Heat Wave, page 19
Or, at least, that’s what he tried to say. What came out instead was, “My mother’s name is Jennifer Bell. She…” But he could go no further. It felt as if his lips had been glued shut, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t force the words out. He began to feel dizzy as he strained, and all that came from him was a low hum, as if he were exhaling through the tiniest of cracks.
“Nick?” Seth asked, sounding worried. “Are you okay?”
Nick shook his head. He tried again. “My mother is…” His mouth didn’t work. His throat didn’t work. His tongue was dead.
“Oh no,” Jazz whispered, expression spooked as she turned toward the man with the Frisbee, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was. “Jennifer Bell. She…” Her face turned bright red, the cords on her neck sticking out.
“Uh,” the man said. “I don’t do drugs unless they’re prescribed by a doctor. No shame, but not for me.” He backed slowly away from them before turning and running back toward his friends.
“You’re under her control,” Owen said. “You have been since just after Gibby’s graduation. Which, congrats! Sucks you didn’t get to be valedictorian. Though, you looked great walking across the stage.”
He yelped when Gibby kicked his injured thigh, groaning and rocking back and forth. “Goddammit. Would you stop it?”
Gibby went back to Jazz, who high-fived her.
Owen glared at them but kept his distance as he sat back up. “Same thing happens with everyone else who knows she’s here. Any of you try and say anything about her, you won’t be able to. And usually, you won’t even remember trying. Call them and ask if you don’t believe me. Cap. Officer Rookie. Miss Conduct. Oh, excuse me. I mean Mateo.”
That scared Nick more than he cared to admit. He thought they’d been careful, always aware of their surroundings. How much had Owen seen?
“Say that you’re telling the truth,” Seth said slowly. “Say that she’s not who she says she is. That she’s … your stepmother. I’ve seen her use her powers. She’s telekinetic. We’ve all seen what she could do, and not just on prom night.”
Savagely, Nick thought that’d be the end of it. That they’d cornered Owen and he had no way out.
Or so he thought.
Because Owen said, “Yeah, see, she isn’t. Not really. And no, it’s not making you believe she is, either. There were witnesses at the prom, right? They all saw TK coming through the ceiling.”
“Then how does she do it?” Jazz asked.
“This is my favorite part,” Owen said, eyes alight with excitement. “You know what my dad did to me, right? Gave me those pills. Made me who I am.”
“Did to you,” Gibby echoed, her scorn clear. “As if you didn’t have a choice.”
“I didn’t,” Owen snapped. “He…” His chest hitched, and Nick didn’t think it was all for show. Or, if it was, Owen was a damn good actor. “He did things to me. Things you wouldn’t even begin to understand.” Nick was stunned when Owen wiped his wet eyes as he scowled. “I am who I am because of him. I trusted him. He was my father. I thought … if I did what he asked, he’d…” Owen looked away.
“Bullshit,” Nick said, causing Owen to jerk his head toward him. “I don’t give a damn about your daddy issues. He didn’t make you try and kill us. He didn’t make you kill anyone else. You did that all on your own.”
“And that’s your problem, Nick. It always has been. You’ve never been able to think of the bigger picture. Always about yourself. I’ve never met a more selfish person in my entire life. You want to know the truth? Fine. Those pills I showed you in my father’s tower? How do you think he made those?” He raised his hand before Nick could speak. “That was rhetorical. You have no idea.” He leaned forward, eyes glittering darkly. “He used her. Her powers. Her abilities. He used her blood, her DNA, and reverse-engineered Extraordinary abilities in pill form.”
“He didn’t do anything with them,” Seth said grimly. “As far as we know, no one has taken them. If they had, Nova City would be crawling with Extraordinaries.”
“Smoke and Ice,” Nick whispered.
Owen startled. “No. They were just lackeys. They were born, not made. Don’t you see? It’s not about making Extraordinaries. It’s always been about unmaking them.”
Gooseflesh prickled along Nick’s arms. “The cure.”
Owen nodded. “That’s what it started out as. Because while he had the idea of building an army of Extraordinaries to be at his beck and call, he was always thinking ahead. What would be the point of having an army when there were others who could step in and try and stop them?”
Jazz scoffed derisively. “It’s not like he can force that on anyone with powers. What’s he going to do, shoot them with a dart filled with some kind of magical concoction? Honestly, Owen. You’re good, I’ll give you that. But there’s too many holes in your story.”
“Don’t you get it yet?” Owen asked. “She’s the cure. You want to know how she’s telekinetic? How she can shape-shift? How she can alter memories? She ate those powers. That’s her gift. That’s her original ability. Dad experimented on her just as he did me, only with her, he got so much more than he bargained for. You thought I was the first?” He shook his head. “I wasn’t. Patricia was his original test subject. There was a little girl. He found her. Promised her parents that he could help her. That he could heal her. She was telekinetic. He called her—”
“Eve,” Nick breathed. The name rose in his mind like a shooting star, Burke’s words ringing in his ears.
A child was brought to us by their parents. This child, who we call Eve to protect their anonymity, exhibited signs of telekinesis. From a young age, Eve could move things around their house. The parents were frightened. At first, they thought their home was haunted. It wasn’t until the child grew older that they realized Eve was the cause.
“Eve,” Owen said gleefully. “He said they found her after the whole Save the Children bullshit, but that was a lie. This was two years ago. The girl’s parents brought her to the tower. Dad took her to the basement where Patricia was waiting. She stole Eve’s powers, making them her own. That’s how she became telekinetic.” Owen glanced at Nick, and it took all Nick had to keep from screaming in Owen’s face that he had to be lying, that none of it could be true. “She’s a chimera, made up of all these different parts. And if she consumes a power, it becomes hers. Eve didn’t remember what happened. Patricia made sure of that, and the parents thought she’d undergone a safe, noninvasive procedure. They didn’t know what really happened. That way, Dad can test those specific powers without oversight or worrying about people asking questions. What she eats, he can study. She’s the reason he has the pills.”
The spark in Nick’s head flared hotly. Above them, the tree branches rattled though there was no wind. “Did you know about all of this? You knew this entire time?”
“I didn’t,” Owen said bluntly. “What the hell do you think I’ve been doing since I escaped? I’ve been getting all the information I could. And no, before you ask, I haven’t spoken to my father since I came back to Nova City. I don’t want to say a goddamn word to that asshole unless it’s telling him to beg for his life. The only reason he’s not dead yet is because I couldn’t figure out what his endgame is. It wasn’t until I saw Jennifer Bell at Jazz’s party that I started to figure it out. And I can prove it to you.”
“How?” Seth demanded. “Give us one reason why we should trust anything you’re saying.”
Owen ignored him, eyes only for Nick. “You won’t believe me, but I’m sorry for what’s about to happen. Sometimes, brute force is necessary to get results. I don’t even know if this is going to work, but I have to try. She underestimated the connection you have with Seth, and there’s power in memory.”
Sweat trickled down the back of Nick’s neck, and when he spoke, it sounded as if it came from someone else. “What are you—”
Owen looked up at Seth. “Why did you become Pyro Storm?”
Seth blinked, mouth turning down as his forehead scrunched up. “What?”
“Pyro Storm,” Owen said again. “You put on the costume for a very specific reason, ridiculous though it was. Do you know why?”
Seth paled, eyes unfocused. “I wanted to help … people.”
Owen snorted. “That’s some magnanimous bullshit, but sure, why not. You always were the Boy Scout, Seth. It got old so fast. You don’t know how many times I just wanted to reach across and slam your goddamn face into the lunch table at school. And sure, you did want to help people because you’re so selfless.” Mocking, angry. “But that’s not why you became Pyro Storm. You did it for Nick.”
“Why?” Jazz asked. “Why would he need to—”
Owen said, “Because my father had Jennifer Bell murdered when she wouldn’t work with him. She walked into a bank and the people he sent after her made sure she never walked out. And you couldn’t stand the thought of the boy you loved suffering, so you became Pyro Storm and—”
Nick jerked forward, quicker than he ever had before. Owen had no time to react, Nick sucker punching him in the stomach, breath exploding from his mouth. Before Owen could recover, Nick gripped the sides of his head, teeth bared, thumbs underneath his eyes and, oh, did he want to dig in. He wanted to make Owen hurt, wanted to tear out his throat so he couldn’t speak anymore. “Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up—”
He screamed when the worst pain he’d ever felt in his life bowled through his head. The illusion was gone and the only thing that remained was how much it hurt, how much everything hurt. It felt as if he were being turned inside out and Dad whispered, “Nicky, oh my god. Nicky. She’s—”
Nick lifted his head and said—
* * *
“Dad? What is it? What’s wrong?”
Nicholas Bell was twelve years old. It was the last Friday of spring break and Nick was sitting on his bed, phone against his ear. Mom should’ve been back by now. She said she had to run to the bank and do a couple of other errands and then she’d be home. She was going to take him and Seth out for pizza. He’d cleaned his room.
Nick was twelve years old. Twenty-seven days before he’d officially become a teenager. A man, he sometimes whispered to himself. Laughable, this, but maybe if he became a man, he wouldn’t have ADHD anymore. He’d be able to be normal. He could sit still for an entire class without causing a disruption where the teacher glared at him and the other students whispered about him behind their hands. He’d been told time and time again by the people who loved him that he was perfect, he was amazing, he was exactly the way he was supposed to be. But people lied to those they care for, lied to make them feel better. Little things, big things, but how many times had the school called his parents in for yet another meeting? How many times did Nick have to promise that he’d try to do better?
Later, he’d wonder why he didn’t know the moment it happened. Wasn’t that what he’d read online? Some people knew, a sort of precognition that couldn’t be explained. A feeling, a sensation of wrong wrong wrong and oh no and something happened something bad just happened. Not déjà vu but presque vu, on the cusp of revelation.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t know what was coming when his phone rang. For a second, he thought it’d be Mom, telling him she was sorry she’d taken so long, Nick wouldn’t believe how busy it was. “Everyone decided to run errands at the same time,” she’d say in that grumpy voice she sometimes got, not angry, not exactly, because he’d be able to hear her smiling ruefully. “Didn’t they know I had plans with my kid?”
It wasn’t Mom. It was Dad.
He grinned as he answered the phone. “Hey, Pops. What’s the—”
A sharp breath. An exhalation. Then, “Nicky. Oh my god, Nicky.”
Hang up the phone, a voice whispered, urgent, terrified. Hang up the phone. Put it down. Ignore it. It’s nothing. Everything is fine.
“Dad? What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Where are you?” Dad asked, shattered like so much glass. “Are you at home?”
“Yeah. I’m waiting for—are you crying?”
“I’m coming to you,” Dad said, and voices were in the background, someone—Cap?—saying, “Aaron, Aaron, listen to me. We don’t know what’s—”
“Don’t open the door,” Dad said. “You hear me? You don’t answer the door for anyone until I get home.”
“O … kay?” Mind racing, a billion thoughts at once, but none of them were close to the truth. It was unfathomable. It was impossible. He was twelve years old—not yet teenager, not yet a man—and he didn’t yet understand that no matter how much he loved someone, it wasn’t enough to save them. “Have you talked to Mom? She was supposed to be back by now. I tried calling her, but she didn’t—”
“I’m coming,” Dad said again. “I love you, kid. I love you so much.”
Alarm bells began to ring deep in Nick’s head.
Then everything stuttered, the frame rate skipping, jumping, and he was pacing downstairs in front of the door, phone gripped in his hand. He tried to call Mom again. No answer. Again. No answer. Again, and then Dad burst through the door, face wet, eyes swollen, mouth twisted down. Suit wrinkled, tie lopsided, hair sticking up. He looked old. So old, as if decades had passed since Nick had seen him that morning when Dad had popped his head into Nick’s room, telling him that just because it was summer didn’t mean that he could stay in bed all day.
And just like that, he knew.
He knew.
“No,” he said, taking a step back and shaking his head, heart in his throat. “No. I don’t want—”
Dad reached for him, hands shaking, and though Nick tried to fight him off, tried to shove him away, Dad was bigger than him. Stronger, and he crushed Nick against his chest, entire body quivering like he was being electrocuted.
Nick breathed him in and Dad was crying, he was sobbing when he choked out, “She’s gone, kid. Oh my god, she’s gone, she’s gone. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I—”
Nick screamed, then. He screamed and screamed until his throat was raw, and for days after, when he spoke—rarely, and only when asked a direct question—his voice was hoarse, gravelly, barely above a whisper.
Skip, jump.
Seth. Bob. Martha. Gibby. Jazz, all hugging him, all telling him they were here, they were with him, they would never leave him.
Skip, jump.
An urn. A funny little thing. He didn’t know what it was made of. Metal. It felt like metal, cold and impersonal. Her name carved into the surface: JENNIFER MARIE BELL. Everything she was reduced to ashes, and Nick hated her, hated her for leaving them, for leaving him. She was supposed to come home because they were going to get pizza. She was supposed to be there when he woke up, when he went to bed, when he came home from school, when he figured out that he was queer, when he realized he loved Seth as more than his best friend. When he graduated. When he went to college. She was supposed to be there for all of it, to help him make sense of the world, and he hated her for taking herself away.
Another skip, another jump, and he was cold, a mist of salt water spraying on his face, the sky gunmetal gray, the lighthouse in the distance, dark and looming over them. Dad held the urn and pulled out the plastic bag that held her remains, a pile of ash that looked like what Dad scooped out from the fireplace.
No one was with them. There’d been offers, many offers, and they’d had a service for her, agnostic, calling it a celebration rather than what it really was. No one used the word funeral, and Nick was absurdly grateful for it, even if he thought a celebration was the last thing he wanted.
Dad had dark circles under his eyes, deep bruises that would take years to fade, if they ever did. Nick knew he looked no better, but he couldn’t worry about that now. Dad needed him to be strong, needed him to be a man. Dad, who was clutching the urn to his chest with one arm, stupidly looking down at the bag in his other hand as if he thought he was dreaming, that none of this could be real.
They stood there, staring at it, shivering as the wind whipped over them. For the longest time, neither of them spoke because they both knew the moment they did, it was over. Done. Finished. The end.
It was Nick who spoke first, Nick who never met a silence he couldn’t fill. He said, “You and me. No matter what. You and me.”
“A team,” Dad whispered, coming out of his stupor. “We stand together so we don’t struggle apart.”
They held the plastic bag together, Dad untying the offensively festive ribbon holding the bag shut—red with a glittering gold trim. It opened, and as one, they turned the bag over, spilling out the contents into the sea, the same place they’d come to because it made her happy, it made her smile. Nick had proof of this in a photograph on his desk.
She was gone in seconds, bits of ash fluttering in the wind, heavier pieces falling into the water, ripples forming, small splashes.
Before she died.
After she died.
They stayed there for a long time, clutching each other.
Years, then. Years passing by in between heartbeats, years where they grieved and fought and loved each other with everything they had. Good days, bad days, days when Nick felt like he was crawling out of his skin, days when it didn’t hurt as much as it had before.
The tapes. The pills. The power hidden deep within him, waiting, waiting until the day it would rise and rise and rise.
The bridge.
The prom.
Pyro Storm.
Shadow Star.
Smoke and Ice and Miss Conduct and Burke, Simon goddamn Burke, smirking in his limousine, picking up a piece of plastic that had chipped off the light above them, saying, “You remind me of your mother. I see her in you.”
He was right. As much as Nick hated him, he was right. He saw her when he looked at his reflection, saw her when he put on Miss Conduct’s gift the first time, saw her when he opened his eyes, when he closed them. He saw her in their house, in his head, in everything he did.
