by Kathy Reichs
At the last moment, she spotted my signal. Her eyes narrowed in confusion.
I nodded right. Spun my finger in a circle. Tapped my head.
Ella dipped her chin, then took two steps to the left.
What am I doing? I can’t pull this off!
Noticing Ella’s shift, Ponytail glanced down the line. Spotting my position, her eyes widened. She surged toward me, barreling over a teammate in the process.
Too late.
Ella shot forward and struck the ball.
At the same moment, I spun, looping around the wall and behind the defense.
The ball arced through the air—not toward goal, as everyone expected, but to where I waited at the corner of the six-yard box.
The goalkeeper tried to adjust, scrambling off her line with a muffled curse. Ponytail backpedaled desperately as the ball cut across the clear blue sky.
I leaped high, my flare-powered muscles firing me up with ease. The black-and-white sphere seemed to hang forever. I could smell yesterday’s rain on the wind, could see the cross-stitching on the ball. Heard a collective intake of breath.
I rose. The keeper rose. Ponytail rose.
Then I rose higher still.
I headed the ball as lightly as a feather, directing it into the open net.
Goal.
My first ever.
I landed less gracefully, since both James Island girls slammed me in midair. I hit the ground hard, jamming my knee and tumbling backward, flipping ass over teakettle before rolling to a stop. Then my teammates mobbed me in a giant dog pile.
In the confusion, no one got a good look at my face.
The official consulted his watch, then blew the whistle three times. Game over.
Nice one, Pelé!
Thanks, Hiram.
SNUP.
As the crowd went nuts, Ella dragged me up and smacked my butt. Hard.
“Ow!” Woozy from the loss of my flare.
“You have more hops than any girl I know!” Ella shot a nasty look at Ponytail, who was chewing out her teammates. Catching the girl’s eye, I winked. She practically snarled in frustration before stalking away.
“That was awesome, Tory!” Madison beamed at me as she shook out her wavy auburn hair. We exchanged an awkward hug. I tried not to cringe.
Things were different now—Madison and I had become friendly over the last few weeks—but old habits die hard.
“Thanks, Maddy. And thanks for letting me get forward.”
“When my captain commands, I obey.” Madison squeezed Ella’s arm before trotting toward the sideline. We watched her go with matching headshakes.
“I’m sold.” My shoulders rose and fell. “I can’t explain it, but she really is different.”
“Or she’s after something. But I can’t for the life of me guess what.”
“Maybe she finally had enough of Tripod life.”
Ella grunted noncommittally, eyes heavy with skepticism as she began unstrapping her shin guards. “In my experience, girls like that never change.”
I didn’t respond. Honestly, I felt the same.
Madison and I had history. A dangerous one, for me and my friends.
She’d seen things I fervently wished she hadn’t.
Afterward, Madison had spent months avoiding me. Terrified of me. Scheming against me when she could. But now she’d simply let it all go, just like that? It didn’t seem possible.
Ella nudged me, crashing my train of thought. “Look alive, Brennan. Your cheering section is in full effect.”
Hi and Shelton were standing shoulder to shoulder, clapping and chanting my name. In response to my wave, Hi attempted a running cartwheel, only to stall halfway and flop on his back. Shelton leaned over his prone form and began an exaggerated ten-count. Ben—lying on the grass with his legs crossed—just shook his head at the two of them.
I snorted, pawing through my tangled red hair. “That’s my fan club, huh?”
“Better than not having one.”
“Like you’d know anything about that.” Ella was one of the prettiest girls in school.
“True.” My friend grinned wickedly—she’d recovered her spark since last month’s ordeal, something I was extremely happy to see. “But your followers will have to be patient. Our fearless leader wants us. He looks like he might propose.”
I glanced at our sideline. A grinning Coach Lynch waved us over to where the rest of the team huddled. A look back at the hill. Hi and Shelton were dousing Ben with water bottles as he howled in protest.
My eyes rolled. “Doofuses.”
Ella hooked her arm through mine. “Come on. Time for a well-deserved bow. After all, you’re the man of the match.”
A smile spread across my face. “I am, aren’t I?”
Not bad.
“Flaring! On an open field! With dozens of people watching!”
Shelton Devers shivered as if spiders were crawling down his spine. Boxy, black-framed glasses nearly tumbled from his nose. “That’s not like you, Tor. To be so reckless. So irresponsible. Thank God no one saw!”
I dodged his eye as we strode along the sidewalk. Azaleas, dogwoods, and long-limbed willow trees shaded Gadsden Street, tucked close to the historic homes lining both sides. Warm May sunshine had Charleston’s gardens looking and smelling their finest.
Not that Shelton could be distracted.
He was right, and we both knew it.
“It was stupid.” I wilted under my friend’s unrelenting scowl. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“More than stupid.” Shelton tossed his uniform jacket over one bony shoulder. The heat had cranked up to match the humidity, reminding everyone that summer was nearly here. Shelton’s dark skin glistened with sweat as he lowered his voice. “I know our powers are humming right now, but that doesn’t mean we should get crazy.”
“I thought it was awesome.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Ben Blue’s dark eyes twinkled as he flashed a rare smile. “You shot up like a kangaroo. That James Island troll nearly lost it.”
I smiled, but quickly looked away. Ben’s compliments had the tendency to make my pale, freckled skin burn like a supernova, matching the shade of my unruly hair.
Things had been awkward between Ben and me since that night at the police station, though I tried not to let it show. Still, at times his mere presence could fluster me. Conflict me. Pull me in different directions.
Ben was a packmate, practically a blood brother.
But, lately, there were times when I thought of him differently.
Not now, you moron.
“Thanks to me.” Hiram Stolowitski was plodding along at Ben’s side, his Bolton Prep uniform unbuttoned to the maximum extent allowed by public decency. He toed the line between chubby and portly, a red-faced jokester with sharp chestnut eyes, wavy brown hair, and a wickedly sarcastic tongue. Hi reached over and patted his own back. “I should get an assist. Or at least an assistant coach gig. Although the girls wouldn’t be able to concentrate once they saw me in my game shorts.”
Ben smacked Hi’s head without breaking stride. “Dope.”
“Jealous.”
The four of us were walking north, up the peninsula, bound for Charleston’s cozy medical district on the eastern edge of downtown. A trip we now took three times a week after school.
We had an appointment, though we couldn’t tell anyone about it.
“You shouldn’t have been flaring either,” Shelton grumbled, unwilling to let it go. “Things are getting way too loose around here. Too casual. We’re still genetic freaks, remember? Dog-scrambled mutants, one step ahead of the Man, trying to keep a low profile?”
“You’re right.” My palms rose in surrender. “Unacceptable risk. Won’t happen again.”
Though, being hon
est, I felt less guilty than I should have.
Flaring came so easily now. So smoothly.
These last few weeks, our powers had been responding as if we were born to them. I could sharpen my senses in a blink. Linking with another flaring Viral—a struggle for so long—now came as easily as closing my eyes. Telepathy worked without a hitch. As if a storm had passed, leaving behind blue skies and clear sailing.
The odd connected feeling I’d been experiencing had disappeared as well.
None of us knew what to make of things.
Was the viral transformation complete? Had our hybrid DNA finally stopped churning?
Or was this simply the prelude to some new phase? A pleasant spring sojourn, before the wolf came back with a vengeance. The final pit stop on our evolutionary roller coaster.
I didn’t know. But I was damn sure going to find out.
And finally, maybe, we had someone who could provide us with concrete answers.
At Calhoun Street we turned left, then took a quick right onto Courtenay Drive. Three more blocks brought us to our destination on Bee Street—the gleaming headquarters of Candela Pharmaceuticals.
“He better not make us wait again.” Ben’s customary scowl was back in place. Freed from school uniforms—Ben had been kicked out of Bolton Prep, and now attended Wando High in Mount Pleasant—he wore his typical black tee and jeans. A brooding, muscular boy with copper skin and shoulder-length black hair, nearly everything about Ben was dark.
Except his heart, of course.
I tried for diplomatic. “Chance is under a lot of pressure. He’s in the same boat as we are now, and running a covert medical experiment can’t be easy.”
Ben snorted. “Why not? He owns the damn place.”
“And did it once before,” Hi quipped.
“He’s just a stockholder, yo.” Shelton peered up at the black-windowed monolith looming before us. “Chance Claybourne might own the biggest chunk—which scores him a nice gig at his father’s old company—but Candela is run by a board of directors. We’re lucky he’s in charge of special projects, or Chance probably couldn’t help us at all.”
“‘Lucky’?” Ben crossed his arms, making no move to cross the street. “The whole reason we’re stuck with that douchebag is because of his ‘special project.’ And his father’s special project before that, which is what infected us in the first place!”
“That’s not Chance’s fault.” Unsure why I was defending him.
“Without Claybourne, we don’t have access to a medical lab.” Hi shrugged, indicating the conversation was pointless. “We need his fancy machines to find out what’s wrong with us.”
“Nothing’s wrong with us,” Ben snapped. “And we could’ve used LIRI to run the tests. We don’t need Claybourne for anything.”
“LIRI?” I gave Ben an exasperated look. “My dad’s realm? Not a chance. We’d never get within ten feet of the necessary equipment. Like it or not, using Candela’s resources is the only way we’ll ever get answers. You know that.”
Ben shook his head but didn’t reply, his jaw tight with frustration.
Ben hated needing Chance. Or anyone else, for that matter, but especially Chance.
But this was a tired argument.
“We can’t just stand here.” Hi stepped into the crosswalk. “We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile, remember?”
The Candela building rose thirty stories, with shiny glass doors accessing a marble lobby patrolled by security guards. Not good for our purposes. Too public. Therefore, upon reaching the opposite curb, we glanced both ways, then slipped into a narrow service alley running alongside the office tower. Halfway down was an unmarked steel door.
Hi dropped to a crouch and spun a quick 360, shading his eyes while humming the Mission: Impossible theme. “The coast is . . . clear!”
“Hush.” Removing a key card, I swiped it through the attached security box and typed a ten-digit number. A soft beep. The door swung open. We hurried down an empty hallway to a service elevator, then rode to the twenty-fifth floor.
Chance was waiting when the doors opened.
Tall and lean, with a strong chin and dark, piercing eyes, Chance Claybourne was as close to perfect as a guy could look. My stomach flipped upon seeing him, just as it always did.
Without speaking, Chance turned and strode down the hall, moving with the effortless grace of a jungle cat. I couldn’t help watching him the whole way.
Beside me, Ben’s shoulders tensed. I could practically hear his teeth grinding.
A sigh escaped. Was today the day they’d finally come to blows?
Chance occupied a corner office on a corridor that was empty most days. He’d chosen the twenty-fifth floor for that very reason.
Chance waved us inside, locked the door, then lowered the shades facing the hallway. We took seats on a couch and chair set surrounding a glass coffee table, waiting with varying degrees of patience. Chance always conducted the meetings.
“All right, then.” Chance clasped his hands before him, not deigning to sit. “News?”
“Nothing to report, captain.” Hi snapped off a mock salute. “The enemy is quiet.”
Chance shook his head wistfully. “Our enemy has already stormed the gates, Hiram. He’s inside our cells, wrecking shop. It’s just damage control at this point.”
“Speak for yourself.” Ben leaned back and placed his feet on the coffee table. “You might be damaged. For all we know, you’re barely Viral. A newborn pup, all alone, with silly red eyes.”
Ben waved a lazy hand at the rest of us. “My pack is just fine.”
Chance’s coal-black brows dipped in mock consternation. “You sure of that, Benjamin? I’d love to see your research. The medical tests you’re basing that opinion on.”
“You can shove your stupid tests.” Ben flashed an icy smile as golden light exploded from his eyes. “This is all the proof I need.”
“Ben, enough!” I slapped my knee in irritation. “Quit acting like a child!”
Ben’s neck flushed red. His glare slid to me for an instant, then he jerked his head away, scowling at the window. In the reflection, I saw the yellow fire fade from his irises. “Whatever.”
“We need to know what’s going on in our bodies.” Shelton spoke softly but firmly to Ben’s back. “If only to understand what happens next.”
“A few tests can’t hurt,” Hi seconded, hands locked behind his head as he lounged on the couch. “If Chance wants to give us superduper secret physicals, we should let him. Don’t punch gift horses in the face, and all that.”
Ben didn’t respond. Continued staring out the window.
For his part, Chance didn’t seem to care. “Moving along. I was able to slide our blood samples onto the DNA-sequencing schedule. I marked them as urgent for Special Projects, under Candela’s strictest proprietary R&D protocols, so I’ll be the only one to see the results. We should have them back sometime this week.”
“So nothing new,” Ben muttered. “Wonderful.”
“What blood tests did you order?” I asked Chance, in no mood for another round of bickering.
“A full battery.” Chance raked slender fingers through his dark hair. “I didn’t want to tip my interest in the DNA sequencing.”
I nodded. “The other tests might tell us something anyway. Our blood chemistry. Antibody loads. White and red blood cell counts. I just wish we’d thought to flare before giving the samples.” I was still kicking myself over that oversight.
“Next batch,” Chance promised. “First we need baseline results.”
“It’s all about the DNA.” Hi steepled his fingers as he spoke. “That’s where the wolf is hiding. That’s where the changes are buried.”
Shelton, Chance, and I nodded in unison. We knew the supervirus had scrambled our genetic material—Karsten had said t
hat much, before he was gone. But we’d never gotten any specifics. I’d never imagined we ever could.
Then, suddenly, Chance Claybourne opened a door.
In a few short days, we’d learn the truth. For the first time, we’d have an accurate picture of what the virus had done to us. Maybe even catch a glimpse of what we’d become.
Maybe find a way to stop it.
I stood abruptly. Crossed the office. Tested the thought.
Was that what I wanted? Was that the point of all this?
Distracted by the unsettling notion, it took me a moment to notice what was sitting on Chance’s desk. When I finally saw, my hackles rose. Goose bumps covered my arms.
“What is this?” I demanded.
“That is what we need to talk about today.” Chance rubbed his eyes with both palms before continuing in a tired voice. “It seems our new friends paid Claybourne Manor a visit last night. Left me gift.”
I swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no no . . .
They looked like crime-scene photos.
Three hi-res, glossy eight-by-tens, recently printed, spread neatly across Chance’s otherwise empty desk. Each provided a different angle of the same subject: a frowning marble statue on a raised dais.
I recognized the setting immediately. “This is inside your house.”
“The grand foyer,” Chance confirmed, joining me by the desk. “The beating heart of Claybourne Manor. You remember my great-uncle Milton, don’t you?”
The room in the picture was like something out of the Italian Renaissance. Murals covered the walls, bordered by ornate frescoes and exquisitely carved crown molding. A grand staircase circled the airy chamber, which was capped by a seventy-foot stained-glass dome high above.
The room’s centerpiece was an eight-foot chiseled representation of Milton Ignatius Claybourne, the mansion’s original architect. He scowled down from his perch, face bandaged and dressed for war, an ancient musket clutched in one hand.
The pictures triggered a flood of emotions. The first time I encountered this statue, I’d broken into Claybourne Manor to spy on Chance’s father. In the process I’d learned that Chance was playing me for a fool. The memory still burned.
