Alliance

by Leigh, Trisha

  There’s a fire crackling, and the two agents assigned here are staring at various computer and video feeds, barely acknowledging that more of us have shown up. The flames cast dancing shadows on the walls as we circle up in front of the hearth, lowering our voices anyway.

  “Let’s take twenty-four hours.” We all turn toward the sound of Jude’s suggestion. By the looks on the others’ faces, I’m the only one who doesn’t think he’s overstepping his bounds. He’s here on contingency.

  “I agree.” I side with him because I believe it’s the best thing, not for any other reason. “We need time to think and make sure we’ve considered every option before making one we’re all going to hate.”

  No one else says anything—they don’t agree or disagree. The silence, the lack of debate, is unsettling.

  But it’s who we are now.

  I’ve snuck onto my father’s back porch and taken the spot Madeline had looked so comfortable in the other day. That’s where he finds me.

  I guess I could have chosen a better hiding place, but it’s winter, it’s the middle of the night, and my father had no idea I would be around, so it’s not entirely my fault.

  He hardly looks surprised to see me, but the way he takes two steps forward, then goes rigid and stops suggests that he wants to maybe hug me but isn’t quite sure. Or he’s scared.

  The last thought stings the back of my throat as roughly as any wasp. “You saw the news.”

  He nods, taking a careful seat next to me. “I think everyone did, though I doubt everyone recognized you.” Concern floods his handsome features. “You were so still, lying there in the snow, Norah. I was scared.”

  The sting moves higher, into my eyes. “I’m okay.”

  He recognized me. Maybe because he knew the other Cavies, or Jude, or maybe because I’m his daughter. It doesn’t matter. He won’t be the only person to make the connection, no matter what he thinks, and the fact that I wasn’t caught on camera throwing fire or catching airplanes or appearing out of thin air won’t protect me. Not this time.

  “So what happens now?”

  “Do you know what I am?” I ask. “Why they made me? Why they killed my mother?”

  He winces at the final question as though I hit him with it. “No. I mean, everyone had theories once you were discovered at Darley Hall, but they seemed so far-fetched. I mean, superpowers? Government experiments? Genetic manipulation? It’s hardly believable.”

  I look down at my hands, which cause me so much pain but are otherwise worthless. His palm reaches over and covers my knee, giving it a squeeze, and our eyes meet.

  “It doesn’t matter to me, Norah. You’re my daughter, and whether it means you get the cleft in my chin, have a cancer gene or webbed toes, or can kill someone by looking at them, it doesn’t change anything.” He waits until I meet his gaze. “I love you.”

  The honesty bare in his face squeezes my chest. He’s telling the truth, or at the very least, he believes every word. That the mutation within me is no different than any other.

  “You have no idea how it makes me feel to hear you say that,” I choke out, then clench my jaw. “But the rest of the world is not going to feel the same way.”

  “I know.” He swallows, squeezing my leg harder. “I want to help—you, and the others. Let me at least find you a safe, hidden place to stay.”

  “How are you going to do that? Hide us from the government and the media and the people who tried to kill us the past couple of days?” I smile, hoping it will remove some of the cruelty from my disbelief. “I love you for wanting to help, but you’re just a lawyer.”

  “I might be just a lawyer, Norah, but I’ve met some pretty interesting people along the way with the kind of expertise you now find yourself in need of. And some of them owe me a few favors.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I’m surprised how fast it happens. My father comes through within thirty-six hours, securing the eight of us a place to stay. The great thing about it is that it’s so close to home, which I’m thinking the government and everyone else might not suspect.

  It’s a beach house—a big one—that’s used exclusively as a vacation rental on a quiet island called Edisto, just south of Charleston. Secluded on a point, with a private beach and owners who are the proprietors of at least fifteen similar homes around the world—thanks, I believe, to one or another form of illegal businesses—the place shouldn’t raise any red flags.

  Still, we’re not expecting to be here forever. Just long enough to formulate a plan. We have to get Pollyanna back, and now that I’ve told the Cavies at least part of what I saw when I touched her, they know we need to do it fast. There’s no way to know whether the Siphons are going to do something to her that will cause the break I saw or if it’s spurred on by something else.

  We’re all surprised they’re going to let her live until she’s nineteen, to be honest.

  I don’t see any reason to tell them about Jude’s involvement. To put him under more stress and isolation than he’s already enduring. Not yet.

  Now that I know what he is, what he can do, the whole thing makes more sense. Pollyanna is suicidal. She’s lost control of her ability and is about to kill all of those people with her, and she knows Jude can siphon her power and save them even if she dies.

  But he wants to save her.

  My heart warms at the thought, even if the world around me is cold. Unforgiving. The Cavies in my life are good people, all of them, and we have to believe that will count for something.

  We’ve just moved in, two at a time in case anyone’s watching, and I’ve been sitting on the porch all afternoon watching the tide. It’s cold, but a blanket and a cup of coffee have pretty much done the trick. I hate sitting here doing nothing, though. It makes me itch all over but we can’t move without more information.

  Jude comes outside, that deliberate, strict gait of his announcing his presence as surely as if he spoke. I look up and try a smile but it doesn’t feel right. “Sit?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  That’s when I notice him fidgeting. His nose twitches. His eyes roam the beach, the swing, the house, me. One leg jiggles. He picks at his cuticles.

  My heart speeds up. “What? What’s happened?”

  “Nothing, just… Shhh.” He sits next to me, now, but doesn’t stop moving, and the motion it transfers to the swing makes me nauseated. “I found out something.”

  “What? When?”

  “When I went out yesterday. I was kind of just wandering, but then I passed Saint Michael’s. We have a family plot there with a mausoleum, and it got me thinking about my dad’s hiding places.”

  Excitement tries to trump the feeling of anxiety that’s tugged me under since we got back yesterday. “You found something?”

  “Yeah.” He glances toward the house again. “I don’t know why I never wondered whether he might have used it to squirrel things away.”

  “And?” My heart is really pounding now, desperate for something, anything, that could lead us back to Pollyanna.

  “I went there just to, I don’t know, feel close to him. The house is surrounded by reporters.” He swallows, then lowers his voice. “I know y’all have been looking for the benefactor behind the research at Saint Stephen’s, but what I found is something else… The government didn’t own Darley Hall. Someone called Gingerbread Man did.”

  “Are you serious?” The words climb over themselves in their hurry to get out, almost choking me.

  “No real name, no other information, just a note in the margins of one of his files. The Cavy Asset program wasn’t started by the government? See also: Gingerbread Man. And an address.”

  “Is it a code name? You think he’s another Cavy?” My stomach clenches at the thought. How are we ever going to convince people we’re not a threat when we’re crashing planes and funding genetic research and maybe creating computer viruses that melt people’s brains?

  “I don’t know.”

  “
I mean…we always assumed the government knew about us. They act like they did.”

  “Think about it. They only started to observe you when you left Darley. Saint Catherine’s is funded by the government, sure, but what if the ladies there were convinced—by money or an attack of conscience—to send the last generation to someone else.”

  “It certainly wasn’t an attack of conscience. I met those horrid witches.” I stop and think about the implications of what he’s suggesting. “So the people who raised us might have been doing all the experiments and keeping us secluded for…who? And why?”

  “I don’t know.” He licks his lips, a pause growing. “Will you come with me? To see him?”

  “We should tell the others.”

  He shakes his head, hard, and grabs my wrist through the blanket. “No. We go, or I go alone.”

  “Why, Jude? It’s dangerous! We’ve already lost someone this week. We should stay together.”

  “You see what happens when we move in a group. We’re easy to spot, easy to track. And don’t take this the wrong way, but if the Siphons come after you and me, there’s nothing they can steal and use against us.” He waits, watching the pained expression on my face. “You’re not worthless, Norah. No matter what they said in your head to make you want to blow it off.”

  That makes me wince but I don’t pull away from his touch, so warm through the blanket. I don’t look away from his gaze, either, hot and imploring on my face. The electricity sparks between us, never gone but often tamed by circumstances that leave little time for exploring it.

  “We might only get one chance. If we spook him he could move. Disappear. My dad can’t help us anymore, so we need to be careful with the clues he left us to find.” He pauses. “I’m not saying we go after him alone, just check it out. If we find the Gingerbread Man, we bring the intel back to the Cavies and decide whether to involve Lee and the CIA.”

  I think about it for a minute, my heart aching at the way he mentions his dad. The way Jude wants all his father’s efforts to not go to waste, even now.

  I think about the massive discussion that would ensue by telling my friends, and know in my gut they would never agree to let us go alone, no matter how solid Jude’s arguments.

  And they are solid. He’s right about it being easier and safer for everyone if we go alone, but as much as I agree, my mind keeps turning to Mole.

  To what it will do to him to have me leave without anything but a note. What it will do to him if I run off, alone with Jude. Of the look on his face when he told me I’m amazing, and how it made me feel. It’s going to be hard to not have him, even if it’s only for a few days. He’s my compass. My true north, no matter which direction my heart leans at any given moment.

  How will I know the right thing without him?

  Despite the discomfort roiling in my gut over deceiving my friends, over hurting Mole, and even though a small voice in the back of my mind issues a warning about getting any closer to Jude, given my involvement in his impending death, I know I have to go.

  I finger the last of the pretty rocks from Saint Stephen’s, smooth and glossy in my pocket, and decide to leave it for Mole as I nod.

  “Yes, okay. Let’s go.”

  THANK YOU

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  Turn the page to read the first chapter of Not Quite Dead, the first in an adult paranormal mystery series.

  Chapter One

  In retrospect, perhaps drinking myself to sleep in my grandparents’ driveway hadn’t been the best idea.

  The epiphany arrives with a blast of sunlight and a knock on the driver’s-side window that explodes my brain into pain soup. I manage to make out a shadowy form through the tightest eye squint in history, its elderly, feminine hand shading a gaze that’s directed more or less toward the two empty wine bottles on the passenger-side floorboard.

  Annoyance mingles with nostalgia, because the hand can belong to no one but Mrs. Walters. She’s made a career out of being the neighborhood busybody and spent half my childhood chasing me back toward this very house with a garden hose turned on to full blast.

  After driving for almost a full day with no sleep, last night’s alcohol spectacular only amounts to one of this morning’s problems, and my face and breath would be more at home on a hooker who just came off a double shift. Not the fancy kind of hooker, either.

  There’s nothing to do but crank down the window, which ushers a refreshing wash of cool morning air into my oven of a car. Late May in South Carolina isn’t exactly temperate. Regardless of the thin, disapproving line of her mouth, no amount of childhood memories can summon a smile.

  “Good morning, Graciela.”

  “What time is it?” I ask without acknowledging her greeting.

  The grooves beside her lips deepen. “A little after seven.”

  “Christ. It had to be sunny.” I shove the door harder than necessary, but she steps back, avoiding a good smash to the knees. I press my toes to the concrete, taking a few gulps of fresh coastal air before grabbing the doorframe and wobbling to my feet.

  “Are you ill?”

  “What? No, not exactly.”

  “Is Martin well?” She crosses her arms over her chest, her faded brown gaze flicking toward the house.

  “I just got here. You’re the one who called me, remember?” Maybe Mrs. Walters had gone batshit crazy since I’d last spent any real time in Heron Creek. Maybe I should have considered that option before packing my entire crappy life into my crappy car and hauling it from Iowa to South Carolina.

  “He’s no worse off than when I called. I just wondered why you arrived in this…harried state.”

  “Oh.” I put my back to the rising sun, refusing to follow her eyes as they take in the giant pile of clothes and shoes and hangers and toiletries crammed in my backseat. The distaste curling her lips toward her chin says she might be wondering how many Iowa City rats hitchhiked with the rest of the mess. “I was in a hurry.”

  I straighten my shoulders and run fingers through my limp hair, wishing I’d taken the time to put it in a braid or a ponytail, anything that would have lessened the tangled brown waves that fall past my shoulders. Maybe Glinda still cuts hair in town. If I ever get around to making a to-do list, that’s going on the top.

  The path that leads to the front door is uneven, the red bricks dipping and jutting, fighting with green grass and mud for the right to send me falling on my face. They all manage to fail, my passage to the front stoop ending in safety. Up close, the old two-story house sags, more tired and run-down than it appears in my mind. White paint flakes off the shutters and columns, and even the porch swing, making the house seem as bone-weary at the prospect of standing upright another day as I feel.

  My keys are somewhere in the mess of my purse, but the door swings open, hinges creaking, before I gather the energy to go dig for them. The sight of Gramps, half bent over his walker, brings tears to my eyes. He must have been watching, because he can hardly hear a thing anymore, and the thought shames me in the light of my behavior.

  I throw open the screen door, ignoring the fact that nosy Mrs. Walters hovers behind me, and sling my arms around his neck. Right here, enfolded in his embrace, is the closest thing to home. He smells like Gramps, a combination of sunshine and earth and sea that’s as elusive as it is comforting, and my limbs droop with relief.

  Home.

  “Hey, Gramps.” My words are muffled against his shirt, and he leans his head close to mine until his hearing aids squeal in protest, and w
e both laugh.

  Even though my throat throbs, for Gramps I wrestle loose a smile, and he gives me a lopsided one in return. His pale blue eyes twinkle like always, but like the house, they seem dimmer than they do in my vision of the past. Faraway.

  Grams passed almost six months ago. I’ve stayed away too long.

  “Gracie-baby, don’t you go frowning. I might look like a fish dryin’ out in the bottom of a hot tin boat, but get a load of your own mug and you won’t find me so offensive.” He wrinkles his nose. “Not to mention the stink about you.”

  The laugh his comments knock loose hurts. Rusty flakes shudder off my lungs and throat as the hurt cackles its way past my lips, and it finishes with a grimace. “I drove straight through and slept in the driveway. Didn’t want to wake you.”

  He raises an eyebrow to acknowledge my lie but doesn’t turn his disapproval into words. We both know he wouldn’t have heard me if I drove a dump truck through the front of the house with a full marching band as a lead-in, then finished off with a fireworks display.

  He peeks around me as I wander into the foyer. “Mornin’, Stella.”

  “Good day, Martin.”

  The kitchen is far enough away to relieve me of listening to Mrs. Walters rant about my inappropriate return to Heron Creek. There’s grape soda, water, milk, and a pitcher of sweet tea in the fridge, along with an assortment of fruits, vegetables, lunchmeats, and condiments that there’s no way he prepares for himself. Gramps has a housekeeper in twice a week, and my Aunt Karen hired her to do the grocery shopping now, too.

  The grape soda tastes like being ten years old, like Grams and Gramps and summers spent splashing in the intracoastal, and barely squeezes past the lump in my throat. Tears, which have never been quick to come for me before, have become my constant companion since the public, humiliating demise of my engagement.

  They’re under control by the time the bump of metal on ceramic tile announces Gramps’s return from his banal chat with Mrs. Walters. “You hungry, Gramps?”