Forgotten (5 page)

            “You know what I think?” Grayson says, standing up.

            I shake my head. “What?”

            “I think we need to start work on getting out of here again. That way, no matter what’s going on, we aren’t in the middle of it. We can warn Jack and his father.”

            He’s right. Of course he’s right. But saying it and doing it are two different things. It seems like we don’t have time, either, because in that moment the door to the cell opens again to let in one of the large men who came in with Wilson Hammond. His blond hair is buzz-cut short, his muscles bulge through his suit, and he’s wearing wraparound shades as well as black gloves that don’t really fit with the suit. Grayson half turns towards him… and then collapses to the floor unconscious as the bodyguard punches him right on the jaw.

            “Hey, what are you doing?” I demand, but in that moment he takes a swing at me too. I barely dodge it, feeling the rush of air as the punch goes past my head. I get a good look as it happens of Grayson there on the floor, completely out. I know he’s going to be fine. I know he’ll heal, but right then, that sight is enough to send fury bursting through me.

            Something in me snaps and I charge at the bodyguard. My hands are still tied behind me, and he’s far bigger than I am, far stronger. Right then that doesn’t matter. I slam my shoulder into him, and the power in me is already rushing through me hard enough that I knock him back into the opposite wall, shoving into him. He spins me around, pulling me back tight against him with gloved hands, but that doesn’t matter. If anything, it makes things easier.

            I lift my cuffed hands behind me, placing them on the shirt of the man attacking me. Grabbing hold of it so he won’t get away. I don’t want him to just stop after what he’s done. I want him dead. It’s so easy to use my power in that moment. As easy as it has been when Jack has been in danger before. So easy that it would be harder
not
to use it. I take that force, and it pours out of my hands into the man holding me. Before, I didn’t want to do this, but now, when he’s hurt Grayson like that… now nothing can stop me.

            The man cries out in pain as a white hot glow surrounds us both. He cries out, but he holds on, keeping a tight grip on me while his arm wraps around my throat. He makes a sound that is more animal than human, so full of pain that it’s amazing he can still stand, but he manages to start squeezing anyway.

            I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, and he’s still squeezing, even though I’m pouring all the energy I can out of my hands. He’ll stop soon though. He’ll stop when there’s nothing left of him but ashes. The part of me that thinks that seems far too happy about it, but right then, the rest of me is busy working hard not to pass out. If I can just hold on a little longer…

            He isn’t burning. Why isn’t he burning? There’s heat there, because he’s obviously in pain, but he isn’t disintegrating. He isn’t dying. He’s even able to keep squeezing so that I fight and struggle, straining for breath. It feels like there’s far too much pressure in my head. Like I’m going to explode. I can see hints of blackness on the edges of my vision, and it’s hard to concentrate on just keeping the power going. So hard. Even harder than fighting for oxygen.

            My mind starts to drift, and I realize something feels strange about the cloth of the bodyguard’s suit where his elbow it tucked under my chin. For a fraction of a second it seems like nothing more than the random observation of a brain quickly shutting down, but then I remember what Wilson Hammond said about his company working on new materials. The suit must be made from the same stuff as the walls, meaning…

            Meaning that even if I’m hurting the man attacking me, it isn’t going to stop him. He’s protected by his suit. He won’t burn, no matter how much energy I use in doing it. I need to… need to…

            It’s too late. I gasp for air, but it’s too late. I was so certain that I could break free. So certain, and so angry. Now, I can’t think. Can’t even move. My legs give way, and for the next few seconds the bodyguard holds me up so that he can keep squeezing. Then he lowers me to the ground beside Grayson. I stare up at him and he frowns down at me.

            “Still awake?” he says. His face looks red, like he’s been sunburnt, but he doesn’t sound like he’s in pain right then. “Well, I guess we can deal with that.”

            He leans over me and I will my body to respond, but right then it simply doesn’t seem to be able to. He draws one gloved hand back carefully, then I feel the punch slam into my jaw, the way it connected with Grayson’s earlier. This time the darkness washes over me completely, and I don’t feel anything after that.

SIX

W
hen I open my eyes, Grayson is there, staring down at me with obvious concern. His hands are on my shoulders. My jaw aches, and I groan as he helps me to sit up. I look around. We’re sitting on a flat orange couch at one side of a large room with brightly colored walls made of the same material as the cell, a breakfast bar at one end, an open door that appears to lead through to some kind of bathroom, and in between…

            In between, it’s like the kind of room a teenager might come up with if they were given an unlimited budget to play with. There’s a huge TV dominating one wall, with a rack of games consoles under it that looks like it could run a spaceship. There’s an armchair so big that it looks almost like a joke, and a low pool table off in one corner. There are boxes around the walls, which look like they could contain almost anything. The whole place looks like it was designed to entertain someone who was very, very rich.

            Is this designed to make us comfortable? It looks like a great kind of place, but I notice that my hands are still cuffed. They’ve been moved in front of me, giving me a small amount of movement, but the cuffs are rigid metal ones, which make it hard to do much with my hands. So this isn’t just about our comfort. Or maybe it is, but there are definitely limits to it. The heat resistant material on the walls and the lack of an obvious exit both make that very clear.

            “You’re awake,” Grayson says. “I was starting to worry. I had to plead with them before they’d even let me put an ice pack on your bruising.”

            “Do you know where we are?” I ask, before my mind moves to the obvious question. “Why am I still cuffed?”

            “Sorry,” Grayson says, helping me to stand. “I tried to get them to un-cuff you, but they said you were too dangerous. I think they’re scared of what you can do, Celes. My ability doesn’t seem to frighten them as much.”

            “They know about what you can do?” I ask, and Grayson gestures to his face, then very gently touches my jaw. I wince.

            “It was kind of obvious, I guess,” Grayson says. I guess that it would have been, with the bruises on him fading completely while mine blossomed. I can kind of understand Wilson Hammond’s men not seeing it as threatening, either. After all, the ability to heal injuries might be useful, but it isn’t exactly a weapon. Whereas if I could touch exposed skin…

            Well, I’d probably still be trapped in whatever room I was in. The materials from Hammond’s companies are almost perfect, when it comes to stopping me. I just wish that they hadn’t managed to come up with handcuffs made from the stuff.

            “I guess that they’ve been observing us for a little while too,” Grayson says. “They probably saw what happened back at the farmhouse.”

            The farmhouse. Where I used my power on Grayson by accident. Where he survived it along with everything that one of Lionel’s rogue Faders could throw at him. Where Jonah told me that my powers might not be alien after all, but merely something thousands of years beyond anything humanity had evolved into so far. Did I tell Grayson that part? I start as I realize that I didn’t. He deserves to know.

            “Grayson…”

            I don’t finish that thought, because at that point a door opens in a section of wall where I hadn’t even spotted a door when I was looking around. A woman steps through. She has short blonde hair and is probably in her mid-thirties, wearing a relatively simple dark dress and looking at us both slightly nervously. She’s carrying a tray, on which there are two plates containing what looks like meatloaf.

            “Hi,” I say, and she starts slightly. I’m not sure why she would, except that of course I’m wearing handcuffs, and she’s probably been told just how dangerous I am. Maybe she’s even been told outright not to talk to us. She certainly hurries out of the room once she’s put the plates down on the breakfast counter.

            It occurs to me then that we could have escaped in that moment. Trained bodyguards might be too much for me and Grayson, but one maid, or cook, or assistant wouldn’t be. But I’m not going to do that. Hurting her won’t solve anything. There are probably people waiting outside the door just in case we try it, and in any case, she obviously isn’t one of Hammond’s thugs. It wouldn’t be right.

            I’m starving, and I head over to the counter, trying to work on the meatloaf as best I can with my hands still cuffed. It’s awkward. Really awkward. So awkward in fact that in the end Grayson spears a bit of it with his fork and offers it to me.

            “Here,” he says, “let me help.”

            I eat it gratefully, and the bite after that. It’s such an intimate thing, sitting there with Grayson feeding me like that. It reminds me of when we were back at school together, in the cafeteria, and I would steal bits of food off his plate. Or of the kind of romantic meal you see in movies. Except that there, the woman generally isn’t handcuffed.

            We eat, and after a while the door opens again, letting the woman in with what looks like dessert. Large slices of chocolate cake topped with cherries. It isn’t exactly prison food. She puts it down without a word and leaves, but I don’t get the chance to eat the forkful of the stuff Grayson picks up, because at that moment we have more visitors. Senator Hammond is there, along with his two thugs.

            I stand up, ready for whatever confrontation he has in mind, when a much smaller figure steps past the Senator. It’s a small boy, probably no more than seven or eight years old, with messy brown hair, blue eyes that make it clear whose son he is, and a broad smile. He’s wearing a blue t-shirt, jeans and sneakers.

            The boy moves over to the games consoles and they spring into life. He looks at his father, and Senator Hammond nods indulgently.

            “My son, Johnny,” he says, by way of an explanation. “He never does seem to be able to resist a round of Battlewar.”

            “It’s hard to blame him,” Grayson says. “It’s a good game. Hey, Johnny, I’m Grayson. Can I join in?”

            I can’t help smiling at that as Grayson settles down next to the giant armchair, playing the game along with the senator’s son. He’s good with the kid, but then, he’s always managed to get along with just about everyone. That’s what made Grayson him, the track star, and my former long-term boyfriend. Senator Hammond and I are left watching while the two of them blow up imaginary alien enemies for a while. Eventually though, the senator puts a hand on his son’s shoulder.

            “I think that’s enough for now, Johnny. It’s time for you to meet Celestra.”

            “Celes,” he says. “She prefers Celes.”

            I do, but I’m not sure how he knows that.

            “She’s the one, isn’t she dad?”

            Senator Hammond shakes his head. “It’s best if you don’t know that, Johnny.”

            “Why?”

            “It’s hard to explain.”

            “But she’s special, right?” Johnny asks. “She’s special like me?”

            I look at Senator Hammond sharply. What does his son mean by that?

            “I guess you would know better than anyone, Johnny,” the senator says. His son looks up at me with those big, blue, excited eyes and for the first time since I’ve gotten here, it doesn’t feel like everyone is afraid of me. Johnny just looks fascinated.