Surge: Bolt Saga Volume Five (Bolt Saga #13-15)

by Angel Payne

“Not superpowers.” Mom’s patience is clearly dwindling. “Madeline, my daughter isn’t a ‘superhero.’ She is an elevated being. An enlightened creature, chosen to become part of the new age of the world. We could all choose to become that fortunate. To endure the crucible and—Sophie?”

  She interrupts herself by reaching for me, though I’m not certain what she does after that. By this point, I’m fully doubled over. Whimpering. Swallowing hard as bile surges up my chest and stamps an ache into my jaw. Leaning on Reece again, I desperately grab at the middle of his vest.

  “Oh, Lordy.” Maddie’s exclamation whips through the air over my dropped head, full of high-pitched concern. “Have we overwhelmed you, dear? I think we’ve overwhelmed her.”

  “I’m—I’m going to be sick.”

  “Oh, dear! Well, you know what they say. It’s not really morning sickness at all now, is it? Maybe we should just leave you kids be and get off to dinner now…”

  Reece stammers out fake niceties, but the words are meaningless to my ringing ears. He closes the door with a resounding whomp and supports my feeble turn back into the foyer. Thank God there’s a small guest bathroom ahead, to which I shuffle like a destroyed armadillo.

  “Velvet.” Reece’s thick baritone, normally just the medicine I need, feels like a serrated scythe on my senses right now. “Let me help—”

  “No.” I slam the door in his face—the very first time I’ve ever done so—and already hate myself for it. But I hate even considering what my meltdown would do to him, especially after everything he’s done to keep me safe. And now, to keep Bean safe too. Today more than any other, he’s been my steadfast protector, my resolute knight, my true superhero. And not once did he fire up his lightning and thunder and power pulses. He’s saved me—he’s saved our family—by being true to his conviction and following through with his backup plan.

  Despite the fact that I’ve now locked myself in a bathroom, puking and sobbing because of it.

  And unable to stop myself.

  Whoever myself is anymore.

  A woman who, a week ago, was sliding into leathers in order to be trained as a new badass on Team Bolt.

  A woman who now can’t call her husband an ox because she’s bigger than one. Who’s not recognizable to her own mother. Who’s going to be a mother.

  Who can’t stand to think about the world awaiting her baby son.

  “Emma!”

  Reece’s voice is full of anguish, cutting through the noise of my third hurl into the toilet. Hearing his heartache only makes mine worse, and I cry harder as I flush away all my sick.

  “Goddamnit, woman!”

  “Reece. Stop.”

  “We can talk about this.” The thud of his fist against the door sends tangible tremors through the walls. “We need to talk about this.”

  “Right now?”

  He huffs heavily. “Shit.”

  I force enough air to my lungs to back up my words with some volume. “Baby…please…go away.”

  Not forever.

  Just for a second.

  I just need one damn second.

  Okay, maybe two.

  But a much longer pause goes by, dripping with the continuing tension of his presence outside the bathroom. He lingers with shallow breaths and potent hope…

  “I love you.”

  And finally, with his soft-growled surrender.

  I swallow hard. Swipe the wetness off my cheeks. Curl myself against the wall, if only to feel the relieving cool of the marble on my forehead and cheek. “I—I love you too,” I finally rasp. “But I just need a little space, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I almost call him out on it. He believes in those syllables about as much as he really believes in aliens. The grate of the tears in his voice proves that as thoroughly as the leaden sigh he releases—before finally stepping back and then walking away.

  But he won’t be far.

  For which I love him even more.

  I’ve been out of my mind for three damn days, ever since plummeting to the tile in that bathroom and praying to the porcelain god. After I shut my husband out of my grief. As I promised him, nearly a year ago, that I wouldn’t do again.

  I’m not proud that I’m back in this space—wherever the hell this is. I recognize it less than the bathroom where I’d finally lost my lunch, my composure, my hope…

  Myself.

  The normal fixes haven’t helped me sort through the mental Lost and Found bin. I’ve tried them all. Exercising. Rereading my favorite Sherrilyn Kenyon series. Bingeing every season of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Arrow, and—when in Rome, right?—Real Housewives of Orange County. I even let ’Dia talk me into a try at adult coloring books.

  Laughably thin Band-Aids. For a slice in my soul that’s no laughing matter.

  And wider than I want to admit.

  Much wider.

  This is a crisis of my damn identity.

  Which is why I’ve gone ahead and done this really dumb thing. Told everyone I really need a nap, but instead slipping out the back gate and quickly making my way to the south end of Ocean Boulevard, where the paved footpath down to Little Corona Beach begins.

  At the halfway point of that path, there’s a little overlook with a stone bench, surrounded by the glory of year-round wildflowers contrasting with the rich azure of the Pacific waves. I used to call the overlook my “secret spot,” since it was a perfect place for imagining the day I’d escape the confines of the cookie cutter and see the world beyond the OC. I’d come down here with my journal and my thoughts, always hoping the bench would be unoccupied so I could scheme and dream in private.

  Today, there’s someone already sitting there.

  For the first time ever, I’m so freaking glad.

  I slide onto the empty side of the seat, taking care to keep my head well tucked into the hood of my jersey. ’Dia managed to find some cuter things for “Sophie’s” closet, including this dress/hoodie combo in a surprisingly decent shade of blue. I borrowed her Vans slip-ons to finish the look, mostly to better blend in, but none of the hardcore surf crowd comes to the “little” side of this beach. At this time of the day, it’s just families with infants tromping by. I could be wearing bedazzled disco wedge pumps, and none of them would care.

  For a second, I study those passing bunches of domestic bliss with a wistful smile. It’s surprising and sweet to see a lot of dads in the mix, even in the early afternoon. Without hesitation, I envision Reece in their midst. Without reservation, I know he’s going to be as much of a hands-on father with our Bean.

  Without warning, the backs of my eyes burn with tears.

  Like they have been for nearly a week.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Not only the way I’ve been feeling—but what I’ve finally chosen to do about it. And especially whom I’ve sought out to talk about it.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  As I’ve asked, he doesn’t openly gesture to me. He keeps his profile, still a collection of youthful angles, directed ahead toward the waves. I compel my sights that direction, maintaining the charade on the off chance I’m being watched. The view is typical for an autumn afternoon along the coast. The morning haze has burned off a little, leaving a languid layer of lavender cotton along the horizon, which blurs the break between sea and sky.

  I can’t remember a time when my psyche and surroundings were so ideally matched. My emotional state is just like that nebulous mash. I acknowledge the fact but then push the mess away from my heart, caging it solely inside my head. I took this gamble in the hopes of getting some perspective—and I pray like hell that the first man in my life can help me with all the tangles around the last one.

  “Hi there, honey.”

  He’s still on the opposite end of the bench, but his greeting swaddles me like a preheated blanket. Like the warmth of home. Of family. Of unconditional love. Oh, God. I get it now. I get why he sacrificed so much to lavish so much. I’d seen all of it—the big house, the cars,
the clothes, the jewelry, the club memberships—as a trap. But we’d all done with so little for so long that when the money rolled in, Dad had flowed it right back out to the three of us. As the realization hits, I glance at him again. He’s wearing a hoodie too: the same one he’s owned for fifteen years. The only new things he ever gets for himself are suits for the club—because Mom insists on it.

  At least she used to.

  And suddenly, despite everything I’ve come here to talk about, I go ahead and jump subjects. Drastically. But if I doubt the judgment, Bean’s brutal kick to my ribcage dispels the uncertainty. My son is my first priority—which means keeping tabs on my mother has to be as well.

  “So how’s Mom?”

  Dad jerks his head up, shooting over a narrowed glance. Clearly it wasn’t the lead-in topic he expected, either. “About the same,” he murmurs. “Still president of the Faline Fan Club and proud of it. Still flighty and flirty. On one hand, I feel like putting cult deprogrammers into my speed dial. On the other, I’ve never had a better sex life.”

  “Oh!” I exclaim. “Todd. Ew!”

  He throws a hand over his lips to mute his snicker. “You did ask.”

  “And you sure as hell answered.”

  As I speak, he peters out the laughter. We settle into a relaxed stretch of silence before he finally asks, “Do I need to think about that call, Lina? To the cult people?”

  I curl the tips of my fingers around the front of the bench. I’m grateful for the rhythmic rise and retreat of the waters below our promontory, helping to soothe the tattered, exhausted edges of my mentality. “It won’t help, Daddy.” I swallow, and it hurts. Not physically. The pain is deeper than that. And the fear… It’s been ingrained in the very cells of my blood since the second I watched Mom disappear in front of my eyes. “Faline isn’t starting a cult.” I shake my head. “She’s—”

  “Forming an army.”

  The air halts in my lungs. Squeezes them to agonizing compression. “How…do you know…”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” he chides. “None of this is rocket science from where I’m sitting. From the second you confronted that woman at your reception, it was clear she wasn’t just a rogue reporter. The shit that ensued with your mother… I was stunned but not surprised, if that makes any sense.”

  “When it comes to Faline Garand?” I countered. “It makes too much sense.”

  “Since then, I wish I could say your mom’s been simply acting like she made one too many trips to the weed dispensary, but I’d be lying.” He pretends to stretch, but the tension along his arms, even beneath his hoodie, is all too blatant to me. “She’s saying things, Lina. Things that, quite frankly, worry me.” He stands to take another pretend stretch, as if preparing for an afternoon jog. “Needless to say, I was damn glad you asked to meet today—for more reasons than missing my little girl like crazy.”

  As wonderful as it feels to hear the second half of his statement, I focus on the first part. “Saying things like what?” I press.

  “Like the kind of crap fundamentalist followers pepper into their everyday language,” he explains. “The kind of nonsense that guys like Mussolini, Jones, Hussein, and Bin Laden prompted their disciples to spew.”

  Not even the ocean succeeds in easing me. “Well, as a wise man once said, I’m stunned but not surprised.”

  Dad’s nostrils flare. He whooshes out a heavy breath. “So this person is darn bad news.”

  I almost slap myself for spurting out a full laugh, despite being grateful it’s still possible. My spirit hasn’t been this light, even temporarily, for three days. “Guess what, Dad? I’ve had a few grains of salty language tossed at me by now.” As he turns a little, indulging me with a loving smile, everything stays warm and effortless. For the first time this week, I feel a little like me again. Yeah, despite the mermaid princess hair, the color-coordinated eyeglasses, and the body occupied more and more each day by the not-so-little dude with whom I’m already in love. “But if you’re going to let a doozie fly”—I turn more too, spreading my fingers across my stomach—“try to keep the volume low so this guy doesn’t hear.”

  So much for us keeping up the façade of not knowing each other. But so much for giving a shit about it, either—especially as my father takes in my bump and instantly tears up, complete with a trembling chin and an awestruck gasp. Only Reece’s faint can top his for the most perfect reaction I can ever desire, so I dissolve and blubber too.

  We slide toward each other, unable to help ourselves. Dad gathers me close and tight—and doesn’t let go. And still doesn’t, even as my emotional crack turns into a full split, and I let out racking sobs against his shoulder.

  “Oh, Lina-Bina,” he croons, rocking me with the magic that belongs to him alone. Surrounding me with his arms. Engulfing me with his love. Drenching me with his acceptance. “I’m so happy for you and Reece.” But when my tears won’t stop for another full minute, he prompts, “But only if you are.” There’s an audible snag in his breath. “Emma? You and Reece are happy about this, right?”

  “Of—Of course.” But his implication otherwise has me scrambling to put my shit back together. With snotty sniffles and big palm swipes across my cheeks, I pull back enough that he can see my valiant effort to regain composure. But just as fast, I really want to chuck the effort. “Things are just…such a mess, Daddy.”

  A mess. Four little letters having to bear such huge meaning. The depth of my love for my husband. The lunacy of the woman obsessed with destroying him—and enslaving a whole army to do it. The lengths to which I’ll join him to stop her—especially if she so much as sniffs in my son’s direction.

  Even if that means I have to take lives.

  Even if that means my own mother’s.

  But how do I tell my father that? Especially when the man tucks a finger beneath my chin and then searches my face with such soul-stopping tenderness, affection, fortitude, and pride?

  With all the things I didn’t think he’d ever openly express to me again…

  So what’s the next step up from mess?

  “The greatest adventures often cause the biggest messes, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “And many say true love is the greatest adventure of all.”

  I narrow a mock glare. “You still trying to be an Obi-Wan here, dude?”

  He smirks. “Your friendly neighborhood Jedi, at your service.” After we share wry chuckles, he goes in at me with a new stare of fatherly intensity. “So…this mess. Is it why you texted me from ’Dia’s phone, darted out here like a fugitive rabbit, and are dressed in a color I haven’t seen since you girls were into Friends?” As I wobble out a nod, he adds, “Just please tell me Lydia picked out that hair color and not you.”

  I roll my eyes. “What do you think?”

  Seemingly reassured about that world-changing information, he chuckles and tucks me back against him. We gaze out over the waves and cavorting seagulls as I take a few more seconds to organize my thoughts. If that’s even possible.

  Doesn’t take me long to realize that it isn’t.

  Still, I need to try.

  No. We’re Jedis today. There is no try. There is only do.

  And I need to do this. To figure this shit out.

  With a weighted breath, I try to figure out the best place to start firing up the lightsaber.

  “So…you’re right,” I finally murmur, not faltering my stare away from the ocean. “Faline is not good news. Not in any time, realm, or galaxy.”

  Dad chuffs. “Those murder weapons doubling as her shoes at the reception were a huge tip-off.”

  “You should see them with a black latex catsuit.”

  “I’ll just take your word for it.”

  I give him a little side-smush of affection. “As you’ve probably figured out, she’s part of the bigger picture at the Consortium. She’s been one of the ringleaders since the beginning—but while the others in the outfit might be after scientific research, she’s got some extra issues, especially where R
eece is concerned.”

  “Issues?” His echo isn’t just about curiosity. There’s a spike of alarm, probably because he senses where I’m about to go with this. For a second, I think about softer ways to say “sadistic bitch,” but I’m here for the sake of brutal honesty. About everything.

  “She’s sick, Dad,” I go on. “The power, the control…dishing out all that pain…” I give in to a wince as I’m blasted by memories of my personal agony on the woman’s lab table. “I can’t even say it’s a fetish or an addiction for her. It’s different. It’s…more.”

  I fall into silence with a frustrated huff. I’m still not saying it all right.

  “It’s evil.”

  Okay, that’s saying it right.

  I try to tell Dad that with my long exhalation, but by expelling the air, I’ve somehow just made room for more dread in my heart. “Shit,” I finally mutter. “I guess I didn’t want to admit it. Or…believe it.”

  “Because you always want to believe there’s a chunk of gold inside everyone, no matter how deeply it’s hidden. You’ve been this way forever; you’ll be this way for always.” Dad busses the top of my head through my hoodie. “It’s one of the things that makes you so special, honey.”

  While I’m able to absorb and treasure his words, they do nothing for my spirit’s deep dilemma. “So what happened to Faline’s gold?” I rasp. “Because, Dad…it’s gone.”

  He sighs heavily. “Evil is the child of rage, and rage is the child of fear.” Another long breath in and out. “And fear is the child of pain.”

  “But…that much pain?” I’m truly perplexed. There must be more to Faline’s story than the basics that Angelique relayed to me months ago. What else was the woman subjected to that’s turned her into such a vengeful succubus of superpowers and hyperdrive for hate?

  And at this point, do I really want to know?

  Dad, suddenly reading my mind with Reece-level aptitude, utters, “Will knowing that answer change anything about the situation now?”

  I separate far enough to sit fully upright again. The motion helps my resolve. “Probably not. Ugh.” I underline that with a growl. “No. Likely not.”