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CHAPTER 6

T
he locker beside mine banged shut.

“Why do we have calculus first thing?” Hi was fiddling with his tie. “Doesn’t the faculty understand you have to ease into a school day?”

Monday morning. Bolton Preparatory Academy. 7:26 a.m.

First bell was minutes from sounding.

I was back in uniform: blue tartan-plaid tie with matching pleated skirt, white blouse, black knee socks, and simple black shoes. I wasn’t a fan, but the uniform policy kept the richer girls from morphing Bolton’s hallways into daily episodes of
Project Runway.
I was grateful for the trade-off.

“Better to get it done early.” I shut my door and spun the combination lock. “Besides, I like math—there are no tricks, you just have to learn the rules.”

“The rules
are
tricks.” Ben sported the standard male uniform—navy blazer with griffin crest, white button-down shirt, maroon tie, tan slacks, and loafers. “When the problems dropped the equals sign, math stopped making any sense.”

“There’s Shelton,” Hi said, blazer was in his trademark style: inside out, with the silk lining exposed. The teachers had given up trying to make him wear it properly. “He had enough time after all.”

“Got it!” Shelton was puffing hard, a calculus book tucked under one arm, his uniform a disheveled mess. “Sprinting back to the docks takes longer than I thought. Next time I’ll just borrow a text and get mine from your dad later.”

“Told you,” Ben said. His father, Tom Blue, shuttled us to and from downtown on school days. “You’re lucky
Hugo
was still there. My dad’s usually on his second run to Loggerhead by now.”

As a perk for parents living way out where ours did, LIRI provided tuition for their children to attend Bolton Prep, Charleston’s most prestigious private school. Shelton, Hi, and I were two months into our sophomore year, while Ben was beginning his junior campaign. Since driving to campus would take an hour each way, LIRI also provided daily boat service. Not a bad deal.

If we fit in. Which we didn’t.

Most Bolton students were scions of the city’s wealthiest families. My crew stuck out like hookers at church. We weren’t part of their pampered, privileged world, and many of our classmates were quick to remind us of that fact. Taunting the “boat kids” was practically a varsity sport.

Thankfully, this year Shelton, Hi, and I had identical schedules, and Ben was in half our classes. We’d be able to watch each other’s backs.

For a group of science geeks, Bolton was a minefield of potential disasters. Double that for me, since I was also the youngest in my class. Impressed by my lower-school brilliance, Mom had decided I should skip the sixth grade. Fast-forward four long years—I was Bolton’s only fourteen-year-old sophomore.

The mocking had started from day one. And when my classmates discovered that “the little girl” was actually setting the academic bar, the sniping grew even nastier.

Freshman year had been rough. I’d hated it.

But lately, things were . . . different.

My first year, other students had openly sneered at me. Whispered behind their hands. Called me “loser,” or “island refugee,” even “peasant.” High school bullies can be brutal, and I’d caught both barrels.

The constant ridicule had forced me to step lightly. Drop my guard, even for a nanosecond, and the local Mean Girls would pounce to “put me in my place.”

But that was all before the summer.

Before I’d finally had enough, and decided to fight back.

Before I’d lost my cool.

As if cued by my thoughts, my nemeses appeared two doors down.

Madison Dunkle sauntered into the hall, flanked by her sycophant floozies. She practically glowed with well-groomed excess, from sculpted hair—brunette this semester, with smoky blonde tendrils—to stylish, five-figure jewelry.

Courtney Holt was on her left. Blonde, blue-eyed, and curvy, she radiated a cluelessness that was impossible to emulate. She’d been chosen as the captain of the cheerleader squad. I was amazed she’d avoided flunking out.

On Madison’s opposite side strolled Ashley Bodford, a pit viper in her own right. Night to Courtney’s day, Ashley had glossy black hair, mechanically tanned skin, and a cruel streak a mile long. Her favorite activity was preying on the insecurities of others with cutting, whispered digs.

The Tripod of Skank.

They hated me. I
loathed
them.

Last semester, the sight of these three would’ve filled me with dread. They’d made my freshman year a living hell.

That was over now.

Last August, at a cotillion event, I’d unloaded on the Tripod with all of Bolton’s in-crowd watching. Flaring, I’d used my hypersenses to read their emotions. Sniff out their weaknesses. Then I’d struck without mercy.

Shocked speechless, the Tripod had retreated in angry tears.

The tell-off had been
epic.

Since that outburst, the other “cool kids” had been slightly more respectful to me. Almost polite. Not out-and-out friendly or anything, but the open hostility was gone.

High school popularity is so fickle.

My classmates suddenly liked me more because I’d shown teeth. Because I’d savaged a few of their own. I could scream at the childishness of it all.

That day, I’d finally bested the Tripod. But then I made a mistake.

Unleashing the wolf had gotten my blood pumping. Flaring seemed to exacerbate my aggressive nature. Caught up in the rush, I’d done something incredibly foolish. Disastrous. I’d lifted my sunglasses and flashed my glowing eyes.

Courtney and Ashley had missed it, but Maddy had enjoyed a front-row seat. Terrified, she’d bolted. And had avoided me ever since.

Normally, I’d call that a win-win. The Tripod had fled and continued to stay away. The relentless harassment had stopped.

But I worried. What did Madison suspect? Who would she talk to?

If word of our powers got out, we’d be government lab rats by lunch the next day.

Thanks to my stupidity, Madison was a threat.

At that moment, the threat caught sight of me. Her face paled and she slowed.

Ashley and Courtney bumped into Madison from behind. Confused by their queen bee’s hesitation, they followed her sight line.

Gripping her books tightly, Madison fired past me and ducked into a bathroom. Courtney and Ashley hurried on her heels, shooting uneasy glances my way.

“Man.” Hi had noted the exchange. “You’ve got Madison spooked, that’s for sure. Let’s hope she’s not sending letters to
Cosmo.
”

I’d told the Virals about my blunder. They hadn’t been pleased. At all.

I was about to respond to Hi’s comment when Jason Taylor rounded the corner.

“Tory.” Jason began fidgeting with his tie. “I hope you’re, uh, doing well. Had a good weekend, all that.”

Ben’s lips formed a smirk. Eyes rolling, he turned and walked off. Hi and Shelton drifted a few feet down the hall.

Jason had the blue eyes and white-blond hair of a Nordic god. The physique too. Big and strong, he was a sick athlete, and captained Bolton’s lacrosse team. A truly decent guy, he’d been an ally at Bolton from the outset.

An ally with a surprising interest in me.

I’d never known how to feel about Jason. Still didn’t.

Jason was the only guy at Bolton who seemed to notice me. He was cute. Friendly. Funny. Super popular. Everything a girl could want in a boyfriend. At least, I thought so, having no real experience in the field.

And yet . . . nothing. For some reason, Jason just didn’t do it for me. I’d never felt the same attraction. My palms didn’t sweat. My pulse didn’t race. It made no sense. I couldn’t explain it, even to myself.

Which made the situation . . . awkward.

I shouldn’t complain—for most girls, Jason’s attention would’ve been all that mattered. And I treasured him as a friend. He looked out for me at school, keeping the nastier trust-fund brats off my back.

“Hi, Jason,” I said awkwardly. “My weekend was fine. You?”

“Me? Oh, great. Took the boat out, played golf. Nice weather, um, right?”

“Definitely.” I shifted, needlessly adjusting my book bag straps. “Sunny.”

Uneasiness around Jason was collateral damage from my reckless display. Flustered by my blunder with Madison, I’d been totally unprepared when Jason offered to escort me to the debutante ball. Angry with myself, I’d lashed out at him, too.

We didn’t speak again until school started, and even then we’d carefully avoided that topic. The eggshell dance was moving into its second month, with no end in sight.

It didn’t help that Madison had eyes for Jason, and viewed
me
as a rival.

And Ben seriously disliked him.

Nothing is ever simple.

The bell spared us further discomfort.

“Gotta run,” I said, thankful for the reprieve. “See you later!”

“Later.” Jason tossed a head-nod to Shelton and Hi as he passed them. The Two Stooges clumsily returned the gesture.

Shelton drifted back to my side wearing a sly grin. “That was smooth, player.”

“Shut it.”

The awkward conversation had reminded me of Whitney’s instructions. I needed guys for my stupid debut, and didn’t have a plan.

Jason had volunteered, but that was months ago, and I’d rejected his offer. Rudely. Did it still stand? Choosing an A-lister might be a good move. Jason had always defended me when he could.

But I totally embarrassed him. Why would he say yes now?

Shelton tapped his watch. “Today, Brennan.”

Just then, Hi scurried across the hallway in a rush. “Did you guys hear the news?”

“What news?” Shelton tugged his earlobe, a nervous habit. “I already know I’m not going to like it.”

“It’s all over Twitter. He’s out! They released him last weekend.”

“Who?” But I knew.

Had no doubt.

“Chance Claybourne.” Hi shook his head in disbelief. “He’s coming back to Bolton.”

CHAPTER 7

T
iny droplets splashed my arms.

Tom Blue’s shuttle,
Hugo,
was kicking spray up into a fine mist. I stood alone in the stern, watching downtown recede as we churned home across the harbor.

My thoughts were of Broad Street, and a pricey piece of real estate known as Claybourne Manor.

I bet he’s alone in that gigantic mansion. Right now.

I’d been unable to concentrate in class.

Chance Claybourne.

Out of the hospital.

Returning to Bolton Prep.

Guilt shrouded me like a cold, wet blanket. The awful thing I’d done. How I’d played with Chance’s mind to protect our secrets.

And now he’s back.

Ben’s voice floated from behind me. “It’s not like you had a choice.”

“I know.” I sighed, turned. Ben often knew what I was thinking. “But messing with his head. Making him think he was crazy. I’ve felt terrible ever since.”

If not
the
richest man in Charleston, Chance was certainly high on the list. Son of former state senator Hollis Claybourne, and heir to an enormous family fortune, Chance’s mental breakdown had been the scandal of the decade.

Chance had suffered a total nervous collapse, with every salacious detail reported in the press. He’d been hospitalized for five months—leaving only once, to help us search for a lost pirate treasure.

Twice Chance had witnessed our flare powers unleashed. He’d seen our canine speed. Our strength. Our glowing eyes.

After the second incident, Chance had approached me, confused and vulnerable. Needing answers.

Instead of helping him, I’d twisted the knife. Betrayed his trust.

To protect the Virals, I’d convinced Chance that he’d imagined the whole thing. That the images he described were unreal. Figments of a distressed mind. Frightened, and in shock, he’d returned to the psych ward for further treatment.

Your revenge.

I sat up straight. Where had
that
thought come from?

A fresh wave of guilt crashed over me. My own hurt feelings hadn’t factored into deceiving Chance . . . had they?

At Bolton, Chance had been a different story from Jason. I’d
definitely
had R-rated thoughts about Charleston’s richest son. Chance was gorgeous, refined, and genteel. Sculpted like a gladiator, with the manner of a prince. Like every other girl in school, I’d dreamed of watching the sunrise while wrapped in his arms.

Fool.
That was all out the window now.

At the end of freshman year Chance had manipulated me, using my crush against me in an attempt to hide his dark family secrets. It had almost worked, too.

I’d long since squashed any attraction I might’ve had for young Master Claybourne. I thought. Hoped.

“Hey, they let him out, right?” Hi plopped down on the bench beside me, tie askew, navy blazer folded across his knees. “So he must be cured. No harm, no foul.”

“I guess.” So why did I feel like a backstabber?

“He’s a freaking millionaire.” Ben waved a dismissive hand. “He’ll be fine.”

“We’ve got unfinished business with Chance,” I said, “but not today. Let’s hit the bunker. I want inside that stupid clown box.”

Once home on Morris, I changed into a polo shirt and shorts, whistled for Coop, then hurried back down to the dock. The boys were already waiting aboard
Sewee.
Shelton and Hi pushed off, and Ben wound us through the sandbars leading to open sea.

As we rounded the island’s northern point, Ben throttled down. After glancing around to be sure we were alone, he angled sharply back toward shore and nosed
Sewee
through a gap in the rocks barely wider than her hull.

Stone outcroppings rose on both sides, creating a circular cove with a white sand beach. Added bonus. The towering projections concealed the cozy anchorage from view by passing watercraft.

As secret places go, this one was killer.

Ben tied
Sewee
to a sunken post. Shelton dropped the anchor. Hi, Coop, and I hopped ashore and took a steep, narrow path up the sand hill overlooking the hidden bay. Nearing the crest we turned right and circled the hill. I dropped to my knees, and crawled through a person-sized hole cut into the hillside.

We’d reached our clubhouse.

Once a key to Charleston’s harbor defenses, Morris Island is riddled with old military fortifications. The boys and I had discovered our bunker by accident, chasing an errant Frisbee. Practically invisible, it could double as a CIA safe house.

To our knowledge, only we knew of the bunker’s existence.

We intended to keep it that way, though lately that’d been tough.

A soft buzzing greeted my arrival in the main chamber. The air smelled of ozone, dust, and packaging peanuts.

After worming in behind me, Shelton dropped into the ergonomic chair fronting our new computer workstation. Honest to God, the thing looked like something out of
Star Trek.

Shelton’s fingers tapped the keyboard, another piece of high-tech wireless wizardry.

“Run the fans when the system’s powered,” I reminded him. “We don’t want the components overheating.”

“I’ll only be a sec.” Shelton reached below the desk and flipped a switch. “I need to check some software I added to the hard drive. This stuff will blow your mind.”

Over the previous weeks, we’d transformed the place.

Pirate gold goes a long way, if you spend wisely.

Indoor-outdoor carpet covered the floor. A retractable window secured the cannon slit facing the harbor. Sleek IKEA units had replaced the rickety wooden furniture. The old bench still ran along the wall beneath the window, but Ben had sanded, polished, and treated the wood with a dark cherry stain. Three lamps glowed with soft white light.

A mini-fridge occupied one corner. Hi had insisted.

The rear chamber had also been overhauled.

The mineshaft and cannon slit were sealed. Days of sweat there. Cables running from the main room snaked metal shelves stuffed with external hard drives, routers, Ethernet switches, AV components, and other hardware, along with a line of rechargeable batteries.

The far corner was now a doggie hotel for Coop: bed, chew toys, and automatic food and water dispensers. He padded over, curled up, and promptly fell asleep.

After weeks of online searching and ordering, secret deliveries, backbreaking transport, and maddening assembly, our clubhouse was as capable as an air traffic control tower. And there was still a decent balance in our checking account.

Thank you, Anne Bonny.

“Did you fix the WiFi?” Hi asked as he rooted through the fridge. “I couldn’t capture an IP address yesterday.”

Shelton nodded. “Loose cord. The router wasn’t drawing power from the gennie. It’s all good now.”

Our prize addition was a solar-powered generator. Outside in the scrub brush, we’d hidden a four-panel array above the bunker’s entrance to collect daylight. With a half-dozen batteries storing the juice, we had electricity 24/7.

I worried about the array constantly—it was easily our most expensive purchase. But so far the system had weathered two storms without a hitch. It was a pricy piece of equipment to leave exposed, unguarded, but what can you do? Solar panels need sunlight to work. Plus, no one else knew it was there.

“Testing new software?” Ben glanced at our workstation’s massive twenty-seven-inch LED cinema display. “More like downloading
Crank Yankers.
”

“I’m multitasking,” Shelton replied. “All work and no play makes me bored silly.”

“Don’t use up too much drive space,” I warned, watching the screen from over his shoulder. “We bought this stuff to research parvovirus, not so you can watch ‘Boom Goes the Dynamite’ twenty times a day.”

We’d agreed on a specific goal for our funds: learn everything possible about the invader twisting our DNA. Our powers were wild, mostly a mystery. And with Karsten gone, no one else knew the virus existed. Finding answers was on us.

“Who has the box from the geocache?” I was eager to have a look.

“That’d be me.” Hi removed it from his bag and placed it in on the table. We each took a chair. Then, as one, the boys turned to look at me.

“Don’t mind if I do.” I lifted and rotated the odd purple object. There was no obvious top, bottom, or locking mechanism. The snarling clowns were evenly spaced and uniform in size. And in creepiness. When I shook the box, something rattled inside.

After a few minutes of fruitless tapping and tinkering, I handed the thing to Ben. He squeezed sides, pressed edges, and rubbed the surface before passing it on. Hi poked and prodded for what seemed like forever before sighing and giving the box to Shelton.

“That’s your best shot?” Shelton frowned in mock disapproval. “Weak sauce.”

“Think you can do better?” Ben, only half joking.

“Not think, dude.
Know.
” Toothy grin. “I’m the man with a plan.”