Fake

Gaia

Bitch-Slapped by Reality

Jake

Crazed Stare

Mixture of Fun and Fear

Skyler

Gaia

Absolute Mess of a Girl

Fish Sticks and Sanka

Gaia

Happy–Ish

Urgency

Mother Ship

Gaia

Normal Abnormalness

Loki

Skyler

Carnival-Like Vibe

Unflinching Eye Contact

‘The Nine Lives of Chloe King: Volume One' Excerpt

To Jean Yves Santini

It
always used to amaze me how many words there were to describe a fear state. I once looked it up in the thesaurus and there were about a kajillion.
Terrified, worried, frightened, anxious, horrified, panicked, fretful, scared, petrified, apprehensive . . .
Apparently fear is to English what ice is to Inuit.

And that doesn't even take into account the “baseless” fears. Those “bad feelings” people refer to that tell them when to run and hide. I read about this stuff in the newspapers. Some businessman feels prickles on the back of his neck and for no reason other than a vague fear debarks a plane that later crashes. A married couple feels strangely uneasy while looking at what is otherwise their dream house and decide not to buy it–then later find out it's become the site of a mass murder. Even animals seem able to sense when bad stuff is coming.

The only time I felt something slightly akin to this was when I was four. It wasn't fear at all, more like a hollow outline of it–the difference between early Atari and Xbox. A muddled sense that things were NOT RIGHT.

When I was four, my mom became pregnant. Over the months I'd watched her stomach bulge out like a very slow-filling balloon. I remember her flushed cheeks and faraway looks. She was so excited about the new baby. Dad too. Me? I was indifferent. Based on my limited experience with babies, I couldn't logically understand why my parents were giddy about getting a loud, stinky creature who couldn't do anything.

Eventually the big day came. Mom went off to the hospital with that eager blush on her cheeks, kissing me before waddling out the door. Then Dad kissed me and promised they'd be back soon with the baby. Only they didn't come back soon. I overheard my babysitter, old Mrs. Jorgensen
(who always smelled like cat food), talking to my dad on the phone. She had her back to me and was mumbling quietly into the receiver, but I managed to catch the words
tests
and
lack of oxygen.
When she hung up, she tried to act like nothing was wrong, but I'd learned to read people by that time. Adults always try to keep bad news from children in order not to scare them. Only I couldn't be scared. And I knew a lousy acting job when I saw it.

So I waited. Slowly the day fell into shadows, then darkened completely. Then that evening my dad finally came home. His face was pearly pale and he told me the baby wasn't coming home after all—there had been a mix-up and the baby had gone to heaven instead. He also said that Mom was going to have to stay longer in the hospital and maybe I could go see her in a couple of days.

Of course, little did I know that my brother
did
survive the birth. An underground organization
kidnapped him for themselves, hoping he would also possess fearlessness–or at least the secrets to it. Years later I would get nabbed by the same group of thugs and thrown in a mental institution. There I would meet a beautiful, sweet, completely innocent boy known only as D. My brother. My flesh and blood.

The day of D.'s birth, the day of not-right feelings, was the start of a horrific pattern in my life: people I love being taken from me one way or another, all because of my fearlessness. And now that I have fear, in spite of the fact that I seem to be existing in a state of constant anxiety, there is one slight comfort. Maybe now that I'm no longer fearless, the pattern will stop. Maybe people will stop messing with those I love.

Looking back on the variety pack of tragedies in my life has never been fun, but it's practically unbearable now. Reliving these moments physically grips me in a
vise of grief and panic, almost as if it's happening again. . . . My mom lying in bed after losing the baby—her stomach flat and empty, her face sickly white, almost transparent with grief. My dad staring into space for hours at a time, hardly noticing me. And that not-right feeling I had—that creeping disorientation-that underscored my sadness.

Now that I look back, I suddenly see that feeling for what it truly was–one of those fear premonitions, a warning of the next awful tragedy in store for me. A time when Mom would never come back.

So, maybe there's more to fear than I originally thought. Call it instinct, ESP, good or bad vibes–whatever. Maybe fear actually tunes people in to the cosmos and lets them see what's coming to pass.

Bad feelings? I've got loads of them. And right now they're telling me awful things are on the way.

His eyes were like a pair of floodlights—bright, steady, mesmerizing. She could feel herself wilting beneath them. . . .

Pawn

LOKI STOOD BEFORE HIS EIGHTEENTH
-story window, staring out at the night sky. The nearby buildings were cast in a palette of varying grays, like the set of a Japanese monster movie. Beyond them the city's lights stretched out toward the horizon, like tiny holes in the threadbare darkness.

She was out there somewhere. His Gaia. Possibly behind one of those pricks of light. Maybe even fighting for her life.

Normally he wouldn't worry. She was strong, his girl. A modern Valkyrie. He had no doubt she could overpower or outmaneuver anything the city threw at her. But this was different. Right now she was in the hands of someone he didn't trust—someone who also realized what invaluable gems she carried in her genetic code. Skyler Rodke.

Loki turned his back to the window and snatched his alphanumeric pager off the waistband of his slacks. He held it up, letting the city lights bounce off the sleek black display screen. Still no messages. He set the pager down on a nearby console and pulled a fifty-cent piece from his left pocket. He turned the coin over and over in his hands, feeling the metal grow warm in his grasp.

He could send out an alert, rally all of his operatives in the search for Gaia. But that would be rash. It was quite possible one of them had turned on him,
passing along vital secrets to this competitor. Ever since his return, it had been difficult to know his men's loyalties. All those weeks he'd lain useless in a hospital bed, they had been cut off and left to fend for themselves—body parts without a brain. He could almost understand it if one of them had latched on, leechlike, to another willing leader.

Patience,
he thought as he repocketed his coin and walked over to the teak-and-leather bar on the opposite side of the room. He would not send out an APB. Frustrating as this was, it would be far better to wait than risk informing his nemesis of his panicked state.

Plus he had the boy.

It wasn't the same. Jake Montone was no operative. He had no subtlety. And he lacked the necessary ability to surgically sever all emotional ties and simply follow orders. The boy complicated things, but he did have one advantage that a whole team of trained professionals, including Loki himself, did not have: Gaia, for some reason, trusted the boy.

And he's proving easy to mold,
Loki admitted generously, filling a highball glass halfway with ice cubes and drenching them in amber-colored scotch.
He's green but enthusiastic—eager to be Gaia's knight in shining armor.

As long as he was a willing servant and Gaia let him near her, Loki would continue to use the boy. Jake
wasn't much of a secret weapon in a crisis such as this. But then, given the right circumstances, even a pawn could defeat a king.

Dust Bunny from Hell

THE SCREEN FADED TO BLACK. THE
theme music swelled, filling the apartment with its mournful melody. Gaia lay across the orange plaid couch, her head in Skyler's lap. The turquoise-and-navy Columbia University blanket he had tossed over her was making her arm itch, but she didn't scratch. She could feel Skyler stretch his arms—first up, then out—but she remained immobile, her eyes transfixed upon the words scrolling up the thirty-six-inch television screen. She was motionless yet tense, like a spring-loaded trap, powerless to untangle her mind from the
Godfather
universe.

Her gut felt bunched and her heart seemed to be throbbing in pain instead of simply beating. The whole time she was watching the film, an awful dread had crept over her. She felt vulnerable and exposed, as if a cold-blooded gunman might jump out from behind the couch at any moment.

And knowing her life, it could happen.

Skyler placed his hand on her shoulder and shook it gently. “You awake?” he murmured.

“Mm-hmm,” she replied. She sat up slowly, hugging her knees to her chest.

“So, you want to watch something else?” Skyler asked, hitting the power button on the remote. The music stopped suddenly. Now all Gaia could hear was the thudding of her heartbeat and the nasal whine of her breathing.

She shook her head.

“Okay. So what do you want to do?”

What did she want to do?

The world of mafiosi was gradually fading as her own reality took back color and form. Skyler's apartment was all foreign shadows. She could make out the familiar lump of her backpack, still streaked with mud from her tussle with the IV heads. Her jacket lay across a nearby chair. It looked rumpled and neglected, a forlorn shape among all the blocky masculine furniture.

A siren sounded nearby, screeching louder and then dopplering away. Gaia drew her legs tighter against her chest. Her world wasn't any better than the one in the movie. In fact, it was worse. Hers was darker, more chaotic. Existing in it made her feel worn out and defeated—bitch-slapped by reality. Right now all she wanted was to curl up and ignore everything forever.

“Gaia?” Skyler prompted.

“I think I need to go,” she said, pushing off the couch and reaching down for her tennis shoes.

“What?” Skyler sat up straight, his thick brows scrolling together over his nose. “Wait a second. I thought you were staying over. What's wrong?”

Gaia felt a pang of guilt as she tied her shoes. Skyler had been so nice to take her in after the fight. It wasn't his fault she'd turned into a big, depressing lump. But she wouldn't be any fun if she stayed around. A college guy like Skyler had better things to do than babysit a scared high school girl. “I'm sorry. I just don't feel up for much,” she said, rising to her feet. “Where's my phone? Can I have it back?”

He smiled crookedly. “No.”

“Ha ha. Very funny,” she said weakly. “Now hand it over, please.”

“Uh-uh.” He settled back against the couch cushions and put his hands behind his head. “Look, you're all worked up again, I can tell. And the whole point of you coming over here tonight was to relax, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“No. No arguments. I'm not going to let you leave until I've accomplished my mission.”

Gaia stared at him. His eyes were like a pair of floodlights—bright, steady, mesmerizing. She could feel herself wilting beneath them until finally she sank back onto the couch beside him.

He was right. It was late. Besides, after the fight and the movie she was too weirded out to face the city beyond the doors just yet.

“Okay,” she said, kicking her shoes back off. “But I'm warning you, I'm not going to be any fun.”

“Fine. No fun allowed.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, his face a mask of seriousness. She could tell he was trying to make her laugh, but she was way too depressed for it to work. Still, she managed a feeble smile to be polite.

“Here.” He turned the TV back on and handed her the remote. “Now I want you to know I don't do this for just anyone. Relinquishing channel surf power is about the highest honor I can give you.”

“Thanks.” She settled back and began pressing the channel button, assessing each image as it passed. A medical drama? No. Men in suits talking about war? No. Late-night hosts joking about war? No. A live report from a ten-alarm fire in the Midwest? Cartoon characters braiding each other's intestines? No. No. No.