Frustration rises anew, thinking of my latest failure. A girl wanted a boy—simple, right? Only she didn’t take the path I laid out for her. Despite my warnings about its pitfalls, she took a different path to get there faster. Now she’s dead and her dream with her. Remembering the small fortune she paid for that forecast renews my vow to quit this game.
I can’t share my resentment. My gang would see it as a vulnerability, an opportunity to seize control. So I must play the role I carved out for myself. Tell myself it’s just business. Remind myself that even though I don’t like it, my gift got me here.
I roll onto my side thinking about my “gift.” It’s as much a mystery to me as ever. No one knows what triggered “the event” granting certain babies supernatural powers. Some said it was near-constant exposure to the various bioweapons used in the nation’s ongoing wars. Others whispered of conspiracies, secret government programs creating resilient super-soldiers. Yet others speculated it was the ever-thinning ozone layer, combined with radio waves saturating the planet. They never discovered the true cause.
When the first baby was born with his ability to spit venom, they labeled him an anomaly and subjected him to so many tests it’s a wonder he had enough blood, tissue, and bone marrow to live past the first few days. But survive those first few days he did, and then the second baby arrived. He could freeze whatever he touched. When the next five were born within hours of the second, the addition of girls blew the initial boys-only theory out of the water.
After that, the rash of anomalies sparked panic. The faltering governments gave us a collective name: Aberrants. No one could explain why Abbies possessed their abilities. They grasped for solutions to deal with this strange new phenomenon, and cures for “helping” them were nonexistent. So authorities quarantined the kids, kept them away from society, and cut them off from their parents.
The situation was dire enough that expectant parents who decided to love their babies, no matter what, sourced underground options for birthing. I was one of those lucky babies, fortunate enough to have parents who loved her before they even knew her. Who decided they would protect me from the world before the world took me from them. Or so they thought.
I veer away from that dark place, that blot on my soul. No going back, only forward.
Chapter Seven
Before heading back to the main gathering chamber, I weigh my options. I could scout routes for Beth, or I could find out more about this kid. The kid is the more pressing matter since he’s already in my domain, so I close my eyes. Not because it’s necessary, but because it helps me more easily identify the routes the future offers: the countless trails a person could take, leading to exponentially countless outcomes. In the morass of choices I’m presented with, I follow the most prominent routes, defined by brighter colors. These are usually the most certain with the highest chances of success.
Four routes later, I realize I can’t question the kid myself. In every scenario, it raises too many questions, poses too many threats. I can’t go from being the hunter to the hunted. Never again. After a few more routes, I know Trent should do the interrogation.
Witnessing options for the interrogation brings more memories I would’ve preferred to forget. How my ordeal, so similar to the kid’s, led me to where I am today. How I became the ruthless person I claim to be. How I realized if everyone else was going to exploit my gift, I might as well get ahead of the curve.
I harnessed my ability, chose a path for myself. Escaped the clutches of those who would’ve made me their slaves and went into hiding. Easy in a world where chaos reigns. If you know the right places, the right people, and have the right ability, you can get anything. For a price. I handed out forecasts to anyone and everyone who could pay the fortune I demanded. Back then, I was too naïve to realize the consequences of my actions for most of the people so frantic for my services. Fortuitous, or I would never have survived.
Three short years have proven the folly of my decision to forecast. Irrespective of a good or bad forecast, too many seeking my services followed it up by resorting to desperate measures. They refused to exercise patience, couldn’t see the potential for joy beyond disappointment, wouldn’t accept there was more to life than a single event. That any number of choices could lead to a different outcome. All fell victim to the madness brought on by knowledge they were ill-equipped to handle.
But the decision to forecast was how I met Trent. It’s something to be grateful for.
Sighing, I slide off my bed and go find Trent, lounging in his usual spot at the edge of the main chamber. When he sees me, he straightens. “Looks like you have business in mind.”
“I do. I need you to question the kid. See what happened to him.”
Trent frowns. “Didn’t he already tell us?”
I roll my eyes. “Details, Trent, details. To reach my endgame, I have to know if the same person was responsible.”
Understanding lights Trent’s face, and he nods. About to lead me into the gathering chamber, he pauses. “How far do you want me to go?”
“Keep it this side of civil. I don’t want him running off. If he doesn’t give us anything today, he might remember something useful later. But if he’s not around, he can’t exactly share, can he?”
Trent’s face is immediately alert. “Did you see something?”
I grin. “You know me too well.”
He grins back. “Fine, this side of civil it is.”
Side by side, we march into the gathering chamber. I traipse over to the buff leather chair, elevated by a few pallets and set up as my “throne.” My crew’s idea of a place of honor. The concept was about as appealing as a bath in hot goat pee, but the decadently comfortable chair swayed me into reluctant agreement.
Sinking into the plush leather, I sigh contentedly. The chair supports me in all the right places, allowing some tension to seep from my shoulders. While my milling crew rearranges themselves so they can all see me, I notice a group of admirers surround the kid. Taking the hit was worth it then.
I lift a finger, and they hush. “The new kid’s had his initiation. Any objections to him joining us?”
As one, they shake their heads. All except Trent. He looks at me like I’ve lost my marbles and then glares at the kid. When the kid shrinks under his gaze, I hide my grin. I don’t blame him. Trent’s height and build intimidate, but when those piercing blue eyes pin you, it’s impossible not to feel like a bug under a microscope. Then there’s his age. Trent’s about ten years older than most of us. “Hold on, Cap. We should find out more about the rapscallion first.”
I raise an eyebrow, struggling to subdue laughter. Rapscallion? Where did that come from? We’ve executed this conspiracy for so long it’s a wonder no one’s figured it out yet. Whenever I need him to do something for me, we make it look like his idea. It’s served two purposes: kept me out of harm’s way and made him the first person plebs stupid enough to plan a coup approach. A fatal choice.
I glance at the empty spots along one wall where the Three Stooges used to linger. They were wily little devils, useful for ferreting out information. Funny guys. Brothers. Everyone loved them—except they were working for our enemies. When I forecast their treachery, I warned them they could conform or quit. Thinking they could outsmart my options, they decided that instead of taking their information to our competitors, they’d seize control themselves. If only they’d listened when I urged them to leave before the others found out.
While I don’t relish the killing—my crew’s version of justice—it has built me a loyal and reliable crew. And kept me from killing anyone myself, except in self-defense.
The slight downward turn of one side of Trent’s mouth is the only sign he disapproves of my momentary lack of control. I snort back laughter, rising again at Trent’s annoyance. “Well, Lieutenant, don’t keep us waiting.”
Smirking, Trent faces the kid again. “Let’s start with your name.”
The kid gulps like he swallowed his own
tongue. When he finally speaks, it’s a croak. “Tom, sir.”
Sniggers crackle across the room at the word. A stern gaze from Trent silences them. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen, s—” The kid stops, glancing at the others.
“There’s no formality here, Tom,” I snap.
The kid reels back as though slapped. Trent shoots a reproving glance my way, but I shrug. I have an image to maintain. It wouldn’t do for me to not be salty about the kid landing a blow.
Laughter breaks out in the crowd, members of the crew delighted by my attitude. I hold back a sigh. They live for the rush power gives. Their own awful experiences have taught them nothing about compassion. But it’s how they survived.
Chapter Eight
I wave an impatient hand at Trent, indicating he should continue.
“Tell us what happened to you.” Trent waits a beat. “In detail.”
Tom’s fear is more obvious. “I was home alone. My parents were at work. I heard glass breaking—maybe a window. Then there was smoke. Then nothing.”
Sounds familiar. They used gas to knock me out too.
When the kid says nothing more, Trent prods, “What happened next?”
Tom shrugs, but it does little to hide the terror now lurking in his eyes. “I woke up somewhere else. I was in a cage.” His voice trembles, but to his credit, he straightens his shoulders, allowing anger to slip into his voice. “Like a dog. Who does that?”
I can’t help myself. “Were there other people in cages?”
Like he’s forgotten I’m here, Tom starts. “Uh, no, not that I could see. There wasn’t a lot of light. Only one bulb for all that space.”
Trent interjects. “All what space?”
“It was huge and open, with concrete pillars. Like some abandoned warehouse.”
Huh, that’s different. And his place also had electricity.
Trent doesn’t give the kid a break. “How long were you there?”
This time, Tom can’t hide the shudder. Tears leaking from his eyes, he shakes his head, struggling to get the words out. “I don’t know. It wasn’t long. Maybe a few hours before . . . you know—” He trails off.
Another anomaly. I can’t show any emotion. If I do, I’m done for. My voice is ice when I complete his sentence. “You mean before he brought in your parents and shot them in front of you.”
Tom’s sobs finally escape. Eyes accusing, he wails, “You don’t know what it was like. Why kill my parents? What did he gain?” He folds in on himself, beyond caring what the others might think as he vents his grief.
Trent darts a glance my way. I shake my head. We’re not letting up. To have any hope of establishing whether it's the same person, we have to get the information before his brain blocks the trauma.
Taking a more humane approach, Trent places a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Look, I know it’s rough, but is there anything else you can tell us? About the place? The people there? Anything to help us get the person who did this to you?”
Shoulders quaking, Tom howls, “What do you want from me? I told you what happened! How many times do I have to relive it? It was dark, and I couldn’t make out much past my cage. The only thing I saw was him holding that gun and—”
He breaks off so abruptly I know he’s remembered something. My voice is razor-sharp. “What?”
“He had a tattoo on his hand. A rose.”
My blood freezes. Rose. My mother’s name. Is this a coincidence, or is it all connected?
Trent senses my freefall. As an excellent lieutenant, he steps in. “Any other ink?”
Tom shakes his head, his face screwed up in misery. “No, I only saw his hand and only for the split second before . . .”
This time, Trent and I leave the kid alone. But I can’t sit here and watch his grief. It's a pungent reminder of the agony I suffered three years before, exposing the pain I’ve kept locked away. Anguish abrades my heart, the soft tissue no match for the sandpaper scraped across it. Was Beth’s kidnapping what broke the lock? Or what happened to Tom’s parents?
Exercising extreme self-control, I plaster disgust on my face as I rise and stalk out of the chamber, leaving the kid to his grief and the others to think what they will of me. Offering no hint of empathy, I exit without a backward glance.
In the corridor, I check no one’s following before breaking into a sprint. I must get to my room before I lose it. I dash up the dozens of floors to my room, dart inside, and slam the door behind me, then crash my back against the door as I gulp air, trying to quash the emotions swamping me like a tidal wave.
Composing myself takes a long time. Once I do, I cross to my desk, press on the hidden compartment, unlock the drawer, and retrieve the solitary folder I stash there. Opening it, I focus on the information. Facts will keep me from losing it.
I sift through the papers, studying the scraps of information I’ve gathered over the years. Not much, but one thing is glaringly obvious. Everyone KN took had an ability—except Tom. If Tom had an ability, Crystal would’ve told me the moment he walked into our base.
Still, she wouldn’t be able to tell if Tom was a spy. It’s no secret the Midnight Gang is partial to victims of kidnapping.
But how would Tom know details about the specific kidnappings I’m interested in unless he’s experienced it? His tears and terror were real enough. No one’s that good an actor, are they? Unless they made him live the experience so he would be more believable.
My blood curdles. It sounds exactly like something KN would do. Now I’m back to thinking KN could’ve sent Tom. It’s not inconceivable. But why now? Why after all this time?
I still need answers. Belatedly, I realize I forgot to get Trent to ask how Tom escaped. I must follow up on that. Placing my palms on my desk and closing my eyes, I seek the routes for Tom’s future. They open before me, some glowing, others muted. I trace the brightest route, where Tom leaves our base. He’s walking away, toward . . .
A black box slams down, blocking the way forward.
I gasp, reeling back, my concentration shattered. No. Not again. Not after all this time! Taking a shaky breath, I close my eyes again. Perhaps it was a fluke.
To be safe, I take another route. Again, Tom leaves the base. When he reaches the cross street, another black box crashes down to bar my path.
More frustrated than fearful now, I surge down several other routes. Every single one shows the same scenario—nothing past the intersection with the cross street before the black box consumes the rest.
I slump onto my chair. Tom is more than he seems. I’ve only ever experienced those black boxes once before—right before KN kidnapped me. They lasted until long after the events of that fateful day. They were why I never saw the dreadful outcome. Why I couldn’t stop my life from being forever changed. Are they also why I never saw the reason for Beth’s parents coming?
I inhale sharply, the only sign of my shock. Two kids in two days. It’s possible. The noose tightens around my neck. What are the chances it’s not KN trying to pin down my location? I swallow, trying to get a grip on the terror threatening to paralyze me. It is possible it’s coincidence. Then I remember Tom—and the black boxes. This can only mean one thing: I’m no longer safe.
Chapter Nine
I wake after a restless night, lying in the dark, staring at nothing for a few moments. It’s my most prized time of day—before anyone’s had time to put ideas into my head. Before the visions come. Before I destroy lives with the forecasts I dispense. If I lie still, I can have a few minutes of blissful peace before my brain kicks into gear and the images scroll. Soon, I’ll be free of this burden. Able to live the life I’ve always wanted.
When my mind fills with routes, I begin my search. First, with Tom’s future. Again, the black boxes appear. No matter what I try, I can’t get past the first intersection.
Chills chase up and down my spine, their icy breath tensing my muscles. Is this really the same as when KN took me?
KN for k
idnapper. I gave him that name because the two letters next to each other and what they represented was the only suitable representation for his shadowy specter.
The little rabbit trail hasn’t quelled my disquiet about the black boxes. Last time, they prevented me from forecasting. Are they doing the same this time, confirming KN is back? Or are they the result of Tom clipping me on my old injury?
I laugh mirthlessly. Unlikely, I know, but the thought of my old wound sends my mind into a downward spiral. The coppery taint of blood singeing my nose, filling my mouth because the pain made me bite my tongue. The probes they shoved into my brain, drilling agony into my skull with each new vision. The sight of my forecasts on a screen for everyone to see. I shudder, recalling the abominable Abbie KN used to force me to see the future, to forecast what my parents were planning when they came for me. That Abbie had the ability to bend me to his will—and cause extreme pain through the probes when I resisted.
A cold sweat breaks out, pimpling my skin with gooseflesh. I grab my water flask and guzzle mouthfuls, too frazzled to care how much I drink. When I slam the flask down seconds later, my mouth still feels dry.
Get a grip! It’s over. You’re not the same person you were back then. You have the skills to defend yourself now. And if that’s not enough, you have a gang full of Abbies to protect you.
The chills pass, but the fear remains, too ingrained to pass in mere minutes. To drown it out, I track the route so faint it’s barely there. The path I’ve traveled so many times in my dreams. The place of escape when life becomes overwhelming.
I race toward what it promises—the cabin in the woods, far from people and high in the mountains. My sanctuary. There, I don’t have to see the future. There, I don’t have to give forecasts or lead anyone. There, I can be myself. I allow my mind to drift, soaking in the cabin’s serenity. Peace returns.
Dragging myself from where I long to be, I make plans. I’ll send Tom out on an errand and get Trent to follow him. Tom’s first trip beyond our compound since he joined us will be the perfect opportunity for him to meet anyone he’s working for—and for me to catch him at it and discover his true agenda. With any luck, he might lead us to Beth. Perhaps it might even be the hole KN’s been hiding in for all this time.
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