Trance (7 page)

I had little time to be nauseated by the sight. The kinetic energy of the shotgun blast reacted to the force field I’d instinctively created. The feedback struck me like a speeding truck and tossed me backward onto my ass. The gunman wailed and gurgled in someone else’s voice. The voice of a man not quite human, full of anger and pain and frustration, filled my ears. I lay on my back, too stunned to care if he was dead. My nerves burned. I couldn’t feel my feet.

Gage’s face loomed over mine. “Trance? Jesus, are you all right?”

My head throbbed. My tongue felt thick and dried out. I swallowed and tasted blood. I’d bitten into my lower lip. Every single joint in my arms and legs ached.

“Him?” I hissed through the pain settling into my bones.

“He’s dead. If Specter was possessing them, he’s gone now. We need to get out of here.”

“Hurts.”

“I know. Damn it, the entire motel must have heard us. I’m going to sit you up, and then get our stuff together, okay?”

I nodded. Stopped smiling when my lip twinged. He looped an arm around my shoulders and hauled me up into a sitting position. The room spun in loopy circles; I tilted sideways. Gage caught me and helped me lean back against the foot of the bed.

“It’s already starting,” I said.

“What is?”

I caught his gaze and held it, feeling a little drunk. And not the good kind of drunk. “Banes trying to kill us. They have their powers, too. Why isn’t he in jail?”

Something flickered across his face, an expression mixed with equal parts fear and fury. He cupped my face in his hands and leaned close. “Just hold on, Teresa.”

“’Kay.” The power feedback I’d experienced had fried my nerves and worn me out. I tried to stay awake while Gage darted around the room, tossing our things into his suitcase. I stared at the print on the wall. The pastel paints began to melt and run, turning the watercolor landscape into puddles and swirls.

Gage was speaking. He needed to stop mumbling. My head felt swaddled in cotton. Everything was out of focus. Strong arms wrapped around my shoulders and looped beneath my knees. I rose up into the air. Floated. So over this pain thing. Had to stay awake. Concussed people couldn’t sleep. Power-fried people really couldn’t sleep.

“Stay with me, Teresa, I’ve got you,” he whispered as we continued to float along. Far from the odors of smoke and blood and motel deodorizer.

D
isinfectant—the worst possible smell to wake up to—greeted me when the fog finally lifted. It took some effort to peel my eyelids apart. They felt weighted down, glued together. I licked my dry lips and tasted something sticky over the cut. A stark, white ceiling loomed above me, and the gentle bleep of a monitor kept me company. Had Gage taken me to a hospital?

I tilted my head and something on my neck pulled. My fingers explored upward and found a taped bandage. A monitor was attached to a cord, which led to a plastic tube clamped down on my index finger.

Except for a dark green door and matching plastic chair, the room was empty. No windows, no other furniture. Probably more dials and gizmos above my head. I had no energy to twist around and look. My stomach growled, reminding me that I was alone and didn’t know how much time had passed.

I needed to get someone’s attention.

I felt around for some sort of call button or remote control
and came up dry. Fine, I’d do it the hard way. With a snap of my fingers and flick of my wrist, a walnut-size lavender orb zinged across the room and cracked against the center of the green door. Just like a loud knock. I was getting the hang of this. Less than ten seconds passed before the door opened. I tensed, no idea who to expect.

Gage entered first, dressed in black slacks and a green shirt. He faltered just inside, his face brightening into a relieved grin. Dark smudges colored the skin beneath his eyes, betraying lack of rest. Bits of silver had sparked in his hair—something new since this morning. Or yesterday, whenever. Just seeing him there eased some of my tension.

A second man entered behind Gage, wearing a form-fitting gray jumpsuit that contrasted sharply with his ebony skin. Thick muscles rippled beneath the suit. Even his jaw looked strong, able to crack nuts with the slightest pressure. As strong as the rest of him. His name fell easily from my lips. “William,” I said.

“Hey, princess,” William Hill replied. A shy smile stole across his face. Alias Caliber, as a kid William had been the most easily spooked strongman I’d ever met. He used to shriek when Renee slithered her superflexible feet under the bathroom door. Renee … I hadn’t thought of my childhood best friend in years. Was she still alive? On her way here, wherever here was?

William stood across from me like the stone statue of a Greek god. He had been twelve when I saw him last, nearly as tall at that young age, but leaner and less muscular. Even without his superstrength, he had been keeping in shape, and
looked like he could pick me up and snap me in half without breaking a sweat.

“Where are we?” I directed the question at Gage.

It was William who answered: “Corps Headquarters in Century City. Between your state and thinking Specter was after you, Gage was out of his head when he got here yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yep. You’ve been asleep for almost thirty hours.”

Thirty hours. It was Saturday already. Crap.

“How do you feel?” Gage asked. He moved to the right side of the bed, carefully scrutinizing my face.

“I feel like I’ve been asleep for a day and a half,” I replied. “Was it the feedback from Specter?”

“We think so,” William said. “Dr. Seward is still running some tests, but it looks like you overloaded your system. The good news is you saved your own life, and Gage’s too. A shotgun blast at that range should have cut you in half.”

That conjured up a pleasant image. I barely recalled the blast. Mostly I remembered the pain. And the look on the possessed man’s face when he said to say hello to my dad. Vengeful and mocking. Odd. Specter hadn’t killed my father. I was told my father died at the hands of a man named Scar, minutes before the power loss hit.

I asked, “Who is Dr. Seward?”

“He’s on the MHC’s payroll.”

Figures. MetaHuman Control was a self-contained subdivision of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, or ATF, specializing in (according to them) monitoring
the most dangerous “firearms” in the world. Currently defunct, MHC had been organized more than a century ago, in the 1960s, and had bankrolled the Rangers for decades, providing us with the finances to police the Banes, information on their whereabouts, and a pretty nifty HQ. Throughout the Meta War, they stood by the Rangers. After the War and the loss of our powers, they hid us to protect us from an angry public. Or so they said.

William continued. “After what happened on Wednesday night, ATF called in some of the people who used to work for MHC. The ones not retired or transferred out of ATF, anyway, which is only a handful. They’re also working on locating the rest of the us.”

Us. The others were alive. Or suspected to be alive. So far, we had three out of the twelve of us who’d survived the massacre in Central Park. My mind swirled with the new information, trying to store the important bits away for later scrutiny. I was too hungry to concentrate right now. And I still didn’t recognize the name Seward.

“I don’t suppose this Dr. Seward has a theory on why I’ve got different powers?” I asked.

“I’m sure he has a theory,” William said. “He won’t say anything until he’s certain, and in this business—”

“It’s hard to be certain of anything.” Great, I got the dubious honor of being the group oddball. “Is anyone else here?”

“Renee Duvall and Marco Mendoza have found their way,” William said. “We’re having trouble finding the other seven.”

Okay, five out of twelve. And Renee was one of them. I
couldn’t help a small smile and a pang of curiosity about my old friend. How had she managed for fifteen years? Blue skin is a lot harder to hide than purple hair.

“How about a theory on why we all reactivated in the first place? Does Dr. Seward have one?” I didn’t have one of my own, so I wanted to hear what the eggheads thought. They were paid to analyze, not me. I wasn’t being paid at all, and after missing three days of work, I was certainly fired from my two remaining jobs.

William and Gage looked at each other. I couldn’t read their expressions, just that they’d had this conversation before. “No one is sure,” William said. “Right now it’s all theory, since we don’t know why we lost our powers in the first place.”

“Lost implies that they were misplaced, or that we were somehow active in their removal, which we weren’t. They were taken, not lost.”

William nodded, but didn’t reply. An awkward silence fell over the room, interrupted only by the bleep of the pulse monitor.

“Are you hungry?” Gage asked.

“Famished. How’s the room service around here?”

“It’s decent,” William said. “I’ll go see what I can scare up for you. Just try not to get out of bed until Dr. Seward comes to see you. Okay?”

I snapped off a mock salute. He departed, pulling the door shut behind him. Gage perched on the edge of the bed near my knees. “Thank you, Teresa.”

“For what?”

“For saving my life.” The bald emotion in his voice startled me.

“Well, I couldn’t let you die,” I said, falling back on humor and pretending to pout. “I owe you money.”

He blinked, then smiled. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

“You owe me money?”

“No.”

“Would you like to owe me money?”

“You’re impossible.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. He tried to be serious. The corners of his mouth twitched. I dissolved into giggles, laughing until my stomach hurt and the last wisps of fear had evaporated. Gage remained by me, his smile never quite reaching his haunted eyes.

We had survived our first battle in this strange new war, our first brush with death. I just hoped I didn’t get the giggles every time, because we would face many more before the fight was over, and I didn’t want people to think I was insane.

Dr. Angus Seward stopped by my room in the middle of a boring dinner of broiled chicken breast, rosemary pasta, and steamed snap peas, all courtesy of William. Food staples had been brought in, but the still-assembling kitchen staff hadn’t quite organized themselves. Blah or not, it was better food than I’d had in months. The carb-heavy meal filled me up quickly, and I started feeling human again. So to speak.

Gage stayed nearby and acknowledged Dr. Seward with
a nod. The older man was tall and lean, and sported a shock of more-white-than-black hair and a neatly trimmed peppered beard. A white lab coat and tan slacks completed the ensemble. He looked like a dirty icicle on two legs.

“You have quite a strong constitution, Trance,” Dr. Seward said. He held a chart against his chest. “Cipher said the combined blast blackened the motel room walls.”

News to me. And the use of our code names was distracting. MHC had its own rules of conduct when engaging Rangers. Code names were used exclusively during official business (which was technically all the time). Something about keeping private and professional lives separate.

“So am I free to get out of bed yet?” I speared another bite of chicken and twirled the fork between my fingers.

“As soon as you feel able, yes. All of your blood work is within acceptable limits, and if your appetite is any indication, you are well on your way to recovering from the power spike.”

“What does acceptable limits mean?” Gage asked.

“It means she never attended a regular physician as a teenager or adult, so all of our medical records for Trance end when she was ten years old. Her powers were completely different then. Her body and metabolism have also changed in fifteen years, so, like the rest of you, we are relearning your standard functions. With Trance, we’re practically starting over. After a few more days of observation, my conclusion will be a bit more … ah, conclusive.”

A scientist that sounded like a human being; I could learn to like this guy. “So what you’re saying is that I’m free to go,
while you keep trying to reach your conclusive conclusions about my condition?”

Dr. Seward tilted his head. “Precisely.”

“Fabulous. What about Specter?”

“As far as our records show, his physical body is still in Manhattan Island Prison. However, his astral powers, which he has obviously regained, allow him to move freely, unlike many of his compatriots. We’re doing what we can to protect you.”

“Which is what? All Specter needs is a weak or semiconscious mind to channel his will, right? That’s why he was able to attack us so easily at that motel. How do we keep him out of the HQ?”

“You’ve been safe here since you arrived, because experience tells us that Specter requires time to recharge after every possession. It’s been thirty-six hours since your interaction, so our window is closing fast.”

“He could attack us here at any time?” Gage asked.

Seward nodded. “Which is one of the reasons we are keeping the staff to minimum numbers. The fewer people running around HQ, the fewer chances Specter has to use someone against you.”

“He first showed up almost thirty years ago. In all that time, the MHC hasn’t developed protection?”

“Unfortunately, no. Powers of mind control and telepathy are difficult to fight, because they aren’t physically manifested. Trance’s original power worked through eye contact, so it had a physical limitation. Specter doesn’t even require proximity, much less contact. Technology still hasn’t provided
us with the ability to censor someone as powerful as Specter. During the War, our only real HQ protection was Static.”

“Who?” I asked. The name didn’t ring a bell.

“Static was a telepath capable of creating psyonic shields. They prevented external telepathic interference, but only to a certain radius and only when she was consciously creating them.”

“Did Static die in New York?”

“No.” A shadow of grief stole across Seward’s face. “She had a massive stroke three days before the end.”