Pandora (Book 3) (The Omega Group)

by Andrea Domanski

  “What danger? As long as I can keep my anger under control there won’t be any danger. You’ve been teaching me that stuff my whole life.” The truth of that statement struck him. “You were preparing me, weren’t you? Just in case.”

  “Yes, my darling. I hoped you wouldn’t be burdened with this, but I wanted to give you the best chance to remain undetected if you were.”

  “Undetected? By who?” Orano saw something in his mother’s eyes that he rarely saw. Fear.

  “This gift isn’t seen as such by some members of your father’s family. Generations ago, a small group of them decided to fight against the mutation they believed came straight from the devil. They called themselves Ọwọ ti Ọlọrun—Hand of God—and they believed anyone developing this ability needed to be … removed from the family.”

  “You mean they killed us.” He hadn’t posed it as a question. The look on his mother’s face told him what he needed to know. “And they’re still out there?”

  She grabbed his hand with both of hers. “I’m afraid so. Each generation bears members of both groups. The only way to stay safe is to keep your ability hidden from them.”

  “Is that what happened to Dad?” Orano figured he already knew the answer, but he needed to hear the words.

  “Yes. He’d kept the secret for over five years, even though the brotherhood tormented and tested him at every opportunity until he turned sixteen. They never succeeded in making him lose control. So, they counted him as untouched and left him alone.” The tears began to flow in earnest as she told him the story. “On the day you were born, your father chose to use his gift to save my life. You were a difficult birth, my son, and the ordeal proved too much for me. My heart stopped shortly after you were born. Your father didn’t have another option, as our midwife wasn’t equipped for such a situation. He used his energy to shock my heart, saving me.

  “Our midwife swore she would tell no one what she’d seen but, three days later, Ọwọ ti Ọlọrun came to our home in Osogbo and took your father. I begged them to leave us be. He’d never hurt anyone, and we had our newborn son. But they didn’t care, and your father refused to fight. He said that resisting would only bring more of them. He agreed to go peacefully in order to keep us safe. I never saw him again.”

  Orano’s head spun with this new information. “Why did you lie to me?” He’d always known his father died, but he’d been told a heart attack killed him.

  “He made me promise to not burden you with the truth. We felt sure you would be unaffected by all of this, so there wasn’t any reason to bring it into your life.”

  The sheer number of questions running through Orano’s mind sent him reeling. He didn’t know where to begin. “Did he have an accident on his sixteenth birthday, too? Is that why you tried to keep me home today? Is that when it happens?”

  “No, and yes. He did have an accident, albeit not quite as dramatic as yours, but it happened six weeks before his birthday. There is no definite time when the ability manifests, although never after a child turns sixteen. Of the cases your father knew about, all occurred in the last three months of their fifteenth year.”

  “Which is why you became crazy protective the last few months and went off the deep end today,” Orano said.

  Orano’s mother let a small laugh break the tension. “I guess so, yeah. Sorry about that. I just wanted to keep you close on the last day the ability could develop. Speaking of which, where did you go tonight?”

  A corner of his mouth rose before Orano could stop it, and heat bloomed in his cheeks as he remembered the kiss. “Nowhere special.”

  With her eyebrow raised—an expression all mothers wore when they knew their children were lying—she kindly changed the subject. “We have work to do, Orano. There is a lot you need to learn in order to—”

  A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. The police were probably questioning all of the neighbors about the fire. “Am I going to go to jail?” Orano asked.

  “Of course not,” she said. “Just follow my lead.”

  When she opened the door, a tall man in a rumpled suit stepped forward. “I’m Detective Ritchie. I need to ask you some questions about the fire.”

  “Of course. We didn’t even know anything happened until we heard the sirens. What a shame.” Orano’s mother played the role perfectly.

  The detective nodded. “Is there anyone else in the house that may have seen or heard anything?”

  “No, sir. Just my son and I.”

  Without hesitation, the man pulled out an odd-looking gun, aimed it at Orano’s heart, and pulled the trigger. His mother’s scream bellowed above the sound of the sirens, while Orano tried to put the pieces of what was happening together in his mind. A silver and blue dart stuck straight out of his chest, glinting as he swayed back and forth under the foyer light. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed his mother charge the detective, but Orano lost sight of both of them as his body collapsed to the floor.

  Gripped by fear, Orano tried desperately to move, but his body felt disconnected from his brain. He couldn’t even scream. He’d obviously been drugged, but whatever that dart held didn’t render him unconscious, just immobile.

  The sounds of a struggle came from behind where he lay on the floor. Although he couldn’t see the fight, he had a good idea what was happening. His mother’s scream became muffled almost immediately, probably by the man’s hand. The front door slammed shut and uneven footfalls clumsily made their way back toward the living room. A loud grunt from the intruder was immediately followed by an ear-shattering scream from his mother. Her call for help quickly terminated after another soft click and short whoosh of air.

  Tears obscured Orano’s vision, flowing across his face onto the hard floor. He tried to blink them away, but found not even his eyelids would move. Fear grew, and then terror gripped him as realization set in. He’d been rendered helpless with no chance to defend himself or his mother, yet he remained fully conscious and aware. He could only imagine the coming horrors.

  Strong arms came from behind him and jerked him to a seated position, then wrapped around his chest. Orano’s head rolled forward giving him a perfect view of the intruder’s hands. As the man dragged him backward, Orano did the only thing he could. He tried to memorize the tattoos covering the man’s forearms and hands. If by some miracle he survived this home invasion, Orano wanted to be able to identify the guy to police.

  The man dropped him on the recliner at the far end of the living room before stepping out the front door. Orano’s body slumped over the armrest but, from that position, he could at least see his mother. She’d been laid out on the couch with a pillow placed under head, as though the freak wanted her to be comfortable. Orano watched her chest rise and fall, silently praying she would somehow come out of this craziness unhurt.

  That’s not going to happen unless you do something, Orano thought.

  But what could he do? He didn’t even have the ability to blink his eyes, which now watered ferociously. Through his blurred vision, he watched the intruder return carrying a small duffle bag. The man dropped it on the floor in front of the couch, reached inside, and pulled out several dark objects. Orano wanted desperately to wipe the tears from his eyes so he might at least see what this monster had planned, but he couldn’t. The objects remained hazy blobs on the floor.

  The man picked up one of them and stepped behind the recliner. A second later, Orano’s body jerked upright, his head flopping around until his chin settled on his chest. The tattooed arms wrapped duct tape around his torso, then pulled his head up and wrapped it to the chair, as well.

  Orano felt sure the man wasn’t trying to restrain him. What would have been the point? Instead, he seemed more intent on positioning Orano in a way that forced him to look straight forward. Why the guy would care about that remained a mystery. But Orano knew this was no regular home invasion. Petty criminals didn’t use paralytics. The guy had to be part of the brotherhood that had murdered his
father.

  While Orano watched, the man placed the objects he’d pulled from the bag onto the floor. A moment later, flames flickered from half a dozen candles dispersed throughout the pattern he’d created. When the man stood, Orano’s breath hitched. He knew the real horror would begin soon, and there would be nothing he could do to stop it. He had no control.

  Except that wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t have control over his body movements, sure, but he still breathed. And just a moment before, his fear caused his breath to quicken. At the very least, Orano could control his breathing, which is how his mother taught him to control his emotions. He didn’t know much about the strange ability he’d developed, but he knew all he needed to. His emotions were key to controlling it.

  Orano focused on his breathing, willing himself to fill his lungs before expelling the air slowly. Deep, chest-expanding breaths weren’t possible in his paralyzed state, but that didn’t matter. His mother had trained him well, and his focus was absolute.

  Until the chanting started.

  Orano refocused on the man kneeling in front of him. He held something silver in his left hand—is that a cross?—and spoke words in some unknown language. Latin, maybe. After each rhythmic phrase, the man kissed the item in his hand, then pressed it to Orano’s chest, before beginning the next verse. Time seemed to be running out.

  Blocking out the sights and sounds around him would be next to impossible so, instead, Orano used the man’s rhythmic chant and repetitive movements as his metronome. He breathed in through one verse, held it when the man touched the cross to his chest, then exhaled through the next verse. With each breath, Orano brought forth the memory of vibrant heat flowing through his body. He imagined his heart pumping lava through his veins, filling every cell with energy.

  Although he couldn’t feel any physical effects, he instinctively knew the warmth he’d created in his mind would slowly become a reality in his body. The same power that engulfed him earlier in the barn once again coursed through him. This time, however, Orano had control.

  His hands still sat limp on his lap—left hand facing down, right facing to his left. In that position, any energy he released would hit either the wall beside him or his own nether regions. He needed to be able to move just a little to direct the blast at the freak show in front of him, but his muscles refused to cooperate. He couldn’t break through the effects of the paralytic no matter how hard he tried.

  If he remembered his television medical lessons correctly, sedated patients could become conscious again with a shot of Adrenalin. And, since Adrenalin was pretty much just a massive boost of energy, maybe his power could do the same thing. He just needed to increase its potency.

  Orano expanded the rivers of lava he imagined flowing throughout his body until he could actually feel the warmth they created. It was the first sensation he’d gotten from his body since the dart hit him. Real hope bloomed inside him as a tingling in his feet joined the warmth.

  Then the chanting stopped and the man spoke directly to him. “You will soon be free of Satan’s curse and released from your obligation to serve him.” His accent sounded Caribbean with a tinge of British. He grabbed the silver cross he’d been using during his chant with both hands. He pulled up the top part, unsheathing a thin dagger from inside the cross, its blade twinkling in the light.

  Panic surged as Orano watched the man wrap his hands around the dagger’s hilt and raise it over his head, ready to plunge it down toward him. Orano instinctively slammed his eyes shut to avoid seeing the instrument of his own death penetrate his chest. Then smiled at what the ability to do so meant.

  A quick twitch of his right wrist, and Orano’s palm faced his would-be-murderer. The same beam of light from the barn exploded out of his hand and slammed into his attacker, knocking him backward from his kneeling position. The base of the man’s head struck the corner of their wrought iron coffee table with such force, he bounced off of it before collapsing to the floor.

  The smile left Orano’s face immediately. The man stared through unblinking eyes at a world he would never again see.

  Orano closed his own eyes and cried.

  ********

  “You did nothing wrong, Orano. Do you understand me? Nothing.” Cherry watched her son close down in front of her. When she’d awoken from her own sedation to see him strapped to the chair, her worst fears became a reality. Until she’d noticed his shoulders jerking and heard his quiet sobs.

  She’d pulled herself off the couch and, on unsteady legs, stepped to her son’s side. That’s when the entire story unveiled itself to her. The man the Ọwọ ti Ọlọrun brotherhood sent to kill Orano lay dead on the floor, his dagger at his side. He must have gotten through the entire ceremony before succumbing to whatever killed him.

  When she’d placed her hand on Orano’s cheek, his eyes had flown open as though fearing the man might have come back to life. When he saw her instead, his weeping intensified and he told her everything. She listened to every anguished word as she removed the tape securing him to the chair.

  “Sweetheart, I am so proud of you. I don’t know of anyone who could have handled themselves better than you did. You saved us both.” Although Cherry knew the Ọwọ ti Ọlọrun would never have hurt her—they were psychotic killers, but only to those family members with powers—she also knew Orano needed to believe he’d caused the man’s death for reasons other than just saving himself.

  “I need you to listen to me now. We have a chance to make sure no one ever comes after you again, but I need you to help me.” Cherry waited for her son to work through whatever moral quandary he was experiencing. It took a few moments, but Orano’s shoulders straightened and his eyes lost their blank expression.

  “Good boy. This man is from Ọwọ ti Ọlọrun, and they’ll be waiting for him to report in. We need to make sure he does that,” Cherry said.

  Orano’s brow knit in confusion. “But how? He’s dead.”

  Cherry gave him a reassuring smile before moving to kneel beside the man. She found what she was looking for in his front pocket. She flipped open the cell phone and scrolled through all of his texts. Several mentioned Orano, and she read each one of them.

  “He’s been watching you for a while and texting his findings to one number. All of the messages report no sign of the power in you. My guess is that today would have been his last report. So let’s send it for him.” Cherry tapped the numbered keys the appropriate amount of times to spell out her message.

  His sixteenth birthday has passed. No powers manifested.

  Cherry checked her watch to make sure midnight had already passed, then pressed send. “This is where I need your help, Son. Are you ready?”

  Orano took a deep breath and nodded.

  They found the man’s car in their driveway and pulled it into the empty spot in their garage. Cherry and Orano dragged the body through the house and placed it in the passenger seat of the car. She kept a careful eye on her son throughout the process. Although he looked ready to vomit, he held himself together.

  “The hard part’s over, Orano. Now, I just need you to follow me in our car. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “But I don’t have my driver’s license,” he said.

  Cherry stifled the giggle his unexpected remark elicited. “I think we can overlook that under the circumstances, don’t you?”

  Driving the short distance out of town, Cherry kept her eye on her son through the rearview mirror and pondered how she would help Orano deal with everything he’d experienced. Although he was lucid, she knew he’d been operating on autopilot since the Ọwọ ti Ọlọrun’s man died. Her son’s honorable spirit would be crushed if she didn’t do something.

  When they reached the curve in the road not-so-affectionately nicknamed “Dead Man’s Turn,” she stopped the car. She just needed to put the man in the driver’s seat, then wedge his foot onto the gas pedal.

  “Grab me a thick branch. About a foot and a half long or so,” Che
rry instructed her son.

  While Orano searched, she maneuvered the body behind the wheel before opening all of the windows. She couldn’t count on the crash breaking them and needed a plausible reason for a piece of tree to be found inside the vehicle.

  Orano handed her a gnarled branch that would be perfect. She took it from his grasp and instructed him to wait in their car. He didn’t need to be exposed to any more violence than the night had already brought.

  With the car running in neutral, she closed the driver’s side door and reached in through the window. She placed one end of the branch on the gas pedal, then shoved the other end into the edge of the seat. The car’s engine roared as raw power surged. With a quick prayer of thanks that his car had an automatic transmission, Cherry pulled herself as far out of the vehicle as she could while still being able to reach the shifter. When she jammed the car into drive, the tires spun on the dirt and gravel at the side of the road before finding purchase and shooting the vehicle ahead.

  The car careened over the edge as so many others had done over the years, then crashed down the thirty-foot drop-off. Many drivers died that way. One more wouldn’t raise suspicion, especially since the stranger chose not to wear his seatbelt.

  Cherry let out a sigh of relief when the job was done, although the feeling didn’t last long. When she returned to her car, she found Orano sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks.

  “I promise that one day you will get past this, Orano. It might take some time, but it will happen.” Cherry kissed him on his forehead and began the drive home, hoping she hadn’t just told a lie.

  Chapter 2

  Yesterday

  Tori Houlton watched as the one person who could destroy everything she’d worked for burst out the door and onto the busy street. Tori could have unleashed many things that would teach that girl a sorely needed lesson, but not out there. Not like this.

  She let the door close and stalked back through the herbal shop. Although she leased the retail space for her highly successful business, only about half of its square footage held any inventory. The rest sat hidden behind a wall of shelves stocked with lotions, powders, and other concoctions. Virginia Beach had become trendy, and with that distinction came wealthy patrons with disposable income. Tori’s skills as an herbalist made her the go-to girl for every yuppie trophy wife within a fifty-mile radius, but her purpose in life was fulfilled by the activities that took place in the rear of the shop.