《Relative Powers》


 Chapter One

    Maisie crouched on the curb, stomach knotted with dread, while waking stars blinked dismally against the city¡¯s glow.


    Beside the trim, pilastered residences of the cul-de-sac, she cut an unimpressive figure. Worn. Brittle. Nothing like her family. Her teeth worried the inside of her cheek, the aftertaste of pasta sauce displaced by metal and fear. On the main road, a car approached; her pulse leapt and subsided with its passing.


    Arthurs aren¡¯t cowards, rang her father¡¯s rebuke from earlier that evening. But bravery came easier to the Gifted, and Maisie was as ungifted as they came.


    The next car turned into the junction. Heralded by a growl like a chainsaw on concrete, she recognised it as Samson¡¯s before looking up. Resignation beat out adrenaline, and when a custom hubcap came to a stop within centimetres of her nose, she braced for exhaust fumes and pushed leaden legs to stand.


    Up slid the door. Her middle brother leaned over the passenger seat to glare at her. ¡®Are you trying to get run over?¡¯


    ¡®My legs were tired.¡¯


    ¡®Your legs were tired,¡¯ he mimicked. ¡®This is dangerous business. If your legs are tired, you should tuck them in bed and stay away.¡¯


    Her bed and sleep sounded entirely too alluring right then. Instead, she ducked into the car.


    ¡®When did he tell you I would help?¡¯ asked Maisie.


    ¡®A couple of hours ago.¡¯ A pause as the door lowered, dulling the engine, then Samson muttered, ¡®You?¡¯


    ¡®Around then.¡¯


    ¡®Did you even try saying no?¡¯


    She shrugged in lieu of answer. Since last year, when her father decided she be inducted into the family business, gifts or no, her protests had dried up. Explaining her reasons to Samson was pointless. He was the perfect fruit of their family, blind to rot and cankers.


    He huffed derision and shifted the car into gear, pulling out into the street.


    Maisie held her questions for the first mile. Absent words, she could pretend they drove to a mundane destination: an evening class, or the leisure centre. In this fantasy they were normal siblings, their silence companionable.


    A dull ache in her right leg pulsed with the rhythm of the engine, a reminder of where a telekinetic caught her with shrapnel from a broken fridge. The pretence died.


    She traced a finger along the seam of the window, watching street lamps strobe her knuckles. Like lighthouse flashes ¡ª but where were the rocks? ¡®Where are we going?¡¯


    ¡®Dad didn¡¯t tell you?¡¯


    ¡®He told me nothing except the time you''d pick me up.¡¯


    ¡®So you waited by the road like a good puppy, no questions asked.¡¯


    ¡®You drove to collect me. I hope you got a better treat.¡¯ She almost bit her tongue, but the retort was out.


    His gaze found hers in the mirror. To her surprise, he dipped his chin in acknowledgment. ¡®We¡¯re going to the Kista warehouse.¡¯


    ¡®Who¡¯s making mischief there tonight?¡¯


    ¡®The Gladiators.¡¯


    A portion of tension slipped away. The Gladiators was a big name for a mid-league gang in the slight and insular criminal underworld of Briston. Samson must have noticed the change, because he continued, ¡®Don¡¯t look relieved. They¡¯re real trouble now. Someone connected them with Flight.¡¯


    And her stomach plummeted to hell. Flight granted users a dice-roll chance of incredible gifts. The gifts varied in strength and utility, from flying to glamour, only lasting hours if they manifested at all, but within those hours, a select few could wreak devastation. Worse, under Flight¡¯s influence, personalities warped. Sometimes the change was barely perceptible; sometimes they became monsters.


    Flight had defined the course of Maisie''s life. The panic following its rise catapulted her father into the stratosphere ¡ª her brilliant, extraordinary father, born with the gifts other people risked everything to gain. He was a hero. One of The Five. As for Flight and her mother¡­ in that direction lay sorrow.


    ¡®Sounds like a fun night out,¡¯ said Maisie, but the sarcasm rang hollow.


    ¡®You shouldn¡¯t be coming.¡¯


    ¡®So you¡¯ve made clear.¡¯


    They came to a stop at a traffic light, and Samson turned toward her, carved face sober. ¡®Dad¡¯s trying to include you, but you don¡¯t have to let him.¡¯


    Include? It didn¡¯t feel like inclusion to her. No, their father meant to forge her into less of a failure, and these outings were his furnace of choice. ¡®He was happy not including me for fifteen years.¡¯


    That killed the conversation. Samson¡¯s jaw worked, but the defence she anticipated stayed swallowed as red changed to green.


    ¡®Maybe he could have handled things better,¡¯ he conceded once they were moving, and Maisie almost slumped from the shock. ¡®But this isn¡¯t the way to fix it. Tell him you won¡¯t join us anymore.¡¯


    ¡®I can¡¯t.¡¯ Not when the repercussions weren¡¯t contained to her, a secret Samson would never believe.


    ¡®You can. You just don¡¯t want to. How many times have you barely walked away? You have no gift, Maisie. But rather than admit that, you put yourself and others at risk by being too stubborn and proud to say ¡®no¡¯ to Dad.¡¯


    Her hands curled into the sides of her seat, nails digging crescents in the leather. ¡®It¡¯s not that simple.¡¯


    ¡®Isn¡¯t it? If you stood up for yourself, maybe he''d respect you more. I would.¡¯


    She said nothing.


    He sighed. ¡®I can¡¯t deal with you.¡¯


    Back to normal. But as she watched the uncaring facades of shops streak past, she wished he¡¯d try.


    They parked on a rundown street at the edge of town, the air between them taut as Maisie¡¯s muscles. Dread numbed her tongue, forestalling further questions. An all too brief walk between houses, and the abandoned industrial estate opened out like a trap.


    Silver beneath the moon, the defunct Kista Cars plant stood partially demolished, an ugly ruin of the modern age. The warehouse, now the only building on the estate still intact, hid from view by the gutted corpse of the old factory and a small copse of trees that had once been an employee picnic area. A riot of undergrowth had risen to swallow the grass verges, the more intrepid pushing into cracks on the potholed road.


    Samson pointed to the thicket, and she trailed him up an embankment, trying not to flinch as her trainers crunched on broken beer bottles and who-knew-what-else that she couldn''t see in the dark. When they reached the trees, he melted into the shadows against a trunk. She mirrored him, a twig poking her in the back.


    ¡®What now?¡¯ she whispered.


    He didn¡¯t answer, twisting to scan the trees. Maisie locked her knees together and tried to gather courage. Courage wasn¡¯t obliging.


    ¡®You''re late,¡¯ said a cold voice in her ear.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    She managed to suppress her jump, teeth clenched tight. There was no point looking around. ¡®Hello, Alfred.¡¯


    Beside her, she could almost feel Samson rolling his eyes. ¡®Stop messing around, Alfie.¡¯


    ''Alfie'' was a poor fit for their hard, icy older brother. Only Samson called him by it, and she suspected it was born from a brother¡¯s need to aggravate instead of an endearment.


    Alfred scared her. Samson bought into the family mythos, but Alfred breathed it. Their father raised him with the view that he was apart from others ¡ª a demigod, whose gift gave him the mandate to do anything in the pursuit of justice.


    A shape materialised to her right. Tall, slender and pale as a wraith, Alfred looked alien in the moonlight, the strong bone structure that worked so well on her father and Samson giving his face an eerie, otherworldly quality.


    Maisie blinked at him, inwardly cursing this game. His gift rendered him close to invisible when he wished, light bending around him like water around a stone. On a bright day, a slight warping of the space where he should be, as if looking at the world in a curved mirror, gave him away to people who knew what to look for. In the grey of early night, he was a phantom. His pale eyes chilled her.


    ¡®You look scared. Going to wimp out on us?¡¯


    ¡®No.¡¯


    She held his stare until Samson rolled his shoulders. ¡®All right, then. If you¡¯re finished, let¡¯s talk business. What did you find?¡¯


    Alfred gave him a curt nod. ¡®There were three sentries. They weren''t very discreet. Two were drunk, so I don''t think they expected anyone.¡¯


    ¡®What did you do to them?¡¯ asked Maisie, knowing with a bitter twist in her stomach that she wouldn''t like the answer.


    ¡®Took them out.¡¯


    ¡®Permanently?¡¯


    ¡®And efficiently. Any of them could have taken Flight. It was justified.¡¯


    Was it? A Flight user had laid ruin to the capitol. Killing someone you reasonably suspected of taking Flight was a tested defence ¡ª not that Alfred worried about the long arm of the law. But why would The Gladiators waste merchandise on drunk lookouts too unimportant to bring into the fold? Her nose hurt, a harbinger of tears she couldn¡¯t afford.


    ¡®Did you recon the warehouse?¡¯ Samson asked, moving the subject away. For a second, she thought she saw a flash of something close to regret cross his face, but it was gone too soon for her to properly identify. Did it bother him too? Probably not. It never appeared to bother him before.


    ¡®I tried, but they''ve got the place lit up like a Christmas tree.¡¯ Alfred''s face twisted into an expression of disgust. ¡®I''d say they''re idiots, being as blatant as that, but I couldn''t risk getting closer in case I tipped them off, so maybe there''s a method in their madness.¡¯


    ¡®They''ve set up lights?¡¯ said Maisie, troubled. ¡®What makes them so bold?¡¯


    Alfred didn''t spare her a glance, continuing as if she''d never spoken. ¡®I checked the fire exits. They''ve boarded them up, so the only way in or out of that place is the loading door at the front. Whoever''s inside is keeping quiet. Oh, and I almost forgot,¡¯ he said, in tones that made it clear he hadn''t forgotten at all. ¡®Of the ones outside? One of them is on Flight.¡¯


    Samson swore. ¡®How do you know?¡¯


    ¡®I saw him growing.¡¯


    Maisie¡¯s chest constricted. She wanted to be anywhere but here, be anyone but herself in this moment. She was scared. Her father would hate that. The thought was a perversely comforting one.


    Samson¡¯s eyes were on her, judging through the gloom. ¡®Go home, Maisie. You''re outclassed.¡¯


    ¡®I don''t want to be here!¡¯ she snapped, keeping her voice quiet despite the pulsing frustration. ¡®But Father¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Isn¡¯t worth risking your life tonight.¡¯


    He could never understand. The worst of it all was that she almost wanted to tell him. They''d never been close, the three years separating them and Samson''s youthful devotion to Alfred and Father forming an unbreachable void. But he was changing, she thought. Since he''d left home, the hero worship seemed to have faded from his eyes. Before, if their father said jump, he''d hit his head on the moon. Now, he was openly telling her to defy a figure he once considered infallible.


    She looked away.


    ¡®Maisie¡ª¡¯


    ¡®No, Samson,¡¯ said Alfred abruptly. ¡®She''s got to stay. As little use as she is, Father wants her here.¡¯


    Maisie shot him a sharp glance. How much had Father given to his confidence? She¡¯d thought the threat was for her ears alone.


    ¡®Why?¡¯ asked Samson.


    ¡®Because he said so.¡¯


    Samson tossed his hands in the air in a gesture of defeat. ¡®You''re idiots. Both of you.¡¯


    There was a judgment she couldn''t deny. Her teeth caught the inside of her cheek.


    ¡®So we stick to the plan,¡¯ said Alfred.


    Samson nodded, resigned, his attention turning to the woods as if he saw their target through the trees. At that moment, a cloud passed over the moon. In its absence, she could see a pale haze above the branches in the direction of the warehouse.


    Again, Maisie had a twinge of unease. Something was wrong here. Lights obliterating any attempt at subtlety, drunks as lookouts, hiding illegal merchandise in a place long associated with criminal activity. Surely the Gladiators weren''t that stupid. But if it meant surviving tonight unscathed, she''d cling to the hope they were.


    ¡®I don''t know the plan,¡¯ she said.


    ¡®Alfred goes in the front. Takes out the entrance and anyone out there. I take the back, hit them where they aren''t expecting it. You come with me. Try to stay out of my way.¡¯


    ¡®Some plan,¡¯ she muttered. Her fingers brushed the handle of a tactical blade, hidden in a concealed nylon sheath at the top of her trousers. It was warm from the heat of her skin, the familiar shape moulding to her hand, reassuring even as its comfort disturbed her. It was the one gift Alfred had ever given her. A joke, she thought ¡ª what use was a knife in a battle between Gifted? Joke was on him, because the knife had become a lifeline, even as the thought of using it on another person turned her gut.


    Alfred shrugged. ¡®We''re Arthurs. This is what we¡¯re meant for.¡¯


    Except me, Maisie thought.


    ¡®Come on.¡¯ Samson stretched and pushed off the trunk behind him, moving into the trees. Maisie followed.


    They picked their way through the overgrown picnic area, the darkness making progress slow. Twice she tripped into bramble bushes, the thorns tearing through her trousers and drawing blood. The second time she fell, she felt a hand grip her shoulder and lift her with practised strength.


    ¡®Thank you,¡¯ she whispered.


    Samson didn''t respond.


    The light was getting brighter. She saw the side of the warehouse through the trunks, half yellow brick, turned grey by the night, half corrugated cladding, stretching twenty meters into the sky. A mammoth of a building sprawling over half a cubic kilometre of land, it once held the title of largest unsupported roof in the county. Now it loomed above them like a fortress of old.


    Time to storm the castle.


    When they reached the edge of the trees, they split, Alfred turning toward the roadside and the source of most of the light. A second later, he vanished. Maisie turned the other way with Samson and kept walking.


    The back of the building had no weak point. No door, not even a boarded-up fire escape, broke the pattern of the brick and steel.


    Samson''s right shoulder began to swell under his jacket. It expanded slowly, leather straining around the joint until it reached the size of a football. Maisie fought queasiness. The growth spread down his arm, bicep splitting the seams of his sleeve like the skin of overripe fruit. His fingers clenched, veins popping against the back of his hand in painful, vivid purple.


    He pulled back his fist and waited. A second passed. Two. Shouts broke out in the distance ¡ª Alfred arriving.


    Samson punched the wall.


    Brick shattered.


    The sound reverberated through the night like a thunderclap. In the distance, the shouts silenced. Where the wall once stood, impregnable, there was now a luminous hole. Dust rose from it, catching the glow and stinging Maisie''s eyes and throat. She blinked, swallowing a cough.


    Samson didn''t pause, advancing through the opening he''d made. Silhouetted against the light, his lopsided figure defied logic, right arm like a graft from a Titan.


    Maisie drew her knife and stepped over the rubble behind him.


    ¡®Careful,¡¯ he said, not sparing her a glance. His feet splayed in a fighting stance, body alert. She positioned herself to his left and slightly behind.


    No one came at them.


    She waited. Nothing.


    The warehouse looked empty. Blindingly empty, lit with a legion of floodlights to rival Wembley stadium. Some were propped along the wall while others hung from the maze of steel girders supporting the ceiling, their rays reflecting off the insulation foil on air conditioning ducts until fractured light blazed from every direction.


    Coloured dots swam before her vision. It was too much.


    Samson reached up with his un-deformed hand and rubbed his eyes. A malign part of her was glad to find him not immune.


    She squinted, and could just make out a generator in the far corner. The warehouse hadn''t been connected to the main power grid since it went defunct. Someone had gone to a lot of effort to set this place up.


    In the centre of the floor stood a pile of crates, a lone island in the sea of concrete. She counted them. Ten.


    What? She counted again.


    A hissing exhale escaped her. ¡®If that''s all Flight, they have enough to supply three counties.¡¯


    Samson shook his head, not relaxing his stance. ¡®Not possible. There''s no way they could have so much.¡¯ But he watched the crates like he expected them to explode.


    ¡®Where is everyone?¡¯


    ¡®I don''t know. I don''t like this.¡¯


    From the front of the warehouse, the sounds of fighting resumed. Gods, she hoped Alfred could hold them.


    ¡®What do we do?¡¯ she asked. It was times like this that she felt totally useless. She didn''t have the training of her two older brothers. Once Father had realised she had no abilities, he''d deemed the exercise pointless. For years she''d been ignored, an embarrassment to put aside ¡ª until last May and the splintering of her world.


    With the empty warehouse, either the gang was incompetent ¡ª which clashed with the nightmare load of Flight they''d procured ¡ª or she was missing something. Her instincts blared a warning siren.


    Samson scratched his hip, appearing to weigh his options. ¡®We need to look at those crates. See if it''s all Flight. If everyone is distracted by Alfred, maybe we can secure the merchandise.¡¯ He sounded doubtful.


    Maisie frowned. A good two hundred meters separated them from the centre of the room. If one or more Gladiators waited, concealed by some Flight-gifted ability, they would be totally exposed, with little avenue of retreat. Samson, with his incredible strength, was good in a close fight, but there wasn¡¯t much he could do if their enemy attacked from a distance. Maisie was no help in either scenario.


    She opened her mouth to protest, and then shut it. ¡®Okay.¡¯


    With his gift and connections, their father had carved a place as Briston¡¯s protector, the first line of defence against petty Gifted and Flight. As pawn for his cause, Maisie had no move but forward.

 Chapter Two

    Maisie crossed the warehouse floor like she trod over a minefield ¡ª and perhaps she did, though any traps kept themselves well hidden. With nothing to expend it on, her adrenaline ran laps in her system. She twitched at the lights, at swirling dust motes, at the tap of her own feet.


    In her peripheral vision, Samson stepped silently, moving in that steady glide their father had drilled into him. His face was drawn with concentration.


    When they were almost at the crates, an impulse made her freeze. The scene remained fixed, and yet¡­


    She surrendered to her instincts. ¡®Stop.¡¯


    Samson did, looking at her in question.


    What was it? Her ears strained, picking up... Something.


    ¡®Do you hear that?¡¯


    ¡®What?¡¯


    ¡®I just¡ª¡¯


    There it was again. A faint wheezing sound, coming from directly in front of them.


    She scrutinised the air, searching for the telltale warping of space that betrayed a person under invisibility. The piercing light didn''t so much as waver.


    Maisie looked down.


    There, only a few inches from her front foot, was a thin chalk line. She followed it with her eyes. It formed a circle around the crates, about thirty feet in diameter, too thin to be noticeable from farther away.


    ¡®Look.¡¯ She pointed.


    Her brother scowled. ¡®So what? Someone''s drawn a circle; maybe they''re artistic. Big deal.¡¯


    He moved past her.


    ¡®Wait¡ª¡¯


    Before the word had fully passed her lips, Samson was flung backwards. His feet caught air, body arcing ¡ª and then he slammed side-first into the ground.


    When the thud of his landing faded, he didn''t move.


    Maisie rushed to him. ¡®Hey! Are you all right?¡¯ She crouched, unsure what to do. Should she touch him? No. If anything was broken, moving him might make it worse.


    He had landed on his right, the mutant arm hopefully taking the brunt of his fall. That was a good sign. His face was angled towards the ground, hair covering his eyes. She couldn''t tell if his chest moved. Not so good.


    Leaning down, she placed her ear close to his mouth and waited, gulping a tide of emotions.


    At last, a long, heaving exhale. He groaned. Relief was a cool wash.


    ¡®Have...¡¯ he gasped out.


    ¡®Yes?¡¯


    ¡®Haven¡¯t...¡¯


    ¡®Take your time.¡¯ She leant even closer.


    He rasped a couple more ragged breaths. Finally, he managed, ¡®I haven¡¯t responded to chalk that way since Year Nine art class.¡¯


    She stared at him. ¡®Seriously?¡¯


    ¡®Never my subject.¡¯


    She snorted and got up.


    ¡®Rest there for a while, Mr Art Critic. Let me make sense of the picture.¡¯


    Another groan as he shifted a fraction. ¡®I¡¯ll be with you once I¡¯ve analysed the artist¡¯s intentions in five hundred words.¡¯


    ¡®Hush.¡¯


    A genuine smile turned her lips before tugging down. This was what she wanted from her brother. Why could she only have it as he lay dazed from pain beside crates of Flight?


    The chalk circle sat innocently on the floor, its line undamaged. She glared at it. What now?


    A discarded drink can lay near her feet. She bent to pick it up, wincing as a trickle of rancid beer ran up her sleeve. Ugh.


    Sounds of the fight outside continued unabated, stray bellows carrying from the loading bay door. Blocking them, and worries of whether Alfred prevailed, drew precious strength from her reserves.


    Walking as close to the circle as she dared, she tossed the can at the boundary. A pre-emptive dodge to the side proved redundant. Instead of bouncing back, it skittered harmlessly across the ground, coming to a halt at the base of the crates. Okay, then. Either someone controlled it, or it only stopped living beings.


    Samson had managed to sit up. His arm was shrunk, ripped sleeve hanging loosely over a normal shaped limb. The shock of his sudden flight must have broken his concentration. But that didn''t make sense. She''d seen Samson maintain his battle form in the face of greater threats; Father made sure of that. Could the circle have forced a change?


    He flexed his shoulder. Something crunched deep in the joint, eliciting a flinch from both of them. The bad piled up. They fought an unknown power, outnumbered, and their best weapon was out of action. Samson was still preternaturally strong, but his arm made up the majority of his arsenal. Invulnerable to impact and fire, it was both hammer and shield, stopping bricks and bullets.


    If any of the defenders managed to get past Alfred, neither of them was in any shape to take on the assault.


    As the thought completed itself, the shouts outside crescendoed and petered to unnerving quiet. Adrenaline peaked again. Maisie waited for Alfred¡¯s call. The quiet stretched, stretched, stretched¡­ Alfred would have called by now. At the top end of the warehouse, the big loading bay door shuddered.


    They needed cover. Fast.


    She spun in a circle, searching for an escape. Lights mocked her from every direction, an exposing, uncaring audience. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.


    ¡®Can you get up?¡¯ she asked Samson.


    ¡®I... maybe. But I won''t be able to move anywhere fast.¡¯


    She sheathed her knife and wrapped his good arm around her shoulders to pull him to his feet.


    They had two options that she could see: try to get to one of the walls and hope they weren''t noticed, or crouch by the edge of the circle and use the crates as a screen. Neither choice was appealing. The boxes would provide only minimal shelter, and once it was blown, they were stuck with two hundred metres of clear floor on every side of them. If they could get to the wall, they might be more mobile, but it wasn¡¯t real shelter.


    In the end, the decision was made for her. Samson slumped, right leg unable to support his weight. All of his six-foot frame landed on her. For a precarious second, she thought they would fall. No. Bracing her feet, she resettled her arm around his back and strained, pushing him upright.


    Half dragging him, she stumbled to the edge of the line.


    Boom!


    Something hit the door. The force tore a tortured shriek from the metal.


    ¡®I''m going to lower you to the ground,¡¯ she said. Terror pricked her skin, detached from her voice.


    ¡®No!¡¯


    ¡®Are you ready?¡¯


    ¡®Maisie, no! I won''t be able to get up again!¡¯ His hand gripped her painfully. Sweat ran down his face. The skin across his cheekbones stretched taut, almost translucent, the veins beneath stark and pulsing. Unlike her, Samson wasn¡¯t used to feeling helpless. A trapped animal looked out from his eyes, wild and without reason.


    Before she had time to second guess her action, she yanked herself away. Even in his weakened state, it took all of her strength to break his clutch.


    He collapsed to the floor, releasing a broken moan of pain and betrayal.


    There was no time to feel guilty. She hunched next to him. Drawing her knife again, she fastened her fingers around it as though it were a lone candle in the dark.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Boom!


    The crates blocked her view of the door. This time, the impact rattled the whole wall.


    Live, Alfred, Maisie willed. Live and be unhurt and save us. Without him, their chances whittled away. An arrow of shame chased the thought. Tying his survival to hers didn¡¯t speak well of her character ¡ª guilt to parse later.


    She could feel the coursing of blood through her veins, her heartbeat too loud in her ears, breathing fast and heavy.


    Surely the door couldn''t survive another hit.


    Crash!


    The sound of splintering metal. Silence.


    Maisie held her breath. Every cell in her body tensed in anticipation.


    The thud of a heavy footstep echoed through the warehouse.


    Another.


    One person. One very big person, if the magnitude of the sound was anything to go by. The air felt thick, catching in her throat.


    ¡®Hiding? Not very brave of you. I expected better from the Arthurs.¡¯ The voice was male, reedy and nasal. There was something off in his inflection, a forced enunciation like the speaker mistrusted his tongue. Despite that, it carried well, covering the distance to Maisie easily. ¡®Come out, come out. Samson, isn''t it? I meant to thank you. Between you and your brother, you¡¯ve spared me a fight with the idiots. But now I find this. Cowering. Your brother tried, at least. What an embarrassment.¡¯ The man tutted.


    Samson let out a tiny grunt. His fist twitched. She frantically shook her head at him. Not now! And not now to turn over Alfred¡¯s fate in her mind.


    ¡®I can hear you,¡¯ their man said, sing-song. She could hear him too, coming closer, each footfall a thunder clap. But he couldn¡¯t have heard a grunt, not from so far away.


    Keep calm, she told herself. A plan. She needed a plan.


    Again, she looked at her brother. He stared back at her. In his face, she read fear and resolve.


    ¡®I''m sorry,¡¯ he mouthed. For what? This situation, or the sorry state of their relationship?


    ¡®I''m beginning to lose my patience.¡¯


    There had to be something she could do. She wouldn¡¯t abandon her mother.


    She could stall. For what, she didn''t know. Maybe the police would arrive in time to save them. Maybe pigs would fly. Gathering her courage ¡ª or perhaps her stupidity ¡ª she stood. And stared.


    The loading bay door had been torn from the wall. Pieces of the crumpled metal lay strewn in a semicircle around a hulking figure, so massive he blocked out the night. No human being could be that big.


    Surely it was a trick of perspective. She blinked. The image remained.


    He straightened, locking on her.


    ¡®You¡¯re not Samson Arthur. Another hero come to play? How fun.¡¯ He kept walking towards them, stepping clear of the debris in a couple of powerful strides. And the closer he got, the bigger he looked.


    He had to be at least twelve feet tall.


    Say something, she thought desperately.


    ¡®Uh,¡¯ was all she managed. She swallowed. Her throat felt dry, tongue too large in her mouth. ¡®I ¡ª I''m sorry, but how tall are you? It looks impractical.¡¯ She couldn''t stop now. ¡®As far as I know, Jack hasn''t been growing any beanstalks round here, but I promise we haven''t stolen your gold coins.¡¯ Nice job. Antagonise the giant who just punched through solid steel.


    He chortled. He was halfway to them, his long legs eating up the distance as if it were nothing. ¡®We aren¡¯t at the comedy club.¡¯


    She could see his face now, a distorted mass of red bulges and purple veins, too-small eyes receding into his skull. His head looked out of proportion with the rest of his body, a tennis ball atop a skyscraper of teeming muscle.


    ¡®Samson!¡¯ he bellowed. ¡®Letting a child front for you? I''ll crush her. Come out and fight me.¡¯


    Still sprawled on the ground, Samson stiffened. Maisie nudged him with her toe, risking a side glare.


    ¡®Who''s Samson?¡¯ she bluffed.


    ¡®Don''t play stupid, girl. Run away now and I might let you go. My business is with the Arthurs, not a stray child.¡¯


    Here went nothing. ¡®I am an Arthur. Maisie Arthur. I don''t need my brother to fight you.¡¯ Er... That had sounded better in her head.


    It made him pause. ¡®The one without powers?¡¯ He threw back his head and snorted. ¡®Your jokes are improving. You think you can fight me? I¡¯m stronger than you can believe. So strong...¡¯ He trailed off, and in his voice she heard a note of wonder. He was drunk on his new abilities.


    She felt a ray of hope. Perhaps there was a way out of here, if she could stay alive long enough.


    She needed to get him away from Samson. Mobility was their only defence, and her brother was a helpless target. She knew it. Samson knew it. He might still try to pull a heroic self-sacrifice if she gave him half the chance.


    And what am I doing? she asked herself wryly, before pushing the question away.


    Their giant wasn''t accustomed to being strong. His top had burst across the shoulders, where the greater part of his bulk looked to have manifested, leaving only a thin, strained band around his chest, so tight as to appear painful. The trousers he wore ¡ª in the most charitable sense ¡®wear¡¯ could be applied ¡ª had fared as poorly, and his lower half was obscene to look upon. If he had known about the transformation ahead of time, if he had taken Flight before, surely he would have dressed better.


    A new body meant different coordination, though making use of that would require getting close and personal. She thought of his high voice and careful enunciation ¡ª more like an imitation than a natural persona. The Gladiators she knew were all machismo and short words. Something about the way this guy spoke didn¡¯t fit with the image she remembered. A hanger-on then, keeping resentfully to the edges. He''d called the gang members idiots. A sore spot to exploit?


    She walked out from behind the crates, keeping a careful distance from the edge of the chalk circle.


    Samson tried to stop her, reaching out to grab her ankle, but he was too slow.


    ¡®Maisie, no!¡¯ he hissed.


    She glared at him, trying to communicate with her eyes that she had a plan. Kind of.


    ¡®Samson can¡¯t stop his powerless sister,¡¯ the giant said. His hearing was obviously enhanced, along with his physique.


    ¡®Everyone focuses on my brothers. I get tired of it. If you''re too scared to fight a girl...¡¯ She tried to paint her words with derision. If she guessed right, this man was used to being mocked and belittled. Mocking smiles weren¡¯t her speciality, but Alfred had the art perfected, and she did her best to imitate him. The giant needed to lose control.


    She was clear of the boxes, utterly exposed under the surgical light. She didn''t make an intimidating sight: none of Samson¡¯s athleticism showed in her build, and her rounded cheeks looked young for her age.


    Stiffening her shoulders, she kept walking, angling to the right. The farther away from Samson and the crates of Flight, the better.


    Her opponent didn''t alter his course to meet her, attention fixed on the crates and Samson. ¡®Letting your little sister take your place? Weak.¡¯


    Time to up her game. Taunt him. ¡®So which one are you? The Gladiators are all pond scum in my mind.¡¯ Channel Father. ¡®But some are more impressive than others. You''re not Mike. He wouldn''t be too scared to fight me. Mike wouldn''t have bothered with the monologue, either. Neither would Cary.¡¯


    Mike and Cary were the sons of Simon, four time-divorcee, ostensible leader, and armed robber. Mean as swans, they didn''t get along, constantly jockeying for the position of top spot. More importantly, they were bullies. If her giant was an outsider, she¡¯d bet he knew and hated them.


    She wracked her brain, trying to call up the names of other Gladiators. Inspiration struck. ¡®You''re not Charlie, are you?¡¯ Charlie Smith, a snot-nosed fifteen-year-old delinquent, was known to everyone on this side of town, and despised by all and their pets.


    The giant snarled. Finally, his attention was on her.


    He stomped forward. His feet were bare, and with each impact on the floor, they raised a small cloud of dust.


    Maisie gulped. Goal achieved, for better or worse.


    As he drew nearer, she saw a black line around his neck, tight enough to be a choker. On it hung an intricate silver figurine of a medieval knight, gauntleted hands over the hilt of a longsword. The pendant struck a chord in her memory.


    ¡®Bobby?¡¯ she said incredulously. ¡®Bobby Furlong?


    Five years ago, when she was eleven, her father had been given a medal by parliament. All three children were towed along to present the picture of a family man. While posing outside for pictures, a weedy little man with the exact same pendant pushed his way through the crush of press and asked her father for an autograph. She remembered him clearly against the backdrop of dignitaries they had met that day. He''d been greasy and awkward, but she would have sworn his gushing was genuine.


    There was no worship here.


    ¡®Your father is a thief.¡¯ His eyes seemed oddly glazed and in their depths, just for a second, she thought she saw a flash of... something. Malevolent. Dark. Then it was gone. ¡®He hoards power. Like it¡¯s his, like we don¡¯t deserve it. He breaks his promises and steals influence. He lies and steals.¡¯


    Only a few metres away, he lunged for her.


    He was all she could see, blocking out the rest of the world, his hands reaching, grasping ¡ª  Falling short.


    She danced to the side, slashing with her knife. She''d been holding it in her left hand, angling her body to conceal it.


    She missed. He was faster than he had any right to be.


    He snarled, pulling back a boulder-sized fist for another swing. She waited, battling not to visibly shake. All she had to do was hold out until the drug wore off. All. Were the time not so grim, she¡¯d laugh at herself.


    The warehouse, with its wide-open space, gave her some advantage. If he pinned her, it was all over, but out in the centre there was little to pin her against. Maisie, though she had no special abilities, had become good at dodging in the past year.


    When he swung at her again, she ducked beneath it. He was so massive she barely reached his thighs. He had to bend to get at her, and she took advantage by stabbing up into his stomach, which loomed over her head. The horror of the action felt distant, disconnected.


    Before she completed the strike, he kicked her, knee hitting her chest like a comet. Pain blazed, and air whooshed from her lungs. Though she skidded back, she kept her feet. Barely. His full weight hadn¡¯t been behind the kick. Keep it together, Maisie. Gods, it hurt.


    Triumph glittered in the depths of his eyes, dark and crazed and brimming with malice.


    ¡®Sterling Arthur won''t share Flight with his own daughter. Your father is the reason for your death.¡¯


    Finally, she succeeded in drawing a breath. She gathered herself.


    ¡®Our father doesn''t need Flight, idiot! Neither does my sister.¡¯ Samson. He had pulled himself out enough that his head and shoulders were visible from where they fought.


    Oh, you idiot.


    For a moment, Bobby was distracted. She struck. Her knife nicked his forearm, drawing blood, but it was a shallow cut. The blade had glanced off muscle.


    Glancing wound or not, it got a reaction. Bobby shrieked. He swung at her head, fist a hammer. She sprung away.


    Her chest was on fire, each inhale abrading her windpipe. The air seemed to waver. Her vision narrowed.


    Instinctively, she avoided another blow.


    There it was again, a definite distortion in the space behind the giant. She gave her head a sharp shake and tried to refocus on the fight.


    A raindrop materialised out of nothing and dropped to the floor. Was her mind playing tricks on her?


    She squinted at the spot. Red.


    Red? She leapt back, just in time to evade a punch that would have shattered her shoulder.


    From her new vantage, she could see a thin trail of red drops seeping into the dirt, coming from the direction of the broken entrance. Alfred.


    Another shiver in the air, and there he was, battered and bloody, but standing only metres away. She would live!


    But he didn''t move. Their eyes met, and a strained expression flitted across his face. Conflicted. His gaze slipped to the crates behind her. In a moment of terrible clarity, she realised he wasn¡¯t stepping in.


    Her pause came at a cost. Bobby''s fist barrelled towards her. No time to dodge. No time to do anything.


    The last grains of sand bled from her hourglass in a small and infinite moment.


    This was really going to hurt.


    His punch took the side of her head. The impact barely registered, only the vague sensation of weightlessness as her body was flung backwards.


    Then she hit the floor, and her world went white.

 Chapter Three

    Consciousness returned slowly.


    Sounds came first, drifting in and out of focus as if someone were playing with a volume dial. Snatches of words floated in Maisie¡¯s ears, dancing close enough that she almost caught their meaning before they were whisked away. Turn it off, please.


    Then came the pain. Her head felt like a blacksmith had set up shop in it, an awful pounding, that was likely her pulse and not a hammer, crowding her skull until she longed to burst free of it.


    She pried her eyes open.


    At first, she couldn''t remember where she was. It was so bright. The light made her head hurt worse, searing into aching retinas. Part of her was tempted to close them again and go back to sleep. But there was something important she needed to remember.


    She blinked, and the warehouse came into focus.


    Warehouse? The giant!


    She tried to bolt upright, but a rush wooziness made it impossible. A moan of pain and frustration escaped her lips. She needed to get up.


    ¡®I''d stay down, if I were you,¡¯ said a bored voice from somewhere beside her. ¡®I think you may have a concussion. Are you feeling dizzy or nauseous?¡¯


    Maisie jerked away. Her body screamed protest, agony cresting over her, threatening a return to unconsciousness.


    Her head spun, but she gritted her teeth and forced her way through the fog. It took two attempts, but she managed to twist enough to stare at the spot beside her, where she was sure the voice had been coming from. Empty.


    Come to think of it, she couldn''t see anyone. Where was Samson? Alfred? Bobby? The air was still and quiet. She couldn''t even hear the distant roar of traffic from the motorway that ran perpendicular to the bottom of the industrial estate, a kilometre away.


    ¡®I''d advise not moving at all for a while. But feel free to disregard my advice.¡¯ The voice again. It was close, so close she should have been able to reach out and touch its owner. But she saw no one.


    Was it a Gladiator rendered invisible by Flight ¡ª true invisibility, not the flawed bending of light that Alfred could do? But that didn''t make sense. No aggression characterised the voice''s manner, only apathy.


    Stuff that advice. More slowly this time, she sat up.


    ¡®Suit yourself.¡¯ The words receded in volume, their speaker losing interest.


    Upright, Maisie realised the significance of where she¡¯d landed. Running along the dusty floor a few inches from where her feet ended lay the chalk line. And, as she followed the circle with her eyes, she saw that this time, she was on the inside. Oh no.


    How long had she been unconscious? Minutes or hours? Had people tried to get to her and given up after being repelled by the circle? Bad, bad, bad. She could be trapped here. Worse, if she''d been unconscious for long, she might have brain trauma. Maybe she hallucinated the voice.


    A bitter taste formed in the back of her mouth as panic, like bile, rose in her throat. Buzzing filled her ears, the internal soundtrack to rising hysteria.


    It took her a couple of seconds to realise there was another sound she heard, faded, as if it came from a great distance. A snatch of conversation, starting mid-sentence.


    ¡®...killed her!¡¯ someone said.


    ¡®She needed to handle it her¡ª¡¯


    Then the voices stopped, like someone had switched channels. She recognised them: Alfred and Samson. Arguing, by the sounds of it. Over her? But where were they?


    ¡®Samson!¡¯ she called out. The yell seemed to ricochet off the invisible walls of a smaller room. Its aftermath rang inside her skull, fast joined with regret.


    ¡®They can''t hear you.¡¯ This time the voice came from her other side, so close that a phantom breath rustled the stray hairs lying against her cheek.


    She froze.


    Not moving her head, she peeked out the corner of her eye. Still, no one.


    Enough of this.


    ¡®Hello?¡¯ she said.


    No response, but when she strained her ears, she could pick up the sound of breathing.


    With bravado she didn''t feel, she said, ¡®Stop with the invisible games. It''s rude. And it''s hard to hold a conversation with thin air. So show yourself, kill me, or leave off, all right? My head hurts.¡¯ Daring an invisible entity to kill her wasn''t her brightest idea ¡ª and tonight had been a reel of those, hadn¡¯t it? ¡ª but at this moment, it was hard to care. She had run the full gamut of emotions, and settled on fatigue.


    ¡®Cranky.¡¯


    Urgh. A woman, she decided. There was something decidedly feminine in the low timbre.


    It was also sarcastic. Her new companion had a sense of humour. Better and better.


    Whoever the voice was, she didn''t seem in a hurry to do anything to Maisie, so Maisie decided to ignore her.


    With difficult manoeuvring, Maisie got her feet under her in a crouch, hands out to keep balanced. Even that made her dizzy. Standing was beyond her, for now.


    She began to shuffle towards the chalk line, then hesitated. Would touching the line fling her back like it had done Samson? She didn''t think her body could take another flinging.


    Instead, she turned back to the crates, searching futilely for some hint of a person who wasn''t there.


    ¡®Why can''t they hear us?¡¯ She didn''t really expect an answer.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    ¡®Because of the barrier,¡¯ said the voice, as if it were obvious. ¡®You get bits and pieces sometimes. It isn¡¯t perfect, but she doesn¡¯t know that. They can¡¯t see or hear us, and that¡¯s what counts. Well, if you want to split hairs, they can¡¯t see you. I¡¯m not really here to be seen.¡¯


    Maisie tried to think through the fog surrounding her brain. So the chalk line constituted a barrier that blocked the sight, sound, and the physical presence of... what? Humans? Objects went through just fine.


    But then, how had Maisie ended up on the other side?


    Another question hit her. ¡®Who''s she?¡¯


    Instead of answering her directly, the voice said, ¡®She won''t be happy you''re here.¡¯


    Sounded ominous.


    ¡®Why did I cross the barrier?¡¯


    ¡®If I were to guess, because you have no powers. It only stops those of the blood. That''s what she asked for, and that''s what she gets. You should always pay attention to how you word your bargains.¡¯


    This was too much to deal with, on top of her pounding headache and a creeping numbness that was spreading across the left side of her face. Her thoughts refused to align themselves, new questions bowling others aside.


    ¡®Who are you?¡¯


    ¡®I am hers,¡¯ came the enigmatic answer. ¡®For now.¡¯


    ¡®Show yourself.¡¯


    ¡®I can''t. I told you, I¡¯m not here. Only part of me is.¡¯


    Which explained nothing. Maisie felt herself begin to sway, and planted her hand more firmly on the ground in time to stop herself from toppling sideways. She was way out of her depth. A person ¡ª an entity ¡ª that could split herself between two places at once? She had never heard of such a thing.


    ¡®What are you?¡¯


    ¡®A better question. But not one I think I''ll answer.¡¯ The voice laughed, though any amusement meant to be conveyed in the sound was contradicted by the flatness of tone. Alien and cold.


    Maisie shivered. Creepy.


    ¡®Why did this ''she'' bring you here?¡¯


    ¡®To guard against people of the blood, of course.¡¯


    It was like talking in riddles. Maisie didn''t like the sound of this mysterious she.


    ¡®The blood?¡¯


    ¡®Oh, you know, ones with power. Like the boy with you who tried to break through my circle and broke himself instead. You seemed upset about it. Don¡¯t be. Those of the blood only care about themselves.¡¯


    ¡®He''s my brother,¡¯ Maisie said, trying to parse the new information. Various names were tossed out for humans with special abilities, but ¡®of the blood¡¯ wasn¡¯t one she¡¯d heard before.


    ¡®Your brother?¡¯ A razor¡¯s edge entered the invisible woman''s tone, and Maisie was suddenly palpably aware of the weight of attention on her. ¡®A Vessel. What a shame. I almost liked you.¡¯


    The detachment of before had been replaced by something sinister. Maisie fought the urge to gulp.


    ¡®I don''t understand.¡¯


    ¡®You wouldn''t,¡¯ said the voice, faintly pitying.


    The slight tightening of skin as her brows pulled together was lightning to Maisie¡¯s nerves.


    ¡®That tells me nothing.¡¯


    A pause. ¡®I don''t need to tell you anything.¡¯


    ¡®So why did you?¡¯


    ¡®Because I could. Because I''m tired and forgetting myself, piece by piece. Because she wouldn''t like it, and I don''t like her. Though it does make what happens next that much harder.¡¯


    Back to the she again. They were going nowhere.


    If the entity was to be believed, Maisie could cross the chalk with no consequences. For once, her lack of power played to her advantage. She should pick herself up and leave, not play word games with a disembodied voice.


    Another thought occurred to her. If she could cross the circle''s boundary, maybe she could take the crates out, too. That would be a coup, something neither of her brothers could achieve.


    Her legs felt shaky, but she succeeded in standing. The world wavered, floor moving away from her. She clenched her jaw and remained on her feet.


    Standing, seemingly alone, in the vast expanse of the warehouse felt eerie. The blue-white lights continued to watch her, a hundred eyes pointed at centre stage. Hard to believe that her brothers were only a few feet away ¡ª so long as the entity told the truth.


    She moved carefully, not letting either foot fully leave the floor for fear of overbalancing. The sound of her heels scraping the dirt sounded unnaturally loud in the absence of any other noise.


    When she reached the first crate, she rested for a second, leaning on it for support. Her hand lay near the edge of the lid. There was no latch, nothing to secure it.


    A strange urge hit Maisie then.


    As she stared down at her hand, a compulsion rose to slide the wood aside. A gap formed before she realised the action.


    Her hand reached in, feeling around in the darkness until her fingers closed around a plastic packet. Almost against her will, she pulled it out and held it up in front of her eyes. A dark brown powder, spread so thin in its little bag that the light shone through.


    She recognised it from photographs: Flight.


    She should put it back... But an instinct inside her rebelled at the thought, her fingers clenching tighter. This was the key to acceptance, the key to the love she had never been given, the key to so much power¡­ Freedom. Mine.


    What was she thinking?


    She dropped it like she''d been burned and backed away.


    ¡®Not going to try some?¡¯ said the voice in her ear.


    ¡®No,¡¯ Maisie whispered, not sure if she answered the voice, or herself.


    ¡®Not even a little? Just this once? No one would ever know. It calls to you, doesn''t it?¡¯


    Maisie shook her head in denial, though she couldn''t tear her eyes away from the packet on the floor.


    ¡®No,¡¯ she said more firmly. She backed up, putting more space between her and it. The crates would have to wait. She wasn''t going near them again before her head cleared.


    ¡®You bought yourself a reprieve,¡¯ the voice murmured. ¡®I¡¯m tired, and not as unsparing as I once was. Go, then. Perhaps I''ll see you again someday.¡¯ The voice seemed to retreat, growing quieter.


    Inches from the chalk border, Maisie tore her gaze away from the crates. She was shaking. Nothing she''d read had warned her Flight could have this effect.


    Before stepping over the line, she paused and took in a couple deep breaths, steeling herself. Hopefully, Alfred had taken care of Bobby. If he hadn''t¡­ she¡¯d flee that bridge if it arose. She wanted out of the circle, away from the voice and the disturbing allure of Flight.


    Nothing to do but step.


    The world burst into colour. It was strange ¡ª within the circle she hadn''t thought the world dull, but as she crossed the threshold it was as if a filter lifted from her eyes, bright vitality giving every surface new lustre. Her senses felt raw, tossed from calm waters into a tide race. Noises broke the night: sirens blaring in the distance, gaining in volume; the rattling of wind over the old corrugated roof; her brothers, arguing.


    At her appearance, the arguing stopped.


    ¡®Maisie?¡¯ Samson said. ¡®Where the hell were you? You vanished! You just¡ª¡¯ He stopped, unable to find the words.


    He was standing, though most of his weight appeared to be on his left foot. His right arm hung wrong, the shoulder angled crookedly.


    She opened her mouth to say something, and found herself swaying instead. Samson started to move towards her, his own features twisting in pain.


    ¡®Stay there, you idiot, before both of you fall. I''ve got her.¡¯


    And then Alfred was there, holding her upright. Part of her wished to pull away. In her mind, she could still see the look on his face as he''d stood by and watched the giant knock her flying. But that could wait. She let him guide her away from the circle.


    A tiny groan made her look at the floor. Splayed out in the dirt was a small figure. He lay on his back, arms and legs spread out like a starfish, gasping uneven breaths. His pendant sat on his heaving chest, a glint of silver in the mess of ruined clothes.


    Bobby.


    So Flight had worn off.


    Her first attempt at speaking came out as an indistinct gargle. She cleared her throat and tried again. ¡®What happened? After he hit me?¡¯


    Alfred answered, voice cool as ever. ¡®You disappeared. He¡¯ ¡ª he nodded to the prone Bobby¡ª¡¯lunged after you¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Which you did nothing to stop,¡¯ Samson interjected.


    ¡® ¡ª and collided with that circle. As soon as he hit it, he transformed back. Mid-air. He didn''t like the ground much.¡¯


    They stopped next to Samson. Alfred eyed her dispassionately. ¡®Can you stand by yourself, or shall I set you down? Father is coming, and the police are almost here. I need to go outside to meet them. I''m sure they¡¯ll have a lot of questions to ask you.¡¯


    All Maisie wanted to do was find her bed. But she couldn''t sleep, not yet.


    ¡®Set me down, please.¡¯


    He lowered her to the ground, not exactly gently, but not roughly either.


    ¡®Get your answers ready,¡¯ he told her, before turning and walking away towards the broken entrance.


    Samson looked down at her, concern and anger warring in his face.


    Maisie closed her aching eyelids and waited for the inevitable interrogation.

 Chapter Four

    Samson pinned Maisie with his stare. ¡®What happened to you?¡¯


    ¡®I got hit,¡¯ she said. ¡®Blacked out for a minute or so. I couldn''t see you when I came back round...¡¯ She tried to piece everything together to explain it and came up with a blank. The circle and its strange effect on powers. The voice inside the circle and the cryptic conversation that tangled into ever more confusing knots the longer she thought on it. The terrifying pull she''d felt toward Flight. It all bashed around in her skull, a Gordian knot beyond her comprehension.


    Apparently she''d taken too long, because Samson said, ¡®But where were you?¡¯


    ¡®Right here.¡¯


    Disbelief was writ large across his features. She searched for something to divert him while she assembled a story, her eyes falling on the prone figure of Bobby.


    ¡®Shouldn''t we help him?¡¯ she asked to buy time. ¡®Put him in the recovery position or something?¡¯


    Samson gave him a brief, assessing look. ¡®He''s breathing. His airway was clear last I checked. I think he might have broken his back, so it''s inadvisable to move him unless it''s an emergency. And don''t change the subject.¡¯


    Maisie sighed. ¡®I''m not lying. I was just there, in the chalk circle. It''s a barrier of some sort, to protect the Flight. I passed through instead of being bounced back like you because¡ª¡¯ she drew in a breath ¡®¡ªbecause I have no powers. I''m not considered a threat, I guess.¡¯


    He shook his head. ¡®You weren''t there, Maisie. I know what I saw. Your whole body just vanished ¡ª all of it, in an instant.¡¯


    ¡®I couldn''t see you, either. I caught snatches of you speaking, enough to know that you were there, but when I called for you, it was like something caught my voice and bounced it back to me. But I don''t know how or why. The voice¡ª¡¯ But then another thought occurred to her. ¡®Why didn''t he know it was there?¡¯ She indicated Bobby. ¡®If it was set up by the Gladiators, shouldn¡¯t he have known better than to run into it?¡¯


    And there was the curious fact of the empty warehouse. Surely there had been more than the six Gladiators outside. Bobby hadn''t known about the circle. Was it possible someone other than them visited the warehouse first?


    Another oddity occurred to her. Their father didn''t always accompany them on heroing jaunts. He considered it good training to rely on themselves once in a while, and good PR to have his children seen working as independent little heroes ¡ª the perfect image of a special family. But never when this much Flight was involved. What was he doing to keep him away?


    A bad premonition opened in the pit of her stomach.


    She opened her mouth to articulate her thoughts when the sound of a car squealing to a halt outside the entrance took both their attention. The purring of the engine stopped, followed by the slamming of a car door.


    A few seconds later, a tall man appeared in the doorway. It was too far out to make out any details, but she would know that stance anywhere. There was something about the way he carried himself that was so distinctively him, broadcasting a confidence, a steadiness, that drew people to him like a lifeboat in a storm. Even she wasn''t immune, and he certainly wasn''t her lifeboat. Her father, Sterling Arthur. Another figure appeared at his shoulder, shorter and less filled out in comparison: Alfred, in his worshipful sidekick persona. He had to trot to catch up, an undignified look for her normally sophisticated older brother.


    There''s a good dog, she thought with malice.


    To her surprise, she saw Samson tense beside her, a decidedly unhappy look flitting over his face before he schooled it back into a bland visage. Again, she was reminded that things were changing with her middle brother. Perhaps she wasn''t the only one to see cracks in their father''s facade these days.


    ¡®We''ll continue this conversation later,¡¯ Samson said. A threat or a promise?


    She nodded, her head feeling like a lead weight balanced on her neck.


    Father walked to them, his stride long and purposeful. His physical presence rivalled Bobby in his giant form, though in reality he was only five foot eleven, in good shape for his fifty-plus years, but no bodybuilder.


    By silent, mutual agreement, neither Maisie nor Samson spoke as he approached. Maisie imagined herself shrinking as her father grew larger.


    He was no more than halfway to them when the sirens outside reached a crescendo, quickly accompanied by the screeching of tires. The doorway into the night was lit up by flashing blue lights. The police had finally joined the party. Nice of them to show up.


    More doors slammed, the noise accompanied by yelling, the barking of dogs, and running footsteps.


    ¡®Police! Put your hands in the air!¡¯


    A line of officers burst into the warehouse, moving in a wall of ballistic shields, visors down and sporting carbine guns. Here charged the cavalry.


    Father turned slowly but didn''t bother to raise his hands. Maisie couldn''t see his expression, but she could guess: his charming megawatt grin, the smile that said, ¡®I am an approachable god; come near and bask in my light.¡¯ Everyone fell for it, from politicians to the post lady, who loitered with their letters every morning to the hopes of exchanging a hello.


    Even Unit S, the special division of the Ministry of Defence that dealt with Flight and its dramatic repercussions, was not immune. She could see the moment recognition hit. The police relaxed, clicking their safety catches into place and lowering weapons.


    ¡®Mister Arthur,¡¯ one of them called. ¡®Do you have this handled?¡¯ They were obviously going for controlled and professional, but Maisie couldn¡¯t miss a faint hint of excitement. Sterling Arthur was here, the famous hero who settled in little old Briston to calcify as a living legend.


    ¡®My son assures me we do.¡¯ When he spoke, Father¡¯s voice was deep and resonant, with just the right amount of warmth to remain approachable. ¡®I''ve only just arrived on the scene.¡¯ He gave a self-deprecating chuckle, clapping Alfred on the shoulder. ¡®You''ve got to let the kids have their fun without Dad around. As you can see, they''ve subdued the Gladiators and secured the Flight. Not bad going, Alfred. You''ll catch up to your old man yet.¡¯


    So he was playing the good-old-Dad persona. Nothing to see here. Just a Gifted family going about their business.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    ¡®It''s Sterling Arthur and family!¡¯ someone new yelled.


    More officers appeared behind them, regular ranks without guns, though they wore tactical vests and helmets. Two of them held the leads to a pair of straining German Shepherds, the source of the barking. A person in a suit followed, their demeanour marking them as someone in charge. The Suit made a beeline for Father, shaking his hand vigorously when they met.


    As they began to converse in low voices, Maisie let herself enjoy the respite. No matter what he said in company, Sterling would not be happy with the way events had played out this night. Two injuries were a blow to his legacy, a dent in their familial reputation. Being injured reminded the world that they were human, a fact that their father conveniently forgot whenever he could get away with it.


    But a martyr on the other hand... A martyred daughter, sacrificed to the cause of ridding the world of Flight? Now that could be good press. Was that what he wanted for her? She felt sick.


    The first spokesman broke away to direct other officers. With lingering looks in the direction of their superior, they continued farther into the warehouse, approaching Maisie, Samson, and the crates.


    The dog handlers reached them first, their charges sniffing at the chalk circle. One dog whined. The other tried to bolt, almost dragging the officer along.


    ¡®Are you kids all right?¡¯ The speaker looked to be around forty, a white man with crow''s feet rippling out from around hard eyes, sheltered under bushy brows. Slight disapproval tinged his words. He''d tucked his helmet under his arm to reveal a receding hairline, which was further accentuated by the fact that what remained of his thatch was plastered to his head with sweat.


    ¡®Yes, sir,¡¯ Samson said. He shrugged ruefully with his good shoulder and offered up a charming smile. ¡®Got into a spot of difficulty, that''s all.¡¯


    Maisie nodded her agreement, too tired to speak.


    ¡®Paramedics will be here soon,¡¯ the balding man said, his tone softening. ¡®Though they''ll have their work cut out with all those folks laid up out front. Gave us all a bit of a shock, that did. Your work?¡¯


    ¡®Not me. The only thing I''ve beaten up tonight is the wall at the back.¡¯ Her brother did good-humoured embarrassment pretty well. She could see the officer warming to his brand of easy-going likability. ¡®What you saw at the entrance was all my older brother. He''s always been the golden child ¡ª though don''t tell him I said that.¡¯


    The man chuckled, almost unwillingly. ¡®The name''s Aaron Stephenson. Samson, right? The one with the mutant arm?¡¯


    ¡®That''s me.¡¯


    Maisie lost track of their further conversation, alertness strained to snapping. She sat dully and let the noises break over her.


    Coloured blotches danced in front of her vision. Coloured blotches that made it so she almost missed when the lead officer reached the chalk boundary. The woman turned her head to say something to a subordinate, foot hovering in the air, about to step across the circle.


    Tiredness receded as the boot teetered closer.


    From somewhere, Maisie conjured up the energy to yell, ¡®Stop!¡¯


    Everyone froze.


    The memory of her first day in secondary school welled up, the curiosity of a crowd fixed solely on her. Somehow she didn''t whither on the spot. She must have made a sorry picture, sat in the dirt, a bruise blooming on one side of her face. The press of many eyes pinned her in place, and she swallowed reflexively, mouth gone dry.


    ¡®It¡ª¡¯ she started to say, but the words came out as a croak. She cleared her throat and said, ¡®Don''t touch the chalk circle. It''s a block of sorts. It might hurt you.¡¯


    Stares intensified. The woman pulled her foot back but didn''t move away.


    A voice broke the silence. ¡®What chalk circle?¡¯ Father asked, voice dangerous.


    He''d broken away from the Suit to skewer Maisie with his gaze.


    ¡®What chalk circle?¡¯ he said again.


    ¡®Someone drew it around the crates,¡¯ Samson explained. ¡®It repelled me. Violently. That''s how I hurt my right side.¡¯ He ducked his chin to his limp arm. The focus of the room switched to him, and Maisie near slumped with relief.


    ¡®Excuse me,¡¯ she heard her father tell the Suit, then he headed towards them with purposeful strides. ¡®Get away from the crates,¡¯ he called, no longer playing the affable local hero.


    Now they moved, stumbling from the circle before their minds had a chance to process the instruction. When their father gave a command, he was obeyed. People ¡ª seasoned officers of Unit S ¡ª tripped over their feet to get out of his way. Maisie watched him, a desperate yearning clawing at her breastbone.


    Did you send me out here to die? she thought as he passed her spot on the floor, following him with her eyes.


    Her father appeared as he always did: ready for the press shot. Handsome and aware of it, each of his features complimented the whole, his teeth straight and white, his eyes a sharp blue. He had the look of someone destined to be in the public eye and always carried himself with the confidence to match. She knew why people flocked to him, and even though in that instant she thought her feelings were as conflicted as they had ever been, a part of her still wished for him to turn his eyes her way, to acknowledge her existence and grant her a moment of his attention.


    But he didn''t look at her, going straight to the chalk circle. He halted a couple of feet in front of it and reached out his hand, slowly, to where the invisible wall stretched into the air. His fingers hovered there, his face twisted in concentration. A grimace formed. He thrust his hand forwards.


    For a second, nothing happened, and it looked like the barrier had no effect. Then sparks formed around his fist, biting at the flesh until they drew blood. Still, he didn''t draw back, leaning inwards with the full force of his weight. He strained, veins popping in his forehead as beads of blood dripping down his arm. As soon as the blood parted contact from his skin, it flew backwards, propelled by the same power that had thrown Samson.


    So the voice had been literal when she''d referred to ¡®the blood¡¯. Interesting.


    Finally, with a grunt of pain, he stepped away, drawing his abraded hand to his chest.


    ¡®I know what this is,¡¯ he said. ¡®Don''t touch it. Objects will go through fine. Get flamethrowers. We''ll burn the crates where they stand.¡¯


    People hurried to do his bidding, and like that, the world began spinning again.


    The Suit hurried over and began conversing with their father in low whispers, too quiet for Maisie to hear.


    Without warning, Samson collapsed.


    She saw him start to topple, but there was nothing she could do. A disconnected sensation had begun spreading through her body, and it was with strange detachment that she watched Aaron Stephenson reach him, checking his breathing and pulse.


    ¡®He''s okay!¡¯ the officer shouted a second later.


    For a brief moment, relief permeated the numbness. Then everything seemed to accelerate around her, and the feeling was shunted to the side.


    *


    Maisie sat outside against the front wall of the warehouse and listened to the fire burn itself out. Unit S had cordoned off the circle in multiple layers of police tape and forced everyone to move back before they brought in the flamethrowers. Her father supervised it all, herding the masses ¡ª crime scene investigators included ¡ª away from the barrier.


    Every muscle in her body ached. Her left eye had swollen shut, and when she reached up to touch her face she found her cheek centimetres farther out than she expected.


    No one paid her much attention, scurrying trails as more and more emergency personnel lit up the industrial estate like a concert. Press vehicles were being kept out; a small relief on this very long night.


    An Ambulance crew had loaded Samson onto a stretcher and peeled off to hospital. Shock caused his collapse, they said, but they needed to set his shoulder and observe him overnight.


    The crates were mostly consumed now, the little packets of Flight reduced to ashes and toxic smoke that drifted on the night wind. She drifted too, following the progress of a few stray sparks that had escaped the warehouse, twinkling like stars before they were snuffed out. She couldn''t see any real stars tonight.


    A couple of paramedics came over and shone a light in her good eye. Alfred appeared to watch, apparently not needed with Father on the scene. There was some concern over her pupil dilation, and eventually they diagnosed a Grade Two concussion. She could sleep, but Alfred was instructed to wake her up every two hours and to go to the hospital if the symptoms worsened over the next twenty-four.


    Suddenly all charm and smiles, he promised she would be well taken care of. She glared at him bitterly, but with only one eyelid working, and even that drooping with tiredness, it lacked impact.


    Soon she would have to confront him and Father. She needed to work through what had happened in the circle, what the voice had meant by calling her a ''Vessel'' and why she''d felt that inexplicable pull to the Flight.


    But for now, she let herself rest.

 Chapter Five

    When Maisie woke up the next day, everything was red.


    No, that wasn''t right. The insides of her eyelids were red. They were also welded shut, though a light source ¡ª likely the sun ¡ª was doing its best to scorch through. She tried to blink them open. The left refused to part more than a hair''s breadth. When she reached up, hard swelling met her fingers.


    Everything hurt.


    The rest of the night was a blur in her memory. She vaguely recalled being carried to her father''s car, drifting in and out of sleep. Alfred had driven her home, their father staying behind to help the authorities. He had tried to question her before she left, but luck had been on her side for once, and her incoherence combined with others vying for his attention bought her a break.


    She rolled over and saw her curtains had been left open, a high noon sun beaming in, bathing the room in a cheerful radiance she didn¡¯t reciprocate.


    What time was it? She checked her alarm clock: almost twelve. A surprising length of reprieve. She should have been facing a full interrogation, and she''d missed most of the school day.


    Her body protested as she dragged it out of bed and down the hall to the bathroom, every ache clamouring for centre stage. The pain in her skull won out, digging a nook in her consciousness.


    No one stopped or waylaid her. From up the stairs floated the ebullient tones of daytime TV, in front of which her mother was surely sat, staring with a lobotomised gaze at talking heads. Maisie shook off the small sadness conjured by the image and opened the bathroom door, crossing to the sink.


    She rested her hands on the rim of the basin and stared at her face in the mirror. The reflection winced. It was hard not to develop self-esteem issues as a child raised in the public¡¯s scrutiny. Maisie worked to maintain a tough skin, but there was no avoiding that her current visage could send small children screaming.


    A vivid purple bruise spread from under her hairline, fading out as it crossed her swollen cheek. She was still wearing the clothes from last night, filthy and torn. They probably stank, too.


    She divested herself of them and stepped into the shower, dialling the temperature down to cold. The water made her shiver, but it also soothed some of her pain. She turned her head into the stream, closed her working eye, and tried to clear her mind for a few moments.


    Immediately, she flashed back to the circle, looking down at the little packet of Flight lying in her palm. A visceral longing settled deep into her bones.


    Yeah, not happening.


    She couldn''t wash away the events of last night like she did the dirt that swirled around her feet. But damn it, she wanted to.


    When Maisie headed downstairs, the swelling had thankfully gone down somewhat. Alfred waited for her at the kitchen table.


    Oh, goody.


    ¡®Your school called,¡¯ he said without preamble, not looking up from the piece of toast he was spreading jam on.


    She stood in the doorway, watching him the way she would watch a poisonous spider. Over a year had passed since she was alone with Alfred. He had his own home now, and she took pains to avoid him whenever she could. Today, he sat in the same place he had when they were children, as if he''d never left. In the light of day, his washed-out complexion was reminiscent of a Nosferatu out of an old movie.


    A vision of the night before, of him refusing to help her, had Maisie gripping the door frame. Perhaps he had more in common with horror monsters than simple appearances.


    She longed to know why, to rage at him, to understand when he had begun to hate her. But the words didn''t leave her mouth. Even now, she couldn''t get herself to confront him.


    Unaware of her thoughts, he continued, ¡®I told them not to expect you in today.¡¯


    Strangely considerate. ¡®Thanks.¡¯


    ¡®It wouldn''t be good for the family for people to see you in this state. The press doesn''t have any pictures yet, and it¡¯s better to keep it that way.¡¯


    Not so nice. But she didn''t mind not going to school, so she kept quiet, heading over to the cereal cupboard. It might be afternoon, but right now, she wanted breakfast.


    As she poured milk onto her cornflakes, she asked as casually as she could, ¡®Where''s Father?¡¯


    ¡®Out.¡¯


    ¡®Out where?¡¯


    ¡®Not your concern.¡¯


    ¡®Is it about last night?¡¯


    ¡®Not your concern,¡¯ he repeated.


    ¡®You don''t know, do you?¡¯


    Something flickered behind his eyes, and she knew she was right. ¡®Where was he last night?¡¯ she asked more softly. ¡®I know I can''t be the only one wondering. There''s something big going down.¡¯


    He clenched his jaw. ¡®I said, it''s not. Your. Concern.¡¯ He punctuated each word sharply, then he bit into his toast, obviously signalling the end to the line of questioning.


    She sat down at the table opposite him. Part of her wanted nothing more than to escape his presence, but her need for answers wouldn¡¯t let go.


    She stirred her cereal, listening to it crunch. ¡®Did he tell you what the circle was?¡¯


    No answer. She took that to mean he hadn''t.


    ¡®Have you ever seen Flight? Up close, I mean?¡¯


    ¡®A couple of times.¡¯


    ¡®And what did you think?¡¯ She tried not to show how much the answer mattered to her.


    ¡®What did I think about what?¡¯


    ¡®Like ¡ª did it affect you?¡¯


    ¡®In what way?¡¯ he asked incredulously. ¡®It¡¯s not like I tried it. Why would I?¡¯


    It didn''t sound like he felt the same draw. Maybe it only pulled people who didn''t have abilities of their own. But in all the literature she''d read, there hadn''t been a word about it influencing people before they took it. Unless it was a new formula, more potent and dangerous. There was a nightmare thought.


    She moved on. ¡®Have you heard of anyone manifesting the ability to be partially in two places at once?¡¯


    ¡®What is this, twenty questions? No.¡¯


    This next bit required careful phrasing. ¡®And I don''t suppose you''ve ever heard of a ¡ª a weird kind of nickname, I guess, for Gifted? Like ''the blood''?¡¯


    Alfred''s head snapped up. ¡®What? Why?¡¯


    Okay, she could have phrased that better. ¡®It''s just something I heard, that''s all.¡¯


    ¡®Where? Last night? Tell me, Maisie, this is important.¡¯


    She opened her mouth to tell him about the voice within the barrier. Then she stopped. At the moment, no one except her knew what had happened. The voice said not to trust those of ¡®the blood¡¯. Regardless of the voice¡¯s instruction, she already knew not to trust Alfred. The last traces of hope for their sibling bond had died when he watched Bobby beat her and did nothing.


    Maisie kept her head down. ¡®I can''t remember. Around, somewhere. I just wondered about it. Seemed a funny way to refer to you.¡¯


    His eyes dissected her, searching for the truth in her bowed face. She tried a mouthful of flakes. And choked, spitting them into the bowl. Blurgh. The milk was sour.


    Curiosity and elation took back seats as she pushed from the chair and stumbled to the sink, trusting her tongue under the tap.


    ¡®What now?¡¯ Alfred asked acidly.


    ¡®Milk!¡¯ she gasped through the water.


    ¡®Charming.¡¯


    By the time Maisie¡¯s taste buds settled, Alfred had cleared his toast and stood to go. She noted that he left his dirty plate on the table, presumably for her to clear away after him.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡®Are you leaving?¡¯


    ¡®Soon. I''m going to sit with Mum a while before I go.¡¯


    And that right there was why she hadn¡¯t written him off entirely years ago.


    ¡®I think she''d like that,¡¯ Maisie said quietly.


    ¡®Yeah.¡¯ He didn''t look at her.


    Just before he passed through the door, she called out, ¡®Alfred, what''s going on? Last night was part of something bigger. Please...¡¯ Please what? Please, for once act like a decent person and level with me? Like that would happen.


    For a second, as he turned back to her, she thought she saw a flicker of humanity cross his cheeks, breaking through the cold mask. But he didn''t say anything. Then he was walking away, into the living room to join the empty shell of their mother.


    She toyed with her rancid breakfast, no longer hungry. Last night had been different. The quiet warehouse, the number of crates, the voice ¨C something bad was building. Maisie barely scraped by in the best of times, as the bruises from last night demonstrated. Father recognised the circle. He wouldn¡¯t confide in her, but he seemed happy enough positioning her in the crossfire.


    Despair rose to claim her¡­ and met a spark of rebellion. Her father could command her evenings, but right now, he was out. If he wouldn¡¯t equip her with knowledge, she¡¯d arm herself.


    Besides her family, who could explain the events at the warehouse? The answer came to her: Bobby. Bobby, who was at this moment under police guard in Briston General Hospital. Somehow, Maisie was going to get in to see him.


    *


    The hospital was a forty-five-minute walk into the middle of town. Briston''s centre was an odd amalgam of old and new, the cobbled walkways and quaint family-run stores competing with Argos, Tesco''s, and other large supermarket chains. The square hummed with activity: parents shopping before the school day ended; people eating a late lunch under the sun while a busker strummed the Beatles; pigeons pecking at crumbs, occasionally squawking in outrage as an inattentive pedestrian almost stepped on them.


    Maisie moved through it all like a leper. People parted way, giving her pitying looks and avoiding meeting her eyes.


    She hugged the shops, trying not to draw more attention to herself. Every now and again she would catch her reflection in a shop window, and each time it caught her by surprise. At least her new face stopped her from being recognised.


    After a while, she became aware of a tickling feeling on the back of her neck. Someone was following her.


    She could see them now, flashes of a person wearing a yellow hoodie in the windows, dogging her footsteps, but always partially obscured by the crush of pedestrians.


    She slowed to a crawl, dragging her feet. Were they a Gladiator, wanting revenge for the warehouse bust? Surely they wouldn''t attack her here, in the middle of the packed high street.


    She halted and peered into a bridal boutique, using the glass to keep an eye out behind her. Maybe she was being paranoid.


    But no, he''d stopped too. And he was watching her. She couldn''t quite make out his face, overlaid as it was by the pink frills of a hideous wedding dress ¡ª either that, or he was suffering from a truly dreadful skin condition.


    He didn''t move any closer. Surely he could tell that she''d made him.


    What to do? She tried to calm her breathing and think through her options. She was only a hundred yards away from the entrance to an alley that cut behind the stores to an Asda parking lot. It was the quickest way to the hospital, but leaving the crowd of potential witnesses to enter a dark, cramped space with little room to manoeuvre was a bad idea. She didn''t think she could run, either. The parts that she''d landed on last night were still tender and aching.


    A distraction, then. Crying, ¡®Stop, thief!¡¯ probably wouldn''t work. She could go into the Asda, try to lose him among the aisles... As she stood there thinking, he made his move.


    He darted through the crowd.


    Maisie spun... And stared up into a kind, weathered face that watched her with earnest concern. Her eyes travelled down the man, and she saw that the yellow hoodie had, blazoned across it: Jesus is Lord. Under his arm, he held a stack of pamphlets advertising the local Methodist church. An evangelical.


    She deflated. Her nerves were getting the better of her.


    ¡®Excuse me miss,¡¯ he said in a soft, raspy voice that sounded like he had smoked too many cigarettes in his life.


    ¡®Hi,¡¯ she muttered, ready to get out of there.


    ¡®I couldn''t help but notice your bruises,¡¯ he said. ¡®We at the West Chapel Methodist church can offer you support.¡¯ He reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder. ¡®You don''t have to deal with this alone...¡¯


    Oh. The realisation of what he thought made her cheeks warm. She stepped back, forcing his hand to drop.


    Stammering slightly, she said, ¡®I ¡ª I thank you. But my attacker is already in police custody. I don''t need... But thanks, anyway.¡¯ She took another step back. ¡®I''ve got to go.¡¯


    She turned and fled.


    ¡®Congratulations for leaving him!¡¯ he called out after her.


    Maisie didn''t stop to correct his assumption.


    She pulled up the hood of her coat after that, tugging it forward to cast her face in shadow. The only odd looks she got after were of the suspicious variety, the kind a teenager wearing a hood on an unseasonably warm autumn afternoon always elicited. Soon, she was in the alley, the cool shadow a welcome relief from both the warmth of the sun and the heat of her embarrassment.


    Her hip was on fire when she finally arrived at the hospital. The woman at the reception glanced up. Her eyes widened as she took in Maisie''s sorry state.


    ¡®A and E is in building D, dear. Do you need assistance? I can get someone to wheelchair you, if you don''t think you can walk.¡¯


    It was going to be one of those days.


    Maisie attempted a lopsided smile. ¡®Thank you. I''m not here for myself, though. I''m visiting someone.¡¯


    ¡®If you''re sure...¡¯ The woman sounded doubtful. ¡®Do you know where you''re going?¡¯


    Asking where Bobby Furlong was being kept would get her nowhere. If she told the receptionist who she was, it might open a few doors, but she didn''t want to play that card yet. So she nodded, said her thanks, and tried to walk confidently down the corridor to the right, as if she had a clue where she was headed, while her leg screamed in protest.


    As soon as she was around the corner and out of sight, she stopped and leant against the wall. If they''d brought him in last night with back injuries, where would he be? Opposite her was a site layout map. She scanned through the list of departments in her mind. Outpatients ¡ª no. Cardiology ¡ª no. Trauma and Orthopaedic Ward ¡ª maybe? Early Pregnancy Advisory Unit ¡ª definitely not. Eventually, she got to SIU ¡ª Spinal Injury Unit: that had to be it. It was in the next building over.


    She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, trying to push the pain into a back recess of her mind. It kind of worked; when she pushed away from the wall, her leg didn''t collapse under her.


    She had to press a button and wait for admittance before she could enter the ward. It made her even more nervous, half expecting to be asked what the hell she was doing there at any moment, but the continuous stream of harried medical staff never gave her a second glance.


    When she found the private rooms, it was easy enough to work out which one Bobby occupied. The two bored-looking police officers guarding the door were a dead giveaway.


    She slowed to a dawdle, trying to fix a strategy.


    Just then, one of the officers looked up. A flash of surprise rippled through her. She knew him. It was the one Samson had talked to last night. What was his name? Aaron Stephenson.


    The beginnings of a plan formulated in her head. She straightened and strode forward, trying to project an air of confidence. When she reached them, Maisie held out her hand.


    ¡®Hi,¡¯ she said, doing her best to imitate Samson at his most charming. ¡®We met yesterday evening. You spoke to my brother. I was a little out of it, I''m afraid. Maisie Arthur.¡¯


    Out of apparent reflex, he took her hand and shook it, expression bemused. His partner, a grey-haired woman, watched with interest.


    ¡®Yes, I remember. What are you doing here?¡¯


    With what she hoped was total assurance, Maisie said, ¡®I need to speak to Bobby Furlong about the events of last night.¡¯


    To her chagrin, Officer Stephenson¡¯s reaction was to frown.


    ¡®On whose authority? Kid, you''re what, sixteen? You should be in school ¡ª scratch that, you look like you should be in a hospital bed, yourself.¡¯


    Maybe that was the wrong approach to take.


    ¡®My father¡ª¡¯


    The frown deepened to irritation, bordering on anger. ¡®Your father is not in charge around here. Listen, I liked your brother, but the way your father orders us around, like we''re his lackeys, is plain wrong. If he wants to be in law enforcement, he should join the police. And I don''t care about his friends in high places. He keeps secrets at the cost of lives.¡¯


    A rare man who didn''t kiss her father''s boots. Bad for her.


    Maisie glanced at his partner. The woman¡¯s expression was flat and stern. ¡®Aaron''s right,¡¯ she said in a smoker¡¯s rasp. ¡®There''s no place for vigilante rule in our city.¡¯


    Maisie¡¯s shoulders slumped. In some of her more subversive thoughts, she found herself wandering down similar lines. A different tack was in order.


    ¡®My father doesn''t know I''m here. I can¡¯t tell you his secrets ¡ª I don¡¯t know them. But I do know something he doesn''t.¡¯


    Now she had their full attention. ¡®What are you saying?¡¯ the woman officer asked.


    ¡®I''m saying I have information about last night that I haven¡¯t told him. And I''ll tell you, if you''ll just let me speak to Bobby for ten minutes.¡¯


    Officer Stephenson snorted. ¡®What''s to stop us from hauling you down to the station for obstructing an investigation? If you have relevant information, you best disclose it.¡¯


    ¡®If you do that, I''ll be out in under an hour. My father¡¯s buddies with the Commissioner. You''ll never hold me long, and after he was through with you, your job prospects would be canned.¡¯ Maisie didn''t like resorting to blackmail, but she couldn''t think of another way.


    Thunder cloud glares. She¡¯d made no friends here.


    ¡®You have until one,¡¯ Officer Stephenson bit out. ¡®After that, our shift changes. You better be gone before then, otherwise we''ll all be up the creek. Your information. Now.¡¯


    Maisie nodded in acquiescence. She was almost in. ¡®Before you arrived, I got into a fight with Bobby.¡¯


    ¡®No kidding.¡¯ The woman snorted. ¡®We can see that.¡¯


    Maisie ignored the interruption. ¡®When he hit me, I went through the chalk circle. The one that stopped my father.¡¯ She waited for the implication to sink in. She wasn''t disappointed.


    ¡®What? He told us it prevented anyone from crossing. You were the one to make us stop!¡¯ Aaron Stephenson¡¯s eyebrows formed an irate line, cheek twitching.


    ¡®It stops some people,¡¯ she hurried to explain. ¡®It genuinely did throw my brother and Bobby, and you saw it stop Father. It might only block those with powers, but when I shouted my warning, I didn''t want to risk anybody else getting hurt.¡¯


    A flat, ¡®Go on.¡¯


    What should she tell them? She decided on more of the truth. ¡®There was someone in there with me. I spoke to them.¡¯


    ¡®Jesus!¡¯ he exclaimed. ¡®We cremated everything! Are you telling me that we¡ª¡¯


    ¡®No! At least, I don''t think so. I don''t think they were physically there. Like in a projection way.¡¯


    ¡®Someone on Flight?¡¯


    ¡®I don¡¯t know. They didn¡¯t seem like a Gladiator.¡¯


    He tipped his chin and motioned for her to continue.


    ¡®They implied they were under the command of someone else. A woman. It was she who set up the circle.¡¯


    ¡®You think someone got there first,¡¯ the woman said.


    Maisie nodded.


    Officer Stephenson looked to his partner, tapping an index finger on his leg.


    ¡®That would explain the missing¡­¡¯ He snapped shut his jaw, but Maisie''s brain had already latched to the meaning.


    ¡®There were more Gladiators than the six outside, weren¡¯t there? It shouldn¡¯t have been so quiet. They¡¯re missing?¡¯


    Two hawk stares. ¡®What do you know about them?¡¯


    ¡®Nothing. Only that it felt wrong. But¡­ whoever got there first, they didn¡¯t take the Flight. It was all there in the crates. That¡¯s all I have. I don''t understand what''s going on, but because of my father, I''m in the middle of it. Please, I''m here for answers too.¡¯


    A moment¡¯s silent conference, and wordlessly, they stepped aside. Officer Stephenson opened the door for her.


    She''d done it. As she stepped past them into the room, he told her, ¡®I hope you know what you''re doing, kid.¡¯


    So do I.

 Chapter Six

    The door closed behind her, and she walked to the bed. The blinds were shut, only a muted glow from the sun permeating the slats. Blocked from the day outside, the room had a stuffy, sterile feel to it.


    Bobby''s bed lay horizontal to the window and door. Above him, the wall was decorated with a collage of instrumentation that flashed and beeped at various intervals. Maisie recognised a heart rate monitor, but little else. There was an IV stand next to him, a bag of some clear liquid dripping slowly into his veins. He didn''t look up as she entered ¡ª couldn''t, his head immobilised by a neck brace.


    She sat in the chair at the end of his bed, where she would be in his line of vision, and took him in. She wanted to hate him, but he looked so wan and sick, it was hard not to feel pity.


    His eyes darted over her face, lingering on the bruises, then went back to looking at his covers. After a couple of seconds, he said, ¡®Does it hurt?¡¯ The words seemed to drag themselves out of him, filled with an emotion she couldn''t quite read.


    ¡®Yes,¡¯ she said, not seeing a reason to lie.


    He cleared his throat awkwardly. ¡®I want you to know ¡ª I''m sorry. About yesterday.¡¯


    Was he serious?


    ¡®What?¡¯ she asked.


    ¡®I didn''t mean to hurt you.¡¯


    She laughed incredulously. ¡®You have a funny way of showing it.¡¯


    His cheeks flushed guiltily. She stared at him. Was he faking remorse? Hoping she''d put in a good word for him when it came to prosecution? Fat luck with that; even if she felt the slightest inclination to help him, she couldn''t wield the influence of her father. But, she decided as she examined his face, the emotion appeared genuine.


    ¡®I don''t get it. Last night, you were trying to kill me. You would have bashed my head in, and then stepped over my corpse to get at my brother. But today, you apologise. Why?¡¯


    ¡®I don''t remember everything that happened, but you have to know ¡ª that wasn''t me! I don''t hurt people, and I wouldn''t have killed you!¡¯


    ¡®Sure, you wouldn''t,¡¯ said Maisie sarcastically, unconsciously touching her sternum in memory of his first blow. ¡®And I look like this as a fashion statement.¡¯


    He winced. ¡®I''m sorry.¡¯ He seemed to wilt into the hospital bed.


    ¡®How did you end up with The Gladiators, Bobby?¡¯


    Bobby fixedly wouldn¡¯t look up. He fiddled with his I.V. tube, bending it this way and that, the quiet rustling of plastic against sheets joining the chorus beeps and distant clattering of trolleys.


    ¡®You should probably stop doing that.¡¯ She nodded at his wrist.


    ¡®Oh.¡¯ Hastily, he moved his hands apart. His Adam''s apple bobbed nervously. ¡®I wanted powers, just to try it, you know? And they said they could get Flight. They thought I was a joke at first, mocked me, made me run stupid errands. Maybe that''s why I snapped when I took it. I beat up Cary. I''ve never beaten up anyone before.¡¯


    So, he was just the bullied young man on a power trip that she''d pegged him for at first? ¡®I bet it did. Made you feel big, did it? You wanted to take down everyone that had made you feel small?¡¯


    ¡®No. Maybe. I don''t know. I felt sick after. I¡¯ve had people treat me bad before, and I¡¯ve never been that angry. I¡¯m not like that. I¡¯m a good person ¡ª come on, your father was my idol!¡¯


    Again, this felt unfeigned.


    ¡®Didn''t stop you from beating me to a pulp.¡¯


    ¡®You don''t understand,¡¯ he said desperately. ¡®In that moment, you stood for everything wrong, everything that I hate¡ª¡¯


    Maisie cut him off. Scant minutes, that was all she had. She couldn''t afford to waste this time. ¡®It doesn''t matter. You began resenting my father for being what he is, and the rest of us by extension ¡ª got it. Now¡ª¡¯


    ¡®No! I don''t hate your father ¡ª I want to be him. That''s why I took Flight! That¡¯s why I moved here! I never resented him.¡¯ The force of his denial made him look up and meet her gaze. No lie that she could read.


    ¡®You hated him last night.¡¯


    ¡®Yeah, I guess I did. It was strange. I thought ¡ª I was certain ¡ª he betrayed me or something. Now I can¡¯t remember why. I swear, everything from when I first took Flight is blurry. It wasn''t quite my emotion, you know? I''ve got some dissociating stuff going on, I guess.¡¯


    Either he was the greatest liar she''d ever seen, or he was telling the truth. She remembered the look in his eyes before he''d attacked her, so unlike the eyes that watched her imploringly now. Nobody understood what Flight actually did to its users, why some people went mad while others remained completely unaffected. Bobby hadn''t been completely insane, but neither had his mind been working as it should. She didn''t believe he was a killer under ordinary circumstances.


    Something else was going on here. The questions were piling up, and the answers remained elusive.


    ¡®I think I believe you. Look, Bobby, you want to be a hero like my father? Help me understand what''s going on. Start with Flight. How did the Gladiators get ten crates out of nowhere?¡¯


    Bobby twitched what might have been a shrug, then winced. ¡®I don''t know much. I haven''t been around them very long. It was new, and they were excited to be breaking into the big leagues, I could tell that much. I don''t know where it came from.¡¯


    ¡®Why put it in the Kista warehouse?¡¯ It was a question that had been plaguing her. Everyone knew the old industrial estate attracted trouble. Why risk your merchandise by keeping it in the most obvious place?


    ¡®I don''t know that, either. I wasn''t too keen on the idea, but no one listened to me.¡¯ Old bitterness etched the words. ¡®Simon seemed convinced we were in the clear. He didn''t even punish Charlie when he started bragging to his mates about what we had. I''ll tell you this: when I asked Simon about it, before he told me to butt out, he said that our backer had friends in high enough places to pull us out of an inferno.¡¯


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    Nothing good. Still, there wasn¡¯t much Maisie could do about it; there were lots of powerful men and women in the country, and she could hardly chase down every one.


    Changing the subject, she said, ¡®How many people were inside the warehouse with the crates?¡¯


    His eyebrows pulled together in confusion. ¡®Why? Did you forget to count?¡¯


    ¡®When we arrived, no one was there.¡¯


    ¡®What do you mean, no one was there? Everyone was there: Simon, Keith, Eliza, all of them. I heard when you attacked them. The others didn''t, but I''d already taken Flight. The first things that changed were my senses. I listened to the fight.¡¯ He seemed to look inward, eyes screwing up. ¡®I didn''t help them,¡¯ he said, confusion colouring his voice. ¡®Why didn''t I help them? I like Keith and Eliza. They were always nice to me.¡¯


    Maisie leant forward. ¡®Bobby, I need you to tell me exactly what you heard.¡¯


    ¡®You want me to replay their deaths! You killed them!¡¯


    Killed? She felt a frisson of shock run through her. The Gladiators had been a peripheral part of her life for so many years, and for half of them to be dead... But she couldn''t think of that now. She needed to calm Bobby and get some answers.


    ¡®No,¡¯ she said, willing him to meet her gaze. ¡®It wasn''t us. They were killed, you say? Think: where were the bodies? When you attacked us, there was nobody else around. Whoever hurt those people did so before we arrived.¡¯


    ¡®I¡ª¡¯ he began. ¡®I don''t know. I wasn''t thinking too clearly.¡¯


    ¡®I think your timeline is skewed. You must have heard Samson break in ¡ª anyone in a mile radius could hear it. The fighting was before, right? You might have been distracted by Alfred around then, but the only action we met was Samson hitting the same barrier that caused your injuries.¡¯


    He hesitated, then moved his head a fraction of a millimetre, which she took as a nod. ¡®It was before Alfred. Before the bang. But how could anyone else get past us?¡¯


    Maisie had her suspicions. ¡®I¡¯m not sure whoever got there first needed a physical entrance.¡¯


    Bobby released a sharp exhale. ¡®You mean that it was another Gifted?¡¯


    ¡®Yes.¡¯ They could possibly be someone on Flight, but she leant away from that theory. There was something about the voice that made Maisie certain the being was no part-time power, and anybody controlling her must be formidable themselves.


    Bobby opened his mouth to say more, but sounds from corridor made her hold up a hand. The door handle began to turn down. Maisie¡¯s time was up.


    Raised voices. The handle snapped up again, like the person turning it had been pulled away. She couldn''t make out words, but she caught the tone: angry. How long could the officers outside delay?


    Her eyes swung wildly from wall to wall, searching for an escape.


    Bobby watched her with confusion. ¡®What?¡¯


    ¡®Shhh,¡¯ she hissed.


    The window. She rushed to it, tugging on the cord to pull up the blind. It stuck. The more she tugged on it, the more obstinately it jammed, until it broke off in her hand. She tossed it aside.


    The sounds beyond the door built, before slicing to silence. She barely had time to notice as she grabbed the bottom of the blinds, shoving them up and out of the way. The plastic slats clattered together, surprisingly heavy to lift.


    She tried the window latch. Locked. Of course they wouldn''t leave the window unlocked in the room of a criminal ¡ª even if he was hardly in any state to run away. Stupid.


    She turned, getting ready to face whoever was coming. Excuses ran through her head, each more absurd than the last. Hi, ma''am, I just wandered into this guarded room by accident. Please don''t tell anybody I was here. Like that would work.


    The door swung open.


    Maisie caught her breath. A woman in a nurse¡¯s tunic backed into the room, bent over to accommodate the two bodies she dragged after her. Aaron Stephenson and his partner. They jammed in the doorframe and she grunted, letting go of the woman officer''s collar to use both hands on the man.


    Someone had pumped ice water into Maisie¡¯s veins. She could do nothing but stand motionless. This wasn''t a shift change, or a medical check-up. This person had nothing so benevolent in mind.


    Bobby emitted a squeak.


    The fake nurse didn''t look up, continuing to arrange the police officers¡¯ bodies.


    Move! Maisie''s hand went to the small of her back, where her hidden sheath would usually sit. But her fingers brushed clammy skin. She''d left it at home. The policewoman''s feet cleared the threshold, and for a second, she saw her opening. If she could pass the intruder now, she could get help, raise the alarm. Who cared if they asked why she''d been there?


    Her joints unfroze, and she dashed for the exit. A couple of metres stretched into a dozen, the universe playing a dolly zoom. Maisie felt each millimetre of progress.


    She was so close. A couple more steps¡­


    Something yanked at her shirt. She teetered on the edge of escape, reaching for the doorframe to claw her way through, but missed, her fingers grazing the trim as she went down.


    She landed on her bottom, sending needles of pain up her back. More bruises.


    The door closed.


    Maisie opened her mouth to scream, and the air constricted, only a silent gasp came out. What on Earth?


    The fake nurse looked down at her. ¡®You shouldn''t be here,¡¯ she said.


    Maisie clawed at her throat, choking for breath, but her lungs stayed achingly empty. She gagged, bit her teeth into void. For a second, all thoughts cut off as her body went into survival mode.


    Can''t breathe. Can''t breathe. Can''t breathe.


    Panicking wasn''t working. With superhuman effort, she forced herself to relax, hands falling to her sides. Her eyes cleared enough to see Bobby gaping at the intruder.


    ¡®You''re not a nurse,¡¯ said Bobby.


    ¡®I¡¯m not. I thought I had the disguise down pat, but your guards thought otherwise.¡¯ The not-nurse eyed the bodies at her feet with mild irritation.


    ¡®Are they...? Did you...?¡¯


    ¡®Not dead. I don¡¯t kill bystanders if I can help it. I would have preferred to get in and out without being noticed, but I suppose one must adapt to the circumstances.¡¯


    She approached the bed, stepping past Maisie.


    ¡®What do you want?¡¯ Bobby choked.


    ¡®I want to prevent the end of the world as we know it. And for that cause to be realised, unfortunately, you must die.¡¯


    Bobby jerked, a squeak that may have been building to a scream dying between his lips. Strain tightened the tendons of his face. Eyes bugged, veins pulsed. He began to thrash against his restraints. The covers slipped to his waist, and Maisie could see the frantic heaving of his chest as oxygen absented itself. Their attacker obviously had some kind of control over air.


    Think, Maisie told herself. Her vision was losing focus at the edges. On the trolley next to Bobby''s cot sat a jug of water. She tested her muscles. Weak, but they still had the reserves for one last-ditch attempt at survival.


    She lunged to her feet, fingers closing on the jug¡¯s handle. The intruder half-turned, but Maisie was already caught in an overhand swing. She pushed every ounce of strength and resolve behind her arm, desperation bolstering the oxygen-starved fibres. Water droplets traced its arc, awaiting gravity¡¯s pull.


    The jug connected, thick glass bottom to skull. Impact jarred Maisie¡¯s shoulder.


    The fake nurse continued to turn, shocked eyes meeting Maisie''s, before her legs buckled, collapsing her to her knees.


    For a second, the air lock broke and Maisie gasped in a breath. Then it was back in place. The woman''s expression twisted with pained fury.


    ¡®You dare!¡¯


    ¡®I dare,¡¯ Maisie mouthed.


    ¡®Foolish girl.¡¯ Watering eyes blinked malevolence. ¡®Young, bruised, and where you shouldn¡¯t be. You¡¯re the girl who got through the circle. She knows about you.¡¯


    But that single breath had reinvigorated Maisie, and she hefted the jug again, holding it threateningly above the woman''s crown. Maisie pointed to her throat, eyes broadcasting a threat. Suffocate me, and I¡¯ll brain you.


    Bobby was barely moving. Her fingers tightened in resolve.


    She saw the moment the other woman surrendered, the drop in her gaze and sag of her shoulders, before the pressure in the room released, and sweet air soothed Maisie¡¯s airway.


    Her chest filled, strength rushing to limbs in a dam-burst flood. It was difficult not to buckle from relief. Not yet.


    Two attacks on the Gladiators in so many days. Add in the circle and the mysterious ''she'' mentioned at both, and Maisie had to assume this woman worked for the same people who had beaten her family to the warehouse.


    When her breathing settled enough to speak, she asked the one question she most wanted the answer to. ¡®Who''s she?¡¯


    The fake nurse sneered. Blood mapped a lightning fork from her hairline.


    ¡®She''s one of the Five.¡¯ Maisie glimpsed a flash of colour between teeth before the woman bit down on something.


    ¡®Wait¡ª¡¯


    Too late. Foam pushed from the woman¡¯s lips. Her eyes remained gloating until they rolled back in her head, and she fell, face first, onto the hospital floor.

 Chapter Seven

    Maisie stood frozen over the body, hand clutching the jug suspended in midair. The tips of the woman''s blonde ponytail, thrown forward by the force of her fall, brushed the tops of Maisie''s shoes. Those spider-silk strands felt crushing.


    The woman¡¯s last words played over and over. One of The Five.


    Everyone knew the story of The Five. Twenty-six years ago, before the authorities grasped the extent of the problem posed by Flight, a student named David Sloan was given the drug at a rave. He developed incredible pyromantic abilities and, in the process, lost his mind. A quarter of the city burned. Police and firefighters proved helpless in the face of the inferno. The army was called in, but by then David Sloan was encased in a fireball two miles in diameter.


    Watched by the world, five young Gifted walked into the blazing streets. When they came out, David Sloan was dead, and The Five were heroes, adored and unimpeachable.


    Their names flashed across her mind: Emalia Knight, Zuzanna Kami¨½ska, Alice Waters, Ishaan Balakrishna, and Sterling Arthur. Her father. The world liked messing with her. At least he couldn''t be the ''she'' behind this mess, but he had to know more than he revealed.


    A muscle twinge made her lower her arm.


    And still, she couldn¡¯t look away from the hair on her shoe. Her tie to the dead. The small contact made the knowledge of a person dying in front of her more viscerally real than the body itself. She''d seen death before, but this was different. This time, she''d been looking into the woman''s eyes, had seen the exact moment life and mockery fled their depths.


    Maisie hadn''t killed the assailant, but she would have. She''d been fully prepared to bludgeon the woman to the beyond had she failed to lift the airlock. Did that make Maisie like her father?


    She shifted her foot, forcing the hair to slither to the floor. The next part she dreaded. Heart sick, she bent to feel the fake nurse¡¯s neck. Clammy skin and bleak nothing. She¡¯d wanted to be like her family so long, but not like this. Nothing here felt grand or heroic. The jug slipped from her fingers with a clatter. She straightened and turned away.


    ¡°Bobby?¡± she said, voice thready.


    He made no response, but the machines around him continued to beep as normal. The slumped forms of the police officers lay in the corner next to the door, too still for comfort. She should go check on them.


    From this angle, it was impossible to see whether their chests rose and fell. Don¡¯t be dead, she silently begged, dropping to her knees by the side of the nearest fallen officer, the woman whose name she didn''t know. The woman lay on her side, eyes closed, weathered face serene.


    Basic first aid said to check the airways first. This seemed especially true when they''d been attacked by a Gifted with power over air. Bending to place her ear by the woman¡¯s mouth, Maisie almost cried when she felt an exhale.


    Thank you, thank you, thank you. Without her there, they might have allowed the counterfeit past, no questions needed. They might be uninjured. But then, Bobby would be dead.


    Washed under with guilt and relief, her eyes closed.


    A shove took her to the ground. Her body accepted this new assault with feeble protest. Wearily, she considered she should have known better than to expect a break from the universe. Cold linoleum bit her cheek, and the inside of her nose itched from the scent of cleaning product. Something pressed into the small of her back ¡ª a knee, from the feel of it.


    ¡®Don''t move,¡¯ rasped the woman officer¡¯s voice.


    Maisie¡¯s wrists were wrenched up. An involuntary squeak left her throat.


    ¡®Try that air trick a second time, and so help me, you¡¯ll be the one not breathing.¡¯


    Mistaken for the fake nurse. At least it wasn¡¯t personal.


    ¡®It''s me,¡¯ Maisie croaked, trying to project reassurance. No easy feat into the kiss of the floor. ¡®Maisie Arthur ¡ª you remember?¡¯ The one who recently blackmailed you. Hopefully that wasn¡¯t prominent in the woman''s mind.


    Pressure eased, and cautiously, so as not to startle, Maisie pushed herself upright. The woman moved back to make space. Other than a grey-tinged complexion and the trace of purple in her lips, she looked hale for her ordeal, and the regard she latched to Maisie could pierce stone.


    ¡®Where¡¯s the imposter?¡¯ she asked. Fast followed by, ¡®Ah,¡¯ as she caught sight of the body over Maisie¡¯s shoulder. While Maisie sat and nursed her aches, she strode to the bed to check Bobby.


    Behind them, Officer Stephenson sat up.


    ¡®Ida?¡¯ he said urgently. ¡®Are you okay?¡¯


    The woman ¡ª Ida ¡ª breathed a sigh. ¡°Aaron, thank the gods. Yes. So¡¯s Mr Furlong.¡±


    ¡®Good.¡¯ The hand he lifted to smooth the bald patch on his head shook slightly. ¡®And you, kid?¡¯


    ¡®I''m fine,¡¯ Maisie said. The side of her face that wasn''t hampered by swelling twisted into a wry smile. ¡®Or I''m no worse than I was before.¡¯ Another wave of relief swept her, guilt riding its wake. ¡®Gods, I was so worried she¡­ I put you in danger by being here. I¡¯m so sorry.¡¯


    ¡®Don''t be stupid,¡¯ said the policeman, not unkindly. With a groan, he heaved himself to his feet. ¡®We knew something was off about her quick enough. One of us has to be in the room with any medical personnel. It''s standard procedure in case of residual Flight effects.¡¯


    Ida grimaced. ¡®The emergency on C ward. Do you remember?¡¯ she asked her partner. ¡®The whole place cleared out. I''d bet money it was a distraction.¡¯


    Officer Stephenson nodded grimly. ¡®Probably right.¡¯


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    ¡®She was after Bobby,¡¯ Maisie said.


    ¡®She told us as much. When it was clear we weren¡¯t falling for her ruse, she tried to bargain.¡¯ A black scowl. ¡®Seemed to think we were in the execution business, him being a criminal anyway.¡¯


    ¡®What else did she say?¡¯


    ¡®I think it¡¯s your turn, kid. Her body¡¯s behind you.¡¯ He didn¡¯t sound accusatory, but the weight in his delivery struck home. Two stares of authority pinned her in place, and she became uncomfortably aware of her seated status.


    Before Maisie could work out where to begin, Ida said, ¡®Not here, Aaron. We should take her down to the station, get an official statement. I''ll call for backup.¡¯ She reached for her radio.


    Instinct caught Maisie¡¯s tongue. ¡®Wait!¡¯


    ¡®It''s too late now,¡¯ said Officer Stephenson on a sigh. ¡®Ida''s right. We have to face the consequences for you being here. That woman just assaulted two police officers and tried to kill a suspect in custody.¡¯ Misunderstanding her panic, he added, ¡®Don¡¯t worry. Even without your connections, you¡¯re covered by self-defence. No, it¡¯ll be us who get it in the neck.¡¯


    ¡®She was sent by one of the Five.¡¯


    Her words fell like arrows. In that shattered-glass moment, they stole the air from the room for the second time that day. Ida¡¯s hand dropped from her radio.


    Officer Stephenson recovered speech first. ¡®What?¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s what she said before she killed herself. I hit her with the jug, but she crushed something between her teeth before she died. She was covering for one of the Five.¡¯


    ¡®Your father?¡¯


    ¡®She spoke of a woman. Same as the thing in the warehouse.¡¯


    ¡®Your father recognised the circle. He has to know.¡¯


    Maisie swallowed. Hearing her suspicions in another¡¯s mouth made the judgement harsher. Betrayal had a bitters ¡ª her betrayal for thinking it, and his for his secrets. ¡®Yes.¡¯


    ¡®And now you want us to cover for him.¡¯ Ida¡¯s voice was dry as an August wind. ¡®We won¡¯t do it.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not asking you to.¡¯ Her mind raced ahead of her, playing out scenarios. If she landed at the police station, only one ending awaited: her marched home by her father, disgraced. Silenced. ¡®All you have is my word on what a dead woman said. Take me in now, and my father will fetch me out within the hour. They won¡¯t hear me over him. He¡¯ll sweep it away. If he wanted the authorities to know, he¡¯s had plenty of time to tell them.¡¯


    A new intensity entered the older woman¡¯s eyes. ¡®Would he retaliate against you?¡¯


    Maisie thought of her mother on the couch at home, papery skinned from lack of sunlight, fragile bones protruding because she didn¡¯t eat unless prompted. She thought of the blank expression betraying the broken mind beneath, and the storm that raged when that placid exterior broke and her mother''s nightmares were released into the world.


    ¡®No,¡¯ Maisie muttered at last. Her father wouldn¡¯t retaliate against her. He didn¡¯t need to.


    She could feel them examining her for a lie and kept her face bland.


    Officer Stephenson nodded unhappily. ¡®Okay. But we can hardly ignore this. You follow procedure. Even when it¡¯s futile. Especially when it¡¯s futile.¡¯


    She was losing them.


    ¡®But it doesn''t have to be futile!¡¯ she burst out. ¡®If you try to investigate, you''ll hit a brick wall within moments of opening the case. If you even get to investigate. If my father doesn¡¯t meddle with your careers. But you have me. I''m part of this world. I can do what you can¡¯t. I know these people ¡ª I used to play at Emalia Knight''s house when I was little. Let me try to find who¡¯s behind this. Let me get you the evidence that can''t be brushed away.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m not sure you¡¯re thinking clearly.¡¯ Ida rubbed the crease between her brows.


    Officer Stephenson put it more bluntly. ¡®Get a kid to catch a Gifted murderer? What kind of operation do you think we''re running?¡¯


    They were right. But so was she. ¡®The kind of operation my father runs. I''m already in this, whether you help me or not. This is my life. Please.¡¯ She thought of the voice in the circle calling her a ''Vessel''; of the thing that watched her out of Bobby the giant''s eyes, old and malevolent; of the pull of the Flight. I''m so deep in this that I can barely see above the surface.


    The radio squawked. ¡®Detectives Smith and Caulson, coming to relieve you of your post in five minutes.¡¯ A crackle, and then someone said in a different voice, ¡®Sorry we''re late. Caulson got tied down on the bog.¡¯


    And she was out of time. Her heart sank. The desperate part of her wanted to beg, but she knew her only chance was to look strong, so she stood firm, lips sealed. Their eyes scoured her. She jutted her chin.


    Ida swore. ¡®I''m going to regret this. Aaron?¡¯


    He sighed. It was the sigh of Atlas releasing the sky. ¡®What the hell. Fine, kid, we''ll try to keep this under wraps. If we can. Going by the books now means losing our jobs anyway,¡¯ he added with fatalistic shrug. ¡®Might as well see if we can catch the bad guys before we''re all tossed out on our arses.¡¯


    Maisie tried not to let her relief show.


    Officer Stephenson moved behind her to lift the jug. ¡®You say you hit her with this?¡¯ He rubbed his fingers over the handle, then let it drop to the floor. Glass shattered in a starburst across the floor. ¡®That should hinder fingerprints. Ida, go lie down in the corner like you haven''t got up yet. I''ll pretend I fought off the attacker before she killed herself.¡¯


    ¡®Why do you get to be the hero that fought off the attacker?¡¯


    ¡®Because I thought to touch the jug first. Snooze you loose. Maybe try a snore for believability¡¯


    Ida bared her teeth. ¡®Laugh while still can. You¡¯re buying beers for the next month. The next year, even.¡¯


    Despite herself, Maisie found she liked them. They had kept their sense of humour ¡ª not an easy thing to do in a world full of Flight, politics and Gifted.


    Without further protest, Ida sank into the corner, propping herself against the wall like she needed to borrow strength from it.


    Officer Stephenson was suddenly serious. He tugged a notebook out of his pocket and scribbled something down, tearing off the bottom of the page. ¡®My number. Call me when you find anything. Anything. And if you need help, go down to the precinct and ask for me or Ida Webb. You better go now, kid, before we call this in.¡¯


    Maisie folded the number and shoved it deep into her pocket.


    She reached the door, and was just about to pull down the handle, when the sound of footsteps and a trolley wheeling down the corridor made her stop. Apparently whatever distraction put into place for the attack had ended. She was trapped.


    She looked at the bed. The sheets and blankets didn''t reach to the floor, so hiding underneath was out of the question. Maybe if she clung to the underside like a spider monkey... That was a stupid idea.


    Officer Stephenson had taken his radio out. He paused. ¡®What''s wrong?¡¯


    ¡®There are people out there. I''ll be seen.¡¯


    ¡®Go out the window.¡¯ He said it like it was the obvious option.


    ¡®I tried. Before the assailant came into the room, I tried to get out. It''s locked. For Bobby, I assume.¡¯


    ¡®No, it''s not. How would he escape in his condition? It''s against fire safety regulations to lock the windows unless entirely necessary.¡¯


    ¡®It''s locked,¡¯ Maisie insisted.


    Officer Stephenson went to the window. He reached for the cord to the blinds that was no longer there, and when he couldn''t find it, checked the other side.


    ¡®I pulled it off,¡¯ Maisie said. She walked over to join him. ¡®It''s on the floor over there.¡¯


    ¡®Oh.¡¯ He pushed up the slats and took hold of the latch.


    Maisie waited.


    The latch moved up easily. Maisie flushed with embarrassment.


    Officer Stephenson shrugged, an amused smile playing at the corners of his lips. ¡®Maybe you loosened it.¡¯


    Sure she had.


    ¡®Go now,¡¯ he said more urgently. ¡®If our replacements arrive to find us awake without having called for backup, this whole ruse will be blown.¡¯


    The window''s mechanism didn''t allow it to open wide, and it took some undignified and painful wiggling on Maisie''s part to get through. The second she cleared the gap, it was slammed closed and the blinds dropped back into place.


    Still, she kept a low profile until she was next to solid brick, where there was no chance of a silhouette raising suspicions.


    She looked up at the blue sky, where the linings of the clouds were beginning to catch traces of yellow as the afternoon turned to early evening. Now she had to deliver on her promise and stay alive.


    Right. Easy.

 Chapter Eight

    The window had exited out into an overgrown walkway between hospital buildings. Beneath her feet, only the remnants of gravel poking up from the hard-packed dirt halted a complete weed annexation. The low sun didn''t reach down here, and Maisie shivered, suddenly feeling the evening chill.


    When it was first built back in the mid-1900s, the hospital had comprised only two buildings, but as Briston''s population had grown and grants poured in, more units sprung up in haphazard clusters, creating unplanned gaps like this one.


    It was difficult to orientate herself from the outside of the complex. She tried to recall the layout she''d looked at earlier but drew a blank. The identical red brick walls didn''t hold any clues either, and every window she could see had the blinds drawn down. Not much of a view for the patients in these wards.


    She picked a direction at random and started limping down it. At the bottom, she hit another building, the ally branching out into a T. One way was partially blocked by a row of industrial-sized bins, exuding a sickly sweet stench that burned the back of her nostrils. Beyond them, she could see cars.


    Trying not to imagine what the source of the smell could be, she edged passed, wincing every time her coat brushed one of the lips. Just don''t breathe in. Almost there.


    Blurgh.


    And she was through. She came out into a car park. A large map below a sign that read Car Park D told her she was on the opposite side from the main entrance.


    She rested on one of the bollards lining the kerb. The long walk back through town was as appealing a prospect as drinking rancid milk. Alfred would be gone from the house ¡ª one blessing, at least ¡ª but the thought of sitting alone in her room, dwelling on her hurts and the seemingly impossible task ahead of her, sapped what remained of her strength. Worse, perhaps her father would be back from whatever business he''d been on. He would want to know where she''d been, and she wasn''t ready to face him yet.


    A simple solution presented itself to her. She was at the hospital. She could go check on Samson. It would give her a reason for being here, and maybe she could find a way to pick his brains on The Five without arousing too much suspicion. Plus, there was a part of her that wanted to be sure he was okay. They might not have an easy relationship, but he was her brother, and last night he''d actually seemed to care.


    The car park wasn''t particularly busy, only a couple of people standing at the pay and display machine and a woman in scrubs making her way over to the staff parking area.


    Instead of going all the way back to the reception, she walked confidently up to the lady in scrubs and asked her where Samson Arthur was being kept. People gossiped. She''d bet that everyone at the hospital knew where the local hero was.


    The doctor was hesitant to tell her anything, even after Maisie told her that she was his sister.


    ¡®Do you have any identification?¡¯


    Usually she tried to avoid being recognised. That was coming back to haunt her now. Maisie made a show of searching herself, though inwardly she cursed. Then her hand hit something in the deep recesses of her coat pocket, among the crumpled up tissues and paper clips that had accumulated there. She pulled out her old bus pass from the year before ¡ª a bit tattered, but the photo still resembled her.


    The doctor examined the picture suspiciously, bobbing her head from the photo to Maisie''s bruised and battered face a number of times, trying to match the two together.


    Finally, she nodded. ¡®He''s in the long-term care ward.¡¯


    ¡®What!¡¯ Sure, he''d been a bit battered, but he hadn''t seemed that bad.


    The doctor read her expression and quickly said, ¡®Oh, it''s not like that. We just thought he''d be most comfortable there, in one of the nicer rooms.¡¯


    And just like that, Maisie''s worry turned to resentment. Of course Samson would get special treatment: he was Gifted. She thought the word sarcastically.


    She thanked the woman and turned to leave.


    ¡®You''ll have to hurry,¡¯ the doctor called out after her. ¡®They''re discharging him soon.¡¯


    Maisie hurried, as much as her hip would let her.


    The long-term care ward was a totally different beast to the one that had housed Bobby. Light and modern, surrounded by green shrubbery and a small garden on one side, it looked juxtaposed on the rest of the hospital with its weathered mishmash of red brick blocks, linked by dull grey paving.


    She''d barely made it through the doors when a crowd of hospital personnel parted to reveal Samson in a wheelchair, sporting casts on his right arm and leg. An orderly pushed him through the watchers with an air of parade.


    Someone tried to pull her out of the way. Maisie resisted, meeting her brother''s eyes when he looked up to find the holdup.


    Samson held up his hand to halt the orderly, who quickly brought the wheelchair to a standstill. Like a prince. All the old bitterness rose up in her, almost making her forget that she''d been worried about him.


    ¡®Maisie,¡¯ he greeted her, face concerned. ¡®What''s happened? Why are you here?¡¯


    ¡®I came to see you.¡¯ He looked dubious. To distract him, she quickly followed with a question: ¡®You''re being discharged? How are you getting home?¡¯


    His eyes said that he saw through her, but he didn''t call her on it. ¡®I''m getting a taxi.¡¯ He nodded to the people around them. ¡®Thank you, everyone, for everything you''ve done to help me. You do important work. This is my sister.¡¯ To her, he said, ¡®You mind pushing me to the main entrance? That way we can talk.¡¯


    Actually, she did mind. She minded very much, with her hip groaning in protest at each step. But they needed to talk. ¡®Sure.¡¯


    She took the orderly''s position, who moved out of her way rather grudgingly, and began to wheel him down the ramp.


    The staff waved, calling out goodbyes, and he waved back. That was Samson ¡ª always drawing sycophants. But there was a genuineness to his responses that was different from their father''s practised charm. She hadn''t noticed it before.


    ¡®Keep going,¡¯ he said quietly when they turned the corner. ¡®Too many ears to say much here.¡¯


    For a couple of minutes, she pushed him along the paved paths that, according to the signs, lead back to the main entrance.


    When they reached a quieter stretch, he opened his mouth to say something. She beat him to it. ¡®What''s the damage?¡¯


    He gave her a look, but responded, ¡®Broken shoulder.¡¯ He used his left hand to tap his immobile arm. ¡®But you probably already guessed that last night.¡¯ He rapped the cast on his leg. ¡®And I''ve got a small fracture to my fibula ¡ª probably from landing on a rock. That''s the reason I''m in this contraption. They say it shouldn''t take too long to heal, though.¡¯


    ¡®Are you going to be okay by yourself?¡¯ she asked. She said it cautiously. He might be on better terms with their father than she was, but he hadn''t escaped their childhood without picking up his own small neurosis. Getting around in a wheelchair with only one arm working wouldn''t be easy alone and unused to it, but mentioning that might imply a weakness on his part. Samson had it drilled into him from a young age that weakness was bad.


    But he didn''t seem to mind the question. ¡®The guy I¡¯ve been seeing on and off is only a call away, and he¡¯s promised he¡¯ll drop everything and look after me if I need it.¡¯


    She had to contain her surprise. He''d asked for help. The brother who''d lived with her only a year ago would never have considered letting someone else that close. ¡®That''s good,¡¯ she said simply. ¡®How long have you been seeing him?¡¯


    ¡®Not long. It¡¯s nothing serious yet. Might never be.¡¯


    They walked on for a while, not speaking. The wheelchair was old, the grip on its rubber handles worn smooth by multiple palms. One of its wheels was stiffer than the other, forcing her to constantly correct its direction. She put her head down and leant into the task, falling into a rhythm of sorts: one step, two steps, three steps; give the left side an extra little shove to keep it on track; repeat. It helped her keep her mind off all else.


    When her thoughts began to fog over, he broke the silence. ¡®So why don''t you tell me why you''re really here?¡¯


    It took her a couple of seconds to process his words. He''d done it deliberately, trying to catch her off guard and get to the truth. Sneaky. But she wouldn''t be caught out that easily.


    ¡®What do you mean?¡¯ she asked, playing dumb.


    ¡®You want to do it that way? Fine. I heard there was some kind of ruckus in the building Bobby Furlong is being kept. You wouldn''t happen to know anything about that, would you?¡¯


    She widened her eyes, feigning shock. ¡®What? What happened?¡¯


    ¡®I don''t know. That''s why I''m asking you.¡¯


    ¡®Why would I know?¡¯


    ¡®I thought you might have come over here to question him.¡¯


    And she was busted. Maisie tried to contain her shock. How had he guessed? Keeping her voice even, she said, ¡®What makes you think I would do a thing like that?¡¯


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡®Because you want to know why that raid was different from all the others we''ve been on. Because half the gang is missing from our tally. Because something happened when you disappeared that made you really freaked.¡¯


    Perceptive bastard. She said nothing.


    ¡®Come on, Maisie. You aren''t as weak, or as stupid, as Dad and Alfred like to pretend.¡¯


    ¡®Thanks,¡¯ she said dryly.


    He sighed. ¡®That came out wrong. I want to help, okay? But I can''t if I don''t know what''s going on.¡¯


    Again, she felt an overwhelming urge to tell him everything, to lay it all out in his lap and let him deal with it. He''d sort it out. He was a born hero, trained and Gifted. But he also loved their father. And no matter how much she wanted someone to lean on, she couldn''t forget all the years they''d spent together as children when he''d bullied and ignored her for not having powers.


    When she didn''t respond, he looked at her over his shoulder.


    ¡®I hope someday you''ll be able to trust me.¡¯


    There was sadness in his expression, a regret that he broadcast through his eyes. It made part of her wanted to apologise to him. But she wouldn''t. She wasn''t ready to bridge that gap yet. Too much history lay between them. Lying came easily to their family, and she wanted Samson to be the older brother she''d dreamed of too much to trust her own judgement.


    Maisie made a decision. She might not be willing to put all her cards on the table, but she could test this offer of help a little.


    ¡®What can you tell me about The Five? Aside from Father, obviously.¡¯


    He twisted farther in his seat and gave her a penetrating stare. ¡®The Five? You think one of them was involved?¡¯


    She met his gaze, not saying a word. He wasn''t getting any more information out of her. Not yet, at least.


    After a second, he seemed to realise that, because he turned back around. ¡®Be careful, Maisie. They''re powerful.¡¯ His voice was serious.


    She snorted. ¡®I know. Have you met Father?¡¯


    ¡®Even Dad is wary of the others. He doesn''t say it in so many words, but he respects their abilities. And anyone that gives him pause should scare the pants off someone like you.¡¯


    She was scared all right. But she resented the subtle reminder of her powerless state. It was always like that. For him, the population was divided into two: people with supernatural abilities, and people without. He would protect normal humans, because that was his role in the world, but ultimately he could never see them as equal.


    Keeping her tone light, she said, ¡®Duly noted. But that''s hardly news. What else do you know?¡¯


    He gave a one-shouldered shrug. ¡®I probably don''t know much more than you. The only one I''ve had much contact with is Emalia, from when we were little and living in London. Don''t you remember her? I know you were young, but she... makes an impression.¡¯


    That was one way of putting it. Emalia Knight was a blonde Valkyrie of a woman, towering over most men at six feet, with a mind as sharp as her honed body. She was heavily involved in the London political scene, never running for office, but a mainstay on the news cycle, regularly appearing in her well-pressed battle suit alongside the city''s movers and shakers.


    But Maisie knew most of that from the television. Her own memories were muddied, and when she tried to picture the woman she''d briefly known in her childhood, the picture was vague and inconsistent from the woman she saw on the screen. Which could be down to a number of reasons, not least of which that Maisie had only been five when they''d moved. But Emalia was an illusionist, and there was always a chance that whatever Maisie had seen had been a deliberate manipulation.


    ¡®I can remember bits,¡¯ she said. ¡®Mostly, I remember her asking me what I could do. What power had I got? She asked me that every time we came over for dinner. And I remember there being a lot of tension between her and Father.¡¯


    ¡®You¡¯re right about the tension,¡¯ Samson said. ¡®I know they were friends once, but it didn''t last. I''m pretty certain she was the reason he left London. From what I know, there was a big falling out between them, and pretty soon afterwards we moved to Briston.¡¯


    She hadn''t known that. ¡®You ever asked him about it?¡¯


    ¡®He said the city was too small for two Gifted heroes of their stature. And he wouldn''t tell me anything else.¡¯


    She tried to imagine what kind of person could force her father out of the capitol. He wouldn''t have left easily, not Sterling Arthur, who lived and breathed power, accumulating it in all forms. He knew how to capitalize on his image and status, how to use it to influence events to his advantage. For a man like him to be unseated from the heart of government ¡ª that would take something big.


    ¡®Okay. She''s one scary woman. Does she still take an active role in apprehending Flight users? I never hear about her fighting on the streets anymore.¡¯


    ¡®I don''t know. If she does, she doesn''t publicize it. She mainly deals with the upper echelons of law enforcement, if at all. She played an active role in forming Unit S, but that was years ago.¡¯


    That didn''t give her much to go on. Time to move on. ¡®So that''s Emalia. What about the other three?¡¯


    ¡®I know even less about them.¡¯


    ¡®Father never spoke about them to you?¡¯


    He laughed. ¡®Hardly. It''s not like they''re close. Everyone knows they went their separate ways after the press cooled down.¡¯


    That was true. The only ones that had stayed in the spotlight were her father, Emalia and Zuzanna. But something didn''t ring right.


    They were getting close to the main building now. Instead of going inside and out past the front desk, she turned down another path to go the long way around. They couldn''t continue this conversation in the busy hallways of the hospital.


    There were more people here, and she lowered her voice. ¡®I always thought Father kept tabs on them. He plays power games. Some of the most powerful Gifted in the world are pretty important pieces to lose track of.¡¯


    ¡®You might be right. But he hasn''t shared the information with me. Where are we going? The entrance was back that way. Should I be concerned?¡¯


    ¡®Don''t worry, I''m not kidnapping you. It''s just quieter this way.¡¯


    The wheelchair hit a stone and jammed. Maisie had to walk backwards to get around it, losing the rhythm she''d fallen into. Her hip decided to remind her of its presence by shooting white-hot sparks of agony down her leg, like someone had placed a burning coal into the joint. She had to shut her eyes to work through the pain. Getting home was going to be a bitch.


    ¡®Are you okay?¡¯ She opened her eyes to find Samson looking back at her. ¡®I forgot it wasn''t just your head that was hurt. I should get someone else to push me.¡¯


    ¡®No,¡¯ she said quickly. ¡®I''m all right. Isn''t there anything else you know?¡¯


    ¡®Nothing that isn''t common knowledge. Zuzanna spends most of her time in Europe. There are pictures of her at our parents'' wedding, but she''d already left the country by the time I was born. As for Alice Waters and Ishaan Balakrishna? Who knows where they are?¡¯


    She knew that Zuzanna Kami¨½ska had returned to her native Poland a few years after the burning of London. The first cases of Flight might have occurred in Britain, but it hadn''t remained that way long. When the drug began cutting a swathe through Europe, Zuzanna had followed. That made her an unlikely candidate for Maisie''s ¡®she¡¯ ¡ª a relief, since Zuzanna had a terrifying ability: she could reanimate the dead.


    Alice Waters and Ishaan Balakrishna had disappeared from public view almost as soon as the embers had died down. Ishaan''s power was a mystery, but Alice Waters, like David Sloan, had been a pyromancer ¡ª ironic, considering her last name.


    Samson was watching her over his shoulder again. ¡®You''re going to tell me why you want to know all this now.¡¯ He didn''t phrase it as a question.


    She took a break from pushing the wheelchair, leaning on the handles to take the weight off her right leg. The sun had reached its magic hour, hanging low and heavy in the sky, setting the world ablaze with golden light. It was too nice a day for death.


    Watching a lone cloud cross the blue expanse, she said, ¡®Did you ever consider doing anything else?¡¯


    ¡®What do you mean?¡¯ He was caught off balance by the abrupt change of subject.


    ¡®I mean did you ever want to be something besides a Gifted vigilante? You''re nineteen. You could go to university. You''re bright, and people like you ¡ª you could do anything you wanted, just about.¡¯ Not like her, who had never excelled academically and was almost universally disliked by her peers.


    ¡®No,¡¯ he said.


    ¡®Why not?¡¯


    He seemed to think it over. ¡®Because I have my abilities. I¡¯m uniquely equipped to fight Flight. Honestly, to fight any crime. Not to do so would be wrong. I have an obligation, a duty, to protect people from others who would abuse the powers given to them by Flight.¡¯


    It was a pretty answer. And she heard her father''s influence in every word.


    ¡®Why not join Unit S?¡¯


    ¡®And wade through bureaucracy while the bad guys thumb their noses at us? Fighting inertia and corruption on my own side? People mad on Flight ¡ª you''ve seen what they can do. I don¡¯t need to say please and thank you before picking my arse up and saving lives.¡¯


    ¡®Who gave you the right to be judge, jury, and executioner?¡¯ she asked quietly.


    He drew back, all offended arrogance, and perhaps a touch of hurt. ¡®We''re endorsed by the Government, Maisie. We are hardly the villains you make us out to be.¡¯


    ¡®Can you honestly tell me that every person hurt or killed by Alfred and Father was a danger to society?¡¯


    ¡®I can tell you that they were either using or involved in dealing Flight!¡¯ He was angry now, the hand that wasn''t in the sling gripping the wheelchair''s armrest with a white-knuckled grip.


    There was nothing she could say that would convince him he was wrong. She smiled at him sadly.


    ¡®I won''t tell you anything more. And as long as you think that, I can''t ever trust you.¡¯


    She began pushing the wheelchair again, while he stewed in silence. They rounded the building, coming out into the main car park.


    A taxi waited for him outside the front entrance.


    The driver jumped out when he saw them, rushing to shake Samson''s hand while gushing effusively about the honour of driving Samson Arthur. Maisie stood back and watched. She felt so tired, the drain of the day, both physical and emotional, turning her body to lead. Samson handled the man well, but she could see the strain her words had put on him in the tight line of his jaw and he smiled and said thank you.


    Only when the driver had settled him into the back seat and stowed the wheelchair in the boot, did her brother look up at her.


    His eyes still blazed with righteous temper, but it softened slightly as he took in her bruises.


    ¡®You''re a mess,¡¯ he said gruffly. ¡®Get in. We''ll drop you home before going on to my place.¡¯


    She didn''t argue, though part of her wasn''t certain she wanted to be with him right then. There was no way she could face the walk back through town.


    They didn''t talk on the drive. She looked out the window, not really seeing anything, and reviewed what she knew.


    She didn''t think Zuzanna was the woman behind the circle. Lethal as she was, a fight between the Gladiators and her reanimated corpses would have lasted longer, and left more of a mess. She could only control them in bulk, and with no thoughts left behind in their bodies, she had to direct their every movement with her mind. They were difficult to kill, but not a sleek machine that could wipe out eleven people in fifteen minutes without leaving a trace.


    Alice Waters could be behind it, but again, her power didn''t seem suited to this kind of attack. That left Emalia Knight. If Samson was right, and Emalia had been the force that pushed their father out of London, she wouldn''t think twice about encroaching on his territory here. And with her illusions, she wouldn''t have to move the bodies. They could have been there the whole time, and no one would ever know it.


    Maisie shivered. There was a creepy thought.


    The car jolted to a stop. They had reached her house.


    When she stepped out of the taxi, dusk had fallen, the streetlights just beginning to glow pink as the rooftops became silhouettes against the dimming sky.


    ¡®Maisie, wait.¡¯


    She paused in her action of closing the door and turned to face Samson, who was leaning across the seats.


    ¡®What?¡¯


    ¡®If you need help, call me. I might be out of commission for the moment, but I''ve got some connections. You don''t have to trust me. Just if it gets bad, call. And I''ll think about what you said. Some of it... some of it may be right.¡¯


    He''d actually heard her. Stunned, she said, ¡®I haven''t got your number.¡¯


    ¡®You haven''t?¡¯ He sounded genuinely surprised. Then he sighed. ¡®I haven''t been the best older brother, have I?¡¯ He looked at the driver. ¡®Do you have any paper?¡¯


    The man scrabbled in his glove box, eventually pulling out a crumpled receipt. ¡®Here!¡¯ he said eagerly.


    ¡®And a pen?¡¯


    A bit more scrabbling, and a pen was produced. Samson leant on his cast to write, then passed her the receipt. ¡®Please call,¡¯ he said seriously.


    He didn''t wait for her to respond. The door slammed shut and the car pulled off from the curb. Then she was left standing there on the pavement. She tucked the paper into her pocket, where it joined the number for Officer Stephenson.


    And suddenly she felt a little lighter. Maybe she wouldn''t have to do this alone.


    She walked up the drive. As she passed the ornamental topiary bushes, rendered into shadowy figures by the twilight, the front door opened and a person stepped out.


    The outside lights blinked, revealing a strikingly tall woman with an ageless face that could have been anywhere from early thirties to late fifties. She wore a plain black suit, its simplicity only serving to accentuate the obviously expensive cut. Her blonde hair caught the light and shone like a golden halo.


    Think of the devil...


    Emalia Knight looked up and saw her.