Okay, Faith. Concentrate. I check my phone, but nothing from Dakota.
In the far corner of the warehouse is a set of stairs leading to another floor with a door and windows covered in blinds. I remember noticing the room when I first visited the warehouse and had assumed it was probably an old supervisor’s office. Then the lights were on up there, glowing from behind the blinds, but now it’s just a vacuum of darkness hovering above the warehouse. In fact, if I hadn’t seen it the first time, I might not even have noticed it now.
After searching around once more for anyone who could possibly point me to Margaret or Dakota, I walk up the metal staircase. Yanking on the door does nothing. The knob jiggles in my hand. It’s not locked. It’s just stuck. I try the door again and this time I lift up, which seems to do the trick. I fumble for a moment for the light switch on the wall. Above me, the lights buzz and flicker before turning on completely.
My eyes strain as they adjust to the harsh lighting. All the desks once occupying this room are pushed to one corner, precariously stacked on top of one another. But right in front of me, nearest to the door, is a hospital bed with monitors buzzing and beeping and a bag of fluids hooked up to an IV, which is connected to the arm of the girl in the bed.
The girl lying in the bed. A girl in the bed. Girl. The words loop in my head over and over again. It’s just another set, I tell myself. This isn’t real.
But it is. And I know that girl. I barely recognize her ashen complexion and her hair slicked back and away from her face.
Colleen Bristow.
I’ve really got to quit stumbling upon nearly dead girls. It’s turning into a habit.
I rush to her side and try to shake her awake. “Colleen, Colleen, Colleen, Colleen, Colleen.” I whisper her name over and over again, but she’s not waking up. According to the monitors, her heart rate seems normal—at least from what I know about monitors like these from television shows—but she’s unresponsive. Like Gretchen. Except Colleen seems like she’s just sleeping. Gretchen was definitely awake, even if she was only a shell.
“Colleen, wake up,” I beg her. “Please, wake up.”
I pace at the foot of her bed. I can’t leave her. But what is she even doing here in the first place? Who brought her here? What did they do to her? Is it the same thing that happened to Gretchen?
Footsteps pound up the metal staircase. I quickly scan the room for exits, but there’s only one way in and one way out.
You can’t fly if there’s nowhere to go.
24
I duck down and roll under Colleen’s bed. It’s the only place I can think to hide. I watch as two sets of feet in black boots walk in, followed by two feet in red flats.
“Did someone leave the light on in here?” asks one voice. I don’t want it to be true, but I quickly recognize the voice to be Margaret’s.
I hold my breath, waiting for the other voice. Please don’t be Dakota. Please don’t be Dakota.
“I’ll check the tapes,” a deep, husky voice responds. “Maybe whoever brought her here after the procedure. We’ve just got her in here for temporary monitoring anyway.”
I hold a hand over my mouth, silencing my sigh. Definitely not Dakota. My heart thuds in my chest so loudly that surely everyone in this room can hear it, even Colleen.
“How much longer do we give her before pulling the plug?” the voice asks.
One set of boots approaches the bed so closely I could tie the shoelaces together.
“The A+ identified her as a psiot,” says Margaret. “She was a success! A true success! There’s no pulling the plug on her or this project.”
“I don’t know that we can actually say that she was identified via the strain we injected her with. At least not with assured confidence, ma’am,” says a third, mousier voice.
I nearly choke. A psiot? Did Margaret Toliver just use the word psiot? And could she really be talking about Colleen Bristow? Colleen isn’t a psiot. She couldn’t be. She’s just plain old Colleen. But then I was just plain old Faith before Peter activated me.
And A+ . . . the same drug Ches was caught—
My phone rings and I fumble to pull it out of my pocket only to find Dakota’s face flashing on my screen. I don’t have time to think about how stupid I am and how no one teaches you how to be a psiot or a superhero or whatever but if they did, the first lesson would be to put your stupid phone on silent.
“Is that you?” Margaret asks.
And before either voice can answer, I roll out from under the bed and make a run for it, dashing to the door.
“Stop her!” screams Margaret from the other side of the bed.
I yank the door up and out as hard as I can and slam it behind me, praying the door jams to buy me just a bit of time.
On the landing, an instinct I feel like I’ve been searching months for takes over, and I shoot off from my feet, soaring over the handrail. “Whoa!” I gasp, realizing just how close I am to the ceiling before leveling out and just holding my position there in midair.
Behind me the door flings open and a balding man with a scar darting through his left brow crowds the doorframe. Nigel. I recognize him from the club that one night. He stands, slack-jawed, with Margaret behind him, her face mirroring his. I guess it’s not every day you see an unexpected fangirl floating forty or fifty feet off the ground.
Adrenaline and self-assurance more potent than anything I’ve ever felt pulse through my veins, and suddenly Nigel begins floating. At first a few inches, and then inches turn into feet.
Nigel lets out a panicked yelp.
I look down at my hands, expecting to find lightning pulsing out of my fingertips or lasers shooting from my eyes. Did I do that? How? And if I did actually do that, how do I do it again?
Nigel drops back down to the landing on all fours, his chest heaving.
I don’t know what the hell that was all about, and I don’t think I have time to figure it out right now.
On the other side of the warehouse, Dakota walks in through the loading dock, her phone pressed to her ear as she leaves a voice mail—presumably for me. “Hey, just calling you back and was thinking—” Her whole body freezes as she sees me flying toward her until my toes skim the concrete floor.
But it’s not surprise I see written across her face. She glances past me to Margaret, where she still stands on the landing of the stairs, and then back to me. Dakota’s expression isn’t full of marvel at the sight of me flying. Instead, her face is taut and concerned, like a kid who’s been caught red-handed.
I don’t have to ask. I already know. Dakota’s in on whatever secret Margaret is keeping.
My whole body crashes as I’m tackled to the ground by a tall bald guy—Nigel. Pounding my fists against his chest, I do everything I can to squirm out from under him. I really need to pick up some self-defense skills. A swift kick to the groin buys me just enough time to fly back to my feet. Flying in closed quarters is pretty sticky, so I take a gamble and sprint toward the exit on foot. Toward Dakota.
“Stop her!” screeches Margaret.
Dakota’s eyes narrow on me. Would she? Would she really try to stop me?
I don’t want to find out.
Pure power strums through my veins as I push off from the ground and soar up just high enough to glide right over her before tumbling to the ground and rolling under the freight door. Somehow the act of getting into my car is the most challenging thing I’ve done in the last two minutes. My hands shake as I search for my car keys and stab them into the ignition.