Trance. Part 2

My ICU/appendicitis theory was still on the table.

I squinted at my reflection in the dented surface of a toaster. Those eerie eyes winked and s.h.i.+mmered. If I had some warped version of Granny Dell's power, who had mine? I had to find the others (if they were still alive) and make sure I wasn't the only one turning strange colors.

Something squealed, sharp and m.u.f.fled. A smoke detector in a nearby apartment, maybe. It ceased, and something new niggled at my memory. An item I'd kept ever since the War. Something I hadn't allowed any of my foster parents to take away. The squeal repeated itself, lasting only a few seconds. Definitely not a fire alarm.

Half a minute pa.s.sed. Scree!

I stumbled across the small apartment to a warped closet door. It screeched on its rusty hinges, and I yanked on the string of a bare bulb, drenching the small s.p.a.ce in sickly light. Scree! Behind a pile of winter boots, old sneakers, and an antique wooden baseball bat, I found a dusty cardboard box. Inside the box, swaddled in an old T-s.h.i.+rt that had belonged to my dad, was a six-inch-square, carved jewelry box. I held it to my nose and inhaled. It still smelled like roses, even after all this time.

Scree! I almost dropped the jewelry box. The sound, so familiar now, came from inside. I lifted the lid and put it aside. Picked out the small a.s.sortment of pins and baubles I'd collected as a teenager. I pulled at the bottom of the box, and the faded satin gave way.

An old Corps Vox communicator was nestled on top of the cotton batting, s.h.i.+ny black and unmarred by age or war. My hand jerked. I struggled to breathe as I picked up the Vox, smaller than the palm of my hand, smooth and warm. My thumb brushed across the silver R and overlapping C engraved on the plating, and beneath it, the name Hinder.

Hinder. Dad's alias in the Corps.

I closed my eyes and held the Vox close. I could see his face, rugged and tired. Wide brow, thick hair, and an ever-present grin, always trying to keep us in good spirits. He told terrible jokes, and we laughed at their sheer awfulness. We read the comic strips every Sunday morning. He made pancakes shaped like the letter T. His laugh sounded like music, reverberating in my chest long after he stopped.

Grief squeezed my heart; an ache settled deep in my gut; tears stung my eyes. How could it hurt so badly to remember a man who died more than half a lifetime ago? Mom died when I was five. She was only a shadow in my mind, unformed and barely visible. But Dad ... I'd tried so hard to box him up and push him away, so that the grief of losing him didn't kill me.

It hadn't worked too well.

I flipped open the Vox and studied the colorful b.u.t.tons. Open channel. Private channel. Alert. Vibrate. It fit in my hand perfectly, fingertips lined up with small grip indents along the sides. I pressed the red "alert" b.u.t.ton, praying it still worked and that someone received the signal.

"Identify," a computerized voice squawked out of the Vox.

Since it was Dad's Vox, I said, "Hinder."

"Invalid identification. Identify."

I grunted. We each had code names, given the day we officially became Ranger Corps trainees. My father chose mine-a name that matched my old powers.

"Trance," I said.

"Identification accepted. Message sent."

"Thanks."

I put the Vox down on an overturned crate serving as my coffee table. It stayed in plain sight as I yanked a gray sweater off its wire hanger. Corps Headquarters still existed in Los Angeles-a crumbling monument to an era of failed heroics. Someone there would know what to do next.

Was that what I wanted? To walk out of my life and its never-ending cycle of dead-end jobs, which were relatively safe? To return to a life that had almost killed me once but had also, even as a child, made me feel necessary, like I was doing more than just floating through my life?

I was no hero, but I was sick of being a waitress-of simply existing, rather than living. It was time to get dressed and figure out how to get almost a thousand miles from my little apartment in Portland, Oregon, to Southern California as quickly as possible with no car and twenty bucks in cash. My next payday was five days away, so short of b.u.mming train fare from a Good Samaritan or using my newly acquired powers to rob a bank, I would be hitching.

My other unique challenge: concealing my newly acquired amethyst eyes from the general public. I scrounged a blue knit cap from a box of winter clothes to hide the purple hair streaks. Odd-colored hair wasn't altogether unusual; the eyes were harder. I finally settled on a pair of cracked sungla.s.ses.

With my father's Vox-mine now, I supposed-in my jeans pocket, and extra clothes, and the last of my cheap, taste-like-cardboard protein bars in the cloth knapsack slung across my shoulder, I set out, wondering if there was anything more pathetic than a broke superhero.

Three.

Cipher.

I don't remember dozing, just jerking awake with a cramp in my neck and no idea where I was. The faint odors of gasoline, deep fryer grease, and stale cigarette smoke a.s.saulted my nostrils. The tractor trailer I'd hitched on was turning into a truck stop off I-99. It was busy enough, with dozens of rigs and trucks and traveling families coming and going at regular intervals. A huge fueling plaza was connected to a convenience store and greasy spoon diner. Two hundred yards away, across a service road, was a low-rent motel. It was after 6:00 p.m., dark again, and the place was jumping with activity.

"We're in Bakersfield," Cliff said.

I jerked my head toward him, self-consciously brus.h.i.+ng a hand over my chin for a quick drool check. Sleeping upright in cars meant my mouth falling open, but I found no evidence of my slumber and sat up a little straighter. Some of the immediate panic died away, but not all. I'd fallen asleep-let my guard down while locked in a moving semi with a complete stranger. Stupid.

Neon lights from the diner sign glinted off Cliff's bald head. His plaid flannel s.h.i.+rt was untucked, covering his lap and substantial gut. He navigated his rig through the lot behind the diner. It looked like a boneyard for trucks-I had never seen so many in one place. He found a s.p.a.ce and turned off the ignition. His hands clenched the steering wheel. I held tight to my knapsack, which hadn't left my side since we began our trip in the early-dawn hours. The rig's engine hissed as it cooled.

The way he s.h.i.+fted in his seat made the skin on my forearms crawl. Maybe accepting the hitch had been a bad idea. I dreaded what Cliff might demand as compensation for this trip. We'd barely spoken when he picked me up. Enough words to communicate that our destinations coincided and he was willing to take on a pa.s.senger.

And that he didn't want my money.

My bladder throbbed. "How long was I asleep?"

"About four hours. You up for a stretch and some dinner?"

"Definitely a stretch, but I really should be getting on my way." And as far away from his leering eyes as possible. "I wish you'd take my money."

"Nah, thanks, though. Didn't chafe my a.s.s any, since we're going the same way. Where're you headed to from here?"

"South. We're only about two hours from L.A. I'll get there somehow. Thanks for the lift."

Meaty fists tightened around the wheel, and he still didn't look at me. I eyed him, clenching my own hands, half expecting some sort of attack; a snarled demand for physical reparations. Instead, he climbed out. He walked around to my side, opened the door, and then offered me his hand.

I smiled warmly, feeling a bit like an a.s.s, and accepted his offer. I bounced to the ground and slung my knapsack over my shoulder.

"Sure I can't buy you dinner?" he asked.

One more hash mark on the scorecard of things I would owe. No, thanks. "Thank you, again, for the ride, Cliff. I can manage it from here. Take care."

His left eye twitched. He nodded. "Yeah." With that, he pivoted and strode toward the diner. Okay, waddled more than strode.

My stomach grumbled, reminding me that I hadn't eaten for hours. I eyed the convenience store. Food in there was overpriced, and I might need my cash for the rest of the trip south. The cold fist of hunger tightened around my belly. Dinner with Cliff, even if he gave me the squiggles, was sounding better and better.

Food later. Bathroom first, and then back on the road.

I chose the convenience store's bathroom, since I needed a key to get in. I wanted the privacy, if only for a few minutes. On my way to the rear of the store, key in hand, I pa.s.sed a large display rack of newspapers. Half a dozen different headlines screamed information at me. A man was placing fresh copies of the Valley Gazette on a smallish rack near the bottom.

"Fairview Hospital Fire, Two Dead, Accident or Arson?" Oddly professional headline from what looked like a low-budget gossip rag, if the "Aliens Impregnated Me" story below it was any indication.

After was.h.i.+ng my hands, I took a moment to let my hair down. A few more purple streaks had sprouted along my part, working their way from root to tip. It might have been a nice look if my d.a.m.ned eyes hadn't gone all amethyst on me. Unusually colored contact lenses had been banned decades ago, when civilians started going around pretending to be Metas, and several got themselves killed. Even after the War, the ban wasn't lifted. No one wanted to be a Meta. Few wanted to remember we'd ever existed.

I leaned closer and inspected my hairline. The lightest purple haze had settled over the skin at the top of my forehead, like the start of a bruise.

"Now I'm really going to scare the locals."

Roughly half of the old Rangers had been able to blend into a crowd. I'd managed to pa.s.s, even with faint lavender streaks, and to use my Trance power without being caught. Now I looked like a reject from a last-century bubblegum band.

A shadow flickered behind me, reflected in the mirror. I froze. How the h.e.l.l had someone gotten in? A woman's face watched me, out of focus. Underwater. Eyes that were there one instant, and hollow the next. A coalescing swirl of color and nothingness. Impossible.

I spun around. A single toilet and handicap railing faced me. I was very much alone. Chalking it up to lack of sleep and fried nerves, I stuffed my hair back into the cap and left.

Back outside in the cool night air, I started to relax. Hunger was making me see things in the mirror. I probably should have splurged on overpriced snack cakes, just to stave off my admission to the funny farm.

I navigated my way through the maze of the parking lot, past dozens of tractor trailers in long rows of angled s.p.a.ces that stank of rubber and oil. Their drivers were either eating or sleeping. Furniture deliveries, grocery trucks, and unmarked trailers of all sorts, with license plates from across the country.

Something shuffled behind me; I froze. I glanced over my shoulder-only shadows cast by the trucks and moonlight. Their presence was oppressive, ominous. The rumble of traffic seemed far away, the din of the fuel plaza even farther. I doubled back, determined to get out of the truck maze and into the open.

As I pa.s.sed a silver cab, something spun me around. The cloth knapsack fell off my shoulder, hit my ankle, and tripped me. I hit the grill with my left shoulder, cracked the back of my head, and saw stars. The sungla.s.ses clattered to the ground. A meaty hand closed around my throat and squeezed, while a second grabbed my right wrist, twisted it, and pinned it against the cab by my head.

Idiot!

Panic hit me in the face like ice water. I raised my knee, hoping to find a soft target, and hit nothing. Hot air wafted over my face, reeking of stale smoke.

"Guess I wanted my twenty bucks' worth after all," Cliff said, coating my sense of smell with his noxious breath.

My stomach quailed. I tried to scream. His hand constricted my throat, and he pushed his gut against my stomach. He had at least six inches on me, plus seventy pounds of flab in all the wrong places. I put my left hand on his shoulder and tried to push-like shoving against a granite pillar. I needed a weapon, something to get him off before he contaminated me with his stink. And worse.

A car rumbled past on the opposite side of the lot, its headlights briefly illuminating our row, giving me a glimpse of my fingertips. Their purplish tinge. The power orbs. I didn't need a weapon. h.e.l.l, I was a weapon-untested, but had there ever been a better time?

I grinned, channeling my fear into my hands. The skin warmed.

"What's so funny?" Cliff asked, squeezing my throat just a little harder.

My new eyes met his soggy gaze. He blinked. His brow furrowed. Ignoring my seizing lungs, I raised my left hand and snapped my fingers. Instantly a lavender orb of energy appeared and hovered above my palm. He gaped at it, the pale light casting a bizarre pallor on his jowls. His grip loosened, and I sucked in air.

"Let me go," I said, "and I won't shove this...o...b..up your ample a.s.s." I found hitherto undiscovered confidence in the oxygen and my newfound powers. Okay, maybe they weren't actually my powers, but they were proving seriously useful.

"What the h.e.l.l are you?" he asked, tightening his grip again. The lack of constant air was making me light-headed, and I struggled to keep the orb bright enough to scare him.

"I'm annoyed." He wanted to do this the hard way, fine. "And you're in pain."

His eyes widened. I slammed the orb into his left shoulder with a solid crack. His entire left side snapped backward as he bellowed-surprise or pain, I didn't care which-and his hold loosened. I shoved. He hit the filthy pavement with a splat and rolled onto his left side, groaning.

Inhaling greedily, I touched my sore throat, disgusted by the slick substance I found. I wiped my hand on my jeans, then snapped my fingers. A second orb flared to life, roughly the size of a chicken's egg. Paler and translucent, this one wouldn't hurt as much; the larger the orb, it seemed, the less solid its form.

Probably. Granny Dell's...o...b.. had been nothing quite so controlled-one of the reasons, according to Dad, that she'd retired so young. Further testing of my orbs was required, and the perfect subject was squirming at my feet.

I pushed Cliff's shoulder with the toe of my sneaker, and he rolled onto his back. He stared up at me with gla.s.sy eyes. His s.h.i.+rt wasn't torn and the area of impact wasn't bleeding, but I bet he'd have one h.e.l.l of a bruise. I loomed over him with the orb and poised my hand dramatically over his crotch.

"Something tells me I'm not the first girl you've demanded your twenty bucks' worth from," I said, indignation boiling over.

My entire life I'd felt helpless to stop the violence around me. Compared to the more powerful Rangers and trainees, Trancing someone seemed weak and stupid. My cowardice in Central Park had haunted me through my adolescence and four different foster homes while I ignored the school bullies I should have stood up to and absorbed the taunts of my foster siblings, who knew I was different but weren't sure why.

I came to understand that I couldn't count on anyone but myself, so I kept my head down and lived my life, the rest of the world be d.a.m.ned. I tried to block out the violence running rampant in the decaying cities and in the hearts of people I pa.s.sed in the street every day. For years I'd felt weak and naked and unreliable, and now I stood with the power to take some of that control back. To make my life mean something.

Very cool.

And really friggin' scary.

"Please," he muttered.

"Please what?" I asked. "Please don't burn my b.a.l.l.s off? Would 'please' have stopped you from raping me?"

He didn't respond, which was answer enough. I bent at the waist. Several strands of my hair fell loose from the disheveled cap and curled purple around my face. In the pale parking lot lights, I must have looked terrifying, because he started to whimper like a puppy whose tail I'd just ground into the pavement.

"How about we make a deal?" I said. "You get to keep your d.i.c.k, and in exchange, you tell your friends about this. Let them think about me the next time they pick up a hitchhiker with the expectations of getting a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b in exchange for miles."

He nodded, still whimpering, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Who are you?"

"Trance?"

The new voice broke my concentration. The orb disappeared. I snapped my head toward the sound, intent on giving the arrival a taste of my annoyance. The barb died on my lips, as did all thoughts of the man at my feet. I gazed at a pair of black and silver eyes that s.h.i.+mmered and danced, swimming in brilliance, like a starry night sky.

A man about my age stood on the sidewalk, his lean, athletic body dressed snugly in black jeans, a black sweater, and a leather bomber jacket. He had a firm jawline, tousled brown-blond hair, and dark eyebrows that creased in a sharp V as he stared at me as if a third arm were growing out of my forehead. His face had changed, narrowed and aged, but those beautiful eyes were unmistakable. Eyes I hadn't seen in a lifetime.

"Gage?" I asked.

"Call me Cipher. Remember?"

I did remember. Vividly. Then fifteen years old, Gage "Cipher" McAllister had been the senior trainee. The last time I'd seen him had been at a hospital in Princeton, New Jersey, two days after we lost our powers. The day MHC (Meta-Human Control) separated us kids and divvied us up to foster homes ill-equipped to handle us. We'd pa.s.sed each other in the corridor. His dark brown eyes had looked so empty, the silver barely there. Haunted. Dead.

He stood in front of me again, those engaging flecks sharp and bright; the last person I'd seen then, and the first I was seeing now. I was surprised as h.e.l.l by his random appearance at a highway truck stop. At the same time, I felt an odd sense of rightness in having him there.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Interrupting something, apparently. Everything under control?"

I spared an eyebrow quirk for Cliff, who winced and closed his eyes. "Yep." I gave Cliff a sharp nudge. "Hey, buddy, remember what we talked about?"

He nodded. Each bobble shrank and expanded the doughy flesh beneath his first chin.

"Good." I stepped back and waved a hand at the open parking lot to my left. "Now get the h.e.l.l out of here."

Cliff wasted no time scrambling to his knees and then his feet. Something greenish-brown stained the back of his s.h.i.+rt and trousers, and I didn't want to imagine what nasty things had pooled together to create that special color. He lumbered down the row of trailers, stumbling a few times in his haste, hurling curses each time he stepped on his own foot. His ample backside made quite a nice target. I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together, creating lavender sparks, and debated a parting shot.

Gage's hand gripped my forearm, warm and firm and unmistakably telling me not even to think about it. The sparks diminished. I yanked out of his grip and took a step back, scowling.

"How are you, Teresa?" he asked.

"I've had better days."