Kaye’s power is milky and emits a faintly electric blue tinge, like a power surge given corporeal form. Adding it to the serum does little to alter its appearance, turning it only to a less inky color of charcoal than before. Physical appearances often conceal what’s happening within, however.
The euphoria of Rose surely cannot compare to the absolute, pure rapture that explodes like a supernova as it hits my veins. My atoms rearrange themselves, blooming, forming and reforming into newer, stronger mutations of themselves. Each burst within me is an imperfection targeted and corrected until I am remade anew. Healthy. Strong.
Unstoppable.
“Zane! Can you hear me?”
Dragging my eyelids open, I find myself looking at the cement and stone ceiling in the basement laboratory. Strange. I don’t recall lying down.
“Are you alright?” The cascade of Kaye’s hair falls over me, sparing my aching eyes from the fluorescent luminosity of the bulbs above me. Why do I feel so dry, rung out like an old towel?
She helps me into a sitting position, chattering all the while about how worried she was. How nervous. I try to keep up with the steady flow of words. Distantly, I acknowledge that she cares. That I care that she cares. That it makes me feel good and warm and welcome. But all I can hear is the pounding of blood in my ears.
“I think I just need a minute. Headache.”
She places her hand over mine, offering a steady, silent anchor. Slowly, the pounding in my skull abates, and in its place, strength and ecstasy remains, all pain lost and forgotten in the effects of the drug.
“How do you feel?” The back of her hand comes to my forehead, then moves down to my cheek.
“Fantastic.” I press a kiss to her knuckles. “Like nothing ever happened.”
“But—”
“I think I had too much serum in my system.” It’s only been a day since I took the last dose. A minor overdose could easily have caused the blackout. The headache. “Your power must have helped burn through. I’m fine now.”
She releases a long breath. Her beautiful brown eyes meet mine, shooting an arrow of wonder straight into my heart. This lovely, amazing, incredible woman cares about me.
“I hate that you’re experimenting on yourself.” She sighs. “What if something had gone wrong? Just because I can heal myself doesn’t mean I’d be able to heal you. We should have waited until George came home at least.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that anymore.” Grinning, I pull my shirt collar down and to the side.
The scar tissue fades before our eyes. Gone are the puckered edges, the angry wound. She runs her fingers over it, and it feels so damn good. I dip my head, capturing her lips for a kiss full of gratitude and contentment.
“Zane,” she breathes my name as though it is the ghost of a dream. As though trying to capture the whimsy of a moment ago, when the world’s edges were dewy with sleep and softened by clouds and moonlight. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt. “I’m ready to talk about what happened with the CCP—I think I need to if I’m going to move on. I’d like you to be the person I share it with, if that’s okay.”
“I want to, Kaye, but…” My heart swells as I look at her. Beautiful. Formidable. Still bleeding from her hidden wounds. I know better than most how that weight can steal the luster from a life. It’s easier not to face some demons, but those who do—either to vanquish or embrace them—are truly heroic, powers or no. “We don’t know what effect this serum could have on my powers. I could be unstable, the connection corrupted.”
“If I don’t say do it now, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to face it,” she says. “I don’t want to go after C without overcoming it. Will you help me?”
Her fingers feel cold as I take them in mine. Cold, but full of strength as she grips me tightly. “Are you sure?”
She nods, pressing her palm to mine tighter. “Let me show you.”
27
KAYE
FOUR MONTHS AGO
Iwalked down Main Street on a crisp morning, a cup of coffee steaming against my palm on my way to work. New Malcolm is the place where people of all walks of life inevitably end up. Even the ones who manage to leave almost always end up back here eventually. They are drawn, I think, to the art, the culture, the dream of growth and potential. And then there’re the Supers. Who doesn’t love the notion that there could be a real-life Clark Kent in every person you meet?
There’s also a darker side to that coin.
A figure trembled near the sidewalk. I almost walked right by him without a second look. It had been so long since I had seen him that I almost didn’t recognize him, but something called to me, drew me to give him another look.
His thick hair, always immaculately combed fresh from the shower was now a stringy, overgrown tangle hanging limply in front of his face. I remember watching him get ready for dates with my mom, the spiky scent of his aftershave a phantom that still lingers along the edges of my memories. This was the man I idolized growing up? This was the towering mountain that shookthe household with his fury, and rebuilt it steadily in the weeks that followed?
It couldn’t be.
