by Kelly Meding
“As long as Landon is stable, I’ll attend,” Thatcher said stonily.
“Good enough.”
“Can we go see him now?” Bethany said in a familiar whiny tone. Several new bruises had darkened on her face and arms during the trip home. She’d taken a pretty good banging when the Sport tumbled over.
“Yes, Renee can take you to the infirmary. You need to get looked over, anyway.”
Bethany grimaced, but didn’t argue (for once).
I groaned inwardly, even though getting volunteered as tour guide shouldn’t have surprised me. I was Thatcher’s official babysitter, after all.
“What about you?” Gage asked, pointing to the bandage at Teresa’s hairline.
“It’s a cut, it’s fine.”
I didn’t wait around to see if the cut turned into a larger argument. I headed toward the HQ entrance, not bothering to check to see if Bethany and Thatcher were following me. We got a few speculative looks as we marched down the main corridor, mostly from the youngest Metas in residence. Everyone knew about Thatcher by now, but Bethany was new and therefore interesting.
The infirmary waiting room was mostly empty. Only Ethan and Aaron were there, pacing in one corner of the room. The two exam cubicle curtains were open, their areas empty, which meant all of the doctoring was happening in the rear rooms, hidden behind a large swinging door. Conversation stopped abruptly when we walked in, and I couldn’t even appreciate the awesomeness of the glare Aaron shot at Bethany because she bolted for the door at the rear.
“Hold on a second,” Ethan said. He got in her way before she could burst into the back and interrupt something important.
She pulled her right hand back like she was going to hit him, but Thatcher snagged her wrist. “How’s Landon?” Thatcher asked.
“He’s being operated on,” Ethan replied. “Dr. Kinsey said the wood shard nicked his lung, so he has to repair that before he can property treat the burns.”
“How long has it been?”
Before Ethan could answer, the door swung open and Jessica Lam stepped out. She wore blue scrubs and still had a mask hanging around her neck, but she’d removed all other evidence of her recent surgery—good tactic for not scaring the family. She nodded at me, then gave the two newcomers a curious look.
“How’s Landon?” Thatcher asked.
“He’s stable and resting,” Jessica replied. “And you are?”
“Derek Thatcher. I’m his father.”
Her eyebrows arched.
“And I’m his sister,” Bethany said.
“Not biologically,” Thatcher added.
She gave him a withering glare. “Like I’d claim you as a sperm donor.”
I covered a bark of laughter with a cough.
“Can I see him?” Thatcher asked.
“In a few minutes,” Jessica replied. “Dr. Kinsey will come out when it’s all right. In the meantime, is anyone else injured?”
All eyes went right to Bethany, who heaved a dramatic sigh. “Yeah, I guess me.” Then she gave Jessica a second, more appraising look. “Definitely me.”
The girl just didn’t stop.
Jessica took her to the nearest cubicle, then pulled the curtain. Their voices continued behind it, muffled and soft.
“How was the flight home?” I asked Ethan.
“Exhausting,” he replied. A new bruise darkened his jaw, and he was definitely paler than his usual Irish self.
“He almost crashed in the courtyard,” Aaron said with a protective growl. “Will you please tell him he can stop playing guard dog and go rest?”
“Stop playing guard dog and go rest,” I said. “I’m serious, Ethan, I’ve got this.”
Ethan actually looked a little grateful for the order. “Follow your own advice, Stretch, you look like hell.”
“I was born this way.”
He rolled his eyes, then let Aaron lead him toward the door.
“Ethan?” Thatcher said. He strode over to the pair and extended his hand. “Thank you for doing that. For getting Landon here.”
“You’re welcome.” Ethan shook his hand, then followed Aaron out.
Thatcher and I stood awkwardly in the middle of the waiting room, neither of us speaking. The soft rumble of voices behind the curtain droned on. I hoped Bethany would be ordered to get bed rest and be silent for a while, but I’ve never been that lucky. I also had the oddest urge to say something comforting to Thatcher. He was as tense as I’d ever seen him, jaw set and eyes hard, probably one good push from putting his fist through a wall.
“You didn’t cause this,” I said.
“I didn’t do anything to prevent it, either,” he replied.
“Like what, exactly?” I lowered my voice so it didn’t carry beyond the curtain to Bethany. “They were targeting him, you know. Probably Bethany, too.”
“I realize that. This Uncle of theirs probably wants to make sure they won’t talk.”
“Probably.”
“Landon could have died.”
“Any one of us could have died today, Derek. But none of us did.”
He blinked and looked at me for the first time. Some of the stone in his expression softened, and I swear he wanted to smile. “You’re right. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the middle of something like this.”
I snorted. “It’s been my life all year, and it’s likely to stay that way until my luck runs out and I end up a smear on the pavement.”
“I hope that doesn’t happen.”
“Thanks, but I learned a long time ago that wishing someone safe doesn’t keep them alive.”
My thoughts turned to William and our private good-bye before he left for a studio interview on his own two feet and came home in a body bag. We’d only been together a few days, and we’d made love the night before—our first and only time. Everything was still so new, but also familiar and right. We’d made plans for an official date once everything settled down. We’d dared to think ahead and look to the future.
And then he died and something inside me cracked.
Thatcher touched my cheek with the tips of his fingers. I tilted my head to look at him and saw the same stark grief in his eyes that was raging inside of me. How could two people who were so damned different feel the same things so strongly?
“I’m so sorry for everything you’ve lost,” he said softly.
My heart pounded. “Why? You barely know me.”
“I’m trying to fix that, Renee, if you’ll let me.”
The words to answer him stuck in my throat.
“Mr. Thatcher?”
We both pivoted to face the rear door, which Dr. Kinsey held open with one hand. Despite the fact that he’d been a murder suspect when we first met him, Kinsey had become part of our little Meta family—even though he was just a mundane human.
“How is he?” Thatcher asked.
“Landon’s stable and likely to make a full recovery. The left lung was nicked, but it didn’t collapse, so we were able to repair the damage easily. The burns are what concern me the most.” Kinsey’s gaze flickered to me; burns were kind of my area of expertise, too. “He has second-degree burns on his back, hands, and face. We have to monitor him for signs of infection, but I hope to keep any scarring to a minimum.”
“Is he in a lot of pain?”
“Not at present, but he will be. Some of the burns on his back are severe, bordering on third-degree. I have him on IV fluids and antibiotics, and I’d like to keep him here a few days for observation.”
“Whatever is best for him. May I see my son now?”
Kinsey’s professional veneer cracked. “Certainly.”
I followed them through the door and into the private area of the infirmary. The hallway had eight closed doors. The one at the end of the hall read SURGERY. The door immediately to our left read OFFICE. Four of the rooms were larger, semiprivate areas for recovery, and two others were treatment rooms.
Outside one of the recovery rooms, Kinsey handed
Thatcher a yellow gown and mask. “Just for now,” Kinsey said. “You’re rather filthy, and I don’t want to risk any infections. There’s a sink inside where you can wash your hands.”
“Thank you,” Thatcher said.
Kinsey offered me a gown, too, but I shook my head. “I’m just here for moral support,” I said in my best aren’t-I-so-adorably-sarcastic tone. Plus Thatcher needed privacy with the son he’d only known for twenty-four hours, and who’d almost died.
I caught a quick glance of a figure on a bed when Thatcher went inside. He left the door cracked slightly open, and I was grateful for that. I could keep an eye on them without actually going in.
“How are you, Renee?” Kinsey asked.
“My neck’s a little sore, but I’ve had whiplash before,” I said.
He gave me a look that said that wasn’t what he meant, but didn’t press the issue. “Can I get you anything?”
How about a stiff drink? “I’m fine, thanks. Although Jessica probably has her hands full with Bethany out in the front room.”
“Hands full in what way?”
“You’ll understand when you meet her.”
His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Sounds charming.”
“She’s unstable. She zapped Ethan with that collar he’s wearing just to prove a point.”
“She what?” He looked at the exit door as if he could see through it. “Damn it, Ethan didn’t say anything.”
“And that surprises you?” Teresa would give him hell later for not getting himself checked out, but Ethan was like that. He kept attention off his own injuries when someone else was hurt, sometimes to his own detriment. “Aaron took him upstairs to rest. We can all gang up on him later.”
“Count on it.”
Sometimes I really hated Aaron and Noah for having such an awesome, protective father. My biological father had failed miserably at portraying a human being, much less a decent parent.
Kinsey excused himself to go check on Jessica and Bethany. I paced the hallway for a little while, kind of wishing I had a chair or something to sit on. The aches were coming back, and I debated finding Kinsey to ask for some ibuprofen to take the edge off. Resting for a bit would probably help.
I opened the door to one of the treatment rooms, hoping to find a chair I could pull out into the hall. Instead, I found Noah Scott sitting on an exam table, hugging a wastebasket to his chest, face white as snow, and the sour odor of vomit in the air.
“Noah?”
His glare could have melted steel. “Shut the door,” he said in a rough, exhausted voice.
I did, closing us both into the ripe-smelling room.
“I meant with you on the other side.”
“You should have been more specific,” I said.
He hunched his shoulders and pressed his lips together in a classic I’m-going-to-barf posture. “Can you leave?”
“I can but I’m not going to.”
“Renee—”
“What’s wrong with you? I thought your Changeling half didn’t get sick.”
“I’m not sick.”
“No?”
Noah stared at me over the wastebasket, as if he could will me to stop interrogating him and leave. Technically, he probably could use his telekinetic powers to do exactly that. He didn’t, though. “You can’t tell Aaron about this,” he said. “We don’t want him to worry.”
I swallowed against a nervous flutter in my stomach. “Who’s ‘we’?”
“Me and Dahlia, and Dad. Teresa knows, too.”
Teresa and Kinsey were in on something that Aaron wasn’t—not good. Not good at all. “Knows what?”
“The Changelings weren’t made to hold more than one host for any period of time. Ace has been holding on to Noah and Dahlia for months.”
Images of Double Trouble over the last month or so came flashing back. No matter which one was in charge, they seemed tired. Run-down. Understandable, with the stress of the election campaigns, then the L.A. earthquake and our relocation. And they’d probably been happy to blame those things for their fatigue, so their loved ones didn’t worry.
No wonder T’s been so distracted.
“Holding on to Dahlia is making you sick?”
“I think it’s more than that.” He grimaced. “I think it’s killing us.”
Fourteen
Two Pair
I spent the next twenty minutes or so sitting in the waiting room, pondering what Noah had told me. It physically hurt them both to allow Dahlia control. Both of their powers were haphazard and unfocused. They were exhausted almost constantly, and now Noah was having trouble keeping food down. Dahlia, he said, was becoming less and less present in his mind, backing off to keep him from hurting too much. Dr. Kinsey didn’t know how to help them.
“Ace can’t hold on to them both,” Noah had said. “Simon can’t separate us because Dahlia’s body died while she was absorbed. Nothing we’ve tried has worked. I can’t let Dahlia go without killing her, and Ace can’t let go of Noah without killing him.”
“You said part of the host lives on inside the Changeling,” I’d said.
“Sure, but it’s a presence and knowledge. One of us would still, for the way we imagine life, be gone. Dead.”
“But you can’t keep living as both.”
“Not for much longer.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
I had resented Dahlia’s presence the first few months after she’d joined us, and I’d used her as a convenient outlet for my frustration. Lately we’d become friendly, though, and I liked Noah because he was Aaron’s brother and Aaron made Ethan happy. We were a cluster-fuck of a family most days, sure, but we were still family. I was tired of losing people, but fuck if I knew how to fix this.
Thatcher came out through the swinging double doors at almost the exact same time that Denny and Kate Lowry entered from the corridor. The twins had come to us via their uncle just before the earthquake crisis, and he’d agreed that it would be safer for them to move to New York with us. Said uncle was a police detective in Los Angeles (now relocated to Las Vegas), and he still hadn’t manned up and claimed those kids as family, so I was all for getting them away from his idiot ass.
The twins didn’t look sick, and they weren’t limping, which meant: “Gage sent us to hang out with our visitors,” Kate said. “He said you needed to go to a meeting.”
Right, the debriefing. It looked like Thatcher was going, too, and our problem children (wounded or not) couldn’t be left alone.
“Second room on the left,” Thatcher said.
“Cool.”
The pair went through the door Thatcher had exited from, and I felt a slight pang of regret that I wouldn’t be there when they met Bethany for the first time. She’d probably terrify Denny into permanent celibacy.
My brain was still stuck on Double Trouble reruns, but when we left the infirmary and hit the corridor I had enough sense to ask Thatcher, “How’s Landon doing?”
“He’s alive,” Thatcher replied. “Somewhat out of it from the medication, but that’s to be expected.”
“The medication is a blessing, trust me.”
The look he shot me was a mix of sympathy and gratitude. “You know, Renee, it’s been a long time since I’ve been this angry at one person.”
“Sledgehammer?”
“The big one who threw Landon? Yes.”
“I’d like to promise you’ll get first dibs on hurting him back.”
“I know. Thank you.”
We were the last to arrive in the conference room. All of the Alpha leaders were there, plus Dr. Kinsey, as requested. As soon as we were seated, Thatcher and I began another tag-team retelling of our adventures that began at a New Jersey truck stop and ended on the side of the Pennsylvania turnpike. Ethan, who’d promised to take a nap once the meeting was over, interjected occasionally.
“They were targeting the kids,” Teresa said. “The clones who were there knew who Renee, Ethan, and I were,
but they went after Landon first.”
“To kill them before they could help us?” Sebastian asked.
“Possibly, or to send a message so they don’t. They could have killed us all before we got out of the Sport, but they didn’t.”
“The clones have always been very deliberate in their machinations,” Ethan added. “Everything they’ve done against us has been with intent.”
“Landon and Bethany were raised to hate their parents,” Thatcher said. “They were intentionally told half-truths and full-out lies in order to make them despise the people left on Manhattan.”
“Do you think the Overseer or Uncle character will find a way to turn the other kids, if they exist, against us?” Ethan asked.
“I would put money on it.”
“If they exist,” Teresa said.
Thatcher’s gaze shifted down the table to her. “Again, I’d put money on it. Isn’t that why you brought them back here without first alerting the authorities? To assist you in tracking down both the other kids and this Uncle?”
“Yes, it is, you’re right. Which means for now, the only people who know who Landon and Bethany really are? The people in this room.”
A chorus of agreements went around the table.
“I have spoken with Mai Lynn Chang again,” Marco said, piping up for the first time. “She is attempting to question her fellow residents about children. However, she says it is a difficult conversation to have casually. She will update us if she learns anything useful.”
“Thank you, Marco,” Teresa said.
While the group was assembled, Teresa assigned Lacey’s team to follow up on an incident of vandalism, which the police suspected was done by Metas, in Annapolis, Maryland. She gave the usual warning to keep their eyes open just in case this was Recombinant-related. Then we were dismissed.
Instead of trying to casually corner her on her way out, I darted around the conference table and said, “I need a minute, T.”
Teresa’s lips parted and her eyebrows furrowed—she was about to ask if it could wait—so I fixed her with a dead stare. My I-mean-it face. To Gage she said, “I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”