Purple Haze (Aliens in New York Book 2)

by Kelly Jensen

  Recovering quickly, Obele barreled into Lang, throwing him down. Lang’s chin hit the ground with a sickening crack that jolted him back to the night, six months before, when the Nay had kidnapped Dillon and then brought him up to Lang’s apartment to demand the data Dillon’s father had left behind. Then, it had been Dillon’s chin smacking the ground.

  Pain lanced through Lang’s skull, and his scalp prickled in anticipation of an expected blow that never came. Obele seemed merely content to sit on him. Lang struggled for countless seconds, gasping for Dillon, before sense arrived, born on another wave of pain. Awareness seeped outward: the throb of his chin and a hint of wetness that was probably blood. He stopped moving and breathed until the urge to disgrace himself further had passed.

  As though sensing his compliance, the weight on his back eased as Obele moved aside. Sound rushed into the shocking pause, and Lang looked up to find Dillon now wrestling with Obele.

  Then Vagnan’s voice rang above them all. “Stop!”

  Obele got Dillon into a submissive hold, though Dillon tugged against her grip. Tears streaked his face as he yelled, “What did you do? What the fuck did you just do?”

  Lang somehow got his knees under him. He wiped at his chin, smearing his knuckles with bright red blood. Swallowing to quell the swift riot of his gut, Lang held up his bloody hand and echoed Vagnan. “Stop, please. Dillon, hold still.”

  The apartment swayed as Lang pushed to his feet. He stepped in front of Dillon, whose arms were being held behind his back by Obele. With his clean hand, Lang touched Dillon’s face and leaned in to bump their foreheads lightly together. Pain rocked through his head again, but he swallowed the cry that wanted to jerk free. Already, he could feel the peculiar numbness along his jaw that meant his repair cells were at work.

  “Dillon,” he whispered. “It’ll be okay. Just stop.”

  “What did he do to me?” Dillon asked, his voice broken.

  “I don’t know. But we’ll find out.” After patting Dillon’s cheek again, Lang straightened and turned to face Vagnan. By rote, the first words to form in his throat were those of apology. He bit them back, allowing his anger to override instinct. “I am prepared to defend Dillon at all costs. Harm him again at your peril.”

  Vagnan’s sculpted eyebrows arched upward over his wide, purple gaze. “You have taken Dillon as bondmate?”

  Lang dropped his chin, suddenly as defeated as Vagnan was surprised. “No, Elder. Not in the way of the clan.” But that’s who he is to me.

  Should he admit as much out loud? Would his commitment make a difference to whatever was going on here or would Vagnan focus on the obvious reasons why Lang could not have bonded with Dillon? Clan differences, genetic differences, and Dillon being half human. Not to mention Dillon might now have even more reason to regret the day they met. This was the source of his uneasiness that afternoon. How could he have been so naïve? Of course, the Wren would be interested in Dillon’s new talent.

  Wesley Kohen’s allegations paled in comparison.

  “Let me go!” Dillon was struggling again.

  “He does not understand, Elder,” Lang all but pleaded. “Please show leniency.”

  “Listen, I don’t know what the fuck is going on,” Dillon said, “but you need to let me go, and stop making Lang bow and scrape. This is our house. You’re on my fucking planet. Lang offered you his hospitality and you repay it by hitting me with some alien mind meld and breaking Lang’s chin.” Dillon wrenched sideways with a yell. “Let me go.”

  Vagnan raised his hand. “Let him go, Obele.”

  “Jerr, are you sure?”

  At Vagnan’s nod, Obele let Dillon go. Dillon pulled his arms forward and rubbed at his wrists.

  Lang touched his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “No.” Dillon hugged himself.

  “Do you require medical attention?” Vagnan asked.

  Lang glanced up to find the elder looking at him. Touching his chin again, Lang allowed a soft wince. But the broken skin had already knitted together, any blood left on the outside forming scab. “My repair cells appear to be functioning properly.”

  “Confirmed, but I would recommend a scan when you have a moment, Steilang,” Upero said in a calm, reasonable tone that felt oddly out of place in the current situation.

  Vagnan nodded. “And you, Dillon?”

  Shrinking away from the Wren, Dillon shook his head.

  “Respectfully, Elder, could you explain what happened?” Lang asked.

  “Perhaps we could all sit?”

  Lang grimaced at the spray of glass and juice around the coffee table and gestured toward the dim recess of the dining room. “Let’s move. I’d rather not crunch around on broken glass.”

  “Of course.” Vagnan drew himself up, which at a height of over seven feet, made an impressive sight, as though the elder aspired to be a floor to ceiling pillar in the middle of the room. “But first, I owe you an apology, Steilang Jord’Skov. Both of you. Dillon is correct. Regardless of your relationship status, this is your home, and I have violated your hospitality. For that, I am sorry.” He took a short breath. “I believe I was taken as much by surprise as Dillon by what happened, and I will give what explanation I can.”

  Lang exhaled slowly. “Thank you.” He turned to Obele. “I apologize for knocking you aside.”

  Obele inclined her head in a shallow nod. The pressure in Lang’s chest eased, and he began to believe they might make something out of the mess between them. Lifting a hand, he gestured again toward the dining room.

  Vagnan and Obele went first, leaving Dillon and Lang to follow. Dillon hung back a second, and Lang turned to face him. “Are you up for this? If you’re not, we can ask them to leave.”

  Dillon shook his head. “Let’s see what they have to say, okay? I mean, this touch and feel thing has been freaking me out. Maybe they can shed some light on it.”

  Likely, they could, but long held instinct had Lang advising caution. “Be circumspect in what you tell them,” he said.

  Dillon’s eyebrows arched upward. “Why?”

  “Because…” Lang didn’t know. He had the feeling that the elders’ visit was neither coincidental nor to do with Wesley Kohen’s interview. They were here for Dillon. “They know something we do not.”

  “Then let’s ask them to share.”

  Vagnan’s voice rang through from the dining room. “If you two would join us, I will endeavor to answer your questions.”

  Squaring his shoulders, Dillon marched forward. Lang followed behind, the tickle of apprehension increasing with every step.

  “Have you experienced a heightened sensitivity toward the thoughts and feelings of others?” Vagnan asked.

  Dillon opened his mouth and then closed it again, Lang’s warning echoing through his mind. They were sitting in the dining room, at one end of the long table—Vagnan at the head, Obele on his left, Lang at his right, and Dillon next down on the right. He glanced at Lang and felt a rush of love so intense it nearly left him breathless. Lang’s chin was scabbed. Even though Dillon knew his repair cells were already at work, he wanted to reach out and soothe the hurt. He’d never forget the sight of Lang leaping across the table toward him. Then there was the warning Lang had issued to Vagnan. Or had that been a threat? And the bit about them being bondmates. Was that truly how Lang felt?

  Dillon reached over and took Lang’s hand in his. The love he felt bounced back at him, but the sense of peace and rightness he usually drew from Lang was shattered. Lang was foundering in a sea of emotions, many of which Dillon couldn’t interpret.

  Also, the touch thing was scary now.

  Offering a tremulous smile, Dillon squeezed Lang’s fingers and let go to answer Vagnan’s question. “Sort of. Just impressions.”

  “What did you feel when I grasped your wrist?” Vagnan asked.

  Unable to squash his shudder, Dillon rubbed his upper arms again. “Purple.”

  “You felt a color?”

&n
bsp; “No, I saw it. I was in this tunnel, and it was too tight. I was bound, but had the feeling I was supposed to be there. I had the impression it was my duty to be there.”

  For the bajillionth time since Vagnan had entered the apartment, his face registered shock. Dillon thought an elder would have had better control over his expression, but nope, there it was. He looked kinda spooked, too.

  “Extraordinary,” Vagnan breathed.

  “What does it mean?” Dillon hugged himself a little tighter.

  “You are aware we have been monitoring your health?”

  “Yeah.” Those pain-in-the-ass monthly checkups.

  “Two months ago, Upero’s diagnostic report contained some unusual markers.”

  “Unusual how?”

  “Your brain map had taken on additional Wren characteristics.”

  Out of habit, Dillon glanced toward the ceiling. “Upero?”

  “If I may interject?” Upero answered.

  Vagnan nodded, either assuming Upero had a visual pickup, or else communicating with the AI through means Dillon didn’t want to contemplate.

  “I did note the increase in brain activity, but as Dillon did not appear to be exhibiting any unusual behavior, I marked the affected area for further study and filed the report.”

  “Way to cover your ass, Upero,” Dillon murmured.

  “I do not seek to—”

  “Thank you, Upero,” Vagnan said. “We will speak to you again if we require more information.”

  Dillon turned back to Vagnan. “So, in English, what does it all mean? What did you do to me?”

  Vagnan’s expression tightened. “I can confirm through our recent contact that you are Sensitive.” The way he said sensitive, the capital letter was definitely implied. “Your talent is extremely raw, however. You will require assessment and training.”

  “Um, okay.” Dillon looked to Lang for a clue and noted he’d gone all pale again. “Lang? Should you maybe go get scanned? You’re not looking too good.”

  Lang’s throat moved. He didn’t say anything, but his expression was scary: a mixture of desperation and loss.

  Dillon returned his attention to Vagnan. “I’m missing something here, aren’t I?”

  Vagnan pressed his lips together.

  Lang spoke, his voice a quiet scrape. “You’re going to take him away, aren’t you?”

  “You must have known this was a possibility,” Vagnan said.

  “Take who?” Dillon patted the air over the table. “Hold up. Are we talking about me? Where are we taking me?”

  “If you are exhibiting Wren talents, it is our duty to transport you—”

  Dillon was pretty sure Vagnan kept speaking, but all he heard on repeat was duty, duty, duty. The sense he was back in that haze of crushing purple crept up on him, pushing air from his lungs. The room began to spin. Dillon gripped the table. Then Lang had his three fingers spread over Dillon’s, and the sense of him, of Lang, began to push through the panic, along with the loss reflected all over Lang’s face—which didn’t help with the whole breathing, crushing, waves of purple thing going on inside Dillon’s head.

  “Do you have to?” Lang asked, his voice oddly thin and strained.

  “It is for the good of all concerned.”

  “For how long?”

  “That has yet to be determined.”

  “But he has responsibilities here. The school. His partner and students.”

  “We regret the inconvenience.”

  Dillon popped his head up. “Wait. Hold up. Where am I going?”

  “To a Wren outpost. We have no local facilities.”

  By local, did he mean New York, or Earth? They weren’t talking about space, were they? Not… Jord? Dillon wasn’t entirely sure where the clan home planet was. He’d asked and Lang had shown him a star map, but there were so many stars. So many.

  Nope. No. He couldn’t go to Jord. He couldn’t leave Earth. Heck, he couldn’t leave New York. What would he tell his mom? “Can’t Upero do whatever it is you need doing?” Dillon shook his head. “I don’t understand why you have to take me somewhere.”

  “I have just finished explaining why.”

  Dillon waved one hand. “Sorry, I was having a panic attack. Can you say it again?”

  Vagnan let out what sounded suspiciously like a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. Untested and untrained, you are a danger to yourself and others. Therefore, as protocol dictates, we must transport you to a secure facility for further analysis and testing.”

  “You’re taking me away?”

  Vagnan’s expression clearly stated: Have I not said so? Multiple times?

  They were taking him away.

  No, no, no. He had shit to do, and he didn’t like flying. Having his own ship would have been cool for the simple reason of being able to say he had his own spaceship—but actually leaving the solar system in it? Would he have to travel in one of those stasis pods? Oh, God, were they going to stick needles in his spine?

  “Dillon!”

  Dillon blinked to find Lang directly in front of him, hands cupping his cheeks.

  “That’s it,” Lang said. “Breathe.”

  Dillon put one of his hands over Lang’s and pushed into the vague connection, wanting, no, needing to feel the depth of their love for each other. Lang’s calm hung in tatters, but his purpose remained intact. Drawing on that, Dillon wrapped it around himself and worked on forcing the panic down. He breathed. Closed his eyes and breathed and matched his pulse to Lang’s.

  Before Dillon could burrow any deeper, Vagnan said, “If you are ready, we should go.”

  Dillon turned to face the elder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Have I not explained—”

  “No, not really. All you’ve done is tell me shit’s going on in my head and that you have to take me away. How am I a danger? I can feel what others feel, sometimes, and sometimes, I can even make them feel better. Ask Lang. He knows me. I’m not as good as he is. I don’t have any extra-special purpose. But I’m good. I’d never hurt anyone.”

  Lang didn’t speak to back him up, but Dillon could feel his agreement. He ignored the deeper strand of sadness and the even deeper sense of inevitability.

  “The matter is not open for debate. You must come with us.” Vagnan held up a hand to forestall the objections piling up behind Dillon’s lips and continued, “I believe you do not think you would hurt anyone, but your talent is new and untried. We can teach you to use it in ways that might never occur to you. How to control it so that you can choose how you interact with others.”

  “You mean, not feel them when I touch them.” That would be good to know, actually.

  “Yes. And how to shield yourself from others.”

  “Like… you?”

  Vagnan answered with a flat expression.

  Dillon tilted his head. “Do the Nay or Skov have talents like this?”

  “They do not.”

  “Then I’d only need to learn to shield myself from other Wren. That’s… kind of fucked up, if you think about it.”

  Again, Vagnan remained silent.

  “Listen, this all sounds great, but what about if I don’t use it? My, um, talent. I kind of have to think about it, anyway. It’s not as if I can just touch a random stranger and get their pin number.” Not that he’d ever try. “I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

  But, as he aired his plea, Dillon knew it would be a difficult promise to keep. He enjoyed touching people, and the more he got used to it, the more he got out of it. Yeah, a lot of the impressions he got were jumbled and nonsensical, but the idea he could send something back—like making Keenan feel better, and knowing Lang could feel his love—was how he’d started to make sense of, well, everything. Of being different. Dillon had come to believe teaching was his thing, but coupled with this extra sense, he’d finally begun to feel… purple. Or, in human terms, purposeful.

  Could he give it up?

  Vagnan was doing the silent thing aga
in, but being an elder, he’d definitely want the last word. “It does not work that way.”

  “Can you take it away?” Dillon asked. “The talent?”

  Eyebrows crooking together, Vagnan shook his head. “Not in the sense I think you mean.”

  “Then teach me here.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Dillon.” Lang’s voice was quiet and soft. Barely there.

  Dillon looked at him. “I don’t want to go.”

  Lang’s throat moved as he swallowed.

  He turned back to the head of the table. “Okay, how about this? Let’s table this for now. I’ll try not to touch anyone and—”

  “I will give you a week to plan for your absence. Seven days.” Vagnan made a gesture, and Obele plucked something from her robes and handed it across the table. It was a smartwatch similar to Lang’s. “You will wear this so that we can monitor your vital signs.”

  “And know where I am? Yeah, no.”

  “We always know where you are, Dillon.”

  Grinding his teeth, Dillon stared at the watch. “I can’t go away. I have responsibilities. And a mother.” Christ on a cracker, what would he tell his mom?

  “The new module we brought for Upero should be of assistance in providing a proper cover story.”

  Lang spoke up. “What do you mean?”

  “That is for you to decide.”

  Lang’s expression fluttered toward confusion.

  “You have seven days, Dillon Rothkel Jord’Wren. Take them for what they are—a gift.” Vagnan rose, Obele at his side. “We will see you next week.”

  The elders left, and Dillon turned to look at the watch on the table. Then at Lang. Then back at the watch, because looking at Lang was too painful, even when they weren’t touching.

  Chapter Eleven

  Four days passed in a desperate blur. Lang moved through the daylight hours with the feeling he was following a set of instructions. Dillon appeared to be doing the same. They slept, they ate, they allowed for biological function. The nights were long and restless. Their lovemaking felt prerecorded and played back; as though they were watching themselves connect from a distance.