Authors: Kelly Meding
Think, Dahlia, think.
The lounge. An enormous maple tree grew outside, just to the east of the lounge’s balcony. If I could get to that tree, I could climb down into the yard. I hoped. I’d never had to sneak out of the house as a teenager, so dangling from trees was pretty new.
I opened my bedroom door a crack. Listened. Nothing. They could still be downstairs in the War Room. I crossed mental fingers and slipped out, silently closing the door behind me. I tiptoed down the hall and darted into the lounge. It was in the same disarray as yesterday. Funny how our lives had gone from house repairs to fighting for our lives in only a matter of hours.
The balcony door squealed. I cringed, expecting shouting voices at any moment. Nothing happened. I slid through, closed it. More squealing. The balcony floorboards creaked under my weight as I crossed to the far corner. I hated this.
I wanted to tell them, to ask permission to go talk to Noah. They wouldn’t let me. At the very least, Gage would insist he and someone else go with me.
No, if Noah was going to talk, it would be with me. And only me.
I eyed the grand maple tree. Its nearest branch was still a foot away. I could jump and miss and break my neck. I could jump and grab hold . . . and still slip and break my neck. Or I could . . . something metal caught my eye, running up the length of the house, perpendicular to the balcony and porch below. Drainpipe. I almost laughed. The perfect cliché to get me out of here.
Swinging both legs over the balcony rail, I gripped the sides of the metal pipe. It groaned. Held. Hand over hand, I shimmied to the ground and hit the grass. So far, so good. Open ground lay in front of me, marked with the occasional tree. Praying no one was in the dining room looking out, I bolted, my heart jack-hammering in my chest. I ran from tree to tree until I hit the property line. A tall hedge grew on our side of the fence. I stuck to it, crouched low, and darted toward the back of the property. More trees there, up against the fence.
One bonus of helping Marco install the perimeter sensors was that I knew where they were placed. And unless Ethan thought to reactivate it after the false alarm, Sensor Eight was still off—the fence had a weak spot. Then it would be a matter of hitching a ride or walking. And then getting the answers I needed.
I just hoped they were also the answers I wanted to hear.
An hour passed
before the aging Scott & Sons sign loomed down the block. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. I had twisted my hair up and secured it with a twig. Waning sunlight glared down, baking through my long pants and tank top. A few cars honked at me; I ignored them, too tempted to salute with my middle finger if I acknowledged their admiration of my assets.
I stopped at the end of the block, debating my approach. Storm in through the shop, or go around back and hope what I assumed to be an upstairs apartment door was open? Demand answers, or use a more subtle approach? I hesitated to accuse Noah of anything. I didn’t know what exactly he had or hadn’t done, not with any great certainty. However, going in with guns blazing and catching him off-guard also had its merits. Less time to think up a lie.
If he’s been playing you this whole time, he’s had plenty of time to come up with lies. He took you to lunch while his brother ran your friends off the road.
No proof. No proof. It became a mantra in the back of my head. Innocent until proven guilty. It was the only way to get through this with my sanity intact.
Halfway down the block—“Hello, Dahlia.”
I yelped and nearly jumped out of my skin. As I spun around, my ankles caught and I pitched forward—right into Officer Miguel Ortega’s arms. His hands gripped my shoulders, squeezing painfully. Panic hit, and I raised my knee. He avoided the groin shot and gave me a shake.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
“How do I know that?” I glared at my shoulders.
He let me go, his dark eyes flashing. “Because Noah told me not to. Come inside, Dahlia. We need to talk.”
Something in his voice prevented me from arguing. It had a keen, dangerous edge. Even though he wore his sidearm holstered with safety snapped, I remained acutely aware of its presence as I led the way. Slow, tentative steps drew me forward. The shop was silent, empty. He locked the door, turned the sign to Closed, and then indicated the back stairs.
They creaked beneath my feet, groaning their age and announcing our arrival to anyone listening from above. The top of the dusky stairwell ended at a wooden door. I half expected it to swing open, admitting me into the bowels of my own personal hell.
“Go on,” Ortega-but-not said.
The cool knob turned. I pushed. It swung easily, and I walked into the apartment hall. On my right and left were closed doors. Without further prompting, I followed the corridor to the end. A quick glance discovered an empty living room. Sunlight streamed in through half a dozen open windows, allowing in humid air. Two box fans circulated, doing little to cool the place. The sofa was worn, the tables nicked and scarred, the rug threadbare. Dozens of trophies for various sports lined the built-in bookcases. Someone had been an athlete.
Something about the living room was odd, though, and I didn’t have time to stand there and puzzle it out. My guide
pointed. I stepped into the sunny kitchen, greeted by the scent of brewed coffee. Mugs and a blue carafe decorated the tabletop, along with a scattering of plastic spoons and a bottle of nondairy creamer. A slightly younger, ganglier version of Noah—Jimmy?—sat on the far side, by the door.
Noah stood next to the wall, mug in hand and eyes on the floor. He didn’t look up, just stayed hunched next to a window. The sight of him sent fury rippling through me. He looked like Noah Scott, but he wasn’t. Not the Noah I’d known in high school. This person I was looking at had taken him, used him—used me.
The word
fool
didn’t have nearly enough letters to describe how I felt about myself.
A third person sat at the table with his back to me, showing only brown hair and tailored suit. I stopped, more afraid of this stranger than of anyone else in the room. Ortega remained at my back, destroying any chance of fleeing. Not that I would have. I came for answers, and it looked like they planned to oblige. If they didn’t kill me first.
Jimmy’s attention flickered to me, then away when I returned the look with a poisonous frown. He deferred to the man whose face I couldn’t see but still seemed familiar.
“Please, have a seat,” the man said.
My heart nearly stopped at the sound of his voice. It made perfect sense and no sense. Information given, information hidden. Obfuscated. All to this purpose. I should have seen it coming, but I hadn’t. None of us had. And no one at home knew I was here.
I walked to the chair farthest from Noah, closer to the
man in the chair, amazed at my ability to take steady, unhindered steps when I wanted to fall apart. The man stirred his coffee with a plastic spoon, calm and unbothered. He looked up, meeting my glare inch for inch, never giving.
“Well,” Dr. Abram Kinsey said. “We have a lot to talk about.”
W
as anything you told us true?” I pulled out a scarred wooden chair and sat down, folding my hands neatly in my lap. Amazed at my self-control—for now.
Fear, annoyance, confusion, and wrath clambered over each other for dominance, none winning the battle quite yet. I tried to ignore the three other men in the room and focus on Kinsey. He was a scientist; he thought things through rationally. Surely, if he meant to kill me, I’d be dead already.
“Yes, my dear,” Kinsey said. “Most of it was true, in fact. Certainly everything I told you about the Changelings’ escape and their powers. I only failed to mention my part in that escape.”
“So why admit it now?” It took every ounce of concentration I possessed not to look at Noah; to pay sole attention to Kinsey and ignore the very near presence of my supposed friend. Had our entire adult friendship been predicated on a lie? Just another façade stolen by someone with no identity of his own?
“Mistakes were made.” Kinsey turned his head to deliver
a deliberate look to Ortega. “You and your friends are getting too close to the truth, and I feel we have no choice but to approach you.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why me?”
“Noah says we can trust you, and that’s good enough for me.”
The response broke loose the fury inside me, and it rose to the surface in a furious blush. “Does he? That’s very interesting, because I don’t trust
him
.”
Noah winced.
I didn’t relent, imagining each word striking him like a firm kick to the nuts. “That was an interesting way to keep tabs on what we knew. Let’s befriend the youngest, she’s sure to fall for it and blab their secrets for a few compliments and a pity date from an old schoolmate. It’s too bad one of your brothers decided to run my friends off the road, so you never got the chance to go for dessert. So sorry, Noah. Try again with the next poor soul you want to con.”
His mouth twisted into something ugly, and he launched his mug at the wall. It sailed end over end, spilling coffee across the linoleum floor and smashing against the refrigerator door. The crash echoed through the small kitchen. A chair scraped. Noah glared at the mess he’d made, not moving or speaking. My heart sped up a bit more.
“Noah,” Kinsey barked.
“What’s his real name?” I asked. “Which one is he?” I wasn’t letting this go, now that I had my anger revving.
“Ace,” Noah said, finally adding to the conversation. His voice was tight, harsh. “They called me Ace.”
Jimmy raised his hand. “I was Joker, in case you were wondering.”
I looked over my shoulder at Ortega. “So you must be King.” To Noah, I snapped, “Is Aaron Scott even real, or was the whole three brothers thing just for show?”
“Aaron Scott is quite real,” Kinsey said, taking the question. “The Scott siblings created the perfect cover for the boys to blend in and disappear. It almost worked out perfectly.”
“So what went wrong with this perfect cover of yours?”
Kinsey sipped his coffee. “It’s extremely complicated, Miss Perkins, so let me start from the beginning. Everything I told you about the Recombinant project was true. I oversaw the project, and I raised the Hybrid Changeling children. I trained them and nurtured them. Only I failed to mention I was one of the genetic-material donors. They are, genetically and spiritually, my sons.”
The admission tempered my anger a smidge. I recalled the photograph he’d shown us in his office, of the three faceless teenage boys. What did it take to look at your children every day and see nothing of yourself in them? Never see anyone in them, except the masks they chose to wear.
“They are my sons,” he continued. “But to Weatherfield, they were still projects. Objects, owned and operated, and about a month ago they decided the project no longer had merit. With the Metas reactivated, our research was meant to go in a different direction. They told me they could no longer justify the expense of the Hybrids’ training program. In short, they were to be terminated.”
“You mean killed?”
Kinsey nodded. “Put down like unwanted strays, and nothing I said could change their minds. The board didn’t understand my feelings, so we four came up with an alternative to death. We decided on freedom.”
“An alternative to death? By killing Ronald Jarvis?”
“His death was an unfortunate circumstance, but it became unavoidable. Voice recognition software is used on all except the main entry gates. Their powers do not allow for voice change without the full possession of the host. It was the only way to get them out, and for that, I am truly sorry.”
“I don’t think a judge is going to care that you’re sorry.”
The snide remark rolled right past. “We thought the escape through very carefully, planning contingencies for any unforeseen emergencies. Everything was going well. Noah and James were in place, but Aaron was nowhere to be found. We had King’s cover prepared, and no body with which to veil him. The other boys had to pretend for a bit.”
In place. Covers and veils. He spoke with such clinical detachment, he could have been discussing cold symptoms. These were the lives of human beings, not toys to be played with. But, as with a three-car pile-up on the 405, I found it impossible to ignore the things in front of me.
“Where’s the real Aaron Scott?” I asked.
“We aren’t certain. He was tightly wound even before the death of the boys’ parents, and he lived his life selfishly. He couldn’t be bothered to leave a circuit party to attend their parents’ funeral. Six weeks ago he told Noah he was going to Colorado with a group of ex-boyfriends to do some mountain climbing. He hasn’t been heard from since.”
“So he could just show up at any moment?”
“Yes.”
I waved one hand at Jimmy. “And he won’t notice that his little brothers aren’t his little brothers anymore?”
“We
are
his brothers,” Noah snarled. His words struck like punches, furious and intimidating. “It’s impossible to explain, Dahlia, but this is me. This person I am, he’s both Noah Scott and Ace the Changeling. You don’t stop being one to be the other, you become an amalgamation of the two. I am me, brother to Jimmy Scott and to King, in whatever form he has chosen.”
I wouldn’t look at him. Looking at Noah made me want to throw hard objects in his general direction—which was not a good idea while surrounded by people I didn’t really know, one with a gun and a temperament to kill. But I might as well press my luck while they were talking.
“So if Aaron shows up in an hour, what happens?” I asked. “King just takes him over, whether Aaron agrees to it or not? They become some amalgam of two people and he gets no say?”
“Our lives change without our permission, Miss Perkins,” Kinsey said. “You of all people should understand how that’s possible. You weren’t given a choice about your powers. Aaron Scott will become greater than he was as an individual. He was selfish, distant from his family, and a recreational meth user.”