Super Powers: The New Super Humans, Book Two

by T. M. Franklin

  “I know, I know,” she replied, and he could picture her rolling her eyes. “It's better for the case if you stay away. I've heard it before.”

  “It'll be over soon.”

  “We hope.”

  “Yeah.” Beck sighed. “I know it's taking forever, but Dad says we need to play by the rules if we have any hope of him winning custody.”

  He heard a rustle of fabric and imagined Tru was probably in her room as well, curled up in bed.

  “I know,” she said quietly. “It's just hard, you know?”

  “Yeah.” He took a deep breath, almost afraid to ask the question. “Seriously, Tru, are you okay?”

  She hesitated just enough to make him worry.

  “Tru?”

  She lowered her voice, almost whispering into the phone. “I'm okay.”

  “Is she there?”

  “She's in her room.”

  “Drinking.” It wasn't a question.

  “It's not that bad. Could be worse.”

  Beck knew just how bad it could be.

  “Did she hurt you?”

  “Nah.” Tru laughed humorlessly. “She doesn't want to leave any scars that'll show in court.”

  “Tru—”

  “Beck, I'm okay,” she said quickly, a little louder. “I can take it. You know I can.”

  “But you shouldn't have to.” Nobody should.

  “No, but like you said, it'll be over soon.”

  This was familiar territory, a kind of game they played.

  “And you'll move in with Dad. To your own room,” Beck said. “We painted it pink, just for you.”

  Tru snorted. “Well, you better be painting right over that.”

  “What?” Beck put on a shocked air. “What about the twinkle lights and glittery letters spelling out your name?”

  “I'm sixteen, almost seventeen. Not seven,” Tru reminded him with mock severity. Beck could tell she was trying not to laugh, though.

  “Don't tell me we'll have to send back the life-sized princess mural.”

  “Oh, now that I could live with,” Tru said, finally giving in to giggles. “Princesses get all the cute guys.”

  Beck groaned. “Why'd you have to ruin it? I don't need to be thinking about my baby sister as being boy crazy.”

  “I'm not a baby anymore, Beck.”

  “Don't remind me.”

  He heard a muffled sound over the phone before Tru said, “Mommy dearest is up. I better go.”

  He sat up, concerned. “You sure you're okay?”

  “Yeah, of course. Just another day in paradise.” She sighed and Beck heard the unmistakable sound of his mother's voice. “Gotta go. Talk to you later, big bro.”

  Beck warred between trying to keep her on the phone—which he knew would only anger their mother—and dealing with worrying about her once he said goodbye.

  “You call me,” he told her, choosing the lesser of two evils. “If you get in trouble, you call me, okay? I don't care what the lawyer says. I'll be there in a flash.”

  “I promise,” Tru replied quickly. “Gotta go. Bye, Beck.”

  “Bye,” he said, although she'd already hung up.

  Beck lay back, his phone cradled to his chest as he took a deep breath and tried to ease the worry that twisted in his stomach—that was pretty much a constant companion lately, it seemed. He meant what he said, though. If there was a chance of Tru getting hurt, of his mother crossing that line, he would stop at nothing to get his sister away from her, no matter what the courts said.

  He fell asleep with the phone clutched in his hand, just in case.

  Chloe lay curled up on the sofa, wrapped in an afghan as she dozed in fits and spurts. She'd given up sleeping in her room lately. The visions in the window had been coming fast and furious, calling to her multiple times a night on occasion. She found it easier to sleep on the couch—or try to, at least.

  She blinked slowly as an image appeared in the glass yet again. It was the same familiar battle scene she'd seen at least a dozen times in the past few days, but she forced herself to sit up and grab the notebook Miranda had left on the coffee table to record any details that might help in their efforts to figure out what was going on.

  Or what was going to go on at some point in the future.

  Chloe yawned and scrubbed at her eyes. “A little more guidance would be greatly appreciated,” she muttered to whoever was listening as she took in the scene before her—the wall of black smoke at the edge of the clearing, images of herself, Beck, Wren, a red-haired woman, and a few others she couldn't quite make out racing toward it.

  Oh, that was new.

  There were others in the clearing. Nobody she recognized from the vantage point of the vision, but at least twenty-five or thirty people, if she was counting correctly. In the darkness and whirling debris, she could barely distinguish the figures running away from the smoke wall.

  No, not away from the wall. Toward Chloe, Wren and the others. Toward them as if they were going to fight them. As if they were defending the creepy black smoke.

  Chloe scribbled frantically in the notebook, but before she could think any more about what she'd seen, the image shifted and she was looking at a dark room, then Beck's face, then that of a younger girl with the same bone structure—high cheekbones and a slightly sharper chin, her skin and hair slightly lighter than Beck's. The sister he'd mentioned, maybe? Then a woman appeared, dark eyes cold and empty as she screamed in anger while Beck raised a glowing hand, his own face twisted in fury as he lunged toward her. Chloe startled at the sudden movement, but just as quickly the image vanished and the window cleared.

  She let out a slow breath. “Well, that was decidedly creepy and vague.”

  The window, as usual, didn't respond, so Chloe put pen to paper and tried to record everything she'd seen.

  Beck, apparently, was headed for a bit of a trouble, and she had to make sure he knew it was coming.

  “I need you to show me a picture of your sister,” Chloe demanded as she cornered Beck at the coffee shop the next day, unceremoniously sliding into the booth next to Wren. It was Saturday, and Chloe had to wait until a reasonable hour to text Wren in an effort to track him down. She'd told him they'd planned to meet and study that afternoon, and Chloe had nearly bitten her nails to the quick as she waited to speak to him.

  “Hi, Beck. Nice to see you, Beck. How are you, Beck?” Wren said under her breath, earning a glare from her friend.

  “Hi, Beck,” Chloe parroted. “Now, I need to see a picture of your sister. Please.”

  “Why?” he asked, but he pulled out his phone and slid open his photo album.

  “I had a vision last night,” she replied, hesitantly. “Parts I've seen before, but I couldn't really make sense of them. Now . . .” She examined Beck's face, looking for similarities to the girl she'd seen in the window. “I think she was in it.”

  Beck froze. “What kind of vision? What happened to Tru?”

  Chloe sighed in frustration. “I don't know, exactly. The window isn't always specific. Or sometimes anything beyond vague and frustrating.” She huffed and grabbed his hand, angling Beck's phone toward her so she could see the image of Tru, taken on her last birthday, if the candle-filled cake before her was any indication.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  She nodded. “That's who I saw. And an older woman with enough of a resemblance to guess she's your mother?”

  Beck inhaled sharply. “What else?”

  Chloe shook her head slightly. “Not much. She was angry, I think. You, too. Your hand was—” she wiggled her fingers and raised her eyebrows. “—you know. And you went after her . . .”

  The sounds of clattering silverware and muffled voices filled the silence until Wren said, “And?”

  Chloe shrugged. “And nothing. That was it.”

  Beck watched her closely. “Are you sure about that? What aren't you telling me?”

  She sighed and looked up at him. “It's nothing, really,” she sa
id. “I mean, that's all I saw. It's just . . .”

  “Just?” He resisted the urge to reach out and shake the answer from her.

  She swept some crumbs off the table and shook her head slowly. “I didn't see it happen, but I had a feeling—I can't really explain it—that you might have hurt her.”

  “Who?” Wren asked.

  “His mother,” she replied, flicking a nervous glance at Beck.

  He leaned onto the table on his crossed arms. “I've thought about it a million times,” he admitted. “But I can't see myself actually hurting Gina. Not unless . . .” He swallowed, an uneasy, almost nauseated look on his face.

  “Unless what?” Chloe asked.

  “Unless she hurt Tru,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “And if she did that, I don't know that I'd be able to stop myself.”

  Chloe nodded slowly and they settled into an uneasy silence.

  “You've got to get your sister away from her,” Wren said quietly. “If she's going to hurt her—”

  “We've been trying,” Beck answered, trying to control the frustration in his tone. “It's not easy.”

  “Can't your dad—”

  “He's not her biological father,” Beck snapped. He caught Wren's startled look. “Sorry,” he said. “Tru's bio-dad took off when she was two and we haven't seen or heard from him since. He's not much better than our mom, anyway.

  “My dad’s been trying to get custody, but it’s not easy to take Tru from her biological mother.”

  Wren reached across the table and grabbed his wrist, her thumb rubbing gently over his skin. He didn't meet her eyes, but he seemed to relax into the touch a bit. Chloe looked away, feeling like she was intruding on a private moment.

  “What are you going to do?” Chloe asked once Wren had released him.

  Beck shoved away his coffee cup and wiped a hand over his head. “Whatever I have to do to protect my sister,” he said. “Although I've got to admit, right now? I have absolutely no idea how to do that.”

  The potential threat against Tru haunted Beck over the following days. He found himself zoning out during class, during practice, unable to keep from imagining what could happen to his little sister. Vivid thoughts, lurid and terrifying, left him gasping for breath on more than one occasion, his heart pounding with fear. Once he even had to duck behind a bush between classes when he felt a tingle in his hand. The glow was barely there—most people probably wouldn't have noticed it—but he forced himself to count his breaths to calm down and it eventually faded. His burgeoning gift was both exciting and frightening, and he imagined it would continue to be so until he could learn to control it.

  So he tried. Every moment he was alone, he worked on accessing the connection to his power, as Wren had taught him. Sitting in his room, late at night, he'd set aside his homework and focus, the glow brightening and fading around his fingers as he worked.

  But the strength—the power—it eluded him, the embers barely burning without anger to ignite them. No matter how many times he tried, all he got for his efforts was a glowing hand.

  Until he got so fed up and frustrated, he accidentally broke his headboard.

  The glow fled quickly, his own shock breaking his concentration and his feelings of anger. With a heavy sigh, he managed to sneak the broken wooden pieces out of the house and into the dumpster.

  Obviously, there was something wrong with him. Within a few days, Wren had at least learned to control her gift to some level. Not long after that, she even killed a guy.

  Saved a life, too. More than one, actually.

  Beck couldn't figure out why he was having so much difficulty. Why his power seemed so integrally linked to his anger. Why he was so—

  Useless. Worthless. Nothing.

  The thoughts kept him up at night, the voice reverberating in his skull.

  The three of them convened at Chloe's house again on Friday after swim practice, gathering in the attic with two large pizzas on the floor between them. The chest sat in the corner, and Beck couldn't resist glancing at it every now and then.

  “Doesn't it give you the creeps?” he asked.

  Chloe shrugged. “Not really. I guess I've gotten used to it.”

  He supposed that made sense.

  “Where's Miranda?” Wren asked, wiping her mouth and taking a long swig of her soda. “She has all the notes we're supposed to be reviewing.”

  “She texted me a little while ago,” Chloe replied. “Said she was doing some research, but would be here soon.”

  “So what do we do until then?” Wren leaned back on her hands and rolled her neck.

  “I think you need to help Beck with his power.”

  “I'm getting better,” Beck said, holding up his hand. He concentrated and after only a few seconds it started to glow. “Not that it matters.” The glow faded, then brightened again. “All I can do is play human light bulb. I have no control over the strength.” His hand faded and he blew out a breath.

  “It takes time,” Wren said.

  “How much time?” Beck snapped. Tru didn't have time. He had to be ready. He had to—

  Wren grabbed his wrist. “It takes as long as it takes,” she said quietly.

  “Well, that's too damn long!” He shook her loose and shot to his feet, his hand glowing brightly. “All I can do is this.” He clenched his fist, the light so bright it was difficult to look at. “What good is this? How can this help anyone?”

  Useless. Worthless. Waste of space.

  “Beck—” Chloe stood up, holding her hands out in front of her. “You need to calm down.”

  “That doesn't help either!” he shouted, as he turned and smashed his fist onto the dresser behind him. The wood creaked and groaned before splintering under his hand, splitting in two and collapsing into a pile of battered wood. The attached mirror shattered, glass exploding outward in a spray of shards that caught him along his right side. He flinched at the pain, pinpricks of blood welling up along his exposed skin. A whimpered gasp had him whirling, and he gaped at the sight of Wren and Chloe, both transported to the far side of the attic. A trickle of blood ran down Wren's arm and regret and guilt quickly replaced the rage under Beck's skin.

  “Oh my God,” he breathed.

  Wren wiped the blood away with a finger. “Guess I wasn't quite fast enough.”

  Beck took a step toward her, and froze when she flinched. “I'm so sorry.”

  You are sorry. Sorry excuse for a man. Sorry excuse for a son.

  He reached out a trembling hand before he dropped it by his side, ashamed. What had he done?

  “Beck—” Wren took a step toward him.

  “Stay back,” he said. “I don't know if I can—I don't want to hurt—I don't—” He felt lightheaded for a moment, unable to do anything but slump to the floor. He sat amidst the dust and shattered glass, his face in his hands, suddenly exhausted.

  A warm palm on his head made him shudder and he looked up to find both Chloe and Wren watching him with pity in their eyes.

  “I'm so sorry,” he whispered.

  “It's okay,” Wren replied.

  He glanced at Chloe. “Are you—”

  “I'm fine,” she said. “Wren's pretty quick on the draw.” She smiled and handed him a wad of napkins. He pressed them to the worst of the cuts and let out a heavy breath.

  “I don't know what to do,” he said finally. “I can't seem to control this, and I don't want to hurt anyone.” His mind immediately flew to his mother. Almost anyone.

  “We're going to help you,” Chloe said.

  “But I'm dangerous—”

  “You're not.” Wren lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes at him. “And even if you were—if you could be—you need to be in control of it.” She squatted in front of him, her knees almost brushing his. “You know this feeling, right now? The guilt? The fear?”

  Beck nodded at the floor, unable to reply through the lump in his throat.

  “Just imagine if you had really hurt me. Or Chloe.” His head
whipped up at that, and she continued. “What if you had killed one of us. Accidentally. Imagine what that would feel like.” Her eyes bore into his, blue and fathomless.

  “I know what it feels like to kill someone,” she said quietly. “And the only way I can stand it is to keep telling myself that I had to do it. That it was the only way and that other lives were on the line.”

  “Mine, for one,” Chloe added.

  Wren tipped her head toward Chloe in acknowledgement. “You have to learn to control it,” she told Beck. “You have to. And we're going to help you.”

  Beck let out a defeated breath. “I don't know if I can.”

  “You can,” Chloe said firmly. “I've seen it.”

  Beck looked slowly from one to the other, the determination evident in their shoulders, their unwavering gazes.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let's do it.”

  The relief he saw on both of their faces was encouraging, although he still wasn't completely convinced that he wasn't a danger to them. He found he didn't really have any other options, however. He either learned to control the power, or it controlled him. And the only people who could help him learn to do that—if it was even possible—were standing in that attic.

  And he had to trust Chloe and her visions. From what he'd learned so far, they had yet to lead her astray.

  They took a break to clean up the broken dresser and patch up their cuts and scrapes, then reconvened in the attic. For some reason, it seemed to draw them. Beck wasn't sure what it was about the room, but he felt safer there, isolated from the outside world.

  It was nothing he could really explain, but he could sense that Chloe and Wren felt the same way, so he didn't think he was crazy. Well, not any crazier than them, at any rate.

  They sat in a circle on the floor, and Beck closed his eyes, breathing slowly.

  “Okay,” Chloe said. “Go ahead.”

  Beck nodded and centered his thoughts, focused on his hand. It responded almost immediately and he held it up, the shimmering light encasing it in an iridescent glove.

  “That's great,” Wren said, scooting toward him. She sat cross-legged before him and reached for his hand, turning it gently as she examined the light surrounding his fingers. “Tell me what you're feeling right now.”