Pretty Monster

by Somers, Jill

  Quinn’s heart was starting to pound. She remembered Dash’s words as he had thought back on Charlotte’s nickname… “I don’t even remember her having those abilities.”

  “Anyway,” Shade said, “none of it matters now… It’s just, I think I finally realized someone needs to stop him. And I think I can tell you how.”

  Quinn realized she was finally going to learn the truth—the truth that she and Dash had already suspected. The truth about Charlotte’s death, and the destruction of the original resistance.

  “We were in Canada. Hiding out. The UNCODA didn’t exist yet, you see, and we were safer outside of America. All the deviants were doing it—not just us. While we were in Canada, Charlotte said she wanted to visit the U.S. embassy. She still wanted to talk to the Americans, you see. She wanted to talk peace. She said they wouldn’t hurt her there. I told Crowley about her plan, and that was when he came up with his own: to kill everybody in and around the embassy. Make it look like she did it.”

  Quinn shuddered. It as she had suspected: Charlotte had been framed. But why? Why kill all those innocent people, just to get a few deviants?

  “He was obsessed,” he said, as if reading her mind. “I wasn’t enough for him. Shield wasn’t enough for him. He wanted an army. He thought he could get that army by becoming the director of the DCA. He had killed the last director, framed it on a deviant. But it wasn’t enough. They appointed an interim director and told him that they couldn’t hire him because he was a CEO, not a government official. He didn’t have the credentials. They said if he wanted it, he had to prove himself.

  “He knew that the FBI wanted to get the rest of the world in on it. To force the UN to help fund and power the hunt. An international DCA. He knew the only way to do it was to make an international disaster happen.”

  “But even if it worked, he couldn’t take the credit for something like that,” she said, confused. “He’d be known as a mass murderer.”

  “That’s why he pinned it on Charlotte. But he and his men were there in seconds. He knew that if he killed them all, after what they had just done, he’d be a hero. He also knew that something like the UNCODA would be formed. An establishment designed to help with the hunt—if only so that Americans would stop killing deviants on foreign soil.”

  “And it worked,” she breathed, shaking her head. “They were satisfied… He was appointed.”

  Shade nodded. “And his identity was kept secret. The way they thought the previous director had been killed, they said the position was too unsafe to be released as public knowledge.”

  It all made sense. But how was she going to prove any of it?

  “Even if you were willing to say all this on the stand,” she said, “we’d have no way to prove it, would we? How do we get him?”

  “That’s just it. In order to make it look like deviants killed all those people, Crowley ordered a special chemical—a poisonous gas, designed by an old friend of his from his military days. A gas that didn’t appear man-made.”

  “But this friend would never admit to anything, would he?”

  Shade leaned forward. “I know how you feel about your compulsion, but in this case, it’s the clear solution. All you have to do is make him tell the truth. When he describes how he made the poison, where he got the materials—it’ll be clear that you couldn’t possibly have put all that in his head. You would have had no way of knowing it. It will be clear that, compulsion or not, the weapon came from him.”

  • • •

  Quinn shared Shade’s story with the others as soon as she left the dungeon—first with Dash, in private, then with the entire resistance. It was hard, watching Dash’s face as she described the intricacies of how Crowley had murdered his first love. But she knew that, in a way, it helped. It was confirmation, after all that time, that Charlotte had been framed—that she hadn’t killed anyone. It also proved that her death wasn’t Dash’s fault, nor was it Savannah’s; Crowley had learned of the embassy visit from Shade, not from Dash and Charlotte’s letters.

  Charlie and Pence were given the mission to find and capture Crowley’s weapon-maker. Dash didn’t like the idea of the capture any more than he liked the idea of Quinn compelling him, but he seemed to understand.

  “I still wish we had more,” said Ridley the next morning as they watched the helicopters roll in. “We dug up this dirt on Crowley from six years ago that, if they buy it, should be enough to convince them. But what if they don’t buy it? Do we have proof of his crimes today?”

  Quinn watched the helicopters, feeling hopeful despite Ridley’s words. Everything had fallen into place. She, Charlie, and Trent had gotten to the members of the alliance in time; they would be flown off to Crowley, who would try to get to them, too. They would let him think he succeeded. But he would be wrong.

  “They’ve already seen the proof,” Dash reminded Ridley, his eyes also on the horizon. “It’s all in the video.”

  “But we need proof that it wasn’t all Savannah,” Ridley said. “I mean, sure, we’ve got him on video saying things—things that, if he reached, could still align with the story he’s planning on using. But we need a piece of evidence that proves the two of them conspired together—not to protect the world from some made-up threat, but to commit the mass murder of innocent people.”

  “That’s why we talked to the alliance,” Angel reminded him. “They’re our proof.”

  “Crowley is a powerful man,” Quinn admitted, starting to see Ridley’s point. “With friends in very high places. The words of twenty deviants won’t mean half as much as his own. Not to them. Ridley’s right—more evidence couldn’t hurt.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Angel agreed. “If we can swing it, provide one more piece of evidence that he was in on the attack, those friends in high places of his aren’t going to want anything to do with him. Fear of association.”

  “What about that letter?” Dash asked Ridley. “The one with the battle plan. It was pretty heavily coded, but I’m sure there are experts who could read it better than we could.”

  “It’s not a bad idea, but that letter could be anywhere. I sealed it back up after reading it and delivered it to Savannah, as I was supposed to.”

  “Well,” Angel pointed out, “last time Savannah left Siloh, she was pretty damn sure the whole place was going to be decimated by a nuclear warhead. It’s possible she left it behind, thinking she wouldn’t have to worry about the cover-up.”

  “Worth a shot,” Ridley agreed. “I’ll check the town hall. Dash, why don’t you check her living quarters? Quinn, maybe you try Reese’s?”

  Quinn grimaced at the thought. “Fine, but only so I can graffiti ‘ass wipe’ onto the wall of his bedroom.”

  Dash chuckled, kissing the top of her head. “Come on, grumpy. We’ve got work to do.”

  • • •

  Those who hadn’t been given assignments stayed to meet the helicopters and guide their passengers down to the dungeons, where they were to collect their soldiers. Quinn wanted to be involved, just in case something went wrong, but Rory pointed out that she should go along with the promise she had made in her video: that she would remain locked up until she was given permission by the public to leave.

  Knowing that Rory was right, Quinn made her way back down to her cell, watching through the bars as the soldiers and the alliance were loaded up.

  To Quinn’s surprise, one of the new visitors approached her cell. It was the woman from her premonition, she realized—the director of the UNCODA.

  “Miss Harper,” the woman said as she strode over to her. She stuck a hand between the bars of her cell. “My name is Lauren Wilson. I’m the director of the UNCODA.”

  Quinn shook the woman’s hand cautiously, watching her with rapt attention.

  “This cell,” Lauren said, taken a step back to eye Quinn’s cage. “It’s a bit of a formality, isn’t it? Why don’t we go ahead and let you out of here?”

  And with that, she surfaced a key—one Q
uinn imagined Dash or Ridley had given her.

  “Wait,” Quinn said, hesitating. “I don’t… I don’t want to be let out unless it’s what the people want.”

  “Well,” Lauren said, looking amused, “short of holding a worldwide election over the issue, I can assure you that the people seem to be on your side, Miss Harper. And as the international director of deviant affairs, I grant you my permission.”

  Quinn sighed, gesturing for the woman to unlock the cell. She supposed that was about all she could ask for.

  “I’m not here to apologize for anything,” Lauren informed Quinn; “not yet, at least. I have a feeling that, within good time, plenty of apologies will be made on your behalf.”

  Quinn waited.

  “All I came to tell you is that you, along with everyone on this island, are invited to a summit that will determine your fate—and the fate of the man you have so publicly led a campaign against.”

  Quinn nodded. Crowley.

  Lauren offered her a tiny smile. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  • • •

  It was bizarre for Quinn, seeing Reese’s bedroom. She had never been before, and would certainly never go there again. It was nothing like Dash’s. It was nothing like she would have expected, either.

  Which, frankly, shouldn’t have surprised her. He had never been what she thought he was; that much was obvious.

  It was almost like Crowley’s office had been—monochromatic, lifeless—but everything was black instead of white. It wasn’t rich and grand like she was sure Savannah’s room must be; it was a little smaller than Dash’s room, with simple, dark, linoleum floors. Thick, black curtains covered the windows, as if he were blocking out the sun for a daytime nap. Strange, the thought; for a man whose ability had been flight, she would have thought he wouldn’t mind the sun.

  What was it about Reese? Why was he so hateful? So manipulative? Savannah, she could understand, in a way. Savannah was a regular—one whose sons were both turned into what she believed were monsters. Savannah had been faced with the same choice so many other parents had: turn in her children to the DCA, or find an alternative. In a way, her alternative had been much less cruel; it was the aftermath of that alternative that had driven her to cruelty.

  But Reese… She shuddered, remembering what Dash had told her about how Reese had treated Ridley once he became a monster. And she knew how much Reese must hate Dash, to do everything he had done to both of them. Where did his hatred stem from, she wondered? It must be a self-loathing—a loathing of all deviants. That must have been how he had told himself he could get away with such cruelties. They’re just monsters. Just like me.

  She sighed as she began to tear apart his room.

  She didn’t think the letter would be in his room—not really. Sure, it was possible he’d have seen the letter, or even delivered it to her, but why would he hold on to it? They would have either burned it or taken it with them. Still, she had agreed to check, so here she was.

  She found nothing for a long time. Nothing in the desk; nothing under the mattress; nothing anywhere she herself would have hidden something.

  But it’s not you who hid it, she reminded herself. As she had learned, she and Reese thought nothing alike.

  She tried to focus herself on Reese’s mindset—where she would hide something if she were him.

  She glanced up at the ceiling. High ceilings.

  She launched up into the air, scanning the walls, the surfaces of the higher dressers and cabinets. Nothing. She had just about given up when she saw it: the air vent in the corner of the room.

  It should have been easy for her break into, that vent. The fact that it was almost difficult made her even more confident that this was his hiding place.

  When she finally got it open, she saw a letter. It wasn’t the one they had been looking for, but it would get the job done all the same—if not better.

  Reese,

  You have had plenty of time to find your seer. Your collection of deviants for the alliance thus far is disappointing, to say the least. With the Siren there now, and your brother’s influence on her overshadowing your own, we are running out of time. I have sent Savannah the plan. I leave you with one month to gather the final members of the alliance, and I suggest you keep the Siren and any members of the resistance in check until then. You had better be right that she isn’t a seer.

  Cole

  • • •

  “It proves everything,” Dash said, reading over it. They were all together again—not just the small group that Quinn trusted, but the entirety of the resistance. They were having their final meeting, discussing not only the evidence that Quinn had found, but also the plan for the summit, which they had all been invited to. Even Quinn the murderer.

  “Did we know they were looking for a seer all that time?” Pence asked, taking the letter from Dash and scanning the words. She and Charlie had returned just before Quinn found the letter, Crowley’s weapon-maker in tow. “Is that the only reason we weren’t all killed sooner?”

  It wasn’t exactly news to Quinn, who had understood from early on how much Savannah wanted a seer. Still, if it was really the only thing that had kept them all alive for as long as they had been, it surprised her, too.

  Not to mention, apparently her existence on the island had only made him want to drop the nuke faster.

  “We have proof that the plan of attack came from Cole, and that it was sent to Savannah,” Evelyn said. “We have proof that Cole knew the difference between the resistance and the alliance—that he wasn’t being conveniently led to believe the opposite.”

  “And we have proof that Reese was a key player,” Quinn added cheerfully. “However much time Savannah and Crowley get, let’s make sure Reese gets some, too.”

  Dash tried to hide his grin as Evelyn rolled her eyes.

  “This summit is about discovering the truth, and revealing that truth to the people,” Evelyn scolded Quinn. “No one is going to be sentenced to jail time at the summit. How the United States chooses to punish Cole Crowley is up to them.”

  “Right,” Quinn said, unable to resist, “but if we get our way, how Reese and Savannah are punished won’t be up to them. Right? Maybe it’ll be up to us.”

  Evelyn sighed, clearly not interested in arguing the topic.

  “I think we have everything we need,” Michael told them all. “Good work, everyone. Now it’s all in the hands of the most important people in the world.”

  “Right,” Quinn whispered to Dash. “We’re screwed.”

  15. THE SUMMIT

  It was just as it had looked in the vision. Just as huge; just as packed. Just as many cameras. She was greeted by everything from summit ushers to crazed fans with signs reading how much they loved her. Cameras were everywhere. If everything went according to plan, even if the UNCODA didn’t grant them every freedom they asked for, even if they didn’t lock Crowley away, the world would still know.

  It wouldn’t be enough, but it would be something.

  Quinn held Dash’s hand as they walked, mainly because she knew she would need support when she saw what she hadn’t yet warned him about: Rory’s family.

  Rory, of course, had her other hand. But the moment she saw them, she let go.

  Dash glanced over at Rory, confused, as the girl broke away from the single-file line they were walking in and ran into the audience. Security guards perked up, watching her closely with narrowed eyebrows. But Rory was already famous by then; no one was going to hurt her without good reason.

  Sure enough, Rory stopped right in front of them—the two people Quinn had seen in their vision. Rory’s parents. And she said, in that sweet little voice that had slowly captured Quinn’s heart over her time on the island, “Hi. I’m Rory.”

  The tears in her parents’ eyes, the elation and joy at finally seeing their daughter again after all that time, brought tears to Quinn’s own eyes. And when she looked up at Dash and saw the sympathy in his expression, s
he knew that she wasn’t just crying tears of joy.

  “It’s a good thing,” he whispered to her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and kissing the side of her forehead. He gently coaxed her into walking again as they made their way to their seats. She kept the seat next to her open, knowing that Rory would be expected to sit with the rest of the resistance, if only for that one last time.

  “I know,” she whispered back, eyes still on the girl, who was being embraced by her parents in hugs and kisses. “For her.”

  Dash said nothing, squeezing her hand and focusing toward the front of the auditorium as Savannah, Crowley, Haley, and Ridley took their places on stage.

  A few minutes passed. Rory left her parents, running over to Dash and Quinn with big, wide, excited eyes. She jumped up into the chair next to Quinn, taking her other hand.

  “They’re perfect,” she whispered to Quinn. “They’re even better than I remembered.”

  Quinn smiled in spite of her thick throat and heavy heart. “It’s obvious how much they love you,” she told the girl, squeezing her hand. “I’m so happy for you.”

  Dash squeezed her other hand. Lauren Wilson stepped onto the stage, and everyone in the great auditorium fell silent.

  “We are all gathered here today,” Lauren said, “to hear the testimonies of the parties involved in the events that occurred on the island formerly known as Devil’s Island—now known as Siloh—where the deviants of the New York Event were sent into exile following their collection.”

  Boo’s and jeers erupted from the audience, the same human rights activists that had been on their side for weeks now. People who had a problem with phrases like ‘collected’ when it came to human beings. If you could call us that, Quinn thought grimly.

  “Our witnesses today are seated behind me from left to right in the following order: Cole Crowley, C.E.O. of Crowley Enterprises and director of the Deviant Collection Agency; Savannah Collins, officially titled Assistant Director of the Deviant Collection Agency, unofficially titled the ‘President’ of Siloh’—until recently—and finally, Haley Mylar and Ridley Jeffries, the deviants chosen by the movement known as ‘the resistance’ to represent them in their plea for Siloh’s world recognition as a sovereign state—one that is protected by the UNCODA.”