had about facing the Warren residents today.

Which leads to the second bit of good news: we were allowed back over to the island, but we were to remain within the perimeter set up around the Warren. Teresa was smart enough to secure documentation that we four, plus Aaron, would be allowed to return to the observation tower at day’s end.

Not that we didn’t trust the warden, or anything.

We got no other information out of Hudson before we departed. “You’re need-to-know status, and I’ll tell you when I think you need to know something.”

On the copter ride over, Teresa and Marco sat on opposite sides, peering intently out the windows. I could easily imagine what they were thinking as they watched the green expanse of Central Park grow larger with each passing second. I’d felt it myself just a few days ago—the anxiety, the fear, the crush of memories. The disbelief that so much beauty existed on a field of such devastating violence. Visitors to other historic battlefields must feel the same way—except that no one would ever make a national park commemorating the battles fought during the Meta War.

I’d wanted to bring something for the Warren kids, a food treat of some sort, but the warden denied my request. Nothing could chase away the fear from yesterday’s explosion, I knew that. I’d wanted to try, though. More than anything else today, I wanted to see Muriel smile.

The copter landed in the same clearing in the park and was met by a uniformed guard. Simon and I climbed out first, then moved aside to give Teresa and Marco a moment. That first step back onto ground tainted with the blood of your family and friends—there’s nothing quite like it. They paused briefly to look around, then joined us so the copter could take off. I held the whipping air at bay, creating a bubble of calm as they took it all in.

“I’ve seen it from the observation tower so many times,” Teresa said, “but being here . . .”

“It’s not the same,” I said.

She turned toward the north, staring ahead through the trees, as though she could see events of the past playing out in the shadows. Marco shuffled closer, put a hand on her shoulder and whispered something. I couldn’t hear, but he snapped her out of it. Marco hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words since his arrival last night. Whenever he did choose to speak nowadays, he used his words effectively.

The single guard followed us halfway, then stayed at what I assumed was his assigned post. To the east, about fifty feet away, stood another guard. They were probably placed all the way down to the garden. The idea of armed guards watching over the playground sent cold chills down my spine.

We emerged onto Fifty-Ninth Street a few minutes later and found it eerily silent. No sounds from the playground, no one standing on the sidewalk. I spotted a few guards here and there around Columbus Circle, but saw none of the Warren residents. We quickened our pace as we crossed the street.

The door to the Warren opened. Aaron-in-Scott’s-face emerged first, with Derek Thatcher right behind him. Aaron scanned the group until our eyes met, and then he smiled. A broad, relieved smile, and my stomach flipped. “Scott” sported a slightly blackened right eye. Was that a real wound, or something he affected for his disguise? I wouldn’t know for sure until we were alone again and I could see his real face.

“How are the wounded doing?” Simon asked, once everyone who didn’t know one another was quickly introduced.

“Well, considering everything,” Aaron replied. “So far, no complications or infections.”

“Small miracle,” Thatcher said, his tone as dark as his expression. “Minimal field care for people who should be attended to in a real hospital. Speaking of which, how’s—?”

Before he could finish, the door banged open and Jinx stormed out. Dark bruises covered his bare forearms and his lower lip was puffy and split—two things I hadn’t noticed the day before. He hesitated briefly when he saw Teresa and Marco, then gave me his full attention. “How’s my son?” he asked.

“Stable,” I replied, ignoring the unintentional double meaning in his question. “Andrew was moved out of ICU this morning, and the doctors are optimistic that he’ll pull through.”

Some of Jinx’s furious energy diminished. “Thank you for saving him.”

“I just flew him out of here. The doctors saved him.”

“Even so, it’s a debt I won’t forget, Tempest.”

“Tell you what. You can repay me by helping to keep the peace around here until this lockdown is over.”

Jinx’s expression clouded, but the pointed look Thatcher gave him confirmed my suspicions that Jinx had already made his dislike of the lockdown known. And it made me wonder if the split lip happened after I took Andrew away.

“This is an extremely volatile situation,” Teresa said, taking point in the conversation. “I think we can all agree on that. I think we can also agree that overpowering the guards and breaking out is something we can easily do, if we put our minds to it. You’ve stayed here these last eight months for a variety of reasons, including the work Simon and I are doing to secure your freedom. We do not want to let yesterday’s violence destroy the progress we’ve made.”

“We don’t?” Jinx snarled. “People I care about died yesterday, Trance. My son almost died. Violence is about all I can think of right now.”

“Everyone is restless and afraid,” Thatcher said, as much to us as to Jinx. “We feel like targets, waiting to be shot at. Our small group stayed on the move for just that reason.”

“I understand that more than you think,” Teresa said. “I have people back in Los Angeles in a known location. I worry for their safety every single minute. But living in fear means those who attacked us win. It’s what they want.”

“What would you have us do? Pretend things are normal? Allow the children to play outside where another copter could be dropped on them?”

Teresa stiffened. “Hardly. But reacting out of fear is never the best move. The warden is investigating the crash—”

“He’ll find what he wants to find.”

“I think he’ll surprise you.”

Thatcher grunted.

The Warren door opened a third time. Muriel’s mother Alexia came out with a man I’d seen in the dining room several times—Gilbert Reynolds, low-level heat manipulator. Our group lengthened out to create a circle of conversation. Alexia stood on my right, while I stayed close to Teresa, keeping Jinx opposite me at all times.

“I’m so sorry about Keene,” I said quietly to Alexia. “I know what he meant to the kids.”

She nodded, her red-rimmed eyes puffy from crying. “Thank you. I hope you don’t mind, but as Muriel’s parents, this conversation seems like one that directly concerns us.”

“This conversation concerns everyone who lives here.”

Jinx made a derisive snort.
“
‘Lives here’?” he repeated. “You say that as though we have a choice in our residence in this godforsaken place. As large as it is, it’s still a prison with guards and walls that compel us to stay.”

“And some of us are trying to change that,” I snapped back. “We want to bring the walls down so that staying here
is
a choice.”

“Some choice that will be, when no place else in the world will have us.”

“It’s familiar ground. It’s defensible, especially with our powers.”

“Would you want to live here?”

The question shut me up faster than a punch in the mouth. My home was in Los Angeles, with my teammates and friends. New York never had been and never would be my home—not without a big damn reason. Every pair of eyeballs in the circle was fixed on me, but the only set I met belonged to Aaron. His comment about finding a home here came back to me very clearly. He watched me with open curiosity, and more than any other time, I wanted to see the real him. To know what Aaron, and not “Scott,” was thinking.

And I had no idea
why
that was so important.

“My family is in Los Angeles,” I said to Jinx. “I go with them.”

Aaron looked at the ground.

Jinx glared. “Until the government tells all of you to pack it up and head east.”

“That’s one of a hundred possible worst-case scenarios,” I said.

“Oh no, worst case has them gathering up every Meta you’ve helped them register, stashing us here, and then bombing this entire island into the next century.”

“We’d never let that happen,” Teresa said. “My powers alone could stop a missile before it hits.”

“But could you stop twenty at once?”

“This discussion is pointless, isn’t it?” Aaron asked. He’d lost his accent, and I couldn’t tell if he’d noticed—or if anyone else noticed. “Humankind hasn’t claimed the copter crash, but everyone knows it was them. Between that bit of terrorism and the murder of Mark Sanderson, no one is going to step forward and admit to being Meta.”

“That’s exactly what we need to prevent,” Teresa said. “We are almost the entirety of the adult Meta population. Are there others hiding out there who were never involved in the War? Probably, but I don’t see them coming out now. Biggest concern is for the younger Metas. The twenty-year-olds and teenagers who are just discovering the incredible and scary things they can do. All of the other Mark Sandersons out there who need protection.”

“And you’re going to protect them?” Jinx asked.

“Someone has to try. Rangers HQ used to be a safe place for Metas. Maybe the Warren can be that now.” She pointed past us, at Central Park. “Maybe something good can come out of this mass graveyard after all.”

A safe place for them
. Such a thing seemed impossible, given the obstacles piling up against us. I’d grown up around Metas, knowing I’d one day be a member of the Ranger Corps, and I’d always understood the responsibility of having superpowers. And then at thirteen I’d lost that support and been thrown into a waking nightmare. A nightmare with no refuge for an abandoned, traumatized teenager who still hadn’t gone through the hell of coming out of the closet.

After coming to Manhattan and meeting Muriel and Andrew, after seeing the young futures still at stake, I finally understood Teresa’s vision. I understood why people like Kate and Denny needed our unconditional support. We couldn’t hang on to labels like Rangers and Banes. Like it or not, we needed each other.

“Listen with your heart, Ethan.”

I finally understood what my heart was telling me.

Thatcher, Alexia, and Reynolds were staring at Teresa with open interest, Simon with respect. Marco hadn’t moved from his position flanking her, and he hadn’t offered anything to the conversation except flat stares. Aaron had withdrawn; he seemed to be contemplating something, and I couldn’t guess what.

Only Jinx still looked ready to do battle. “What good will it do any of these kids to come out and say they’re Meta?” Jinx asked.

Marco growled deep and low, and then said, “Not all of us can hide what we are. Some wear our differences on our skin.” Between the brown and black splotches of fur and his glowing green eyes, his point was perfectly made.

“And some don’t realize there are other options than using their powers to rob a bank,” I said, thinking of the Green we’d arrested earlier in the week. Maybe if we’d been more aggressive this last half year in locating young Metas, we’d have been able to prevent her from doing something so stupid. “Everyone who’s old enough to remember the War is afraid of us. How do you think those people are going to react when their sixteen-year-old honor roll student suddenly starts lighting fires with their mind?”

“Hill House is only so big,” Teresa said. “The Warren could be the start of a larger community, a place where no Meta has to feel alone.” She looked at me, and I held her gaze. “Best-case scenario.”

“You have an amazing ability to see the best in people,” Jinx said to Teresa. “Amazing and naïve.”

She bristled and a dark flush heated her cheeks—
uh-oh
. “Naïve? Any naïveté I had died the day Specter’s followers killed my father, somewhere not very far from here. My innocence died the day I watched kids not much older than me be murdered by people who are probably in that building over there.” She took a menacing step closer to Jinx, the air around her snapping with energy.

“Don’t ever think I’m doing this for you, Mr. McTaggert. I’m doing this for Caleb and Muriel and Andrew, and for all the other kids here, so they
never
have to see the horrors I saw. I’m doing this for the dozens, if not hundreds, of teenagers out there who are realizing just how different they are, so that they never have to feel as alone and abandoned as my friends and I did, growing up. So condescend to me again, I fucking dare you.”

What’s that old saying? You could hear a pin drop?

No one spoke. Hell, no one seemed to breathe for several seconds following Teresa’s verbal smackdown. Even Jinx shut the hell up.

“Do you really think they’ll come?” Thatcher asked. “Either to you, or here to us?”

“They’ll come,” Aaron said before Teresa could reply. “They might not come out to their families first. They might be too scared of being shut out or kicked out because of what they are to tell the people they love. But we’ll give them a solid place to land, so they don’t end up on the streets. Or worse.”

Even though he still wore Scott Torres’s face, Aaron’s voice was his own, and the emotions were genuine. The intent, confident delivery was born of experience and the understanding of someone who’d lived through it. But who was saying these things? Aaron Scott? One of the many other people King the Changeling had absorbed two months ago?

I stared at him, silently asking for clarification, but he wouldn’t look at me.

“Scott’s right, and nothing more can be done until the warden completes his investigation,” Teresa said when Thatcher made no further comment. “Hopefully we’ll have some information soon.”

Thatcher tugged Jinx away, and the two moved down the sidewalk.

“I’d offer to show you around,” Simon said to Teresa, “but I’d really like to check on Mai Lynn.”