by Sarah Cross
“You little minx,” Cherchette says. “That was very stupid.”
Cherchette is icy cool and the air around her is getting colder. I’m frozen in place except for the uncontrollable shaking, holding tight to the wall, trying to keep my knees from banging into the garage.
“Must you fear me in order to respect me? Is that why you’ve never raised a hand against your parents?” Cherchette tugs Charlie’s shirt up, revealing a skinny torso studded with bruises. “Explain to me—you are a coward then, so you have to be a hero now?”
“Shut up!” Catherine struggles to one knee. “Get the hell away from him!”
“You’re in no position to give orders, dear. It’s time you learned that.”
Spikes of ice rain down from the ceiling. Catherine raises her hands to protect herself and an icy wind hits her like a massive slap, knocking her into a pile of broken furniture. Nail-ridden chairs and table legs topple with the impact, pinning her to the ground.
“It appears you were a bit too sure of yourself,” Cherchette says as Catherine makes a feeble attempt to claw her way out of the wreckage. “Are you ready to behave? You’re upsetting your brother, you know.”
Catherine strikes back with probably the most offensive string of curse words I’ve ever heard. She spits them and they turn to ice on her lips. Charlie huddles against one wall, hugging himself.
“I won’t tolerate such disrespect,” Cherchette says. A miniature blizzard swirls above her palm, ice crystals snapping in the frigid air. Her eyes are as blank and white as frosted glass. “I’ve come to help you, to save you from this wretched life, but you will not speak to me that way. You stupid little fool—this is going to hurt terribly and it’s all your fault.”
Something’s changing in Cherchette; Catherine’s prone and helpless, but Cherchette is not backing off. The cold above her palm is gathering into a spiny, shimmering orb, spiked with icicles like the head of a frozen mace. She curls her lips back and raises her arm as if to hurl the orb at Catherine.
The sight jolts me into action, reminds me that I can move. My feet barely touch the ground as I launch myself from my hiding spot, tackling Cherchette and slamming us both into a pile of cardboard boxes. The orb explodes on contact, spiny icicles biting into my skin like blades. Frost blasts my face, blinding me. The boxes tumble around us and Cherchette cries out in pain.
I pry my frozen eyelids apart with trembling fingers.
Cherchette is guarding her ribs, fingers pressed delicately to her side. Her eyes are iced over to the point where it’s like she doesn’t recognize me. Nostrils flaring rhythmically. Revenge.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know what else to—”
My words are wasted on her. Cherchette grasps my throat and squeezes, cold shooting through her fingertips and into my jaw, my brain. I’m shuddering with pain, some kind of massive internal shutdown: throat closing up, my lungs close to frozen. And I can’t think. Can’t—everything is—so—slow.
Just. Blue. In front of my eyes. Blacking out. And.
Cherchette gasps. She cries out in a language I don’t understand, tears herself away from me. My vision floods back, just in time to see the horrified look on her face. She stumbles out of the garage, steps as unsteady as my heartbeat. Slams herself into her car, frantic. The Aston Martin reverses quickly, kicking up stones as the heat rushes back to my brain, and I can move again.
She lost control. I could see it. I thought she was superior to us, perfectly in control of her powers and emotions at all times. Witnessing Cherchette lose it is almost as much of a shock as seeing her true self. Her anger. The violence she’s ready to unleash when she doesn’t get what she wants.
Catherine kicks the last piece of furniture away from her and grabs my face, turns it this way and that—scared, I think. “That bad?” I manage.
“It’s like she burned you. Damn it! Damn her! She’s like, she’s freaking worse than—” Catherine’s eyes flick around until they land on Charlie. He’s busy hiding inside his Incredible Hulk shirt, tugging the front over his bent knees. “I’ll get something to clean it. Alcohol or—”
“Don’t worry about me,” I say, struggling not to bite through my tongue the first time I stretch my neck. Agggh. It kills. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” She sucks on her injured fingertip, sourly. “But—” She turns on her brother then. “What the hell, Charlie?” she shouts. “What did I tell you about her? We’re going away on our own! You can’t trust her! Why don’t you listen to me?”
“Leave him alone,” I say. “She just scared the crap out of him; she almost killed his sister. I know you’re pissed but you’re picking the wrong target.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Catherine says. “How are we going to get out of this?”
She curls up and jams her head against her knees, and then she’s crying, so I wrap my arms around her and squeeze—the kind of hug that could crack someone’s ribs, if I wasn’t careful. But I can control it. I can control it enough not to hurt my friend.
“Is this my fault?” she asks. “What they’re doing to him? Because I won’t—because I can’t stop it yet?”
“No,” I say. “Your parents are supposed to be there for you. They’re supposed to help when you have a problem, not punish you for it. It’s not your fault. You shouldn’t have to choose between the lesser of two evils.”
“Three evils,” she sniffs. “I’m the third one. I can’t offer him a good life either, can I? I’m trying, but . . . it’s totally unrealistic, like she said.”
“She can’t tell you how it’ll turn out. No one knows that yet.”
Catherine wipes her eyes on her pajama top. Skin still red and raw, a bruise forming on her cheek. “I guess. Look, if you tell anyone about this . . .”
Not that again. I bump her with my head, squeeze a little harder. “Catherine, shut up. Seriously. Just trust me for five seconds.”
I sit with her until she calms down, my mind racing—that argument with my parents seems so far away. I watch Charlie, wonder how his mom and dad could do this to him—even though I know stuff like this happens all the time, to kids who don’t even have anything supposedly “wrong” with them. He’s in the corner, playing quietly, folding and unfolding the silver wrapping paper. Occasionally he looks at us—territorial or lonely or confused, I’m not sure.
Charlie’s a secret. The police can’t be called, social workers can’t come to his rescue. If he were discovered, who knows what would happen to him? So what good is all that professional hero training? What good is patrolling my neighborhood every day if I can’t save the one kid who has no one else to help him?
I promise Catherine I’ll call her later. Right now I have to concentrate on what I can do: which is warn the team.
I need to tell Darla she was right about Cherchette.
22
I RUN THE WHOLE WAY to Darla’s house: chest heaving, lungs and throat raw. It’s too bright to fly. It’s a beautiful, horrible day.
I check the shed—home of the family lawn mower and the site of Darla’s workshop—first, hoping I can bypass meeting her family, doing the whole hello-how-are-you-by-the-way-I’m-Avery thing, but it’s padlocked. I’m about to turn around and head for the house when I notice a folded piece of paper wedged under the door. It’s most of the way inside, but with a little careful maneuvering I manage to pry it out.
It’s a letter.
From Nicholas.
I don’t want you to worry about me, D. And don’t try to fix this, because you can’t.
I’ve made the decision to leave with C.M.
I really think it’s best for me and everyone else; it’s nothing you did or didn’t do. I just can’t take any more risks. I came so close to doing the unthinkable last night . . . and the scary part is, I almost wanted to. To get it over with. I can’t let that happen again.
Please tell everyone good-bye, and I’m sorry.
—N
/> Huh, whass—” Darla flips over in bed, blinking feebly like a mole who’s suddenly been exposed to sunlight. Her Hello Kitty sheets are tangled around her legs, her camouflage fleece blanket is in a lump on the floor. She fumbles for her glasses and sits up, straightening her too-tight Transformers pajamas. They look like they were sized for a ten-year-old boy.
“Frigging hell, how late do you sleep?” I don’t mean to yell at her but I can’t help it. “It’s three in the afternoon! You were supposed to talk to Nicholas, remember?”
“I was up till like six. Jeez. Why, did something happen?” She lifts up her glasses and rubs the sleep out of her eyes. Squints at my neck. “Um, did you burn yourself with a curling iron? Like twenty times?”
“No,” I say. “Cherchette tried to choke the life out of me. But then she changed her mind, which is the only reason I’m still alive to tell you that Nicholas left with her. Presumably before she tried to kill me.”
Darla’s mouth opens. I can see her trying to figure out the appropriate response, like: is he joking? I pull Nick’s note out of my pocket and toss it on her bed. It takes her about ten seconds to read it.
“He what?!” Darla explodes. I try to quiet her with a fierce shushing motion. I already went through one round of interrogation with Darla’s nana when I got here; I’m not really eager for round two.
“He lives right down the street and I didn’t even—damn it! Why didn’t I know he was really considering this?” Darla punches one of the doe-eyed Japanese stuffed animals off her bed. Punching it must not be satisfying enough, because she gets up and punts it across the room. “I was supposed to protect him! That was the whole point!”
Two more stuffed animals bear the brunt of her anger before she grabs her cell phone and punches Sophie’s speed-dial number. “Code red, Soph. Nicholas blew the proverbial Popsicle stand and went over to the dark side. I hate to ask for his help, but I need to know what the ice boy knows about this.” She pauses and I hear Sophie’s voice chirping through the speaker. Darla grimaces. “Fine, what Jacques knows about this. And tell him thank you.”
Darla starts pulling street clothes on over her pajamas. “I need information, Avery. Anything you think would be helpful.”
“Cherchette’s messed up. Dangerous. I think she’s running out of patience. She wants some of us, and . . .” I tell Darla everything I can remember. The things Cherchette said to Catherine, the way she attacked. My mind’s a jumble of sensations: the way the heat left my body as soon as we collided; the pain of my veins being shot through with ice.
By the time I finish my story, Darla’s on her way to a massive un-genius-like freak-out. “I knew she was corrupt—and dangerous insofar as, like, killing his belief in himself, which I was fighting to keep alive. But if she hurts him . . .”
Darla grabs her backpack and starts stuffing supplies into it: her Taser inhaler; a box of chamomile tea; a purple Magic 8 Ball that has a strip of masking tape across the back, labeling it CONCUSSION GRENADE PROTOTYPE. DO NOT TOUCH!! “We have to hurry! Who knows what she’s done to him since she picked him up?”
“Just . . . try to calm down. We can’t do anything until Jacques gets here. We don’t even know where Nicholas is.” I do my best to take my own advice. Sit down at the edge of Darla’s messy bed and will Sophie and Jacques to hurry. I try not to torment myself with questions, but it’s impossible. Nicholas doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into—and the scary thing is, neither do we. What does Cherchette really intend? Why does she want us so badly? She swings back and forth between loving and vicious—where’s that needle going to stop when it comes to Nicholas? And will we get there in time to save Nicholas from whatever she has in store for him?
When Sophie and Jacques finally arrive, I’m no calmer than I was thirty minutes ago. I’ve worked myself into a nervous frenzy, and Darla’s even worse.
“Bedroom door stays open,” Nana C. reminds us, eyeing Jacques and me suspiciously.
Darla looks like her brain’s about to pop. “Oh yeah, right!” she grumbles. “Like I’m going to have a top-secret superhero conversation with my nana eavesdropping in the hall. Let’s go to my workshop.”
I fill Sophie in on the way, whispering what happened at Catherine’s house. It seems rude to relate this stuff directly to Jacques, so I don’t—but I’m pretty sure he hears every word. He looks nervous, especially unsettled when I tell Sophie how Cherchette attacked us, and how it seemed like she’d snapped, like she’d decided that our time was finally up.
Darla unchains the shed doors and ushers us inside, stopping to attach a tiny surveillance robot before she slams them shut. She punches a code into an electronic keypad on the wall, and a stilted, soothing voice announces: “Defense mechanisms activated: nonlethal.” “I just know Nana will show up with cookies eventually. I need to be prepared.”
The interior of the shed is ruled by the most bizarre organizational system known to man—er, Darla. Like, you know how you insist you shouldn’t have to clean your messy room because you know where everything is? Picture that, only with a high-tech bejeweled supercomputer instead of a bed, tools and weapons and welding equipment all over the floor instead of dirty clothes, and a giant purple robot sitting where the closet would be, his tree-trunk-size legs bent in front of him, like an enormous sulky kid stuck in the corner.
“Uh, is that a giant robot?” I ask.
“Of course it’s a giant robot,” Darla snaps, clearly unimpressed with my observational skills. She plunks her overstuffed backpack down on her gadget-strewn inventing table—and considering she’s got an untested concussion grenade in that bag, she’s either gone totally mad or is insanely stressed.
I can relate. At least Darla never talked about Cherchette like she was a potential mentor, a role model just waiting for the right opportunity. I didn’t know how far Cherchette was willing to go, but I wanted to believe in her—and I feel like it’s partly my fault that Nicholas believed in her. Every time Darla brought up the warning signs, I had to play devil’s advocate. So if anything bad happens to him . . . that will be partly my fault, too.
Sophie browses the new weapons stash, ever the optimist, like everything will be fine as long as we have enough firepower. She aims a futuristic-looking, pink assault rifle at the giant robot’s head and mimes shooting it. “Bam! Okay, I want this one.”
“It’s a prototype. It’s not ready yet.” Darla sighs. “It’s a dynamic pain cannon, also with a stun setting. It overloads the nerves with pain without causing physical damage. I haven’t really been able to test it . . .”
Jacques looks uncomfortable in the midst of all this pain-producing technology—not that I blame him. I’m feeling a little queasy myself. “You wanted to know about Nicholas,” he says. “What is it you think I can do for you?”
“Well, first off, you can tell us where he is,” Darla says. “And what your crazy mom plans to do with him.”
Jacques’s jaw tightens, and Sophie shoots Darla a dirty look. Obviously the genius is too stressed to be diplomatic, so I jump in.
“What Darla’s trying to say is that she’s going to shut up now. We’re worried about Nicholas. We think that, um . . .” Your mom is dangerous? Out of her mind? I can’t exactly say that to Jacques. “We think he made a hasty decision. He’s been having trouble at home, and . . .”
“Of course he has been having trouble,” Jacques says. “He possesses a vortex that kills people. He has gone with my mother to learn how to control it so that he will not be a danger to himself, or his family. It’s not as if he’s the only one. Leilani has been with us for months.” The air in the workshop chills when Jacques mentions Leilani. He seems to drift for a second, his focus leaving us, his eyes growing stormy—a darker, brooding blue.
Oh yeah—you can feel the love there.
“Right,” Sophie says softly. “But Leilani was alone. She didn’t have anyone else. Nicholas has us. We’re still going to help him. We just . . . we need your help in ord
er to do that.” Sophie stops herself and takes Jacques’s arm, turns toward him. Like maybe he’ll loosen up if he’s less aware of Darla and me.
“I don’t want to strain your relationship with your mom,” Sophie says. “But Nicholas is making a huge mistake here. And you remember, you said . . . that lately she’s been . . .” She bites her lip, peers up at him like she’s willing him to fill in the blanks. I wish one of them would just say it.
That lately she’s been . . . ?
Wild? Reckless? Erratic? Mad?
“The way she lost control with Avery and Catherine . . . doesn’t that fit in with what you were worried about? You don’t have to be involved,” Sophie says. “She doesn’t ever have to know who told us.”
“Who else would tell you?” Jacques mumbles. A long sigh escapes him and he leans against Darla’s inventing table, his arm trembling like mine does after too much caffeine.
“We could have heard from Nicholas.” Sophie shrugs, takes a quick breath, and dives in again. “I know it’s an uncomfortable situation for you, so Darla and Avery and I will go. We’ll handle it. But we need to know where to find him. We can’t leave him there. He’s our friend. He needs our support. We need to keep him safe. Please, Jacques.” She’s pleading with him with big blue eyes, as sweet and earnest as the manga girls she draws. Jacques hesitates, like he’s dying to say no, but can’t—he crumbles under the weight of that stare.
“Fine,” Jacques says. “But you have to promise to stay here.”
“Me?” Sophie rapid-fire blinks. “But—”
“I’ll take Avery if he’s willing, but no one else.”
“I’m not breaking up the team,” Darla says, bristling.
“You don’t have a choice,” Jacques says. “Avery is the only one who has a chance at defending himself if something goes wrong.”
