“Fine, let's go,” I grumble unwillingly, and shuffle along beside him. He's watching me closely as we ride in the lift – probably worried I'm going to shift again. Or maybe I should give him a little more credit. He's watching me from the corner of his eye as he leans against the back of the lift, his expression innocent of any duplicitous intentions - he really does just seem concerned about me. And I know I've given him a really hard time over the last couple of days. Any normal person would want shot of me and my erratic moods, but his face is still calm and patient. I'm not normally like this, a jumbled mess of anxiety and paranoia, but Scott has no way of knowing that. He's been more than fair with me, and he deserves better than I've been behaving.
With another sigh (and a mental note that I've been sighing much more than I used to over the last couple of days) I push myself off the side of the lift but can't quite meet his eye.
“Sorry,” I offer meekly. “I'm being an idiot.”
“Listen to me, Anna,” he says, lifting my chin lightly with one finger so I meet his eyes. “You have nothing to apologise for. I know how much of a big deal this is for you, and I'm glad you trust me enough to tell me when you're worried. But I promise, I'm not going to let anything happen to you.”
I stare into his sincere blue eyes for a long second and feel him searching mine in return. I can feel the heat of his body, so close he’s almost pressed against me, and make out the barest hint of the muscles beneath his shirt. I can taste the heady mix of his earthy scent and his cologne in the few inches between us. We both become aware of the electricity of his touch at the same moment and break apart awkwardly. He clears his throat.
“Sorry, that was completely inappropriate.”
“No, I–” The lift jolts to a stop and the door slides back, cutting me off before I can formulate an end to the sentence. I'm glad for the excuse to look away from his eyes, not wanting to admit that my heart is racing, and for the first time in a long time, it’s not from fear. I step out of the lift past the two suits waiting to enter, hoping they don't notice the flush of my cheeks, and I hear Scott step out behind me. He walks beside me along the corridor, but he's keeping a careful distance now. Great. Now I have to get through a psych assessment with my hormones all over the place, and while I'm worrying about if things are going to be awkward between us. As if it wasn't going to be hard enough to start with.
“This is it,” Scott eventually says, breaking the silence. We’ve stopped outside a plain wooden door with a simple brass plaque screwed into it, bearing the name Doctor Harwood. I want to say something to Scott about what happened in the lift to dispel the weirdness, but I’m not quite sure what. He raises his hand and taps lightly on the door before I have time to organise my thoughts.
“Come in,” a voice invites from inside.
“I’ll be back by the time you’re done,” Scott promises, and then heads off down the hall. I watch his retreating back for a moment, then sigh and try to put him out of my mind. Timidly, I reach for the brass handle and ease the door open. The office is small but clearly functional. Several bookcases line the walls, perched atop a thick burgundy carpet. There are two armchairs angled towards each other beside one wall, the leather creased with use, but not worn. They look comfortable and inviting, as does the brown fabric sofa pressed up against another wall. In common with the rest of the rooms I’ve seen inside AbGen, there are no windows, but the room is well lit and the atmosphere subtly relaxing. A small desk is set in one corner, organised and spartan, with just a laptop, a few sheaves of paper and a pen atop it. My eyes finally rest on the lady sitting behind it, wearing a simple dark skirt suit and elegant blouse. She’s mid-thirties, with shoulder length dark hair, a pretty face, and an open expression. In short, she’s not what I expected, although I suppose I should have got past making assumptions about anything to do with AbGen by now – nothing here is what it seems. If ever there was a lesson about not judging a book by its cover…
“You must be Miss Mason,” she says, stepping out from behind the desk and offering me her hand.
“Call me Anna.” I accept her outstretched hand and offer her a smile. Her handshake is warm and firm, without the competitive edge I’ve found in some women attempting to prove themselves in a masculine environment. Doctor Harwood is clearly a woman confident in her status, without feeling the need to compete or intimidate.
“In that case, call me Sandra,” she answers my smile, and then gestures to the two armchairs. “Please, take a seat.”
I sink into one of the chairs – they’re every bit as comfortable as they look – and sit awkwardly, watching her as she collects a notepad and pen from her desk drawer and relaxes into the chair opposite me.
I realise by contrast I’m sitting ramrod-straight and force myself to settle back into the soft leather. I cross my legs, and entwine my fingers, twisting them in my lap, then catch myself in the act and stop, leaving one hand resting inside the other. With an uncomfortable cough I uncross my legs, then press my knees together and hook one ankle over the other. I look up to see Sandra watching me with an amused smile on her face.
“Try not to worry,” she advises me, opening her notepad. “Think of this as an informal chat.”
That’s easy for her to say; she’s not the one being analysed. Even so, I try to force an unconcerned expression as I wait for her to begin the interrogation.
Chapter Nine
“Okay, Anna,” the white-coated man in front of me says with a nod, looking up from his clipboard. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Three pairs of eyes are watching me expectantly, and my gaze switches uneasily between them before looking round the room to distract myself from the growing knot in my gut. We’re in one of the side rooms that branches off from the main lab, and beyond the door I can hear the muted buzz of AbGen’s scientists at work, competing with the hum of machinery. There’s another lab technician monitoring the computer, and a doctor whose job is apparently to monitor me – or my vital signs, at least. One of the scientists clears his throat, and I cast a glance over my shoulder to where Scott is towering protectively over my chair, reassuring myself of his presence. He smiles his encouragement and gives my shoulder a brief squeeze.
“Just relax, Anna: you can do this.” He sounds a lot more confident than I feel, and as my eyes pivot back to the two scientists and the doctor in front of me, I can see they’re as dubious as I am. The lab technician taps briefly at the computer keyboard, and I see a flashing green dot appear on the screen, which represents me. Aside from relaying my location, the tracking device around my wrist is also measuring my heart rate and body temperature. The idea is that the doc and the lab techs will be able to monitor my physiological changes in real time, which they assure me is absolutely essential for some reason I don’t quite follow. More importantly, to me at least, is that the tracking device will help them to find me while I’m lying unconscious in whichever wet field or back alley my erratic talent decides to dump me in – preferably before I get mugged, raped or murdered, or all of the above.
The trouble is, I’ve never shifted intentionally before and the whole environment is way too clinical, and the all expectant pairs of eyes aren’t exactly helping. I’m having a hard time focussing on anything beside the feeling that I’m right back in high school, standing centre stage and forgetting my lines. A voice in my head helpfully points out the irony that the one time I actually want to disappear, my body doesn’t seem inclined to comply.
Shut up, I tell the voice, and tune out everything other than my breathing. I force it to come faster, taking shallower gasps of air and imitating my body’s physical response to fear. I try to summon the feeling of dread that’s overwhelmed me right before I’ve shifted accidentally over the last few days. My stomach twists half-heartedly in response, and the rest of my body is unconvinced. With a sigh, I give up and offer the perplexed-looking white coats a meek shrug.
I sense the movement behind me before I hear the rustle of clothing, a
nd suddenly an arm is wrapped around my throat, pulling me tightly against the chair. I try to ask Scott what he’s doing – this has got to be some sort of stupid joke, right? – but his arm is pressing on my windpipe and I can’t get enough air. My mind struggles frantically to catch up as he leans down beside my ear, never lessening the pressure on my neck.
“I knew we were wasting our time,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my cheek.
“Do it,” he orders the waiting scientists, who look startled but not worried by this turn of events, and that’s when I realise. They’re not the good guys. Not even close. I was such an idiot for trusting them. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
The chair in front of the monitor starts to turn around, rotating towards me in slow motion. My lungs are starting to burn, sending waves of panic through me and breaking me from my frozen immobility. I struggle frantically against my captor’s arms but he’s too strong. There’s no give in his grip or the chair, and the white coats are advancing on me. I thrash with everything I’ve got, twisting and squirming and grabbing at his arms like a drowning woman, but I’m no match for his strength and we both know it. But I can’t give in, I’ve got to keep fighting, I’ve got to get out of here, I–
*
When I come round, the first thing I am aware of is that I’m lying on my side on a distinctly uncomfortable – and cold – surface, and the second is that the pounding in my head is back, albeit not as bad as last time. I’m pretty sure that’s going to change the moment I open my eyes.
“Anna, can you hear me?”
I groan and face the inevitable, forcing my lids apart, then freeze as the events in the lab come rushing back. My eyes flick to Scott’s face from my prone position, and my hand flies to my throat. I scramble backwards and feel my back press up against something solid. My hands gropes behind me – a wall – but my eyes never leave his face, waiting for him to continue his attack.
He doesn’t. Instead, he’s still crouching beside the spot in which I’d awoken, watching me calmly. My heart rate slows and I feel a red flush spread across my cheeks as I realise my own stupidity.
“You tricked me,” I accuse, my eyes narrowing.
“Sorry,” he apologises as he rises to his feet, but his tone isn’t particularly repentant, nor does the smile tugging at the corner of his lips make it sound any more sincere.
“I’m glad you think it’s funny,” I snap, although my anger is somewhat undermined by the way my voice is shaking.
Scott’s face is abruptly remorseful as he studies mine.
“I really am sorry,” he says, offering me his hand. “I wish there was another way, I hate making you more afraid than you already are.”
Yeah, me too. I’m not sure I like his way of ‘helping’. But I guess his intentions were good, even if his method sucked. And it’s not like there are any other shady government organisations offering to help me out. After a moment I reach out and take his hand, letting him help me to my feet.
We're standing behind a block of flats, and I can tell we're not in a nice part of town because most of the windows are boarded up and the aging walls are lined with equally aging graffiti. The concrete beneath my feet is cracked and uneven, and stained with something that's giving off distinctly unpleasant odour.
“Yeah, she's awake.” I look up from the stains to see Scott talking into his phone. “We're heading back in.”
He puts the phone away as I wonder aloud: “How long was I out for?”
“Thirty-eight minutes.”
“You've been standing over my unconscious body for half an hour and no one called the cops?”
“Actually, I've only been here for ten minutes,” he admits. “It took a little while to find you.”
I suppose that's reasonable, although it doesn't make me feel any better about lying unconscious – unprotected – in an area where people clearly don't care what's happening to a passing stranger.
“What if I never manage to stop passing out?” I groan. He opens his mouth, no doubt to reassure me, and I frown as his word choice finally hits me.
“What do you mean, 'to find me'?” I ask. Not reach me, find me.
He shuffles his feet and looks uncomfortable, taking a moment to meet my eye.
“When you shifted, all of the machinery on our floor shut down. It took a while to get it back online. The tech guys think you gave off some sort of electro-magnetic pulse.”
“Oh,” is all I can think of to say. How odd. Although I suppose it explains why my disappearing act in front of several CCTV cameras in the shopping centre didn't make national news.
“You're very calm about this,” he observes. He's eyeing me suspiciously and it occurs to me that I should probably be freaking out. I guess my mind is numb from all the shocks of the last few days, or I'm just beyond being surprised about anything now. Or maybe it's going to catch up with me when I think about the implications – like how my talent isn’t just defensive anymore: now it’s a weapon.
“Let's get you back to the car,” he suggests, presumably having seen the blood drain from my face. I nod mutely and let him steer me back to the waiting vehicle.
It turns out I didn't travel very far, and we're back at AbGen less than ten minutes later.
“Why don't you head down to the canteen and get something to eat after you’ve seen Dr Harwood?” Scott suggests as we pass through security. I guess I must still be a little pale. “I've got to run this to the med lab and then I'll join you.”
I stare suspiciously at the small vial he has produced, filled with red liquid, and then look down at my arm, spotting the tiny red scab there for the first time.
“When did you take that?” It probably shouldn’t bother me as much as it does – I mean, at least I didn't have to watch him taking it.
“While you were out. The doc wants samples from after you shift so he can compare it to your normal bloodwork. He thinks it might help work out how you can control it better.”
I sigh, resigned. It's really the least of my worries right now. And if I'm being honest, it's a small price to pay if it helps me get a handle on this crazy talent. I step out of the lift and trudge along the hallway with poor grace, trying not to think about what awaits me on the other side of Sandra’s door. My first session was gruelling enough to make me feel anxious about my return visit, but apparently I’m going to have to accept the sessions as part of my regular schedule for as long as I’m at AbGen. It’s as if they think that being part of an underground government organisation and being sent on secret missions might make me unstable. Wonder what gave them that idea?
I wait to be invited into the innocuous office, and perch on one of the too-comfortable armchairs.
“Good afternoon, Anna. How are you feeling?” she asks from behind her desk.
“Like I’ve been hit by a steamroller,” I grumble in reply. “Do we really have to do this now?”
“It’s vital I assess your state of mind as soon as possible after you use your talent if I’m to help you get control of it.”
I drop my chin into my hands and she adds more sympathetically: “I’ll keep it as short as possible. Can I get you a drink?”
“Coffee would be good.”
“I… don’t think that would be beneficial,” she replies, rising from her seat. She lifts a tea pot from a tray on a corner table I hadn’t noticed before, and pours some of the steaming liquid into a mug. She splashes in a generous amount of milk and two sugars. It doesn’t surprise me that she knows how I take my tea – Sandra is nothing if not thorough.
She hands me the mug and I blow softly on it, my breath displacing the steam from the surface. I take a sip and suddenly realise just how thirsty I am. I take another sip and enjoy the warming sensation as it hits my system. When I look up again, Sandra has settled into a chair opposite me with her notepad open and pen poised. I guess that means it's time to get down to business.
“So, this was your first attempt at shifting at will. I understand you had some...
difficulties.”
“I tried to get scared, like you said, but nothing happened.”
“And why do you think that might be?”
I resist the urge to shrug, and give her question the consideration it deserves.
“My body wasn't buying it. I wasn't really afraid, not until Scott grabbed me...”
“Yes, you were able to shift quite quickly after that, weren't you?”
I nod and drain the rest of the cooling liquid from the mug. I'm already feeling better and starting to think more clearly.
“It strikes me that there are two possible reasons that you're not able to use your ability at will. The first is that you're incorrect about fear being the trigger.” I'm already shaking my head; if there's one thing I can be certain of it's that I've been terrified every time right before I shifted, but she ignores me and continues; “And the second is that in a lab scenario you're more afraid of the consequences of using your ability than you are of the stimulus. Let's talk about how you felt right after you shifted.”
Despite all of Sandra’s promises about keeping it short, it's over an hour later when she finally lets me leave. I head straight to the canteen, and after a quick glance around, realise that I have beaten Scott here. Odd. I wonder what's kept him. Panic flutters in my stomach. Has something shown up in my blood that's got them worried? I push the thought aside and make an effort to silence my overactive imagination.
“Two coffees please, Eric,” I say as I reach the service hatch. I’m sure Scott won’t be far behind me. I run my eye over the chalkboard menu while we wait for the machine and try to decide whether any of it is likely to be edible, and also whether my stomach is likely to be able to hold any of it down. The chicken soup looks like it’s probably a safe option, so I ask Eric for a bowl and he promises to bring it over.
Awakening (TalentBorn Book 1) Page 8