“Can you walk?” Theo whispered.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not after what I’d just done.
“Mag? Can you hear me?”
My eyes clouded with tears. He didn’t ask again. Instead, he guided me through the barn toward the garage entrance. My heart burned with every step. The healing had already begun. But the knitting of the wounds inside me was painful. Each heartbeat a fresh ache.
Blood and bodies littered the barn floor. The tools and fallen weapons that Markus had thrown at me were mixed in with the debris. Someone opened the garage door. The storm outside showered the room, muddying the already dirty floor.
Why open the door? Weren’t we risking exposure?
Then I saw. The tarp had fallen from the heap Markus had used as a platform. An old Chevy pickup truck, rusted beyond its years, left abandoned by one of the maintenance crew. Shane was buried under the cab’s hood. Jon and Thirteen moved the injured hostages into the truck’s bed. Theo lifted me and carried me across the barn, I was so shaken.
The storm helped our cover, and since Markus had disconnected the monitors on the barn, the fight hadn’t been picked up by the guard station. But once we were out on the main property, the cameras would see us. We had to be fast. I had to get myself together.
Reluctantly, I shrugged off Theo’s hold. I still couldn’t look at him. Jon laid the unconscious Network member in the truck bed. He’d straightened her bloody clothes, brushed her hair from her battered face.
Cordele.
A loud sob escaped me. They must have captured her just today. She hadn’t even been reported missing yet. Her hair matted, her eyes swollen and crusted with blood, her shirt torn to shreds with thick welts covering the exposed skin. Jon turned from the truck and gripped his own shoulder, where shreds of his shirt were used as a tourniquet.
Shane roared the truck to life. Thirteen came around the rear fender. My chest clenched. I looked away. He had seen what I had done to Markus. I wouldn’t blame him if he just left me here.
He stepped right up to me, towering over me. Then he gathered me into his arms. He held my face gently to his massive chest. Ran a hand through my matted hair.
“Shh,” he whispered. “It’s all over now.”
I lost it. Tears began streaming, nose running. I couldn’t catch my breath. I sobbed and Thirteen held me. Accepted me. Forgave me.
“We need to move,” Jon said softly.
I was suddenly exhausted. I wanted to go home to my little farmhouse. To curl up in my yellow quilt and cheap sheets. I leaned into Thirteen, laid my forehead against his chest. He lifted the hem of his tattered shirt and ran it over my mouth, back and forth.
“Will you be able to mask the truck from detection?” he asked me.
His hand moved to my neck. He was wiping away Markus’s blood. I nodded weakly.
“Well, don’t mask everyone,” Jon interjected. His hand still clutched his shoulder. He leaned against the truck for support. “We want the cameras to capture the hostages and some of us as well, don’t we?”
“Yes, of course,” Thirteen said.
“If you want, I’ll only mask myself.” I turned to those lying in the truck. “Should I heal them?” I asked.
“No,” Theo said from behind me. “We need their injuries as proof.”
I looked at Cordele. Fresh tears welled in my eyes. From my back, Theo took my elbow and guided me away from Thirteen. A hand at my waist, he lifted me into the truck bed with the others. His touch was quick, but there was no hesitation. “Let’s get outta here,” he called over his shoulder before crawling into the truck bed beside me.
I’m a Kelch. Why do you want me? I’m a monster. You saw what I did to Markus.
He snaked his arm around my shoulders and pulled me against his side. “I got you, Mag,” he said, his voice husky, reassuring. “You’re OK now.”
For the first time since that horrible moment on the couch, I looked Theo in the face. He looked over my body, scanning me from head to toe. Frowning. Then he met my eyes. His gaze softened. There was no disgust, no fear. Only concern. Genuine concern.
The tears came once again. I’ll never understand anything.
Shane tapped on the cab’s back window. “Where am I going?” he shouted.
I was too overwhelmed to speak out loud.
Follow the path from the barn to the east entrance. Stay to the left at every fork and you’ll end up right at the gate.
My mind was still shut tight. If he tried to respond with his thoughts, I didn’t hear.
The truck pulled out of the barn. Rain poured down on us. I made myself invisible. Theo pulled me in closer, and the connection between us hummed. I knew the moment the cameras picked us up because the guard station went crazy. Shouting orders, making phone calls to the main house. I didn’t care. The memory of our intimacy stirred something inside me. Theo inhaled sharply. He turned me toward him and looked me right in the eyes.
Everything will be figured out in time, Mag.
It was my turn to gasp. I was still invisible. My mental blocks were solidly in place. How could he see me? How could he speak to me with his thoughts?
Guards blocked the east gate but Shane just sped up. He rammed the gate as guards leaped out of the way. We huddled low as their gunshots fired wildly around us. Shane peeled out onto the highway. The estate wall flew by as we drove along its length. Shane sped through the storm, but I could still make out every black stone embedded in the layers of white bricks.
I did a double take. On the top the wall’s ledge, at the very end of the property, Mallroy stood. He leaned against a low branch, watching through the rain as we drove past. His eyes scanned the truck until he found me. Then he winked.
He can’t see me. That’s impossible.
But he smiled at me. And waved with his fingertips. Then he jumped down from the wall and disappeared back into the estate’s woods. It wasn’t an illusion. He knew I was alive.
I lifted my face to the pouring sky. The water soaked my hair and rinsed the blood from my face. I huddled closer to Theo, but it didn’t really matter. I’d failed. I’d been discovered.
I’d never really be warm again.
It was near dawn. A wonderful breeze blew through the farmhouse, filling it with scents of cornfields and wet grass. The yellow sheers billowed out from my bedroom window. Should I take them with me? They matched so well with the ones in the great room. And it seemed fitting to leave something of myself behind.
The monitor beeped twice. I sighed. So much for an easy getaway.
In the kitchen, I retrieved the last of my whiskey. What the hell, there was time for one more quick drink.
The alarm beeped once more. Heavy footsteps hesitated on the front steps.
…
Shane had driven the rusted truck to the hospital. The estate cameras had captured everyone’s image. When they arrived with the injured hostages, the police took names and pictures to match to estate tapes.
I wasn’t on the cameras. So rather than remaining invisible for the several hours that followed, I’d opted to come home.
When they’d dropped me off at Jon’s car, I’d peeked into his thoughts as he’d handed me his keys. The image in his mind had been revolting: me, fighting with demonlike claws, ripping out Markus’s throat with beastly teeth. He had tried to shake the image, but I doubted he ever would. Just before they drove away, I’d looked back at Theo. He’d frowned with worry. His dark chocolate eyes held promises of conversations to come and moments alone.
I’d hoped he would come to the farmhouse that night. But it was Thirteen who stopped by after the hostages were settled. The local law enforcement would now work with the FBI to investigate the Kelch family. The estate had been swarmed with officers before he’d even left the hospital. He’d sounded so eager. Finally they had real evidence—living victims willing to testify against my family.
He should have known better.
The next morning, Senator Maxwel
l Kelch held an impromptu press conference. His voice shaking, he asked the public for sympathy for the soul of his schizophrenic nephew. Twenty-nine-year-old Markus Kelch, in a deluded state of grandeur, had coerced and killed numerous Kelch employees, including several guards who manned the family’s estate. He had kidnapped and tortured innocent people, drugging them with hallucinogens stolen from his father’s own company. The drugs made his victims see things that couldn’t have possibly happened, made their suffering that much worse. That such atrocities had taken place in his own backyard—tears actually came to his eyes—it was more than any one family could take.
He’d said a prayer on live TV for the victims and their families. Then he had addressed the governor. He’d asked for special recognition for those brave citizens who had so gallantly rescued Markus’s hostages. If only they could have saved his nephew, as well—before he’d murdered his accomplices and slit his own throat.
Since Markus had used an abandoned part of the estate—and since the maintenance crew could testify to its years of nonuse—there was no way to lay blame on the rest of the family.
No one had visited me that day.
The morning that followed, I watched a replay of Uncle Max’s speech. The monitor beeped twice. My body remained cool. Still no Theo. The alarm beeped once more when Heather walked through the door. She looked tired, but her smile was genuine. She paused in the entryway just inside the kitchen, then held her hands up in surrender.
“I come in peace,” she chuckled. Then she lowered her hands and sobered. “Are you OK?”
She was so casual. Maybe Jon hadn’t told her all the gory details.
“Uh, yeah, I’m good,” I said.
She stepped into the kitchen and pulled out a chair at the table.
“Mind if I have a drink of that?” she asked, nodding to my whiskey.
“Sure.” I took down a glass, added some ice and sour mix, then poured out a respectable drink. I slid the glass to her across the table.
She tipped the drink in my direction then drank the entire thing in a series of gulps.
“So I heard about everything,” she started. “David Sasser was one of the hostages you guys rescued. He said that Banks was the one who took him—that’s why you didn’t feel anything at that building we went to. And Thirteen figures Banks was also with your brother when they set up the bomb at Batalkis’s house. It was his lead in the first place.” She took a deep breath. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through right now.” She folded her hands on the table. Stared at her fingers. “Jon’s gunshot wound was pretty bad. And Charles, Marie, and I just got in last night.”
There was an edge of guilt to her voice. She felt bad for not coming to see me sooner. “William Broviak is hidden now,” she continued. “Even though everyone agrees that the rest of your family doesn’t know about him or l’annuaire, Thirteen thought it best for him to relocate. He agreed, so they found him someplace not too isolated. He didn’t seem too bothered.”
I took a drink and waited.
“So…um…what are you going to do now?” she finally asked.
It occurred to me that certain members of the team would probably think it best if I too relocated to some place not too isolated. Probably not a bad idea.
“I’m not sure,” I told her honestly.
It didn’t seem appropriate to stay at the farmhouse. Although I couldn’t pinpoint why. I was still a member of the Network—Thirteen had made a point to mention it on his earlier visit. But to stay here…it just didn’t feel right anymore.
Mallroy knew I was alive. They’d come for me now. But for some reason I just wasn’t afraid anymore. There were too many other things to deal with now.
Heather’s eyes were on me. I finished off my whiskey.
“You shouldn’t go,” she said as if reading my mind. “There’s no need. We don’t know for sure if they’ll be looking for you. It’s not like you have to just disappear. You’re still part of the Network, part of our team. We still need your help.”
I smiled at my empty glass. Her sentiment meant more than she could know.
“Thank you,” I said. “Really, thank you so much for saying that and for coming here.” I spun my empty glass on the table. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Heather. There’s just so much I need to figure out now.” Like what the hell am I? How much power do I really have? Will I really be able to control it all? “How can I help the Network, or be with…anyone,” Theo, “until I know what’s going on with me?”
After a moment, she picked up her glass and tilted it over her mouth, shaking it to get the last drop. Then she stood up and looked around.
“Do you still have my cell phone number?” she asked.
“Yeah, I have it.”
“Use it,” she said. “Please.”
I followed her back down the hall to the door. She walked down the front steps. At the last step, she spun around. She sprinted back to the porch and wrapped her arms around me. It was a fast hug; I didn’t even have time to return the gesture or pat her on the back, but it was a hug nonetheless.
And it was wonderful.
…
I’d expected her to be my last visitor. But as the early morning sun streamed through the house, Thirteen strolled in. He leaned against the kitchen wall, crossed his arms over his chest. He was as wide as the doorway.
“You can’t leave,” he said. “I won’t let you.”
I smiled.
Without a word, I went back to the bedroom. I took a long look around. The room had been mine for a few moments of my life. I threw my black backpack over my shoulder and returned to the kitchen.
The warmth in Thirteen’s eyes softened the severity of his frown. He didn’t relax his rigid stance. I had to rest one hand on his folded arms and go up on tiptoes to lay a kiss on his scratchy cheek.
“Don’t worry,” I said as lightly as possible. “At some point, I’ll come back for my curtains.”
He placed his giant hand over my small one, held it to his arm. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. I gently pulled away and walked out of the house.
It was a beautiful morning for a drive. The wind blew softly, the sun shone brightly, and I had a world of uncertainty on my shoulders.
I made it a whole five miles before my stomach tightened. A warmth stirred inside me. The sunlight glowed a little bit brighter as I rounded the next bend.
I pulled off about ten feet away from where Theo rested against his parked Harley. God, he was beautiful. The morning sun lightened his dark, wavy hair and glistened off his tanned skin. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes. His white T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, and his low-riding jeans hung perfectly. I remembered that day on the couch—the feel of him under me, his hands kneading my back. The way his lips had trailed from my ear down my throat…
I wanted to leap from the car and fall into his arms. Instead, I gripped the steering wheel tighter.
He ambled over to the driver’s side of the car. Stared down at me behind those dark glasses. I didn’t read his mind. I didn’t need to. He turned his head to stare into the sunlight.
“You aren’t the only one with questions, you know,” he said finally.
I couldn’t speak. Our connection throbbed, rejoicing at our closeness. He crouched down beside my door. “When will you be back?” he asked. Then he cocked an eyebrow at me. “Because you will come back to me, Mag.”
I smiled a goofy smile. “Soon,” I said. It was all I could manage.
He nodded, not looking goofy at all. For a long minute he just stared at me. My heart sped up. He leaned over and brushed his lips against mine. A soft touch of our mouths.
At least that’s how it started. But the pressure grew. My hands reached up to hold his jaw. His fingers tangled in my windblown hair. The connection between us heated and spread until…he pulled back sharply. We were both panting. Gently, he took my hands in his, removed them from his face. He put his forehead to mine and sighed.
&
nbsp; Then he turned away.
Without another word, he swaggered back to his motorcycle. He swung a long leg over the silver bike and roared the machine to life. Then he drove off, back toward HQ.
I was still relearning how to breathe when his voice whispered through my mind.
Soon, Mag. Soon.
This being a first book, I could easily acknowledge every English teacher and literary professor I’ve ever had, in addition to anyone who has ever given me a book to read that allowed me to disappear for an afternoon. I’ll keep this shorter than that.
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my incredible agent, Joanna Volpe. Her unwavering patience during the process of getting this book made was truly remarkable and came second only to her constant encouragement. I’d also like to thank Maria Gomez and everyone at 47North. Working with people who really “get” you makes a world of difference. Dianne Drake who first told me I was a writer, my writers’ group who keep me on track, and all of the individuals responsible for the Midwest Writers Workshop—many thanks for setting me on the right path.
I would not be able to write a single word without the support of an incredible family. J and R—thank you for not complaining about the numerous “cereal for dinner” nights. Babydoll, you already know. Finally, I’d like to thank my sister, Molly, who eagerly reads every version of every story I write and gives the best opinions ever.
Photograph by Molly Champion, 2011
Megan Powell was born and raised in the Midwest, where she developed a strange affinity for state fairs and basketball humor. When not writing, she can be found feeding her paranormal romance addiction. No Peace for the Damned is her first book.
No Peace for the Damned Page 20