by Syrie James
Dr. Grant shook his head. “I already told Ms. Donnelly—”
“… that the basketball team needs the money. I know. But Sony Studios has amazing costumes from the movies.” As she spoke, fueled by a ball of energy and emotion, Claire thought at him, Give us the money. Give us the money.
Dr. Grant’s eyes seemed to glaze over a bit. “So I heard. But—”
“I’m so excited to be in the play this year,” she continued, repeating the suggestion to him with her mind. “It’s going to be a great show, but with those costumes, it’ll be unforgettable.”
It was almost as though Claire could feel something clicking into place in his mind, a sensation she hadn’t experienced before. This time, it wasn’t just flailing fishing lines, but fingers reaching from her mind. And they dug in like grappling hooks. In that brief second, she felt in control of Dr. Grant’s consciousness, almost as if it were an extension of her own.
“I can probably find the money somewhere,” he said, nodding. “Yes. I’ll do that. I’ll make sure that you have it.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much!” She wanted to hug him, but restrained herself, flashing a huge grin as she backed out of the room. “Ms. Donnelly and the whole cast will be so grateful!”
Woo-hoo! Claire thought as she raced down the stairs back to the theater building. She was getting good at this! A flicker of guilt rose in her chest as she thought about what Helena and Alec would say if they knew, but she pushed it away. She’d helped with an important cause. She felt proud and excited. The extra practice seemed to have unlocked something new inside her. If she could trust in that signal between her and the person she was persuading, there wouldn’t be the agonizing suspense wondering if it was working. She’d just know they were listening. That she was the one pulling the strings. Everything would go her way.
And no one would be the wiser.
When she popped back into the theater, out of breath, Alec was seated on a bench with a couple of cardboard food containers, finishing off a calzone.
“Where were you?” Alec asked, as she sat down beside him.
“I had to drop something off in our locker,” she lied smoothly.
Alec glanced at her, as if sensing that something was off. But all he said was, “Why didn’t you wait ’til after rehearsal? You’ve only got two minutes to eat now.”
“I’ll eat fast. Thanks for this.” She ripped open the container and scarfed down the Penne Arrabiata he’d brought her, glad that chewing prevented further conversation.
They were rehearsing a scene from the end of Act One, where Guinevere realizes that she has feelings for Lancelot. Lancelot confesses that he’s in love with her, too, just before Arthur walks in and asks Lancelot to join the Knights of the Round Table.
As they blocked the scene, focusing on who moved where and when, Erica sat on the sidelines watching, and everyone made notes in their scripts.
When they ran the scene again from the beginning, Claire felt the mood change. As she and Neil said their lines, now giving their performance the required emotion, it was almost as if the wall that had existed between them temporarily vanished. They were Guinevere and Lancelot, finally being honest with one another. She wished it could be like this in real life, so the horrible tension she felt around Neil would go away.
Neil seemed to feel it, too, because as their eyes met, she saw a vulnerability in his that had been missing for a long time. It was like he was remembering what they’d once shared and missed it as much as she did.
Glancing offstage, Claire noticed Alec watching them intently. His whole posture radiated discomfort.
Another stab of guilt echoed through Claire’s veins. The last thing she wanted to do was to make Alec angry. She wasn’t in love with Neil. But she did miss his friendship.
But fixing these messed-up relationships required honest conversations that would be awkward at best. With Neil, it would mean telling him everything. All the paranormal crap that existed in the world around them, and had been happening to her specifically. She doubted he was ready to hear all that, let alone believe it.
As for Alec, today was the first time she’d ever deliberately lied to his face. She felt guilty about it. But then again, was she obligated to tell Alec everything? If he ever decided to come clean about his alleged late-night heroics, then she’d be honest with him.
Assuming they were still a couple when he got around to it.
God, Claire hated thinking like that. But she hated all of this pressure even more.
When rehearsal was over, Claire returned to her backpack in the lobby and checked her email on her phone. She was surprised to find an Evite to Erica’s seventeenth birthday party. It was a week after Valentine’s Day, and everyone was required to wear some form of necktie. Claire scanned the invite list and saw that it included the entire cast of Camelot, as well as all of Erica’s new friends from the popular crowd.
Claire sighed. Erica used to be her best friend. There had been a time when Claire had known everything that was going on with her. It felt weird (and a little sad) to find out about an event this big via email. And sadder still to think that Erica didn’t necessarily love the company of some of the people she’d invited but probably did it to keep up appearances.
Alec appeared beside her, his scowl from earlier now thankfully gone. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing really.” She showed him the invitation. “I guess Erica doesn’t hate us after all?”
twenty-four
The next day, as Alec worked with Claire on some new joint-lock and throwing techniques, he could tell she was distracted. He understood why. She was juggling a lot, from the residual stress of the Malcolm kidnapping, to the play, to the search for her father.
Alec was equally distracted. The only reason he even had a tonfa to spar with was because he’d kept a few weapons in his car. He hadn’t told Claire about the break-in, or his weapons cabinet being demolished and emptied. He wondered if Javed and Rico had done the deed. Or some new player he hadn’t met yet. Either way, Alec suspected it had been done in retribution for the blood he’d stolen. Blood that had apparently belonged to Shane Malcolm.
It meant they knew where he lived, so he was constantly in danger—and putting anyone around him in jeopardy as well. But he wanted to figure out what was actually going on, resolve the issue, and keep Claire safe, before having a drawn-out conversation about it.
By the end of the training session, they were both sticky with sweat and barely had anything to say to each other. Alec left Claire’s apartment building determined to return to that downtown warehouse again and find out the truth behind this whole mess.
Over the past two weeks, he’d staked out the warehouse five times. On two of those nights, a new car and driver had shown up, dropped off bags of blood from a hospital or clinic, and left with a small vial—presumably as payment. Every time, the guy with the shotgun had watched over the transaction, pulling the metal roll door shut when it was completed. The lights inside the warehouse had stayed on for several hours, until its two occupants left.
If the Fallen were indeed stealing this blood to feed Malcolm, then why bring it here?
During the day, the warehouse appeared to be empty. Which meant daylight was the best time for Alec to investigate.
At dawn on Sunday morning, Alec arrived to find the parking lot empty. He leapt over the same fence he’d jumped before, armed with his tonfa. Dashing to the garage door, Alec placed his hand on the padlock, telekinetically turning the internal mechanism until it clicked open.
Pushing the heavy door up just enough to scoot himself under, Alec lowered it and slid the bolt, locking it from the inside. The room was dimly lit by light streaming in from the filthy windows high above. No security cameras were visible.
Alec took a quick look around. There was a makeshift kitchen, its cabinets stocked with dishware and glas
ses, plus a variety of snacks and beverages, alcoholic and otherwise.
A pair of large fridges hummed along the wall. One contained the remnants of takeout food. The other—no surprise—was stuffed with bags of medical-grade blood. Two large drums in one corner were marked hazardous / flammable.
Alec darted to the far end of the space, where several long tables were set up like a medical assembly line. He spotted boxes of empty vials, a jar of white crystals labeled anticoagulant, and an I.V. infusion pole holding an empty bag, the residue of blood visible inside it, a long plastic tube dangling down.
Nearby, a table held crates stuffed with vials full of red liquid, similar to the one Alec had confiscated.
It looked like they were mixing blood with something else, to create—what? And if those vials contained blood, he wondered, why weren’t they being refrigerated?
His attention darted to a memo lying atop one of the workstations that read:
TURBO: 1mL CPDA-1 + 1mL Mal + 8mL Civ
What did it mean? A formula for something called Turbo?
The stolen civilian blood could account for the “Civ.” Alec wasn’t sure what “CPDA-1” was. Maybe the anticoagulant? And what was Mal, the third ingredient?
The sound of a car pulling up outside and car doors slamming made Alec’s ears perk up in alarm. Damn.
He had to get out of here.
Spotting a side door, Alec ran for it. He heard a loud curse and the rattling of the garage door, as if someone were trying to yank it open.
Before he could make it to the side door, however, it was flung open. A broad-shouldered man burst inside. In the dim light, Alec couldn’t make out the guy’s face. Alec raised his tonfa, but it was knocked from his hand. The attacker spun Alec around, clamped down on his arms, and pressed something sharp against his throat.
Alec tried to arch his neck away from the bony spikes that had erupted from his captor’s knuckles—a vivid clue to the man’s identity. “Easy, Rico.”
Rico tightened his iron grip in response. “Can’t seem to mind your own business, can you, Watcher?”
Damn, Alec thought again. How was this guy so strong? Alec had bested Rico in a fight before, so why couldn’t he release himself from the asshole’s grip?
Alec felt a blast of heat, and noticed that the bottom of the roll door was glowing. The interior lock suddenly snapped, and someone on the outside yanked the door upward.
Javed silently strode in, muscles rippling beneath his black T-shirt as he flipped on the overhead fluorescent lights before dropping the roll door closed. “Didn’t get the message when we ransacked your place, huh?” He smirked. “Nice arsenal you’d stockpiled there. We appreciate the donation.”
Screw you guys, Alec wanted to say aloud, but didn’t dare with a blade pressed to his throat.
Stopping at the table nearby, Javed grabbed a vial of red liquid from a crate, unstoppered it, took a hit, and handed the vial to Rico, who—while still holding tight to Alec—took a swig of his own.
Javed’s eyes, Alec noticed, suddenly grew glassy and bloodshot, just like Lance’s had that night in the parking lot.
“That stuff … taste good?” Alec choked out.
“It gets the job done.” Javed cracked his knuckles.
Heels clicked across the concrete floor from the direction of the side door as a female voice intoned with a sigh, “Malcolm figured we might find you here.”
Alec grimaced. He should have known that these assholes never went anywhere without Celeste.
She sauntered over, wearing a corseted outfit that left her shoulders bare. “I hoped he would be wrong. But it seems you never disappoint, Alec.”
Alec strained to stay calm as his eyes darted around, searching for a way out. “What the hell … are you making here?” he managed to croak.
Celeste laughed. “You have to ask? This is Malcolm’s operation, after all. I thought you would have figured it out by now.”
Alec fought to piece it all together. All at once, the answer became clear. He’d heard that Malcolm possessed great strength and near invulnerability. That must be what “Mal” stood for—the third ingredient was Malcolm’s blood. They were making a power-enhancing drug for his lieutenants. “You’re bottling … Malcolm’s gifts.”
“A little slow on the uptake, aren’t you?” Celeste chuckled again. “Malcolm’s been experimenting with this for years. It seems his abilities can be shared temporarily, in tiny doses, but only if mixed with a similar substance.”
“So … you steal … human blood. Blood donated to … help people.”
Celeste shrugged. “Blood can be replaced. But you can’t. You do know that it’s in your best interest to say and do nothing about this, right?”
“Otherwise … ?” Alec managed, the knife digging in sharp.
“Otherwise, you’ll just start a war with Malcolm. And you don’t want that. Malcolm’s been known to take out his anger very definitively on the loved ones of those who’ve dared to cross him.”
Alec’s heart pounded. He didn’t want to do anything that would endanger Claire. But how could he do nothing? Assuming he even got away from here alive?
“You seem conflicted,” Celeste commented. “Let’s drink to a compromise.” She crossed to one of the kitchen cabinets, from which she pulled a bottle of high-proof whiskey and some glasses. Setting them on a wooden table, she opened the whiskey bottle and poured out four shots. “Here’s the agreement: you promise to forget about what you saw here, and we won’t kill you.”
“No way can we trust this prick, no matter what he says,” Rico snarled, his breath hot and fetid in Alec’s ear.
“I say we just get rid of him,” Javed agreed, flexing his fingers.
Alec’s blood froze. How was he going to get out of this?
As he struggled to formulate a plan, he noticed arcs of electricity starting to crackle between Javed’s clenched hands.
That’s it! That was his way out.
Drawing on his inner strength, Alec reached out with his mind, telekinetically grabbed Javed’s wrists, and yanked them wide apart. Bolts of electricity sprang from Javed’s fingers like lightning and arced wildly in all directions, bouncing back and forth off the walls.
Javed recoiled, struggling futilely to control his hands, while Alec kept his mind trained on the source, continuing the electrical onslaught. Glowing spheres of energy pinged around the room like balls in a pinball machine.
The room quickly grew as hot as an oven. Vials of Turbo suddenly started bursting into smithereens.
Overhead, the fluorescent lights exploded, raining down a shower of glass. As shards painfully embedded themselves in Alec’s skin, all three Fallen cried out.
Alec hadn’t expected such an extreme result, but it had the effect he’d hoped for: Rico’s grip on Alec loosened.
Alec took advantage and pried himself away, just as a bolt of unleashed electricity hit and exploded the whiskey bottle in Celeste’s hand. Celeste screamed as flames erupted from the raw alcohol and spread like wildfire across the table and along the floor.
The room began to fill with flames and smoke. Alec grabbed his tonfa and sprinted for the side door. Pounding footsteps followed. Rico was after him, and the breakneck speed of his charge might overtake Alec before he made his escape. Alec dropped and ducked under the charging Fallen, who skidded and smashed into the door itself, breaking it clean off its hinges and toppling to the ground outside.
Alec jumped over Rico and out of the building without looking back, running as fast as he could for the fence, then over it. He dove into his Mustang and fired up the engine. As he peeled out of the parking lot, Alec glanced in the rearview mirror.
Smoke was pouring out of the open door to the warehouse, and the lick of flames was visible through the windows. Alec suddenly remembered the drums he’d spotted marked flammable
, and he slammed on the brakes.
Holy shite. What had he done? If those drums caught fire, that whole place could go up in minutes …
To his relief, he saw Celeste and Javed dashing out, pausing to haul an unconscious Rico to safety away from the building. Alec called the fire department, then sped away.
Dear God. He hadn’t meant to set the place on fire. He felt certain the Fallen trio would survive, but all of that Turbo—and Malcolm’s entire operation—would go up in smoke.
Alec heaved a sigh, picking shards of glass out of his scalp, forehead, and hands as he drove. Well, so be it. If he hadn’t acted as he did, they would have killed him back there. That operation was twisted. They were stealing blood that patients badly needed to make a dangerous drug to empower their own. If that building burned down, it was all to the good.
Even so, Alec’s stomach clenched with nerves. Malcolm would be furious about this. Had Alec accidentally started something he would come to regret?
A sudden thought occurred to him. As he drove, he leaned over and popped open his glove box, staring at the vial of Turbo he’d confiscated a while back. He knew he should throw it away. Instead, he shoved the glove box closed. And drove on.
twenty-five
When Claire walked into Concert Singers class first thing on Tuesday morning, Ms. Donnelly was chatting with Mr. Lang by the piano.
“I don’t know what happened,” Ms. Donnelly was saying. “It’s like a miracle.”
Mr. Lang nodded. “Real-life knights in shining armor, huh?”
“What’s a miracle?” Claire asked.
“Dr. Grant approved additional funding for the show’s costumes,” Ms. Donnelly answered, beaming. “We’re going to get them from Sony Studios, and all of you will look fabulous.”
“Awesome.” Claire’s heart soared. It was all she could do not to do a little happy dance. It had worked!