Changeling (9 page)

“It was a difficult fire, one fueled by chemicals and uncontrollable with water. We brought skills that helped contain it long enough for the Los Angeles County Fire Department to put it out completely.” To the short, balding man on Shannon’s left: “Andy, go ahead.”

“From where we were standing,” Andy said, “it looked like Ember there put the fire out on her own. Is she that powerful?”

My heart thudded.
Don’t single me out, please don’t do that.

Trance’s eyes narrowed. “Ember’s skills kept the fire’s heat from increasing and the flames from spreading. Tempest
pulled oxygen away from its core. Captain Hooper’s men did the rest. It was a complete and total team effort.”

“Ember, why did you pass out?”

I blinked, surveyed the crowd, but could not locate the source of the question. No one owned up, so I ignored it.

“So what are you calling yourselves?” Shannon asked, nudging in another turn.

“Labels only serve to pigeonhole people,” Trance said. “You all know who we are. Does it really matter what we call ourselves?” A murmur spread through the gaggle. “Now, if there is nothing else of pressing importance—”

“I have a question.” A distinctly male voice rose up from the crowd. Heads turned, trying to locate the source. Bodies shifted and allowed a young man to step forward. He wore colorful surfer shorts and a T-shirt under a loose, too-large Windbreaker, and didn’t look like a reporter. No notebook, no recorder or camera. Just a dim-eyed stare and thin, grim mouth. He moved toward the front of the barrier, hands in his jacket pockets.

Everything about him set me on edge. Instincts screamed to keep him at bay, don’t let him get too close. Next to me, Trance tensed. We both sensed it keenly, like a scent in the air: danger.

“What is it?” Trance asked.

He smiled. His right arm moved faster than should have been possible, faster than I could react, and his question came in the form of a single gunshot.

Seven

Aftermath

T
he gunshot report rang in my ears, which were further deafened by the cacophony of screams and shouts from petrified reporters. Someone knocked me to the ground. I smacked my funny bone on a chunk of gravel and bit my tongue. Blood and pain blossomed in my mouth, adding to my disorientation. I tucked my legs up to my chest to prevent the feet stampeding around from trampling me, and mentally tested my other extremities. Arms: check. Chest and stomach: check and check. Head: check.

Nothing else hurt. I wasn’t shot.

Men shouted, ordering him to drop his weapon. Footsteps scuffled in all directions, around me, over me, and other voices shouted my name, Trance’s name. I peeked one eye open and found myself gazing into a purple one. Face-to-face with Trance, laying flat on her back on the damp pavement, head sideways. She blinked. Neither of us moved.

“Trance!” Cipher’s voice, getting closer.

Something red had splattered Trance’s cheek. Farther down, just above her right breast, where the silver armored
tank top failed to cover flesh, blood flowed in a thin stream under the slick fabric of her uniform and puddled on the cement by her arm. Near my hand. I sat up, a surprised yelp dying in my throat. She was shot. Trance was shot.

“No,” I said, clamping my hands down on the wound. The blood was hot on my skin, pulsing from the small hole beneath my palm, unwilling to be stanched. “Help me! Someone help!”

Screaming and shouting became a whirlwind of sound. Cipher appeared on the other side of Trance, his mouth open and silver-flecked eyes wide. He clasped her left hand to his chest. She turned her head with some effort. The violet colorations on her forehead and neck seemed to glow against the new pallor of her skin. Like bruising on a corpse.

No! Don’t you dare think like that.

A paramedic nudged me to the side, and I released my hold on her wound. He shouted things to a second paramedic. Blood sticky on my hands, I could only sit by Trance’s head. Sit and watch. Panic poked at the edge of my consciousness. I did not allow it in. Could not.

A hand touched my shoulder. Tempest crouched directly behind me, an anchor to the unfolding events. Someone blurred past us, a streak of blue and black, and was quickly restrained by two police officers. They could not, however, restrain Flex’s amazing talent or her anger. Her arms snaked past the cops, toward the young man already facedown on the ground, secured by handcuffs.

Flex screamed and tried to hit him. Onyx got in her way, said something I couldn’t hear, and she relented. Her arms
retracted, and the cops let her go. Onyx steered her back, away from the shooter, who seemed unconcerned with the goings-on around him. He just lay there, disinterested in his immediate fate. Uncaring that if he hadn’t just dropped the gun after firing his single round, the dozens of police officers on scene would have shot him to death.

The first paramedic had trouble cutting through the top of Trance’s uniform to further expose the dime-size wound. Blood continued oozing in steady streams. He gave up on cutting and placed a square of gauze against the wound, and then another. I caught a scent, something sharp and sterile. Both pads soaked quickly. His partner handed him another.

My stomach churned and twisted; and I looked away. Trance continued to hold Cipher’s gaze. He whispered things, told her to be strong, be brave, it was just a scratch, and you’ve survived worse. Her chin trembled as her breathing became more labored. Her expression didn’t change—pain, fatigue, acceptance. Never fear. We were terrified for her, while she seemed downright calm.

Perhaps merely having Cipher nearby kept her that way. They complemented each other in a way I had never seen, one drawing strength from the other when needed most.

Someone brought a gurney and collapsed it down. Tempest looped his arms around my waist and helped me stand up. My head spun. I stumbled; he held tight. Bloody hands away from my body, I let him back us up. Cipher stayed glued to Trance’s side while the paramedics loaded her onto the gurney and wheeled it toward the back of a waiting ambulance.

They were saying things about starting IVs, labored breathing, and O
₂
levels, scientific stuff I just couldn’t follow. It sounded like an episode of a bad television soap opera. Fake and overly bright and too simple. Cipher climbed into the back of the ambulance. None of us moved until it peeled away, lights spinning and siren wailing.

“Why?” It took a moment to realize I’d asked the question. I pulled away from Tempest, intent on the man still on the ground. Strong arms held me back.

“I don’t know, Ember,” Tempest said in my ear. “We can’t do anything now. Let the police take care of him.”

I brought my hands up, hoping to use my elbows on Tempest and gain freedom with a few sharp jabs. Crimson glinted off my fingers and palms, slowly congealing, darkening. Trance’s blood. It shouldn’t be on my hands. It needed to be inside of her, keeping her whole and safe and with us. She was our heart; our heart needed its blood.

Fear crashed down on me for the first time, hard and fast. My hands shook. Tension knotted my stomach. Tears rose up and closed my throat, but I couldn’t dislodge them. I couldn’t cry here in front of everyone.

Tempest shouted something and moments later, a police officer appeared with three bottles of water. I held my hands out, then rubbed them together while Tempest poured the warm water. I tried to block out the voices, the talking, the people shouting orders and asking questions. Just think about getting my skin clean. Wash it off, then we can go to the hospital.

“Where did they take her?” I asked.

“Someone said City of Angels,” Tempest replied as he poured a second bottle over my almost clean hands. “It’s a few miles from here.”

When the blood was finally gone, I wiped my hands on the seat of my borrowed jeans. I drank from the third bottle, grateful for the moisture. It was fortifying, even energizing, as I finally paid attention to what was happening.

Tempest stayed nearby and I appreciated that, more than I could tell him. Onyx had cornered Flex against the side of a firetruck, still trying to calm her down. Anger sparked from her like fireworks and radiated from every pore. Roses blossomed on each cheek, harsh smudges of color on her blue skin. No tears, only unadulterated fury.

Behind us, two uniforms were pushing the shooter into the back of a police car. One of them slammed the door shut, said something to his partner, and then walked toward us, shoulders squared. Flex paid me little mind, but sprang to attention when the officer—Ortega, from his name tag—stopped a few feet from our tattered group. Onyx also turned, releasing Flex from his grip. His eyes shimmered with emotion.

Ortega looked at each of us in turn, clearly at a loss. Trance was in charge, everyone knew that. If she wasn’t around, we defaulted to Cipher, but after him there was no clear chain of command. No third to step up when the other two were absent.

Tempest cleared his throat. “Did he say anything, Officer? Anything at all?”

“I’m real sorry,” Ortega said, shaking his head. “He’s not
talking. He either isn’t interested, or he’s waiting for a lawyer, I don’t know. He’s not giving any trouble, so we’re taking him to the local precinct. You can find him there.”

“What makes someone do that?” I asked. The question slipped out.

Ortega hesitated, then said, “Lots of things, miss. He could be mentally ill. We won’t know until our detectives interrogate him.”

“I want to be there,” Flex growled.

“That’s up to—”

“Talk to Detective Pascal, Fourth Division, he knows us.”

“I’ll put in a call.”

“Thank you.” She spared one more venomous glare at the squad car, pivoted on her heel, and then stalked back toward our Sport.

“We’ll have to get statements from everyone,” Ortega said, looking right at me. “Especially you.”

“Can you do it at the hospital?” Tempest asked.

“Of course.”

As if that ended things, Tempest grabbed my hand, poked Onyx in the shoulder, and steered us in the direction Flex had gone. We walked back to the car at a clipped pace, eager to be gone from this place and dreading what we might find once we reached the hospital. Believing that Trance was alive and fighting seemed better than knowing if she had died. I didn’t want to know.

Six months ago, these people had been faces in the media, names on a printed page, no more real than the other strangers I wrote about daily. They’d quickly become the siblings
I’d never had, the family I hadn’t realized I wanted—even if I didn’t always feel like one of them. I needed them.

I didn’t know what I’d do if Trance died.

Detectives Pascal and
Forney arrived at the ER waiting room ten minutes after we descended on it. Everyone else waiting for word had migrated to one side of the rows of chairs, leaving a small corner to our smoky quartet. One by one, reporters from the fire scene began to arrive. They kept their distance and their cameras off, choosing instead to linger near the entrance.

They fired off a few questions at the detectives as they passed. Pascal returned fire with a handful of obscenities that would have made a sailor blush, and they left them alone. He strode toward us, a welcome presence, tall and commanding, black coat swirling around his legs. Forney followed at a slight distance, present but not engaged. Considering her hostility toward us, I was shocked she’d come at all.

“Any word?” Pascal asked. Flex’s contemptuous glare answered. He spoke again before she could fire off a litany of questions. “I only know what Officer Ortega told me, which isn’t much. It’s not my case, so I’ll have to talk to their captain about allowing any of you to sit in on the interrogation.”

“Do we at least know his name?” Tempest asked.

“Arnold Stark, we got it from his driver’s license. So far his record is checking out clean. Ortega said he’d let me know if anything new came up.” He sat in the chair opposite Flex, and his attention shifted to me. “You okay, kiddo? You look green.”

I shrugged, mostly because I was still pretty numb. I knew the symptoms of trauma, knew I was somewhere in the middle of shock, edging toward denial. I wanted to curl into a fetal position and suck my thumb until the nightmare went away. I wanted to crawl into my bed and sleep for days. I wanted to cry, bawl, sob, and scream. Anything to unplug the dam and get this pressing weight off my chest.

“I absorbed some chemicals earlier.” My voice sounded hollow, not quite mine. If anyone suggested I see a doctor, I’d slap them silly. “I should wash my face.”

He pointed down the hall, past the admitting desk. “There’s a bathroom that way.”

Leaving showed weakness. It didn’t support Trance. Then my bladder contracted insistently. Hell.

“Someone will come if there is news,” Onyx said. “Go.”

I gave him a soft smile that he didn’t return, then left. I ignored the few reporters who tried asking me questions. Definitely not in the mood to do more than lob a few heat waves in their general direction. Two women were washing their hands and chatting about pores or the poor, or something, but stopped when I entered. One look at me, and they scooted out of there. I darted for a stall, did my business—to my body’s eternal relief—and then hazarded a look into the bank of mirrors.

Gunmetal gray streaked my blond hair, giving me a zebra-do that was more freakish than punkish. Soot covered my forehead and throat in odd, war-paint patterns. Flecks of red dotted my left cheek. I brushed at one splotch that was adhered to my skin. A bit of work removed the dried blood.
More of her blood. On my face, flecks on the sweatshirt and my throat.

I turned on the faucet and let the water run hot while I pushed up the sleeves of the sweatshirt. Over and over, I plunged cupped hands beneath the streaming, steaming water and splashed it over my face. Pumped out some pale pink soap, scrubbed it into a thick, white lather, and scrubbed it over my hot skin. Scrubbed and splashed and scrubbed some more.

My face stung and tingled. A bit of soap landed in my eye, and it began to water. I muttered a curse and rubbed. Rubbed until the tingle spread and the tears began in earnest. They trickled down my already soaked cheeks, mingling with the clean, cooling water that had splashed into my hair. With shaking hands I gripped the edges of the porcelain basin and held on.