Fearless Page 8

  I’m about to find out.

  Chapter Seven

  Nick

  I run my fingers over the smooth surface of the stone. Alex was right: this one feels different. Her bird was full of excitement and a terrible sense of beauty. It felt like Alex, probably because she molded it. She put a part of herself into it. This stone is entirely mine, untouched by her or anything else. I made it from the start, back when I didn’t believe in her or anything else. It’s swirling with hate. My hate.

  And I know just what to do with it.

  I focus all of my attention on the stone in my hand. I hold it out in my palm in front of me for everyone to see. It trembles as I concentrate on it. I feel it move against my skin, tickling with annoyance. Then it disperses, just as I told it to. It goes from solid to vapor in an instant poof that makes Alex gasp faintly behind me. I notice Campbell take a slow step closer, but I shut them out. I shut it all out because I know this moment is crucial. I can’t lose sight of it the way I did with the bird when it came crashing down out of the sky—and not just for our own safety, but for a much more imperative, stupid reason.

  To save face.

  I’m stronger than this guy. I’m stronger than anything any of these guys can throw at me. I can feel it in my blood—the power rolling around inside me like lava just below the surface, begging to burst out—but I have to lock everything down, shut everything out, and do this right the first time.

  The vapor dances in a slow, small whirl in my hand. I feel the bits of stone, fine as sugar grains, skirting against my skin and it feels exactly the way I knew it would. Exactly how sand on the wind in the desert feels.

  I lift my palm, the tiny dust storm floating obediently above it, then I suck in a sharp breath. I hold it for a split second, almost like a hesitation but more of a gut check. I ask myself if I’m ready for this. If I can handle it.

  The questions almost make me laugh.

  I blow the breath out hard and fast, like putting out a candle. It explodes in a gray fog of superfine stone. I see the guy’s hands glow brilliant blue just as the storm envelopes him, then he’s gone. He’s in there somewhere, but I guarantee he can’t see a foot in front of himself. The grains swirl harder, more violently, but there’s no wind. It’s all me. It’s inside me and the stones and the dreams. It’s unnatural and unfair in its raw power, but it’s me and I like it. In fact, I love it. I feel so full of so many things. I feel each tiny grain of the stone, and if I focus hard enough, nearly to the point of passing out from the effort, I can see the stocky guy inside the storm. As the grains pass him by, they paint me a distorted picture that makes me ache trying to see it, but it’s tempting to try. It’s tempting to know how far I can go.

  “Nick?”

  Alex. Her voice is faint, distant, like she’s a million miles away. I hate doing it but I try to shut her out. I can’t talk right now. I can’t lose sight of this—this silent storm that’s pouring out of me. It feels like it’s been there for ages, brewing. Building.

  It feels so good to let it out.

  Stocky’s blue light flares, the color deepening. He’s heating up. He’s going to fire blind at us, hoping to hit me and make me stop. The odds of him actually hitting me with any accuracy are slim, but the odds of him hitting Campbell or Alex and breaking my concentration—those odds are pretty good.

  “Get down,” I tell them.

  At least I think I do. My perception is off. I’m in two places at once and I’m trying very hard to keep focus on only one.

  The blue glow turns to brilliant purple, then it bursts to blinding white. There’s a crack like thunder following lightning, and just as it happens I know what he’s done wrong.

  Funny thing about lightning when it strikes sand: it superheats it. Melts it into something called fulgurite, a hollow tube of glass created by the blasted sand that’s coated by a thick layer of fused grains. It looks a little like coral and it’s just as durable. Just as sharp.

  Sharp enough to sink a ship on the sea.

  When he launches his fire into the storm, it isn’t perfect. The conditions are off and the grains swirling like flakes in a snow globe melt in the air only because I let them. Because I mold them. But it’s given me an idea.

  I spin them in a glass, crystalline spider web rising from the asphalt to weave and snake around him. It attaches to him—his clothes, his hands, his hair. It glistens fragile and strange in the early morning light.

  And I’m still in control of it.

  I push it as hard as I can without breaking it. I build thousands of tiny knobs and bulbs along the web. I push them until they can barely take it. Until every last nub is a needle-sharp barb. Until the stocky guy is trapped inside a shimmering glass briar patch.

  He looks around in a mild panic, his eyes wide. When they fall on his hands, though, he looks angry. His power worked against him and mine has him trapped. If our roles were reversed, I’d be angry too.

  Before he can harness that rage and break free, I grab Alex by the arm and start running. There are sirens in the distance. More cops are coming, Dr. Evans is closing in on us, and I don’t want Alex around when this guy gets loose.

  I hear Campbell immediately match pace behind me and I know he’s thinking the same thing: this place is nowhere we want to be right now.

  We run wild for seven blocks, I cut us left, and we run for seven more.

  “Where are we going?” Alex huffs.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Out of the city,” Campbell replies immediately. “You’re both wanted by both the police and anyone who wants money, which is everyone.”

  “Not you,” Alex counters.

  “I’m exceptional in every possible way.”

  “He’s right,” I agree, screeching to a halt to scan a side street. Lots of people to get lost in, no cops to be seen. I lead us down it, slowing to match the casual pace of the herd. “More posters will go up. We won’t be able to hide in the city for long.”

  “Why doesn’t she just trip us out of here? That’s her power, isn’t it?”

  “It’s Slip, and it’s not that easy,” Alex grumbles.

  “It sounds easy.”

  “Then you do it.”

  “Would if I could.”

  I shake my head in annoyance. “She’ll figure it out, but not right now. Now she needs to rest.”

  “Yeah, she must be tired from all that sleeping.”

  “Back off. She’s been through a lot. Her ability saved me more than once today.”

  “Just show me a little,” Campbell prods Alex. “Trip to the end of the block. I want to see it.”

  She smirks at him. “Who’s a believer now, huh?”

  “A guy threw fireballs at me from his hands and Carver created a sand storm out of a stone. Yeah, David Blaine, I’m a believer. I’m just not sure I believe in you yet.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  “There’s a sign for the train station,” I interrupt.

  “Lot of cameras,” Campbell warns.

  “Yeah, I know. It can’t be helped. We’ll buy tickets to the end of the line but we’ll get off halfway there. Then we walk away from the trains. We head straight into the sticks.”

  “Can you handle that, Sleeping Beauty? Lot of walking.”

  “Will you be talking the entire time?” she asks.

  “Most of it.”

  “Then whether or not I can handle it is still up for debate.”

  The sun is fully in the sky when we board the train. Trains leaving the city are almost empty. We see a city-bound train coming in just as we’re leaving, and it’s packed to a disturbing level. Lot of people arriving with the sun to head to work. With all these eyes around, it makes me anxious to get into the farmlands—somewhere people don’t have such easy access to wanted fliers or cell phones updating images constantly. Campbell is like me, playing it cool, but Alex looks nervous and uncomfortable. I want to tell her to act natural, but I know if she realizes how paranoid s
he looks it’ll only make it worse.

  Once we’re on the train I tell Alex to sit back and try to sleep again. She tells me she’s fine, that she got enough rest. I don’t buy it but I do drop it. She hates the damsel in distress, dead weight label Campbell is slapping on her and I’ll never talk her out of fighting it. I can’t convince her that he doesn’t actually care, even though I know it’s true. Even if she was Xena the Warrior Princess, he’d still be giving her a hard time.

  Wait, how do I know who that is? I’ve seen the show, I must have. But why would I watch that?

  Freaking Campbell.

  I glare at him in annoyance from across the small space between us.

  “What?” he demands, catching my stare.

  “Nothing.”

  “You got something to say to me?”

  “Yeah, I do,” I reply sharply. “Your nerdism is contagious.”

  He grins. “What were you thinking about? Were you picturing SB here in a Catwoman suit?”

  “No.”

  “I was.”

  “I’ll throw you from this moving train.”

  “Michelle Pfeiffer or Haley Berry?” Alex asks Campbell curiously.

  “Pfeiffer, of course.”

  She nods appreciatively. “That’s legit.”

  I let my head fall back against the seat, praying this doesn’t turn into a big thing—because with comics and Campbell, you’re almost guaranteed that it will be.

  Luckily the two of them fall silent.

  Twenty minutes later Alex starts sweating. She’s shifting in her seat like she can’t get comfortable, and her eyes are looking bloodshot. When I glance at Campbell I see him watching her too. Diagnosing her.

  He casually reaches up to scratch his neck, but instead he thrums his index and middle finger against his pulse rapidly.

  I nod faintly in agreement.

  Her heart rate is elevated.

  “I’m going to get some water,” Campbell says, standing abruptly. “You guys want anything?”

  “I’m good. Thanks,” Alex says with a tight smile.

  “I’ll take one,” I tell him. “Thanks, man.”

  “Yeah. Be right back.”

  I wait until Campbell is gone and the people around us are dozing or reading, then I lean in toward Alex. The thin sheen of sweat on her skin is obvious this close. So is her slightly labored breathing.

  “You okay?” I ask softly.

  “Fine.”

  “Alex.”

  “What?”

  I stare at her, waiting. My eyes never leave hers, never give anything away, but she knows what I’m asking. She knows I want honesty.

  Eventually she sighs. “I’m not great but I’ll be fine. Really.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is that a question or an answer?”

  “I don’t know,” she mumbles, closing her eyes briefly. “You’re the doctor. You tell me.”

  “I’m not a doctor but I don’t even need to be an EMT to see you’re hurting. It’s the aftereffects of the serums, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You mean absolutely?”

  “Don’t worry about me. It’ll pass.”

  “I know it’s a four-letter word to you, but let me help you.”

  She rubs her hand over her forehead. “‘Help’ is a four-letter word to everyone.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do.”

  “Then why are you fighting me on this?”

  She drops her hand, turning to me. “Because I want to help, not be helped.”

  The look she gives me is miserable, like a puppy with a hurt paw in the rain during a thunderstorm. She’s in pain, exhausted, and emotional, her eyes shining on the verge of spilling over.

  I’m not an emotional guy by any means, but when the woman you love gives you that honest of a glimpse into her pain, it messes with you. I should go to my PJ training, but what I want to do more than anything is hold her. I want to be man enough for my arms and the beat of my own heart to chase the pain away. It’s irrational and it’s stupid—probably something I couldn’t even manage in a dream—but I still want it.

  Instead, I hold her hand. That’s all. I should hold her. I should pull her against me and let her hide there for just a second, but I’m not a PDA kind of person. The idea of it makes me feel oddly uncomfortable, like I wouldn’t even know where to begin to initiate it. Like it’s a symphony piece and I don’t even know the difference between the black and the white keys.

  Maybe I don’t want to be man enough to chase her pain away after all. Maybe I just want to be man enough to love her like a human being.

  “Nick,” she pleads faintly, “can we drop i—”

  I press my mouth against hers. I kiss her softly, quickly, but it takes her by surprise. Her and I both.

  She’s grinning when I pull away.

  “What was that for?” she whispers.

  “For you.”

  “You are surprisingly sweet.”

  I grin. “For an asshole?”

  “You’re not so bad.”

  “Not to you, no. Not anymore.”

  “I think it’s funny when you do it to other people.”

  “Is it funny when Campbell does it? ‘Cause you’re in for a non-stop comedy thrill ride if that’s true.”

  Alex groans, slouching. “He’s less funny.”

  “But I’m better looking,” Campbell tells her, reappearing with three bottled waters.

  “I said I didn’t want a drink,” she reminds him, eyeing his full hands.

  “It’s not for you, SB. It’s not always about you. You’re a bit of a diva, aren’t you?”

  “Who’s it for then?”

  “Me. I’m a growing boy. I need my nutrients.”

  “There are no nutrients in water.”

  He shrugs. “I plan ahead. If we’re trekking across the rice paddies, I’ll need water.”

  Alex looks around nervously. “Easy on the racist comments.”

  “Seriously? You’re one of those, huh?” Campbell sits forward, clasping his hands together.

  I sigh. Here it comes…

  “Is it racist or does it sound racist—ergo, it makes you uncomfortable? I didn’t say anything about the people tending the fields, the color of their skin, their aptitude for math, their unusual vending machine practices, or the old standby—the shape of their eyes. They grow rice here. A lot of it. Any middle school geography class textbook will tell you that. Where are you from? Nebraska, right? If I said we were going to be trekking through the corn fields, would that have been racist against those middle-American white farmers tending the fields?”

  “No,” Alex admits grudgingly.

  “Because I’m white and I’m talking about white people, so it can’t be a bad thing, right? But if I’m a white guy talking about another race then I must mean everything in a derogatory way—which, doesn’t that mean that you’re racist for thinking anything a white man says about another race is racist?”

  “I…That’s not…”

  Campbell sits back, throwing his ankle up on his knee in a posture of pure satisfaction. “Racism is to the white man what fried chicken is to a black man: a foregone conclusion.” He shakes his head with disgust. “You people.”

  “What people?” Alex looks at me helplessly, her face exhausted. “Why do I feel like a bigot now?”

  “Because he’s a dark wizard and he turned it around on you. It’s what he does,” I explain warily. “He’s crude and offensive, a little sexist, but he’s not racist.”

  I don’t know for sure that he’s not. Everyone wants to hope their friends aren’t Klan members on the weekend, but who knows? People are full of secrets and lies, but really all I’m doing is making a leap of faith to try and make this stop. She’s wound him up, and once Campbell is wound up it’s hard to bring him down. Walters did it all the time, and I’m really hoping Alex has the social sense to avoid it.

 
“But it’s still an insult. You meant it to be derogatory, and intent is everything,” Alex argues.

  I moan, hanging my head in defeat.

  “I get what you’re saying,” Campbell allows, “but it’s still not an insult against the people. If anything it was an insult against the area. Like calling a low income neighborhood a slum or ghetto.”

  “So you’re not a racist, you’re an elitist?”

  “Oh hell yes, I’ll admit to that freely. Will you admit to what’s wrong with you?”

  I raise my head slowly. I can feel the tension rolling off Alex next to me while Campbell watches her and I watch him. His face is open and genial.

  It’s strange on him.

  “I feel a little off,” Alex tells him tightly. “I told Nick that.”

  “How off?”

  “Off enough.”

  “For what?”

  She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “Enough to be scared.”

  “Are you dizzy?” Campbell pushes, but his voice has changed. He’s not being flippant or aggressive. He’s being a PJ.

  “Yes.”

  “Disoriented?” I ask.

  “A little. I feel fuzzy. Off center.”

  “Lightheaded?”

  “Very.”

  “Your heart is pounding, right?” Campbell asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “I can tell by the sweat.”

  Alex blushes slightly. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”

  “Why? Because it’s gross?”

  “Kind of, yeah.”

  “So is dropping a deuce, but we all do it. Don’t be embarrassed, be honest. What else is happening?”

  “I don’t know. Just that stuff.”

  “The dizziness and the sweating?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No headache?” I ask. “No stomach trouble?”

  “I haven’t slept,” she blurts out.

  I blink, feeling surprised. “You were asleep at the motel. You said you slept.”

  She shakes her head slowly. “I faked it.”

  Campbell chuckles. I shoot him a warning glance.