Dangerous Destiny: A Night Sky novella

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “That’s different.”

  “Not really,” he pointed out. “Or at least that’s what I was thinking before I found that definition for jokering. Basically, when you take Destiny, the drug changes your brain waves. It allows you access to more brainpower—it’s called neural integration, and yeah, my eyes started glazing over too. In a nutshell, it sounds like Destiny eventually turns users into super-villains with—you’re gonna love this—superpowers like telepathy, prescience—that’s foreseeing the future—and telekinesis, which is moving shit around with your mind, right?

  “According to the scientifically acclaimed website—and yes, that was sarcasm—Destiny Addicts R Us dot com, without proper training, the average person can’t handle taking Destiny and suddenly having those kinds of enhanced mental powers, so their brains break and they go bonkers. Thus they joker. All of them. Always. Like Little Miss Sunshine at the Sav’A’Buck. All Destiny users eventually noisily self-destruct. The lucky ones just quietly drop dead without killing everyone else in the room.”

  We stared at each other.

  But then Cal barked with laughter. “Telepathy?” he said. “Come on. That’s nuts-balls. It’s bad enough that Destiny is addictive and that it eventually kills you, no need to make up this comic-book crap to scare people away from trying it.”

  “If taking Destiny means you die, why would anyone take it?” It was really just a rhetorical question, but Cal answered me.

  “Because people are stupid,” he said. “And desperate. And selfish. And greedy. From what I just read, the drug’s mostly abused by the uber-rich. And they don’t take it because they’ve got cancer. No, they take it because they want to look younger, and the nipping and tucking’s no longer working. That, and the fact that the very, very bad people who make and sell Destiny don’t include a warning label on their product.”

  “God,” I said.

  “Rumor has it there’s a plan in place to try to manufacture the drug more efficiently, to make it less expensive,” Calvin told me. “Currently, there’re two versions. The pure kind, sold in high-end nightclubs or passed along to patients in doctors’ offices, and something called Street D, which is cut with things like antifreeze and sold to the addicts and the desperate. Chance of jokering from Street D is eighty percent higher.”

  I exhaled loud and long, but Calvin wasn’t finished.

  “Another side effect of the drug,” he added, “even before the user jokers from his unbearable telekinesis or dies, or both, is this kinda intense feeling of superiority, which I guess makes sense. I mean, if you’re sixty but you suddenly look and feel twenty? Wouldn’t you feel superior? Cancer’s gone, boom, here I am, world, stronger and smarter. Yeah.

  “But there’s also, allegedly, a lack of empathy that occurs with the use of Destiny. You stop being able to relate to anyone, even your own family. So even before you joker, you start exhibiting sociopathic, crazy-pants, psycho-killer behavior. But then when you joker, double boom, you do things like parboil and eat your grandkids without blinking, simply because you were hungry and wanted a snack.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I said. “I needed that image.”

  “You’re welcome.” Cal looked at me. “So what’d you find?”

  Predictably, Google had given me nothing from the letters G and T, but I too had used Urban Dictionary to find that it wasn’t GT or even G period T period, but rather G dash T. “G-T is short for something—someone—called a Greater-Than,” I told him. “I don’t know how real this is. Some websites are convinced G-Ts are urban legends, kinda like Sasquatch. Some sites think G-Ts are gods from above, and others say they’re dangerous”—I read from my phone’s screen—“sociopathic megalomaniacs…” I looked up at Cal. “A lot like a jokering Destiny addict, I think. The word super-villain was used a lot in what I read.”

  “So…a G-T or Greater-Than is, what?” Cal asked. “Another name for a Destiny addict?”

  “Nope,” I told him, popping my P. “Apparently, some people—mostly female people—have these…well, let me read this to you: innate mental powers. G-Ts are born with access to more of their brains, and those powers can include”—I glanced up at him—“telepathy, prescience, and telekinesis.”

  “Innate means natural, right?”

  “It means, baby, they’re born that way, yeah,” I told him, even as Motorcycle Girl’s voice echoed in my head. A-bil-i-ties. “Apparently, having these weird superpowers can turn Greater-Thans kind of crazy too. Mean crazy. The words feelings of superiority came up a lot in my searches too. Along with lack of empathy and compassion, yada, yada.”

  “More comic-book bullshit,” Calvin decided, and I wished I shared his skepticism and total disbelief. “SuperGirl from the Sav’A’Buck was just jerking our chain.”

  I nodded and didn’t tell him how spooked all of this made me feel. He’d call me Old Mary One-Eye again, and I didn’t want to get mad at him and… No, I refused to think about any of this anymore tonight.

  “What’s not bullshit,” I told him, “is the twenty missed calls from my mother.” She’d started calling when we were back in the Sav’A’Buck, when I’d left my bag on the floor of Cal’s car. I pointed to the lit-up numerals of the clock on his dashboard. “It’s after eleven. I’m late.”

  I was so dead.

  Correction: I was so not dead.

  “You know, I think we should keep what happened tonight between us,” I offered as Calvin started his car. We weren’t too far from my house, thank goodness. Still, when I walked through that door, I was gonna get hammered by the wrath of Mom.

  “I think that’s a good idea.” Calvin tightened his jaw as he turned onto my street. He laughed once, and his expression softened. “Hey, what do you call a knight in shining armor if the knight happens to be a girl?”

  I knew he was talking about Motorcycle Girl. A Greater-Than? I kept that thought to myself. She’d scared me more than Little Miss Sunshine had.

  Well, maybe not quite that much. Still, a shiver ran through me as Calvin turned into my driveway.

  “Lights off!” I hissed, and Calvin quickly switched off his headlights.

  “I seriously doubt your mom will be able to tell the difference between my car and my parents’ car, especially in the dark,” Calvin replied.

  “I’m pretty sure she’s got her own personal night-vision goggles,” I said. “In a lovely shade of peach or maybe salmon.”

  Cal laughed, but more because he knew he was supposed to, and we sat there in the darkness of my driveway for a few moments before I turned to ask, “Are you going to be okay driving home alone?”

  He made a dismissive pssht sound. “I’m good,” he replied, but I didn’t believe him for a second. He was still freaked out. How could he not be?

  Still, I knew he wasn’t going to cave. “Fine,” I said. “Text me when you get home, or else it’s on,” I said as I stepped out of his car.

  “I’m still racing you, so think of something good to bet, because I’m going to win it,” Calvin replied, reminding me of the challenge he’d given me back in the Sav’A’Buck, pre-jokering Destiny addict.

  “Oh, I will,” I said, and leaned back in to give him a high five. We both felt better pretending everything was normal.

  But when he rolled down the driver’s side window as I walked up the steps to my house, I couldn’t keep up the game. “I’m serious,” I called out, quietly enough so that my mom wouldn’t hear from inside. “Be careful.”

  Calvin nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” And he backed out of the driveway, switching his headlights on again only after turning his car onto the street.

  • • •

  I was digging my key out of my purse when Mom flung the door open. “Skylar!” she gasped. “Thank God you’re okay!”

  This would have been the appropriate response for any mother to have—if she knew her daughter had just been held at gunpoint.

  Unfortunately, this was how Mom acted all the time.

  “Of course I
’m okay,” I replied casually, setting my purse down on the coffee table as I began my litany of FUVUs—frequently used vague untruths. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I don’t know what happened. Cal and I were talking and I looked up and it was after eleven.” I began to untie my pink high-top sneakers, hopping up and down a little to keep my balance as I worked on loosening the left shoelace.

  My mom threw her arms around me, kissing the back of my neck feverishly, as if I’d just returned home from war.

  Which was closer to the truth, I guess, than I preferred to admit.

  The reality was that my heart hadn’t completely slowed since we’d left the Sav’A’Buck. And yet somehow I was managing to go through all the motions I normally did after a night out.

  Maybe I was still in shock.

  But then my phone beeped, and I pulled back to read Calvin’s text: Home safe. Heads up…Momzilla alert. She called my mom, looking for you, while we were out. Sry :/

  Great, now Calvin was gonna be in trouble too, because his mother hadn’t known that my mother didn’t want me driving around in his car. Except she probably did now.

  “Mom,” I said sharply. “You called Calvin’s mom?”

  There was nothing she could say but yes, so she attempted to distract. “Do you have any idea how scared I was?”

  I set my phone down on the arm of the couch. “Mom. Why in the world would you be so scared? I’m not that late.”

  “Because!” Mom’s face looked contorted and pained, like she might actually start crying. Her usually perfect blond bob was even tousled as if she’d been running her hands through it. I realized that she was seriously upset. “Because what if…”

  “What if…” I prompted her.

  “What if…something happened to you? And I wasn’t there? What if you got into a…another accident…or a…”

  I sighed, trying to be calm despite my frustration at having this conversation again. What if you get into another accident? “Aren’t you tired of talking about this? Because I am.”

  “No!” Mom was getting shrill. “I’m not going to stop talking about it until you stop scaring the crap out of me!”

  Now I knew she was hyper-upset. Mom never even fake swore. Her manners were almost priest-like.

  “Don’t you get it?” she continued. “I’m trying to keep you safe! It’s my job!”

  “But I’m seventeen! I’m not five.” I threw my hands up in the air. “So I get home at eleven instead of ten thirty. Big deal! I’m fine. Look! Take a good look!” I spun around, my eyes wide. “Alive! One piece. Congratulations! Job well done!”

  Mom shook her head. “You’re not seventeen until next Friday,” she said, focusing on the least important thing I’d said.

  “Uuuuggh!” I groaned. “Are you not getting my point at all? I’m not a baby anymore.”

  “I understand. I do,” Mom said, her voice suddenly calm.

  For a moment I thought that maybe I had broken through and we were going to discuss this like sane adults.

  “You’re upset,” she continued, “because you just want to have a normal life. And that’s what I want for you too. But you’re not going to have that normal life if something absolutely horrific happens and you’re raped and murdered or…”

  I had spoken too soon. She was still bat-crap crazy.

  “…mugged or kidnapped…”

  Lalalalala, I sang to myself, blocking out my mother’s insanity. If I kept listening, I was sure I’d have to break something, just to bring my blood pressure down. The possibility of steam escaping from my nose and ears was increasing by the second.

  “…and then you stopped answering your phone while you were in that bad part of town…”

  I looked up. “Wait. What did you just say?”

  Mom paused. “I said…”

  She’d said I was in that bad part of town. I didn’t want to say it aloud, but we both knew what she’d said. How did she know where I’d been?

  I looked at her, and then I looked at my phone.

  Mom followed my gaze. She looked nervous.

  “What do you have on here?” I asked, and lunged for the couch.

  Mom tried to beat me to it, but I was faster. I grabbed my cell phone and shut it off.

  From across the room, Mom’s cell phone made a little beep.

  I turned my phone back on. Mom’s cell beeped again.

  “Are you tracking me?” I exclaimed disbelievingly.

  Her guilt was written all over her face.

  “I can’t believe you’re spying on me!” My face got even hotter. I began to walk toward the stairs to my room, because I could not deal with this.

  “Wait!” Mom called. “Sky, I’m sorry. I’m just…I’m doing it for your own good!”

  “My own good?” I spun around, even more enraged. “How can you say you know what’s good for me? It’s your fault that we’re here in this third-world land of the living dead. I hate it here,” I continued, knowing that I was hurting her feelings but too angry to care. “I loved Connecticut, but you had to go and get a new job—”

  “I loved Connecticut too,” she said, but then took a deep breath. “You know that jobs are hard to come by in this economy, considering—”

  She was an art investment advisor, which meant she spent about ten hours a week telling rich people how they should spend their next ten million bucks.

  I cut her off. “And you couldn’t find anything in Connecticut?”

  Her mouth was tight. “No, I couldn’t.”

  That was BS, and we both knew it, and I was furious because once again she was treating me like a baby and withholding information from me. There was a reason she’d yanked me out of school and hustled me down to Florida. God, she hadn’t even told me about the move until the trucks pulled up to the house. I’d had to say good-bye to my friends via email. “You ruined my life! I hope you know that!”

  I raced to my room and slammed my door shut. The rage boiling inside of me was too much.

  “Aaaaagggh!” I roared as I dove onto my bed, then rolled and took my hairbrush off my bedside table and hurled it across the room.

  It hit the opposite wall with an oddly unsatisfying thunk.

  But then something really weird happened.

  The brush didn’t fall to the carpeting.

  At least for a moment, it hovered there in the air before shooting back across the room and repositioning itself on my bedside table.

  Uh

  Bill

  Uh

  Tees.

  Abilities.

  “Oh, shit,” I whispered. I grabbed my phone and texted Cal: U still up?

  I rocked a little as I sat there on the edge of my bed, but made myself stop. Crazy people rocked like that. And I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t…

  My phone beeped, but it wasn’t Cal texting me. Calvin has lost phone privileges for the time being, it said. It was signed, Stephanie. Calvin’s mom.

  “Shit!” I took a deep breath to try to calm myself. I wasn’t crazy. And I wasn’t any more a Greater-Than than I was Bigfoot.

  I picked up the hairbrush again and tossed it across the room. This time, after it hit the wall, it fell down to the carpeting. Down was a direction I was much more familiar with.

  So why did I feel disappointed? This was a good thing, right?

  “Sky?” Mom called from out in the hallway, and my face heated up. She was really going to continue this conversation tonight? After all the sneaky crap she’d pulled?

  The hairbrush lifted off the ground and spun several times, like a cylinder in a car, before crashing against the ceiling. I watched, eyes wide, as it slid across the smooth surface with the fast precision of an object on ice.

  Then it dropped into the air again and did a loopy figure eight before landing once more on my bedside table.

  Whoa.

  Whoa!

  “I’m going to bed. Good night,” Mom called, her voice weary.

  Suddenly, I wanted her to piss
me off.

  Because I had a serious theory, and I needed her to help me prove it.

  But I listened to her door shut and knew that she was spent.

  Instead, I closed my eyes and thought about the argument that my mom and I had just had about the GPS system tracking me via my cell phone—about the way that Mom had belittled me, treating me like a child. I felt my face get hot as I became angry all over again.

  I opened one eye just a slit. The hairbrush was still resting comfortably on the bedside table.

  I closed my eyes again and moved on to more global issues. Things that really got under my skin…bad drivers, cat ladies, mullets, world wars, racism, hate crimes, poverty, euthanasia in overcrowded dog kennels, corrupt politicians, liars, and cheaters…

  I opened my eyes. The brush was still on the bedside table, like a lead weight.

  Keeping my eyes focused on the brush, I continued with my silent rant, willing myself into a state of fury…bullies, homophobes, sociopaths, terrorism… I focused… cops who don’t believe you, kidnappers, conspiracies, the monster who took Sasha, because that poor little girl might never see her mom and dad again—and I swear I will find those bastards and bring them to justice, and you better believe it!

  The hairbrush went vertical, and then it launched toward me, landing in the palm of my open hand with a smack.

  Hunted.

  Kidnapped.

  Bled.

  Skylar’s story continues

  in Night Sky.

  October 2014

  Buy it now at: Amazon

  Q&A for Dangerous Destiny (a Night Sky prequel) with Suzanne and Melanie Brockmann

  What is it like to collaborate with your mother/daughter?

  Mel: Working with my mom was and is a fantastic experience! Her first published book was released when I was still just a little girl, so I watched Mom pave a career path for herself that is admirable. These days, she makes it onto the New York Times list more often than not! And I know that the reason for her success is due to her ability to structure awesome stories with amazing, relatable, sympathetic, and three-dimensional characters.