Heat Wave, page 9
His phone rang at 12:47 on a Friday in the spring, where the sun was shining, and everything made some sort of sense.
He glanced down at the phone screen.
Dad, it read.
He didn’t want to answer.
But Nicholas Bell was not in control, and he could not stop himself from answering the phone and bringing it to his ear. “Hey, Pops. You should see my room. It’s freaking clean as—”
Dark water poured from the phone, covering his fingers, his hand, his arm, working its way up his neck and down his chest. It swallowed him whole, and as he tried to scream, it crawled down his throat, choking him, filling him with darkness.
But it wasn’t water, was it?
No.
It was shadows.
“See you soon,” a garbled voice spat from the phone. “See you soon, see you soon, see you—”
“Nick.”
He opened his eyes.
Darkness. All shadows, all smoke, holding him down, grip strong as he fought as hard as he could, legs kicking, hands slapping against flesh.
“Nick.”
He stopped. He inhaled. He exhaled.
“There. Good, Nick. You’re all right. I’m here. Breathe, kid. In. In. Good. Hold. One. Two. Three. And out. One. Two. Three. Again.”
He did. Again and again and again.
When he came back to himself, throat raw, skin slick with sweat as he panted, focus returned. He was in his room. In his bed. It was dark out, the light from the streetlamps on the sidewalk below filtering in through his window. Blankets tangled around his legs. Hot and cold, all at the same time.
“That was a bad one. You all right?”
He jumped, making a strangled noise as he looked over. His mother sat next to him on his bed. She wore a loose old shirt. Sleep shorts. Her hair was swept back off her forehead.
“Yeah,” he croaked out. “I don’t … nightmare.”
“Thought so.” She ran her fingers over his arm, nails scraping against his skin. “Want to tell me about it?”
He didn’t. For some reason, he didn’t want to tell her anything. It wasn’t real.
His brow creased. That felt like an untruth.
Right?
He said, “You died.” Yes. No. Split, right down the middle, a clear division. It was Before, and then it was After, and she was in both places at once, on either side of the line, and it wasn’t possible. “You died,” he said again, and began to shake.
She smiled, a hint of teeth behind her lips. “Of course I didn’t. I’m right here. I’ve always been here.” She leaned over him, her face inches from his own as her hand moved up his arm to his shoulder, his neck, stopping on his forehead. His skin crawled. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want her. When she spoke again, it was barely a whisper, her breath hot against his face. “I’m not going anywhere, Nick. You can count on that.”
Then her hand moved to his forehead, and he felt a faint pulse wash over him, insistent, tendrils reaching, reaching, turning truth and clarity into nothingness.
Everything was fine.
* * *
He woke up the next morning and blinked up at the ceiling. He felt loose. Relaxed. He yawned, jaw cracking, before turning his face into his pillow. A good night’s sleep. He hadn’t had one of those in a while.
A voice shouted from somewhere below him. “Nick! Get your butt out of bed. Breakfast!”
He could smell it. French toast with vanilla and cinnamon. Bacon, fried to a blackened crisp. He jumped out of bed like it was Christmas morning. Wide awake, he pulled on a discarded shirt and hurried toward the door, throwing it open. Music, from downstairs. The King. Only fools rushed in. He laughed. Her favorite.
He moved down the hallway, right hand trailing on the wall. He thought, if he really wanted to, he could fly. He could rise from the floor and fly. The stairs creaked as he thundered down them, and there, in the back of his mind, another thought: Before. After. Before. After. After … what?
Nothing, a voice replied. There was no Before. There was no After. Everything is fine.
“Looks like someone’s finally up,” Dad said as Nick came into the kitchen. He leaned against the counter near the sink, wearing a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top. Ankle socks, a small hole in one of the toes. Mom was at the stove, pans sizzling, snapping. Next to the stove, a plate stacked high with French toast, more than they could possibly eat in one sitting. Nick would eat all of it.
She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes alight. “Hey, kid. Thought we were gonna have to drag you out of bed.” She winked at him, and Nick thought about lighthouses against rough seas.
“Nope,” Nick said. “Smelled breakfast. Didn’t want to miss it. French toast is ass when you have to reheat it.”
Mom laughed, and Nick relished the sound. “It is, isn’t it? There’s a little peanut butter left. Should be enough for your French toast. I’ll go to the store later to stock up.”
Nick grinned at her. Grocery stores on Sundays. Routine. Normal. “Sounds good. Think fast.” He punched Dad playfully on his bicep. Dad winced, but it was just for show.
Mom tapped her cheek, and ever the dutiful son, he kissed her with a loud smack. “Looks good,” he said, peering over her shoulder at the bacon on the stovetop.
“Of course it does. I am your mother, after all. Can you set the table?”
He did as asked. A carafe of orange juice already sat on the table, next to a bottle of syrup and a mostly empty container of peanut butter. He set down a plate for Dad and one for himself, with silverware for each. He was about to sit in his usual chair when Mom said, “Ah, aren’t you forgetting something? I’m here, too, sweetheart.”
He paused, looking down at the table. She was right. He’d barely been paying attention when he’d set the table. Why hadn’t he included her? That didn’t make any sense, and for a moment, something itched, deep and insistent. There were three of them, the way it should be. “Yeah,” he said. “Sorry.” He grabbed another plate and set of silverware, setting them on the table. Once done, he sat down.
“Your father and I were talking last night,” Mom said, scooping up the bacon and placing it on a plate covered in a paper towel.
“About what? The Owen thing? The Burke thing?” He still didn’t think protecting Burke was the right way to go about this, but he trusted his parents. They knew what was best.
Dad came to the table, carrying a mug filled with black coffee. He sat down in his usual chair across from Nick. The coffee spilled a little onto the table, and Nick tossed a napkin toward him. It was cloth. They didn’t use cloth napkins, at least not anymore. They’d stored them away in the attic after …
He paused, frowning. After what?
“Both,” Dad said, leaning back in his chair. “We’ll want to bring the others in on it, but we need to make a plan.” He glanced at Mom. “You want to tell him, or should I?”
Mom brought the bacon and French toast to the table. She kissed Dad on the forehead just as the doorbell rang. “I think that’s for you,” she told Nick. “Why don’t you go see who it is? We’ll talk when you come back.”
He jumped up from his chair, hurrying toward the front door, bare feet slapping against the floor. A little arc of electricity—snapping, cracking—bowled down his spine at the familiar figure standing on his porch.
“Hey, dude,” Nick said, flinging open the door. “I didn’t know you were coming—holy shit.”
Seth stood on the porch, wearing tan shorts and a black, short-sleeved collared shirt, complete with a red bow tie, his glasses slightly askew. “What?” he asked, looking down at himself as if trying to see what Nick was gaping at. “What’s wrong?”
“How dare you come over so early in the morning looking so fine,” Nick said. “Question. Can you be my breakfast? Fair warning: peanut butter might still be involved.” He was a foodie, after all.
Seth rolled his eyes fondly, cheeks darkening. But that didn’t stop him from crossing the threshold, gathering Nick up in his arms, and kissing him soundly. “Okay,” he said, pulling back. “You want to know how I know you haven’t brushed your teeth yet?”
Nick grimaced. “Let’s not and say we did. Not everyone can be as put together as you this early in the morning.” He stepped back as Seth closed the door. “I thought we were going to meet up later.”
“Your mom invited me over,” Seth said, hooking his pinkie finger around Nick’s. “Said she wanted to talk to us about something.”
Oh no. “If they pull out plastic baggies, we run. Deal?”
Seth nodded solemnly. “Deal.”
“Besides,” Nick said without thinking, “I already looked up dental dams online. They’re cheaper than I thought they’d be. And your aunt was right. They’re sold in bulk, so we won’t run out when—okay. I heard what I said. Um. So. Huh. Yikes? Did I say that? Yikes.”
“You just … threw that out there,” Seth said faintly. “Like it was nothing.”
Nick groaned, slumping against the closet door behind him. “Goddammit. I was going to surprise you with them.”
“You were going to surprise me with dental dams.”
“Inflection is a thing that exists,” Nick reminded him. “And you gave me Skwinkles Salsagheti. I thought it might be nice to give you a present, too.”
“That’s not even remotely the same thing.” But there was a heat to his eyes, something that had nothing to do with Pyro Storm. Nick gasped quietly as Seth crowded him against the closet door, their knees bumping together. Seth kissed him again, teeth and tongue. He turned his head to the side as Seth kissed his jaw, his ear, breath warm as he bit down gently on Nick’s neck.
“Boy stains,” Dad called from the kitchen, causing them both to jump. “Don’t make me get the spray bottle.”
“Welp,” Nick said. “I guess I don’t have to worry about that boner anymore. Hooray.”
“Oh my god,” Seth moaned, face aflame. “They can hear you.”
“That we can,” Dad said. “Get in here and eat before it gets cold. And no more talk about boners.”
Mom laughed.
* * *
Halfway through breakfast, Mom said, “So.”
Nick looked up, mouth full of bacon. He chewed quickly, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “So.”
“Your father and I were talking,” Mom said, nodding toward his napkin pointedly. He picked it up and cleaned his hands. “With everything that’s going on, we want to make sure the rules are clear.”
“About what?” Nick asked, glancing at Dad. He was mopping up his last bit of French toast in the puddle of syrup on his plate.
“Being Guardian,” Mom said, and that caught Nick’s attention. Excitement began to build, but he did his best to keep himself in check.
Of course, he failed spectacularly. “I get to go out on my own? Hell damn, yes.” The table rattled as his knees bumped the underside.
“Not on your own,” Dad said. But before Nick could deflate, he added, “You’ll either need to be with your mother, Seth, or Mateo.”
“Why now?” Seth asked, ignoring the look Nick shot at him. “I mean, I know what Nick is capable of. He can handle himself.”
“I can,” Nick said firmly. Relief, then, when Seth reached over and squeezed his hand. Did he need Seth’s support? Possibly, but not as much as he wanted it. There was a difference.
“You can,” Mom said. “And we’re proud of you and how hard you’ve been working.” She sat back in her chair, right leg folded underneath her, the sun pouring in from the window above the sink. “This thing … with Owen. I don’t need to tell you he’s dangerous, but I think it helps to be reminded. He’s killed people, Nick, and hurt many others. There’s no telling what he might do now that he’s here.”
“Which is why I asked why now,” Seth said. “I’m trying to figure out what’s changed between a couple of days ago and this morning.”
Nick studied his parents, cataloguing every fleeting expression, parsing through whatever he could latch on to. They looked resigned, and that didn’t sit well with him. It felt like a last—or only—resort.
“We have to be prepared,” Dad said finally. “Until we know exactly what Owen is doing, we need to tread carefully. While we think this has to do with his father, we can’t know for sure until…”
“Until we find out ourselves,” Nick finished for him.
Dad nodded. “Eyes open. Always be aware of your surroundings. We weren’t kidding when we said we don’t want any of you going off on your own, suited up or not. I just wish…” He looked down at the remains of his breakfast, the syrup congealing on the plate. “I wish it hadn’t come to this.” He laughed hollowly. “But it has, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”
Nick stood abruptly, chair scraping on the floor. Without looking at Mom or Seth, he circled the table, stopping next to Dad. Hesitating briefly, Nick settled his hand on the back of Dad’s neck, pulling him against his stomach. Dad clutched him, fingers digging in. “I know you’re scared,” Nick whispered. “I am, too.” More than, but he had a feeling Dad already knew. “I can do this. You know I can. Trust, remember? You and me. I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine.”
“You and me,” Dad whispered back. “Always.”
“And me,” Mom said, and Nick startled. He’d almost forgotten she was there. He looked over at her, and she wasn’t smiling. She covered it up quickly, but Nick caught it before it disappeared. For a moment, she’d looked almost … angry? “I’ll help you as best I can. After all, I’m the only one who’s telekinetic like you, remember?”
“Right,” Nick said. “You are.” He stepped back away from his father. “So, what do we do first?”
“Your pill,” Mom said, and there it sat on her palm. “Gotta keep that mind moving like you want it to. Take it, and we’ll decide on the best course of action.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.” He took it from her and swallowed it dry, making a face at the bitterness on the back of his tongue. Then, without thinking, he opened his mouth wide to show her it was gone, just like he’d done when he was a kid.
She said, “Close your mouth, Nicky. No one likes to see that.”
A fly, fat and heavy, landed on Dad’s plate, dipping its legs into the syrup. It buzzed loudly, and Nick thought of electricity crackling. Miss Conduct, standing in an alley, bangles clicking together. A memory, foggy, distant. A phone being smashed on the ground. His … phone?
You’re children. You’re children. You’re—
You don’t know me. I don’t know any of you. And it’s better if it stays that way. Knowing people means getting hurt. And I’m not going to put myself into that position. Not again.
“Nick?”
The voice echoed in his head as he looked over at Seth, a worried expression on his face. He’d risen half out of his chair as if he wanted to go to Nick. “You all right?”
Mom reached over and circled her fingers around Seth’s wrist, tugging him back down. His face went slack for a split second before he smiled as he looked at her. “Thanks for inviting me over to breakfast, Mrs. Bell. I appreciate it.”
“Anything for you,” Mom said, letting him go. “Sit, Nick. Let’s make a plan. Here’s what I’m thinking.”
6
The next morning—Monday, but then it was summer vacation, so the day didn’t exactly matter—he stepped out of his house, shouting at Mom that he was heading out to meet up with Gibby. She called back, reminding him to text her if Gibby didn’t show for some reason. She’d wanted to come with, but she’d relented when he promised her that he’d only be on his own for a few blocks in broad daylight. Gibby had already texted him that she was waiting at the Franklin Street station entrance.
He moved lethargically, swallowing down a yawn. Yesterday had been intense, Mom working him hard. They’d started small, with empty plastic cups. He’d been able to lift them with ease, still in awe that he could do such a thing. He’d moved them back and forth before spinning them in concentric circles. He’d managed to get up to ten at one time before they started to wobble.
Dad had been their victim (his word) for what came next. Sweat dripped from Nick’s forehead as he’d lifted his father a few feet above the ground carefully, not wanting to hurt him. Dad had looked a little green as Nick bobbed him up and down, head almost bumping up against the ceiling.
“Good,” Mom had said, watching from a few feet away. “It’s all about control, Nick. Focus. No distractions.” She’d circled behind him and clapped her hand hard right near his ear. Dad dropped a couple of feet, but Nick managed to catch him before he could hit the floor.
And on and on it went.
He knew this work was important, but he was relieved to get out of the house. It felt like he could breathe a bit better, even if the oppressive heat settled over him like a wet blanket. When he reached the sidewalk, he glanced back at the house. Mom stood in front of her bedroom window, watching him. He waved. Maybe she wasn’t looking at him because she didn’t wave back.
He left the house behind, moving down the familiar sidewalks, his backpack heavy with his Guardian costume, something his parents had at first kept locked up, same as his pills. They’d given it to him the night before, telling him that part of being prepared was having it near, just in case.
(If he’d slept with the costume in his bed, hugging the helmet … well, that was no one’s business but his.)
The humidity was terrible, with the promise of worse in the hours to come. Wavy lines rose from the blacktop of the streets. People passed him by, most looking sluggish, wiping their brows. Some glanced at him, nodded in greeting, but no one tried to stop him. He ducked his head, not wanting to take the chance he’d be recognized. It didn’t happen very often—at least not as much as it had even weeks before—but he couldn’t be too careful. Some idiots out there probably thought they could still strike it rich with the bounty Burke had put out on Seth. He’d recanted in an interview with the worst person in the world, and had apologized, but Nick didn’t trust him in the slightest. It rubbed him the wrong way that Mom seemed to think the only way to get to Owen was to protect Burke. After everything Burke had done, Nick almost wanted to let Owen at him, if that’s what he was planning to do.
