Let’s examine that for a minute. Not a scratch, from a bullet fired not only at point blank range, but solidly against his palm. How is such a thing possible? No one knows. But after that, local police started quietly consulting with Tarantino and HQ. Especially when Kovalch chased the other would-be rapist for fifteen blocks, caught him, and dragged him back to the alley to meet the police the victim had called on her cell phone.
The criminal was driving a car.
Caitlyn scooted off the counter and moved closer to Trace, her aura shimmering with rose-colored admiration. “You ran down a guy in a car? How—”
His grin was movie-star charming, and he even added a drawl to his next words, despite the fact that he’d grown up in Vermont.
“Well, darlin’, that’s my thing. Endurance and concentration. Unlike some of the others, I don’t know where it comes from. But I can run across the country if I want to, without breakin’ a sweat.”
The reporter lapped it up. I could just see her thinking of all the applications of such a power. I snorted into my coffee. Like she was the first to think of it. Trace got laid more than anyone I’ve ever met, just because of women’s imaginations.
Caitlyn heard my snort and turned to me, her dazzled eyes narrowing. She glanced at her pad, then back up. “Haley, right?”
“Daley,” everyone corrected.
“Did you have something to add about Trace’s powers?”
It was far too early in the morning for me to endure snideness. I knew she was subtly jabbing at my own powers, and I wasn’t in the mood.
“Just that everything you’re thinking is true. He can use that endurance for more than running. It will ruin you for any other man.”
Trace laughed.
Kirby threw him a mutinous look, while Adam seemed to have swallowed his tongue.
I wasn’t done. “Actually, Caitlyn, while the men in this group have the macho powers, the women have the subtle ones. Would you like a demonstration?”
She nodded, her expression finally closing, but of course I knew what she was feeling. She was embarrassed—maybe at her obvious attraction to Trace or her unprofessionalism—but she was also jealous. It flared every time she focused on Summer and Kirby. She’d tried to marginalize the three of us as less powerful, and she wasn’t the first. It wouldn’t be hard to change her viewpoint, though.
I led the group down the hall to our workout room. When we were hired for specific, non-emergency jobs, we often had to demonstrate our abilities. No one was going to take our word for anything. I wasn’t part of the display, as the only member whose power wasn’t physical or visual, but I had my own methods of demonstration.
The others went into the workout room while Caitlyn and I stood outside at the observation window. She’d covered her typical bubbly persona with what she probably figured was a more remote reporter mode, and to most people it would be. While the others gathered gear and got into position, I watched her out of the corner of my eye.
“I’ve read your work,” I said after a minute. “There’s no reason to fear this will be considered a puff piece.”
She didn’t turn. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” I folded my hands in front of me, no longer annoyed at her. I had read her work, and she was incisive and focused and often hit on the most important, least observed facet of her subject. “You’re afraid your natural personality is going to get in the way of your goals. That something like your interest in Trace will be obvious to everyone and you’ll be disregarded. And that he has the wrong idea about you.”
Despite herself, she laughed. “I thought you were an empath, not a mind reader.”
I shrugged, still facing forward. “Sometimes it seems like the same thing. Emotion is very complex. I can only read your emotions, not your thoughts, but it’s not hard to figure out what the emotions mean.”
“Look, Haley—”
“It’s Daley.” I swallowed the new surge of annoyance. “I apologize for getting irritated back there and embarrassing you. I don’t like being patronized, and you think what I can do is less important than what the others can do. You’re not alone in thinking that. But it’s a mistake to let it color your approach to this story.”
“Fair enough. I’ll keep that in mind. But you have to open up a little if you’re going to convince me.”
I grinned. “I already have, Caitlyn.” When she sighed, I pointed toward the window. “They’re ready.”
Trace’s abilities manifested more over time or distance, so he played the dummy. He stood at one end of the room while Adam, Kirby, and Summer grouped at the other. A vast expanse of dark blue and gray mat separated them. We couldn’t hear anything through the glass, but we could see Adam give the cue a moment later.
Trace pulled a gun. Kirby held up a hand, her brow tightening slightly, and the gun flew across the room into it. Trace ran toward them, a knife flashing into his hand. Summer stepped in front of Kirby, who had no natural protection. Her arms moved at top speed—in other words, invisible—and Trace changed direction and raised the knife. Adam deflected the strike with his forearm, then turned his shoulder into Trace’s follow-through. Summer moved in. The knife disappeared, then reappeared on the table next to Summer. An instant later, Trace was in handcuffs, Kirby summoned a ten-pound hand weight from the floor, and Summer took it from her and hit Trace on the temple. He hit the floor before we could assimilate what had happened.
Caitlyn gasped and ran for the door. I tried to tell her it was okay, but she was inside before I had a chance. Trace grinned up from where he lay on the mat, not a mark on him.
“It was foam,” Summer said, wiggling the fake dumbbell. “We wouldn’t hurt him.”
Caitlyn didn’t move. Her sheepishness and awe floated around her, and I knew that, as short as the demonstration was, she was impressed.
“Let’s go get some brunch,” she said after a minute. “This is going to take longer than I thought.”
On the way to a nearby restaurant, Caitlyn admitted she’d planned an exposé at the beginning. But the demonstration had convinced her, as had Adam’s arm and shoulder. She’d checked the knife and examined his arm, then, unexpectedly, swiped the knife at his hand. Of course it did nothing, and she was convinced.
One wonders how such things can happen. Tarantino has a collection of scientific articles with a variety of theories for the increase in enhanced abilities worldwide. This magazine has some such writings in its archives, as well. They range from pollutants, to chemicals in our food and water that were originally designed to purify and preserve it, to hormonal influences and even the increase of global warming. Sometimes experimentation has unexpected results. Probably all of these causes are represented in the members of HQ, though it is impossible to know for sure. And does it matter? Isn’t it enough that these people are out there, working for our protection and the betterment of our society?
The team regaled Caitlyn with stories of rescues and miscues on the way to the restaurant. I could see her trying to give us all equal attention, though her interest in Adam and Trace was still stronger.
“Who came up with the name? HQ?” she asked.
“Adam did.” Trace grinned and his eyes sparkled at our boss.
Caitlyn’s head swiveled between Trace and Adam, who glowered. She could tell he didn’t want to explain. I liked the name, liked the story, but I didn’t want Adam to be embarrassed.
“It just stands for—” I began, but Adam cut me off.
“Certain other people in this organization,” he said, and I was stunned to see amusement in his aura, “believed we needed a high-concept name.”
“Like the Hyperbolic Quintet.” When Caitlyn looked confused, Trace prodded, “You know, hyperbolic like soaring? And Quintet ’cause there are five of us?”
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“Oooo-kayyy.” She turned back to Adam.
“That was Trace’s contribution. And since he was responsible for our inception—”
“Oh, pshaw.” Trace waved him off and patted his cheeks like he was blushing. “You do go on and are far too modest.”
“I wanted to honor his suggestion. Except it was stupid.”
Everyone in the car laughed as we rolled to the curb in front of the restaurant.
“So HQ stands for . . . Hyper-what?” Caitlyn hovered her pen over her pad, struggling to follow us, but confusion still swirled around her.
“It stands for headquarters,” I said, taking pity on her. “The story is true, and yes it’s stupid, but every superhero organization has to have a headquarters, and we were always saying ‘I’ll see you at HQ tomorrow’ or whatever, so we just left it at that.”
Delight cleared her aura, and she grinned. “I love it. You must have more stories like that.”
We did, and for a while there was laughter and curiosity, but by the time our food was served the tone had gotten serious.
“How do you convince people you’re the real deal?”
“By doing what we can do.” Adam toyed with a piece of bacon. “Over time, we’ve built relationships with area law enforcement and the government. Being in DC helps. We’ve consulted with all the letter agencies.”
Caitlyn cocked her head at me. “You’ve got to have the most difficult time convincing people.”
“Sometimes. I consult a lot with businesses on their hiring, and with banks and accountants in their investigations.”
“Do you ever work with psychologists and psychiatrists?”
I forced a small smile. Those were my most lucrative personal cases, and the ones I loved the most. They were also the most private, and I didn’t talk about them. “Sometimes.”
“How about national cooperation?”
Adam glanced at me. I’d been pushing him to contact other teams for training, referrals, marketing, and jobs, and we didn’t see eye to eye on the subject. He was still far too protective.
“It’s in our plans,” he told her.
I opened my mouth to add my usual spiel, then froze. Fear shuddered through me, then malice. I knew everyone was waiting for what I’d been about to say, but my mind had gone blank. All I could see was the shimmer of black, the dull, muddy yellow, from the front of the restaurant.
“Something’s happening,” I whispered, but Adam heard me. Kirby did, too, and shushed Caitlyn’s next question.
“Where?” she asked.
Adam’s hand on my forearm grounded me as the emotions soared. I hadn’t been prepared for them, and they were intense. They had to be, to penetrate the blocks I automatically put up in public.
“Up front. Something . . . threatening. Fear. He . . . someone wants to hurt someone else.”
They waited. I could hear Trace murmuring to the reporter, explaining that they didn’t leap into action without knowing what they were leaping into.
“It’s getting worse.” I focused, trying to pinpoint. “In the waiting area. Two people.”
Adam stood and maneuvered between tables to the front of the restaurant. He disappeared around the dividing wall that kept the waiting people from staring at the diners, and my apprehension rose. My apprehension, not an external emotion. I tried to compartmentalize it, but it mingled with the escalating tension until all I could feel was dread.
Everyone at our table was silent. Caitlyn’s eyes were bright, excited, but Trace, Kirby, and Summer sat still, staring at the entrance. Waiting for a signal from me or from Adam.
Time dragged. I tried to pick up Adam’s feelings, but he was too cool, too controlled, and I couldn’t read anything but green calm.
“I’m going up there.” I shoved my chair back and avoided Summer’s grab and Kirby’s protest. I was halfway across the room when Adam appeared. He held up two fingers, then four, then did a come-on gesture. He wanted Trace and Summer.
I turned and repeated the gesture. They rose immediately. Kirby put her hand on Caitlyn’s arm, but the woman didn’t look likely to move. She was scared and excited, natural fear warring with her desire to watch us in action.
Confident Kirby would keep the reporter back, I continued toward the waiting area. The closer I got, the clearer the emotions were. A man, fury warring with inadequacy and fear targeted at a woman who battled the same emotions. But where his were aimed outward, hers were turned inward. Classic abusive relationship.
They came into view. The woman clutched a stack of menus in white fingers. I recognized the hostess who had seated us.
Adam stood next to them, his calm easing over the room like a balm but repelled by the heat of the man’s and woman’s emotions. Trace and Summer were ready a few feet away. Trace saw me and stuck out a forefinger, pressing his thumb down and pursing his lips.
The man had a gun.
He was storming around, flailing his arms and yelling words I couldn’t focus on. Summer poised on the balls of her feet but didn’t act. When the man turned away from me, I could see the outline of the butt of the weapon through his tucked-in shirt.
Adam was trying to talk to him, to calm him, but it just seemed to agitate him more, having this stranger butting in. He spun, taking Trace by surprise with a backhand to the side of his head. He went down.
In most situations, the tension in the room would have erupted in a free-for-all. Someone would have gone for the guy. Someone else might have rushed to Trace, startling the man and inciting more violence. We all had good training. No one moved. But defensiveness added to the man’s fear, and he grew even more agitated.
Adam glanced at me. I knew what he was thinking. He wanted me to calm him down. We’d talked about me taking the next step with my abilities. Whenever I detected what others were feeling, especially in this heavily charged a setting, my own emotions shut down. I was able to achieve complete detachment so I could read the others. Adam wanted me to project emotion. This would be a perfect situation in which to try.
But I couldn’t. I shook my head. He frowned. I widened my eyes. He rolled his. I stifled an inappropriate laugh at our antics, then gasped. That tiny bit of laughter had pressed out from me in a light green bubble. When it burst, less than a second after release, it seemed to mingle with the burnt orange and mustard of the hostess, who was closest to me. The color blend was gross, but she relaxed the tiniest bit and became less frozen.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I could do it.
I concentrated on peace, calm, and happiness. I knew I couldn’t reverse their emotions completely, but the lower I aimed, the lower I’d reach.
I closed my eyes, as usual, but instead of reading the room, I tried to read myself. I rarely looked inward or at my own aura. I wasn’t surprised to find it almost taupe. In other words, colorless, reflecting my detachment.
Nature abhors a vacuum, so I imagined myself as one, filling with calm and happiness. The taupe deepened, then turned minty. I felt lighter inside. Like the bubble I’d seen. I concentrated harder, trying to expand the aura. To stretch it, turn it into a shield. I focused, tuning out the rantings of the man with the gun.
And it worked! The shield reached Adam first, who was already as calm as could be. On impulse I tried to merge with his projection. That worked, too. The shield spread further. It engulfed the hostess, whose fear lessened, allowing buried determination and self-protection to well up.
Trace and Summer were between the hostess and the yelling patron, who I assumed was her husband or boyfriend. Their faint anxiety instantly soothed. The man’s colors were more complex, his movements more frantic, and he kept bouncing into and out of the wall of calm. I couldn’t spread it any further.
Without thinking, I moved forward, slowly pushing the wall of calm ahead of me. The
label made me laugh again. It sounded so comic book. I should capitalize it.
The humor enhanced the wall/shield/bubble. I imagined taking a deep breath and blowing it outward all at once. It swept over my target, who slowed. Confusion became the dominant emotion as my bubble warred with his destructive feelings. But slowly, everything he was feeling disentangled from each other, lining up in waves that overlapped but gentled.
When I opened my eyes, everyone was staring at me. I stood less than three feet from the angry man, who blinked, looked around, and backed up. He mumbled an apology and started to leave. I held my breath. He stopped, hesitated, then turned back and walked to the podium, ignoring the stares of the restaurant’s patrons who had come forward to watch.
“When you come home, we’ll talk. I promise I won’t . . . be like this.”
The woman nodded, her face flushed, and I saw hope around her.
“Will he?” Adam asked me, his mouth near my ear.
“I think so. He means it right now, at least. But people like that . . .”
“I know.” With a few smooth moves, he cleared the crowd that had gathered behind us, unnoticed by me. Trace and Summer walked over to me, both looking awed, but Trace was never one to bow to the reverence of a moment.
“You need to work on your expression in the mirror,” he said. “More savior, less in need of laxative.”
I smacked him on the shoulder, then tilted his head so I could see the side of his face. “How bad did he get you?”
“Not bad.” He stroked a finger over the shadow in front of his sideburn area. “It was my fault. I was off guard.”
The Color of Courage Page 4
