Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera (80 page)

I gave Dahlia a gentle elbow back, then wiggled my eyebrows. She grinned, and her friendly interference threw me off the twisted track my mind was meandering down.

Truth was, I missed Dahlia. We’d been pretty good friends before her little body-merge with Noah, and now . . . it was hard. Hard to talk to her like I used to, and hard to pretend that Noah wasn’t in there listening, even when I couldn’t see him. I didn’t fully trust Noah, or his brother Aaron—also known as Ace and King, in their former lives. They were both hybrid Changelings, created in a lab, with the ability to absorb the bodies and identities of others. The Changelings took everything from the host person—their physical form, their memories, even bits of their personality—when they were absorbed, creating a perfect illusion that had fooled us over and over. The Changeling had to expel the old host before assuming another, which effectively killed that person. Empty skins were shed, while some part of their consciousness remained with the Changeling.

The whole thing was creepy as hell, and two months ago, Ace and King had taken control of Noah and Aaron Scott—supposedly with Noah’s permission, and supposedly the last identities they’d ever steal. But before that, King, the Changeling possessing Aaron, had been a murderer. He’d taken multiple hosts and left their empty shells behind.

Aaron Scott, on the other hand, had just been a selfish drug addict, so supercombo Aaron/King got a pass on the murders. Or something.

The duality of it all made my head pound. It was Teresa’s call, anyway. She’s the boss.

Speaking of Aaron, he’d arrived with the rest of the usual suspects in tow, and they were settling in. Gage grabbed the remote and unmuted the large television that dominated the corner of the room. I’d been ignoring the images on-screen but now I found myself unable to stop staring.

The gates of the Ranger’s HQ stood tall and proud behind the podium and the Winstead for Peace! posters strung up around it. Past the gate was the shape of the Base, and to the left, out of sight, would be the Housing Unit. On the right, also out of sight, the bulldozed remains of what had once been Medical. The HQ had been abandoned since January and was still technically owned by ATF. Why they hadn’t just razed it all was beyond me.

The last time I’d been back there, I was caught in an earth-bomb and tossed through a plate-glass window.

Fun times.

I zoned out the talking heads in the network studio, whose commentary was filling time until Winstead got his ass up to the podium. I’d seen other interviews and clips on television, and seen his picture in the paper more times than I could count. But there was something about today, seeing him back at HQ now that the Meta powers had returned, that was different. Like a criminal you just can’t believe would return to the scene of a grisly murder.

Dahlia snapped her fingers in front of my face, and I jumped. Had she been talking?

“What?” I asked.

She gave me a funny frown. “You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because you were stirring the breeze a little,” she said, this time in a whisper.

Crap. I hadn’t realized I’d been doing that. Didn’t do it often, just when I let myself get upset and my mind wandered. It had been happening more in the last month or so than usual, but still. Not a big deal.

“Sorry,” I said, then grinned. “Really, I’m fine.”

She didn’t believe me. I saw it in her eyes. Dahlia knew me too well, but then it didn’t matter because Renee said, “Finally,” and Winstead was on the television screen.

My skin crawled at the sight of him, all sleeked down and suited up in something pin-striped and expensive. He looked like anyone’s grandfather might (if that grandfather had a few grand to waste on a single suit, which most didn’t nowadays), with his gray hair and wire spectacles. I might hate him, but his appeal to the public wasn’t lost on me. He radiated calm and assurance—the kind of person you wanted in charge during a crisis. And this country had been in a state of crisis for more than twenty years.

Marco growled, an unmistakable sound. He’d come into the lounge in his panther form—the form he’d spent most of his nonworking time in ever since his abduction by another hybrid Changeling two months ago. Far as I knew, he hadn’t talked to anyone about the experience. As a kid, he’d spent the majority of his time in animal form, and seeing him retreat like that again now . . . it worried me. But you can’t make a panther talk to you, and he has mighty long teeth.

Winstead’s stump speech went like most of his others. “Blah, blah, blah . . . our struggling country . . . blah, blah, blah . . . same fear in the heart of every citizen . . . blah, blah, blah . . . abuse of these incredible powers . . . blah, blah, blah . . . destroyed our cities . . . blah, blah, blah . . .” So forth and so on, for about ten minutes.

Finally, he said something new. “Many of you may be wondering why I chose this particular location today.” He smiled at the press like they all shared some big, juicy secret. “Behind me, you can see the retired Ranger Corps Headquarters. Or rather, you can see what’s left of it. For more than a century, the Rangers stood for hope and peace. Two things our country could believe in. Two things we needed. But the same organization that our country once looked up to is now a symbol of devastation and loss.”

Teresa made a rude noise. Renee gave the television the finger.

I longed to be at that press conference, so I could use a gust of wind to knock his ass right off the podium and into the press gaggle hanging onto his every word.

“As governor of California,” Winstead continued, “I’ve carried the burden of this symbol, a stain on what was once a great and thriving city.”

Stain. Nice.

Ass-face.

“I’m here today to show you that I’m a candidate who can get things done, and that I will continue to do so when I am elected president.”

The back of my neck prickled, and I sat up straighter.

Winstead produced a sheet of paper from the podium. “I have with me today a signed document from the director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives, giving this parcel of land back to the city of Los Angeles.” He glanced off-camera and beckoned to someone. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mayor Christina Ainsworth.”

No one in the lounge said a word as Los Angeles’s mayor walked up to join Governor Winstead. She wore a smart suit and an irritating smirk that said she knew exactly what was about to happen.

And deep in the pit of my stomach, so did I. Bleaching out the stain.

“Mayor Ainsworth,” Winstead said, “it’s my privilege to present this deed to you and the City of Los Angeles.”

“Thank you very much, Governor,” Ainsworth replied, her smirk turning into a delighted smile.

“Son of a bitch,” Teresa said, breaking the silence in the lounge.

The gaggle of reporters went nuts. Winstead raised his hands in a shushing gesture, then pointed. “Go ahead, Shannon,” he said.

The network camera shifted around to zero in on a woman with a network microphone. “Shannon Milton, Channel Four,” she said. “Mayor Ainsworth, now that you hold ownership of the old Ranger Corps Headquarters, what do you plan to do with it?”

The question on everyone’s mind.

I curled my fingers into the fabric of my jeans.

The camera pulled in close on Ainsworth. “Twenty-five years ago, Los Angeles was synonymous with the entertainment industry,” she said. “Since then our city has survived immeasurable unnatural damage from Meta-powered humans, and we continue our struggle to rebuild what they tried to destroy. While we’ve succeeded in maintaining a healthy music presence, film is all but nonexistent now. My goal is to change that, to bring the film industry back to Hollywood where it belongs. And rather than dust off old studios gone to rot, we’ll be providing land for new studios.”

She pointed at the buildings over her shoulder. “Once upon a time, a major studio thrived on this lot, and another studio will thrive here again.”

“Un-fucking-believable,” Renee said. Instead of angry, though, she seemed sad.

A different reporter got his turn to ask a question: “Mayor Ainsworth, how do you anticipate the Rangers will respond to this announcement?”

“The Ranger Corps has not officially existed for more than fifteen years,” Ainsworth said. “They no longer function in any capacity. The group of Metahumans currently operating in Los Angeles parted ways with the federal government six months ago and, as such, has no official government standing. We need to move forward, not just here in Los Angeles, but as a country. We can’t do that while living under the shadows of the past, and the buildings behind me are just that. They are the past.”

The past—more polite than “stain.”

“But how do you expect them to respond to this, Mayor? It’s got to feel like an incredible slap in the face.”

Felt more like a punch in the junk.

“I cannot guess as to their reaction,” Ainsworth said. “However, they’re free to contact me through the proper channels to voice their concerns.”

Marco hissed.

Renee made a disgusted noise. “In other words,” she said, “drop your pants and bend over.”

I snorted.

On the television, Mayor Ainsworth shook Winstead’s hand, then went off-camera. Winstead gave some horseshit closing remarks I could barely listen to, I was so disgusted. When the broadcast switched back to the studio, Renee turned the volume down.

“It’s no wonder they didn’t want us there today,” Gage said. “She’s trying to erase us.”

During her high-pitched wake-up call earlier, Renee had told me that while I was sleeping, the Secret Service had called Hill House (the freaking Secret Service!) and politely asked that no one from our organization attend the speech. No kidding. Good thing, too, considering the bomb Winstead had just dropped on the city.

Teresa launched off the sofa and stalked over to the television, as though she could reach through it and yank Winstead into the lounge. Her fingertips sparked with purple energy, a testament to her temper. She shook her head, lavender-streaked hair flying around in thick waves. “He can tear down buildings and pretend we don’t exist,” she said in her no-nonsense leader voice, “but we’re not going away. We matter, damn it.”

“Who are you trying to convince, T?” Renee asked.

“No one. Just making sure you guys all remember that.”

“If Winstead is elected, we are in serious trouble,” I said.

“That’s still a big if, Ethan. A lot can happen between now and then.”

“Like a complete personality transplant?”

Teresa’s mouth twitched. “We’re not that lucky. Best thing any of us can do is what we’ve been doing, which is proving the Metas in Manhattan are no longer threats, and doing our damndest to keep the Greens in line.”

Okay, so I could agree with the last part of her declaration regarding Greens, but I stood by my inability to declare the Banes in Manhattan a collective nonthreat. Teresa possessed the amazing and beautiful ability to want to see the best in people, no matter their past, and she envisioned solidarity among Metas—especially now that we had another potential superpowered enemy lurking around the corner in the form of the Overseer and his Recombinants.

Recombinants, we had learned recently, were genetically engineered “humans,” like the hybrid Changelings, Aaron/King and Noah/Ace, and (to our collective shock) Dahlia and her ability to absorb fire and heat. They were created in test tubes and raised in labs. We’d come up against their powers—a pyro had burned Renee, and it was an earth manipulator who’d tossed me through a window—and we had no idea how many others existed. We also had no idea who Overseer and Friends were loyal to. Aaron, Noah, and Dahlia were on our side (for now), but the other Recombinants were wild cards.

Plus, you know, the general public hated Metas, too.

For me, the Banes were dangerous until proven otherwise. Yes, Simon Hewitt turned out okay, and he’d been a loyal ally since our repowerment in January. But there were still a dozen or so Banes that Simon hadn’t been able to contact directly, and ever since one of the Manhattan residents used their powers to short out the tracking mechanism on the collars they all wore, he hadn’t made any further progress.

A harsh buzz came over the intercom—front gate. Already closest to the nearest unit, Teresa hit the box on the wall. “Hill House.”

“It’s Detective Pascal. Do you have ten minutes, Trance?”

Tension filled the room like a stink bomb, fast and furious. Next to me, Dahlia tensed up, but no one else outside the people in this house (except Simon Hewitt, who was in New York) knew she shared a body with Noah. On the middle sofa, Aaron and Dr. Abram Kinsey sat up straighter. Dr. Kinsey had created and raised the Changelings Ace and King, and, as donor of the genetic material, was technically their father. He had no actual blood ties to Aaron or Noah Scott, the brothers who merged with the Changelings—did I mention it was a complicated story?—and he was the only one of the three not wanted by the police for murder. Whenever Detective Pascal—or anyone else not in the know—dropped by, Aaron was the only one who had to hide. He’d been perfectly behaved since coming to live here, but given the Changeling’s history, Aaron was kept on a very short metaphorical leash.

“I do have some time, yes,” Teresa replied. “I’ll buzz you in.”

The gate controls were downstairs in a little room that housed all our security computers, just off the conference room, aka War Room. Teresa headed out and Gage followed her. His five enhanced senses allowed him to act as a human lie detector, and he liked to be around whenever Pascal had questions. I had nothing better to do, so I went too, curious what the hell Pascal wanted this time.

Probably more questions about the disappearance of his partner, Liza Forney, who’d gone missing two months ago during the Noah/Aaron/Changeling debacle. We just didn’t know how to tell Pascal that she was dead, or that two of the people responsible were our freaking houseguests (that would be Noah and Aaron, for those playing along at home).

Sometimes it was hard to remember if we were the good guys or the bad guys, especially when we lied to the police.