Max

by James Patterson

  "God, no!" I said, almost spewing crumbs. "No way!"

  Oddly, this seemed to throw a petite wrench into the convo.

  4

  SHARON AND STEVE and the other two agents went silent, looking at us in surprise.

  Steve recovered quickly. "Models?" he suggested, his eyes noting that we were all tall and skinny for our age.

  I almost snorted Sprite through my nose. "Yeah. 'Wings are being worn wide this year,' " I pretended to quote. " 'With the primary feathers tinted fun shades of pink and green for a party look.' I don't think so." I tried not to notice Nudge's momentary disappointment.

  "Actors?" Sharon said.

  Total perked up, chewing busily on calamari, which, if you're interested, is Italian for rubber bands.

  "Nope." I could see this interview was going south, so I started inhaling food while I could.

  "Max, I mean—Max," Steve said, with no idea what else to call me. "You're selling yourself short. You guys could do anything, be anything. You want your own movie? You want flock action figures? You want to be on T-shirts? You name it, kid—I can make it happen."

  "I want to be an action figure!" Gazzy said, wolfing down some mini-enchilada thingies.

  "Oh, yeah!" Iggy said, holding up his hand for a high five. The Gasman slapped it.

  Steve smiled and seemed to relax. "Hey, I didn't catch everyone's names. You, sweetheart," he said to Angel. "What's your name?"

  "Isabella von Frankenstein Rothschild," said Angel, absently picking something out of her teeth. She'd lost one of her front ones recently, so her grin had a black hole in it. "You got your shoes on eBay," she told Sharon, whose eyes widened about as far as they could. "But you're right—it doesn't make sense to go retail, not on what Skinflint Steve pays you."

  Yep, that's my little mind-readin' darlin'!

  There was dead silence for a few moments. Sharon blushed hotly and looked anywhere but at Steve. One of the other agents coughed.

  "Ah, huh," Steve said, then turned to Gazzy. "How about you, son? You want to be an action figure, right? What's your name?"

  Gazzy nodded eagerly, and I promised myself I'd kick his butt later. "They call me the Sharkalator."

  "The Sharkalator," Steve repeated, his enthusiasm waning. What can I say? We have that effect on grown-ups. Even on other kids. Well, okay, on pretty much everyone. We were created to survive, not to be the life of the party.

  "I'm Cinnamon," said Nudge, licking her fingers. "Cinnamon Allspice La Fever. This shrimp is awesome."

  Steve started to look depressed.

  "They call me the White Knight," said Iggy, expertly finding the remaining food on the trays with his sensitive fingers.

  "Oh?" Sharon said, trying to salvage the situation. "Why is that?"

  Iggy looked in her general direction. He gestured to his pale blond hair, pale skin, unseeing blue eyes. "They're not gonna call me the Black Knight."

  Fang had sat silently this whole time, so still that he was practically blending into the modern tufted sofa. He had drunk four Cokes in about four minutes and steadily worked his way through a plate of fried something-or-others. Now he felt all eyes turn to him, and he looked up, the expression on his face making me shiver.

  No one looks like Fang—dark and still and dangerous, like he's daring you to set him off. But I'd seen him rocking Angel when she'd hurt herself; I'd seen him smile in his sleep; I'd seen the deep, dark light in his eyes as he leaned over me…

  I blinked several times and chugged the rest of my Sprite.

  Fang sighed and wiped his fingers on his black jeans. He looked around the whole room, at the four agents, at the younger kids having a ball with this, at Total slurping Fanta out of a bowl, at me, sitting tensely on the edge of my chair.

  "My name is Fang," he said, standing up. "And I'm outta here." He walked to the sliding glass doors that led to a landscaped balcony, twenty-two stories above the ground.

  I nodded at the flock and reached over to tap the back of Iggy's hand twice. He stood up and followed Fang's almost silent footsteps, weaving unerringly around tables and large potted plants.

  Fang slid the door open. It was windy on the balcony, and he raised his face to the sun. I hustled the rest of the flock outside, then turned and waved lamely at the four open-mouthed, big-shot Hollywood agents.

  "Thanks," I said, balancing on the balcony edge as my family took off one by one, leaping and unfurling their wings like soft, rough-edged sails, "but no thanks."

  Then I threw myself out into the open air, feeling it rush through my hair, my feathers; feeling my wings buoy me up, every stroke lifting me twelve feet higher.

  We're just not cut out for all this media circus crap.

  But then, you already knew that.

  5

  ALL I'M SAYING IS, would going on Oprah just once be the end of the entire world?" Nudge crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at me. Since Nudge is about the sweetest, easiest-going recombinant-DNA life-form I've ever known, this was serious.

  "No," I said carefully. "But the end of the entire world would be the end of the entire world, and that's what we're still trying to stop." For those of you who are still catching up, I've been told that my mission in life is to save the world. No pressure or anything.

  "I want to be an action figure," said Gazzy.

  "Guys," I said, rubbing my temples, "remember four days ago? The bullets whizzing past, the sniper, the exploding building?"

  "I certainly haven't forgotten." Total huffed, looking at his tail.

  My pool of patience, never deep on the best of days, became yet shallower. "My point is," I went on tightly, "that clearly, someone is still after us, still wants us dead. Yes, our air shows for the CSM are big hits; there are people who are sort of accepting us as being… different, but we're still in danger. We'll always be in danger."

  "I'm tired of being in danger!" Nudge cried. "I hate this! I just want to—"

  She stopped, because there was no point in going on. Trying not to cry, she flopped down on the hotel bed. I sat down next to her and rubbed her back, between her wings.

  "We all hate this," I said quietly. "But until someone can prove to me beyond a doubt that we're safe, I have to make decisions that will keep us more or less in one piece. I know it sucks."

  "Speaking of things sucking," said Fang, "I say we ditch the air shows completely."

  "I like the air shows," said Gazzy. He was lying on the floor, half beneath our coffee table. My mom had gotten him some little Transformer cars, and he was rolling them around, making engine noises. Yes, he could best most grown men in hand-to-hand combat and make an explosive device out of virtually anything, but he was still eight years old. Or so.

  I always seemed to forget that.

  "I like the air shows too," said Nudge, her tangly hair fanned out around her head. "They make me feel like a famous movie star."

  "They're not safe," Fang said flatly.

  I was torn. The sniper who had shot at me had turned out to be a new form of cyborg/human—or at least that's what we'd figured after we found part of one arm. Instead of a hand, he'd had an automatic pistol connected directly to his muscles and nerves. It hadn't actually been the building that exploded when we were close—it had been the sniper himself. He'd blown himself up rather than let us catch him or really see him.

  That's dedication for ya.

  That thing hadn't grafted that gun to his arm by himself. Someone had made him. That someone was still out there and possibly had made more things like him.

  On the other hand… the CSM was really counting on us to continue the air shows. These shows were taking place in some of the most polluted cities in the world: Los Angeles, Sao Paulo, Moscow, Beijing. So far they'd been big successes, and the CSM had been able to hand out tons of cards and leaflets educating people about pollution and greenhouse gases.

  My mom was a member of the CSM. She'd never want to put us in danger, but… I hated to let her down. She'd saved my lif
e a bunch of times. She was helping the flock any way she could. This was the only thing she'd ever asked me to do. How could I tell her that I wanted to bail?

  "Maybe if we just do the air shows but have them way step up security," I said slowly.

  "No," said Fang.

  Okay. I may be fabulous in a lot of ways, but I know I have a couple tiny flaws. One of them is a really bad knee-jerk reaction whenever anyone tells me no about anything.

  You'd think Fang would have picked up on that by now.

  I raised my chin and looked him in the eye. The flock, being smarter than the average gang of winged bears, went still.

  Slowly, I stood up and walked closer to Fang. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Total slither beneath a bed, saw Gazzy quickly pull Iggy into the boys' room next door.

  Until last year, I'd been taller than both Fang and Iggy. They'd not only caught up but had shot several inches past me, which I hated. Now Fang looked down at me, his eyes so dark I couldn't see where his pupils were.

  "What?" I asked, deceptively mildly. I saw a flash of pink tutu as Angel and Nudge crawled with quick, silent efficiency into the boys' room.

  "The air shows are too dangerous," Fang said equally mildly. I heard the connecting door between the two rooms ease shut with the caution of prey trying hard not to attract its predator.

  "I can't let my mom down." This close, I could see his thick eyelashes, the weird glints of gold in his eyes.

  He let out a breath slowly and clenched his hands.

  "One more show," I offered.

  His hands unclenched as he weighed his options. "All right," he said, surprising me. "You're right—we don't want to let the CSM down."

  I looked at him in narrow-eyed suspicion, and then it hit me: Dr. Brigid Dwyer, the eighth wonder of the world, was part of the CSM. She'd planned on meeting us in Mexico City, our next show.

  That was why Fang had agreed to just one more—so he could get all caught up with his favorite brilliant, underage scientist.

  I walked stiffly to the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the shower as hard as it could go. Then I buried my face in a fluffy towel and shrieked like a banshee.

  6

  I'M NOT a great sleeper. When you've spent your whole life facing imminent pain and death, you tend not to sink too deeply into the arms of Morpheus. So it was nothing new that I lay awake for hours that night, turning this way and that.

  I know what you're thinking: how do the wings fit into the whole sleeping thing? Well, even though our wings fold up pretty neatly and tightly along our spines, we're generally not back sleepers. We're mostly side or stomach sleepers. Little bit of insider bird-kid info for ya there.

  Right now I was flopped on my stomach, my head hanging off the side of the bed I was sharing with Angel. Nudge won the Flock Member Most Likely to Cause Injuries by Kicking During Sleep award last year, so she got a bed to herself.

  My wings were unfolded a bit, and I reached around to pull a twig out of my secondaries. Here's what I was thinking about:

  1) Who this new threat was

  2) The air show in Mexico City

  3) My mom and my half-sister, Ella

  4) How to get Total to quit milking his tail injury, because enough was enough

  5) Fang

  6) Fang

  7) Fang

  I've grown up with Fang, from the very beginning, when our dog crates were stacked next to each other in the lab of experimental horror that we called the School. I know, just another typical romantic story about the boy next door.

  Then we'd been rescued by our bad guy, turned good guy, turned bad again, turned I don't know what lately—and Fang and I had been like brother and sister with the rest of the flock, hidden away in the Colorado mountains.

  Then Jeb (see description above) disappeared, and I became flock leader. Maybe because I was the oldest. Or the most ruthless. Or the most organized. I don't know. But I was the flock leader, and Fang was my right-wing man.

  This past year, things had started to change. Fang had been interested in a girl (see Red-Haired Wonder, book two), and I'd hated it. I'd had my first date with a guy (possibly evil, not sure), and Fang had hated it. Then, last month, he'd gotten all cozy with Dr. Brigid Dwyer, the twenty-year-old scientist who'd been part of the research team down in the land of ice and snow and killer leopard seals. And—get this—she'd sort of flirted back with him. And he's—practically—just a kid!

  In the midst of all this, Fang had kissed me. Several times. So now I was freaked and tempted and terrified and worried and longing—and also angry at him for even starting this whole thing to begin with. But it was started and couldn't be unstarted. (Again, his fault.)

  And now I was trying to brush my hair, you know, when I thought about it, and looking at myself in mirrors, wondering if I was pretty. Pretty! A year ago, when my hair got in my eyes, I hacked it off with a knife. The only thing important about my clothes was whether they were too stiff with whatever to move fast in battle. And Fang had been my best friend and an excellent fighter.

  Now everything was upside down.

  "You are really pretty, Max," said a small voice next to me.

  I pressed my face into my pillow and squelched some extracolorful words. Way to go, ace—have embarrassing personal thoughts while you're two feet from a mind reader.

  Yes. Along with the wings and the raptor eyesight and the weird bones, the insane scientists who'd created us had given us the potential to suddenly develop other skills. Iggy can feel colors. Nudge can draw metal stuff toward her and hack any computer. Fang can pretty much disappear into whatever background he's near. Gazzy can imitate any voice, any sound, with 100 percent accuracy. His other skill is unmentionable. I can fly faster than the others, and I have a Voice in my head. I don't want to talk about that right now.

  But it was Angel who'd hit the genetic jackpot. She can breathe under water, communicate with fish, and read people's minds. We're talking about a six-year-old. And, you know, six-year-olds are famous for having excellent judgment and decision-making skills.

  "You have nice hair and really pretty eyes," Angel went on earnestly.

  I rolled over a bit. "Yeah. Brown and brown." Have I mentioned how much Fang loves red hair? I believe I have.

  "No, your hair has little sun streaks in it," Angel informed me. "And your eyes are like—you know those chocolates we had in France? With the gooey stuff in the middle, with the alcohol in 'em except we didn't know, and Gazzy ate a million and then barfed all night? Those chocolates?"

  As much as I had tried to suppress all memory of that incident, it rushed back to me in vivid Technicolor. "The color of my eyes is like barfed-up chocolate?" Despair settled over me. There was no hope.

  "No, the chocolates before they were barfed," Angel clarified.

  So there you have it, the extent of my charms: brown hair and eyes like unbarfed chocolate. I'm a lucky girl.

  "Max," said Angel. "You know Fang is the best guy ever. And he loves you. 'Cause you're the best girl ever."

  With anyone else, I could ask them how they know that and then discredit them. Not Angel. She knew because she'd seen it, in his mind.

  "We all love each other, Ange," I said impatiently, hating this whole conversation.

  "No, not like this," she went on relentlessly. "Fang loves you."

  Here's a little secret you might not have picked up on about me: I can't stand gushy emotion. Hate crying. Hate feeling sad. Am not even too crazy about feeling happy. So all this—the vulnerability, the longing, the terror—I desperately wanted it to all go away forever. I wanted to cut it out of me like they'd cut out that chip. (See book three; I can't keep explaining everything. If I'm gonna take the trouble to write this stuff down, the least you can do is read it.)

  But right now, I needed Angel to shut up.

  "Okay, maybe I'll give him a break," I said, rolling over and closing my eyes.

  "Maybe you should give him more than that," Angel pressed
.

  My eyes flared open as I didn't dare to think what she might mean.

  "He could totally be your boyfriend," she went on with annoying persistence. "You guys could get married. I could be like a junior bridesmaid. Total could be your flower dog."

  "I'm only a kid!" I shrieked. "I can't get married!"

  "You could in New Hampshire."

  My mouth dropped open. How does she know this stuff? "Forget it! No one's getting married!" I hissed. "Not in New Hampshire or anywhere else! Not in a box, not with a fox! Now go to sleep, before I kill you!"

  Oh yeah, like I got any sleep after that.

  7

  YOU'VE NEVER SEEN just how mega a megalopolis can be until you've seen Mexico City. I guess there might be bigger burgs in like China or something, but boy howdy, Mexico City seems endless.

  Anyway, the Bane of My Existence and I had agreed to one more air show, and of course it was the one in Mexico City, where Dr. Wonderful would be meeting us.

  So we were over a ginormous open-air stadium, the Estadio Azteca, which held about 114,000 people. Every seat was filled. We'd changed the choreography and order of stunts since the last show, so if anyone had made a plan to take us out, they'd have to rethink it. Around us, mile upon mile of densely packed buildings stretched as far as we could see, and we can see pretty dang far.

  "I need a scuba tank," Nudge said, flying over to me. She was holding her nose with one hand. "And a face mask." She gave a couple of coughs and shook her head, her eyes watering.

  "I assume you're referring to the wee pollution problem?" I said, raising my voice to be heard over the wind and the multitudes cheering below. The people in the stadium were looking up to see us silhouetted against a thick gray sky. But it was not a cloudy day. The thing is, with nineteen million-plus people and four million-plus cars and a bunch of businesses making stuff, Mexico City is incredibly, horribly, nauseatingly polluted.