by M. C. Sutton
Jon pushed past Aaron and lunged for Bennett. On top of everything else this man was responsible for, Jon wasn’t about to let him insult his wife’s character.
“Jon, don’t!” Jack jumped in front of him, a hand across his chest. “Try to be rational.”
Aaron grabbed Jon’s arms from behind.
Bennett smiled and stepped closer. Jon noticed the two Secret Service men push back their jackets and place a hand on their guns. Somewhere in the back of his mind—the part that was still slightly rational—Jon wondered why the men in black hadn’t already grabbed both him and Bennett.
“Well, it looks like emotional instability is a shared trait among the Grants. But what can you expect—” Bennett leaned in, inches from Jon’s face. He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “—from an alcoholic squadron leader who couldn’t even manage to bring his own boys back alive?”
And then something in the air just snapped. In the sudden rush that followed, all Jon was aware of was Aaron letting him go, a flash of black suit jackets, and the crack of knuckles against bone. But when it was all said and done, it wasn’t Jon lying face down on the floor with the knee of one of the Secret Service men in his back.
It was Aaron.
What the hell just happened?
Jon stared down at Aaron’s frame pinned to the carpet. Bennett stood a few feet up the hall, nursing a bloody lip.
The Secret Service guys pulled Aaron to his feet and held him by the arms. Bennett regained his composure and approached, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Well, well, Mr. Dallin,” he said. “I certainly wasn’t expecting that.”
Yeah, no kidding, thought Jon.
“What would you like us to do with him, Mr. Vice President?” the guys in black asked Jack.
“It’s all right,” Bennet answered them instead. “I’ll overlook it.” He narrowed his eyes at Aaron. “This time.”
Jack nodded silently to the two men, who let Aaron go.
Bennett looked down at the bright red blotch on the back of his hand. “Well. Good day to you gentlemen.” He turned and walked away.
Jon, Aaron, and Jack waited till Bennett was out of sight before saying another word.
Aaron shook his head and sighed. “I’m sorry, Jon.” He flexed his swelling hand. “Something about that guy just gets to me.”
“Are you kidding, man?” Jon beamed. He couldn’t have been happier if he’d punched the guy himself. “That was incredible! In fact, when I get home I’m adding you to my will.” He slapped Aaron on the shoulder.
“I believe you owe him more than that, Jon.” Jack reached for Aaron’s hand to examine the damage. “I guarantee that if you were the one who’d hit Bennett, he wouldn’t have been so forgiving.”
If I were the one who’d hit him, thought Jon, he wouldn’t have been conscious.
Still, Jon had no doubt in his mind that Jack was right. Bennett would have loved nothing more than to see Jon arrested and out of the way.
As the three of them returned to the suite, Jon couldn’t help but feel an incredible sense of relief. All the pent-up anger he’d been holding in for the last two days was gone, as if whatever fuel had fired his rage had been cut off by a simple act of primal instinct. He had Aaron to thank for that.
Rachael stood and stepped out of the way so Jon could take her place next to Emma on the bed. The doctor had said it was important that they watched Emma for the next few hours, Rachael explained, for any signs of change.
Jack spoke up. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me. Despite how it may seem, there are over three hundred other people here whose lives don’t revolve around us. I have a convention currently in shambles to attend to. Especially since we have just lost what I consider to be our most important speaker.”
He looked at Jon and raised an eyebrow. “Of course, I could always rearrange the schedule so that Emma presented after lunch instead. Assuming you both were still up to it?”
Jon turned to Emma. Despite everything that had happened, she looked so peaceful. Anyone watching her would have thought she was just sleeping soundly. More soundly than she had in months.
Emma didn’t have to be awake for Jon to know what her answer would be.
Jon nodded his acquiescence to Jack.
“Thank you, Jon. It means a lot to me.” Jack patted Jon’s shoulder and headed to the door. “Oh, and by the way,” he added, turning. “All four of you are confined to this floor until after lunch. I’ll have security posted outside your rooms and at the end of the hall.”
Rachael’s jaw dropped.
“And you, young man.” He pointed at Aaron. “Try to keep your hands to yourself from now on.”
“Yes, sir.” Aaron looked appropriately chastened, but as soon as the door had closed behind Jack, he and Jon exchanged a grin.
“All right, boys.” Rachael crossed her arms and tapped a finger against her elbow. “Why are we now confined to this floor, and what exactly did the vice president of the United States mean by ‘keep your hands to yourself’?”
CHAPTER 14
The sensation almost overwhelmed him.
Matt had made every attempt to relax his mind and body before Professor March began the exercise, but he barely had time to notice the warmth of the professor’s hands on his shoulders before he found himself floundering in a torrent of vivid emotions.
They slammed into him like a violent ocean surge, washing over his body and mind in brisk, cutting waves. Matt struggled amid the rush of the incoming tide, desperately holding on to what little was left of himself. But the harder he fought against it, the faster the swell of sensory overload came. Until, at last, he could no longer maintain his mental footing, and he slipped beneath the crashing waves of disarray.
Deeper he sank into the emotions that were Professor Michael March. The pain of losing his wife and daughters in the raids on London during the war. The guilt he carried from the choices he’d made as a British operative. The incredible weight of what he knew—about the world, what was to come, and the role Matt’s parents played in it.
What about my parents?
“Focus, Matthew,” he heard the professor say from somewhere on the distant shore of consciousness.
But Matt was too far gone now, washed away in a great sea of desperation. It tossed him relentlessly until he could no longer tell which way was up or out. He knew only the blackness and the tide, and the bitter froth of what he could only describe as hopeless solitude. He could feel the pressure of it like an incredible weight against his chest. Against his weak, scarred heart.
Was it Professor March’s solitude he felt?
Or was it his own?
“It’s all right, Matthew. I’m here.” The voice pierced like a light through the darkness.
And then, everything was calm. The beating of the waves ceased, and Matt suddenly found himself not amid the torrent, but lying comfortably on the shore, basking in the warmth of the sun-baked sand beneath him.
I’m here.
It had been a subtle reminder that he wasn’t alone. That he had never been alone.
He lay beneath the warmth of a cloudless sky, the rays of sunshine enveloping him. The salty ocean breeze blew across his tired body, across his tired mind. The warmth resonated within him and strengthened him somehow. The way his family did.
And he understood. When Professor March had realized that Matt was struggling, Matt had become overwhelmed with the concern the professor felt for him. The affection. It was the same way he felt about his own family.
The way he felt about Alex.
“I’m all right now, Professor,” Matt whispered. He had found his footing, and they could now move on.
Somewhere far away, Matt felt the professor’s grip on his shoulders tighten.
His senses sharpened. He could distinctly make out each individual grain of sand, could hear the distinctive click of the beetle that scuttled beside him. The bitter taste of salt in his mo
uth was fresh and new. Matt felt the flap of every fish in the ocean before him, felt the air buoying the lone seagull floating lazily above. Even the beating of his own heart and the hollow whistle of the air entering and exiting his lungs echoed in his ears. It was fascinating.
So. This is what focused feels like.
“Don’t forget what it is you’re meant to be doing, Matthew,” the professor said.
Matt wasn’t sure he wanted to remember. Everything he’d felt over the last few months was like being beneath those violent ocean waves. It had disoriented and overwhelmed him, and Matt didn’t want to explore it. He wanted to stay here, where it was calm and warm and inviting. It comforted him, as if it were one of his favorite places in the whole world.
But wait, Matt thought. The beach wasn’t one of his favorite places.
It never had been. Matt’s favorite place in the world had always been home. Whether it was the apartment in Leesburg where he grew up or the house in Pineville, his favorite place had always been wherever his family was. Matt didn’t care for the beach at all. It was vast and lonely. So why had his subconscious mind chosen to conjure this place?
Though Matt wasn’t fond of the beach, there was someone in his family who was. His dad. And then Matt knew why. What he had been feeling over the last few months reminded him of his father—more specifically, of the dark time in his childhood when his father was gone. Matt didn’t like to think about it, to remember the feeling of almost losing his dad. It hurt entirely too much to even try.
Matt was only about seven years old at the time, and he remembered quite distinctly feeling what his mother felt. Though one’s gift doesn’t usually manifest until early adolescence, the professor had once explained to him that a gift is typically based on personality. Ever since Matt was little, he had been sensitive and compassionate, and therefore he had become an Empath. Just like his brother had always been charming and convincing and later became a Pusher.
But Matt didn’t believe that. He hadn’t just picked up on the incredible pain she went through. He had felt it. Her heartbreak, her helplessness, her discord—it was the most horrible thing he had ever experienced in his life.
Looking back on it now, though, he realized that maybe her feelings weren’t about losing his dad. She had never actually believed he was dead, anyway. She even refused to go to his funeral. No matter how much everyone tried to convince her to accept it and move on with her life, she still held on to the hope that he was alive.
So if it wasn’t the horrible sense of separation that his mother had felt, then what was it?
This was the point on which Matt would focus. It was the closest he had come to understanding his feelings over the last few months. It wasn’t exact, but it was a start.
He thought back to that time, years ago, that he’d tried so hard to forget. He chose a moment where the feeling had been the strongest, and remembered.
When Matt was growing up, his dad was always there. He was the building superintendent of their apartment in Leesburg, and with Matt’s mom so busy with her work, it was his dad who was always there when they got home from school. Up until he was deployed, the only time he ever wasn’t home was the few weeks a year when he was out for training.
After his dad was shipped out for the war, Matt and his brother and sister would go to their Aunt Renee’s apartment every day after school, a few doors down from their own, and stay until their mom got home from work. Sometimes that was only for a couple of hours. Sometimes she wouldn’t come home for days. But every time Matt walked by their apartment, he would turn the doorknob to see if it was unlocked. Because if it was, then maybe his dad was home waiting for them.
On one particularly bad day, Matt hung back behind his brother and sister as they headed down the hallway to Aunt Renee’s. Things had gotten rough at the Grant house lately. His mom was hardly ever home at all, and when she was, she seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He’d overheard quite a few heated phone calls between her and whoever was in charge of looking for his father. They wanted to give up because they thought his dad was dead. She wasn’t convinced.
So as Matt watched his brother and sister disappear through the door up the hall, he took a deep breath and put a hand on the doorknob. He closed his eyes and willed the knob to turn. He knew if his dad just came back then everything would be okay again. His mom wouldn’t be so sad and upset all the time. The kids at school would quit whispering and shaking their heads whenever he was around. His teachers would stop hugging him and telling him how sorry they were for his loss. The doorknob just had to turn, because if it did, then everything would be all right.
It turned.
Matt tiptoed into the apartment, as if he were intruding on someone else’s home instead of his own. He held his breath, hoping beyond hope that his father would be there waiting for him.
“Dad?” He was barely able to whisper over the pounding of his heart.
But it wasn’t his dad who he found sitting in front of the couch on the living room floor, crying.
It was his mom.
“Matt?” she said, wiping the tears from her face. His mother always tried so hard not to let him or his siblings see her cry. But Matt always knew. “Honey, what are you doing home already?”
Matt sat down on the floor beside her and slipped his hand into hers. “I was going to ask you the same thing, Mom.”
“Sweetheart…” She hesitated as if she wasn’t sure whether to continue. “Mommy is… sick.”
Matt already had a little bit of an idea about that, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it.
“And Uncle Quinn thought it would be a good idea if I took some time off work. Just for a little while. Till Dad gets back.”
Uncle Quinn wasn’t really Matt’s uncle any more than Aunt Renee was his aunt. Matt’s mom and Uncle Quinn had grown up together, just like Matt’s dad had grown up with Aunt Renee’s husband, Danny, who was killed in the war several months before. It was hard on all of them when Danny died. He had always treated Matt and his brother and sister like they really were his niece and nephews.
Uncle Quinn was different. He was never at birthday parties. He didn’t offer to babysit on Matt’s parents’ anniversary, or bring over soup and movies when they were sick, the way that Aunt Renee and Uncle Danny did. The only member of the family that had ever been all that close to Uncle Quinn was Matt’s mom, and there was something about him that made Matt uncomfortable. Matt didn’t like the way Uncle Quinn looked at his mom, and he was sure his dad felt the same way.
“Does that mean you’re not going to be gone so much anymore?” Matt asked.
“That’s right.” His mom tried to smile. “So it’s a good thing, really. Isn’t it? It means I’ll get to spend a lot more time with you guys.”
Matt frowned. As much as he loved the idea of his mom being home, he knew that wasn’t really how she felt. “If it’s such a good thing, then why are you so sad?”
She put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. “Mattie, sometimes bad things happen. And as much as grownups don’t want it to, as much as they work and they plan, it happens anyway. Sometimes they can prevent it, and sometimes, no matter how hard they try, there isn’t anything they can do about it. It’s simply out of our control. But even knowing that—knowing you did everything you could to try to stop it or reduce its effect on the people you care about—doesn’t necessarily make it any easier to deal with. It’s still very, very hard.”
Matt wasn’t sure what she meant.
“Oh, honey, I know you probably don’t really understand. But maybe someday you will.” She held him tight. Matt didn’t have to hear the occasional sniffle to know she was crying again.
It was at that moment that he felt it the strongest. The horrible sense of hopelessness and turmoil, as if something inside her had split in two. Matt always thought it was because of his dad being gone and her being sick. She hated everyone focusing on her when they should have been trying to find his
father. It was true Matt didn’t understand what she had been talking about, but he always thought she was referring to the cancer.
Yet looking back on it now, Matt knew that wasn’t it. That moment may have been the strongest he ever felt the sensation, but it wasn’t the first time. It had been going on long before that. He had been so young at the time, and Matt had never wanted to think about it before. All the arguments, his parents sleeping in separate rooms, and his mom disappearing for days without any of them even knowing where she was.
It hadn’t always been like that. Matt remembered how in love his parents had been when he was little. Kind of like they were now. Before all the fighting. Before his mom would wake up crying. Before…
“The dreams.” Matt opened his eyes.
It took him a moment to focus on the professor’s office. The storm clouds were gone, and sunshine flooded in through the window. Though the clock above the desk said it had been less than an hour since they started, Matt felt like entire years of his life had passed in that room.
Professor March took his hands off Matt’s shoulders and returned to his chair. Matt tried to steady his breathing. Physically, the exercise had taken a lot out of him.
The professor waited for him to catch his breath, then said, “Well? What did you see?”
Matt wiped sweat from his forehead. Had it been this hot in here the entire time?
“It’s my mother,” he said. “I think she’s having the dreams again. I mean, I already knew she was, I’ve known for a while, but… She’s seen something, Professor. Something she’s having a really hard time with.”
“You mean, like the dreams she had when she was your age?”
“No, not quite like that. These are different, I think.”
Matt’s mother had never actually talked to him about her dreams. He’d only picked up on bits and pieces of overheard conversations, and things that his great-grandparents had told him. He knew that when she was younger, she used her dreams to help people. Like the tornado at Wakarusa. She had turned her gift from passive to active, in a way. Much like Professor March was trying to teach him to do.