Shaking his head, Michael made his way up slowly. Peter was probably right; this place did seem pretty boring.
At the top of the stairs, he smelled it. Something was burning—a pile of tobacco leaves apparently, judging from the intensity. His parents had never been smokers, and the only smoking Michael had ever done in his youth was to impress a gang of kids in his neighborhood. But this was something else. The entire hallway stank of cigarettes. A faint haze of smoke clung to the ceiling.
Michael held back. Peter, frowning at Michael’s cowardice and even shaking his head, took the lead once more. He knocked three times on a worn wooden door.
“Who is it?” a rough voice said, followed by a rattling cough.
“It’s Pete. I brought Mike.”
His words were followed by the wet sound of a smoker’s throat being cleared inside the room.
“Bring him in.”
Peter turned and winked at Michael, then made for the stairs.
“Wait…um, Pete?”
“Yeah, what is it?” Peter said, obviously annoyed at having been stopped.
“Those girls, Arielle and Charlotte—well, I don’t want to cause any problems if you know what I mean.”
“Arielle’s my girlfriend,” Peter said. “In case no one’s told you yet.”
“Oh, right. Got it.”
“Charlotte’s all yours, though.” Peter began to walk down the stairs backward, something he made look easy. “You can take her if you want, but beware…” He cranked his eyes open as wide as they would go, like someone telling a ghost story, even lifting his hands and wiggling his fingers. “That girl has secrets.”
He hopped backward, twisted in midair, and landed halfway down the stairs.
“Show-off,” Michael said as soon as Peter disappeared.
Clearing his throat, Michael pushed open the door to find Louis Blake sitting behind a broad desk on which there was nothing but a pack of cigarettes with a matchbook resting neatly on top.
The smoke made Michael’s eyes water. He entered, coughed once, and inspected an office much smaller than he’d imagined. The room was unfurnished aside from an old leather couch the color of dried rose petals and a few bookshelves.
Blake indicated with a tilt of his cigarette that Michael should sit on one of the two wooden chairs facing the desk. Michael sat, making sure to keep his eyes on Blake’s the whole time. He still didn’t trust the old man. Maybe it was all those years of seeing his face on “Most-Wanted Terrorist” posters that made him so hesitant.
“I would offer you a drink or a snack,” Blake said, “but as you can see…” He lifted his hands, indicating their surroundings. “Well, this place isn’t outfitted for guests.”
“It’s all right.”
Blake tapped his finger against the pack of cigarettes like he didn’t know what to say next. “I hope Dominic made it clear we’re not kidnappers. He was supposed to give you a choice in the matter of coming here.”
“He did.”
“Good. Do you know what happened to you in the basement of your parents’ restaurant?”
Michael shrugged. “Dominic said I had an episode.”
“A rage attack would be a better term. They only happen with Type Is. Except in ninety-nine percent of all cases, the first attack usually kills you. You’ve had two in your life—the first when you were only three years old.” A cloud of cigarette smoke obscured Blake’s silvery eyes for a moment. “Yet, you’re still here.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t your foster father tell you? Your mother was a Type I. The only one ever born naturally. But she died before we even knew what she was. That’s why Kole needs to get you back—to perfect the genetic map that explains how you’re capable of doing what you do.”
“So he can do what?” Michael said. “Reproduce it?”
“Exactly.” Blake put a cigarette to his lips and lit it. “Imagine soldiers being able to do what you did that night in your parents’ basement. Imagine how devastating that kind of power would be if you could use it at will.”
Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Could I use it at will? This ‘death whisper’?”
One of Blake’s eyes flinched. Slumping in his chair, he exhaled a plume of smoke.
“Where did you learn that term, ‘death whisper’?”
Michael shrugged. “I think I heard it once, a long time ago.”
“Hmm.” Blake stared at his desk, deep in thought.
“You could teach it to me, how to control it and use it safely, right?”
“No, I couldn’t. And besides, would you really want that kind of power?”
“I could use it to get back at the men who killed my mother.”
“Maybe.”
Michael leaned forward. He’d been wondering about this since yesterday. Could he learn to kill a man without needing a physical weapon? There were certain men in this world who deserved to die, like Welcher and Boyd, Uncle Sal, Harris Kole…
“Teach it to me.”
“No,” Blake said.
His tone indicated there was no way he’d reconsider.
“Why not?”
“I said ‘no,’ Michael, and you’re not going to change my mind. I promised your mother I’d protect you, teach you how to defend yourself. That’s why you’re here.”
“But I could protect myself with—”
“Not a chance. No man should have that kind of power, especially not a boy as young as you.”
Michael sat back, fighting the urge to plead further. “So this isn’t about protecting me, but about making sure Kole doesn’t build an army of Type Is.”
“It’s to protect you from yourself. That kind of power would turn you into a killer. Is that what you want your life to be? And that’s if you’re lucky. The most probable situation involves a brain aneurysm, and you bleeding to death internally.”
Michael silently reflected on what Blake just said. He didn’t want to kill anyone, not unless he had to. And he definitely didn’t want to die—especially with life out here holding such promise of peace and tranquility.
Benny would love it out here.
Yet, the feeling of power he’d experienced that night—he’d never known such a thing. Such hunger and pleasure…
“Why did I cry blood?”
Blake stubbed out his cigarette. “It’s a sign of how close you came to killing yourself.”
“So I almost died that night in the basement?”
Blake nodded, keeping his eyes on Michael’s. “You most certainly would have died without Dominic’s help.”
“But we don’t know that for sure. I’ve survived these…these episodes before.”
Blake shrugged. “Do you really want to find out?”
He went about lighting another cigarette. Michael got the distinct feeling the man was trying to smoke himself to death.
“Who exactly are you?” Michael said.
“I’m nobody anymore. But I used to be a major in the People’s Republic military. Harris Kole and I were friends for a while, and then we were bitter enemies. What happened between us is a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you someday, but for now, all you need to know is I started leaking information to a group of revolutionaries located in the Eastlands. I turned traitor. I eventually got caught, but managed to escape before they could execute me. I came to the Eastlands. Tried to join the Liberators. They wouldn’t have me, even though I’d provided them with years’ worth of classified information—documents and codes that saved hundreds of lives…” His voice trailed off in disappointment. “Very few people in this world trust our kind, Mike. We’ve only been around for about seventy years. I was one of the first.”
“The Father of Ments,” Michael said absently.
“I’ve never been called that one, but it’s good. Has a nice ring to it.” Sighing, Blake fluttered his right hand. “No one understands where telepathy came from, but the entire world is trying to find ways to harness it. Some of us discovered how to
turn it into a weapon, and that weapon is you. The night your brother died, you had a telepathic episode that resulted in the deaths of almost a hundred people in your neighborhood. I tell you that not to make you feel guilty, but because I want you to understand the extent, and the destructiveness, of your ability.”
Michael sat motionless. When he spoke, his voice lacked any sort of emotion, yet he felt like curling into a ball and puking.
“Can you teach me how to control it? So it never happens again?”
“I can try,” Blake said. “But you have to promise me two things.”
“I’m listening.”
Blake stubbed out the cigarette. “One, don’t ever ask me to teach you the death whisper. It’s not going to happen. And two, don’t make me regret bringing you here.”
Chapter 6
Morning came with a wash of sunlight through the window that filled the entire room.
Hearing movement downstairs, Michael flung himself out of bed and got dressed. He took the stairs lightly so as not to startle whoever was down there.
The aroma of meat and a delicious sizzling sound drew him forward. He rounded the corner to see Peter in the kitchen at the stove.
“Pete,” he said. “Uh, good morning.”
Peter didn’t look up, instead focusing on the steaks sizzling in the pan. “I’m making breakfast. Usually it’s me on Tuesdays, Eli on Wednesdays, and Ian on Thursdays. Then we restart the cycle. You can take over for Ian since he can’t cook worth a shit.”
“Where do you get the food?” Michael said, studying the stove to see what kind it was. Gas, just as he had thought. Very nice. A half-dozen uncracked eggs sat in a bowl. Even better.
“From the farms,” Peter said, sounding annoyed. “How about cracking those eggs? I’m making omelets.”
“Sure.”
Michael cracked the eggs with the ease one acquired after years of working in a restaurant. He still remembered perfectly how to do a whole dozen in ten seconds, back when food had been more plentiful. Peter stabbed the steak he was obviously trying not to burn. He lifted it with a fork to inspect it before letting it fall back into the pan.
“And that’s how you do it,” he said.
“What, burn it?” Michael asked, not trying to be cocky, though it had come out sounding that way.
“Smartass,” Peter said. When he saw how quickly Michael had cracked the eggs, he whistled. “You’re good at that.”
Michael shrugged. “My parents owned a restaurant. Not that we had eggs very often once the famine hit. By the way, you’re going to ruin that steak. Here, watch this.” He poked the steak with his finger, then lifted it and checked the underside. “You’ve seared it already, which means it doesn’t need to be on any longer. The meat’ll turn dry. You have any butter?”
“Uh-huh.” Peter went to the icebox, bringing back two cubes wrapped in aluminum foil.
“That’s it?” Michael said.
“Hey, this ain’t your parents’ restaurant. We got limited supplies in Gulch.”
“No problem, I’ll just use a little. My father taught me how to cook steak once. It was a special occasion. The regime only gave out meat on Harris Kole’s birthday, but they stopped doing that years ago.”
He used the butter, along with a few sprigs of thyme and rosemary he found on the windowsill above the sink, to give each steak a nice golden crust. Peter watched, hands on his hips, one reaching up now and then to scratch the underside of his chin.
“That smells delicious,” Eli said, barging into the room.
Wearing only a towel, he was still damp from his shower. His pale belly hung over the front edge, the skin transparent enough to show blue veins underneath. The lack of hair on his chest made him look like a giant, muscular baby.
“Teaching Pete how to cook?” Eli said, grinning. “About damned time someone did.”
Eli pushed Michael aside, bent over the plate, and took a deep whiff. “Are those herbs? Holy crap, it’s good to be alive.”
Ian entered the room silently. When Michael saw him, his shoulders tightened. The guy had a certain dark quality he carried around with him, like a black cloud over his head that could only be seen from the corner of the eye. He wore a black tank top that showed a layer of ropy muscle over his arms and low-quality tattoos he’d probably done himself. The designs were crude and hateful—mostly skulls, serpents, and the like.
Michael remembered something Peter told him the night before, during their walk to Blake’s office.
He’s the mayor’s son, so don’t mess with him.
“What’s up?” Ian said. It was almost a grunt. He didn’t look at Michael as he walked over, stopped at the stove, and picked up a steak with two fingers. He chomped down on it as he left without saying a single word.
“What do you think?” Eli asked Peter, indicating Michael. “New kitchen bitch?”
Peter glanced at the steaming plate of steaks. Nodding, he smacked Michael on the back.
“Sounds good to me. You hear that, city rat? You’re the new kitchen bitch.”
They made their way to the dining room with the steaks, leaving Michael to stand with a fork in one hand and the frying pan in the other, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Bring those omelets out when they’re ready,” Peter called. “And don’t let me catch you spitting on em.”
“Kitchen bitch,” Eli sang in his bellowing voice.
Sighing, Michael buttered the pan. “Just some spiteful initiation,” he said under his breath. “Happens to everyone.”
He heard Benny’s voice in his head, scolding him.
Keep tellin’ yourself that…kitchen bitch.
Chapter 7
Louis Blake had instructed Michael to show up at the town hall an hour after breakfast. As always, he offered no explanation. Michael would have to get used to the man’s standoffish nature.
He found Blake with Dominic and a black man wearing thick, rectangular glasses who appeared to be in his seventies. Whoever this third man was, he didn’t seem happy to see Michael.
“This won’t end well,” the man told Blake before glancing at Michael and saying, “Good morning to you.” He shuffled toward the entrance. A cool breeze entered as the door opened, and it was cut off immediately as the door shut with a bang.
“What was that all about?” Michael asked.
“Don’t worry about him,” Blake said as Dominic slumped in a wooden chair. “Hey”—he snapped his fingers at Dominic—“look lively. You’re taking him on the grand tour.”
Dominic pushed off the chair with a groan.
“Come on,” he said, waving Michael along.
The first thing Dominic did was take Michael to a large gray building with fully clothed mannequins in the windows. Dominic was silent during the walk, which added to Michael’s discomfort. He was sure the man didn’t like him at all.
“Have you ever gone shopping?” Dominic asked as they came to a stop outside the building. “And I don’t mean for restaurant supplies.”
Michael tried to remember. “No, never. My clothes always came from my brother. The only clothing stores in my sector were state-run. You had to use coupons to buy anything there, and we never had any.”
Dominic scoffed in disapproval.
The store was called Sinatra’s. Michael recognized the name, and then he knew why. Frank Sinatra’s music was popular on the Eastland stations he used to illegally access on his homemade radios.
The bell jingled above the door as they entered.
“IIIII’m dreeeeeeaaamin’ of a whiiiiiite Christmaaaaas…” the man’s voice sang from hidden speakers. Michael knew only enough about the holiday to realize this wasn’t the right time of year to be celebrating it. Not even close.
The store contained racks of men’s clothing that struck him as distinctly old-fashioned. There were V-neck sweaters made of cotton and wool, collared shirts, slacks, black and blue suits, and a wall displaying shiny leather shoes of many colors, including beig
e and sky blue.
“This place is a museum,” Michael said.
Dominic fingered one of the suits. “It’s classier than anything you’ll find in a five hundred-mile radius.”
“Wait a second.” Michael turned to him. “Am I really going to wear this stuff?”
Footsteps rose in the back.
Someone was walking through the aisles toward them, taking slow, measured steps. Michael pictured a man in a three-piece suit holding a pistol, like one of those old-fashioned gangsters. He braced himself in case of danger.
“I want you to meet someone,” Dominic said. “He’ll help you improve your wardrobe. Your awkward social nature, on the other hand—well, that’s up to you.”
Michael frowned at the comment.
The man who emerged was very much what Michael would have expected the owner of this store to look like—shorter than average, solidly built without being muscular, with a square jaw and a full head of sandy-blond hair that had been neatly combed to one side. Dressed in a pair of beige slacks, a collared shirt, and a light blue V-neck sweater, the man could have been a doting husband in one of those old prewar magazines.
“By the gods,” the man said when he saw Dominic, his mouth opening in a look of comical amazement.
What happened next caught Michael off guard, mainly because of how different these two men appeared to be from each other. Dominic was tall and rangy with greasy hair tied in a loose ponytail. He wore a thin black jacket that made him look like a criminal, jeans torn at the kneecaps, and black boots—military style—that were dusty from outside. He could have been the rebellious teenage son of this other man.
Which was why Michael found it so strange when the owner of Sinatra’s took hold of Dominic’s head and planted a kiss on his lips.
“Hands off, damn it,” Dominic said, pulling back and wiping his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “It’s just that—Dominic, I don’t believe it. You’re back. I feel like crying, or—or jumping up and down.”
“Christ. Why can’t you just man up and not be so dramatic all the time?” Dominic said with a sigh. “I brought someone you should meet. Mike, this is Reggie Smith.”
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