Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera (128 page)

I didn’t speak. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him down into a hard kiss that banged our teeth together. Hands tangled in my short hair, holding me close—like I was going anywhere—while his mouth plundered mine. The tenderness of our first kiss was gone. This was fast, fierce, and then we were moving. My back hit the wall and his hips pressed into mine, and that was okay, too, because this was Derek, and deep down I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.

He was hard and I wanted him, and holy wow, this was going to happen. I worked a hand between us, down, until I cupped his erection through his pants. He shuddered, thrusted, moaned into my mouth, and I grinned at the power in such a simple thing. Then again, the man hadn’t had sex in more than fifteen years. He was so stoic, so controlled. Suddenly, more than anything, I wanted to see him fall apart.

I spun us so his back was to the wall, then broke the kiss. He watched me, wide-eyed and flushed, breathing hard through his mouth and so damn handsome. I unbuttoned his shirt with slow, deliberate fingers, never once breaking eye contact. So many things were in his eyes, including trust. Once I’d pushed his shirt off his shoulders, I admired his naked torso. The hard biceps and firm, not-quite-six-pack abs. The light smattering of dark hair on his pecs and below his navel, leading down into his slacks. There were scars, too, some as wide as a finger and others as thin as a pencil line. I touched, too, as I looked. Smoothing my fingers across his skin, sometimes soft and sometimes rough. His muscles jumped and bunched, and his breaths became shorter the longer I played.

The only real imperfection was the tracking monitor strapped to his ankle—a painful reminder of who we both were and still would be when this was over.

He made a noise that sent a bolt of arousal right through me. I dropped slowly, deliberately, to my knees, and he made the noise again. More desperate now. I made quick work of his belt and slacks and boxers. A surge of power washed over me, despite my submissive position. He was naked, beginning to unravel already, and I had barely touched him. His hands were plastered against the wall by his hips, so careful not to grab or startle. Letting me run the show.

He whispered my name, and that snapped the last of my patience. I took him in my mouth, and he released a fierce growl. His thighs shook. He wouldn’t last long, and I wanted to take him there so badly. I worked him with mouth and hands, savoring the taste of him, the feel of him against my tongue, the way his entire body trembled with need and pleasure. He jerked and shook, and when a hand finally landed on the top of my head in concert with a desperate moan, I pulled back.

I watched him come with a soft shout, his eyes wide and watching me the entire time—watching with shock and wonder and gratitude. And I was right. He was gorgeous when he fell apart.

I wiped my hand on the leg of my sweatpants, and then strong arms pulled me up by the elbows. I fell against his chest, a little dizzy from the sudden change in elevation, and right into a tender kiss. The kind of soft, exploratory kiss that made all kinds of promises about what he could do with that tongue. I kissed back, silently asking for a demonstration, and somehow he understood perfectly.

This meant, however, my getting naked. The thought stopped me cold, and I pulled back enough to make him freeze. He studied my face with worried eyes that saw so much more than I wanted anyone to see. Even though I was fully clothed, I felt like the most naked person in the room.

His fingers drifted to my bare right forearm and the scarred, purplish skin there. “Tell me what you want me to do, Renee,” he whispered.

“Wait here?” I said.

He nodded.

I felt incredibly self-conscious as I pulled the curtain on my room’s only window, casting a gloom on the room that was heightened when I turned off the table lamp near the door. Shadows played on the walls and floor. I saw everything clearly, despite the darkness, but I felt better in less light. Confident enough to take off my clothes in front of a man who wasn’t my doctor for the first time since January. Confident enough to show Derek the depth of my scars and the length of my flaws.

His breath caught several times as I stripped, and I swear he stopped breathing entirely when I turned to face him. My pulse jumped and my insides twisted with nerves and need, and I didn’t know what to do or say now. Derek saved me the embarrassment by not staring. He pulled me into him and kissed me thoroughly. Then he settled us both in my bed and began a quest to kiss every bare inch of my body.

His mouth paid equal homage to both smooth and scarred skin, and my fear lifted a bit with each new exploration. I didn’t always feel his touches but I knew they were there. He wasn’t pulling away in disgust. He wasn’t avoiding the less-than-perfect parts of me. He saw it all. He wanted it all.

Oh, Derek.

Emotion clogged my throat and tugged at my singing nerves.

When his kisses and caresses finally settled at my core, I nearly flew off the bed. He licked me with a hunger I hadn’t expected, a desire that fueled my own, and my body yielded easily to first one, then two fingers. I couldn’t stop the sounds I was making, didn’t want to stop. I forgot everything except him, us, this. Felt pleasure coiling deep inside, tightening, fighting its way out. My thighs shook with it, and I pulled at the bedspread, unable to do anything but fly as my orgasm crashed over me.

He was there as I came down off the intense release, holding me close, whispering things in my ear that I didn’t understand. He was hard again, the evidence hot against my quivering thigh, and I wanted him. I took a yearly injection, but still . . .

“Do you have something?” I asked.

He blinked, as if unsure what I meant, and then understanding widened his eyes. He reached over the side of the bed and grabbed his slacks. He produced a condom, which was exactly what I’d asked for, and yet couldn’t help being surprised to see.

“You raid the infirmary stock?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Believe it or not, condoms were a regular part of the supplies dropped onto the island by the government. I suppose they didn’t want us making more babies than necessary.” A touch of darkness hung on to those words. Several children had been born in Manhattan anyway, without doctors or the right medical attention.

“Well, their foresight is our good fortune.”

“It is, isn’t it?” He kissed me, then pulled back long enough to roll on the condom. “You’re certain?”

“Definitely.” I wanted him inside me so badly I ached with it. My body still trembled from my earlier orgasm and the need to see him fall apart again.

I grasped his length and guided him forward. Felt every stretch and slide as he pushed slowly, gently inside me. Once the ache of penetration disappeared, slow and gentle was off the table. I arched up to meet him, thrust after thrust, losing myself in the powerful man in me, around me. He’d taken control and I let him have it. I stopped trying to censor what came out of my mouth. I hitched my legs up around his hips and held on.

It lasted forever and ended too soon. He buried his face in my throat and moaned my name as he came, and I drifted in the aftermath, sated and happy and sad all at once. He kissed my face, my forehead, my throat, and I kissed him back, not caring that we were a sweaty mess. Fatigue settled over me like a warm blanket, weighing down my limbs and dimming my mind, and before I could stop myself, I drifted into darkness.

Twenty-one

Freeroll Hand

T
he smell of tomato soup and coffee roused me from a dead sleep, and I rolled over in an attempt to figure out why. The fact that I was alone in bed hit me fast, and I sat up. The lamp was back on, even though the curtain was still drawn. The tray of food was on top of my dresser.

Derek sat at the foot of the bed, dressed again, watching me with a kind smile. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey.” I rubbed at my eyes. “How long did I sleep?”

“A few hours. It’s almost four.”

“Damn.”

I rolled out of bed, stretching as I went. I catalogued my lingering aches and pains as I got dressed. I wasn’t much of a bask-in-the-afterglow type, and I wasn’t about to risk Derek getting a better look at my birthday suit and realizing he didn’t like what he saw. Afternoon sunlight glared at me when I opened the curtain and then the window to let in fresh air.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Famished.” And I was, for a change. The soup had cooled to gulping temperature and I wasn’t shy about my appetite. The only thing I was shy about was Derek himself. I didn’t know what to think of him anymore, or of us. If there even was an us. Could there be an us?

“Any news?” I asked after I settled on the bed next to him with a mug of lukewarm coffee.

“Not that I’ve been told,” he replied. “But it’s been made clear that I’m need-to-know.”

I couldn’t argue with him there.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Good. Rested. No nightmares, thank God.”

He tilted his head. “Do you have nightmares often?”

“I guess. Hard not to in this line of work.”

“I can understand that. For years after the War ended, I had nightmares about my wife and son’s deaths. And about some of the battles I fought in. Lately I’ve been dreaming about last month’s copter crash in Central Park.”

That very deliberate crash had killed several Meta prisoners, and had nearly killed both Ethan and Aaron. I’d forgotten that Derek was there; he could have easily died, too, and the notion seized my heart with icy fear. Irrational fear, considering he was fine, alive, and sitting right next to me.

“I don’t always remember the actual nightmares,” I said. “Just the terror of them when I wake up. Knowing I was helpless or hurt or both.”

“You don’t like feeling helpless.”

“Does anyone?”

He didn’t answer, just watched me with liquid eyes, so I told him. I told him everything, from my childhood to my torture and eventual rescue by the Rangers. Delphi’s psychic shields that helped me at first and then nearly destroyed me when I lost my powers. My fantastic foster parents, accepting myself, embracing my blue. I even told him about William and my irrational dislike of Dahlia. He listened, nodding along without comment, his emotions plain on his face and in his lovely gray eyes.

He just listened. I finally got it all out with tears streaming down my cheeks, and he held me for a while.

“This can’t last, can it?” I asked after I’d calmed and mentally regrouped.

“What’s that?”

“You and me.”

He didn’t answer right away, and I was too nervous to look at his face. “Would you want it to last if it could?” he finally asked.

Yes.
“Maybe.”

He kissed the top of my head. “I can’t promise anything to you, Renee, because I don’t have anything to promise. Only that I will do my damnedest to not become one more person who hurts you.”

“Ditto.” It was all I could think to say.

Someone knocked hard, a familiar cadence. I heaved a sigh, then heaved my bones off the bed to unlock the door. Teresa stormed inside, her entire body tensed for a fight. She barely batted an eyelash at Derek’s presence as she shut the door and put her hands on her hips.

Crapsticks, she’s pissed.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Teresa blinked, clearly thrown by my opening volley. “I—For what?”

“Slipping up with Ethan. I was mad, and I wasn’t thinking.”

Some of her anger physically evaporated, leaving her looking less tense and more . . . tired. “Dr. Kinsey and I wanted to break the news differently, but Ethan and Aaron know now, and there’s no changing it. Mostly they’re pissed at us for keeping them in the dark.”

“It wasn’t my place to tell them, but I’m not sorry they know.”

“Truthfully, neither am I. They can discuss what to do as a family.”

“You mean decide which one of them dies? Noah or Dahlia?”

Teresa flinched. “Something like that.” She looked so young right then. Hell, she was young. She’d be twenty-six next month, and yet the weight of the world sat heavily on her shoulders. The burden was more than one woman should ever have to bear alone.

“How’s Bethany?” Derek asked.

“No change,” she said, this time to both of us. “Dr. Kinsey doesn’t expect there to be, but he’s having her results reviewed by several specialists.” She swallowed hard, then rubbed her eyes. “Maddie’s doing well, and the other kids are resting. They’ve all given us composites of what Uncle looks like and Marco combined them in the system, so we now know who we’re looking for.”

“That’s huge!” A small flare of hope lit up inside of me.

“It’s a good breakthrough. We needed that. Marco was convinced he’d seen the face somewhere before, so he’s playing with the de-aging program and running different pictures through the facial recognition software. With any luck . . .”

“We’ll get a hit.”

“I hope so.”

I squeezed her shoulders and smiled. “We will, T. We’ll find the motherfucker who stole those kids, and he’ll answer for what he’s done.” I meant that with all my heart. Meant it as much for Derek as I meant it for Bethany, Landon, Sasha, Maddie, Tate, Nicolas, Rick, and Barry. For Louis and Summer, most of all.

“I should go check on Landon,” Derek said.

He tried to slip past us, and I couldn’t let him walk out like a dirty secret. I tugged him to a stop, then planted a quick kiss on his lips. It was as much a thank-you as a silent declaration to our audience of one. He smiled, winked, then left.

Teresa glanced around the bedroom, giving my messy bed a long look, before raising an eyebrow at me. “You and Thatcher, huh?” The question was calm, almost amused, with no judgment clinging to the words.

“He doesn’t see my scars,” I said.

She accepted the explanation without comment. “Your battle in Philadelphia is making national news. No one has connected us to it. It’s being called Meta-on-Meta violence.”

I snorted. “So clever.”

Her phone rang. “Yeah, Marco.” Pause. “Get everyone together. Five minutes.”

“Does he have a hit on Uncle?” I asked before she could put her phone away.

“Not yet. Rita McNally wants an immediate conference call with all the Alpha leaders. She has some information for us.”

•  •  •

Information from Agent McNally was always taken seriously. She’d been our ally since we were kids, and she’d stuck by us since our reactivation in January, no matter what the government threw our way. The only Alpha leader who didn’t attend the emergency conference call was Aaron, who wasn’t budging from the infirmary for the time being. Ethan was there, though, glaring at the table in lieu of anyone in particular.

Marco activated the nearest screen as soon as we were settled, and McNally’s perfectly coifed face appeared. She seemed extra-stressed and a little pale. She wasn’t handing down good news today.

“Thank you, everyone, for assembling so quickly,” she said. “Marco, I’ve sent a file over to your terminal, which you should be receiving as we speak. It’s the only image I was able to find from security footage at our former ATF offices in Burbank.”

“Security footage of what?” Teresa asked.

“The man who came to us sixteen years ago and gave us the Warden. The man we only ever knew as O’Bannen.”

The world slowed down a moment. The Warden was a man-made device, powered by two telepathic Metas, that had removed our powers fifteen years ago during the final days of the Meta War. Until January, no one outside of a select few knew of the Warden’s existence. McNally and her late partner, Alexander Grayson, had admitted their part in maintaining the Warden over the years. She told us a man named O’Bannen had given it to them, claiming he worked for the Virginia branch of Weatherfield Research and Development. Later, no R&D company would claim the man, and they’d been unable to track him down for further questioning. He’d disappeared entirely.

“I was under the impression no images of the man existed,” Teresa said.

“As was I,” McNally replied. “Until I dug into the right system.” Her way of saying she’d done something she shouldn’t have, which meant she had a good reason for wanting to get a picture of this O’Bannen character.

It connected in my brain an instant before the second screen lit up with side-by-side images. One was the composite drawing of Uncle. The second was an enhanced security photo of O’Bannen. The similarities were too numerous to be coincidental.

“When Marco sent me your composite, I remembered O’Bannen,” McNally said. “I believe the man you call Uncle is the same person.”

The conference room felt silent while we all digested that tidbit. The news was both shocking and perfectly reasonable, like the corner piece of a puzzle we’d forgotten we were missing. Following up on O’Bannen and the people who created the Warden had fallen by the wayside, trampled over by so many other dire issues and crises. Now it was staring us in the face and laughing at us.

“How certain are you?” Gage asked.

“As certain as I can be with a sketch,” she replied.

“It makes sense,” Teresa said, her voice hollow and cold. “You told us O’Bannen claimed to work for Weatherfield’s sister company in Virginia. Maybe he lied about his name, but he didn’t lie about his employer.”

“So the people who stole all our powers,” I said, “are the same people who stole and brainwashed Meta kids,
and
the same people who cloned our family members?”

“In theory, yes,” McNally said.

“And you are certain there is no other existing information on O’Bannen?” Marco asked.

“Not that I’m aware of, but if I find anything, I’ll pass it along.”

“You’ve been a huge help, Rita, thank you,” Teresa said.

“You know I wish I could do more. Be careful.”

She ended the call. Marco left the two images frozen on-screen.

Sebastian leaned forward, staring up at the screen. “Is it me, or is this man eerily familiar?” he asked.

“I thought so, as well,” Marco replied. “The computer is searching for likenesses.”

Okay, the fact that two people in our little group thought he’d seen Uncle before was scaring me a little bit.

“O’Bannen is a good lead,” Gage said. “Marco, bring up the map of locations the kids gave us earlier.”

A map of the East Coast took over the screen where McNally’s face had been moments ago. Four black dots in four states were clustered within five hundred miles of each other. The only group we couldn’t place belonged to the late Louis and Summer, but I’d bet they were within that same radius.

“Where’s the sister office?” Gage asked.

A red star appeared in Virginia. Vienna, Virginia, to be exact, outside of Washington, D.C. It definitely seemed to be the center of the cluster of dots.

“Stratfield Research and Development,” Marco said. “Their security is tighter than Weatherfield. Even if they grant us access, we will learn nothing of value.”

“You’re right,” Teresa said. She stood up, shoulders back, spine straight. “We can’t visit the locations where the kids were raised because they could be traps, and we can’t visit Stratfield for the same reason.”

“So what do we do?” I asked, perplexed by all of the information we couldn’t do anything with. “Call them up and tell them we know Uncle’s secret identity?”

“No, we keep that to ourselves. Aaron’s an Alpha leader, so he can be told, but no one else outside of this room can know about Uncle. Not until we’ve confirmed it.” She gave both me and Ethan hard stares. “No one.”

Sebastian stood and walked to the other side of the conference table to stand behind Marco’s chair. He said something, and then the drawing of Uncle reappeared. “Marco, run this composite of Uncle through the database of Ranger images,” he said.

Marco looked up sharply, then his fingers flew across the keyboard as he acquiesced. I glanced at Teresa, who seemed as perplexed by the request as I was.

“What are you thinking, Sebastian?” Teresa asked.

“The vaguest memory from when I was a boy,” he replied. “I keep connecting that face to a Ranger uniform.”

Six months ago, several of us would have shot him down with shouts of that being impossible, that no Ranger could be involved in this. Now we knew too much about the less-than-pristine history of our forefathers. No one was dumb enough to dismiss this out of hand. Didn’t make the idea hurt any less, though.

“Dios,”
Marco said. “Sebastian is correct.”

The screen displayed an obituary notice with two photographs. One photo was of a younger, almost identical version of our composite. The other was of a woman with a striking resemblance to the man in every way, right down to the nose and chin. The headline read “Switch Found Dead in Apparent Homicide,” and was dated thirty-one years ago last month.

I skimmed the obituary notice, unfamiliar with this particular Ranger. C. J. “Switch” Kemper had been a Ranger less than two years before she was found dead of unnatural causes, her body nearly unrecognizable. Her power, apparently, was the ability to alter her appearance from female to male at will—a very unusual and controversial power. She was helping to investigate the disappearances of four other non-Ranger Metas at the time of her death, and had no family to speak of.

“So this means what?” I asked. “Switch faked her death thirty years ago and her male alter ego went to work for Stratfield R&D?”

“Looks that way,” Gage said. He seemed utterly horrified by the thought.

“Why?”

“I’ll be sure to ask when we catch her.”

“Marco.” Teresa’s voice was strangled, almost hoarse, and every set of eyes in the room landed on her. She walked toward him with slow, almost pained steps, her face pale and wan. “Take the female photo and age it thirty years, please. Make her hair white.”