She looked strikingly familiar.
‘‘This is not the path I would have chosen for you, my beautiful boy.
But it is what is, and there is no other who can traverse it. Go back now. Go back to the ones who need you.’’
Her face glowed the most beautiful, radiant, white light he had ever seen. It grew brighter and brighter . . .
‘‘Mom!’’ Grant screamed.
His breathing came too fast; he was going to hyperventilate. But he couldn’t slow himself.
Was that really her? Had he just seen his mother?
He looked around. He was in his bedroom. Sitting up in bed. He couldn’t remember how he got here.
He felt a staggering soreness all over, as if every muscle in his body had been stretched and pulled and exercised beyond failure. Every movement brought a world of aches.
Before the dream—if it was a dream—the last thing he remembered was watching his ring glow brighter than bright. And then the pain, pain beyond imagining that had waged war on his entire system.
No wonder he was sore.
But that place . . . that . . . dreamscape . . . it was familiar. He had seen it before . . . somewhere . . .
‘‘You’re awake!’’ a voice exclaimed. His sister. ‘‘He’s awake!!’’ Julie called out, louder.
She ran and threw her arms around him, squeezing him tight. ‘‘Are you all right? What happened? How do you feel?’’
Grant shook his head, not ready to share his dream yet.
The Forging, she called it . . .
Lisa appeared at the bedroom door. Daniel, too. She was pushing him in a wheelchair.
‘‘Does anything hurt?’’ Daniel asked, inspecting him like a used car.
‘‘Everything I own hurts,’’ Grant moaned, wincing with each breath, each tilt of his head. Coupled with this was a crushing exhaustion. He barely had the energy to raise a finger.
‘‘You looked like you were . . .’’ Daniel commented, ‘‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’’
‘‘I don’t—I . . . I can’t explain it,’’ Grant whispered, his mind charging full speed ahead though his breathing at last was slowing.
He remembered the pain that had encompassed him and how it felt. It was horrific. And then he had seen the mist and then . . . her.
‘‘Did I die?’’ he whispered, his eyes still closed.
‘‘No!’’ Julie cried.
Daniel hesitated. Grant couldn’t believe the man was in a wheelchair. ‘‘I . . . don’t know. Your breathing was almost nonexistent. Julie said you were cold to the touch. My best guess: you were in some kind of catatonia.’’
Grant looked down at his left arm and noticed the line sticking out of it for the first time. He carefully pulled it out, fighting the urge to wince with each new movement.
‘‘We hooked you up to an I.V.,’’ Julie explained, ‘‘to make sure you didn’t dehydrate.’’
‘‘I feel okay . . . Aside from the soreness. It’s like a truck ran over me . . . and then a tank.’’ He glanced outside his bedroom window, and the midday sun startled him. Plus it finally fully registered that Daniel was in a wheelchair. ‘‘Wait—how long was I out?’’ he asked.
Daniel looked at the watch wrapped around the cast on his broken wrist. ‘‘About thirty-six hours now.’’
Grant just looked at him. ‘‘I’ve been asleep for a day and a half?’’
The three of them nodded in unison.
‘‘But it feels like I haven’t slept in days!’’
The only response the others could give was to watch him with concern.
For a day and a half, I’ve been in a coma. Or . . . something.
What’s happening to me?
What is the Forging?
And the woman?
She couldn’t have been . . .
Could she?
He looked down at his ring. It had returned to normal. No glowing, no shimmering.
But as Grant settled uncomfortably into this skin again, he realized for the first time that he felt something else, something new that he couldn’t explain. It was a very odd sensation.
‘‘Have you talked to Hannah?’’ he asked. ‘‘Or Morgan, or any of the others?’’
‘‘No, we haven’t heard from anyone,’’ Julie replied.
Thirty-six hours and no word from Hannah or Morgan. Or even Alex.
He looked up again and saw them watching—scrutinizing—his every tick and movement.
‘‘I’m going to need a little while to sort this out,’’ Grant said, holding Julie’s hands tighter than before. His thoughts were coming faster than he could keep up with—his blackout, his dream, Daniel’s revelation about why he had been Shifted, his friends, his father, his mother.
Grant stopped and gazed at Daniel and Lisa. ‘‘Thanks for staying to help.’’
Daniel shook his head, looked down, unable to meet Grant’s eyes.
‘‘Didn’t think it would be a good idea to leave, under the circumstances.’’
‘‘Thanks,’’ Grant mumbled.
‘‘Hope you don’t mind,’’ Lisa offhandedly remarked, ‘‘but we helped ourselves to one of your unused apartments. We didn’t have anywhere else to go, and this building’s got decent security tech . . .’’
Grant stopped, midthought. Again. ‘‘What do you mean, my apartments?’’
‘‘This building was anonymously purchased two months ago. It took some digging but we finally found a trail that names you as primary owner,’’ Daniel said. ‘‘According to the paperwork, you own the whole thing.’’
Grant laid back down. ‘‘Somebody wake me when the world stops being crazy.’’
But as soon as he’d closed his eyes, the strange new feeling asserted itself again. It was as though he’d forgotten something, something so significant that it was making him edgy and fretful. And it was becoming more pronounced with each moment that passed.
He sat back up with effort, and gazed out the bright window at the Los Angeles skyline beyond. ‘‘Something’s wrong.’’
‘‘I thought we established that with our last conversation,’’ Daniel retorted.
‘‘Not with . . . the world. It’s something else,’’ Grant replied, concentrating. ‘‘Something . . . closer, more personal.’’
‘‘Like what?’’ Julie asked, watching him closely.
‘‘I don’t know, something’s just . . . off,’’ Grant replied, frustrated. He closed his eyes again. ‘‘I feel it.’’
‘‘Do you feel it yet?’’ Drexel’s voice whispered into her ear. ‘‘Has it started taking effect?’’
Alex craned her neck to look into his eyes, only inches away from her own. ‘‘I really, really wish you were dead,’’ she said drunkenly.
‘‘Mmm,’’ he muttered, backing away from the chair she was tied to. ‘‘You wouldn’t have lied about that, anyway.’’
He grabbed another chair and sat directly in front of her. He glanced at his watch, calculating if enough time had yet passed for the truth serum to take effect. Her demeanor had changed in the last few minutes. She looked a little loopy and doe-eyed. But she could simply be trying to throw him off.
‘‘What’s your name?’’ he barked.
‘‘Alex,’’ she replied immediately.
The drug had taken effect.
‘‘Okay, what’s your last name?’’
‘‘Don’t have one,’’ she smiled, and giggled dreamily.
Drexel backhanded her across the face.
‘‘Ow-w-w!’’ she yelled. ‘‘You are a mean, stupid, ugly man. And you’re . . . mean.’’
‘‘Stop wasting my time, little girl. Tell me everything you know about Grant Borrows.’’
‘‘Can’t,’’ she said.
Drexel was taken aback and nearly struck her again, but stopped himself. She couldn’t lie or withhold information while under the influence. The drug he’d used was far too powerful, even for someone with conditioning.
‘‘Why not?’’ he asked.
‘‘He doesn’t exist.’’
‘‘Grant Borrows does not exist?’’ Drexel repeated.
‘‘Duh,’’ she rolled her eyes in an exaggerated, childlike way.
He followed her eyeline to the ceiling far above, where a dimming skylight was letting in the first effects of dusk. The empty warehouse where they sat was musty and dirty and dark, but it suited his purposes. They had been here for hours, days even. The truth serum was his last resort.
He tried a different tactic.
‘‘A military base was raided about a week ago. Sources say they saw Grant Borrows there. Was he there?’’
‘‘Yep,’’ she replied.
‘‘Why did he go there?’’
‘‘To talk to Harlan Evers.’’
‘‘Who is Harlan Evers?’’
‘‘Used to be Frank Boyd’s best friend, before he died.’’
‘‘And who was Frank Boyd?’’
‘‘Grant’s father,’’ she replied, exasperated, as if it were painfully obvious.
Boyd . . . I know that name.
He took a few minutes to word his next question carefully.
‘‘Does Frank Boyd have any surviving relatives?’’
‘‘His kids. Collin and Julie,’’ she said.
Collin Boyd. That was it. The man who died in the arson in Glendale. The UCLA professor’s brother . . . Of course.
Drexel let out a slow breath as comprehension spread across his face.
Got you now, he smiled.
‘‘Now, my dear,’’ he said, settling into his seat, ‘‘we’re going to head back to the station and run a background check on Mr. Boyd . . . But first, why don’t you tell me everything you know about our good friend Collin.’’
38
Daniel watched from his wheelchair as Grant paced the living room. It was late at night, and Julie and Lisa had both given up long ago and gone to sleep.
Daniel didn’t know Grant very well yet, but he could tell that this was not normal behavior. Despite the dark circles that were now a permanent fixture around his eyes, every step, every gesture, every word screamed agitation.
Grant had decided to try walking around, moving his joints and muscles, which from the way he was walking were incredibly stiff. He’d been at it for hours and had been forced to stop several times, but he seemed determined to push through the pain and exhaustion. Daniel envied him. It’d be weeks before he could pace like that.
‘‘I know something’s wrong . . .’’ Grant said for the umpteenth time. Daniel had heard him say these words so many times now, he’d decided Grant wasn’t actually saying it to him. Daniel wished for a way to help, but he was exhausted. A glance at his wristwatch showed ‘‘1:57 A.M.’’
‘‘Why don’t we try a mental focusing exercise then?’’ he suggested, pulling the small electronic device Lisa had retrieved for him the other day from a bag at his side. Grant continued to walk back and forth. ‘‘It might help you relax, and it could be a first step toward harnessing your abilities.’’
‘‘Sure, sure,’’ Grant said, distractedly, plopping down on the sofa. He saw the device.
Daniel noticed his glance and said, ‘‘It measures your pyschokinetic output.’’
‘‘You’re going to . . . clock my brain power?’’
‘‘Something like that. Just ignore it, you won’t ever know it’s on. Lean back and let your eyes go out of focus,’’ Daniel instructed. Then he began speaking in a soft monotone. ‘‘Relax your body, let go of your tension. Ignore the sounds of the world around you. Let everything fade away. Make your mind a blank canvas, with no distractions, no thoughts. No doubts. No worries. Slow your breathing. In . . . and out. In . . . and out. That’s good.’’
He watched as Grant seemed to be following his instructions to the letter, and he suddenly wondered if this might be a bad idea—surely Grant would fall asleep if they kept this up for long. ‘‘Very good. Keep your eyes closed, and keep breathing slowly,’’ he said, looking all around, trying to find . . . ‘‘Let’s see, here we are.’’ He spotted a magazine on the coffee table.
‘‘There’s something directly in front of you, Grant, on the table. A magazine. Keep breathing in and out slowly, there you go. Now when I give the word, I want you to open your eyes and focus on that magazine. Don’t look at anything else, don’t let yourself see anything else. Just focus on the magazine, and don’t let go of it.’’
Daniel waited, watching Grant inhale and exhale repeatedly.
‘‘Open your eyes,’’ he instructed.
Grant’s eyelids opened leisurely and immediately focused on the magazine atop the table, about four feet away from him.
‘‘Relax, keep breathing slowly, that’s good,’’ Daniel was saying. ‘‘Focus your attention only on the object. Now I want you to picture an imaginary hand, reaching out from your own body and picking up the magazine. Really see it in your mind. Use your imagination to stretch out and grab it. Let me know when you have a firm grip on it.’’
Sweat formed across Grant’s forehead as he focused with tremendous intensity on the paper object resting on the table. ‘‘I can’t . . . I can’t see it . . .’’
Daniel watched him patiently. ‘‘If it helps, reach out with your real hand as far as you can. Use it as a focal point.’’
Grant extended his arm, which was still a foot and a half shy of touching the magazine. But he found it a little easier to concentrate on holding the paper booklet this way. When at last he felt comfortable with his focus, he whispered, ‘‘Okay, think I got it.’’
Daniel turned to the magazine. ‘‘Lift it,’’ he said.
Ever-so-slowly, as Grant’s arm inched upward, the magazine did as well. It hung there in midair, suspended by nothing.
Daniel watched in astonishment.
After a second more, Grant let the magazine fall. He seemed dazed.
After a moment he asked, ‘‘Do you really believe all that stuff you told me the other day, about me and . . . what I’m meant to do?’’
‘‘Absolutely!’’ Daniel answered. ‘‘Look at what you just did! Grant, you might as well get used to it: you are a bona fide he—’’
‘‘Don’t say the ‘H’ word!’’ Grant bellowed, releasing some of his pent-up energy. ‘‘Don’t even think it! I am not . . . one of those, and I never will be.’’
‘‘Yes you are. You’re not like me,’’ he added. ‘‘You’re better. Whether you like it or not, you have a responsibility to use this power of yours to help other people.’’
‘‘I don’t care about other people!’’ Grant exploded, the confines of the apartment seeming much too small for him. Daniel thought he almost felt the room shake in time with Grant’s tirade. ‘‘What have people ever done for me?’’ Grant fumed. ‘‘Walked out on me, that’s what! Betrayed me! Manipulated me! I never wanted this power, I never chose it, and if I could undo it, I would!’’ He thrust a hand out at the magazine and this time it flew apart with a loud pop, becoming a fireworks display of confetti. The tiny, shredded pieces fluttered silently to the ground.
Daniel watched the last of the paper bits fall to the table. Silence permeated the air but when he glanced at Grant, the man was far away again.
Farther than ever.
‘‘I see them,’’ Grant whispered. ‘‘Oh no . . .’’ He gasped, and then stood to his feet.
‘‘Who? What’s wrong?’’ Daniel stammered.
‘‘They’re not moving . . . That’s what I’ve been feeling—this strange sensation. I was feeling them!’’ Grant shouted and ran to the front door.
‘‘They’re still. All of them!’’
Then he burst from the door and Daniel was left only with the echo of the man’s horror at something Daniel couldn’t fathom.
39
What if they’re all dead?
The question burrowed its way through Grant’s gut like a worm during the impossibly long drive to Mo
rgan’s facility. He went far above the speed limit whenever he felt he could get away with it, but had to slow down at the busier intersections. When he finally hit the suburb roads, he floored it.
At last, the cement driveway came into view, and he never slowed as he screeched his tires into a full-on turn onto the long, ruined path. When he came to a stop in front of the asylum, he hopped out of the car and ran to the front steps.
Grant slid the I.D. card Morgan had given him through the reader and was met by a cold stillness when he opened the door. He couldn’t claim surprise at what he saw, because he had already felt it. But his jaw fell anyway, and the blood drained out of his face.
This can’t be real.
Inside, he carefully stepped around the bodies sprawled on the floor. Each one of them looked as if they had been in the middle of something— walking to another room, carrying a tray full of something to eat, writing in a notebook, or looking for a book to read—when they had simply dropped to the ground, unconscious.
Grant crept down the long hallway, his eyes lingering on a younger resident sprawled on the ground. A basketball lay nearby.
Just a kid . . . Couldn’t be more than seventeen . . .
Tears welled up as he stared at the young man, and for once he was unable to hold them back. A sharp pain began boring into his temples.
Dead . . . They’re all dead . . .
A sob suddenly escaped his lips and he couldn’t hold it back. It was the only audible sound in the building.
He stumbled over an older man’s outstretched arm as he walked past the boy, and then he cried out again.
With great effort, Grant made his way to the Common Room. There he found over two dozen others in similar condition. On the couch.
Slumped over the pool table. Lying on the ground.
He found Morgan on the ground near her favorite chair by the fireplace. She was lying chest-down on the ground, her head turned sickeningly to one side.
Tears poured openly down Grant’s cheeks and he made no effort to wipe them away. This couldn’t be real. He couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing . . .
Another headache pain stabbed at his temples, but still he ignored it.
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