Trance, p.4
Trance, page 4
I smiled warmly, feeling a bit like an ass, and accepted his offer. I bounced to the ground and slung my knapsack over my shoulder.
“Sure I can’t buy you dinner?” he asked.
One more hash mark on the scorecard of things I would owe. No, thanks. “Thank you, again, for the ride, Cliff. I can manage it from here. Take care.”
His left eye twitched. He nodded. “Yeah.” With that, he pivoted and strode toward the diner. Okay, waddled more than strode.
My stomach grumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten for hours. I eyed the convenience store. Food in there was overpriced, and I might need my cash for the rest of the trip south. The cold fist of hunger tightened around my belly. Dinner with Cliff, even if he gave me the squiggles, was sounding better and better.
Food later. Bathroom first, and then back on the road.
I chose the convenience store’s bathroom, since I needed a key to get in. I wanted the privacy, if only for a few minutes. On my way to the rear of the store, key in hand, I passed a large display rack of newspapers. Half a dozen different headlines screamed information at me. A man was placing fresh copies of the Valley Gazette on a smallish rack near the bottom.
“Fairview Hospital Fire, Two Dead, Accident or Arson?” Oddly professional headline from what looked like a low-budget gossip rag, if the “Aliens Impregnated Me” story below it was any indication.
After washing my hands, I took a moment to let my hair down. A few more purple streaks had sprouted along my part, working their way from root to tip. It might have been a nice look if my damned eyes hadn’t gone all amethyst on me. Unusually colored contact lenses had been banned decades ago, when civilians started going around pretending to be Metas, and several got themselves killed. Even after the War, the ban wasn’t lifted. No one wanted to be a Meta. Few wanted to remember we’d ever existed.
I leaned closer and inspected my hairline. The lightest purple haze had settled over the skin at the top of my forehead, like the start of a bruise.
“Now I’m really going to scare the locals.”
Roughly half of the old Rangers had been able to blend into a crowd. I’d managed to pass, even with faint lavender streaks, and to use my Trance power without being caught. Now I looked like a reject from a last-century bubblegum band.
A shadow flickered behind me, reflected in the mirror. I froze. How the hell had someone gotten in? A woman’s face watched me, out of focus. Underwater. Eyes that were there one instant, and hollow the next. A coalescing swirl of color and nothingness. Impossible.
I spun around. A single toilet and handicap railing faced me. I was very much alone. Chalking it up to lack of sleep and fried nerves, I stuffed my hair back into the cap and left.
Back outside in the cool night air, I started to relax. Hunger was making me see things in the mirror. I probably should have splurged on overpriced snack cakes, just to stave off my admission to the funny farm.
I navigated my way through the maze of the parking lot, past dozens of tractor trailers in long rows of angled spaces that stank of rubber and oil. Their drivers were either eating or sleeping. Furniture deliveries, grocery trucks, and unmarked trailers of all sorts, with license plates from across the country.
Something shuffled behind me; I froze. I glanced over my shoulder—only shadows cast by the trucks and moonlight. Their presence was oppressive, ominous. The rumble of traffic seemed far away, the din of the fuel plaza even farther. I doubled back, determined to get out of the truck maze and into the open.
As I passed a silver cab, something spun me around. The cloth knapsack fell off my shoulder, hit my ankle, and tripped me. I hit the grill with my left shoulder, cracked the back of my head, and saw stars. The sunglasses clattered to the ground. A meaty hand closed around my throat and squeezed, while a second grabbed my right wrist, twisted it, and pinned it against the cab by my head.
Idiot!
Panic hit me in the face like ice water. I raised my knee, hoping to find a soft target, and hit nothing. Hot air wafted over my face, reeking of stale smoke.
“Guess I wanted my twenty bucks’ worth after all,” Cliff said, coating my sense of smell with his noxious breath.
My stomach quailed. I tried to scream. His hand constricted my throat, and he pushed his gut against my stomach. He had at least six inches on me, plus seventy pounds of flab in all the wrong places. I put my left hand on his shoulder and tried to push—like shoving against a granite pillar. I needed a weapon, something to get him off before he contaminated me with his stink. And worse.
A car rumbled past on the opposite side of the lot, its headlights briefly illuminating our row, giving me a glimpse of my fingertips. Their purplish tinge. The power orbs. I didn’t need a weapon. Hell, I was a weapon—untested, but had there ever been a better time?
I grinned, channeling my fear into my hands. The skin warmed.
“What’s so funny?” Cliff asked, squeezing my throat just a little harder.
My new eyes met his soggy gaze. He blinked. His brow furrowed. Ignoring my seizing lungs, I raised my left hand and snapped my fingers. Instantly a lavender orb of energy appeared and hovered above my palm. He gaped at it, the pale light casting a bizarre pallor on his jowls. His grip loosened, and I sucked in air.
“Let me go,” I said, “and I won’t shove this orb up your ample ass.” I found hitherto undiscovered confidence in the oxygen and my newfound powers. Okay, maybe they weren’t actually my powers, but they were proving seriously useful.
“What the hell are you?” he asked, tightening his grip again. The lack of constant air was making me light-headed, and I struggled to keep the orb bright enough to scare him.
“I’m annoyed.” He wanted to do this the hard way, fine. “And you’re in pain.”
His eyes widened. I slammed the orb into his left shoulder with a solid crack. His entire left side snapped backward as he bellowed—surprise or pain, I didn’t care which—and his hold loosened. I shoved. He hit the filthy pavement with a splat and rolled onto his left side, groaning.
Inhaling greedily, I touched my sore throat, disgusted by the slick substance I found. I wiped my hand on my jeans, then snapped my fingers. A second orb flared to life, roughly the size of a chicken’s egg. Paler and translucent, this one wouldn’t hurt as much; the larger the orb, it seemed, the less solid its form.
Probably. Granny Dell’s orbs had been nothing quite so controlled—one of the reasons, according to Dad, that she’d retired so young. Further testing of my orbs was required, and the perfect subject was squirming at my feet.
I pushed Cliff’s shoulder with the toe of my sneaker, and he rolled onto his back. He stared up at me with glassy eyes. His shirt wasn’t torn and the area of impact wasn’t bleeding, but I bet he’d have one hell of a bruise. I loomed over him with the orb and poised my hand dramatically over his crotch.
“Something tells me I’m not the first girl you’ve demanded your twenty bucks’ worth from,” I said, indignation boiling over.
My entire life I’d felt helpless to stop the violence around me. Compared to the more powerful Rangers and trainees, Trancing someone seemed weak and stupid. My cowardice in Central Park had haunted me through my adolescence and four different foster homes while I ignored the school bullies I should have stood up to and absorbed the taunts of my foster siblings, who knew I was different but weren’t sure why.
I came to understand that I couldn’t count on anyone but myself, so I kept my head down and lived my life, the rest of the world be damned. I tried to block out the violence running rampant in the decaying cities and in the hearts of people I passed in the street every day. For years I’d felt weak and naked and unreliable, and now I stood with the power to take some of that control back. To make my life mean something.
Very cool.
And really friggin’ scary.
“Please,” he muttered.
“Please what?” I asked. “Please don’t burn my balls off? Would ‘please’ have stopped you from raping me?”
He didn’t respond, which was answer enough. I bent at the waist. Several strands of my hair fell loose from the disheveled cap and curled purple around my face. In the pale parking lot lights, I must have looked terrifying, because he started to whimper like a puppy whose tail I’d just ground into the pavement.
“How about we make a deal?” I said. “You get to keep your dick, and in exchange, you tell your friends about this. Let them think about me the next time they pick up a hitchhiker with the expectations of getting a blow job in exchange for miles.”
He nodded, still whimpering, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Who are you?”
“Trance?”
The new voice broke my concentration. The orb disappeared. I snapped my head toward the sound, intent on giving the arrival a taste of my annoyance. The barb died on my lips, as did all thoughts of the man at my feet. I gazed at a pair of black and silver eyes that shimmered and danced, swimming in brilliance, like a starry night sky.
A man about my age stood on the sidewalk, his lean, athletic body dressed snugly in black jeans, a black sweater, and a leather bomber jacket. He had a firm jawline, tousled brown-blond hair, and dark eyebrows that creased in a sharp V as he stared at me as if a third arm were growing out of my forehead. His face had changed, narrowed and aged, but those beautiful eyes were unmistakable. Eyes I hadn’t seen in a lifetime.
“Gage?” I asked.
“Call me Cipher. Remember?”
I did remember. Vividly. Then fifteen years old, Gage “Cipher” McAllister had been the senior trainee. The last time I’d seen him had been at a hospital in Princeton, New Jersey, two days after we lost our powers. The day MHC (Meta-Human Control) separated us kids and divvied us up to foster homes ill-equipped to handle us. We’d passed each other in the corridor. His dark brown eyes had looked so empty, the silver barely there. Haunted. Dead.
He stood in front of me again, those engaging flecks sharp and bright; the last person I’d seen then, and the first I was seeing now. I was surprised as hell by his random appearance at a highway truck stop. At the same time, I felt an odd sense of rightness in having him there.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Interrupting something, apparently. Everything under control?”
I spared an eyebrow quirk for Cliff, who winced and closed his eyes. “Yep.” I gave Cliff a sharp nudge. “Hey, buddy, remember what we talked about?”
He nodded. Each bobble shrank and expanded the doughy flesh beneath his first chin.
“Good.” I stepped back and waved a hand at the open parking lot to my left. “Now get the hell out of here.”
Cliff wasted no time scrambling to his knees and then his feet. Something greenish-brown stained the back of his shirt and trousers, and I didn’t want to imagine what nasty things had pooled together to create that special color. He lumbered down the row of trailers, stumbling a few times in his haste, hurling curses each time he stepped on his own foot. His ample backside made quite a nice target. I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together, creating lavender sparks, and debated a parting shot.
Gage’s hand gripped my forearm, warm and firm and unmistakably telling me not even to think about it. The sparks diminished. I yanked out of his grip and took a step back, scowling.
“How are you, Teresa?” he asked.
“I’ve had better days.”
“You look different.”
I quirked an eyebrow. “Different good or different bad?”
“Just different.” He reached out and flicked at a lock of purple hair. “I remember this—not the eyes or those powers. That wasn’t you.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
My fingers trembled as the adrenaline surge from Cliff’s attack began to wear off. Thank God for my new powers. Having Gage there made me feel strangely safe when I should have been more cautious; I didn’t know this adult. I yanked off the cap and let the rest of my hair tumble down around my shoulders. “So can I assume your powers are back, too?”
“They came back last night.” A flash of pain passed across his face, leaving its shadow behind. Deeper shadows lurked beneath his eyes, hinting at hidden agony he couldn’t quite put into words. “Not an experience I want to repeat. Ever.”
“I hear that. And I think whatever reactivated us had a few flaws. I seem to have gotten my grandmother’s powers back this morning, or some screwed-up version of them.” I snapped and an orb flared to life. I tossed it at an empty glass bottle; it exploded in a shower of shards.
“Wow,” Gage said.
“I’m still getting the hang of it.”
He glanced around at the shifting shadows and rows of quiet semis. “We should get out of here.”
“Definitely.” I slung the knapsack over my shoulder with the grease spot facing outward and followed him through the parking lot. “How did you find me, anyway?”
He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, a very boyish gesture that betrayed his discomfort. He fished into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a Vox. “I picked up your signal briefly outside of Salem. I found it again ten minutes ago when, I’m assuming, you arrived here at the truck stop.”
I nodded, affirming his assumption. There were only so many direct routes from Oregon to L.A., so running into each other wasn’t entirely implausible. “My dad’s Vox was with my stuff. I’m glad it still works.”
“Me too.” His mouth twitched into a pained frown. “Controlling my powers again is a bitch. It’s hard trying to filter everything like I used to. Putting all of the information in its own place.”
“I bet.” Relearning control of his hypersenses had to be a pain (no pun intended). My stomach grumbled, reminding me again of its empty state. The adrenaline was gone and a gentle ache had begun at the base of my skull. “You know, I wish you’d found me before we left Salem. I think the trip would have been a lot more pleasant.”
Gage’s eyebrows knotted and his eyes narrowed. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, just unnerved me a bit.”
He didn’t seem convinced. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished,” I said before I could stop myself. The last thing I needed was to explain why the diner was out of my price range. “Where’s your car?”
“In front of the motel.”
“Staying the night?”
“I planned to, yes, and then get a fresh start in the morning.”
Not a terrible idea. I felt disgusting and was desperate for a hot shower. “I don’t suppose they have any more rooms available?” I asked, even though I couldn’t afford one. No sense in saying so and advertising my poverty to Gage. For all I knew he was a successful investor.
“The desk clerk said I got the last one, but there’s plenty of space to share,” he replied.
Share? Spend the night locked in a room with a strange man. The idea raised my hackles, but knowing it was Gage—a former Ranger who understood what I was going through, to an extent—kept me from falling into full-on panic. And it beat sleeping in an alley or under a car.
I flashed him a smile, using it to hide my apprehension. “Should we flip a coin to see who gets the floor?”
He shook his head. “I’ll take the floor.”
“It’s your room, Gage, I was kidding.” I rolled my eyes at his mile-wide gentlemanly streak. “It’s not like I think you’ll attack me in my sleep, and as long as you’re not a warrants officer, we’ll get along fine.”
Gage stared, and I could have bitten off my own tongue. What was wrong with me? I don’t let things like that just slip out.
“Warrants officer?” he repeated. “Were you in jail?”
I tried to shrug it off. Four years ago, an accessory to burglary charge had landed me in the Coffee Creek Correctional Facility, where I spent the worst twelve months of my life. Which had, naturally, led to lack of good employment opportunities and the current state of my craptastic life. Not that I was doing so hot before I agreed to drive the van for a guy I thought I loved in exchange for 20 percent of the fenced merchandise. The money was supposed to buy us tickets to Arizona and a fresh start.
Now I couldn’t technically leave the state of Oregon for two more years. Not that it had stopped me last night. “Let’s just say I had a rebellious, misspent youth and not dive into details.”
“Fair enough. You know, we got our powers back, so there’s a chance the Banes did, too. I think the state of Oregon can forgive your debt if we’re being called back into service.”
Called into service. Put like that, it sounded almost noble. Would the American public, still recovering from the previous decade’s atrocities and the loss of their largest cities, readily embrace a new generation of Rangers? Or would they sooner burn us all at the stake?
“You know, you’re really starting to look the part,” he said as he led the way toward the motel. “The purple becomes you.”
“I’m glad.” I tossed a lock of hair over my shoulder, relaxing under the spell of the friendly banter. “I’d hate to be stuck with a color that looked awful. Can you see me with green hair? Or orange, even? I’d look like a carrot.”
“But a cute carrot.”
I grinned. At the tender age of ten, such a simple compliment from Gage would have sent my girlish pulse racing. I noticed our direction and asked, “Hey, aren’t we eating?”
“The motel room has take-out menus. It might be better to eat in until we know for sure what’s going on. Room’s the third one over,” Gage said, pointing.
I followed his lead, a few paces behind. The door next to ours opened abruptly and a man in torn jeans and a stained flannel shirt stepped out, right into my path. I backpedaled and started to fall. The stranger caught me by the arm. Before my instinct to groin-kick him took over, a greasy blonde stepped out next to him. Her hair was unkempt, her clothes frayed, and she had a big black duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
“Sorry about that,” the man said. “Didn’t see you comin’.”
