What Owen proposed is crazy. What’s even crazier is Astrid is actually considering his idea. Or she’s considering considering it. That’s what she tells herself as she stands over Owen’s sleeping body.
He’s sprawled on the couch, one leg dangling off the side. His blanket is in a pile on the floor. He sleeps shirtless in a pair of cotton shorts. It’s impossible not to check him out, not in this moment of quiet when she can take her time.
His skin is smooth, his fingers long. The trail of hair from his navel to the elastic waistband of his pants is curly and blond. It’s nearly impossible to not notice his ridiculously long eyelashes. He’s slimmer than Quinn. Leaner. His jaw comes to a sharp point and his cheekbones could cut glass. Quinn carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, from worrying about what Astrid eats to the minute details of their missions. Owen is different, lighter, and she wonders if it has to do with him lacking memories of their time in the group home.
He doesn’t remember the doctors or the shots. The before and then the after, but she also senses that he carries a burden. Something he’s not telling them. She realizes this relationship—friendship—is new. She’s willing to wait for him to reveal his secrets when he’s ready.
She bends over and listens to his heartbeat; it’s peaceful and calm. She smells the soap on his skin, the detergent on his blanket. He carries the faint scent of roses, which is stronger when he uses his gift.
“Owen,” she whispers before losing her nerve.
His eyes flutter open. “Astrid?”
“Hey.”
He frowns and sits up. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I was just thinking about your idea.” She shoves her hands in her pockets and looks guiltily toward Quinn’s bedroom. “I think we should do it.”
“Yeah?” His eyes search hers. Damn those eyelashes. Such a waste on a boy.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Okay,” he says, keeping his voice lowered. “I’ll figure out a place and a time. Somewhere safe. Just the two of us.”
A flash of nerves hits her belly. She’s not sure if it’s in a good way or bad. She does know this plan is idiotic, but the men are right. She needs to do more with her powers than hide them away. She needs to learn how to use them to fight back.
*
The Jeep lurches to a stop in front of the house. The forest green vehicle was a gift from Atticus on her eighteenth birthday. It had been his when he was a teenager. The paint is peeling and the roof has a tear and the inside smells a little moldy from a leak in the canvas, but it’s hers.
Empty snack bags and used soda bottles roll across the floor when the Jeep stops. Owen releases his grip from the door and gives the floor a pained glance.
“What?”
“You’re just so unbelievably messy.”
“I don’t have time to clean up.”
“Ridiculous,” he mutters under his breath and steps out of the car. The yard is tidy; flowers grow in the beds, looking fresh against the yellow paint.
“What the hell happened here?”
“This is my house,” Owen tells her, slamming the door. Twice. The latch doesn’t always catch.
“Yeah, I remember. The last time I saw it, the roof was ripping off and the place looked abandoned.” She stares at the immaculate bungalow with a rosebush and green bicycle chained to the front porch. “A manipulation?”
“Every last bit.” He walks up the front steps. His hand moves in a wave-like motion. “I’m shadowing us right now. I’m not sure Jensen isn’t watching this place still.”
“What do you mean, ‘shadowing’?”
“Blocking anyone from seeing us. Just a basic time-space manipulation. They just see the house and not us walking up to the door. They hear birds and traffic, not our voices.”
“But the house,” she asks. “It really looks like this?”
“Yeah, even when this neighborhood wasn’t up-and-coming, my aunt kept the property nice. What you see is what you get.”
Talk about a mind-bender. She enters in the front door, a guest this time, and the furnishings are completely different. Nice. Comfortable-looking furniture. She looks around, trying to get a sense of Owen, but other than his scent there’s not much of him here.
He drops his backpack on the couch in the small living room. She does the same.
“You still want to do this?” he asks. True to his word, he hasn’t pressured her. All of this had been at her insistence. Including sending Quinn out on a recon mission that should last most of the day.
“I do.” Or so she tells herself.
He nods and pulls out a small metal box from under the couch. He opens it and presses a spring. A hidden compartment is revealed, and Owen holds up a small baggie of Pixie Dust. Tinkerbelle is stamped on the side.
“From my experience, it won’t take much to push past the barriers keeping us from using our abilities on one another. And one hit, it won’t last too long. I think our physiology keeps the drug—or any drug—from affecting us full-force. Probably has to do with how fast we burn calories and the extra energy used to maintain our gifts.”
“That explains why I didn’t feel high or anything at the Gala.”
“And why you eat like a linebacker and yet seem to not gain a pound.” He eyes her waist.
“How long do we have to practice before it wears off?”
“Maybe an hour or so. Long enough for us to test this out a little bit.”
God, this whole thing is crazy. Astrid has never used any kind of drug in her life. Well, other than the accidental dosing at the Gala last month. That’s how she’d been able to read Demetria.
“Oh, wait, I have something for you,” he says with a smile. He reaches in his bag and pulls out a green bottle of Mountain Dew. “Thought you may want to put yours in here.”
He twists off the cap and hands it to her. The soda fizzes and she smells the bubbles in the air. Owen takes the baggie and tips a small amount in the bottle.
“Want to share?” she asks, holding it toward him.
He smiles again, wide and a little nervous before pouring in about half of the tiny Ziploc baggie. Owen’s heart is thumping. Astrid hears it over the sound of the drink.
“Ready?” he asks.
She nods. “Ready.”
Chapter Nine
Quinn
The building sits in the middle of downtown Crescent City, a tower of reflective blue glass. It’s the tallest, with a spire that reaches to the heavens. The company’s name hangs from the top floor, and at night it glows bright as a full moon.
WIND-E.
Demetria’s empire.
Quinn spends the last few days digging into anything and everything he can find on his former housemate and how she came into such a fortune. The official business is described as the headquarters for the toy manufacturing giant. Demetria’s company creates the wildly popular line of SparkleCorns as well as GlitterFairies, WoodlandSweetures and every offshoot of product imaginable.
Demetria is a toy goddess, who ironically can make every little girl’s dreams come true by bringing them all to life.
She also, it seems, may be severely mentally ill.
Sitting in the front seat of the van, Quinn holds the psychological report in his hands and glances at the content for the fifth time since he received it from Casper.
Hacking little goblin.
It came via email in the middle of the night with the subject line: Guess Who’s Mother-effing Crazy?
Quinn was slightly relieved it wasn’t Astrid or Owen.
The information comes from a juvenile psych unit, several years after the explosion at the group home. There’s little background information, no guardian or specifics on where she lived or went to school. But there is a diagnosis, and at the time, all signs were pointing toward fantasy-prone disorder.
A disorder he’s never heard of before, but it exists. According to the doctor in the report, she had many symptoms of the unusual disorder: intense, vivid fantasies; an inability to recognize the real world from make-believe; imaginary friends; and enhanced sensory perceptions.