Exposure

by Kathy Reichs

  There.

  Something slid into focus.

  Suddenly, I could feel Coop’s presence, though he was sprawled on his doggie bed in the other room. A similar awareness extended toward Shelton and Hi. It went beyond merely sensing their locations. The vibe felt like . . . kinship. A strange knowing.

  I could sense the Virals in a way I can’t explain.

  Hi. Shelton. Coop. Even Ben, far away.

  My pack.

  But you’re not flaring.

  How was that possible?

  By now, you’re probably wondering what I’m talking about. Here’s the deal.

  Last year, my friends and I were infected by a supervirus, a vicious little pathogen created by Dr. Marcus Karsten, the former director of LIRI and my dad’s old boss. Hoping to strike it rich with a new vaccine, Karsten combined DNA from two different strains of parvovirus, accidentally creating a third.

  Major problem: This newborn germ was contagious to humans. My friends and I caught it while rescuing Cooper, whom Karsten was using as a test subject.

  Once inside us, the ruthless bug rewrote our genetic code, slipping canine sequences into our human double helixes.

  The sickness struck first. Headaches. Fevers. Nightmares. Blackouts.

  Strange transformations followed, as the microscopic invader shuffled chromosomes like playing cards.

  We evolved, or regressed. Became something new, yet ancient.

  The wolf became a part of us. And something more.

  We learned how to flare.

  I still can’t describe it very well. My mind warps and snaps. Powerful forces rack my body. Primal instincts resonate in my subconscious.

  Then my powers unleash.

  Every sense blasts into hyperdrive. Hearing. Sight. Scent. Touch. Taste. Each becomes sharper than humanly possible. My muscles pulse with canine speed and agility. I practically smolder with energy. And my eyes blaze with golden light—an unfortunate side effect we have to conceal.

  After nearly a year, the effects don’t seem to be fading. Quite the opposite.

  The wolf now lives inside our cellular blueprint. Welding us into a pack.

  We’re Viral. Genetic freaks. A brand-new species.

  And we don’t have the slightest idea what to do about it.

  What if the sickness returns? Or the mutations grow more extreme? Could the powers simply vanish one day? Or will they become too intense, our wolf traits overcoming their human counterparts?

  With Karsten gone, I’d thought any chance of finding answers had vanished along with him. Then we discovered his flash drive. A lifeline in the dark.

  Small problem: We can’t access the information on it. The stupid files are encrypted.

  “What’s goin’ on, Tory?” Shelton’s voice dragged me back to the present. He was tugging an earlobe, a nervous habit. “Did it happen again?”

  The sensation wavered. Began to slip away.

  “Explain what you’re feeling,” Hi suggested. “Talk it out.”

  “I can’t explain. I wish I could. Ever since the storm, this odd sensitivity randomly comes and goes, like a memory just out of reach. Or a song lyric I can’t place.”

  Hi snorted. “Too bad we can’t Shazam your head.”

  “You get this vibe without flaring?” Shelton pressed. “Just out of the blue?”

  I nodded.

  Then, on impulse, I tried something.

  SNAP.

  Power burned through me.

  Fire in my veins. Ice down my spine. A thousand sparking needles, tattooing my skin.

  The flare burst to life like a supernova, kicking my senses into overdrive.

  Vitality poured into my muscles. The wolf came out to play.

  “Hey, I’m in.” Molten gold exploded in Hiram’s eyes. His chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath.

  “Playing with fire,” Shelton muttered, but in seconds the same glow ignited behind his irises. Hands shaking, he removed his glasses and set them on the table—while flaring, Shelton’s vision was as sharp as a laser.

  Though our eyes gleamed with equal intensity, our powers weren’t uniform. The mutations varied slightly with each of us. Why? Who knows. Add it to the list of things we don’t understand.

  Hiram can see with spectacular precision, far outstripping the rest of us. Shelton has the best ears. Ben becomes strongest and fastest. Me? A little weirder.

  When flaring, my nose can sniff out almost anything, even other people’s emotions. Anger. Fear. Panic. Worry. Envy. Each has a specific odor, if you can catch the scent and know what to look for.

  My theory involves hormones and pheromones, but, in truth, I’m not sure. My brain just makes these leaps, and I’ve learned not to question them.

  It does work. After the events of the last year, I no longer doubt my instincts.

  But that’s not the apex of what Virals can do.

  When in close proximity, our powers become extrasensory.

  Telepathic. Psychic. Whatever term you prefer.

  During the hurricane, somehow, I shattered the mental walls separating us, allowing the Virals to share thoughts as easily as words. No: more than that. We could communicate without words, tapping into one another’s senses, and sending fully formed ideas, images, and emotions. Even seeing through one another’s eyes.

  In those singular moments, our minds had melded.

  Five beings, blending to form one unified consciousness. Completely. Seamlessly. The pack became whole. Our powers, fully unleashed.

  So—bonded, hearts and minds—we’d gone hunting. And bagged our prey.

  The feeling was amazing. Breathtaking. And, honestly, terrifying.

  Since that day in the storm, however, I’d been unable to duplicate the complete telepathic effect. No matter how many flares I burned, or how hard I tried with Hi and Shelton, even Coop, I couldn’t force the same perfect union. I was stuck.

  You need Ben. The pack must be whole.

  I shoved the thought away. Though I knew it was true.

  These special talents have saved our lives more than once, but we struggle to control them. Every time I think I’ve mastered my abilities, I discover how little I really know.

  As my flare unfolded, I tested boundaries, seeking the strange sensation I’d felt moments before.

  Coop fired through the doorway, fur bristling.

  Our eyes met. He settled on his haunches, watching me.

  Hello, I sent.

  Sister-friend, Coop responded.

  Something skipped inside my brain. The connection wavered. I tried to focus my concentration, but the tenuous link refused to solidify.

  Ben. He’s too far away. Our pack is fractured.

  No. More than that.

  Lately, my powers had seemed . . . off. Out of sync, as if they’d somehow slipped from their usual groove. Tiny disturbances had been cropping up for weeks.

  I closed my eyes. Tried to focus.

  Suddenly, pressure built inside my chest. The air leaked from my lungs. As I struggled to catch my breath, an electric shiver crawled along my spine.

  What in the world?

  SNUP.

  My flare blipped from existence. The room spun at its abrupt departure.

  Coop whined, cocked his head.

  “What was that?” The light vanished from Shelton’s eyes. “My flare just snuffed out like a candle. And things . . . things don’t feel right.”

  “Same here.” I blinked rapidly, steadying my head with shaking hands. “I didn’t release my flare, either. It felt like a fridge was dropped on me, then my powers just . . . disappeared.”

  “Ditto.” Hi was red-faced, his flare gone. “No es bueno.”

  My brow furrowed. “Something seems wrong. Like the powers have changed somehow.”


  Shelton slipped his glasses onto his nose. “Changed how?”

  “I don’t know. But we’d better figure it out. Quickly.”

  “Rain check?” Hi nodded toward the clock. “As much as I love making myself dizzy, we’ve got a fun-filled day coming up tomorrow. School should be a blast.”

  I winced. “I’d been blocking that out.”

  “Unhealthy.” Hi dug a string cheese from the mini-fridge. “Gotta face your fans.”

  Since foiling the Gamemaster, we Morris Islanders had become something of a sensation at Bolton Prep. The trial had reignited the hysteria, and today’s events were sure to be front-page news. I wasn’t looking forward to another day of being gawked at in the halls.

  “I can’t wait for this to be over.” Gathering my things. “I hate the spotlight.”

  “You said it,” Shelton agreed. “Invisibility is way better than notoriety.”

  “You two are nuts.” Hi raised the roof. “Go big or go home, I say.”

  “Sure, Hi.” I whistled for Coop to follow. “Right now, let’s just go home.”

  I halted at the steps to my townhouse.

  “I have to go in, don’t I?” My shoulders slumped at the prospect.

  “You can crash in my garage,” Hi offered. “There’s a pop-tent in there somewhere. Heads up, though—our cat uses it as his emergency litter box. It smells pretty bad.”

  My nose crinkled. “Charming.”

  The last rays of daylight were fading as the sun melted into Schooner Creek. The air remained sticky and warm, one of those classic spring nights in the Lowcountry. I’d probably sleep with my window open, if the bullfrogs weren’t croaking too loudly. So different from the still-frigid gloom of my native Massachusetts.

  The walk back from the bunker had taken twenty minutes, mainly because we hadn’t hurried. It’s an easy stroll down the beach, and you can’t get lost. Our block is the only building for miles.

  Kit had recently dubbed our neighborhood Exile Acres. The name stuck.

  “Later, peeps.” Hi fumbled for keys as he climbed to his front door. “I’m gonna watch Battleship at nine if you guys wanna live chat. Fair warning though—it looks absolutely terrible. Like, shockingly, horrifically bad.” With that, he disappeared inside.

  “Bye.” I didn’t move.

  A gentle breeze swept off the Atlantic, carrying the bitter tang of sea salt and stirring the azaleas Mrs. Stolowitski had planted along the front walkway. Out over the dunes, fireflies bobbed and winked like floating candles, as a legion of crickets began their nightly serenade.

  On Morris, you could close your eyes and pretend the civilized world didn’t exist.

  So peaceful. Like a land out of time.

  Coop nudged my leg. I reached down and absently stroked his back.

  I can’t stand out here forever. Or can I?

  “That bad, huh?” Shelton had paused to watch me from his stoop. “I thought ya’ll worked things out?”

  “It’s horrible,” I grumbled. “I can stand Whitney in small doses, but suddenly I’ve got a lifetime supply. The hits never stop.”

  “Good luck with that.” Shelton waved once, and was gone.

  More seconds ticked by.

  Coop yipped. Danced a circle. He took a few steps toward the dock, turned, and barked twice.

  “I hear ya, dog breath.” Shaking my head. “But we’re already late. Hiding will only make it worse.”

  With a piteous sigh, I trudged up to the front door.

  Slipping inside, I climbed the three steps to the main level. Before me stretched our living room, dining room, kitchen and breakfast nook, all lined up in a row. To my left, a narrow staircase descended to Kit’s tiny home office and a single-car garage.

  Up one flight were two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. Thank God.

  The top floor, once Kit’s awesome man cave, had recently been transformed into a formal sitting room. Don’t get me started. Double doors opened onto a spacious roof deck with a spectacular ocean view.

  Nice digs, if you can handle all the stairs.

  Though I barely recognized the place anymore.

  Our furniture used to be strictly Ikea. Simple, durable catalog gear to make any yuppie proud. Those days were over.

  Delicate antiques now dominated the common areas. Gilded mahogany side tables. Lacquered chests and brazilwood bureaus. A tassel-trimmed silk ottoman. Pointy, upholstered chairs.

  At times, I wasn’t sure where I should sit, or what I could touch.

  The fancy pieces looked so . . . uncomfortable. Breakable. The bizarrely asymmetrical coffee table seemed destined to collapse at any moment. A pair of living room lamps resembled medieval torture devices.

  Worst of all, I’d been evicted from the bedroom facing the ocean. It was the larger chamber of the two—okay, fine, it was the master—but I’d been its sole tenant since joining Kit on Morris. It was mine.

  No longer. As Kit explained, the bigger bedroom was better suited to handle a double occupancy. And, with the back room all to myself, I’d still have the most space out of anyone.

  Blah blah blah.

  I’d been unceremoniously bumped to Kit’s smaller, rear-facing cell. Thanks so much.

  Why all the changes?

  The reason was sashaying around my kitchen at that very moment.

  Whitney Blanche DuBois. My father’s ditzy gal-pal.

  The blond bombshell had become a permanent resident at Casa de Kit.

  My own private nightmare.

  Hurricane Katelyn had shown less mercy to Whitney’s property than to ours. A massive oak had reorganized her kitchen, after crashing through the two stories above it. Pouring rain and gale-force winds had done the rest.

  Homeless, Whitney had moved in with us while her place underwent repairs.

  Five months later, she showed no signs of ever leaving.

  “Tory, darling!” Whitney cooed in her sugary Southern drawl. “I thought we’d discussed being home before sunset. It’s not safe for a girl to wander alone after dark.”

  Coop slunk past me and beelined for his food dish. Whitney tracked him from the corner of her eye.

  Make no mistake—wolfdog and bimbo did not get along.

  Whitney considered Coop a wild animal infesting the property. Coop considered Whitney a meddling interloper disturbing the peace. I backed the wolfdog’s take.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Lost track of time.”

  “Don’t talk to your shoes, sweetheart.” Whitney tsked. “A proper lady prides herself on making firm eye contact.”

  I fought an urge to flip her the bird. “Thanks for the tip.”

  Whitney desperately wanted for us to be friends. But her personality and priorities made it all but impossible. I’d tried my hardest to like her. And failed. Repeatedly.

  It is what it is. The woman doesn’t get me, and I can’t fathom her.

  But Kit adored his Barbie girl, so I kept those thoughts to myself. As far as he knew, the bimbo and I were getting along okay.

  Oh, sure. Everything’s just hunky-dory.

  Kit’s an outstanding marine biologist, and a good dad, but he’s not the most perceptive guy on the planet. Or even top half. A fact I’d used to my advantage more than once.

  You’re probably wondering about that.

  I’d been living with Christopher “Kit” Howard for over a year, ever since my mother was killed in car accident. Broadside. Drunk driver. Mom never stood a chance.

  The pain still surfaces unexpectedly. I’ll hear a Rolling Stones song, or see a ratty yellow futon, and boom, it all comes rushing back. A raw wound that never quite heals.

  I try to hide the eruptions, but the guys can always tell. They do their best to support me even though it makes them uncomfortable. It’s very sweet, but teenage
boys make lousy grief counselors. Same with Kit, though he’s getting better at it.

  I’m working things out on my own. Seems easier that way.

  If the accident hadn’t happened, I’d likely never have met my father.

  A sad thought.

  Kit and I got off to a rocky start. He’d had zero idea how to deal with the shattered, weepy teenage girl who’d dropped into his life like an H-bomb. But slowly, we’d learned to trust each other. To peacefully coexist, and even enjoy each other’s company.

  We’ll never have a “normal” father-daughter relationship—I call him Kit, and decided to keep my last name—but we weren’t strangers anymore. Real progress had been made since those first awkward weeks.

  Until he’d added the ditz to our household, anyway.

  And Whitney’s dreadful presence wasn’t the only change.

  As if making up for prior negligence, Kit now watched me like a hawk. That’ll happen when your teenage daughter manages to get stalked, attacked, shot at, or arrested every few months.

  What can I say? Being Viral is like golfing in a thunderstorm.

  Trouble seems to find me.

  “That you, sport?” Kit emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron that said “Hail to the Chef.” The mind weeps. “Good walk?”

  “Yes.” I swept past Whitney. “It’s getting really nice outside.”

  Kit knew my friends and I had a secret clubhouse, but he didn’t pry. Which was fortunate. The bunker’s true scope would blow his mind.

  Tossing my bag onto one of the awful chairs, I flopped on the living room couch, the lone piece of furniture to survive Extreme Makeover: Whitney Edition.

  I pretended not to notice as Whitney retrieved my bag and hung it by the door.

  Grrrrr.

  Whitney was a compulsive straightener. I don’t know why it bugged me, but it did.

  Whitney walked over and kissed Kit’s cheek. “I was just telling Tory how it’s not wise to walk alone after nightfall.”

  “I learned a lot.” Straight-faced.

  “Okay, who’s hungry?” Kit forced a smile. “Tory, set the table. Now, please.”

  Sometimes I pitied my dad—he often walked on eggshells around the two women in his life.