Super Natural: The New Super Humans, Book Three Page 8

  “Sorry,” he said, unsure how to ask what he wanted to ask. “Some people think it's not possible for men and women to be friends,” he said, eyes focused on the screen where the couple in question was hovering so close to a kiss, but about to be interrupted, driving the unresolved sexual tension up a notch.

  “I think that's crap,” Miranda replied.

  “You do?”

  “Sure. I mean, we're friends, right?” Miranda was watching the screen, too. He could see her out of the corner of his eye.

  “I . . .” His mind raced. And his mouth just couldn't keep up for once. “I guess?”

  “Do you not . . . want to be friends?” Miranda asked, turning to watch him carefully.

  “Me? Sure, of course I do. Why wouldn't I?” He wondered if he could ask Miranda to turn down the heat. It seemed very warm all of the sudden.

  She shrugged. “I don't know. I mean, you're you and I'm . . . me . . .”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing!”

  “I'll have you know I'm an awesome friend. Awesome!” Dylan didn't know why he was selling himself so hard. But the words kept coming. “And now, you know, I have a superpower, so I can totally protect my friends in case of emergency.”

  Miranda blinked at him, mouth hanging slightly open.

  “And so, if I were you, I'd totally want to be my friend, you know, for self-preservation if nothing else . . .” He trailed off, cheeks hot, and swallowed nervously.

  “What are you talking about?” Miranda asked.

  Dylan raised a hand to cover his face. “I have no idea, to be honest.”

  “Dylan.” She waited until he dropped his hand and looked at her. “I didn't mean I didn't want to be your friend. I meant I'd understand if you didn't want to be mine.”

  It was so absurd he let out a shocked laugh before he even realized it. “Why in the world wouldn't I want to be your friend? You're . . . you're awesome! You're smart and funny and you . . . have cool hair.”

  She reached up and touched the pink frosted tips. “I do?”

  He shrugged and picked at the cheese on his pizza.

  They sat in silence for a while, eating and pretending to watch the movie. Dylan was painfully aware of Miranda next to him. He couldn't help wondering what she was thinking. If she was thinking of him, at all.

  Maybe . . . maybe there was something there? Maybe it wasn't all in his imagination?

  He opened his mouth to speak.

  “I like your hair, too,” Miranda said quietly.

  Dylan froze, his mouth still open. He glanced at Miranda sideways, but she was staring straight forward at the television, her cheeks bright red.

  Yeah, so there was that. The ball, apparently, was in Dylan's court.

  He cleared his throat. “So, I was thinking,” he said. “Since, you know, we're friends and like each other's hair and everything—”

  Miranda snorted and looked at him, smirking slightly. “Yeah?”

  “Maybe we could, you know, hang out sometime?”

  The smirk grew to a full-on grin. “Aren't we hanging out right now?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You aren't going to make this easy, are you?”

  Miranda laughed. “Okay, it's a new millennium. I can take the reins here.” She turned to face him, leg tucked up underneath her on the couch. “Dylan, would you like to go on a date with me?” She was trying to exude confidence, but Dylan could see her hands trembling, just a little bit, and that was enough to keep him from teasing her.

  He smiled. “Yeah. I think I'd like that a lot.”

  Dylan didn't even realize they'd leaned toward each other until he felt Miranda's breath on his cheek. “You're not going to try and kiss me before our first date, are you?” he whispered.

  Miranda jerked back, a horrified look on her face.

  “Because I'm not that easy, you know?” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

  She glared at him. “I changed my mind. I don't want to date you.”

  “Too late!” he crowed. “You asked. I said yes.”

  “I don’t even want to be friends with you.” She tossed her paper plate onto the table, but Dylan could see her lips twitching. “I don’t even like you. Not even a little bit.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “Nope.”

  He reached out and took her hand, fist pumping internally when she didn't pull away. “Ah, come on, Miranda. Can't you take a joke?”

  “Your face is a joke.”

  “Oh, real mature.” He scooted closer to her, enclosing her hand in both of his as he nudged her side. “I'm just kidding. You can kiss me if you want.” His stomach swooped at the idea.

  “I don't want.”

  “Not even a little bit?”

  She arched a brow. “Tell you what, after our date, you can try it. Maybe I'll let you. Maybe I won't.”

  Dylan mirrored her expression, arching his own eyebrow. “Maybe I'll try then.”

  Challenge accepted.

  “I guess we'll see,” she said loftily.

  “I guess so.”

  They broke at the same moment, dissolving into goofy grins, and suddenly, Dylan was pretty sure he didn't want to wait until their date. His smile fell and he swallowed thickly before he leaned in, watching Miranda carefully. She licked her lips and squeezed his hand. A rush of butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he finally took the plunge. Her lips were soft, a little chapped, and Dylan inhaled sharply at the contact, the butterflies taking crazy flight. Miranda's fingernails dug a little into the back of his hand and he pulled back and took a quick breath before kissing her again, a tingling sensation spreading over his skin from the points where they touched.

  Miranda's phone rang and they both jumped, bumping noses.

  “Sorry,” Dylan muttered.

  Miranda smiled softly and picked up her phone. “It's Chloe,” she said. “I better answer.”

  He nodded and sat back on the sofa, close enough so their shoulders pressed together. He pulled off his foggy glasses and wiped them with the edge of his shirt.

  “Hello?” Miranda sat up straighter, her smile falling. “Wait a second, slow down, what?” She turned to look at Dylan, a shocked, terrified expression taking over her face as she listened to whatever Chloe was saying.

  “What is it?” he hissed.

  She held up a finger and wouldn't meet his eyes. “Are you sure it's now? Yeah, I know. Okay. Yes, I'll tell him. Yeah . . . get the others and I'll call you when we get there.” She hung up and Dylan tensed, an uneasy panic beginning to rear its head.

  “What's going on?”

  Miranda stood and pulled Dylan up with her, her hand squeezing his tightly. “We need to get to your house. Your dad's in trouble.”

  Dylan chewed on his fingernail as Miranda sped through town. He hadn't argued when she said she'd drive, but with every turn, he found himself wishing she'd go faster.

  “What exactly did she see?” he asked.

  Miranda glanced at him. “A man and woman hurting him. The woman is . . . she's Beck's mother, Gina.”

  He swiped his phone open with trembling hands. “My mom. I should check—”

  “Text her,” Miranda said gently. “You don't want to worry her if you don't have to.”

  He nodded and stabbed at the phone, his leg jiggling as he waited for a response. Seconds? Minutes? When his phone finally dinged, he let out a breath of relief.

  “She's having dinner with friends,” he said. “Won't be home for a few hours.”

  Miranda nodded stiffly and pulled into his driveway. The tires spun, spitting gravel in their wake and Dylan sat forward, searching for his father through the gathering darkness.

  “Chloe saw . . . he's in the back,” Miranda said.

  Dylan didn't wait for the car to come to a complete stop before he threw the door open and raced around the house. Miranda didn't try and stop him, and later he'd probably appreciate that. Appreciate that she understood that nothing—not
hing—would keep him from helping his family.

  His heart pounded, eyes tearing with desperation as he rounded the corner and finally found his father lying on the ground, a hand held up to protect his head. A woman—Gina, he realized—held her hands out over him, black smoke pouring from her fingers and circling around him, squeezing like a snake. A tall, thin man stood at his dad's feet, and when he caught sight of Dylan approaching, he smiled and pointed a finger at his father, a bolt of electricity shooting out.

  Dylan's dad screamed, his body arching with tension on the muddy ground.

  Dylan didn't think. Didn't consider his actions at all. All he knew was he had to get to his dad. Had to help him. He ran across the yard, feet splashing in the mud, and dove through the air, covering his father's body with his own. Dylan threw up his shield as he held him tightly, terrified that he was already too late.

  An explosion rocked the area and Dylan held on even tighter, clenching his eyes shut. The ground trembled beneath him and all Dylan could do was murmur, “Please be okay. Please be okay . . .”

  He had no idea how long he lay there, but as tears streamed down his face, he felt his father move, just a little, and he loosened his hold.

  “Dad?”

  “Dylan? What happened? Are you okay?” his dad asked with a muted groan.

  “Am I okay? Are you okay?” When his dad made to move out from under him, he stiffened. “No, stay there. They'll get you.”

  He peered out from under Dylan's arm. “Who will?”

  Dylan followed his gaze and was surprised to see no one hovering over them as his shield glowed brightly in a half-sphere, digging into the ground in a perfect circle around them. He got to his knees and looked around quickly, but Gina was gone and—it took him a moment to spot him—the tall man lay collapsed against the far corner of the shed. Dylan stood and pushed his glasses up.

  “What happened?” His father moaned as he shifted a little and Dylan dropped to his knees beside him.

  “Don't move. We're going to get you some help.” He saw Miranda approaching. Chloe, Beck, and Wren were right behind her and he dropped the shield.

  “Call an ambulance,” he shouted as his dad passed out.

  “I keep telling you, I'm fine,” Joseph Kennedy snapped.

  “Dad, let the nurse do her job.”

  “Then she should go do this to some sick person, not me.” Dylan's father let out a heavy sigh. “No offense,” he said to the nurse.

  “None taken. Now let me get this I.V. bag changed and I'll be out of your hair.”

  He sighed again, and Dylan had to smile at the relief of seeing his father alive, awake, and ornery as ever. His right shoulder had been dislocated, he had a cast on his broken right wrist and a few bruised ribs, but other than that, he was whole and healthy.

  He'd be okay.

  He'd regained consciousness before the ambulance had arrived at the hospital, but the doctor wanted to keep him overnight for observation. Dylan had made up a story about a loose outlet to explain the electrical burns and his dad had given him a speculative look, but didn't contradict the story.

  “I need to hit the head,” his dad said when the nurse was finished. “Can I do that on my own?”

  The nurse smirked. “You tell me. Can you?”

  He let out a surprised laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I can.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed right as Dylan's mom came running into the room.

  “Oh my God, Joe. Oh my God.” She came to an abrupt stop when she saw him, reaching out like she wanted to touch him, but was afraid to tangle with the bandages and I.V.

  “I’m fine, Daisy. Come here.” He waved her forward and she collapsed onto the bed next to him, and burst into tears when he hugged her close with his good arm.

  “I’m just gonna—” Dylan pointed to the door and his dad nodded. He and the nurse left the room and Dylan made his way over to the waiting area.

  Miranda shot to her feet when she saw him. “Is he okay?”

  Dylan slumped into a chair next to Beck. “Yeah, yeah, he's going to be fine.” He wiped his hands roughly over his face, suddenly exhausted. “They're keeping him overnight, and he'll be a little weak for a bit, need to do some P.T., but the doctor says there's no permanent damage.”

  Miranda sat down on his other side. “Thank God.”

  “Yeah.” He took a few long breaths then sat up. “No sign of Gina?”

  Beck shook his head. “She's slippery. Probably took off before you did your thing and left the other guy behind.”

  Dylan frowned. “What happened to that guy?” he asked. “One minute he was shooting lightning bolts at my dad—”

  “Lightning bolts?” Beck asked.

  Dylan shrugged. “You got me, man. This whole thing is insane.”

  Miranda crisscrossed her legs up on the chair. “I think as the thing inside gets stronger, it manifests in different ways.”

  “Of course it does,” Dylan grumbled. “So, we can expect more of this kind of thing?”

  She shrugged. “The journal mentions gifts on both sides of the battle, so yeah. I think so.”

  “Perfect.” Dylan slouched down further in his chair. “Anyway, what happened to lightning bolt guy? One second he was there and the next he was . . .” He looked around questioningly, but nobody met his eyes except Chloe.

  She swallowed nervously. “Dead.”

  Dylan paled. “Dead? How did that happen?”

  Miranda took his hand gently. “You really don't know?”

  “No, I . . . I was focused on my dad. I kind of fell on him and threw up my shield. I wasn't looking at anything else,” he replied. “And it was just in time, too. There was that explosion—” He realized they were all staring at him. “What?”

  “It wasn't an explosion,” Miranda said.

  He frowned. “Yeah, it was. I heard it. The ground shook. It was a big one, maybe a gas main or something?”

  Miranda looked nervously at the others before squeezing his hand. “Dylan, it was you.”

  He half laughed. “What? What do you mean?”

  “When your shield came up, it didn't just protect you,” she said. “It was . . . it was like a blast. Like an explosion, yeah, but it came out of you.”

  He gaped at her. “That's impossible. I can't do anything like that.”

  Miranda swallowed. “You did. I saw it with my own eyes. It threw that man across the yard and into the shed. Luckily, we were far enough away that we didn’t get hit.”

  Silence hung heavy in the little waiting room. Nurses and doctors rushed by. Machines beeped and elevators swung open and closed again. Dylan sat, stunned.

  “I . . . you're saying I killed that man?”

  To his surprise, Wren replied rather violently. “You were protecting your father. You saved his life.”

  “But, I killed him—”

  She crossed the little aisle between the seats and knelt at his feet. “I know. I . . . I know what that feels like. But Dylan, you had no control over it. And can you say, given the same situation, that you wouldn't do it again?”

  Dylan thought about that for a long moment. About seeing his father lying in the mud. Screaming in pain.

  “No,” he said. “I can't say that.” He had a sudden thought, fear adding to the guilt already choking him. “What about the police?”

  “I overheard them talking,” Miranda replied. “They couldn’t figure out what happened to him—why he was lying dead against a crushed corner of the shed, or how he got there. But nothing points back to you.” She shrugged, a sad smile on her face. “How could it, right?”

  Dylan let out a shuddery breath. “Well, that’s something, at least.”

  Wren cleared her throat and patted his knee. “I know nobody wants to hear this, but we're in a war,” she said. “People are going to get hurt. People are going to die. We have to learn to live with that.”

  Dylan swallowed. “I don't know if I can.”

  “You will,” Wren said as she got
up and went back to her seat. “We all will. We don't have a choice. Not anymore.”

  “Dylan Kennedy?” A police officer stepped through the swinging doors.

  Dylan stood and waved a hand. “That’s me.”

  The officer tucked the clipboard he was holding under his arm and motioned toward a quiet corner. “I’m afraid I need to ask you a few questions.”

  The police took Dylan’s statement, as well as his father’s, and it was midnight before Joseph Kennedy shooed everyone out of his room, ordering them to go home and get some sleep. Dylan and his mom returned bright and early the next morning to give him a ride home, however, Dylan sat in silence as his mom and dad chatted about mundane things—whether he should stay on the couch for a few days until he got his strength back (For God's sake, Daisy, I told you I'm fine!) and if she should cancel the Valentine's Day party (That's two weeks away, D. I think I can handle a little party.)

  But Dylan caught the narrowed glances his dad shot his way every now and then, and he knew the conversation was coming. And he was right. As soon as his dad convinced his wife it was fine for her to go to yoga, he called Dylan over to the living room couch.

  “So, it appears you ignored my wishes about staying away from The Order,” he said without preamble.

  “Dad, I had to,” Dylan replied. “I couldn't—”

  “I know.”

  “—ignore everything . . .” Dylan froze. “What?”

  “I know you couldn't.” His dad smiled sadly. “I was trying to protect you. But I should have known . . .” He looked up at the ceiling, and Dylan was sure he saw moisture in his father's eyes.

  “This is bigger than you or me,” he said softly. “You've been chosen for a purpose and I can't keep you from it, as much as I'd like to.”

  A lump formed in Dylan's throat. “I'll be careful.”

  His dad smiled wistfully. “No, you won't.”

  Dylan sighed. “Okay, well. I'll try.”

  “I'll take it.” He reached out and pulled his son into a tight, if awkward, hug with his left arm. “You saved my life.”