Purple Haze (Aliens in New York Book 2)

by Kelly Jensen

  “I have a complete database of unique genetic markers for the Skov and humanity. I believe I could cross reference any differences for further study.”

  “What’s your opinion on the situation?” Dillon asked.

  “Given the talents exhibited by Elder Arayu, I believe what you are describing is possible.”

  “So this isn’t just a heightened intuition thing?”

  “Without running tests, I do not want to speculate. A fresh sample of your DNA would facilitate the process.”

  Dillon sighed. Between monthly checkups and his recent issues, he’d had more medical attention over the past half year than at any point in his life. He cast a forlorn glance at the pile of spiralized potatoes. “How about if I go submit to a diagnostic while you make curly fries?”

  Lang plucked a paper towel from the roll and began wiping his fingers. “I’ll come with you. It will only take a few minutes. Then we can make the fries while Upero prepares his report.”

  “And then eat them in front of TV like regular people.”

  Lang chuckled. “As regular as regular can be.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lang flipped through the last four pages of the financial summary, barely pausing to glance at each page as it materialized on the screen of his laptop before touching the page advance button. When he reached the end, he relaxed back in his desk chair and drew his arms up into a stretch before settling them behind his head. He gazed through the long windows to Central Park as he let the report settle in his brain, grateful to be working from home rather than the office.

  He’d described his role as CEO of Skovgaard Enterprises to Dillon as being captain of a very large ship. In actual fact, he was more a fleet admiral. He had a basic understanding of the various businesses the company engaged in, from agriculture to manufacturing to scientific medicine, but had very little to do with any of them individually. Each subsidiary had a team, mostly put in place by him, that focused on that business and that business alone. They were his captains. His captains were managed by his admirals, who reported to each other before shunting the important stuff up the chain to him.

  In other words, the bulk of his day was filled with reading reports. Upero had become quite adept at condensing them into lists of optimal results, but Lang often read them himself, which brought him to his current position and thought process. He read at a pace unmatched by most humans. He could glance at a page and take it in. He would read every word if it was a subject he was interested in, but reports prepared for him all followed the same format, allowing him to skim.

  Was his ability to assess a page full of data at a glance a talent or a mark of superior genetic engineering? He knew many brilliant, talented humans, and, unlike the Wren, did not consider humanity to be an inferior species.

  Lang’s people, among the clan, were farmers. Over tens of thousands of years of existence, very little had changed in their basic pattern. Part of their purview was the science of agriculture, however, and all Skov were educated with that in mind, including related industries. Much of his superiority could be attributed to his repair cells, but his ability to parse information quickly, and his innate strength—physical and mental—were ordinary among the Skov. Any enhancements he’d been given in the gestation process were designed to help him adapt to life on Earth, nothing more.

  No one really knew what the Wren were designed for, other than leadership. History wasn’t clear about why they had floated to the top, either, except to note that they had, at some point.

  Lang rubbed the back of his head, giving his neck a short massage, before unfolding his arms and returning his hands to the desk in front of him. “Upero.”

  “I am here.”

  “Have you finished analyzing Dillon’s DNA?”

  “I have not.”

  “What’s taking so long?”

  It’d been over a week since Dillon had submitted to yet another scan, and five days since Upero had decided it needed yet another sample of genetic material. The delay made Lang uneasy, though he couldn’t say exactly why. Maybe it was simply the mystery of Wren talents and what it might mean for Dillon if he developed one.

  “This time I am using a process of elimination and discarding identifiable markers,” Upero said. “If you will refer to the sixteenth report in the results folder I created, you will see I have completed analysis of Dillon’s genome. It is virtually unchanged from the sample I kept on file.”

  “But what does that mean? How can it be unchanged if his eyes and hair are now purple?”

  “Those markers were already there. They were simply activated by the infusion of repair cells.”

  “Which were mine. So, Skov cells, not Wren.”

  “The repair cells of Elder Arayu were identical to yours.”

  Lang had suspected as much, even though Arayu had initially refused to donate hers to Lang until Dillon presented her with a near ultimatum. Her objection had stemmed from prejudice rather than selfishness. But aside from being much restored, Lang had felt no different. Was Dillon’s current situation simply due to having his Wren DNA switched to active?

  “Keep me updated,” he said.

  “I will.”

  A chime yanked Lang’s attention back to his laptop where a pop-up at the bottom of the screen was fading out. He’d received new mail. He clicked over to his email app and swallowed audibly at the subject of the newest message. It was a Google alert. Refining the parameters to filter out photos had given him some peace over the past couple of weeks. Lang’s fingers didn’t exactly tremble as he clicked, but something in his torso did. Would today be the day Wesley Kohen published his article?

  The list of results popped up and right at the top was the headline: Hide and Seek with Steilang Skovgaard.

  Today was the day, then.

  The entire first page of results consisted of reposts of the same article, with varying headlines that had little to do with his sexuality and his relationship with Dillon. Lang opened the first result and settled in to read every word.

  Steilang Skovgaard is known to value his privacy—but what is he hiding? Let’s cover the facts, first. Trust me, it won’t take long.

  A brief paragraph followed, detailing Steilang’s age, place of birth, and the story he had been using since he arrived in New York—that he was the son of a Norwegian fisherman who had immigrated to America to make his fortune… and had done just that.

  Skovgaard Enterprises is one of the largest privately owned corporations in the world, a feat managed through an interesting line of succession from a wide variety of subsidiary Skovgaards we will call “cousins.”

  Lang blinked back unexpected tears as he read the brief account of the life and death of Rohan Skovgaard, better known to him as Rehonen Jord’Skov, his brother-in-arms since birth and sometime sexual partner during their mission on Earth. Rehonen had died five years ago, his passing reducing Lang’s status from team member to lone survivor.

  The next few paragraphs detailed his father’s career, which in actuality had been his own. Steilang had played the role himself, retiring his “father” due to ill health and succeeding him as CEO of Skovgaard twelve years ago. It had been a necessary ploy to explain his longevity, and one he had planned for from the beginning of his quest.

  That he hadn’t expected to actually implement that particular plan was now ancient history. War between the Clans had extended his mission far beyond the original timeline.

  Lang continued reading.

  There were a couple of broad hints that none of the Skovgaards were who they said they were, but Kohen had nothing concrete when it came to who they might be, and not once did the article hint at otherworldly origins.

  More, the reporter seemed to believe a group of young men and women had banded together some twenty-five years ago to make a secret fortune, and that they had lied and bribed their way into it, trading lives for deals in a game only the Skovgaards might understand.

  It all sounded rather sordid,
and, unfortunately, skirted the truth too closely to be comfortable. But Kohen had yet to make his point.

  Lang skipped to the next paragraph.

  So, we have a man of immense wealth, who also happens to own half of Montana.

  How had Kohen found out about the property in Montana? It was a matter of public record, but difficult to trace. Only one other reporter had followed the paper trail that far.

  And he doesn’t want anyone to know.

  Not generally, no.

  Why?

  “You tell me, Kohen.”

  Kohen did, and his conclusion was preposterous, though not so farfetched. In fact, it skirted the truth more closely than the reporter would ever know.

  Gazing around the circle of children in various stages of undress, floor between them and their masterpieces littered with crayon wrappers, crushed snack foods, and broken everything, Dillon could only repeat the silent mantra: Thank Fuck it’s Friday.

  “Emily, no,” one of the moms said, providing his thirtieth episode of déjà vu for the week. Sure enough, Emily was sucking on something green and waxy. Maybe he should assign them the task of eating the crayons? Then he might actually get some drawings out of them.

  “We have an escapee,” Penny warned.

  On the surface, Penny and Josh didn’t appear even distantly related, but they had similar personalities—huge and generous. Penny also had a degree in early childhood development and loved kids. They’d hired her on the spot.

  Dillon leaped for the gate in time to stop Jared from pulling it away from the stairs. The shallow steps had been designed to slow a fall rather than encourage a tumble toward broken bones, but still…

  “Not the wall, Siobhan, the paper.”

  “Got it,” Penny called out as Dillon wrestled with Jared. Jared’s mom helped by peeling the little boy’s fingers away while Dillon held him back.

  “I’m so sorry,” Cindy said after each finger.

  “Don’t worry about it. I think we’ve all got a case of the Fridays.”

  She shot him a grateful look that barely shifted when an indignant howl rose up from the group behind them. Dillon glanced over his shoulder to find two toddlers in a face off, Keenan’s little girl and one of the new kids. A torn rag lay on the floor between them.

  Without touching a single person, Dillon could easily interpret the situation. Someone had stolen something dear and someone else had tried to retrieve it. Now, the something dear—was it a ratty old washcloth?—was in two uneven pieces. One of the kids was stunned, the other inconsolable, and it was anyone’s bet as to who had been the original owner.

  Dillon got Jared back to his place in the circle at the same time that Penny returned their graffiti artist. Keenan’s little girl accepted her half of the rag and held it to her cheek with one hand while shoving the other hand in her mouth. Her nemesis had turned back to his drawing, and glancing down, Dillon could only laugh.

  Today’s assignment had been to draw an animal, and the boy had managed a recognizable elephant.

  Squatting next to the new parent and kid, Dillon offered a smile. “Great drawing there, buddy. Does your elephant have a name?”

  “Spike,” the boy replied.

  “Awesome.” I mean, what else am I going to say? Patting the kid’s head, Dillon got back to his feet.

  Touching the kids had fast become one of his favorite pastimes. He got so little from them other than the pleasure of simply being that he wanted to be in contact with someone young almost constantly.

  Dillon crouched next to Keenan. His daughter had all but subsided into a nap in Keenan’s lap.

  “Was the, ah, cloth precious?” Dillon asked.

  Keenan had the other half in his hand, and, up close, it did resemble a washcloth. A rather old one. “We’ve got a stack of them at home.”

  “Just as well.”

  “I’m only glad her wibble—” Keenan paused to blush adorably. “—ah, that’s what we call it. Sorry. I have no idea what I was saying.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ve lost the thread a half dozen times this morning already.” He shouldn’t be admitting that to a parent.

  “Eighteen kids is a lot in one class, but it looks like everyone is settling down,” Keenan observed.

  “Soon you all can go home for naptime or whatever.”

  “That I should be so lucky.”

  “Oh?”

  Keenan shook his head. “Lizzie will sleep all the way home in the stroller. But, hey, it’s not too cold out there. Maybe we’ll go to the park afterward.”

  After this? No wonder Keenan was exhausted.

  “Maybe she’ll sleep a little longer for you.” Dillon gripped Keenan’s shoulder and tried not to wince as a tide of emotion rolled through the brief contact.

  Confessing his suspicions to Lang seemed to have opened some sort of gateway inside Dillon, because, now, every time he touched someone, he got the “feels” as he’d started to call them. The confirmation that he was receiving some sort of emotional feedback from other people had been liberating in one way, terrifying in another. A part of him wanted to clutch his hair and start jogging the perimeter of every room. Another part of him had started experimenting, prompting this touchy-feely version of Dillon Lee. The man who patted arms, squeezed shoulders, and had developed a fascination for toddlers.

  Mostly, he was relieved he hadn’t imagined it.

  Keenan was exhausted—bone-deep tired—and Dillon got the feeling (ha-ha) his fatigue wasn’t related to his hand-sucking bundle of joy. Something much more complicated was bothering Keenan, and he apparently didn’t have time to think about it, let alone do something about it. He loved his little girl to the ends of the earth, but the other half of his relationship might not be working. The images of skin remained, but Dillon had a feeling (not so ha-ha this time) that the skin Keenan thought about so desperately wasn’t that of his spouse.

  Was he gay and married to a woman, or maybe not in love with his other half?

  Would offering to babysit so Keenan could take a nap and maybe clear his mind a little be completely and utterly weird?

  Swallowing, Dillon delivered another squeeze and as much good feeling as he could. He had no idea if his—do not call them subjects—if the people he touched got anything from him. But he liked to imagine his skill had a purpose other than being a creepy emotion stalker. In his mind, he told Keenan to find his happiness and cling to that. To make time for himself. To love truly and honestly.

  Out loud, he said, “Hang in there.”

  Keenan’s gaze had taken a distant focus. At the sound of Dillon’s voice, he shook himself slightly and offered a vague smile. Then he yawned. “Thanks, man. You know, as hectic as this class is, I always feel better after we’ve been here.”

  Dillon returned a short nod and moved on. He’d think about the implications of Keenan’s words later.

  His phone started its own bid for escape a few minutes before the end of class. When the buzz in his pocket became distracting, Dillon tossed the phone onto the desk at the back of the classroom. Afterward, Josh helped with cleanup. He’d had a class downstairs at the same time, a private lesson he’d managed to book last week.

  Despite the chaos, the upstairs classroom seemed in better shape than it had on Monday or Wednesday. “Is there less mess?” Dillon asked.

  “I think we’re getting used to it.” Josh turned the edge of his broom into a stubborn patch of wax. “How was the class? From downstairs, it sounded like you had a herd of elephants up here.”

  “Just one named Spike.”

  Penny laughed. “And three tortoises named Toast.”

  “Were the artists sitting together?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “We’ll call it cooperation,” Josh put in. He abandoned the broom and dropped to his knees, blade in hand, to scrape at some of the mightier clumps of crushed crayon. “Dear lord. Our floors, Dillon! Our beautiful floors.”

  “I know.” They were well on
the way to being more than artfully distressed. “But, hey, it’s Friday. Got any plans for the weekend?”

  Josh’s apron dinged, and he reached into the pocket for his phone. After waking the screen, his eyebrows rose. “Have you heard from Lang today?”

  “Huh?” Dillon patted his pockets before he remembered banishing his phone to the desk. “What’s up?”

  Josh showed him his phone, the light of the screen distracting Dillon from a journey to the back of the classroom. It showed some gossip website with picture of Lang, and a bold and puzzling headline: World’s Richest Man is Preparing for the End of the World.

  “He’s not the world’s richest man,” Dillon said, his voice oddly faint. It was hard to talk over the fluttering pulse at the base of his throat.

  Penny edged in to peer at the screen. “What’s this end of the world stuff?”

  “Does he actually own half of Montana?” Josh asked. “You know, my family used to have a farm out there. I should check if it’s nearby.” He glanced at Dillon. “You feeling okay? You’re even paler than usual.”

  Dillon turned away and strode to his phone. He woke the screen and started checking his texts. Most of them were from his mom, a few were from his grandmother, and a worrying number were from unknown callers. In his hands, the phone vibrated again. His mom’s picture glowed on the screen.

  Dillon put the phone to his ear. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Dillon! I’ve been trying to call all morning. Does Lang really think the world is going to end?”

  Chapter Nine

  “Where did he get all his information?”

  Lang winced at Dillon’s tone. He’d had an afternoon to process the interview—and Upero to analyze the data. Dillon had had about sixty minutes, and he’d apparently spent most of that on the phone with his mother while dodging journalists outside the school and apartment building all looking for his take on “Apocalyptic Lang.”

  Lang had run the same gauntlet earlier and several reporters were still out there, standing on the opposite side of the street. Even from the penthouse windows, they were easy to pick out; they were the dots not moving, despite the January temperatures.