Changeling (28 page)

“What about Aaron?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Jimmy.”

“Can’t we compromise here?” Noah said. “The same person or people are hunting us. We have a common enemy, so let’s fight them together.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I narrowed my eyes; he clenched his jaw. I planted hands on hips; he stood up, keeping his ground. Point for point, he matched me. Not backing down. Not this time. I didn’t
want to hate him. I didn’t want to challenge him. I just didn’t know how much longer I could keep trusting him, when he seemed intent on breaking me at every turn.

“Please, Dahlia,” he said.

“We both know you can force me to stay. Will you?”

“Of course not.” He seemed offended by the question. Too damned bad. “Please, just work with us.”

I resisted because I desperately wanted to hurt him, wound for emotional wound, the way he’d hurt me—intentional or not. Just not with so many lives at stake. I had watched my mother get sicker and sicker until cancer had all but eaten her away. Caliber died because I was afraid to try to stop the fire from spreading. Teresa almost died, and now Abram Kinsey . . . no one else. Not because of me.

“No,” I said. Noah looked crushed until I added, “This time, you’re working with me.”

“Okay,” he said without hesitation.

“I need to get across town.”

“We dumped the car,” Jimmy said.

“No kidding. Thoughts?”

“We could take a bus,” King said.

“A bus?”

He had no face at the moment, so I couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious. Noah, though, seemed to think the latter. “Are you nuts?” he said.

“No one will be looking for us on public transportation,” King said.

“He’s got a good point,” Jimmy said.

“You don’t get to vote on this, because you’re staying here.”
I raised my hand to silence the protest about to issue from his open mouth. “Someone needs to look after your dad, and we can’t haul him across town in his condition.”

Jimmy glared at me without protesting further. He understood his role. I hated leaving any of them behind, but Kinsey’s wound meant he had to stay immobile. He needed time to heal, and he couldn’t be left alone.

To King, I said, “You’ll need a face if we’re going out in public.”

He tilted his head to the side, thinking. His entire body shimmered, going out of focus. Smaller, thinner, darker. He refocused, wearing the illusion of Nadine Lee. The same skirt and tank top I remembered from two days ago, hair long and straight. It was effective. Until he spoke in his mechanical, not-quite-right voice, and said, “How’s this?”

“That’ll do,” I said. “Noah?”

He shimmered immediately, someone already in mind. I watched him morph into a completely different person. Not just anyone, but the gum-smacking, pink-haired waitress from Mallory’s Table, wearing the same outfit I’d worn to the restaurant, all the way to the sandals. He didn’t miss a detail.

Noah squeezed Jimmy’s shoulder. “We’ll call when we know something.” To me, he said, “Are you sure about this?”

“No,” I said. “But we don’t have a choice.”

King sashayed over to us, “her” heels clicking on the wooden floor. “Where are we going?”

“Century City,” I said. “Apparently on a bus, unless anyone has a better suggestion?”

No one did.

Noah and I
sat together, with King in the seat in front. Passengers boarded and disembarked the bus at steady intervals, providing us with a rotation of grins and winks from the men (and the occasional woman).

The bus approached our stop and slowed. I nudged Noah, who smacked King on the shoulder, and the three of us exited the bus. So far so good.

I led them to the corner of the next block, glad the city streets were relatively quiet. The neighborhood was seeing a growth spurt, with many older buildings being torn down in favor of low-rent housing, which meant most of the activity was construction related. We had to disappear fast.

Another block away, our destination came into view—the high security gates of the old Ranger Corps Headquarters, itself a renovated movie studio lot. Beyond the twelve-foot, razor wire–lined fence, I saw the rising edifices of the Housing Unit and the Base. Two of the three buildings to survive January’s battle with Specter.

“Are you sure they’d come here?” King asked.

“No,” I said.

“Great. How do we get inside?”

“There’s only one way in.” I started across the street. “We try the front door.”

Twenty-three

Century City

T
he intricate iron gate stood chained and locked. Rusted hinges showed neglect, unused since we abandoned it six months ago. Down the main avenue, past an untended hedge, were the charred remains of the Medical Center. It was never cleaned up after that fateful day when the Ranger Corps ceased to exist—when we pulled away and became . . . well, whatever it was we were.

If they were inside somewhere, they hadn’t come in this way.

“Should we say ‘Open Sesame’?” Noah asked.

King grasped the gate chain in his hands. Nadine’s mouth twisted into a grimace, the strain creasing “her” smooth forehead as “she” pulled. Grunted. Pulled harder. A link snapped. The metal chain fell away from the gate. He yanked, forcing it open against the will of the automatic device long locked against entry. The hinges screamed, then gave.

We slipped inside the gate, and King pushed it closed. He wrapped the chain back around to offer the illusion of not
being altered. Once inside, both of them dropped their glamours. Noah seemed to have a harder time letting go, and the change left him red-faced and breathing hard. He shrugged off my questions, and we walked down the main avenue, sticking close to the hedge.

Two options presented themselves: the Base or Housing. The Base had been the world’s most intricate gymnasium, with exercise facilities for any type of power imaginable. Self-defense classes, stamina testing, even fun activities for the child Rangers (five of whom were now my partners). The roof had a helicopter pad, the basement two thousand square feet of storage.

The Housing Unit looked like an apartment complex, and really, that’s what it was: eight stories of facilities that ranged from single-room dorms and communal bathrooms to single-family apartments that comfortably fit adults and their children. The cafeteria was there, on the first floor, along with conference rooms and a social lounge.

My friends had grown up here, as had their parents and mentors, and generations before them. I’d never been here during the heyday of the Corps, when the halls were bustling with activity. Adults and children of all ages, living and working in a safe environment; never imagining it would one day look so abandoned, so forlorn. So foreboding.

I’d never shared their common history.

“Which one?” Noah asked.

Overhead, a raven squawked, loud and long. I looked up, shielding my eyes against the glare of noon sunlight. The
ebony bird circled low. I caught a flash of glowing green eyes, and my heart leapt. The raven swooped down, cawed, and flew off toward the Housing Unit.

“It’s Onyx,” I said, and began to run. Across the empty parking lot and a small grassy lawn, I finally burst through the downstairs doors.

The lobby was dusty and smelled of must and disuse. Marco stood there, in his human form, smiling like a thirsty man who’d just seen water for the first time in days. A handful of scratches littered his face, but he seemed otherwise unhurt.

I fell into his arms, never so glad to see him in my life. He returned the fierce hug.

“We were scared for you,
Ascua
,” he said. “Everything happened so quickly, and we were unable to call.”

“Coming here was a lucky guess.”

Marco glanced over my shoulder. If King’s odd appearance surprised him, it didn’t show on his face. “And them?”

“It’s another long story, but please, trust them. We’re all after the same enemy right now, and we need every advantage possible. Is everyone else okay?”

He blanched. Bad sign.

“What?”

“Come on.” He grabbed my wrist and pulled.

I let him lead me down the dim corridor toward the conference rooms; Noah and King kept up. We passed the first door and stopped in front of the second. Marco knocked twice, then opened it. The conference room had a long bank of windows, allowing in good light and giving a view of the
front parking lot. He’d seen us coming easily enough. The table was pushed to the far wall, chairs stacked on top of it. A cot had been installed in the far corner, hovered over by a figure on a stool.

That figure spun the stool around—Ethan. He stood up when he saw me. A fresh burn covered his left cheek, as glaring red as his hair. His left hand was bandaged in white gauze and hung limply by his side. He blocked the figure on the bed. Cold fingers skated down my spine.

“What happened?” I asked, stepping into the room.

“They blindsided us,” Ethan said.

He moved aside, giving me a good view of Renee. My face crumpled. She lay flat on her back, eyes closed, a thin blanket pulled up to her waist. Her arms and chest were covered with bandages, all oozing red and orange in various places. Two spots on her throat and cheek sported dark, blistered burns the size of apples, an oddly purple color on her smoky blue skin. More than that, though, was the loss of her long, shiny blond hair. It had once hung to her waist, and now it curled close to her chin in dark, singed tendrils.

A heavy sob stuck in my throat. I inhaled several times, trying to unstick my voice.

“Who did that?” Noah asked, saving me the effort.

“Some sort of firestarter,” Ethan replied. “A Meta.”

“A Meta?” I said. “Are you sure?”

Ethan furrowed his eyebrows. “Yeah, Dal, I’m sure. The bastard had flames flying from his fingertips. He grabbed Renee from behind and held her while he burned right through her clothing. I heard her screaming.”

Oh God.

“We were on our way to the police station to speak with Gage when you called,” Marco said, circling around to stand next to Ethan. “We were forced off the road and into a telephone pole. The driver got out of his car and began shooting fire at us.”

“Sent a building up,” Ethan said. “Hit a civilian. He knocked me for a loop, so Renee tried to wrap the pyro up in her body.” He winced at an unspoken memory. “We heard sirens, and then he bolted. We shouldn’t have run, but we did.”

“And now the police want you, too,” Noah said.

“These people have a pyro working for them,” King said. His odd voice made Ethan cringe. I had gotten used to it.

“Who are these people?” Ethan demanded. “All of this crap with Pascal and Forney, and now a pyro tries to kill us. Not to mention everything else you haven’t told us yet.”

“Look,” I said, “I’d love to go through the long version of events with you, but we’re in a time crunch. Renee and Dr. Kinsey both need real medical attention, but we can’t get them to hospitals until this thing is finished. We’re on a three-and-a-half-hour deadline, so the blame game needs to wait until—” Only three faces accounted for. “Wait, where’s Simon?”

“We don’t know,” Ethan said. “He went to the police station right after Gage was arrested by Detective Forney. I think he wanted to get a bead on things and see what he could glean from everyone. Haven’t seen him or heard from him.”

“Has anyone tried reaching Agent McNally?”

Ethan shook his head. “We’re not bringing her into this, not this time.” His attention turned to Noah. “Where are the rest of your people?”

“In a safe place,” Noah said. “And I want them to stay there.”

“Fair enough.”

This was it. Our fighting force. Five minds to come up with a plan to save Aaron, catch the kidnapper, and stop a pyro. No more clues. No leads.

No problem.

“Did you ever get that name?” I asked.

Ethan tilted his head to the side. “What name?” His eyes widened. “Oh, you mean the name of the guy with whom Forney was supposedly cheating on Bates? Name’s Ken Dawson.”

“What?” King and Noah said in tandem.

I gravitated across the room toward Ethan and Marco, a completely subconscious action I didn’t comprehend until I was standing there, watching Noah and King look at each other. Only Noah had a readable expression, and I didn’t like what I saw there—recognition.

“Who’s Ken Dawson?” I asked. Noah looked at the floor, his hands, the ceiling, everywhere but at me. The niggle of worry planted in my stomach. “So much for no more secrets, huh?”

His head snapped up, eyes meeting mine. Seething and angry. “I’m not keeping anything from you,” he said. “Ken Dawson was one of our tutors at Weatherfield. He taught us for four or five years, back when we were still kids. He was reassigned.
We saw him around the complex a few times over the years, but had no actual contact.”

His glare deepened the lines around his eyes, and I regretted my initial reaction. Distrust came too easily nowadays, no matter how much faith he continued to have in me.

“He had a connection to Weatherfield,” Ethan said. “Which means Forney has a connection to you and your project.”

“It’s a stretch,” I said. “What could she possibly gain by teaming up with Ken Dawson and putting Bates in jail?” The logical response came as I asked those questions, and I ended up giving myself the proper answers: “Except for a huge wad of ransom money, and a problem boyfriend behind bars.”

No one refuted the theory.

“Dawson would have known about our existence, but not our escape,” Noah said. “No one knew. Our father was very careful in planning it.”

“Someone found out,” Ethan said. “Either Dawson or someone who passed it along to Dawson. They knew you escaped, got wind of your plan, and got to Aaron Scott before you could. Dawson and Forney have to be working together on this. Why else interrupt the meeting this morning, put Pascal in a coma, then get Gage arrested?”

“They’re trying to keep us off-balance,” I said. “Everything in their plan started to unravel when King didn’t kill me the afternoon of the warehouse fire. They’ve been improvising, just like us.”