by Angel Lawson
Quinn jerks his chin at Astrid. “What did Atticus do to help you?”
Her jaw locks. “I’m not talking about this.”
“Astrid, it’s important; what happened last night was really bad.”
“Shut up, Quinn. I handled it. And what Atticus did was give me gloves and didn’t bitch at me when I needed a minute alone. It works, and it doesn’t hurt anyone. Last night was a freaking anomaly.” She glances at Owen for help.
He can’t back her on this one. Quinn and Casper are right. “He has a point.”
She tosses her hands in the air and rises like she’s about to leave the room.
He grabs her arm. “It’s not just about protecting yourself. These gifts…they’re bigger than we realize. It’s important that we keep testing them. I’m not convinced they’re limited.”
“What do you mean?” Quinn asks.
“The more I use mine, the more it expands. The more I can do. Like shielding myself when Jensen got here. Took me a while to master that.” He releases Astrid’s arm. If she wants to leave, she can. He’s not going to fight her. “You’re stagnant, Astrid. Don’t let your ability control you—control it first. Use it. Own it.”
A hot tear builds in the corner of her eye. She doesn’t wipe it away, she just looks at them with a glare of death and storms from the room.
Quinn sighs. “Well, that went well.”
“Yeah. She’s stubborn.”
“She’s just trying to protect herself.”
“I’m afraid she’s doing the opposite,” Owen argues.
Quinn looks at the clock. “The city offices open at ten. I’m going to go down and see what kind of records I can get on the Metamorphosis and who owns it. Keep an eye on her okay? Last night shook her, hard. Don’t let her pretend otherwise.”
Owen nods and watches the man leave, all the while an idea percolating in his head. He has an idea he can help Astrid. She just has to agree.
*
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Right, so getting Astrid to agree to his plan may take some work.
“Did you just suggest I start using Pixie Dust?”
Owen leans against the railing on the balcony attached to the upstairs apartment. He found Astrid here after she stormed off. “Only because the chemicals found in it allow us to use our abilities on one another. I’m willing to let you hear my echo so you can try to desensitize yourself.”
Wisps of her blonde hair blow in her face from the cool morning breeze coming off the harbor. She shoves her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie and for the first time since he’s met her, she seems small—vulnerable. From the dark glint in her eye, she knows it.
“What Quinn said before, about Atticus challenging me, wasn’t exactly true. The gloves were a concession. When I first moved in with him, I wore six layers of clothes all day—even to bed. I had on a hat constantly. Tight pants and shirts and socks. My sensory issues were paralyzing. I could barely function. Everything was too loud, too smelly, too…everything.” She holds up her hands, which are covered in a thin pair of gloves. “This was an improvement. This was success.”
He nods at her story; it makes sense and he doesn’t want to slight her growth.
“When I first discovered my abilities, I couldn’t do much. It was nothing more than a little slight-of-hand. A few times I just scared the crap out of my aunt by moving shadows across the room, or I’d trick her by making it seem like something moved. But little by little, I figured out how to manage it. And I stopped just playing games and learned how to use the manipulation to protect myself and others.”
“Like when you blocked Jensen from seeing you today?”
“Yep.” He leans his elbows on the railing and looks in the distance. “It’s one reason I’m so angry I wasn’t there when she was killed. I could have protected her.”
She watches him carefully for a moment, then confesses, “I should have been there when Atticus was murdered. I was off disobeying his orders and…” her cheeks turn red at whatever she’s remembering.
“Dropping bombs on me and the rest of the crew. Yeah, I remember.”
“Using Pixie Dust seems incredibly foolish,” she says.
“A little bit, yeah. But how else are you going to do it? Pick some random person off the street and ask if you can touch them? You’re hot and everything, but random touching is generally frowned upon.” He flashes a grin.
“You do know that you can’t hide anything from me if I hear your echo. I have access to your deepest thoughts and feelings. Hints of your desires and things about your past—” She stops abruptly.
“What?” he asks.
“Your past. I may be able to see what happened between coming to the group home and you living with your aunt.” She studies me. “Would you be okay with that?”
“Maybe we’ll both learn something.”
Her forehead creases in thought. “Quinn will kill me.”
“He doesn’t have to know.”
That doesn’t seem to appease her, but she moves on. “And what about the drug effects, isn’t that a bad idea?”
“Not if we’re in a safe environment.” He steps closer to her. “I won’t lie. I’ve experimented with the drug—part of the process of infiltrating the group. It’s, well, like James and Demetria were looking for, a little bit like Neverland.”
“Peter Pan and the Lost Boys? God, what is that all about?”
“No flying, I promise, but the high isn’t bad.”
“Not funny.”
He smiles. At least she’s considering it. “It’s your decision, Astrid. I just want you to know I’m willing to help if you want me to.” He moves toward the door. “Think it over.”
She nods, and he leaves her out there to make the decision on her own. It’s a weird, risky proposal, but it may be an important step in developing their team. One he’s willing to dive into his own past to make happen.
Chapter Eight
Astrid
What Owen proposed is crazy. What’s even crazier is Astrid is actually considering his idea. Or she’s considering considering it. That’s what she tells herself as she stands over Owen’s sleeping body.
He’s sprawled on the couch, one leg dangling off the side. His blanket is in a pile on the floor. He sleeps shirtless in a pair of cotton shorts. It’s impossible not to check him out, not in this moment of quiet when she can take her time.
His skin is smooth, his fingers long. The trail of hair from his navel to the elastic waistband of his pants is curly and blond. It’s nearly impossible to not notice his ridiculously long eyelashes. He’s slimmer than Quinn. Leaner. His jaw comes to a sharp point and his cheekbones could cut glass. Quinn carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, from worrying about what Astrid eats to the minute details of their missions. Owen is different, lighter, and she wonders if it has to do with him lacking memories of their time in the group home.
He doesn’t remember the doctors or the shots. The before and then the after, but she also senses that he carries a burden. Something he’s not telling them. She realizes this relationship—friendship—is new. She’s willing to wait for him to reveal his secrets when he’s ready.
She bends over and listens to his heartbeat; it’s peaceful and calm. She smells the soap on his skin, the detergent on his blanket. He carries the faint scent of roses, which is stronger when he uses his gift.
“Owen,” she whispers before losing her nerve.
His eyes flutter open. “Astrid?”
“Hey.”
He frowns and sits up. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I was just thinking about your idea.” She shoves her hands in her pockets and looks guiltily toward Quinn’s bedroom. “I think we should do it.”
“Yeah?” His eyes search hers. Damn those eyelashes. Such a waste on a boy.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Okay,” he says, keeping his voice lowered. “I’ll figure out a place and a time. Somewhere safe. Jus
t the two of us.”
A flash of nerves hits her belly. She’s not sure if it’s in a good way or bad. She does know this plan is idiotic, but the men are right. She needs to do more with her powers than hide them away. She needs to learn how to use them to fight back.
*
The Jeep lurches to a stop in front of the house. The forest green vehicle was a gift from Atticus on her eighteenth birthday. It had been his when he was a teenager. The paint is peeling and the roof has a tear and the inside smells a little moldy from a leak in the canvas, but it’s hers.
Empty snack bags and used soda bottles roll across the floor when the Jeep stops. Owen releases his grip from the door and gives the floor a pained glance.
“What?”
“You’re just so unbelievably messy.”
“I don’t have time to clean up.”
“Ridiculous,” he mutters under his breath and steps out of the car. The yard is tidy; flowers grow in the beds, looking fresh against the yellow paint.
“What the hell happened here?”
“This is my house,” Owen tells her, slamming the door. Twice. The latch doesn’t always catch.
“Yeah, I remember. The last time I saw it, the roof was ripping off and the place looked abandoned.” She stares at the immaculate bungalow with a rosebush and green bicycle chained to the front porch. “A manipulation?”
“Every last bit.” He walks up the front steps. His hand moves in a wave-like motion. “I’m shadowing us right now. I’m not sure Jensen isn’t watching this place still.”
“What do you mean, ‘shadowing’?”
“Blocking anyone from seeing us. Just a basic time-space manipulation. They just see the house and not us walking up to the door. They hear birds and traffic, not our voices.”
“But the house,” she asks. “It really looks like this?”
“Yeah, even when this neighborhood wasn’t up-and-coming, my aunt kept the property nice. What you see is what you get.”
Talk about a mind-bender. She enters in the front door, a guest this time, and the furnishings are completely different. Nice. Comfortable-looking furniture. She looks around, trying to get a sense of Owen, but other than his scent there’s not much of him here.
He drops his backpack on the couch in the small living room. She does the same.
“You still want to do this?” he asks. True to his word, he hasn’t pressured her. All of this had been at her insistence. Including sending Quinn out on a recon mission that should last most of the day.
“I do.” Or so she tells herself.
He nods and pulls out a small metal box from under the couch. He opens it and presses a spring. A hidden compartment is revealed, and Owen holds up a small baggie of Pixie Dust. Tinkerbelle is stamped on the side.
“From my experience, it won’t take much to push past the barriers keeping us from using our abilities on one another. And one hit, it won’t last too long. I think our physiology keeps the drug—or any drug—from affecting us full-force. Probably has to do with how fast we burn calories and the extra energy used to maintain our gifts.”
“That explains why I didn’t feel high or anything at the Gala.”
“And why you eat like a linebacker and yet seem to not gain a pound.” He eyes her waist.
“How long do we have to practice before it wears off?”
“Maybe an hour or so. Long enough for us to test this out a little bit.”
God, this whole thing is crazy. Astrid has never used any kind of drug in her life. Well, other than the accidental dosing at the Gala last month. That’s how she’d been able to read Demetria.
“Oh, wait, I have something for you,” he says with a smile. He reaches in his bag and pulls out a green bottle of Mountain Dew. “Thought you may want to put yours in here.”
He twists off the cap and hands it to her. The soda fizzes and she smells the bubbles in the air. Owen takes the baggie and tips a small amount in the bottle.
“Want to share?” she asks, holding it toward him.
He smiles again, wide and a little nervous before pouring in about half of the tiny Ziploc baggie. Owen’s heart is thumping. Astrid hears it over the sound of the drink.
“Ready?” he asks.
She nods. “Ready.”
Chapter Nine
Quinn
The building sits in the middle of downtown Crescent City, a tower of reflective blue glass. It’s the tallest, with a spire that reaches to the heavens. The company’s name hangs from the top floor, and at night it glows bright as a full moon.
WIND-E.
Demetria’s empire.
Quinn spends the last few days digging into anything and everything he can find on his former housemate and how she came into such a fortune. The official business is described as the headquarters for the toy manufacturing giant. Demetria’s company creates the wildly popular line of SparkleCorns as well as GlitterFairies, WoodlandSweetures and every offshoot of product imaginable.
Demetria is a toy goddess, who ironically can make every little girl’s dreams come true by bringing them all to life.
She also, it seems, may be severely mentally ill.
Sitting in the front seat of the van, Quinn holds the psychological report in his hands and glances at the content for the fifth time since he received it from Casper.
Hacking little goblin.
It came via email in the middle of the night with the subject line: Guess Who’s Mother-effing Crazy?
Quinn was slightly relieved it wasn’t Astrid or Owen.
The information comes from a juvenile psych unit, several years after the explosion at the group home. There’s little background information, no guardian or specifics on where she lived or went to school. But there is a diagnosis, and at the time, all signs were pointing toward fantasy-prone disorder.
A disorder he’s never heard of before, but it exists. According to the doctor in the report, she had many symptoms of the unusual disorder: intense, vivid fantasies; an inability to recognize the real world from make-believe; imaginary friends; and enhanced sensory perceptions.
He drops the paper on the passenger seat and looks up at the impressive building. He has an appointment at ten. Okay, not really an appointment, more like Casper hacked into her calendar and figured out she leaves her office each day at ten to head to yoga class three blocks away.
He exits the vehicle, carrying his newspaper from his run earlier that day, and finds a spot on a bench in the middle of the plaza outside her office building. People mill about, going in and out for business. Quinn watches closely, adjusting the small camera on his hoodie. He’s recording the meeting—the whole scene—to show Astrid and Owen later. You know, when he decides to actually tell them he came down here alone.
His phone beeps that it’s ten and he shifts his focus on the front door. Demetria appears, like clock-work, surrounded by a few bodyguards. He’d known they would be here, but it definitely complicates things.
Demetria was an odd little girl with gangly legs and too-big eyes. Quinn can’t help but notice how she grew into a beautiful woman. She has the grace and poise of a princess—she probably thinks she is one, he considers. Her footsteps are dainty. Her hair, perfectly styled. A brooch of a rainbow-jeweled fairy is perched just below her shoulder and sparkly earrings dangle from her ears. She looks like a CEO of a toy company. Equal parts professional and whimsy.
One bodyguard carries her gym bag. He’s about Quinn’s size, with a muscular build visible under his suit. His eyes skim over Quinn, assessing for threat. The other, a female, with her long dark hair tied in a knot behind her head, stands a few feet away. Quinn steps up to the crosswalk seconds before they arrive. He presses the button, using a touch of his current, disabling the mechanism that changes the light. She’ll be trapped with him for at least five minutes.
His hands are stuffed in his pockets but he glances over at her casually. She looks ahead but feels his eyes on her and looks up. Demetria offers a friendly
smile, but before he can go into his prepared small-talk she says, “I know you.”
“You do?”
“Yes,” her brown eyes take him in. “You were at my Gala.”
He narrows his eyes in thought, before faking recognition. “Oh yes! Right, you hosted the party. I heard your speech and it really resonated with me.”
Her lips spread, happy to hear that. “My fairies told me about you. They recognized you in the crowd.”
“They did?” He tries painfully to keep his expression neutral.
“Yes, I’ve been searching high and low for my Lost Boys. It’s time for you all to come home.”
Thinking she’s going to call him out for his interference that night or maybe their involvement with shutting down Pixie Dust, he’s thrown when she calls him a Lost Boy.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, although her Neverland fantasy is well known.
“Ms. Holmes,” the male bodyguard says, eyeing him warily. “You’re going to be late.”
Even though the crossing signal hasn’t changed, the other guard walks into the crosswalk and holds up traffic so they can continue across the street.
“Come home when you’re ready,” she says, looking back as she walks away. Her hair blows in the wind. Quinn stands speechless as he watches the fairy lift off her shoulder and fly over his head, sprinkling glitter in his hair.
He jumps back, knocking into a man behind him. “Sorry,” he mutters, brushing off his shoulders. But there’s nothing there. The fairy is gone, and Demetria and her bodyguards are already a block away.
Chapter Ten
Astrid
The clock ticks on the wall, loud and rattling. It’s been fifteen minutes since she ingested the Pixie Dust. She doesn’t feel any different mentally. If she’d planned on getting blitzed, that didn’t happen, but there’s no mistaking something is off when Owen sits next to her on the couch and holds out his hands.
