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The jagged point arcs forward. Inches from spearing the back of my mother’s head, right through her carefully coiffed hair.
At the last possible second, she simply tilts her head to the side.
The bolt shoots past her and stops.
It stops when the point enters Tommy’s forehead, just beneath the Pixies tattoo.
Great band. But not armor.
Tommy drops like a sack of rocks. The gun skitters across the floor.
Adam bends and picks it up. He considers it for a moment, then hands it to Aislin.
The rest of Tommy’s gang is about to rush her when Aislin levels the gun and says, “There’s a reason he handed me the gun. I will totally shoot you.”
I swing back and forth on the thunderbolt for a while. I don’t much like the idea of dropping while it’s still moving. I’ve had enough trouble with leg injuries lately.
My mother—who has not broken a sweat, or even so much as caused a hair to move out of its assigned place—snaps her fingers at Adam. “Get her down.”
Adam does. I slide to the ground along the length of his perfect body and come to rest with my mouth just inches from his perfect mouth.
He’s perfect.
“Solo,” I say. “We need to find Solo.”
– 43 –
While the security guards handcuff Tommy’s group, I glance at his body sprawled on the floor.
I saw a bit of gore when I was at the hospital, so I’m a little less squeamish than I used to be. Still, seeing brains on the floor isn’t easy.
Adam takes one look and practically swoons. Aislin holds him up and gives me a look.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t focus on physical bravery all that much,” I admit. “But he’ll be kind and nice and gentle.”
“Could be worse,” Aislin says.
“We still need to deal with the Maddox mess,” I say.
“I’m going to need this carpet replaced,” my mother mutters. “Kashmir silk, hand-knotted. What a waste.”
“Maybe now’s not the best time,” Aislin whispers.
“First things first: Solo,” I say.
“I know where they must have him,” my mother says.
She leads the way—because she always leads the way—and Aislin and Adam and I fall into step behind her.
The room is dark. My mother flicks several switches, and there he is, floating in the tank Adam had once occupied.
“Solo,” I whisper.
He’s fully clothed, obviously unconscious, tangled in a web of wires.
My mother checks a glowing monitor.
“The readouts show heartbeat and brain activity all normal,” she reports. “He’s alive. We can decant him.”
