Paranormals (Book 1) (24 page)

"Now," McLane said as he tossed the empty water cup into the wastebasket, "if I may also speak candidly, I would like to explain where
I
stand on this issue." He paused for a beat, his fingertips lightly brushing against his lips as he mused over his next words. "I had a strong feeling that money alone would not prompt you to see things the way I wanted you to. If you weren’t exactly what I need at this point in my plans, I’d be tempted to declare you more trouble than you’re worth. As things are, however, I don’t have that luxury." He paced back to his spot next to Scar Face and rested his hands on the back of his chair. "I intended this to be a surprise when you returned to your apartment, but I might as well let the cat out of the bag, so to speak ..."

Lincoln went all cold inside.
Oh, no
...

"Your brother and sister are no longer in your care, Lincoln. Let’s just say that they’ve been taken into ‘protective custody’ for now. So there are no misunderstandings, I will spell it out for you, Lincoln: You
will
do anything and everything I tell you to. You will carry out all directives and instructions to the best of your paranormal ability. If you fail to do so, I will raise additional funds for my organization by
selling
your little brother and sister into
sexual slavery
, to the highest-bidding
pedophile
I can find."

For a long moment, Lincoln could only stare at McLane in consummate
horror
, shock so deep that it made his reaction to Linda Nolan’s murder feel
placid
by comparison — he was simply unable to accept that such inhuman cruelty could exist in the world. When the moment passed, he roared like a feral beast and threw himself toward the balding man, his hands outstretched and clawed as he reached for the man’s throat.

"
Kill you, kill you, kill you—!
" was all he managed to scream, and even that was mostly unintelligible.

Waid’s eyes flashed and Lincoln’s limbs stiffened instantly — had he not been in such a primitive state of mind, it might have been enough to stop him. But the onslaught did not end there: One of Graham’s bolt of lightning struck him squarely between the shoulder blades. Waid’s eyes flashed again. Then one of the new men leaped onto his back as he passed by — the man, his features gaunt and dark, shoved one of his hands down through the collar of Lincoln’s jogging suit. A different type of electricity seeped from Lincoln’s flesh where the man made contact with his skin, and his strength — heedless of his rage — finally began to drain. Waid’s eyes flashed once more, and Lincoln was driven down. He and his parasitic passenger collided with the table, which collapsed under their combined weight. Lincoln was still moving until Waid stepped in, took his face between both hands, and flashed him directly eye-to-eye with their noses less than an inch apart.

McLane never even moved during the raucous display. "Thank you, Ms. Waid," he said as calmly as ever. "Doctor Seymour, that’s enough, please. I still need him."

"Whatever," the energy vampire grumbled as he climbed off Lincoln’s back and wiped dust from the knees of his slacks.

Now McLane knelt down in front of the frozen Powerhouse, arranging himself so that Lincoln could clearly see him. He stared into Lincoln’s face. "I meant what I said, Lincoln. Every word. Now, you’ll be able to move again shortly, and when you do, you will quietly collect yourself and return to your apartment. You’ll wait there until I summon you again. You may even write a letter to your brother and sister if you wish — I believe they wrote one to you before they left for their fun vacation, a gift from Uncle Richard." He leaned just a touch closer and smiled that Devil’s smile. There was
heat
behind his eyes, offering just a glimpse of the wild man who once assaulted Joseph Davison when things didn’t go his way. "If you make the slightest hostile move toward myself or anyone here, I’ll have them kill you this time, and then I’ll start looking for that first bidder. You can’t indicate whether or not you understand me, but I
know
that you do."

Lincoln’s face was completely motionless beneath his blue ski mask. That did not, however, prevent the tears from flowing ...

VORTEX

After what seemed like an eternity, Steve finally sat back and stretched his stiff neck and shoulders. The fumes from the dye filled his efficiency apartment — which was basically Alan’s former quarters just off from the main office — but his sinuses had given up their complaints earlier in the evening. A lifetime of habit nearly prompted him to also rub his eyes before he realized that — big surprise — they were not tired in the least. The realization saved him the hassle of having to later scrub the fast-drying dye from his face. Removing the latex gloves that had protected his hands from just such a mess, he appraised the pattern he’d created with no small satisfaction.

Dyeing the material itself had been considerably easier — just dunk and hang dry. He’d spent some time trying to figure out the color combinations that would make a good gold-tone, but eventually the shimmery, metallic fibers woven throughout the fabric had solved the problem. The black portions took virtually no effort at all.

The center design, however, had required a lot more thought and labor. The whole idea was subjective. As a result, he’d spent over two hours doodling with a geometric compass and protractor before finally settling on a spiral pattern he could live with. It twisted further and further inward, with a deliberate half-moon gap to suggest a flare of light and a "center" that was actually
off
-center. After that, it’d taken a collection of brushes, templates, and patience to sit down and bring his concept to fruition.

Well ... it certainly looks good enough laying there on the table. I guess the only thing left to do is put it on.

Leaving the tunic where it was for the moment, he opted to don the lower portion of the "uniform" first. Stripping off his jeans, he found the uniform pants a perfect fit — snug enough not to snag, yet loose enough not to encumber his movements. The boots were tough but flexible, with just the treads he would need for excellent traction. He’d baffled more than a handful of people over the last week getting this thing properly assembled, and he was pleased that it was going to be worth it.

At least, as far as the outfit goes ...

Mindful of the still-damp pattern on the chest, he pulled the tunic over his head. The gloves came next, and then, with only slightly more difficulty, the cape. He collected the mask in his trembling hands and pulled it on, then drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and turned to face his full-length mirror.

Shoot
,
I’m almost as nervous now as I was when we first activated my implants.

And when he opened his mechanical eyes now, what he saw in the mirror caused him to break into a decidedly goofy grin.

"Oh, wow ..." he marveled, awestruck by the ensemble that he’d worked so hard to put together. After striking a few self-indulgent poses, he slowly pulled off the mask.
Too bad I can’t show this to anyone—

Then, right on cue as dictated by Murphy’s infamous Law, Alan chose that exact moment to knock twice and then open the door without waiting for the summons he’d allowed for every other single time he’d ever entered Steve’s new home.

"Sorry to bother you, Steve, but I needed—"

"Ah!"

Both men jumped — Steve at the sudden intrusion, Alan at the outcry. Alan’s eyes bugged out as he looked Steve over head to toe and back again — the younger man found himself folding his arms protectively, as though he’d been caught naked.

"By all
means
, Alan, come on
in
," he snapped, his sarcasm born more of embarrassment than anger.

"Uh, Steve ..." Alan asked slowly. "What on earth are you wearing ...?"

Steve sighed inwardly, dropping the mask back onto his work table.
Oh, well. I knew this would come sooner or later. I guess there’s no time like the present ...

PCA

A short while later, in Steve’s office, Alan finished reading Jeffrey Lawrence’s 5th-grade essay and, very slowly, set it down on the desk.

Steve waited, expectant. He’d pulled his jacket on over his uniform, but otherwise had stubbornly resisted the self-conscious urge to remove it.

"Well ..." Alan said at length. "Now some of your more
bizarre
requests are starting to make some sense. Unfortunately."

Steve winced inwardly,
That doesn’t sound very promising.

Alan toyed with the stapled papers, spinning them idly around in a lazy circle upon the smooth surface of Joseph Davison’s former desk. It was night outside, and Steve imagined that he could almost hear the crickets
chirping
as he waited in anticipation. Finally, the circles — and the silence — came to an end.

"No," he stated. "Absolutely not."

"I suppose I don’t need to ask for clarification," Steve responded with a disarming smile.

It didn’t work. "This is
insanity
beyond words, Mister. When I offered you the responsibility of the vortex wave, I did so with the understanding that you would behave as just that:
Responsible
!"

"Alan—"

"Don’t even try, Steve. This is the most frivolous, reckless,
childish
, and
absurd
idea I’ve ever heard! You were
supposed
to be preparing to join the PCA. I can’t believe you’re actually
serious
about this.
Please
tell me it’s all some sort of
joke
!"

Steve said nothing, merely shook his head. He wasn’t smiling anymore, either.

Alan stood and paced around from behind Joseph’s —
Steve’s
— desk, where Steve had asked him to please be seated while reading the essay. He’d known that Alan would need to take this news sitting down, but he had hoped things wouldn’t go quite this poorly.

Alan shook his head. "No, this isn’t going to work out at all. You’ll keep your eyes, of course, Steve — you deserve that much. But we’ll have to deactivate the additional functions, at least the weaponry. It will require another round on the surgical table, I’m afraid, but I don’t see any alternative—"

"You’re not taking them."

Alan froze, true anger slowly closing over his usually gentle features. "Excuse me?"

Steve looked up at him from the visitor’s chair, the same chair which Michael Takayasu had occupied nearly three weeks prior. "You’re not taking anything from my eyes, Alan. They’re mine."

Alan stormed forward, placing a forceful grip on Steve’s shoulder. "Now you listen to me, young man—!"

What came next happened too fast for Alan to react. Steve reached up with his opposing hand, twisted Alan’s from his shoulder, stood, slipped a leg behind Alan’s knees and an arm across his chest, and effortlessly tossed him onto his back on the desk. The move was performed as softly as Steve could manage, but it still knocked the wind from Alan’s sails. He couldn’t have moved right away, even if Steve
hadn’t
kept him pinned where he was.

"
You
listen to
me
," he spoke very ostensibly, but his eyes, artificial though they were, betrayed the heat of his temper. "This is not open for
debate
, Alan. I’ve listened to you and Ardette and every other well-meaning bastard in this damned company go on and on for the last month about how much you
loved
my dad and how
sad
you all are for what happened. Well, let’s clarify something right now: He was
my
dad. She was
my
mom. They were
my
family.
Mine.
"

He straightened up, pulling Alan to his feet. Alan continued leaning against the desk for support and he was still gasping for breath ... but he was also listening.