The Forbidden Trilogy (25 page)

My legs itched as if unseen bugs crawled through them; I couldn't
keep them still. Hot and cold, my body fluctuated between extremes as I opened
my mouth to speak, but my throat refused to comply.

"Drake!"
My mind called to him even as my
body pushed away from his.

He held onto me and refused to let me crawl into my own
misery. "Sam, what's wrong?"

I tried to speak out loud, but couldn't.
"I don't
know. Something is happening to me. Something isn't... right."

Drops of sweat trickled down my forehead and stung my eyes.
I shivered and clutched at Drake. My hands wrapped around his taut muscles as
if trying to absorb their strength.

His hand dropped to my swollen belly, and he switched to our
mind link.
'Is it our baby?'

My mental whimper made me cringe, but I couldn't help it. My
body had been invaded by aliens. I wanted to tear my skin off and crawl out of
myself. A ball of anxiety grew in my chest, smothering any of the peace I had
felt just moments before.
"It's not my stomach, it's everywhere. Like a
poison or... Ahhhh!"

The pain that ripped through me swallowed up all thoughts of
words. If I hadn't already been lying in bed with Drake, I would have crashed
to the floor. A vague need clawed at me—some unnamable craving that made no
sense to my mind, but which captured the needs of my body.

Some
thing
was missing, and its absence sent my
nervous system into chaos.

Drake covered me with a blanket, and pressed his cool hand
against my head as he brushed long, sweaty strands of dark hair from my eyes.
"I'm really freaking out here, Sam. You're pale, clammy, and you can't stop
shaking. I don't know what to do. I think I should take you to the
hospital." The skin around his blue eyes tightened in worry.

I spoke through chattering teeth. "You can't. Baby.
Experiments. They might take me away."

I couldn't summon enough clarity to tell him why this was
such a bad idea. I'd spent my whole life in a lie. The people who'd raised me
as a paranormal spy, for hire to the rich and powerful, had given me everything
any girl would ever need to live comfortably. Then they burned my artwork,
killed my mentor, impregnated me against my will and held me prisoner.

If it hadn't been for Drake, I'd have never gotten out. As
it was, two people died trying to help me escape.

Drake and I met telepathically, after they kidnapped and
imprisoned him at my school. We fell in love before ever meeting in person.
Through him, I had learned not only to read minds, but to control them—a gift I
often wished I could give back. But it had saved us.

We were free, but hunted.

We couldn't go to a hospital, where we might be reported or
discovered. It was too risky.

I didn't realize he'd gone until he came back with a cool
washcloth and pressed it against my forehead. "If you aren't feeling
better soon, we’re going to the doctor’s. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you
safe and get you out of there, if it comes to that." He towered over me,
his spiky blond hair disheveled from our recent make-out session that now
seemed so long ago.

My body shuddered, and not just because of my symptoms.
Whatever
it takes
could mean a lot of things to Drake, including—but not limited
to—physical violence and total mind control. The darkness of his paranormal
talents scared me and seduced me in equal measure.

***

Time held no meaning as my mind darted in and out of
memories. Past and present collided to create a full-sensory collage out of my
life: playing hide-n-seek with my best friends Luke—who always cheated by
walking through walls when he was about to be caught—and Lucy; Mr. Caldrin
critiquing my sketches and offering ideas to make them more realistic; targets
changing faces, blending into the same person, their thoughts rippling through
my mind like waves. Through it all, a demon stalked me from the shadows of my
memories, never quite showing its face, but crouching, waiting.

And then I dreamed....

***

The needle plunges into me, tearing through skin in one
small, sharp poke. Yellow fluid drains from the vial and into my veins.

I float outside my body, above a younger version of
myself sitting on the hospital bed. My brown hair is longer, a child's cut with
blunted bangs and pigtails. My blue eyes look brighter, more innocent.
"Why do I have to get this all the time? What does it do?"

Dr. Sato also looks younger, though very old to my
child-self, her Asian features smooth and pronounced, her white coat and
stilted accent forever the same. "You not get it all the time. Only every
three months. It vitamin. It make you strong and healthy. Make you feel
good."

I struggle to slip into her thoughts, but they're all
mumbo-jumbo, the sounds foreign and harsh to my young mind. I haven't yet
learned many other languages, just one or two common ones. Her Japanese dialect
is not common, and no amount of mind reading will change the fact that I cannot
understand her words. Trying only gives me a headache.

Then it's okay. I don't mind not knowing, not hearing her
thoughts. All is well.

Time slips forward and again I'm in a hospital bed, only
this time I'm older... and unconscious. My legs are spread. My sleeping form
does not move.

A male doctor I've never seen sticks something inside me—

I scream. And scream. And scream.

No one hears.

***

"Sam. Sam!"

Fingers dug into my shoulders, pulling me from my dream
fragments. Ghostly hands clawed at my mind and tried to carry me back into my
nightmares, but Drake's hold on me didn't waver. His mind probed mine; my
consciousness had no choice but to wake up and take control.

My throat cracked when I spoke. "How long have I been
asleep?"

He sat at the edge of the bed and kissed my head. "A
few hours."

"I feel worse than before I slept, like I ran a
marathon with a hangover."

The right side of his lips curved up in his signature half
grin. "You've never had a hangover, so how would you know?"

I smirked. "I don't have to get drunk to know the
aftermath doesn't feel so great. Intelligent people learn lessons without
having to make all the mistakes. Unlike some, who think that chugging beer
through—what do you call those things? Beer hats?—is a genius thing to
do."

"That's the last time I tell you any of my
secrets."

"Uh... I can read your mind."

"True. Speaking of reading minds... yours was screaming
at me while you slept. Then you actually screamed. What were you dreaming,
Hon?"

Only bits and pieces of my dream remained–the terror, the
invasiveness–but no real details. Something nudged at the back of my memory,
though, an important piece of the puzzle that my subconscious mind needed me to
remember.

"I think I'm hungry. Or thirsty. Or... something."
What? What did I need to feel better? I resisted the urge to scratch the skin
off my restless legs, but it was so hard. Everything ached. Everything had a
wrongness about it.

Drake left to get me food. I forced myself out of our
Queen-sized bed and made my way to the bathroom we shared with Brad. Sharing a
bathroom with two men was not the highlight of my new life, but we were lucky
Brad had a place for us at all. He'd even kept all of Drake's stuff when he
left their old apartment and rented this one. I would forever be grateful to
Brad for standing by Drake the way he had all these years.

I wiped down the sink with a piece of toilet paper, erasing
evidence of men who brushed their teeth like children, and splashed warm water
over my face. My symptoms were all so muddled—pregnancy and illness duking it
out for supremacy in my miserable body.
Dizziness. Restless legs. Nausea.
Anxiety. Shakiness.
Those all seemed new. Well, not the nausea, but what
had once been run-of-the-mill had turned into a Code Red vomit fest. Not
normal.

Time for Google.

When Drake returned with a turkey sandwich, a salad and
water, I sat propped-up in bed with the laptop on my legs.

My search results revealed a lot of random diagnoses.
Adrenal insufficiency. Environmental allergy. Hormone imbalance—
very
likely, all things considered.
Unknown pathogen—
thank
you,
Google, that's very useful.

The one diagnosis that kept popping up again and again was
the one that scared me the most, and made the most sense.

Drug withdrawal.

St. Michael's Catholic Church occupied the entire corner of
Naples and Coeur D'Alene Avenue in a quaint neighborhood of Venice, where kids
played ball on the street and women sold Tamales from their pushcarts on the
corner. Typical Southern California.

The church had been Drake's fifth foster family's
contribution to his life. He didn't remember the family all that much—they all
blurred together after awhile—but he did remember this church and Father
Patrick. It had been too long since Drake visited the old priest. Now he needed
him more than ever.

Sam and Drake escaped the clutches of Rent-A-Kid just over a
month ago, and for the last two weeks, Drake had stood by and watched as Sam
suffered. She'd grown gaunt and pale, and lost too much weight, especially with
their baby growing inside of her. She shook all the time, and cried when she
thought he wasn't looking. Drake had seen people come off meth... and that's
what Sam looked like.

He hadn't taken her to the hospital. She was too scared they
would keep her for drug use while pregnant, or something. Drake knew he could
get her out, no problem, but she didn't want him using his powers that way.

If he couldn't use his gifts to protect his child and
girlfriend, then what was the point of having powers at all? He didn't
understand Sam's problem with using para-powers that were a part of them. How
could it be wrong if it's how they were born?

He pushed the large, wooden carved doors in and stood for a
moment, letting the silence and holiness of the place rest over him like a
shawl.

As if psychic—and Drake had long suspected he was—Father
Patrick shuffled down the aisle with arms wide open. "Drake, my boy, it's
been too long. Too long. I've been worried for you."

The old man, a good foot shorter than Drake, wrapped his arm
around the taller man and gave him an affectionate squeeze.

"I've sensed some darkness around you, boy. And I've
been saying my prayers."

Drake followed him down the aisle and through a side door
into the priest's office. "I could use your help, Father."

"It's not my help you need, but our Lord Father's
help." He smiled and sat behind his desk. "Yes, I know, you don't
believe in all this, but that doesn't mean He doesn't believe in you." He
waved his hand dismissively. "Never mind all that. What can I help you
with?"

A plump woman, dressed in an orange muumuu that matched her
hair, opened the door and peeked her head in. "I'm so sorry to interrupt,
Father, but I thought I heard...." Her voice trailed off as she made eye
contact with Drake. "...and I did! Drake, look at you, such a big boy.
Where have you been?" She pushed into the room and kissed Drake on the
cheek, then lowered her voice to a conspirational whisper. “You know that young
man who was injured a few months back? Thought you might like to know he’s
doing very well, very well indeed. And don’t worry, your secret’s safe with
me.”

Mrs. Maypol hugged him so hard a normal person might not
have been able to breathe. He smiled big and hugged back, more gently so as not
to crush her.

He looked to the priest and to Mrs. Maypol. These people had
been his family growing up. Whenever he could sneak away from whatever foster
home served as temporary residence, he came here. He’d come by a few months ago
to help with the garden, but ended up exposing his powers when a three thousand
pound angel sculpture pinned a man to the ground and nearly killed him. Shortly
thereafter, the Rent-A-Kid organization had taken him and held him captive, but
he knew that no one here had betrayed him.

"It's good to see you, Mrs. Maypol. I've been out of
town for awhile, but I've missed you all too."

"Well, I'll leave you to your talk. I just had to say
hi!" She bustled out as quickly as she'd bustled in.

The priest settled his eyes on Drake. "You're in some
kind of trouble, I suspect?"

Drake debated how much to tell him about what he'd gone
through. Trust wasn't the issue; he didn't want to put Father Patrick in danger
if anyone should come looking for him. They might not find his connection to
this church, but he couldn't risk it.

"I'm not even sure I should have come here. It could be
dangerous, but I didn't know who else to talk to. Father, you know how I've
always been... different?"

The priest chuckled. "Yes, different. That's one way of
putting it. I seem to recall a young Bishop who will never return to this church
because he believes it is haunted and that his soul became possessed one Sunday
while doing a guest sermon."

Drake laughed. He hadn't thought about that day in many
years.

***

At ten years old, Drake was just starting to test the limits
and boundaries of his powers. When the Bishop yelled at one of the other kids
for not kneeling properly during the Sacraments, he became the perfect target.

The man stood at the front of the church, full of pomp and
arrogance, proclaiming God's intention that even the poor give of their last
dime to further finance the Armies of God. It irritated Drake that this man,
who knew nothing of the people here, would drain his foster family of what
little they had out of misguided guilt.