DeDe Mercer is a Radiant who can control other people's thoughts, make them do what she wants. For years she's controlled her power, keeping her secret, never using it on anyone--until the day she had no choice.
Now the government is after her, after her brother, too, because he'll come into his power before long. The Department of Energy, the Defense Intelligence Agency, Homeland Security--they all want her, and they're willing to do anything, hurt anyone, kill if necessary, to make her their weapon.
Chapter 1
THE FIRST TIME I did it, my mom, who was about as chill as any parent anywhere, hit me. Slapped me across the
face. This was after I confessed. She never would have known if I hadn’t told
her, and still she hit me. That’s how pissed off she was.
She
told me it was a violation, which I didn’t even understand at first. I thought
she meant it was against the rules—like a violation in sports—and I had pretty
much figured that out when she slapped me. But no, she meant violation in a way I’d never heard the word used.
An
invasion. A rape of the mind. She called it that, too. Her slap shocked me.
When she called it a rape, I started to cry. I swore I’d never do it again, and
she made me promise on my dad’s grave, something she hadn’t ever done before. I
did, and I meant it.
I
was twelve at the time. About the age my brother is now, and you just know Mom
is aware of that. Hyper-aware.
I
honored the promise I made that day. I had been tempted in the weeks and months
and years since. Many, many times. But never once did I break my vow. Not until
today.
BEING
A STUDENT at Mossdale High School sucked. I was a junior, and I guess I had it
easier than some—the freshmen in particular—but the improvements from grade to
grade were marginal at best. It wasn’t a function of age; it was this place.
Mossdale High was too small, too old, too mean and sad and closed-minded. I
suppose it was an accurate reflection of the entire town, but that didn’t make
it any easier to deal with.
It was hard enough for someone like me—boring,
plain-looking, okay at a
lot of things, but great at none of them. For my best friend Kyle, though,
school was torture.
I
had known Kyle since they were Sarah, since we were kids in pigtails—the two
of us and Megan Galloway—riding our bikes through the misting rain that always
seemed to fall on this part of Oregon. When we were thirteen, maybe a year
after that incident with my mom, Kyle came out to me. By that time, we had been
super close for so long that either of us could have come out as a zombie, and
the other would have been fine with it.
The
rest of Mossdale, though.... Let’s just say that zombie would
have been easier. Most of Kyle’s other friends, including Megan, were ready for
gay, but not so much for non-binary. Friends shunned them. So did members of
their family. Their mom and dad, who were super religious and conservative,
totally freaked.
At
Mossdale Middle School, the bullies and assholes swarmed out of the woodwork,
and even though we’d moved on to high school, they hadn’t gone away. It wasn’t
always the same ones. Sometimes I thought they took turns, like they had a
chore calendar somewhere and could sign up. "Wednesday a.m.—Harass Kyle Reid.”
Today,
it was Grant Nelson’s turn.
Kyle
was beautiful. Their father was white, and their mother was Korean; Kyle had
rich amber skin and these gorgeous, dark eyes. Their hair was silky black,
shaved close on one side of their head, short and wavy on the other side. Their
face was roundish and perfect. The truth was, I’d been crushing on them since
freshman year, but hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to act on those feelings. We
had joked for some time now that they were inconveniently curvy—their
phrase—which made the non-binary thing harder for them than it might otherwise
have been. They weren’t especially tall or
short; they were normal-sized, solid— not tiny by any means.
Next
to Grant, though, they looked like a little kid. Grant was on the school
football team. He was tall, broad—muscular from hours spent working out in the
weight room with his buddies.
Kyle,
on the other hand, had been studying jujutsu for years, since even before they
came out to their family. Their father thought all kids, boys and girls, should
be able to protect themselves, and Kyle was into it from the start. Maybe they
knew even then that they would need the training; maybe they knew all along
they were different and would put up with all sorts of shit because of it.
Late this morning, in between third and fourth periods,
Kyle and I were walking from English to the math rooms, where they had algebra
and I had geometry. As we started up the stairs to the second floor, we spotted
Grant coming down with a couple of his jock pals. Kyle spotted them first, but
kept talking, unwilling as always to be frightened into silence or timidity. We
met them on the landing halfway up the stairway, where the flow of students
narrowed to two single-file streams. As he passed, Grant threw his hip into
Kyle, the way one hockey player hits another.
Kyle
bounced off him like a pinball, slammed into the wall, and fell, dropping their
books. Grant and his friends laughed. Kyle scrambled to their feet, and glared
up at him, fists clenched.
"Watch
where you’re going,” Grant said. "Fucking tranny mutant.” This drew more chuckles
from his idiot followers. The other students around us said nothing, made no
sound. They watched, though, smelling blood.
"You
should watch out yourself, shit-for-brains. You been forgetting to wear your
helmet again?”
Grant’s
face reddened. He shoved Kyle hard, hands hitting both their boobs. They
stumbled into the wall again, but kept their feet.
"Got
it in the tits,” Grant said. "I didn’t think it was supposed to have any.”
More
laughter. The other students backed away, clearing a space on the landing. Kyle
eased into their fighting stance, one I had seen them use at their dojo, and
also in some of the short films they had made about their training. On top of
everything else, Kyle was really good at making movies.
"I
dare you to try that again,” they said.
"Kyle,”
I whispered.
They
flicked a glance my way. "It’s all right.” To Grant, they said, "C’mon.” A
pause, and then, "Pussy.”
I
held my breath.
Grant
didn’t shove them again. He took a short step and threw a punch. Kyle ducked
under it, lunged, grabbed Grant with both hands, and threw him down over their
extended leg. At least that’s what they appeared to do. It all happened pretty
fast. What I know is, Grant landed hard on his back, breath leaving him in a whoosh.
And while he was still down, Kyle hammered one punch into his face.
Blood
spurted from Grant’s nose. The kids around us gave a low, "Whoa” in unison.
Except Grant’s friends, who could only gape.
I
had to keep myself from cheering.
Kyle
gathered up their books. "And just so you know,” they said, glaring down at
Grant, who hadn’t yet moved. "I’m enby. I’m not trans. Come on,” they said to
me, starting up the stairs. "We’ll be late for math.”
I
stared at Grant for another moment, watching as he blinked and dabbed at the
blood covering his lips and chin. Then I followed Kyle.
"That
was amazing.”
"Pretty
basic move, actually.”
"Well,
I couldn’t do it.”
I
grinned. They did, too.
Kyle
went into Mr. Gentry’s classroom for algebra. I walked to the next room, Ms.
Gill’s, and took my usual seat near the back beside the window. From there, I
had a clear view of the white board, the door, and the clock above it. I pulled
out my notebook as the bell rang to start fourth period, and soon was fighting
my way through a blizzard of theorems and corollaries.
About
ten minutes into class, raised voices echoed in the hallway outside the
classroom. All of us stared at the window in the door, craning our necks to see.
Even Ms. Gill, cat-eye glasses perched on her nose, paused to glance that way.
I knew immediately the commotion was about Kyle. That awesome display they put
on in the stairwell was bound to bring trouble. Grant would make sure of it.
I
stood, drawing a frown from Ms. Gill.
"Miss
Preston, please sit down.”
"I
need to use the bathroom.” I met her gaze, the lie coming easily.
"Class
just started. You had your chance in passing period.”
"I
have English before this. It’s too long a walk.”
The
teacher’s frown deepened. "I think—”
"I
really have to go,” I said, crossing to the door. She called after me, but I
didn’t slow. As soon as I was in the hallway, I saw Kyle walking beside a
small, silver-haired woman I assumed was Mrs. Bryant, the principal’s secretary.
I followed. After a moment I spoke Kyle’s name and hurried to catch up with
them.
Both
turned. Kyle gave a small shake of their head. Mrs. Bryant eyed me, lips pursed
in disapproval, the loose skin at her neck shifting with the mild palsy that
kept her head moving.
"Go
back to your class,” she said, her voice as dry as dead wood.
"I
saw what happened. There should be a witness when they talk to Mr. Perry.”
"Mr.
Nelson has already told the principal what happened.”
I
chuffed a laugh. "Yeah, I’ll bet he did.”
"Go
back to your class.”
I
crossed my arms, raised my chin a little.
Her
lips flattened into a hard line, but she twitched a shoulder. "Fine,” she said
and walked on.
Kyle
shot me a look and shook their head a second time. I ignored them, and we fell
in step a half pace behind the shuffling secretary.
Upon
entering the suite of administrative offices, I spotted Grant sitting on a
bench outside Mister Perry’s door. Blood stained the front of his T-shirt, and
his nose was swollen and red. He glared at me and wouldn’t even look at Kyle. I
could imagine the story he’d told. Lie layered upon lie to distort the basic
truth: that Kyle, a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter, had beat him
bloody.
Mrs.
Bryant waved a hand at two chairs opposite Grant’s bench and let herself into
Mr. Perry’s office. Kyle and I sat, both of us angling our bodies away from
Grant.
"They’re
never going to let you in there with me,” Kyle said. "You’re just going to sit
out here.”
"No,
I’m not.” At their look, I added, "Let them try to stop me.”
I’ll
admit that I was already thinking then about my ability, about what I could do.
If I had to, I could use it to force my way into the office, to stand with Kyle
as they faced whatever punishment the principal had in mind. I didn’t say
anything, because even Kyle didn’t know. That’s how deep a secret it was.
The
door opened again.
"You
can go in, Miss Reid.”
Kyle
stiffened, but didn’t correct her. We both stood.
"Miss
Preston—”
"I’m
going in, too. Kyle wants me with them.”
"That’s
right. I do.” Their voice sounded tight. They tucked a strand of hair behind
their ear with a shaking hand.
"Very
well.” Mrs. Bryant regarded us both as if we were radioactive, like if she got
too close, we’d make her sick. It was a look I’d seen others give Kyle. I
wasn’t used to dealing with it myself, but that was all right. It made me feel
closer to them. We walked into the office.
As Mrs. Bryant pulled the door closed, I heard Grant
mutter, "Fucking mutants.”
Mr. Perry leaned back in his desk chair, his elbows on
the arm rests, his fingers steepled as he watched us take our seats. Even
sitting, he looked tall, elongated, like a shadow in late afternoon. A swoop of
steel gray hair hung over a steep forehead and small brown eyes. Diplomas and
photographs covered the walls of the office, including a picture of him in his
Air Force uniform standing beside a fighter jet. He’d fought in the desert long
before either of us was born. He talked about his war days every chance he
got—assemblies, graduation ceremonies, introductions for other speakers. It had
become something we all laughed about, even knowing that we shouldn’t, that his
service was something we should honor. He had turned it into his own private
cliché.
He
glanced my way, but didn’t appear surprised that I had come in with Kyle.
Probably Mrs. Bryant had prepared him. An instant later, he speared Kyle with
his glare.
"I
assume you know why you’re here.”
"Because
Grant was bullying me and I had the guts to fight back?”
The
corners of the principal’s mouth drooped. "That is not—”
"That’s
what happened,” I said. "I was there. I saw the whole thing.”
His
eyes shifted to me. "You may sit and observe, Miss Preston. That’s all. Miss
Reid can speak for herself.”
I
returned his glare. "Their name is Kyle. And it’s themself.”
After
another moment, he turned back to them. "I see no bruises on you, no blood.
Mister Nelson came out of your confrontation in far worse shape. Would you care
to explain that?”
"Yeah.
He shoved me in the tits. Want to check them for bruises?”
Perry’s
face reddened. "Miss Reid—”
"It’s
Kyle,” they said. "He shoved me, called me something I won’t repeat. And when I
dared him to try to push me again, he threw a punch. I defended myself—I know
how—and he wound up on the floor with a bloody nose. That’s what happened.
There were a lot of people watching; you can ask any of them.”
"That
won’t be necessary.”
"What
do you—”
He
silenced me with another hard glance.
"Mr.
Nelson admits that he said something he shouldn’t have. But that doesn’t excuse
violence.”
"He
shoved me!”
And
in that moment I understood.
"He
doesn’t care,” I said, ignoring another silent warning from Perry. I faced
Kyle. "He’s not going to do anything to Grant. We play Fairlea on Friday, and
they wouldn’t want to go up against a rival without their split end, or
whatever the hell he is.” To the principal I said, "Isn’t that right?”
Perry’s
expression turned shrewd, but he didn’t answer. Addressing Kyle again, he said,
"I’ve told you before...” He faltered, and I know he had to
bite his tongue to keep from calling them Miss Reid. "You’re a
disruptive influence. More, you admit that you struck him. That’s an automatic
suspension. Three days.”
Their
mouth fell open. "Three...” They swallowed, eyes welling. "That’s
not fair.”
"I
might reduce it by a day, if you’d be willing to amend your recent behavior.”
A
tear rolled down their cheek. They left it to me to ask, "What do you mean by
that?”
This
once, Perry didn’t seem to mind me intervening. "I think you both know. As I
say, she’s disruptive, and it needs to stop.”
It
was the pronoun that finally did it, which I know is ridiculous, but it’s the
truth. After all of it—Grant’s bullying, Mrs. Bryant’s contempt, the injustice
of Mr. Perry’s punishment—that snide she was what pushed me over the
edge.
I
had only done it that one time, to my mom, but I remembered the feeling the way
I remembered waking up this very morning. I knew how to access the power, how
to peel open Perry’s mind. And I was angry enough that I didn’t give a damn
whether or not it was a violation.