Gone Series Complete Collection

by Grant, Michael

  “Penny tripped,” Caine said.

  Penny’s freckled face was white with fury.

  “Don’t,” Caine warned. He tightened an invisible grip around her head and twisted it back at an impossible angle.

  Then Caine released her.

  Penny panted and glared. But no nightmare seized Caine’s mind. “You’d better hope Lana can fix that boy, Penny.”

  “You’re getting soft.” Penny choked out the words.

  “Being king isn’t about being a sick creep,” Caine said. “People need someone in charge. People are sheep and they need a big sheepdog telling them what to do and where to go. But it doesn’t work if you start killing the sheep.”

  “You’re scared of Albert.” Penny followed it with a mocking laugh.

  “I’m scared of no one,” Caine said. “Least of all you, Penny. You live because I let you live. Remember that. The kids out there?” He waved his hand toward the window, vaguely indicating the population of Perdido Beach. “Those kids out there hate you. You don’t have a single friend. Now get out of here. I don’t want to see you back here in my presence until you’re ready to crawl to me and beg my forgiveness.”

  Penny said two words, the second of which was “you.”

  Caine laughed. “I think you meant ‘——you, Your Highness.’”

  He lifted Penny up with a slight motion of one hand and tossed her out through the open door and into the hallway.

  “She could be trouble, Your Highness,” Turk said.

  “She’s already trouble,” Caine said. “First Drake, now Penny. I’m surrounded by psychos and idiots.”

  Turk looked hurt.

  “One thing, Turk. You ever see me freaking out, like Penny is pulling something on me? You shoot the witch. We clear on that?”

  “Absolutely,” Turk said. “Your Highness.”

  “You get that you’re the idiot, right, Turk?”

  “Um . . .”

  Caine stormed off, muttering, “I miss Diana.”

  Quinn was still vibrating with rage by the time he made his way to Clifftop. Rage. But fear, too. In getting Cigar out of Penny’s grip he had made a very dangerous enemy. Maybe two. Or even three, depending on where Albert came down.

  Walking through the carpeted hall, feeling his way in the dark, Quinn realized with surprise that he was hearing voices. From a room at the far end of the hall from Lana’s oceanfront room he heard children playing.

  He stopped and listened.

  “You lose; you totally lose, Peace.”

  “Because you cheated, you little thief!”

  “Guys, keep it down, huh?” That last voice Quinn recognized as Virtue, who was often called Choo.

  Sanjit had moved his siblings into Clifftop? When had that happened? The whole bunch of them, all the island kids, had moved to the lake with Lana. But after a few days she’d returned. Clifftop had become a part of Lana. It was where she felt safe.

  Quinn realized with a stab of jealousy that Lana had okayed the island kids moving in here. No one argued with Lana. And until now she had placed an absolute ban on anyone sharing even a tiny corner of her Clifftop redoubt.

  He knew that Lana was sort of seeing Sanjit, the new kid. But letting him move his whole family into Clifftop?

  There had been a time when Quinn thought Lana and he might . . . But then events and realities had killed that daydream. Quinn was just a working guy, a fisherman. Lana was the Healer. As such she was the most protected, respected, even revered person in the FAYZ. Not even Caine would dream of messing with Lana.

  And as intimidating as all that was, there was more: Lana was as tough as a spiked baseball bat.

  She had seemed far, far above Quinn.

  Patrick heard him and set up a loud and sustained barking.

  Quinn knocked even though it seemed superfluous. The peephole went dark. The door was opened by Sanjit.

  “It’s Quinn,” he yelled over his shoulder. “Come on in, man.”

  Quinn stepped in. In the weird glow of a small Sammy sun the transformation of Lana’s room was shocking: it was clean.

  Really clean. With the bed made and the coffee table clear. The usual overflowing ashtray was nowhere to be seen—or smelled.

  Even Patrick looked as if he’d been bathed and brushed. He ran over and began rubbing himself against Quinn, probably looking to pick up some pleasant fish smell to replace all the odors that had been rudely shampooed away.

  Sanjit, a slim Indian-looking kid with an infectious smile and long black hair, noticed Quinn’s surprise but said nothing.

  Lana came in from the balcony. She at least had not changed much. She still had a huge semiautomatic pistol stuck in a thick belt. She still had the same pretty but not beautiful looks. And her expression was still somewhere between vulnerable and forbidding, like she might just as easily break down in tears or shoot you in the stomach.

  “Hi, Quinn, what is it?”

  There was nothing embarrassed or ill at ease in her tone. If she knew that Quinn was feeling jealous she gave no sign of it.

  Not what I’m here for, Quinn told himself, feeling guilty to be letting his own feelings gain any hold when the picture of poor Cigar was still so fresh in his mind.

  “It’s Cigar,” Quinn said. “He’s at Dahra’s.” He quickly told her what had happened.

  Lana nodded and grabbed her backpack. “Don’t wait up,” she told Sanjit.

  Quinn swallowed hard on that. Sanjit was actually living with Lana? In the same room? Was Quinn misunderstanding this? Because that was sure what it sounded like.

  Patrick fell in beside Lana, sensing an adventure.

  Down the hallway, then down the stairs to ground level, Lana led the way through the pitch-black lobby and out into the night, bright by contrast.

  “So,” Quinn said, letting the word hang there between them.

  “I got lonely,” Lana said. “I get nightmares. It helps having someone there sometimes.”

  “It’s not my business,” Quinn muttered.

  Lana stopped and faced him. “Yeah, it’s your business, Quinn. You and I . . .” She didn’t quite know how to finish that, so she just shifted to a gruffer tone and said, “But it’s no one else’s business.”

  They walked on quickly.

  “Who would I tell?” Quinn asked rhetorically.

  “You ought to have someone to tell,” Lana said. “I know. Sounds weird coming from me.”

  “A little bit.” Quinn was trying to nurture his resentment, but the truth was, he liked Lana. Had for a long time. He couldn’t stay mad at her. Anyway, she deserved some peace in her life.

  “It still reaches me sometimes,” Lana said.

  Quinn knew she meant the Darkness, the thing that named itself the gaiaphage.

  “What does it want from you?” Quinn asked. Even talking about the gaiaphage cast a shadow on him, made his breathing heavy and his heartbeat too loud.

  “It wants Nemesis. It’s looking for him.”

  “Nemesis?”

  “Man, you don’t get any of the good gossip, do you?”

  “I’m mostly hanging with my crews.”

  “Little Pete,” Lana explained. “Nemesis. It wants him night and day, and sometimes it’s like that voice is screaming in my head. Sometimes it’s bad. Then I need someone to, you know, bring me back.”

  “But Little Pete’s dead and gone,” Quinn said.

  Lana laughed a hard, pitiless laugh. “Yeah? Tell the voice in my head, Quinn. The voice in my head is scared. The gaiaphage is scared.”

  “That’s probably a good thing. Right?”

  Lana shook her head. “Doesn’t feel good, Quinn. Something big is happening. Something definitely not good.”

  “I saw . . .” He winced; he should be telling Albert first. Too late. “The barrier. It seems like it’s changing color.”

  “Changing color? Changing to what color?” Lana asked.

  “Black. It may be turning black.”

  N
INE

  35 HOURS, 25 MINUTES

  SO FAR PETE had experimented only a little with his new game. It was a very complicated game with so many pieces. So much he could do.

  There were avatars, about three hundred of them, which was a lot. They hadn’t seemed very interesting until he looked very close at them and saw that each one was a complex spiral, like two long spiral ladders joined together, then twisted and compressed so that if you looked at the avatar from a distance you didn’t see anything but a symbol.

  He had touched a couple of the avatars, but when he did that they blurred and broke and disappeared. So maybe that wasn’t the right thing to do.

  But the real question was: what was the point of the game? He didn’t see any score.

  All he knew was that it was all inside the ball. The game did not see outside the ball. It was all inside, and there was the Darkness glowing at the bottom, and the ball itself, and neither of them was affected by the game. He had tried to move the Darkness but his controls had no effect on it.

  In some ways it really wasn’t a very good game.

  Pete picked an avatar at random, and zoomed in on it until he could see the spirals inside spirals. They were beautiful, really. Delicate. No wonder his earlier moves had destroyed the avatars; he had just been scrambling up the intricate latticework.

  This time he would try something different. And there, flitting magically from place to place, was the perfect avatar.

  Taylor was enjoying the best of both worlds. Using her power she could “bounce” from the island to the town to the lake. All in all it was the most useful power imaginable. Brianna could keep her super-speed and her worn-out sneakers and the broken wrists she got when she fell, and the rest of it.

  Taylor just had to picture a place where she’d been, and pop! There she was. In the flesh. So once Caine had arranged for Taylor to visit the island—San Francisco de Sales Island, formerly owned by Jennifer Brattle and Todd Chance—she could bounce back anytime.

  Which meant that Taylor slept in a fabulous bedroom in a fabulous mansion. She could have also worn Jennifer Brattle’s amazing wardrobe, but she was too small in a number of dimensions.

  But if she ever got lonely, she could just picture Perdido Beach and be there.

  It made her very useful. Which was how she ended up working for both King Caine and Albert. Caine wanted information on Sam and what was happening at the lake. And Albert wanted some of that, plus information on Caine.

  Taylor owned the gossip of the FAYZ. She was the TMZ of the FAYZ.

  Or maybe the CIA of the FAYZ.

  But either way, life was good for a smart girl with the power to simply pop from place to place. And just as important: pop right back out.

  At the moment she was lying in her bed. The room she was in had been called the Amazon room because of the leafy green color of the walls and the jaguar-print bedclothes. There were a lot of bedrooms in the mansion, and amazingly some still had clean sheets.

  Clean sheets! The equivalent of living in a palace compared to life in the rest of the miserable FAYZ, where you were lucky to have a mattress no one had peed on recently.

  She was in bed munching on slightly stale saltines—she had to be careful about raiding the pantry; Albert had inventoried it—and watching an old Hey Arnold! on DVD. The fuel for the generator, too, was controlled and very limited, but occasional electricity was part of her salary.

  Suddenly Taylor had the feeling someone else was in the room. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “Okay, who is there?”

  No answer. Could it be Bug? She would know if Bug had been brought out to the island.

  Nothing. She was letting her imagination—

  Something moved. Right in front of her. For just a second the TV screen had blurred. Like something transparent but distorting had moved in front of it.

  “Hey!” She was poised, ready to bounce out of here in a heartbeat. She listened to the room. Nothing. Whatever had been there was gone now. Or maybe had never been there to begin with; that was most likely. She was imagining things.

  Taylor reached for the remote control and saw that her skin was gold. Her first reaction was that it was a trick of the light from the cartoon. But after a few seconds she decided, no. No, this was weird.

  Taylor climbed out of bed and went to the window. In the moonlight her skin was still gold.

  Crazy. Not real.

  She searched in the dark and found a candle. She clumsily thumbed a lighter and brought fire to the wick.

  Yes. Her skin was gold.

  Carrying the candle, she went to the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror.

  She was gold. From head to toe. Her black hair was still black, but every square inch of her skin was the color of actual yellow gold.

  Then she leaned close to look at the reflection of her own eyes. And that was when she screamed, because the irises were an even deeper gold.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  Shaking, she switched out of her bed shirt into jeans and a T-shirt. Because maybe she was just hallucinating, so she needed to have someone else look at her.

  Taylor pictured Lana’s hotel, the hallway.

  She bounced.

  The pain was instant and unbearable. Like nothing she had ever felt or imagined. Her left hand and the outer meat of her left calf felt as if they were pressed against red-hot steel.

  Taylor screamed and thrashed and the pain only grew worse. She was hanging from her hand and her leg, just hanging, not standing on anything, just hanging from . . . She screamed again as she realized she was not at Clifftop. She was in the forest, hanging from a tall tree. Her left hand and the outer edge of her left calf had materialized in the tree.

  In the tree.

  She dangled, screaming, right arm and left arm reaching, grabbing, wild and out of control. Her golden flesh shining dully in the moonlight.

  And the pain!

  It had to be a dream. This couldn’t be real. She hadn’t bounced here. No, it was just a horrible nightmare. She had to bounce away, even if it was a dream, bounce back to her bedroom.

  Taylor strained to visualize her room. Pushed back the pain for just a second . . . just . . .

  Taylor bounced.

  The hand was gone. Neatly cut off at the wrist. No blood, just a sudden ending. Taylor could not see her calf. Nor could she feel it.

  She was not in her bedroom. She was on a car in the driveway of Clifftop.

  On the car. Both of her legs were in the car, but she was on it, on the dusty roof of a Lexus. She had materialized with her legs sticking through the roof.

  Taylor bellowed in pain and terror.

  Her flailing caused her to topple over. The stumps of her legs didn’t do a very good job of holding her in place. She rolled once, fell the four feet to the pavement, landed on her chest.

  Shaking with fear, she fumbled for and reached the door handle and used it to pull herself up into a seated position. Her legs ended in neat stumps, just above the knees. Just like her left hand.

  No blood.

  But so much pain.

  Taylor screamed and fell back and lost consciousness.

  Astrid had found the sight of a visibly pregnant Diana disturbing.

  It was strange enough to see a fifteen-year-old girl pregnant in any context. In the FAYZ it was far more jarring. The FAYZ was a trap, a prison, a purgatory maybe. But a nursery?

  Each week that had gone by from that first day, the number of kids alive in the FAYZ had gone down. Always down, never up. The FAYZ was a place of sudden, horrifying death. Not a place of life.

  And who had changed all that? A cruel, sharp-tongued girl and a boy who had never been anything but evil.

  Astrid had taken a life. Diana was bringing one into the world.

  Astrid sat on the sticky plastic cushions around the houseboat’s tiny dining table. She put her elbows on the table and held her head in her hands.

  Edilio came in, nodded at
Astrid, and poured himself a glass of water from the jug on the counter. He was being discreet, not asking her questions, not wanting, probably, to scare her off.

  “You like irony, Edilio?” Astrid asked him.

  For a moment she thought she’d embarrassed him by using a word he didn’t understand. But after a long, reflective pause Edilio said, “You mean like the irony of an illegal from Honduras ending up being what I am?”

  Astrid smiled. “Yeah. Like that.”

  Edilio gave her a shrewd look. “Or maybe like Diana having a baby?”

  That forced a laugh from Astrid. She shook her head ruefully. “You are the most underestimated person in the FAYZ.”

  “It’s my superpower,” Edilio said dryly.

  Astrid invited him to sit down. He laid his gun down carefully and slid into a seat opposite her.

  “Who would you say are the ten most powerful people in the FAYZ, Edilio?”

  Edilio raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Number one is Albert,” Edilio said. “Then Caine. Sam. Lana.” He thought about it for a moment longer and said, “Quinn. Drake, unfortunately. Dekka. You. Me. Diana.”

  Astrid folded her arms in front of her. “Not Brianna? Or Orc?”

  “They’re both powerful, sure. But they don’t have the kind of power that moves other people, you know? Brianna’s cool, but she’s not someone who other people follow. Same with Jack. More so with Orc.”

  “You notice something about the ten people you named?” Astrid asked. Then she answered her own question. “Four of the ten have no powers or mutations.”

  “Irony?”

  “And Diana’s importance isn’t about her power. It’s about her baby. Diana Ladris: mother.”

  “She’s changed,” Edilio said. “So have you.”

  “Yeah, I’m a bit more tanned,” Astrid said evasively.

  “I think it’s more than that,” Edilio said. “The old Astrid would never have just disappeared like you did. Wouldn’t have stayed out there all on her own.”

  “True,” Astrid acknowledged. “I was . . . I was doing penance.”

  Edilio smiled affectionately. “Old-school, huh? Like a hermit. Or a monk. Holy men . . . women, too, I guess . . . going off to the wilderness to make peace with God.”