Into the Woods (71 page)

“Mrs. Thomson,” she pleaded, shoving her guilt aside, “Zach needs professional instruction. If he wants to go through the rigors of training, he can, and there will always be a job for him. If not, they will safely burn the ability from him and he can return to you otherwise unchanged. He can’t be allowed to remain as he is. It’s not safe for him
or
anyone else.”

Damn the Strand. She was going to do her job.
Wasn’t I?

“They’ll chip him,” the woman said sullenly, as if anyone really had any freedom.

Grace lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “Any form of ungrounded GPS wouldn’t last thirty seconds. It’s easier to find us with our cell phones.”

“Brainwash him,” the woman said, still hiding behind the door.

“Why?” Of all the urban legends, this was the hardest one to dispel, the easiest to believe, probably because it was somewhat true with those under the age of five. They didn’t bother trying with anyone older, just deadheaded them if they were unsuitable and let them go home. “If he doesn’t want to develop his abilities and control, he’s free to go without them.”

“They will butcher him!” she almost hissed, as if Grace was betraying her own kind. “Strip him of what he can do if he refuses to work for the Strand. There is nothing wrong with my son!”

Grace nodded. “I agree. But you don’t give a man who shows no restraint a gun full of bullets. It’s a sucky system, but it’s the only one we have.” Coming up a step, Grace blinked as she found the shade. “Without control and regulation, throws like Zach and me would be hunted and killed like witches in the 1800s.” There’d been a class at the Strand promoting the theory that witchcraft scares had been caused by natural dips in the earth’s magnetic field, brief instabilities that triggered an aberration in the human genome that wouldn’t fully express itself until the poles flipped.

“Zach has control,” Mrs. Thomson said, but Grace heard her voice softening. She wanted the best for her son; she was just afraid.

“He attacked my partner, Mrs. Thomson. It wasn’t an accident, but we forgive a lot in the name of fear and ignorance. He’s not beyond acceptance. Let me help him. He’s scared. He doesn’t need to be.” No need to bring up that her son had stopped her dog’s heart. Killing a dog wasn’t a punishable crime, even if it was reprehensible. It would, however, enter into her own private deliberations, and she clenched her jaw.
Damn Jason, anyway . . .

The woman before her dropped her gaze, her brow furrowed and her feet shifting in agitation. Her head came up, a dangerous light in her eyes. “Promise me.”

Grace’s expression blanked. “Promise you what?”

The woman came out, still holding the door as if she might dart back inside. “Promise me you won’t let anyone hurt him. You said you understand him. He’s only seventeen. He’s just a boy!”

She had been seventeen when they’d found her, backed into a corner like a wild thing spewing threats. It had taken three of them to bring her down. That she hadn’t hurt anyone had been a miracle—and the only reason they gave her a chance—the only reason they wanted Zach now. “I’ll do my best. It’s up to him.”

Oh God. The best for him, the best for her, the best for the Strand. It was not going to add up to an easy sum. Someone was going to lose, and Grace’s pulse hammered when the woman edged out, her tired, weary gaze on the stacks of the distant industrial field. “He’s with his friends,” she said. “Over at the gravel pit. It’s about five minutes—”

Grace was already moving. “I know where it is. Thank you.” A brief thought flitted through her that she should give the scared woman a hug—or at the very least, a handshake—but she was already down the stairs, her insulated boots hitting the cobbled walk.

“Wait! Ms. Evans?” Grace turned, impatient to be away, and the woman came out onto the porch. “Is your mother proud of you?”

Grace stiffened as she turned. “My mother is dead,” she said, forcing her breathing to remain even. “But she would be. I think.”

Her head down, she walked back to the car, her first flush of excitement of possibly bringing Zach in and gaining entry into the elite tarnished. Hoc was in the front seat, and she halted, tension slamming into her when she noticed Jason sitting behind the wheel.

“What are you doing here?” she said tightly, conscious of Zach’s mom watching from the porch. “This is still my collection.”

“I’m trying to help you,” he said, shoving Hoc to get the dog to jump into the back so he could lean across the seat and peer up at her. The silver on his uniform glinted, and his cap was on the dash. “I knew you could get her to tell you where he is. Get in.”

She frowned, not reaching for the handle. There was a simple pair of mitten-like mufflers on the front seat and a bang-go, a crass name for the complex techno device that interfered with the ability to organize the energy in your body once imbedded into your skin where you couldn’t easily reach it. “Those aren’t legal on unregistered throws,” she said, and he shrugged and started the car.

“They are for me.” He looked up at her, his eyes tired. “He tried to kill your dog, Grace. Going after him alone is a bad idea. I can make a call and shut you down in three seconds, but no. I’m sitting in your car trying to help you. Get in before she calls her son and he runs.”

Gut tight, Grace reached for the handle. She slid in, feeling his presence. “Gravel pit,” she said shortly, and Jason snorted.

“Figures.” He put the car in motion, making a slow U-turn. The woman was gone when they turned around, and Hoc settled himself in the backseat, mournfully watching her.

Grace stared at nothing, putting her elbow on the open window to feel the air in her hair and on her hand. It brushed against her, and she relaxed as the balance in her shifted as the wind pulled electrons from her. “When we get there, I want you to stay in the car.”

“Okay.”

Astonished, Grace pulled her elbow in and stared at him. “Okay? You’re not going to argue with me?”

Jason was silent. He squinted at the red light down the road, and a car coming from the right jerked to a noisy halt when the light changed unexpectedly. Grace’s eyes narrowed at the questionable use of power. His chin was higher than usual, and his finger twitched.

“I’m not going to pass him into the Strand if he’s not suitable,” she said, wondering if she could force Jason to leave. If he was there at the collection, his words would be heard at the hearing and what she said might not matter. Besides, there was a reason Jason had moved into the elite and she’d gone into the more delicate task of bringing in older, unregistered throws. He was far more willing to shoot first, shoot second, and forget there was a question at all.

“The Strand wants more powerful throws in its elite, Grace,” he offered cryptically, going through the intersection at a cool sixty miles per hour, the sleek black car looking enough like a cop’s to avoid complications. “They’re going to get them one way or another.” He glanced from the road and tossed her his cover. “Here, try it on.”

He wasn’t talking about just the hat, and she caught it with one hand. The metal in the band felt like tinfoil on her teeth, and she set it on the dash, angry at the decision she faced. “No thanks. I’m good.”

Jason said nothing, his grip on the wheel tightening and letting go. Feeling ugly inside, Grace glanced at the bang-go between them, remembering the feeling of it, the disorientation, the headache. It had been hell—and it hadn’t done a thing in convincing her that the Strand hadn’t been lying bastards. Maybe her seventeen-year-old self had been right all along. But Zach was coming in one way or another. If the Strand wanted him, they would have him. Why not help herself out in the process?

Just the thought made her lips turn down, a sick feeling cramping her gut. She’d spent the first half of her life hiding, the second glorying in her freedom. She wanted more, not less.

Jason made a slow turn, his silence familiar. It had bugged her when they were dating, and it bugged her now. “I’ll stay in the car if you want,” he said, perfectly in control, perfectly reasonable. “But it’s stupid to go out alone. Hoc can’t call 911.”

Her fingers drummed once on the roof of the car. She had a fool’s hope that Zach would be cooperative, make both of their lives easier. So far, she’d managed to convince his mom everything would end happy. Zach would probably not go along with it. A fairy-tale hope had her out here. A fairy-tale hero was what she needed.

“You’ll wait in the car?” she said, and he stared at her, his expression giving nothing away. “Let my voice be the only one raised at his placement trial?”

“If that’s what you want me to do.”

A quiver ran through her. A part of her wanted him to be there. He’d speak favorably for Zach, freeing her to say the truth and still allow the Strand to have their way. Grace stared out the window, the heat rushing over her as she quietly panicked.

Suburbia had given away to a dusty, hard-packed road running straight through a young-sapling forest out to the gravel pit. The sound of insects rushed over her as the memory of working with Jason rose through her. There had been twenty of them in the high-needs class, doing mostly team-trust exercises to develop the skills to meld one’s energies with someone else’s. She and Jason had melded easily. It had taken two weeks of practice to harmonize her erg wavelengths to Boyd’s. You could have a partner that you never melded with, but being able to was a huge advantage.

They bumped over a rut, and Grace caught the edge of the window.

“You got quiet,” Jason prompted, driving with one hand, and she shrugged. He looked different even if he was still wearing his uniform—casual, relaxed. She knew he wasn’t. He was tighter than a piano string, the faint energy lifting from him making her skin prickle and her watch tick a shade too fast. His control had always sucked.

“I was remembering coming into the Strand scared and full of the lies they tell about us.”

Jason chuckled. “I was terrified they were going to cut my balls off.”

That got her to smile. “That most throws have families didn’t mean anything to you?” she said, and he put both hands on the wheel.

“It’s easier to believe the scary stuff.”

Grace’s smile faded. “He reminds me too much of me,” she said with a sigh. The gravel pit swung into view, abandoned and holding green water.

“I know. What are you going to do, Grace?”

Grace tightened her watchband. “My job.”

“Fine, throw your career away,” he said, jaw tight as he turned to the silent cutting building. There were three dented, late-model cars already there. Tall grass grew up next to the three-story building, broken mortar and graffiti marring its surface. “Still want me to stay in the car?” he asked as he swung around and parked so that he had a clear shot out the only entrance.

Grace listened to the car’s engine tick as it cooled. Hoc sat up on the seat, his ears pricked. The wind brushed her face to bring a clay smell to her. Saying nothing, she got out, slapping her thigh to bring Hoc to her. Three cars could hold a lot of angry friends. “No.”

“Good.”

She jumped when Jason slammed his door, and she pushed her own door shut hard in a show of bravado. A face showed and vanished at a dusty second-story window, and her pulse thudded. Jason was looking up at it, squinting before he reached back in the car and put his cap on. It turned him from a good old boy to a cop. Doubt slithered through her. She was not going to kid herself that the Strand chose their collectors solely on ability. She was good at her job because she and Boyd looked harmless. Jason had attitude, and it wouldn’t mix with whatever was in that building.

“Jason . . .”

He jerked, and they both turned at the sound of grit scraping. Zach was standing at the door, three young men his age behind him. Frowning, Grace pushed Jason out of her mind. Forcing her shoulders down, she tossed her hair behind her shoulder and told Hoc to stay.

“Your mom told me where you were,” she said as she came forward, hoping Jason didn’t move from beside the car’s front door. “I just want to talk.”

Jason snorted. “That ought to do it, Grace.”

Scowling, and she remembered why she’d requested not to work with him. “She’s worried about you, Zach,” she said, stopping ten feet before him. “She has every right to be. I’ve been exactly where you are right now. I know you’re scared.”

It was the wrong thing to say, and the electrical balance in the air shifted as Zach’s expression turned ugly. “Get the hell out of here!” he shouted, gesturing, and Jason jerked his hand off the roof of the car. The smell of burning rubber rose up, and Hoc whined, feeling the large disturbance. “I’m not scared of you!” Zach exclaimed.

Grace stifled a jerk when the headlamps exploded in a superheated burst. It was hard to learn how to throw energy, but the car was a big sink, and she wasn’t as impressed as his friends, hooting and giving each other high fives behind him. The outflow had the sharp feel of caffeine, and her doubt grew.

“Then come out and talk to me, big man,” she taunted, drawing on four years of dealing with scared adolescents who thought they knew everything.

Behind her, Jason leaned against the car to ground it through the metal in his trousers and the metallic toe clip on his shoes. “Okay,” he said as he squinted up at the sun. “I take it back. You’re pretty good at this.”

Grace’s smile lasted all of three seconds as Zach pushed his way into the parking lot, the three guys swaggering out behind him. One had a pipe, the other a pool stick, the third, a length of chain that he dramatically wrapped around his fist. Zach’s hands looked stiff—not good.

“Ah . . .” Jason pushed up from the car, immediately becoming a threat.

Grace motioned Hoc to stand down. Four against three. Not bad odds. Part of her job was to scare a potential initiate into a last desperate act to evaluate them at their worst. Zach wasn’t there yet, but he was close. She had to get him alone. “You and Hoc get the norms, I’ll get the throw.”

“Okay.” His voice was unsure, and she smiled. He was worried about her. Perhaps working with him—just this last time—might be just the thing to get him to grow up.