Super Natural: The New Super Humans, Book Three Read online

  Dylan waited until she'd left the room before he asked quietly, “Who else knows about this?”

  Chloe shrugged. “Just us. Ethan. Beck and Wren, of course. And my Aunt Cara knows some of it. I had to ask her about my mom.”

  “And she was a Seer? Like you?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “How's your aunt handling it all?” Maia asked, setting Miranda's now-full cup on the table. “Is she freaking out?”

  Chloe sighed. “Aunt Cara worries. She does. But she trusts me, and she knows there's a lot at stake, too.”

  “And she doesn't try to stop you. Keep you out of it?” Dylan asked.

  “Would your dad?” she shot back with a bit of ire. Maybe he had seemed a little too accusatory in his tone. “Knowing what he knows. What it could mean if we fail. Would he keep you out of it?”

  “The answer to that question is yes,” a voice said from the doorway, and Dylan looked up and winced at the sight of his father standing there, a dark look on his face.

  Dylan's stomach dropped. “Dad, what are—”

  “Get your things. We need to get home.”

  Dylan looked down at his pajama pants, rumpled t-shirt, and bare feet. “I, uh, don't actually—”

  His father rolled his eyes in a look Dylan had seen many, many times before. The God help me, this is my flesh and blood look. “Get in the car.”

  Chloe cleared her throat. “Professor, I think you should know—”

  “I know what I need to know,” he snapped with a glare. “I know my son disappeared in the middle of the night. I know I got a text this morning saying he was here and that he'd explain later.”

  “Dad, if you'd just listen—”

  “I don't want to listen!” He pushed his glasses up and Dylan realized his hand was trembling. “I want you to get in the car. I want to go home. I want to get you away from . . . here. Right now.”

  “Okay,” he said quietly, getting to his feet. “I'm coming.”

  He nodded at Chloe and the others, who looked on with wide eyes. He could feel his dad's shaky breaths as he squeezed past him through the kitchen doorway, his steps as they echoed Dylan's quiet padding when they made their way out the front door and to the car.

  He watched his father drive out of the corner of his eye, not sure what to say—not sure if anything he could say would make it better or worse. The silence weighed heavy in the car, thick like he could almost feel it, making it hard to breathe. He rubbed his eyes and wished he had his glasses—like they would help him see the situation in a clearer way.

  “Dad—”

  “Do you have any idea—any idea—of what you're dealing with here?”

  “I know—”

  “No, you don't,” he spat, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he took a corner just a little too fast. “You have no idea. You think this is like some movie—or one of your comic books—and you guys will fight the bad guy and save the world. But this is not a movie. And the bad guy is—it's not just a bad guy. It's evil. Pure evil.”

  Unable to help himself, Dylan hummed, “Dun dun duuuun . . .”

  His dad glared at him, and Dylan held up his hands. “Sorry. Sorry. It's just pure evil—kinda melodramatic, you know?”

  “Dylan—”

  “Dad, I understand that I don't truly get what's really going on here,” he said, trying to exude calm, even though calm was pretty much the opposite of what he was feeling. “But you do. You know what they’re up against and I know you’ve been helping them prepare, so how can you get angry at me for—”

  “Because you’re my son!” he shouted, eyes blazing. “What I do or what I don’t do isn’t the point. I’m not going to let you get hurt! You don’t understand what’s at risk.”

  “I get it,” Dylan replied, his own voice rising. “I mean—I get that I don't really get it. But apparently I've been chosen—”

  “I don't give a damn!” He slapped his palm against the steering wheel and Dylan jumped, wide-eyed. He'd never seen his dad lose his temper before. He'd always dealt with Dylan's mischief and mayhem with a steady disposition and logical consequences. This—this was new, and Dylan wasn't quite sure how to handle it.

  “Dad—”

  “No,” he said, his voice quieter, but firm—indisputable. “No. Absolutely not. You will not be a part of this. You will stay away from Chloe Blake and her friends. You will stay away from all this insanity. You will finish college and go to grad school and you will not. Defy. Me. Not in this.”

  “Dad, I'm an adult—”

  “An adult living in my house,” he retorted, jaw clenched. “An adult with a future that I will not let you throw away.”

  Dylan's heart pounded in his chest and he turned to look out the window at the drizzling early morning rain dripping from Christmas decorations and barren tree branches. He noticed his father didn't ask him to agree to the mandate, and he wondered if it was because he assumed he would, or knew he wouldn't.

  Or couldn't.

  They rode in silence the rest of the way, gravel crunching beneath the tires as they pulled into their driveway. He didn't look at his dad as he got out of the car, shivering at the combined sensation of the chilly rain on his neck and the damp ground beneath his bare feet.

  “Dylan.”

  He turned around as he reached the front door to see his father watching him, a sad, lost look on his face.

  “You know—you know I'm only trying to keep you safe, right?”

  Dylan swiped raindrops from his hair and nodded, but he didn't meet his dad's intense gaze.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “I know.”

  He walked through the house and directly to his room, stopping short of slamming the door. His father . . . he would have to figure out how to deal with his father. But Dylan knew that he couldn't let this go. There was no way. It wasn't his style. Even if he was afraid—he was—and didn't know what he was doing—he didn't—he couldn't stop until he figured this thing out.

  And the fact was, he understood it was dangerous. He also understood that the threat wasn't only to him. It was a threat to his friends, his family . . . everyone in the town—maybe even more. If they didn't stop this . . . this thing, who knew what would happen?

  Dylan retrieved his glasses from the bedside table and picked up his phone, knowing what he had to do. He felt a twinge of guilt—just a twinge—but it was something he could live with.

  He thumbed through his contacts and dialed a familiar number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Wren-like-the-bird.”

  “Dylan? What's up?”

  Dylan took a deep breath and shoved his glasses up onto his nose. “I need your help.”

  An hour later, Dylan paced back and forth in his room, dodging the bed, the Xbox controllers, and the pile of books near his desk. He stopped to stare out the window, tapping his fingers impatiently against his thighs, before turning around and starting the circuit again.

  “Come on, come on,” he muttered, bumping the books and sending them scattering across the floor. He sighed with frustration and bent to retrieve them, only to stop short when there was a quiet tap at his door. He all but ran to it and whipped it open, grabbing Wren's wrist and dragging her inside before he shut it quickly.

  “You sure nobody saw you?” he asked in a hissed whisper.

  “Of course not. I would have just come in, but I didn't want to give you a heart attack, you know, materializing from thin air.” She waved a hand with a flourish.

  Dylan snorted. “Yeah. Okay, that was probably a good idea.”

  “So.” Wren clapped her hands together and looked at him expectantly. “You ready?”

  He gulped. “Umm . . . yeah, I guess. How do we—” He moved toward her, then stepped back, unsure.

  She laughed. “It's easy. Just take my hand.” She held it out and Dylan wiped his sweaty palm on his jeans before grabbing it.

  “Now, it's going to get a little weird,” Wren said, and her hand began to glo
w, the light peeking out between their joined palms, then growing to envelop them both.

  “Whoa,” he murmured.

  Wren smiled and opened the door. “Now, where can we work where your dad won't notice?”

  They walked down the hallway and Dylan glanced toward his dad's office door. It was cracked slightly and he jumped when he spotted his dad standing behind his desk, staring right at him.

  “Don't worry,” Wren said, squeezing his hand. “He can't see you. Look.” She pushed the door open a little farther and Dylan's mouth dropped open in awe.

  “Wow,” he said, taking in the scene around him. His father continued to look toward the door, unmoving, his hand lifted and reaching for something—his phone, sitting atop of a pile of books, perhaps. Dylan took a few steps closer, noticing for the first time, the stale taste of the air he breathed, the ruffled piece of paper that didn't quite rest on the desk surface, as if his father just set it down.

  “This is so weird,” he murmured, waving his free hand before his father's unblinking eyes.

  Wren huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I know. But we should probably get going.”

  Dylan nodded and let her lead him out of the room, his gaze focused on his father until the last moment. Wren carefully pulled the door nearly shut, her lips pursed as she tried to ensure that the gap was the same width as before.

  They went outside, Dylan gasping at the frozen state of the world—the rain stopped in midair as they walked through it, dispersing the drops. His dog stood frozen on his hind legs, barking at a cat floating mid-jump halfway between the top of the wooden fence and the ground.

  “Dylan?” Wren jerked his hand a little. “Where are we going?”

  He startled. “Sorry . . . sorry. There's a shop out back. It's used mostly for storage, so nobody should go out there.”

  The walls of the detached two-car garage were lined with cardboard boxes, but the center was pretty open, except for a couple bicycles and Dylan's old skateboard. Once they shut the door and Wren released his hand, he shoved it all into a corner and held his arms out, standing in the middle of the empty space.

  “Now what?”

  She smiled. “Now, we work.”

  Wren led him through some visualization exercises for about half an hour, encouraging him to recall the feeling he'd experienced when he first picked up the shield. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and tried to concentrate.

  “Feel the energy,” she said.

  Dylan snorted.

  “Come on, you have to take this seriously.”

  He opened his eyes. “I'm trying. It's just so . . . Use the Force, Luke, you know?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Dylan, if you're not going to take this seriously—”

  “I'm taking it seriously, I swear!” He closed his eyes to prove his point. “I'm feeling the energy,” he said, in a low voice, adding, after a moment, “Okay, I'm really not. I have no idea what I'm doing!” He threw up his hands.

  “It takes time,” Wren said. “You need to focus.”

  “Like I haven't heard that my whole life.”

  “I know, but—” She cut off at the sound of Dylan's father calling his name.

  “Crap!” he muttered, slipping over to peek through a dusty window. “He's headed this way.”

  “Come on,” she grabbed his hand and the eerie glow slid over them once again. They made their way out of the shed, closing the door tightly behind them, and Dylan didn't waste any time admiring the frozen raindrops or examining his father poised mid-step with a newspaper held over his head in the middle of the yard.

  They slipped in the open back door and Dylan stopped.

  “Okay, you better get out of here,” he said, peeking back through the door.

  “You sure?” she asked. “You don't want to go back to your room?”

  “Nah, this is good.” He smiled at her. “Thanks, Bird.”

  She rolled her eyes and smiled back. “Keep practicing,” she said, then released his hand and vanished.

  The pitter patter of raindrops and the shouts of his father made him jump, and he couldn't keep himself from looking around quickly, trying to spot Wren.

  “So cool,” he murmured, heading back to the door. He stepped into the rain, not wanting his already damp hair to give away anything.

  “Dad? What's wrong?”

  His father spun around, the newspaper hanging limply from his fingertips. “Where have you been?”

  “What do you mean?” He shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. “I've been in my room.”

  “I just checked. You weren't there.”

  “I went to the bathroom,” he said, forcing a note of irritation in his voice to override the nervousness. He turned and walked back into the house, and after a moment, could hear his father following behind him. Dylan shook out his hair as his dad closed the door, gaze piercing as he focused on his son.

  “I know what they're capable of, you know.”

  “Who?” Dylan tilted his head and frowned.

  “You know who.” His dad crossed the room and dumped the newspaper in the trash. “Those girls can sneak in and sneak you out. But I expect you to respect my wishes in this, Dylan.”

  He forced himself to meet his father's gaze, fighting down the guilt twisting in his stomach. “I know, Dad.”

  His father's eyes narrowed, then he nodded once. “Your mom will be home soon. You better get ready.”

  “Ready?”

  He huffed. “The Christmas party at the Williams', remember?”

  Dylan mentally kicked himself. With everything going on, he'd completely forgotten.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “Yeah, sure. I just need to change and I'll be good to go.”

  His dad nodded again, his jaw tight, and turned to go back into his office, pointedly leaving the door wide open.

  Dylan sighed and returned to his room, hoping he wasn't making a terrible mistake.

  And if he was, that his dad would forgive him.

  A hundred feet away or so, a tall, thin man stood sheltered from the rain by a towering pine tree bordering Dylan's winding, gravel driveway. He watched, unmoving, ignoring the wind kicking up around him, his unzipped jacket flapping open as the biting drops splashed against his skin.

  In another life he was . . . well, nobody, really. A quiet man working a tedious job. No family. No friends to speak of. When Gina Talbot came to him, all smiles and temptation, it was easy to leave all that behind. To become more than he was. She promised power and reward and all he had to do was let it happen.

  Let It in.

  “Anything?” The woman in question sauntered up to him through the trees, also unbothered by the gathering storm. Her hair was wet, dripping onto her shoulders, her dark skin gleaming with dampness.

  He shook his head. “All quiet here.” He eyed her sideways. “How about the others?”

  Gina frowned at him. “You let me worry about the others.” She stood next to him, eyes focused on the house. “When's the last time you saw anyone?”

  “Dad came out a few minutes ago, then went back inside with the boy.”

  Gina hummed, thoughtful.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Nothing. The father seems to be doing our job for us. We just have to make sure that continues. You need to make sure.”

  A sudden rage flared inside him; an urge to wrap his fingers around her neck and squeeze.

  “You could do it,” a voice said from deep within him. “Wouldn't it be fun?”

  His fingers flexed, but when he went to reach for her, he found himself paralyzed. Gina smirked at him, and he could hear laughter inside his head.

  “It likes to play,” she said, her grin widening. “But we're on the same side, right?” Her smile froze and in a flash she had her hands around his throat, thumbs pressing against his skin. He gasped, unable to breathe . . . unable to move. Black swirled in Gina's eyes and out her nose and mouth as she cackled wildly in time with the laughter in his
head. Spots swam in his vision and his knees buckled.

  Then, just as fast as she'd come after him, she stepped back, and he fell to his hands and knees, choking as he sucked in ragged breaths.

  Gina snorted and nudged him with a shoe. “No hard feelings,” she said. “It's all in fun, right?”

  She stood silently while he climbed to his feet and his breathing slowed to normal.

  “Just remember,” she said quietly. “It's strong. Stronger than you. Stronger than me. As long as you do what It wants, It will give you what you want.” She glanced at him, then swept back her hair, wringing out the water.

  “Keep watching the boy. If anything changes, you know how to reach me.”

  He nodded and didn't take his eyes off the house as she walked away through the trees. The anger at his impotence curdled in his stomach, but he stood his post, unblinking.

  “Yes,” It whispered. “Good. Stick with me and you'll get it all. I promise.”

  His lips quirked a bit in satisfaction as he embraced the darkness.

  Chloe pressed her forehead against the car window, absently watching the rainwater trickle down the glass as the blurred flash of colored Christmas lights twinkled in the background. It didn't look like Christmas Eve, but then, it rarely did in her hometown. Washington was more prone to gray and drizzle than to snow and starlit nights. Miranda shifted gears and the VW choked a little as they passed the Welcome to Lamsden sign. Chloe was vaguely aware of Maia fidgeting in the backseat and shot her a questioning glance over her shoulder.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  Maia jumped a little, obviously lost in thought. “What?”

  “You seem a little off.”

  “Oh, no.” She shrugged a shoulder and tucked a lock of curly hair behind her ear. “Just feels weird not being home for Christmas, you know?”

  “Did you talk to your mom?” Miranda asked, and Maia's lips lifted in a small smile.

  “Yeah, we Skyped for a bit,” she replied. “She's hanging out with some friends from work tonight, so we couldn't talk for long. She's good though. Wished everyone a Merry Christmas.” She chewed on her lip and looked out the window. Grad school was expensive, and a plane ticket home wasn't in the cards for Maia this year.