Super Natural: The New Super Humans, Book Three

by T. M. Franklin

  “So, I was wondering about this security firm you work for,” she began.

  “Oh yeah?” Gavin replied. A hand poked out from the cabinet. “Can you hand me the pliers?”

  Chloe gave him the tool. “What kind of work do you do, anyway?”

  The pipe clanged as he did something. “Bit of everything,” he said. “Private security, forensics, cybersecurity, some government contracts.”

  “Oh, that sounds . . . exciting.”

  Miranda shot her a look and Chloe threw up her hands. Like she had a better idea.

  “It can be,” Gavin replied, oblivious to the silent conversation happening without him. “You think you might be interested?”

  “Maybe,” Chloe said. “I decided to major in Criminal Justice.”

  Gavin slid out from the cabinet and got to his feet, wiping his hands on a towel as he eyed her. “That so?” What specialty?”

  “I haven't decided yet.”

  “Well, when you do, let me know. I'd be happy to put in a good word for an internship if you like.” He reached over and turned on the water, watching as it flowed through the drain. “Looks like everything is working here now,” he said. “Next time, remember: No garbage disposal. No food in the sink.” He pointed a finger at all of them, and they nodded sheepishly.

  Gavin turned to pack up his tools and Chloe shot a panicked look Maia's way. He was done, and they were no closer to getting any answers than before he got there.

  Maia chewed on her lip, then blurted out, “You gave me a pamphlet, too!”

  Gavin glanced at her. “Oh yeah? You interested?”

  Maia visibly deflated. “I'm an anthro major.”

  Gavin straightened and narrowed his eyes, pondering. “Could be a place for that,” he said. “Beef it up with some sociology, maybe.”

  Miranda rolled her eyes and jumped in. “Wow, that's pretty weird,” she said, maybe a little too loudly. “You gave pamphlets to both Chloe and Maia. And they both ended up living here.” She watched Gavin closely, and Chloe knew she was trying to gauge his reaction. “Big coincidence, don't you think?”

  “I guess.” He shrugged and picked up his toolbox. “I hand out a lot of pamphlets. And there aren't a lot of available rooms in the middle of the year.” He walked toward the front door and the girls trailed after him. “Don't forget. No more food in the sink,” he said as he reached for the knob.

  “Right,” Chloe said, deflated.

  “Have a good night, ladies,” he said and then he was gone.

  The three roommates sat down in the living room.

  “Well, that went well,” Miranda mumbled.

  “Maybe he's right,” Maia said. “Maybe it is just a coincidence. He probably does hand out a lot of pamphlets.”

  Chloe sat up, the comment tugging at her memory. “Except, he didn't,” she said. “The whole time I was talking to him, a bunch of people came by the table, but he basically ignored them. The only one he gave a pamphlet to was you.” She looked at Maia.

  “And you,” Maia, added.

  “Then there's the whole thing with that psychic, Eve,” Miranda added. “She claimed to be a friend of Gavin's, then he said he didn't even know her.”

  “There's something to this,” Chloe said, shaking her head. “I can feel it. There are pieces everywhere, and I know they have to fit together. I just don't know how.”

  “We'll figure it out,” Maia said. “In any case, I don't think he means us any harm, do you?”

  Chloe thought about that for a moment. “No. No, I don't think so.”

  “Then Mr. James is on the back burner, for now,” Miranda said. “Training and preparing for the horrible battle, first. Figuring out our landlord's deep, dark secrets, second.”

  “Works for me,” Maia said.

  “Me, too.” Chloe got up and headed for the kitchen. “Now, I don't know about you two, but I'm craving scrambled eggs.”

  Dylan gripped Wren's hand as they stepped into the clearing, and marveled at the world frozen around them, locked in time. The others of their group stood poised . . . waiting in mid-movement, a hand extended or mouth half-open uttering a halted word. Falling leaves floated mid-air and swirls of dust caught up in stilled wind gusts painted the surroundings with swaths of color. After a moment, everything began to move—slowly, so slowly at first that Dylan could barely detect it, then gradually faster and faster. It looked like the world was catching up to Dylan and Wren, when he knew in reality it was the two of them who were re-joining regular time.

  The others barely acknowledged the duo's sudden appearance, which said something about what had become normal in Dylan's life lately.

  “I don't think I'll ever get used to that,” he said, releasing Wren's hand and rolling his shoulders. He stretched his arms behind his back, then over his head.

  “Glad you guys are here,” Chloe said. “I have to ask. Did any of you go to the career fair in the Student Union last October?”

  “Not me,” Beck replied.

  “I walked through it,” Dylan said.

  “Me, too,” said Ethan.

  “Did any of you get one of these?” She held up a folded flyer. Dylan took it from her and read the front.

  “Warden Security?” he said, shaking his head. “No, not me. Why?”

  “It's a company our landlord works for,” Chloe replied as the flyer was passed around the circle. “Both Maia and I got one, and we're trying to figure out what that means, if anything.”

  No one else said they'd gotten one of the pamphlets, and Chloe explained that she'd had a vision about it, but they had yet to figure out why. They tossed around various theories, but came to no real conclusions and decided to put it aside and get back to training.

  “So, what's the game plan?” Dylan asked.

  Chloe let out a frustrated breath. “Good question. Your dad was starting to train us in some self-defense moves, but without him, we're kind of screwed.”

  “Oh, I can help with that,” Dylan said, bending over to touch the ground and groaning a little as his back cracked.

  “You?” Chloe asked.

  He straightened and rolled his shoulders again, tilting his head back and forth. “Sure. We took classes together since I was a kid. Bonding thing, you know? I'm not quite as good as my dad, but I can definitely teach you guys a few things.” He grinned at Beck's openly dubious expression.

  “You doubt me, big guy?” he asked, widening his stance a bit as he gestured toward him. “Come on. Give me your best shot.”

  “Uh, I don't think that's such a good idea.” Beck held up his hands and took a step backward. Dylan could see the others looking skeptically from Beck's bulky frame to his own lanky, somewhat scrawny one.

  “Don't worry, I'll take it easy on you,” Dylan said with a smirk as he waved him forward. “Come on. Let me have it.”

  Beck cracked his neck, his beefy arms flexing in his t-shirt. “You sure about this?”

  “Yeah. Come on. Don't go easy on me.”

  Dylan could see the moment Beck focused, and anticipated his attack with almost ridiculous ease. Beck ran straight for him—no finesse at all—and went for a tackle. Dylan sidestepped at the last second and grabbed one of Beck's arms at the wrist and elbow, neatly using his own weight and momentum to throw Beck to the damp ground. He lay there for a moment, the breath knocked out of him, and Dylan walked over to look down, fighting a grin.

  “You okay, dude?”

  Without warning, Beck kicked out and knocked Dylan's legs out from under him. Dylan rolled and popped back up on his feet just as Beck stood and dove at him again. Dylan dodged, unable to keep the smile off his face. It had been a while since he’d sparred with someone bigger than him. He'd forgotten how much fun it could be.

  Beck's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched as they circled each other. Dylan bounced on his toes, his fists raised, but arms relaxed as he watched for Beck's next move.

  He didn't have to wait long.

  Beck lunged, swingin
g at him with his right and Dylan ducked and spun, narrowly escaping a follow-up punch with his left. Despite Beck's size, they were really pretty evenly matched, given Dylan's black belt.

  Yeah, he had a black belt. Not a fifth degree, like his dad, but Dylan did okay, if he did say so himself.

  Beck would swing and Dylan would counter, either avoiding the impact entirely, or using Beck's own momentum to throw him off balance. The bigger guy was obviously getting frustrated, the grinding of his teeth almost audible. Beck stood back and took a moment to rethink his strategy and Dylan watched him closely, a slight smirk on his lips.

  “Give up yet?”

  Instead of responding, Beck almost growled, and his right hand started to glow.

  “Beck, no,” Wren said, stepping forward, but she stopped when Dylan held up a hand.

  “It's okay,” he said. “If he needs a little extra boost, I don't mind.”

  Beck took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and the glowing faded.

  “I don't need it,” he said. Then he rushed at Dylan. This time he was less straightforward in his attack. Beck dodged to the left, then to the right, finally managing to land a punch to Dylan’s mid-section.

  Dylan let out an oof, but he could tell that Beck was holding back. He was glad, to be honest. He was pretty sure if Beck put all his strength into it, even without his super-charged gift, Dylan would be in some serious pain. He took a few steps back and bent over, his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

  “Guys, maybe we should stop before someone gets hurt,” Chloe said.

  “I’m fine,” Dylan said, straightening.

  “Dylan—”

  “I said I'm fine.” He glared at her, then decided it was time to go on the offense. He took two steps toward Beck and faked a punch with his right. As expected, Beck lifted his left to counter, but Dylan pulled it at the last second and darted to the other side, slipping his foot behind Beck's and using his imbalance to force him to the ground. Beck's arms flailed and he grabbed Dylan, pulling him down with him. Dylan slipped out from under his arm and rolled away, but Beck was quick. He jumped to his feet and raised his fist, hand glowing.

  “Beck!” Wren shouted.

  Dylan cursed to himself, unable to do anything other than close his eyes and raise his own arm to block the blow.

  It never came.

  Dylan waited for a second. A few more. But nothing happened. Slowly, he opened his eyes, only to gasp in shock at the sight of Beck over him, fist cradled against his chest and his face crumpled in pain. It took a moment for Dylan to make sense of what he was seeing. A glowing wall—no, a bubble really—surrounded him, pulsing lightly along with the electric sensation he now noticed vibrating through him.

  “Holy—” he breathed.

  The others gathered around, and Chloe raised a hand to touch a finger to the bubble.

  “Be careful,” Beck warned, shaking out his fist. “It packs a punch.”

  Chloe hesitated only a moment before tapping it once, like testing a hot iron. With a determined look, she laid her palm on it, the glow intensifying along her fingers.

  What was strange was that Dylan felt it. Like the touch on the bubble was actually on his own skin.

  “Does it hurt?” Miranda asked Chloe.

  “No,” she replied. “Just a little shocky, you know? Electric. Like touching one of those lightning ball things.”

  Of course that was the cue for everyone else to touch it, and Dylan drew a breath at the sensation.

  “This is so weird,” he said. “I can feel you all. It's like you're touching me.”

  At that, they drew their hands back quickly.

  “Sorry,” Ethan said.

  “Can you control it?” Wren asked. “Can you feel what you're doing?”

  “I don't know. It was just a reflex, but—” Dylan closed his eyes and focused on the pulse he felt, the electricity radiating out from his center. “I think I can. I think I feel it.”

  “Try to pull it back in,” Wren said.

  “How?”

  “Just picture it,” Maia offered. “See it in your mind's eye and visualize it retreating, focusing on that point of origin. Draw it back in, like taking a deep breath.”

  “Focus. Deep breath. Got it.” Dylan did as she directed, picturing the force field in his mind, and the pulsing string tying it to him. He tugged on that string, the bubble giving, just a bit, and he pulled harder until it collapsed completely. He opened his eyes and stared at the tiny glowing spot over the center of his chest. It pulsed, beating in time with his heart for a moment, before it vanished altogether.

  “Whoa,” he said, choking on a hysterical laugh as he fell back on the chilly ground, his arms extended. “That. Was. Awesome!”

  “So, how are you? Really?” Miranda asked Dylan a short time later, her dark gaze penetrating as she sat down next to him and leaned back against a tree trunk, her shoulder brushing his.

  Dylan shrugged, finding himself coloring. “I'm okay.” When she continued to stare at him, he looked away, watching where the others were gathered in the center of the clearing, practicing one of the throws he'd just taught them. “I just . . . I hate lying to my dad, you know? I mean, I get that I have to. I have to do this. But I hate it.”

  He glanced at her sideways and her look softened as she nodded. “Yeah, I get it.”

  Dylan tried to ignore the warmth of her arm against his, but he wasn't having much luck. She was so close. And so warm. And so . . . Miranda.

  He cleared his throat, searching for a topic of conversation.

  “Do you think—” he said.

  “Are we—” she said at the same time.

  They laughed and Dylan shook his head. God, what an idiot.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  Miranda smiled, her own cheeks a little red now, and looked out across the clearing. “Are we going to be ready, you think?”

  Dylan sighed. “I hope so. We don't really have a choice, do we? We have to be.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Silence fell again, thick and heavy, broken only by the grunts and laughter in the middle of the clearing.

  He could hear Miranda breathing beside him, her proximity making him nervous, like it always did.

  Always had.

  Ever since that first day she walked into the coffee shop with Chloe—God, almost two years ago now—and made him almost drop a box of cups. He'd been awestruck by her brightly colored hair and her even brighter laugh. His hands shook as he keyed in her order, and he tried to come up with something to say to her. Something to get her attention.

  But she wouldn't even look him in the eye.

  It took months before he could do more than smile nervously at her as he delivered her drink, more than a year before he actually held a conversation.

  Okay, so it hadn't been much of a conversation.

  “Here's your latte.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Homework?” He gestured to the books and papers spread on the table.

  She wrinkled her nose. “English paper.”

  He nodded, and tried to think of something more to say. “Well, good luck!”

  He'd thrown her a thumbs up—a thumbs up, seriously!—and headed back to the counter, mentally kicking himself.

  Dylan had gotten over the embarrassment at that—a THUMBS UP, people!—eventually and managed to speak to Miranda on a semi-regular basis when she came into the shop. And rarely—almost never—did he do anything too horrible.

  And he admired her from afar.

  Way afar.

  Because Miranda was just so much. With her crazy hair and her confidence and her snarky attitude.

  Dylan couldn't keep up. And he knew he couldn't really compete for her attention. Sure, he was confident. Dylan knew he was smart and funny and generally a good guy, but confidence had its limits. And his limit was Miranda Summers.

  So, over time, Dylan became an acquaintance, and eventually, even a friend, of sor
ts. And he lived in the agony of unrequited—whatever—until the insanity that his life had become threw them together and his pining from afar became kind of . . . close up.

  He scrubbed at his face, hoping she couldn't read his mind.

  “You sure you're okay?” she asked again as she turned to face him, legs crisscrossed in front of her so her knee bumped his.

  What was up with all the bumping? And touching? Didn't she know what she was doing to him?

  No, of course she didn't.

  So Dylan did his best to ignore it and forced a smile.

  “I'm okay,” he said.

  She swallowed and looked down at her lap. “I know it's hard to be thrown into the middle of all this. I mean, not that you can't handle yourself or anything. Obviously, you can handle yourself.”

  She rolled her eyes and looked skyward. “I just mean . . . Maia had to go through it and I, you know, can be someone to talk to, if you have questions or want to vent or whatever.”

  She seemed nervous, which was so not Miranda.

  “I mean, I know you have the others to talk to and they have powers, so maybe they get it a little more, but—”

  “Miranda?” He tried to stop her, but she kept on going.

  “—I get it, too, even if I can't throw flame from my fingertips or anything. And I have the journal—”

  “Miranda.”

  “So, in a way I have the knowledge of generations, or whatever.”

  “Miranda!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks,” he said with a smile. “I appreciate that.”

  “Oh, okay. Yeah, sure.” She nodded, her face bright red as she chewed on her lip.

  “And I'd like to talk to you about it,” Dylan said. “I mean, I don't have anything specific right this second . . .”

  “Oh, yeah, totally.” She waved him off. “Whenever. You know, open-ended offer. No expiration date.”