by Kim Harrison
Suburbia at its best, and she felt a brief pang. She’d grown up somewhere very close to this—until it had all fallen apart.
Hoc’s ears pricked as three kids on skateboards rumbled down the shady road with loud voices and not having a care in the world. It was nice, peaceful. Well, we can change that, Grace thought as she pushed off the black car and fell into step beside Boyd.
The walk was cobblestone, matching the drive in a show of wealth as it gently sloped upward to a large porch decorated for Halloween. Frowning, Boyd checked his watch. The innocuous-looking instrument actually functioned as an informal erg meter as well as a timepiece. If the watch was running, he had control of his balance, if it was stopped, he knew he’d lost it somewhere.
Grace glanced at her own watch, seeing the second hand sweeping the face smoothly, but she knew things could change fast—especially when they were escorting an unregistered throw. That’s what humans who could shift the balance of energy existing naturally in the human body were called. Throws, or throwbacks. That Grace and Boyd were throwbacks themselves never seemed to mean anything to those they tried to bring in.
Head down, she hit a button to tag the time for the medics as one where her watch’s time might be impacted by the kid they were after. The medics checked it weekly, and if her time was off by more than thirty seconds without a reason, she had to go in for a refresher course on control. It hadn’t happened in six years. Hoc had her on edge. The boy was older than usual. It made things tricky.
They mounted the stairs together, Boyd’s steps in perfect time with hers and the border collie’s nails scraping. It’s for his own good, she thought as they left the tidy green yard, the absence of toys and bikes saying as much as the report in the car that there were no other children. Most parents stopped having kids when one showed signs of being a throw. But then, most parents brought their kids to a Strand “party” to be assessed after they shorted out the TV one too many times, charting their life for service in the Strand if they had enough control and/or aptitude, or quietly adjusted to remove the ability if they didn’t.
Still, there would always be misguided parents who managed to hide their children’s abilities until a mistake was made and an anonymous call brought Grace or any one of the Strand’s envoys to collect, instruct, and administer to—in that order and not always with the parents’ or child’s approval.
Grace and Boyd were collectors. She was good at it, though it chafed that she was still doing the same thing after four years. Her knack in evaluating potential initiates was to blame. “Attention to Duty” her yearly evaluation said, but the honest truth as to why she was so good at bringing in the difficult cases was because she had run herself and she knew what scared the shit out of them.
“You okay?” Boyd asked as he tagged his own watch for possible disruption and knocked at the door. On the knocker was a smiling pumpkin with Happy Halloween stenciled on it. Grace’s brow furrowed. It was too perfect here, like a Hollywood set.
“Fine,” she said, hearing the dull echo of fiberglass. Hoc’s ears pricked as he stared expectantly at the door.
“I just don’t want you messing with my times,” Boyd said distantly. Again he knocked, then rang the doorbell. “I’m having enough trouble staying in norms as it is.”
Grace turned, seeing his avoidance. “You’re having balance issues? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He glanced at her and away, his wrinkles making him look old to her for the first time. “I just did,” he said, then cleared his throat at the sound of approaching footsteps.
Sure, but only when I can’t say anything, she thought, as the door opened and a tall woman in jeans and a baggy sweater looked out at them. Her haircut was short, styled and highlighted in the latest middle-aged fashion. Expression questioning, she took in their suits, paling as she saw the car behind them. Hand gripping the door, she ducked behind it, almost hiding. “Can I help you?”
Can I help you, Grace thought. Not no thank you, or not interested. She knew who they were and what they wanted, and Grace’s skin tingled. At her heel, Hoc wagged his tail, and she suppressed her excitement. Excitement didn’t unbalance her erg strength, but it didn’t help maintain it, either.
“Mrs. Thomson?” Boyd said, his deep voice rumbling.
“Yes?” She was scared, and Hoc’s tail slowed as it brushed the porch. “What do you want?”
Grace dropped a hand onto Hoc’s head to ease the animal’s stress. “Mrs. Thomson. I’m Grace Evans, and this is my partner, Boyd. It has come to the Strand’s attention that—”
The woman ducked behind the door, slamming it hard enough that the pumpkin on the knocker flopped against the fiberglass with a little thump. At her feet, Hoc whined.
Boyd and Grace didn’t even look at each other. It was obvious the woman was just behind the door; they hadn’t heard her walk away. A moment of pity washed through Grace, and then it was gone, forced out by common sense. The woman’s son could throw energy. He needed to be assessed and trained so he wouldn’t be a menace to himself or anyone else.
“My God,” Grace complained loud enough for the woman to hear. “It’s not as if we’re going to give him a lobotomy.”
Standing straighter, Boyd knocked lightly on the door again. “Mrs. Thomson? Your son has been documented throwing in vivo energy. We’re not going to harm or change him. But for his and your own safety, he needs to be evaluated for control and depth of ability.”
You don’t want him to accidentally burn your house down after he’s had one too many lattes because you asked him to take out the garbage. Staring at the door, Grace grimaced. It had been more than that. Lots more.
“Can we please talk to you for a moment?” Boyd tried again.
Grace held up a hand, and Boyd went silent. Together they leaned to the door, listening.
“They’re going to brainwash and castrate me, Mom!” a young, understandably frightened voice said. That was another well-touted fallacy. Unless you were in one of the more energy-rich jobs, having children was encouraged. The Strand didn’t brainwash anyone either. True, most throws worked for the Strand, but once you retired, you could work for any number of industries—if you were careful.
“He’s going to run . . .” Boyd said, and Grace nodded.
“Either that, or blow up the house,” she muttered as a tingle went through her. Together she and Boyd looked at their watches. They had stopped. The boy had lots of power, with just a shade less control. This was going to be nasty.
“You brought the sedative, right?” Boyd’s tone was joking, but the question was real enough.
Grace cocked her hip, watching Hoc’s pricked ears for any sign of the seventeen-year-old sneaking out the back door. “Mrs. Thomson, if you refuse to talk to us, a second team will be here in thirty minutes to break down your door and forcibly take your son.” It was a lie, and as Boyd looked at Grace, she shrugged. “I’m in a hurry.” He cracked a smile to show his long teeth.
“You can’t do this! It’s against the law!” the woman shouted from behind the door.
“Yes we can.” Grace checked her watch. “Knowingly harboring an unregistered throw is punishable by fines that will take your house and leave you penniless.” That part was true.
A whisper of pity went through her, and she lowered her voice, knowing there was a hushed argument going on by Hoc’s cocked head. “I know it’s hard, Mrs. Thomson. I’ve been on the other side of the door myself. If Zach sees you cooperating, he won’t be scared. We’re here to help both of you.”
This too, she believed. She had to. Putting on a suit didn’t divorce you from your humanity, even though she wondered about some of her superiors. But even in the best of acquisitions there was anxiety and fear.
At her feet, Hoc whined. The door cracked open, and a frightened half-face showed. “He’s my only son. I can’t lose him.”
Relief swept through her, and Grace smiled. “I’m my grandmother’s only living grandchild. We had lunch yest
erday. We’re not here to take Zach from you, Mrs. Thomson. You’re encouraged to come with us, to be there to help him make this decision. It’s a chance for him to have a say in his future. Please don’t start his new life with unnecessary fear.”
Hoc waved his tail, and Mrs. Thomson opened the door wider. Outside on the street, a van drove by, slowing when the driver saw the black car. “You can both do what he can?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Boyd ran a hand over his silvering hair. “The Strand taught me what to avoid and how to control the rest, and I went on to get a free ride at the college of my choice and a steady paycheck after that.”
It had been a bit different for her, but he was right about the steady pay—not that she ever had much use for it.
Hoc’s ears pricked, and he stood, tail waving as he trotted off the porch. Tension slammed into Grace, and Boyd stiffened. Zach had left the house.
Seeing their expression shift, the woman’s eyes widened. “Please come in,” she said, flinging the door open. “I’ll go get him.”
From behind the garage, a motorcycle engine revved and roared.
Shoes scraping, Boyd ran for the car. Grace followed, while Hoc tore after the scooter that skidded out from behind the garage, almost spinning out of control when it jumped the curb and fishtailed down the street.
Belying his age, Boyd slid across the top of the hood. He was in the car and starting it before Grace had even lifted the latch to the door. “I hate it when they run,” she muttered as she fastened her seat belt, knowing Boyd wasn’t going to slow down for anything. He liked a good chase as much as she did.
Hoc was vanishing down the avenue after Zach. The boy was hunched on his bike, no helmet, sneakers and a white T-shirt making him look vulnerable. Impressed his cycle was still running, Grace reached for the radio, her hand dropping in disgust. Damn, he had fried it.
“No, wait! Come back!” his mother was crying as she ran down the cobbled walk, her hands waving. Boyd hit the gas, and Grace rechecked her belt.
“I don’t know if I should be impressed or worried as all hell that he didn’t stall his bike,” Boyd said, and Grace reached out the open window to put a flashing light on the roof as they raced through an empty four-way stop.
They weren’t gaining, and knowing that she could find Hoc anywhere given enough time, Grace braced herself against a turn and tried to open the map. The GPS was gone, too. It wasn’t hard to insulate a vehicle, but all the little gadgets were harder. That Zach had enough power to unconsciously short out their watches yet enough control to save his bike said a lot. Successfully bringing him in might get her enough kudos to demand a transfer to the elite. It wasn’t that she didn’t like collecting, but she wanted more—so much so that it hurt.
“Steak dinner says he’s heading for the expressway,” Grace said as they careened around the corner. Zach was taking them through a small cluster of light commercial buildings, and people scrambled back onto the sidewalk as cars beeped at them. “He’s going to have to go through an industrial park. Take the next main right. We can cut him off.”
Hand gripping the car frame, Grace braced her feet as Boyd jostled over a railroad track. Just that fast, they were free of people, and Boyd stepped on the gas. The wind pushed through her hair, and she leaned forward, enjoying it. Grace squinted past the waving strands as Boyd raced down a dusty industrial road, lights flashing but no siren.
Zach had fried their watches, so anything that happened from here on out could be justified as necessary force, but no one would thank them if this ended with the local power grid collapsing. Blaming the power outage on a squirrel caught in a transformer only worked once. All she cared about though was finding Zach before he learned enough to become a real threat—if it wasn’t too late already. There were ways to increase the amount of ergs you could throw, and figuring out that cup of coffee in the morning was why you could now toast your bread with a finger was not hard.
She could feel him . . . a spot of energy sizzing like a worn tension wire, and she pulled her windblown hair out of her mouth. “I think we’re in front of him,” she said, and Boyd nodded.
“I can hear his bike. How do you want to do this?”
Grace thought of the blast of polarity that had exploded from Zach when he had run, frying their car’s gadgets and stopping their watches. He had enough aptitude and guts to know how to use it, and probably enough caffeine in him to accidentally kill someone. “I’m open to suggestions . . .”
Taking a slow breath, Boyd reached into an inner jacket pocket and pulled out a candy bar.
Seeing it, Grace felt herself go cold. “Boyd . . .” she warned, turning where she sat as he slowed the car and parked in the shade of a quiet building. Caffeine could boost their power, but it made their abilities unpredictable. It wasn’t illegal for them to eat it, but like a drug, it was easy to get hooked, lured into believing you could handle the increased power until they found you dead of an overdose, your heart fried by your own brain. Shit. He said he’d been having balance issues . . .
“You’re not going to tell on me, are you?” he said, smiling sickly as he fumbled unfamiliarly at the plastic wrapper.
“Boyd, how long have you been . . . Stop!” she yelled when he crammed half of it in his mouth. “Are you crazy?”
“No, I’m scared,” he said around his full mouth. “Grace, I’m losing it. This is the only thing keeping me on the street working.”
He got out. Grace sat where she was, stunned. Her partner was a booster. He wasn’t able to keep his levels up, and he was relying on self-dosing caffeine to find it. There was an unregistered throw coming at them at forty-five miles per hour on a bike, and her partner was going to do something incredibly stupid.
She looked at her watch, having forgotten Zach had fried it. Outside the car, Boyd crouched to look in the window. Guilt pinched his aged eyes. “He’s insulated his bike. I need to give it one hell of a pull. I can’t do it without the boost. I’ll stop the bike, you stop him.”
“Then you’d better drop him, because I’m not chasing after him if you’re high on caffeine,” she said, and the sound of the bike grew closer. Damn it, her partner was boosting. How long? How long had he been doing this?
“I only ate half,” he grumped as she got out. “I know what I’m doing!”
Boyd gestured for her to cross the street to get out of his blast radius. Nervous, she jogged across the broken cement, not liking this but not knowing what else to do. Boyd had been throwing energy longer than she’d been alive. She remembered eating her Halloween candy as a little girl, and then exploding pumpkins afterward to get rid of the extra energy. It hadn’t been the pumpkins that had given her away to the authorities.
The brum, brum of the bike grew louder, and Boyd ambled out into the middle of the street, adjusting his suit to look like a gunslinger. “Zach! Stop your bike!” he shouted when the scared kid turned a corner and slowed, taking in the new situation. Grace tensed when he gunned it.
“Bad choice,” she said, checking her motion to run into the street when the kid angled his bike right at her partner.
Boyd calmly scooped up a bent pipe, swinging it dramatically in a loop over his head, gathering the energy his cells could burn in a day into one microsecond pulse. With a yell that echoed as loud as the bike, he threw the pipe at the bike.
Zach swerved and the pipe hit the ground in front of him. Hitting him wasn’t Boyd’s intention, and Grace’s brow pinched in fear when a visible line of blue energy arched from Boyd to the pipe, stretching between them as a bridge of power.
A sparkle of black raced from Boyd’s outstretched hand following the trace. It hit the pipe and jumped to Zach. Grace cowered, hiding her head when a boom of force exploded from it, knocking Zach from his bike and shattering windows. In the distance, a car alarm went off. Even farther away, an industrial klaxon began honking. Now we’ve done it, she thought as Hoc limped into view at the end of the street. Seeing her, he loped forward.
Zach’s bike slid twenty feet, without Zach on it. The kid slowly sat up, his jeans torn and his arm bleeding. Her eyes darted to her partner. He was down on one knee, and as she watched, Boyd clutched at his left arm and fell to both his knees.
“Boyd!” she screamed, running to him.
Zach staggered to his feet. “I’m not ever going to be one of you!” he cried out, shambling into a shaky run.
She slid to a stop beside Boyd. He was ashen faced, his expression drawn and in pain. “Boyd, are you breathing? Is your heart okay?” she exclaimed, holding his shoulders and keeping him upright.
“I’m okay,” he wheezed, clearly not. “Get the . . . little bastard.”
She hesitated in indecision, and he pushed her to go as Hoc limped up to them, his ears down and his tail tucked.
“Get him!” Boyd shouted, shoving her again. “I’m okay!”
Breathless, she stood. Feeling she was making a mistake, she looked at the silent buildings. “Hoc. Who do you love?” she said, using the words for him to find throws among innocent children.
Hoc brightened at the clear order, and he ran to a closed machinist shop across the street. Heart despairing, she followed, thinking of the chocolate bar Boyd had eaten. She couldn’t hide what he’d done, but by the looks of it, he’d been boosting for some time. God! Her partner was playing with fire. How was she going to explain this?
The tip of Hoc’s tail flashed white as he slipped into the building ahead of her, and she followed. The three-story echoing building was dark, the windows boarded up, and she listened as she tried to slow her breathing as her eyes adjusted. Hoc was deep in the building somewhere, and a sharp, angry bark brought her head up to the old offices that ringed the upper floor.
“Upstairs. Why can’t it ever be down?” she panted as she grabbed the cold iron pipe banister and started up. A wave of force passed through her, and she yelped, letting go of the metal. Outside came the pop of a transformer blowing. Shit.
But when Hoc yipped in pain, her heart thumped.
