by Lily Cahill
In the moonlight, the meadow grasses looked mystical, almost bewitched. The thought flashed in his mind to take Cora here one day, to kiss her with the swirl of the grasses all around them, whispering to them as they made love.
Stop it.
He had to concentrate, focus. It wasn’t often that he was alone. And this was something he definitely had to do alone. He shuddered at the thought of what he had done to the lawn. What if he had thrown that thing at a person? Would they end up the same? The thought was terrifying.
Clayton plucked a long blade of grass. He held it in his hand, but nothing happened. Not a single thing.
What had made the rose shrivel? Perhaps his touch was only lethal on flowers. But that didn’t feel right. He couldn’t place why, but he knew it was wrong. He had felt something when it happened. A desire for something, and some sort of a flash—an instant of connection with more than just that rose.
Maybe it was the time of night, or the temperature, or the fullness of the moon. God, what was he saying? Was he some sort of warped werewolf or something? A slave to the movement of the planets?
No. It wasn’t the circumstances surrounding the moment. It was the moment itself. He had felt it. Felt something. He’d been angry at the time—angry about how distrusted he felt, how trapped.
He had been angry.
He had been angry and he had wanted to destroy that rose.
Destroy it.
That must be the key—his intention.
Perhaps if he made himself angry, it would happen again. He conjured up the first thing that came to his mind: an image of Frank peeping at him and Cora on the trail. In an instant the blade shriveled in his palm and what was left was exactly like the other night: a blue sphere of energy, floating a few inches above his hand. It was a little smaller this time, though. Where the other sphere had been the size of a golf ball, this was more the size of a grape. Perhaps the larger the source, the larger the sphere.
He tried to poke the sphere with his other finger, but it only moved away from his touch. He flipped his hand and the sphere stayed in the same place, hovering above the back of his hand instead of his palm. He bounced the sphere toward the other hand and it moved. He threw the thing back and forth between his palms several times, like a juggler. Every time the thing moved, he could feel a pull to it, as though his hand was a magnet. And yet, it never actually touched his hand.
Clayton chuckled. It was remarkable. Not only did it move like it was made to be in his hands, but it was completely weightless. And it looked incredible too—electric and pulsating and alive. Dark blue in the center and lighter around the edges with small lightning bolts undulating from the middle. As he looked at it, he realized he was holding energy—perhaps the actual life force—from the plucked blade of grass. It was mesmerizing.
As incredible as the thing looked, felt, he knew the danger was in what happened next. And he needed to see it again to really understand.
Clayton threw the ball to the ground, watching closely this time. Just like before, the sphere made a zap sound as it hit, then dissipated into nothing. And in its wake—where tall grasses had once waved under the moonlight—there was nothing. Only dust.
It was an intense feeling knowing what he was capable of—powerful and terrifying and confusing, too. He had so many questions. How large could the balls get? How big of a source could he pull from? Was it just plants? Or other life sources, too? Would his control of them change if they became too large?
He loped across the meadow to grab something larger—a wide, fallen tree branch still green with leaves. But his fingers made contact with something else. Something furry. A raccoon had darted out just as his hand was extended, perhaps frightened by the sudden movement. It scurried under his fingers, then immediately stopped where it stood.
It felt so strange, ten times as powerful as the blade of grass. Twenty. He could feel the energy gathering in his fingers as the raccoon seemed to wither in place in an instant.
Clayton wanted to rip his hand away, but couldn’t. The pull was too strong. The raccoon crumpled to the ground and lay completely still.
It wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving at all.
Panic struck him. What had he done?
He looked at the ball in his hand—much larger than the others had been, the size of a melon. And the feel of it was wrong, different somehow.
He wasn’t supposed to have it.
It wasn’t supposed to be in his hands.
He had to get rid of it. He had to give the energy back to the little animal.
He crouched down next to the raccoon and pressed the ball against its fur. But it didn’t bring the creature back to life. The orb wouldn’t even leave his hand.
Clayton’s heart was racing. What was happening? He could feel the pulse of it more intensely than with the others, could feel the desire to use it overtaking him. It was seductive, frightening, the taste of a stolen candy in his mouth—sweet and rotten all at once. He felt himself on the edge of something, a precipice, a choice.
He had to get rid of it. Throw it. Get it away.
Maybe if he threw it at the animal, the animal could reabsorb it somehow.
Clayton hurled the ball toward the raccoon.
There was a zap, followed by an instant sense of both relief and loss.
He looked over to where the raccoon’s body had been, but it was gone. What had been a husk of a living, breathing animal was now turned to dust.
“No,” Clayton said. “No.”
He pressed his hand against the ground where the raccoon had lain, hoping against hope that his eyes deceived him. But they had not.
The raccoon was gone, along with a wide swath of grass around it.
Clayton had stolen its life. He had stolen its life and then used that life to destroy whatever was left of it.
He fell against a tree and stared up at the moon, gasping for breath that suddenly seemed short. He had never felt more low, more base, more selfish. The power that had seemed so incredible just moments ago suddenly felt so wrong, and so much more dangerous.
Yet as much as he hated what he had done, he felt a sick longing to have it back. To taste that power again.
And if he could do that to an animal, then what about his friends and family? How strong would their pull be? And how satisfying once he had it in his hands?
He was weak, exactly what Will had said, exactly what his father had always thought of him.
He was a danger to everyone he knew.
He could never, ever use his power again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Clayton
“You have to help me,” Clayton said, storming into old Dr. Pinkerton’s office. He hadn’t slept at all last night, just tossed and turned and thought about what he had done.
Then the idea had hit him—what if there was a cure?
“Clayton? What’s the matter, boy?” Dr. Pinkerton said. “You look white as a sheet.”
Clayton paced in front of Dr. Pinkerton’s desk, overrun with paperwork and medical journals. The whole office seemed just as crowded and untidy—full of bookshelves and filing cabinets stacked to the brim—a lifetime of work crammed into a single room. “It’s that fog. Something happened to me in the fog. I know it.”
“Are you feeling ill again?”
“No. Something more. It changed me. I’m different. I can do things now that I couldn’t do before.”
Dr. Pinkerton looked hard at Clayton for a long moment, then stood and walked around his desk. “Have you been seeing things, Clayton? Hearing strange voices?”
“No, Doc. Nothing like that.” He wasn’t crazy. Was he?
“Then what is it?”
Clayton realized talking more would only make him seem more nuts. He had to show Dr. Pinkerton what he could do. He looked around the room and spotted a houseplant.
“Watch,” Clayton said.
He tore off the smallest leaf and pulled the energy from it. It was easy now, after the prac
tice he’d had last night. And he was already plenty agitated.
The doctor startled, took two steps back from Clayton, knocking a stack of files onto the floor in the process.
Clayton threw the small energy sphere to the ground. There was an electric zap as it hit the hardwood and left a quarter-sized hole.
“Good Heavens!” Dr. Pinkerton shouted. “What was that? What have you done?”
“I’m sorry about the damage. I’ll have it repaired. I just—I had to show you. Or you would never have believed me.”
“Damn right I wouldn’t have believed you. What the devil was that?”
The doctor rubbed his already tired eyes. Clayton had never seen him looking so run down. There was a knock on the door and it quickly opened. The young Dr. Porter walked through. “Is everything all right in here, Granddad? I heard a noise.”
“Everything’s fine, Henry.”
Dr. Porter looked between his grandfather’s very red face and Clayton’s erratic pacing. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Go back to your office, please. Mr. Briggs and I need to speak about something privately.”
“If you say so. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Henry.”
Dr. Porter left them in utter silence. Clayton looked to Dr. Pinkerton to see if he could figure out what he was thinking. But the doctor’s face was quiet, thoughtful. He could just as easily be about to tell Clayton that he was calling the police as tell him he needed an aspirin and a good night’s sleep.
“How did you discover this … ability?” Dr. Pinkerton asked, seeming genuinely interested now that the shock had worn off. Clayton relayed what he had experienced at his mother’s party, then told the story of what had happened in the meadow the previous night.
“So the ball seems to be larger with a larger power source?”
“Yes.”
“And these larger objects take some time for you to, ah, pull from?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Pinkerton pulled a hand through his white hair. “And once you’ve removed the energy from something, it cannot go back?”
“No. Not as far as I can tell.”
“Have you tried to pull only a part of the energy? To save the source from total destruction?”
“No. I mean I did try, but it was different. It didn’t work.” Was it even possible? Could he stop once he had already started?
“Well, give it another try.” Dr. Pinkerton shuffled over to the houseplant and handed Clayton the whole pot. “I always forget to water the damn thing anyway.”
Clayton took a moment to concentrate then touched the outermost leaf of the plant. Immediately, it began to shrivel and turn brown. The brown spread quickly: first the leaf, then the stem, then the stalk.
But it wasn’t the same as the raccoon had been. Clayton felt no hunger for it.
He willed himself to stop, and it did. The destruction halted. Only half the plant had been destroyed.
“Good boy,” Dr. Pinkerton said. “Very, very good.”
Clayton smiled. This, at least, was a relief. He moved to throw the sphere to the floor again.
“Hold on there. I don’t need any more holes in my floorboards.” Dr. Pinkerton opened his window and, after looking to make sure no one could see, Clayton threw it to the ground outside.
“I admit I am concerned,” Dr. Pinkerton said. “This thing you can do …. I’m sure you see the danger in it.”
“I do. What if it’s not safe for me to be around people?”
“You’ve demonstrated a reasonable amount of control over it. And if you continue to do so, I don’t think it’s necessary to confine you for the safety of others.”
Plants were one thing. But what about people?
Clayton turned to the window, scowling. “Maybe I should be locked up.”
“I really don’t think that’s necessary. At least not yet. Let me look into this on your behalf first, before we involve the authorities. You haven’t told anyone else, have you?”
“Not a soul.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way for now.”
“Yes, sir. But what about the fog? What about the others?”
“I’m not so sure it affected them the same way, Clayton. No one else has brought anything like this to my attention. You’re the only one.”
Clayton wanted to say that he wasn’t the only one—that Cora was like him, she could do something powerful too. But he didn’t. That was for Cora to tell. He kept his mouth shut.
“For now, I’d like you to concentrate on keeping this under wraps.”
“Are you sure about that? Maybe if I came forward, then others might too.”
“That’s assuming there are others. And like I said, I doubt that to be the case. This is an extreme anomaly, son. I don’t know if you fully understand the elements that would have to accelerate in the course of human evolution to make what’s happening to you even possible. Statistically speaking, it’s highly unlikely that those same ingredients exist in anyone else. The fog itself may have been a factor, and it may not. It might have just been a matter of timing. The Army investigators are still trying to figure out exactly what happened. And until we know more, it’s just as likely that your genetics could be responsible. So I suggest you keep this quiet.”
“It feels wrong to hide it,” he said. “I don’t want to lie to anyone.”
“This is quite different from a lie, don’t you think? I mean, you don’t tell everyone about everything in your life, do you?”
“I suppose not. But if I pose a danger to others—”
“I don’t think that’s the case. Silence is the best solution for now. It’s not just for other’s safety. It’s for your own. Think of what people would say, how they would talk. Your life would be completely different if anyone knew. Your family might even be at risk.”
Clayton hadn’t let himself think about that, not really. He’d imagined his family being shocked, yes. Disowning him, even. But he hadn’t imagined how others would treat them if word got out. They lived in a small town. Hysteria would spread as quickly as the common cold.
“Do you think—do you think there’s a cure?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I promise to do my best to find one, but I can’t make any guarantees. Until I know more, can you promise to stay quiet about this?”
“Yes.”
But his promise was only half true. There was someone he wanted to talk to about it. Someone he wanted to talk to very much.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cora
Cora swept the front steps. They were already clean, but she needed something to do with her hands. Clayton was supposed to arrive any minute, and she wanted to give him the impression that she had forgotten all about their date.
Sort of.
She had pinned back her soft waves so they framed her face and put on her best blue dress—the same one she’d worn to the festival. She had even done the trick with the beet juice she had shown Bethany. She wanted to look her best when he came—if he came at all. After what she’d seen yesterday night, she wasn’t sure he would show. But if he did come, boy would she make him sorry.
The car purred as it rounded the bend near her house. Not many people had cars on this side of the river, and everyone knew them well. There was Butch’s run-down pickup truck and old Mr. Abel’s rusting sedan. She’d even heard Ralph was tinkering with something lately. By far the nicest car on the block was Danny’s next door—a slick black ’49 Mercury he’d restored himself after someone had totaled it on a local mountain road. His car made all the girls swoon. But he was a greaser who worked at the mechanic’s, so that was to be expected. She knew it was Clayton’s car by the sound. None of the other cars sounded so smooth, so gentle. His Aston Martin practically floated to a stop right in front of her house. She tried not to look up. She tried to stay focused on the sweeping.
“Hello,” his voice called to her. It was as warm and soft as the sunset and it was all Cora coul
d do not to run down the steps and throw herself into his arms.
Instead, she looked up coolly from her task. “Oh, it’s you.”
Then she saw the paper-wrapped bouquet in his hands and her heart nearly stopped.
He seemed confused. “Did I get the night wrong?”
“Drop the act, Clayton,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but you can just take your fancy car and run along.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
She thought she could see hurt in his eyes, the faintest crack of desperation. Was it just that she wanted him to be sorry, or had her words genuinely cut him?
“Have I done something to offend you?” he asked, his voice full of gravel.
She remembered seeing him at the soda fountain, remembered Violet’s red lips so close to his skin, and her sympathy disappeared.
“I saw you, Clayton. Hanging out at the drugstore last night with Violet,” she said. “I don’t know what kind of girl you think I am, but I don’t sleep around, and I’m certainly not the kind of girl who messes around with a boy who’s already spoken for.”
“I’m not spoken for,” Clayton said. “Violet is just my friend.”
“I’m not stupid. I remember the two of you in high school.”
“Cora, please. That ended a long time ago. She was my first steady, yes—and we’ll always be good friends because of it—but we don’t have feelings for each other anymore. She’s just overprotective of me. That’s all.”
Cora looked at him, at the flowers in his hands—she loved dahlias. How had he known to get her dahlias?
“I’m not that kind of a man. All I want from you is your time. And as long as we’re together, it’s just you and me, okay?”
Cora sighed. She was tired of playing games. She wanted to believe him. She really did. But ….
“I don’t get it, Clayton. You’re a Briggs. I’m a Murphy. Why did you ask me out? It doesn’t make any sense.”
He reached out and took her hand in his. The warmth of his skin against her sent a flush through her whole body. She had to be careful with him. He was like a match burning short in her fingers.