Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera (50 page)

I knew that from experience.

She ignored them and navigated her way to an emergency rescue truck. Captain Hooper was holding court with Cipher, Tempest, and Flex. A shadow darted across the ground in front of us; Onyx swooped through the sky, still scouting from above. I always envied him his bird form and the freedom to fly unfettered through the air.

Tempest noticed me first. “Hey, Golden Girl, how do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been through the spin cycle,” I replied. “How’d you do?”

“One of my best performances yet, I think.”

“Yeah,” Cipher drawled, “no one blows hot air quite like you, Tempest.”

Tempest rolled his eyes and clutched his heart, pretending to be wounded. “Hey, Trance, your captive audience awaits. They need their sound bites for the evening news.”

Trance gazed over her shoulder at the flock. “Is it wrong to feel like a circus ringleader when I talk to them?”

I started to giggle. It caught in a cough and turned into an abbreviated snort.

“Good answer,” Flex said.

“I think Ember just volunteered to do reporter duty with me,” Trance said. “If you feel up to it?”

The other side of the microphone and minirecorder. This should be interesting. “Sure, but do you think my sweatshirt will give the wrong impression?” I asked.

Flex giggled successfully. “I think it’ll give you an image. Former journalist becomes superhero diva, film at eleven.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “Flex, if I ever become a diva, you have my permission to tie me up, put me in a barrel, and dump me into the Pacific Ocean.”

“Sweets, if you ever become a diva, I’ll eat my tongue.”

I decided to take that as a compliment and just leave it alone. Trance whispered something to Cipher—it made him grin like a loon and tweaked my curiosity—and then strode toward the gaggle of reporters. I double-timed it to catch up and fell into step next to her. Questions flew at us the moment we were within shouting distance. I lost track of who asked what.

Good Lord, did I ever sound like that?

Trance stopped a few feet away, hands clasped loosely behind her back. I took a similar position slightly behind her on her right. The questions ceased almost immediately; they knew how this would play out. Trance’s violet gaze danced
over the crowd for almost a full minute before she selected someone.

“Go ahead, Shannon,” she said.

A middle-aged woman with a mop of unruly brown curls thrust her microphone forward. “Shannon Milton, Channel Four. The Rangers have kept a pretty low profile this past week. What brought you out today?”

Something flashed across Trance’s face, there and gone so quickly I couldn’t identify it, and I doubted anyone else noticed. “First of all, there hasn’t officially been a Ranger Corps in fifteen years. Six months ago, we separated from the former MetaHuman Control Group arm of the ATF, and we are now an independent organization. As you well know, but thanks for asking.” Shannon seemed unaffected by the barb. “As for why today, because we were called and our help was requested. We do what we can, when we can, and if someone asks, we respond.

“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.