Nevermore: The Final Maximum Ride Adventure

Dylan clamped his lips shut and tried to talk himself out of decking Fang. Not worth it, he told himself.

“So you can stop protecting her,” Fang said. “I’m back now. The flock is together again.” He faltered for a split second, and Dylan knew exactly which person had just crossed his mind—a small blond person with white wings. “Max is fine.”

Now it was Dylan’s turn to laugh. He looked at Fang coolly. “Excuse me? You’re back now, so automatically everything’s good again? Who do you think you’re kidding? Things got worse the moment you came crawling back through that door.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Fang. “Worse for you, you mean, now that your little dream world is ending?”

Dylan ignored that. “You’re supposedly doing this all for Max, right?” he challenged. Fang nodded, leaning back against the doorjamb. “Well, sorry to break it to you, but by coming back, all you’ve done is put Max in more danger.” Dylan sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees.

Silence. Then: “What?”

Dylan looked at Fang with a level gaze. “Haven’t you noticed that, like, the entire world is hunting you?” he asked.

Fang shifted. “They’re after all of us. They always have been,” Fang said quietly, but he was frowning.

“You seriously don’t know? You’re the one they want, not Max, not the rest of the flock!” Dylan was shouting now. “It’s you, Fang. It’s your DNA they’re after.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“My DNA?” Fang laughed, but it sounded tinny and hollow to Dylan’s ears. “My DNA is, like, Generation Zero.”

“Well, fifty-fourth, actually,” Dylan said. “But apparently they discovered something that has every whitecoat in the world after you.”

“Who did? I don’t believe you,” Fang spat, but the uncertainty in his eyes—the fear—betrayed him. “What kind of discovery could they possibly make about me that I wouldn’t know?”

Dylan let out a breath. “I… can’t tell you.”

Fang pushed off the doorjamb and crossed the bedroom in two strides. He stood in front of Dylan, fists clenched, the veins in his neck straining. “You can’t tell me? And why is that? Because you’re making this up? Because a little bird told you? Because you’re on their side?”

“I’m on the side of Max surviving,” Dylan shot back. “I didn’t make this up. But I can’t tell you the details unless—”

“Unless what?” Fang’s voice was tight.

“Unless you swear to leave… and never come back.”

They stared at each other, black eyes locked onto blue, night and day.

“I can’t swear that,” Fang said in a low voice.

Dylan’s jaw clenched. “Then I can’t be held accountable for anything I do to you. You’re putting her in danger. You’re putting everyone in danger. Don’t you even care?”

“My Voice said to be with Max,” answered Fang. “I’m never leaving her again.”

49

“PAWS OFF, BUCKO,” I barked, slapping the Gasman’s hands away from my slice of pie. “You already ate an entire half of the pie. Your pie privileges have been revoked.”

“Paws off?” Total said, looking up from his plate. “I resent that. You’re saying that all pie stealers have paws? Is that it?”

“Chillax,” I told Total. I’d forgotten he was sitting there. “It’s just a turn of phrase.”

“Hmph,” said Total.

“And you,” I said, turning back to Gazzy. “Step. Away. From. The. Pie.”

“Poop,” Gazzy mumbled. “Dylan wouldn’t give me any of his, either. Neither would Nudge. Or Iggy.”

“And what have we learned from this experience?” I asked, raising one eyebrow.

Gazzy shuffled. “Um… everyone but me needs to work on their sharing skills?”

“No,” I said patiently. “We learned that if you eat half a pie, you get your pie privileges taken away. Capiche?”

I am such a good not-mom.

The Gasman started to say something else but was cut off by the sudden appearance of Fang, who had entered the living room like a freaking shadow.

Just like old times.

I glanced at Fang and was startled by how pale he was. His normally inexpressive face looked taut, and his lips were pressed into a thin white line.

“What’s wrong?” I said immediately, getting ready to do a head count. “Is everyone okay?”

Fang hesitated. “Can you come with me?”

I took one last bite of pie, then followed Fang down the hallway, past Nudge’s room, Iggy’s room, Gazzy’s, mine, Dylan’s, and Total’s. (Yes, the dog got his own room.)

Fang opened the door to the guest room and led me inside. His laptop was open and running on the bed, and I saw the page for his blog pulled up on the screen.

“Wait, this is about your blog?” I exclaimed, one part relieved and two parts annoyed that he’d gotten me all worked up for nothing. “From your face, I thought we were gearing up for Armageddon!”

He sat and motioned to the laptop. “Read the comment on top.”

Great. Probably another Fang fan-girl (Fang-irl?) gushing about how incredibly guh-orrrrr-geous he was. I sighed and sat down next to him on the bed.

What? My heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe.

Feeling completely numb—I refused to get my hopes up—I clicked on the image that came with the comment. Fang and I were both silent, waiting with bated breath, as the image loaded.

It was a blurry, grainy photo, maybe taken on an old cell phone. The background was dark and murky, with a couple of blocky shadows that looked a bit like hospital equipment. I ignored that and focused on the foreground, which had better lighting.

Better lighting that revealed a chunk of limp blond ringlets. A clump of dirty white feathers. A small, pale hand—the same hand I’d held a million times throughout the years.

“Oh, my God,” I breathed. “Oh, my God.”

Fang leaned toward the computer screen, gazing at the photo. “So you think it’s really her?” he asked softly. I caught the faint undercurrents of insane, wild, un-Fanglike excitement.

“Yeah,” I squeaked, hardly believing I was saying it. “Yes,” I said louder, looking into his eyes and seeing my own certainty reflected there. “Fang, I think that’s Angel.”

“What?”

It wasn’t Fang who’d spoken. The two of us turned to the doorway to see Nudge and Gazzy staring at us. Gazzy was holding the second pie, and Nudge was carrying two forks. Under different circumstances, I’d have whooped their conniving, thieving little behinds. But right now, all I could do was frantically process plans, ideas, possibilities, while I tried to contain the enormous hopeful smile that was threatening to take over my face.

“Angel,” said Fang. “Angel might be alive.”

The Gasman gasped and dropped the pie, which splattered all over the floor. None of us even flinched. “What?” he said again.

“Look,” I choked out, and he and Nudge hurried over to the bed. I watched as they read this Mazin Nourahmed person’s comment and studied the photo.

“Trap?” Nudge asked immediately. That’s my girl.

“Maybe,” I replied. Then I regretfully added: “Probably.”

“Do we care?” That was Gazzy. I knew how much he wanted to see his little sister again—under any circumstances.

Fang and I glanced at each other, then answered at the same time: “No.”

The four of us sat there for a few more moments, just letting the news sink in.

Then Gazzy hollered, “Iggy! Dylan! Fang’s room! Now!”

“Oh, my God!” Nudge yelled, bouncing on her heels in excitement. “Oh, my God, Angel!”

“Did I hear ‘Angel’?” Dylan asked, poking his head around the door.

“What?” Iggy demanded, coming on Dylan’s heels and skidding to a stop in the hallway.

Gazzy read the blog comment aloud. As before, we were all quiet for a bit as Iggy and Dylan processed the information.

And then—without any warning—we all leaped up, screaming and yelling and hugging until our voices and arms gave out. Nudge was sobbing; Gazzy kept chanting “My sister’s alive! My sister’s alive!” over and over; Iggy was laughing maniacally; Dylan stayed next to me, grinning, while I acted like my usual stoic, leaderly self (read: sobbing just as hard as Nudge). And in the middle of all of us, Fang was smiling with an abandon that I’d never seen him show before.

For the first time in my life, I saw tears in Fang’s eyes.

He squeezed my hand, and I knew right then that regardless of traps, regardless of risks, everything was going to be all right. The flock was about to be complete again.

Our baby was coming home.

50

THE VERY NEXT morning, all six of us—Gazzy, Nudge, Iggy, Fang, Dylan, and I—got up bright and early to leave on the first rescue mission in… how many months? Three? Four? Man, that might have been the longest period of time without a rescue since Jeb had whisked us away from the School. Impressive.

We didn’t bother telling the principal or teachers at Newton the small, insignificant fact that their precious bird kids were leaving on an impromptu trip to California, possibly never to return. After all, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: We’ve spent our entire, unglamorous lives not being controlled by grown-ups. Why start now?

“Okeydokey,” I said to myself, stuffing another bag of beef jerky into a backpack. “Provisions, check. Clothes, check. Enough explosives to pose a legitimate threat to multiple small countries”—I eyed the duffel bags that Gazzy and Iggy had packed—“check. Destination”—I glanced at the printed-out sheet with a marked map, courtesy of Mazin Nourahmed the Helpful (and Possibly Evil?) Blog Commenter—“check.”

Six backpacks were laid out before me, for six bird kids. Usually I’d have to pack one for Total, too, but following my recommendation, he’d agreed to stay behind for this one. I’d arranged for him to stay with Akila. If this mission didn’t go well, I didn’t want his canine ladyfriend to end up a widow.

“Ready?” Fang asked, sliding his arms through the straps of his backpack and giving me a warm, excited, anxious look—a look that betrayed way more emotion than I was used to seeing Fang display.

“Yup. Let’s bust this joint,” I said. Nudge and Gazzy exchanged smiles—we all had the same feeling about this mission. Just like old times.

Except, of course, this wasn’t old times, or just any mission. It was Angel. And it was probably a trap. And even if we did somehow manage to find her, she might not be as okay as we were all desperately hoping she was. A lot can happen to a seven-year-old girl all alone at a School.

I let out a long breath, my hands shaking as I fumbled with my bag’s zipper. Stay positive. She is alive.

“It’s okay,” said a familiar voice beside me. Dylan. “We’ll find her.”

I turned to face him. He looked serious and sincere. A lump suddenly formed in my throat, and I wanted to hug him. But Fang was right behind me, so I just nodded, knowing that Dylan understood, and praying hard that he was right.

I hoisted my backpack into the proper position for flight, looking over my shoulder at Fang as I did so. We exchanged a brief look, I did a silent head count, and then he said, “Okay! Everybody ready?”

“Ready!” the flock shouted in unison. Then, with Fang leading the way, we all kicked off the ground and soared into the bright blue sky.

Please be okay, Angel. We’re coming.

51

IT WAS THE beginning of the end, but not the end that Angel expected.

When she awoke, her lungs were screaming. She thought she saw a blurry flash, and then the image of a giant, belching fireball exploding behind her damaged eyes, and she cried out in terror.

Another vision of the apocalypse. It had to be. There was nothing else that sent hot panic surging through her like that. The very essence of chaos, fire and brimstone. The violent sound of the earth being savagely reclaimed for nature.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Angel thought. When the end comes, I’m supposed to be with Max. With my flock. When we die, we will be together.

She had just sucked in a ragged, hot breath of stinking smoke when she realized she was still in the lab, clamped to the table, her limbs splayed out as if she were a butterfly on display. For a fleeting second the surrounding madness was drowned out by the deafeningly quiet memory of the whisper-sound of her feathers drifting to the lab floor, the endless flow of tears running down her face. After that, she’d passed out.

Now she coughed weakly into her shoulder, but she couldn’t seem to take in enough oxygen as she choked on the smoke that was forcing itself under the door and into the room where she lay, alone.

Outside the door she heard muffled shouts and frantic footsteps.

“It’s time!” Angel was able to make out a woman’s voice yelling. “It’s really happening!”

Somewhere an alarm was triggered, and the high, plaintive cry drowned out much of the chaos. The door of the lab burst open then, and someone was banging through cupboards while someone else rifled through papers and clanged metal objects around.

They were ignoring Angel completely.

“Help,” she croaked. “Dr. Martinez?”

“Take everything!” a voice Angel didn’t recognize commanded to someone else. “The 99% Plan is in effect!”

For the first time since the operation, Angel became dimly aware of being able to see movement, but she didn’t have time to wonder about what was happening to her eyesight. She was wired to survive, and focused on trying to decipher who was in the room with her, and what they were doing. She fumbled wildly, trying to figure out how she might unlock her clamps, anything to free herself. But Angel could only make out blurred fractions of light, movements masked in smoke.

“Help,” she said again, coughing.

But no one answered, and the footsteps were already fading away. And then, over the wail of the alarm, she couldn’t hear any more voices. Beyond the wall of smoke, she couldn’t breathe.

No! her brain shouted, rebelling against the inevitable. No, I will not die like this, alone in smoky darkness. Not after the hell I have been through.

She began to fight then, really fight, even though every single muscle and bone in her body ached.

“You can’t leave me here!” Angel screeched with fury and despair to the empty walls around her. “I’m human, do you hear me? It hurts!”

She sobbed as she thrashed against the clamps and felt the cords digging into her flesh. But no matter how hard she struggled, she was trapped.

Smoke filled Angel’s lungs and she hacked wildly, gasping. The sound of the alarm seemed to ricochet around her brain.

It’s over, she thought with a sense of crushing defeat. Images of a giant, unstoppable wave gathering speed tormented her as she started to lose consciousness. For once, the freaks were right: It’s the end.

Book Three

THE END

52

“HOW MUCH LONGER?” Gazzy asked breathlessly, catching a small updraft and banking left till he was flying next to me. He was grinning, but his face was lined with strain, and he looked more determined than I’d ever seen him.

“Just a little bit more,” I said. Less than five hours after leaving Oregon, we had begun to near the facility, which, according to our source, was in Death Valley—so close to the School that Jeb had taken us from that I almost had a memory-induced panic attack.

“Days? Hours? Minutes?” Gazzy pressed.

“In fifteen minutes we should be within a mile radius. Then we find the place, touch down, do some recon.”

“And then find Angel,” he said fervently. “And spring her out of there. And do serious damage to whoever’s had her.”

I winced. “Gaz…”

“I know, I know,” the Gasman said. “Could be a trap, she might not be there, I get it. But still. She could be alive, Max!”

“Yeah, sweetie,” I said, grinning. “She could be.”

I happened to look over and meet Dylan’s eyes, which were as blue as the sky we were flying in. He hadn’t said much this morning. Actually, he hadn’t been saying all that much since Fang had returned. Mr. Discuss Everything was suddenly how Fang used to be. Meanwhile, Fang was now talking and emoting and expressing more than ever before. It was like the two of them had switched personalities.

“Yo, up ahead!” Fang said suddenly. “I see something!”

Nudge nodded excitedly. “It looks like a cluster of buildings!”

We all—well, except Iggy—concentrated on the ground, letting our raptor vision focus in on what indeed appeared to be a cluster of buildings, some of which were made of boring gray and black stone, others of brick and gleaming one-way glass. The buildings were arranged in the shape of a T, and to be honest, they looked like they could hold pretty much anything institutional and uninteresting. A coat-hanger factory. Whatever.

Except for the fact that they were in the middle of nowhere, with no cities, towns, or even houses in sight. And their location corresponded perfectly with the map we’d been given online.

“This is it,” Fang muttered. “Circle down.”

As we drifted back down to earth, Dylan moved closer to me. “Ready to beat up some whitecoats?” he said over the noise of the wind.

“Always,” I said. And I was glad he was with me.

The six of us landed among a sea of small desert shrubs and immediately sank down to their height, keeping low. Then we got in a huddle to go over the plan for the umpteenth time.

“Okay, so first Max and I scout the place,” said Fang. “Look for possible cracks in the armor, etc. If we don’t come back within a half hour—”

“We fly to Badwater Basin,” Iggy interrupted. “Then we wait for three days. Then, if you’re still not back—”

“We absolutely do not barge in there and attempt to rescue you,” Nudge deadpanned, repeating the words I’d drilled into all of them over and over again. “We act like sensible, self-preserving mutants and head back to Oregon.”

“Good,” I said. “Anybody have a problem with the plan?”

They all shook their heads no. Except Dylan. I knew he wanted to go with me, knew he was miffed, or peeved, or maybe even furious that I’d asked him to stay with the others. He’d bought my explanation—that they would need another good fighter with them, and that Dylan, out of all of us, was the least well known to the inner circle of crazed maniacs who seemed to chase us everywhere we went. He’d bought it. But he wasn’t happy about it.

I looked at Fang. “You ready?”

He nodded, his eyes burning into mine, reading me, knowing my needs and my history and, it seemed, even my thoughts.

We’d just bent our knees and were about to take off together when Iggy yelled, “Wait!”

We all turned to him, instantly on the alert. “Fire,” he warned. “I smell smoke.”

“Smoke?” I glanced around, not seeing or smelling anything other than the undisturbed buildings and the clear, sunny day. “From where?”

Wordlessly, he pointed in the direction of the facility we were about to break into, and then the breeze changed and I smelled it, too: smoke. Lots of it.

Little did we know then that the 99% Plan was in effect… just a little bit ahead of schedule.

53

THE SMOKE LED us right to the burning building, which was eerily hushed, with only the crackling sound of dying flames, and no signs of life anywhere at first glance. No panicked refugees, no firefighters—just a red-hot shell.

When the fire had finally died down enough for us to safely explore the inside of the smoking facility, we stepped gingerly through the wreckage. Everything was horribly, deathly silent.

My intestines sank down to my shoes.

Marks from the fire had streaked the walls—or what remained of them—with gray and black. The stench of smoke permeated the dry air completely, scorched metal lay heaped where foundations used to be, and machinery that I recognized as mutant-testing equipment lay blackened and twisted in the rubble.

I swallowed. Time to be a leader, Max.

“Okay, everybody,” I said, coughing against the thick air. “Search everything.”

There was a huge crash then, as part of the floor above us gave way and a large piece of lab equipment fell through near to where we stood. Gazzy giggled nervously, at home in the destruction despite the underlying worry on his face.

“But be careful,” I continued. “The roof could collapse at any second. Pay special attention to the part that wasn’t destroyed—the eastern side. Angel could be in there.”

Maybe. Hopefully. God, if she was in the section of buildings we were standing in… Well, I would still want to find her, I thought grimly. Still want to take her body home.

Carefully we picked our way toward the far side—the eastern side—through a doorway that had been stripped of its actual door.

I nearly threw up when I stepped over a partially melted plastic Kanine Kamper. Were we too late? Had we come this close only to miss saving Angel from a horrible death by—what, minutes?

My heart was shriveling, but I kept picking my way through the demolished building, opening every door, trudging down passages that led to the smell of fire and combustibles and sickening chemicals.

And fear. It hung in the air, thicker than smoke.

I don’t want to describe the sick things we saw, experiments on… some kind of life-form… that had clearly failed. Everything that might have been alive was now dead from smoke inhalation, including a couple of whitecoats.

“How did the whole thing go up so quickly?” Dylan asked me. We were in the process of searching a lab that was filled with large machinery and operating tables. The sights made me physically ill. “I’ve been trying to work it out. It ate through the brick in, what? Ten minutes? And it was a scientific laboratory. Didn’t they have some kind of fire-safety procedure?”

“Maybe they didn’t want to stop it,” Fang answered from across the room. He gestured at a utility closet, at a pile of overturned metal jugs inside. They reeked of gas fumes.

I heard Nudge gasp from another doorway and ran to her side, my adrenaline rushing.

“Max, why are they in a circle like that?” she whispered, her bottom lip quivering.

A strangled moan escaped my lips when I saw what she had found: the still smoking bodies in the lab, dozens of them, slumped against one another, arranged in a circle, just like Nudge had said. Like they’d been sitting down to tea, or a game of telephone. Like they’d died en masse.

My throat was dry and my mind was whirring.

We’d tried to get inside when we’d first seen the smoke, but the doors had all been bolted.

What had seemed like an abandoned building had been packed with people.

What had seemed like an accident reeked of purposeful destruction.

We’d been there for the fire. We’d watched the whole thing happen. No one had run outside.

I shivered, understanding the horrific implications. They’d wanted to die like this. This place was making my soul hurt.

“Max.”

It was Dylan who’d spoken. He was down the hall.

“Yeah?” I forced the word out of my mouth, peeled my gaze away from the awful sight of the bodies before me. “Did you find something?”

“I… I think so.” His tone was hollow.

I swallowed. I couldn’t bear to find definitive evidence that we’d lost Angel. Not again. Not after we’d had so much hope.

Reluctantly, I came up beside Dylan. My eyes followed his gaze to the slick metal operating table in front of him. There were four clamps on it, in the corners, for restraining limbs.

Caught in one of the clamps were two soft, downy, white feathers.

“No,” I choked out, my knees buckling.

Faintly, I heard the flock gathering behind me: Nudge’s intake of breath, Gazzy’s moan of pain, Iggy’s hiss, and Fang’s teeth gnashing together. But I couldn’t stop staring, horrified, at the feathers in the clamp.

You’d think it couldn’t get any worse, after that.

But it did, of course. Because right then, we heard the sweet, sociopathic voice that would give us all nightmares for the rest of our lives.

“May I help you?”

54

IT TOOK ME about zero point three seconds to recognize the man standing before us: Mark. The once manic leader of the Doomsday Group. Someone I hadn’t seen since Paris, since Angel disappeared. I was pretty sure he was responsible for that whole bloody nightmare.

“Hello, children,” Mark said languidly. His entire body was covered with horrible burns, and his clothes were scorched and torn to the point of falling apart.

“You,” Gazzy spat. His voice was shaking. “You’re the one from the tunnels! You hurt me and my sister!”

We were all glaring daggers at Mark, but despite his burns and the excruciating pain he must’ve been in, his expression was one of dreamy bliss, and that was what truly scared me, what made the hair on my arms stand up and my blood run cold. Angry people I can deal with; I can handle rage with a quick fight. Insane people are much more terrifying. They’re totally unpredictable.

“Just say the word,” Fang said to me under his breath. My hands clenched into fists as I prepared to kill the man who had taken Angel from us, to tear him limb from limb. Dylan readied himself beside me.

“I’m not a threat, children,” Mark said, still wearing that crazed, happy expression of his. He took a step forward and the six of us stepped back instinctively. “This was all for you. At last, it’s begun.” Mark paused, looking bemusedly around at the destruction, at the burned wreckage, as if not really understanding what had happened. “It’s begun,” he repeated. Another beatific smile. “My work here is done. I’ve saved the planet. Saved it, protected it for the select few. And you, my friends, will benefit.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded. If there’s anything worse than a psychopath, it’s one who thinks he’s doing his evil deeds for a good reason. “How has all this”—I waved my arm to encompass our surroundings—“saved the planet? How was what you did in Paris protecting the planet?” I was shrieking in his face, rage dripping from my every word.

His eyes were peaceful. “You’ll see,” he assured me. He glanced down at his burned arms, the flesh flayed open and raw. He didn’t seem to be feeling anything. He looked up, his eyes coming to rest on one shattered window. Its wire-embedded glass had been twisted outward by some explosive force. Mark examined it: a novelty. Then he turned back to us. “You’ll see,” he repeated. “The contagion has been unleashed. Now all will come to pass. And you’ll thank me for it.”

“Not likely,” I said, advancing toward him. “The only contagion I’m aware of is you and your insane cult. Now, if you don’t tell us where you took—”

“Take care of the earth, my children,” Mark interrupted, still smiling.

And then he threw himself out the window.

We have lightning-fast reflexes, but none of us got to him in time—it had happened so fast, with no warning. Horrified, we ran to the window and looked out. We weren’t up very high, but he’d landed on a pile of broken concrete. Shafts of rusty rebar stuck up at different angles, one of them directly through Mark’s throat.

He still had that pleasant smile on his face, but his eyes stared blankly into nothing.

“Unhhh,” Nudge groaned, and then vomited on the floor at my feet.

As I rubbed her back, I felt warm hands on my shoulders, and for a second I couldn’t tell if it was Dylan or Fang. Then Fang moved into my line of sight, scowling. It was Dylan who stood behind me.

I stared down at Mark’s body and felt bile rising in my own throat. “Well, that’s… that,” I said shakily, moving away from the window.

“So, we continue searching for Angel?” Dylan asked quietly.

I nodded. “We always continue searching for Angel.”

55

WE SEARCHED THE whole place, and my heart sank lower with every empty room. Not that the rooms were actually empty. They were full of the stuff of nightmares: bloodstained operating tables, cabinets full of horrifying tools, jars of specimens that made my stomach turn. Only Iggy would avoid having these appalling images seared into his brain. The rest of us would carry them forever, like scars.

Nudge reached out and took my hand, held it tightly as we looked at another huge jar holding a preserved experiment. Oh, God.

“Evil. So evil,” I muttered, feeling heartsick.

This had to be where Angel had been kept captive, ever since Paris. I didn’t say anything to the others, but a black fog was starting to shroud my aching heart. How could she have survived this? And if she had survived it, how would she ever recover? Not just physically, but emotionally. We’d already been through more than anyone should have to go through. What if she’d finally been pushed over the edge? What if she could never come back?

After yet another horrifying sight made me gag, I leaned against the wall and rubbed my eyes, which stung from the lingering smoke and chemical fumes. My throat was scratchy and dry, and it ached from the effort of suppressing my cries of shock and horror.

“She’s not here,” Gazzy said tonelessly, sitting down on a broken beam. “Or if she’s here, she’s part of the ashes.” His voice broke.

“Let’s start over again, from the first building,” Dylan said, squeezing Gazzy’s shoulder. He sounded tired but determined.

“No,” said Fang. “We should take to the sky, do recon, and see if they left tracks—whoever escaped, I mean. She could be with them.”

“You think some people escaped?” Nudge’s face was drawn.

Fang nodded. “Someone always escapes.”

This had all been for nothing. My baby was still gone.

Don’t give up, Max.

My Voice was very, very faint. It had never before sounded like it was talking to me from as far away as the moon; I almost thought I’d imagined it.

Then I saw something through the dust on the floor. I pushed aside some charred beams and uncovered a metal trapdoor, maybe two feet by two feet and padlocked from the outside.

“Nudge?” I whispered.

Closing her eyes, she swept her sensitive fingers over the lock several times. I didn’t know how or why she could affect metal with her touch, but I was glad she could. Her fingers trembled with both effort and emotion, and we all clung to the hope that there might be one more place we hadn’t looked.

The lock sprang open in her hand, and we yanked the doors open.

A narrow metal staircase led down into darkness.

I went down first, my senses screaming with alertness. It took my eyes a couple of seconds to adjust to the lack of light, but at my first quick scan, we seemed to be in a small room.

An empty room.

I felt a terrible pain in my chest as my heart constricted with grief. There was nowhere else to look. Angel was either dead or being rushed to another secret facility, and I knew she wouldn’t be able to withstand this torture until we could find her again.

The tears I had been holding back during our search suddenly started streaming down my face. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to fly out of there and never come back. Let the world take care of itself from now on. I was done.

As I turned to rush out, my eyes fell on a small back room, behind the stairs we had just come down. I reached the doorway in two strides.

A feathery, dirty heap was strapped to a table in one cold corner.

“Angel?” I whispered, not letting myself believe it could be her. We knew there were other winged kids out there. It would be too good to be true….

I took a few more steps toward the figure, and then collapsed to the floor beside it. I knew that face, that hair, no matter how wrecked they had become.

Trust me, it’s impossible to describe the rush that happens when your whole soul shifts, in an instant, from despair and loss to realizing that maybe it was all just a horrible lie, a nightmare—that hope is truly alive.

“Angel!” I cried, sobbing and stroking matted curls away from her grimy face, while Fang immediately started dismantling the clamps. “Angel! We’re right here. We came to get you. Angel—wake up!”

I gently cradled her head, which lolled back. Was it really her? Or just… her body?

I got no response. As soon as Fang was finished with the clamps I gathered her up, and it felt like I was holding Styrofoam. There was hardly anything there, as if she hadn’t eaten since Paris. Numerous puncture wounds dotted both arms. How many times could my baby be torn from me and survive it?

The massive tsunami wave of joy I’d felt moments earlier was already rushing back out to sea.

“Angel, please,” I begged, cuddling her close. “Please be okay. We’re all here now. Max, Fang, Iggy, Nudge, Gazzy, Dylan… we’re all right here. You’re safe. We’re all together. Please, sweetie, please wake up.” My words were coming in gasps.

Then—had I imagined it? Had her too-thin, too-light body shifted?

She made a tiny sound. Her eyelids fluttered.

“She’s alive!” Gazzy’s voice was hushed but thrilled.

A fierce joy swelled inside me. She was alive! She really was!

And she was going to stay that way, at least while I was on this planet. No matter what, I would never, ever let her out of my sight. We would never be separated again.

56

MY BRAIN WAS on a drunken loop of joy, disbelief, shock, ecstasy.

This is really my Angel, my own Angel….

The others crowded around and tried to touch and embrace her, so they, too, could truly believe what I was still trying to absorb. But I wouldn’t let go of her.

“We need to get her out of here,” Dylan instructed, gently pushing his way in close to help me lift her body. I hardly registered Fang’s irritated look. Nothing in the world mattered to me at that moment except keeping my little girl safe with me.

I stood up and carried Angel upstairs, into the light. Someone had padlocked her in that underground room—there would have been no way for her to get out. Someone had left her there to die.

“Max?” Her voice was barely a breath.

“Yes, sweetie,” I said, trying not to leak tears on her. “I’m here. We’re going to get you somewhere safe, get you all patched up, good as new.”

Her small head shook. “I’ll never be as good as new,” she whispered weakly. “They messed up my eyes. They clipped my wings.”

“What?”

“I’ll never fly again,” she whimpered sadly. Tears slowly streaked the dirt on her face.

Quickly I traced down her primary feathers to her flight feathers, fanning them gently in my hand. They looked fine.

“No, your feathers are okay,” I reassured her, understanding the kind of crazy confusion the whitecoats’ drugs could cause. “You’ll be fine—I promise. You’ll be flying in no time. We’ll take care of you.”

Her eyes opened slightly and she looked into the sky, past my head. “They experimented on my eyes, Max.”

A cold fist grabbed my heart and yanked. “What?”

“Like Iggy,” she confirmed, and I was seized with fresh horror. “Jeb was here—he said it was for my own good.” Her voice was weak—it was hard to make out what she was saying.

“Tell me, Angel,” I said urgently, pulling Gazzy to my side. “Who is standing right next to me? Tell me. Don’t tell me you’re blind.”

“I—I—” She blinked. And blinked again. We were all holding our breath. “My brother… Gazzy…” She breathed. “Is that you?”

Gazzy threw his arms around her and sobbed.

“Everything is kind of a blur,” Angel whispered as Gazzy pulled away.

“Shh, sweetie,” I said. “Don’t try to talk. You’re waking up from a drug-induced nightmare. We’ll make sure you’re okay. We’re going to take you home now.”

Again she shook her head, opened her eyes. She peered up at me anxiously, her eyes not quite focusing. “Max, your mom was there. I saw her. Dr. Martinez. She’s… she’s one of them.”

I looked up to see the flock recoiling in shock.

“No, sweetie,” I said, my mind reeling. “You’ve been hallucinating. Your feathers are fine, and my mom isn’t one of the baddies. It was all just weird hallucinations.”

Angel shook her head. “No. Your mom was there. She helped them. Dr. Martinez is on their side.”

57

I TRIED TO keep my emotions under control as we flew home, but sometimes I could barely see through the tears.

Angel weighed so little that it was no problem for Dylan, Iggy, Fang, and me to take turns carrying her on the flight. We also picked up Total on the return trip. I knew he’d want to see Angel right away, and I was right—I’d never heard him bark so wildly with joy.

As soon as Angel was settled—cleaned up and in fresh clothes, but still pale and worn out—I left her sleeping peacefully, with Nudge and Gazzy in charge and Total curled up at her side. I needed to be alone in the woods for a minute to get my emotions under control—otherwise I’d be a crying mess when Angel was finally ready to talk about what had happened.

So it wasn’t necessarily the best timing when Fang crept up quietly behind me, just like he always used to, and scared the stuffing out of me.

“We need to talk. About you. And me.”

I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks. “There is no you and me, per your instructions,” I said, my jaw clenching.

“I don’t know about that,” he said.

“Oh, please. You left,” I said accusingly. “Twice, actually. You threw any us we had in my face! Then you decided to get all hot and heavy with Maya.” That last part came out before I could stop it, and I cringed, remembering what Ari had said.

“Maya’s dead,” Fang said tensely, confirming what I already knew. I winced at the grief in his voice. “And this isn’t about her. It’s about the connection you and I have—will always have, no matter what.” I opened my mouth to retort, but nothing came out, so Fang forged right on, breaking my heart with his honesty.

“I heard a Voice, Max,” he said, gripping my arm, pulling me closer, “and it told me I needed to come home to you. Even though I had to practically walk the whole way. Even though I was close to dying. I came back. To you. And I wanted to tell you—maybe I never told you very clearly before…”

My heart was racing so fast I thought I was having a heart attack.

“I wanted to tell you that I—”

“Stop!” I cried, putting my hands over my ears. “Just don’t, okay?”

But Fang looked determined, and there was only one thing to do when he looked like that. I took off.

If I pour on the speed, I can hit almost three hundred miles per hour while flying—faster than any recombinant life-form I’ve ever heard about. Faster than anyone. Except Fang.

I was probably already a couple of miles away, still sniveling and cursing, when I felt a hand grab my sneaker. He stayed with me, matching me stroke for stroke without releasing his death grip on my ankle.

Finally it was too hard to stay balanced, so I put on the brakes. I banked steeply and whirled around to face him.

“Fang, I can’t hear this right now!” I shouted, tears streaming down my face. “My life is hard and confusing enough without you making it harder! Everything’s just really, you know, complicated, and…” I trailed off, thinking of the complicated things in my life. The other complicated someone.

“I’m not trying to make it harder or more confusing,” Fang said quietly, smiling that lopsided smile of his. Warm emotion showed in his black eyes, and for a minute I actually had to concentrate on staying airborne. “I’m trying to tell you what you already know. I just… need you. We need each other.”

“But I just can’t do this.” I flailed my arms around, indicating whatever this was—encompassing everything. “With you. Not now, not today, not after everything we’ve been through with Angel, so…” I swallowed, trying to ignore my stupid heart. “Just don’t say any more,” I whispered. “Please.”

But if I could hear the catch in my voice, I knew Fang had picked up on it, too.

He had moved closer. We were nose to nose now, our wings almost overlapping as each stroke took us up ten feet, then down again. We’d been flying together our whole lives, and keeping in perfect rhythm was second nature to us. My arms were crossed over my chest, my elbows almost brushing against him, and Fang reached out and held my arms, below my shoulders. He let his thumbs brush against my skin, slowly.

I shivered. Fang’s touch was so familiar. How many times had he done this? Old times and new all jumbled together. Emotions and memories became indecipherable. The only thing I knew was that we’d grown and changed. It was almost like he was a new Fang. I felt almost like a new Max. Could we still… fit together?

“Max.” He said my name like it was a life raft. Like it was a religion. His warm fingers stroked up and down my arms.

“What?” I whispered. Or had I even said it aloud? I didn’t know what to do, so I stared into his eyes for the answer. And I let them rest there. I didn’t want to be the first to look away.

I reached out and put my hands on his shoulders, felt his strong, light bones under his skin. I remembered what he had carved into a cactus once.

MAX + FANG—4EVER.

58

TEARS POURED DOWN Dylan’s face. He dashed them away angrily with the back of his hand, flapping his wings powerfully and putting as much distance between himself and them as he could.

He’d been in a tree a good half mile away from them—not spying, just… seeing. Seeing his past going up in flames, his future crumbling into dust. He wasn’t about to stick around to watch Max and Fang finally have their little private reunion party.

He’d thought what he and Max had was starting to grow into something… real. She’d let him sleep in her room. And that night in the tree house… He remembered the feel of Max’s skin under his fingertips, her wildly tangled hair brushing against his cheek, the look she gave him just before their lips met….

He could live and die inside that single look.

Dylan shook his head, flapped his wings harder. Faster. He took the next turn too tightly and lost control, dropping hundreds of feet before he could level himself. He saw the forest ahead. Tall trees, growing thickly together. He narrowed his eyes and dove down.

He wove crazily in and out of the trees, at top speed. He scared birds, startled a group of deer, and still he went as fast as possible, so fast that the wind would dry his tears.

Again and again he flipped sideways to fit through narrow openings. His sneakers smacked against tree trunks. Bark raked the skin on his hands and face raw. Branches caught at his feathers, and he felt some get yanked out, but he didn’t even wince.

It felt good, the pain. He wanted more.

All this time he’d tried to be good. He’d followed the rules—or at least the rules Max had set. He had learned to fly and to fight, had followed her lead. He had given her space, and then pressed a little closer when she seemed to want it. He’d done everything he was supposed to, when he was supposed to. He had thought if he could just be perfect, Max would love him.

But she loved Fang instead. Fang, who seemed to break every rule in the book. Dylan set his jaw. Fine, he thought. She wants a bad boy like Fang, I can do that.

Bam!

He brought his feet down, hard, on the roof of a car that was driving toward town, making a huge dent.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Three more cars suffered the same fate. Dylan felt a rush of thrill and fear: This was the best he’d felt since Fang had come back.

On the next car, Dylan dropped down even lower. Snap! One quick kick took the side mirror right off. Crash! A rear windshield was smashed to smithereens.

It was an incredible feeling of power, a power he’d never felt before.

He rose a bit and banked sideways dramatically, hearing car horns honking, people shouting. He wheeled around the store on the corner, then swooped down and grabbed the store’s banner with one hand, ripping it from where it had hung across the sidewalk. It landed on a car driving underneath it, causing the driver to lose control and crash into a telephone pole.

But Dylan was already halfway down the street, ripping street signs from their posts and hurling them like Frisbees. People were yelling at him now. A baseball whistled past his head. He could hear sirens behind him.

Over and over, he dropped down suddenly, kicked over a mailbox, a trash can, a trellis. But the pain in his chest was returning. He reached up and ripped the electrical wires strung along the street from their poles. Sparks shot everywhere as the live wires fell to the ground, igniting the bulging trash bags that lined the curb.

At last Dylan realized he was weeping again. He could hardly see. What was happening to him? Nothing was making sense—least of all his behavior.

He rose gracefully, powerfully into the air, leaving behind a roiling fire that was beginning to streak through a destroyed neighborhood.

This isn’t the answer, Dylan, said his Voice. You know what your job is. You know what you have to do. Dylan shook his head, as if he could shake the Voice loose, make it go away forever.

A thought flitted through his brain like the light fingers of a practiced thief. He turned around slowly and tasted bile in his throat.

No. He couldn’t. Could he?

It was the answer to so many of his problems. What he couldn’t do was what the science teacher had demanded on that awful day in the lab at school—he couldn’t turn Fang over for the whitecoats to experiment on, no matter how much he hated him at that moment. He would never condemn anyone to such a fate.

But if he didn’t turn Fang in, someone else would. And if what Dr. Williams had said was true, they would hurt—possibly kill—Max as a result.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Dylan’s mind spun. Maybe this awful thought… maybe this was the right thing to do in the end. It would spare Fang from a horrible life of tests and scalpels and torture. It would save Max’s life. She would be grateful; maybe she’d even come to love him for it… someday.

Dylan swallowed. The Voice was right. He did know what he had to do. He had known all along.

He had to kill Fang.

59

“OH, MY GOD, it’s Dylan.”

My head swiveled sharply at Gazzy’s words and I practically ran to where he sat on the couch. He was pointing at the TV screen.

“What ‘oh, my God’?” I demanded. “What ‘Dylan’?”

“He’s… he’s… gone wacko,” said Gazzy.

I turned my attention to the news broadcast, which was showing a grainy, shaky cell phone video… of a bird kid rampaging through town. My mouth dropped open as I saw Dylan—and he was totally, prosecutably recognizable as Dylan—smashing windows, ripping down signs, kicking cars, knocking over mailboxes.

“It doesn’t seem like him at all,” said Gazzy. “He’s always so laid back. Maybe it’s, like, a clone or something?” he offered.

“No,” I murmured, anxiously watching the screen. “No, I think it’s really him.” But why was he on this insane destructive streak? What had happened since I last saw him? I tried to think when that was….

He’d been with me all day, right up until—oh. Suddenly it all became horribly clear, and my stomach clenched. Dylan had been near the door when I’d gone outside to be alone. He must have seen Fang follow me, which meant he’d seen Fang and me fly off, out of earshot of the house.

What else had he seen?

“This is all my fault,” I muttered, grabbing my jacket. “I’m going to find him.”

Before Gazzy could say anything, I’d leaped off our balcony and was streaking toward town.

60

I WAS AT the edge of town before I realized that I had no idea what I was going to say to Dylan when I found him.

Dylan had had my back when I didn’t really have anyone else, and he was the last person in the world I wanted to hurt. He was… Well, he was a great guy, and I knew exactly how much he cared about me. He’d worn his heart on his wing, and he deserved honesty from me in return.

But what could I say to him? What could I offer him? What could I promise? How could I know what to say when I hardly even knew what to feel these days?

God help me.

I kept myself high enough in the sky so that people wouldn’t necessarily spot me right away. But I could still see everything, and I almost skidded to a halt when I saw firsthand the damage Dylan had done.

The town was in chaos. It looked like a tornado had streaked through, wrecking everything in its path. There were dented cars stopped on Main Street, store owners talking angrily to police, people sweeping up glass and reattaching signs. It was like Dylan had woken up today and decided to play Godzilla.

I let out a slow breath, understanding the implication: The measure of damage that Dylan had caused was probably about equal to the amount of pain he might be in right now.

Because of me.

My heart in my throat, I kept scanning the streets, but what I didn’t see was Dylan. I went high, way high, to give myself a broader view, but saw not a feather. I scanned treetops, the roofs of buildings, other places suitable for hiding out and seething, but he had disappeared.

And when he came back—if he came back—how would things be then? Would he still be the sweet, vulnerable Dylan I had begrudgingly come to rely on, to even like?

To more than like. I couldn’t admit to myself just what that feeling was, but it was something that had started to work its way deep inside me.

I’d been trying for so long to ignore his adoring looks, to distance myself and push him away.

So if I’d finally succeeded, why did it hurt so much?

61

HE’S HOME.

That was my first thought when I was rudely jolted out of a restless sleep that night. For the second time in just a couple of weeks, Iggy’s alarm system was sending wails and automated warning messages through the house in the middle of the night.

Be angry, I told myself as I bolted from my bed. He shouldn’t have taken off like that, shouldn’t have caused all that damage. You’re furious. But I couldn’t stop the feelings of relief and elation that swept through me as I headed for the door.

“What is it? Who’s attacking us?” Gazzy yelled from his room. “Should I bring the bombs?”

“Max?” Angel whimpered, stumbling out of my way sleepily as I rounded the corner and ran down the hall.

“It’s okay, Angel. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry, guys,” I yelled over my shoulder as I started to unbolt the locks. “Iggy! Cut the alarm! It’s just Dyl—”

I breathlessly threw open the door, and a sea of glowing red eyes peered at me out of the frigid darkness.

Behind me, Nudge sucked in a breath—there were a lot of eyes, and they were feral, bloodthirsty: Erasers.

I swallowed, my words dying on my lips. “Of course,” I muttered, trying not to show how overwhelmed I was by the sheer numbers, how unprepared I’d just been caught. I had opened the door to these mongrels, without any weapon or plan. I had practically invited them in.

I cleared my throat and stepped right out onto the porch. I could hear breathing and shuffling in the darkness, animal sounds that sent chills down my spine. You’d think I would be used to it by now. “So,” I said loudly, “is there a specific reason you flea-bitten wolves are attacking? Or is it just my lucky day?”

“Just your lucky day, sis.”

I knew that voice: bitter, deep, like a bunch of rocks being rattled in a can. Ari.

The crowd of Erasers parted so he could walk through, and he stopped just ten feet from the bottom of the stairs. My stomach turned somersaults—somehow he looked even bigger and wolfier. Maybe he had been “enhanced” some more.

“This is the end, Max,” Ari said, stepping into the beam of the porch light and showing his yellow fangs. “I promise.”

“I stopped believing your promises a long time ago,” I said. I felt just a tiny bit sad, remembering the cute kid he had once been. My half brother.

The other Erasers were moving forward now, ever so slowly. Every single one of them was staring fixedly in the same direction. At the same person.

And it wasn’t me.

“We’re here for you, Fang,” Ari said, looking into the hallway behind me and grinning toothily as he cracked his meaty, hairy knuckles. “We’re here to kill you, and trust me—this is one fight you bird kids can’t win.”

Fang came out to stand beside me, his fists clenched, his face tight with anger. “I wouldn’t bet on that.”

“Your funeral,” Ari said, shrugging. He held up one hairy fist, ready to give the signal to his army.

I tensed, settling my weight as I prepared to leap off the porch. I didn’t know if these Erasers could fly, but regardless, I was not going to start this fight on my feet. I was ready. I’d been ready for this for a long time. And my plan was to ignore any and all pain until every Eraser was gone.

But you know, things can always, always, take a turn for the worse.

“Just say the word, Dad,” Ari called out.

So there you go.

62

OUT OF THE shadows stepped the one, the only, the despicable Jeb. And get this—he was actually wearing a white lab coat. And a small frown.

“Wait, Ari,” Jeb said firmly. “I need to explain things first.”

For a moment, I thought Ari was going to ignore the command and just attack us anyway—that was what he would have done just a few months earlier. He hated and resented Jeb as much as he did us.

But after a moment’s hesitation, he nodded and slowly lowered his fist, though he never took his rabid eyes from Fang’s face.

Jeb moved closer to the porch. I kept my face expressionless, staying in battle mode. My muscles were coiled, my heart was pumping, and every sense was hyperalert. I knew that my flock—even Angel, who was still so fragile—was ready, just like I’d trained ’em to be. Just like Jeb had trained me.

“Max, Fang,” Jeb said, sounding urgent, “I need you to understand.”

Behind him, Ari shifted, and all of the red Eraser eyes in the darkness shifted along with him. They were muttering now, and I heard twigs snapping as they moved around impatiently. I had no idea how long Ari or Jeb could keep them in check.

“Save it,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “We don’t need to listen to any more of your lies.”

“No, but you do need to know the truth, Max. The truth about why Fang must die.”

I laughed coldly. “That actually sounds like something we absolutely don’t need to hear,” I replied. “It sounds totally irrelevant, actually. Because Fang isn’t going to die. You may have created us, Jeb, but you do not get to decide when we die. The only expiration date that’s approaching is yours, the second you try to get any closer to him.”

I saw the rest of the flock out of the corner of my eye, moving to stand next to me on the porch in support. Iggy stepped protectively in front of Fang and crossed his arms.

“Max, you don’t understand.” Jeb looked up at me. “I don’t want Fang to die, any more than you do. But he needs to. If the earth is going to survive, Fang must die.”

Fang stepped forward from the shadows and let out a long breath. “Go on,” he said, watching Jeb steadily.

I reached out and took his hand, holding it tight.

“When you were in Dr. Gunther-Hagen’s lab,” began Jeb, “he took samples of your tissue, did all sorts of tests on you, on your skin and muscles and organs. And eventually he made an amazing discovery. Fang, your DNA is indestructible. Infinitely regenerative.”

“We all heal quickly,” I ground out.

“No, Max, sweetie.” Jeb shook his head slowly, ignoring the look on my face at the word “sweetie.” “Fang is different. His DNA holds science’s key to immortality.”

Okay, I did not see that coming.

63

“I’M SO SORRY,” Jeb said sincerely. “But now you understand why Fang must be eliminated.”

I scowled at him. “No, actually, I can’t say I do.”

“If my DNA is so special, wouldn’t that make me useful to keep alive?” asked Fang dryly. “For science?”

“Yes,” Jeb agreed. “And that’s exactly why Hans wants you alive—for that very reason. He intends to lock you up in his lab and put you into a permanent vegetative state. You understand what that means, don’t you? You would be just a body, unable to move, think, eat, talk. A body that Hans intends to perform live experiments on forever.”

I stared at Jeb in shock. Imagining Fang like that made me want to throw up.

Jeb paused, looking positively misty-eyed. “I myself would end your life right now, to save you from that endless nightmare. I created you, Fang. I could never let you endure that.”

“He wouldn’t have to endure anything,” I said briskly, my mind racing. “We’d protect him. And if you loved us, you would, too. Take him somewhere safe. Somewhere Dr. Hans would never find him. We’re good at running from idiots—as you well know, Jeb.”

Jeb coughed and looked at the ground. When he looked back at me, his eyes were pleading, but apologetic. “It’s not just Dr. Hans, Max. News travels fast in the world of science. Believe me, if I know of the discovery, many others do as well. And for something of this magnitude… They would come looking, more and more. You couldn’t protect Fang forever”—his lips curled into a sad smile—“and I’m afraid that’s how long you’d need to. What happens when you die, Maximum? Have you considered that? Who will protect Fang then?”

I clenched my fists but didn’t answer. My mouth was dry, and I felt empty and hollow.

“I can take care of myself,” Fang muttered. “Especially if I’m immortal.”

Jeb shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid you’re not immortal, Fang. We’ve determined that your DNA holds the secret to the pursuit of immortality. There’s a difference. You’re a critical link in the next great step in human evolution.” He cleared his throat. “But this is not just about you, kiddo. This is bigger. It’s about saving the whole world.” Jeb looked at me. “It’s what you’ve been preparing for all this time, Max.”

“Wait—what?” Fang and I said at the same time.

My mind reeled as I tried to get a handle on this scenario. And Ari and the Erasers were having a harder time than I was—they were clearly bored out of their pea-sized minds and were visibly salivating, shivering with anticipation as they waited anxiously to tear into Fang.

Behind me, Nudge, Iggy, Gazzy, and Angel shifted their feet and unfurled their wings in case things got ugly in a hurry. It looked like they might.

Jeb went on, “Immortality might sound like a good thing, but as soon as it can be genetically engineered, we’ll have a disaster on our hands. If people live forever, their numbers will increase exponentially—like a cancer metastasizing across the earth,” Jeb said earnestly. “This is why I truly believe in the 99% Plan. The planet only has a chance if we take people out of the equation.”

“Oh, come on,” I scoffed, but Jeb was looking at Ari, who was moving toward his army of Erasers.

“It’s okay,” Fang said to me, trying to look reassuring. “They can’t hurt me. I already cheated death once. I was pretty much resurrected after I was thrown from the cliff.”

“Lose your God complex, my friend,” Ari sneered. “When we get through with you, there won’t be anything left to resurrect.”

“I created you, Fang. I created a… well, a monster,” Jeb said. “And now it’s my duty to destroy you, before Dr. Hans and those like him can torture you forever. Before your DNA can destroy our planet. I’m so sorry, Fang!”

He nodded at Ari: Take him out.

64

BOOM!

I whipped around and saw that Gazzy had produced a bunch of homemade bombs—yes, from his pajamas—and started hurling them into the crowd. There were three fast explosions, and each one took out at least six Erasers. That’s my boy, I thought proudly—

—and that thought cost me, because at that moment a huge, hard fist collided with my jawbone, rattling my brain and smashing my teeth together painfully. I rose into the air, fast, moving on instinct. As I took off I spit blood down on the crowd and moved my jaw to make sure it wasn’t broken. I shook my head to clear it.

A hundred to six—by far the worst odds we’d ever faced. But I wasn’t going down easily, and neither was Fang—I’d make sure of that. I set my aching teeth and dive-bombed the mass of writhing, hairy bodies.

“Max, duck!”

I obeyed the order instantly. A bird kid streaked past me and rammed the Eraser I’d been aiming for. I had one startled second to glimpse sun-blond hair. Caribbean-blue eyes flashed at me and then turned their focus back to the battle.

“Dylan!” I half shrieked as I slammed my cupped hands over an Eraser’s ears. His eardrums burst, and he howled in agony. “What the—Are you insane?”

“Later!” he yelled back. “I’m sorry!”

So am I, I thought, and then grabbed an Eraser’s thick wrist and twisted, snapping it and stopping the Eraser before it got to Nudge. But three more were already after her. And three more were coming for me. I dodged them and did a quick spin to get my arm around one of their necks.

Suddenly I heard a loud roar: Ari had Fang in a choke hold. Fang’s wings were pinned against his body, and Ari outweighed him by about a hundred pounds.

I headed toward them but as I did a claw raked my leg, making me gasp, and then several paws grabbed my ankle and pulled me downward. My sneakers hit dirt, and then I was whaling, punching, chopping, and kicking faster and harder than I ever had before. I had to: This fight mattered more than any other fight. Fang’s life hung in the balance. It was do or die for real this time. Possibly both.

I dimly heard another battle cry and from the corner of my eye saw Dylan drop onto Ari, deflecting him away from Fang—a move that made my heart hurt.

Dylan soared upward, into the black sky, and Ari roared ferociously, following him with hatred in his eyes.

My breath caught in my throat: This would be a fight to the death. I knew it would.

65

MY IRRATIONAL DESIRE to join Dylan in combat with Ari was interrupted when a heavy hand on my shoulder made me spin, ready to attack.

Jeb quickly held up his hands.

“Don’t touch me!” I spat.

His face fell, and in that moment, a thousand different memories flickered through my brain: Jeb taking care of us when we were little. Jeb leaving us. Jeb’s face outlined by the fluorescent lights of the School. Jeb taking Angel, Jeb hurting us.

Jeb trying to kill Fang.

Harden your heart.

I put my fists up and narrowed my eyes.

“Max, please—just accept this.” I still knew that voice so well. “Fang has to die. One man sacrificed for the greater good—it’s the right thing to do, sweetie.”

Sweetie.

“Don’t—you—ever—freaking—call—me—that!” I yelled, and then I kicked Jeb, the man who’d raised me, in the chest, hard enough that I heard multiple ribs cracking.

“Ohh,” he moaned in surprise. He staggered backward, and then his face went white and he collapsed in a dead faint on the porch, his head hitting the ground with a thud.

I aImost felt bad, almost moved to help him. Almost. Then I reminded myself that he wanted Fang dead.

I turned from Jeb’s limp body and jumped right back into the fray without a second glance.

There were probably about forty Erasers left, plus Ari. We’d made huge progress, but the six of us were at our breaking point. All of us were bloodied, with black eyes, broken noses, split lips. My arms ached from punching and being punched, and the spot on my leg where the Eraser had clawed me was burning and hurting so badly that I couldn’t put weight on it. There was no way we could last much longer.

Iggy was above me, with four Erasers circling him. It looked like he might have a broken ankle, which was preventing him from kicking out at them. All he could do was keep them away from the rest of us and hope to get in a lucky swing.

Gazzy was trying to keep the Erasers away from the house and distract the ones that were after Iggy, but one of his wings was slightly crumpled, and he couldn’t get off the ground. Several Erasers had him pinned up against a tree at edge of the woods.

Nudge was screaming like a madwoman, pounding her sneaker into the face of an Eraser who held her by the ankle. But two more were coming up on her from behind.

I didn’t know who to help first. And I had at least ten Erasers taking turns diving at me. As I smashed my fist into another one of their disgusting faces, I realized that I had just gotten Angel back… but I might be about to lose someone else.

Or everyone else.

66

CRIES AND GRUNTS overhead caught my attention. Dylan and Ari were both bloody and bruised, like the rest of us, and I couldn’t even tell who was winning.

Dylan quickly landed five lightning-quick kicks to Ari’s stomach, making him double over and wheeze. But Ari straightened almost immediately and swung a huge taloned paw through the air. I bit my lip as he sliced Dylan’s side to ribbons, sending blood splashing thirty feet below to spatter the trampled, icy grass.

Ari had done that to Fang once. Fang had almost died.

I watched, holding my breath, as Dylan abruptly turned and hurtled toward a tree. He grabbed a strong branch, snapped it off as if it were a twig, and dove back toward Ari. Dylan swung the branch in a deadly arc… just as something collided with my head so hard that I gasped and stumbled. Immediately, I felt blood trickling down my cheek.

Watching the fight above had cost me.

I jumped to my feet and almost fell back down as a wave of dizziness hit me. Wiping blood out of my eyes, I made like a windmill, fists swinging in hard punches that jarred my shoulders, feet shooting out in kicks that were backed by every ounce of my weight. I could hardly tell which way was up or down, but I wouldn’t give up. I could hear someone yelling in pain in the distance. My flock needed me.

“Don’t give up, Nudge! Fang—help Gazzy and Iggy!”

I karate-chopped the throat of my umpteenth Eraser and screamed encouragement to my flock. I won’t let them die. Whirling in a circle, I delivered a kick that snapped an Eraser’s arm before shooting up onto the porch, where three more of them were trying to get into the house. There were Erasers everywhere.

I heard a bloodcurdling howl to my right. Dylan swung the tree branch again, and there was a sickening thud. Blood flew in all directions and Ari shrieked with murderous rage. He started to lunge toward Dylan but faltered suddenly, a fatal mistake.

My heart pounding, I watched Dylan swing the branch again, a cold, grim expression on his frighteningly beaten face. This time, the branch smashed into Ari’s head. Ari’s wings folded and he fell down, down, hitting the ground with bone-crunching force.

I stared at Ari’s contorted, unnatural position—a position no living body could be in.

Dylan—alive and upright—floated slowly downward to land a couple of feet away from me on the porch. He looked dazed, and his shirt was shredded and so wet with blood that I couldn’t tell what color it had been. His face was so beaten up that I mainly recognized him by his hair. He looked exhausted. Older.

“Max,” he began, and gave a little cough. Then he collapsed at my feet.

“He’s dead!” someone shouted. I didn’t know who. I was too stunned by the horror of what I’d just witnessed.

But then, impossibly, miraculously, something else happened.

The Erasers suddenly went limp and crumpled lifelessly to the ground one by one.

67

DYLAN WATCHED WITH half-open eyes from the porch floor. Out of batteries, he thought. Game over. He was so dizzy, and not entirely sure he wasn’t hallucinating. The fight with Ari had taken a lot out of him.

“What the—?” Iggy said mid-swing, as the fist he’d aimed at an Eraser’s face connected with empty air.

“How come they’re all down?” the Gasman asked exhaustedly. “Are they dead?”

“What happened?” Nudge asked, swaying slightly. All of the bird kids were more whipped, more damaged than Dylan had ever seen them.

“It’s like… they were all linked,” Fang said hoarsely. He wiped a hand under his nose, which was running with blood. Both of his eyes were swollen almost shut. “All connected, all ‘wired’ to their leader somehow. So if Ari died…”

“Then they would, too,” finished Max. But her voice sounded funny, and she wasn’t looking at the fallen Erasers, wasn’t preoccupied with them the way everyone else was.

She was on her knees, looking at him, at Dylan, her expression afraid and grateful and so, so tender it made his heart thump wildly in his chest. She did care, then. She had to.

“Dylan, can you hear me?” she whispered urgently. Seeing his half-open eyes, she gave a sigh of relief. “I thought you were dead.” She peeled his fingers away from his side.

He looked numbly down at the wound, where dark blood was still flowing freely from deep, agonizing slashes.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” She tore one leg off her sweatpants and he watched her quick, capable fingers transform it into a bandage. He winced as she pressed it against him.

“At least it’s over,” Nudge said weakly. She smiled through a split and puffy lip, then sat down stiffly on a step. “Well, almost.” She warily eyed Jeb’s quietly groaning, semiconscious form, still lying awkwardly next to the porch where he’d passed out earlier, but no one said anything—they’d deal with him later.

“Cheers to that.” The Gasman nodded and plopped down next to her with a sigh of relief, moving as if every muscle hurt.

And yet… for Dylan, it still wasn’t over. Not even almost. Dylan, after all, still had a mission.

Though he and Ari had had the same goal, he hadn’t trusted Jeb’s motives, hadn’t been sure that the rabid, enhanced wolves wouldn’t go wild after Fang was dead and take out the entire flock. He’d needed to eliminate all threats to Max before he attempted his despicable mission. And he knew that once he had made up his mind, he had to be the one to do it.

Well, he thought, now it’s up to me alone.

He had to be the one to kill Fang.

He struggled to his feet, conscious of Max’s sweet, concerned eyes watching him carefully.

“I’m sorry, Max,” he murmured, so softly that only she could hear.

And he whipped around, slamming his fist into Fang’s already broken nose.

68

DYLAN THOUGHT THE shocked look on Fang’s face was utterly priceless. It gave him the strength to do what he knew he had to do next.

Dylan rose into the air with powerful strokes, the air swirling and roiling around him. Fang had shot away from Dylan in shock, anger, and surprise, twisting his face into a grimace as his nose gushed from the blow. But Dylan matched him wing to wing. He was the hunter, his body strong and sure in the pursuit, his face set in grim expectation.

Dr. Williams had been right: He was stronger, more powerful, more advanced. He had been created for this.

There was only one way this could end.

In his mind’s eye, Dylan saw the fight from above—a giant bird of prey and a snarling, wounded grizzly clawing and screeching at each other, streaking violently through the sky like a shooting star, both intent on one thing: blood.

Dylan watched as the bear twisted his lean body defensively, his dark, matted hair lifted by the wind. He watched the paw swing and find its mark, saw blood gushing from fresh wounds. Then Dylan was aware of a spark of electricity, a wetness vibrating on his arm.

He saw those famous fangs, bared and gnashing as a deadly snarl built from somewhere vicious and animal within.

Then he watched the eagle, stalking its prey from above with graceful speed and huge breadth, wings spread, talons out, ready to strike.

Diving for the kill.

Going for the throat.

And before he could register what was going on, Max was there, between them, real and physical, her voice echoing in his eardrums.

“Dylan!” she wailed, blocking Fang, cradling him, propping his body up even as she kicked and clawed at Dylan’s face. “If you ever loved me, if you care about me at all, please”—her voice broke as sobs overtook her, and it was like a knife slicing through him—“don’t do this.”

She was fighting him with all her strength, pulling at his hands, pleading with all her heart. Pleading for him to spare Fang’s life.

As if waking from a nightmare, he blinked a few times and panted as he looked from the tears running down Max’s dirty, bloody face to the hands clenched, viselike, around Fang’s throat.

They were his hands, he understood with shock.

He had wanted to protect Max, he told himself miserably. But Fang’s death, he realized, would kill her as surely as any whitecoat could.

That was when he realized he couldn’t go through with it.

Dylan loved Max more than anything.

Even more than the survival of the earth.

69

JUST WHEN I thought Dylan was going to crush the life out of Fang forever, the word “us” changed everything.

You’re better than this, Dylan, I had screamed at him. They’re the ones making you do this—not you. You don’t want to kill Fang. Let him go. Do it for you. And me. Do it for us!

When I was sure that Fang was on his last breath, when I was sure my heart was one second away from irreversibly shattering, Dylan suddenly released Fang’s throat and shot away from us, his powerful wings beating so fast they were a blur.

I dropped to the ground with Fang’s unconscious body in my arms, still weeping.

“Is Fang…” Nudge asked, her voice trembling.

I could only look at her solemnly as I heaved us both up and staggered toward the house. I didn’t know how to answer her yet, and I couldn’t voice the fears snaking through my thoughts.

“Let’s just get him inside,” I said shakily.

With the flock close on my heels, I laid Fang on the couch, wondering if I would ever have furniture that wasn’t bloodstained. Nudge hurried over with a blanket and carefully covered Fang. I looked at my flock, being so strong, and my throat threatened to close.

I sat down next to Fang and held his cold hand in mine, trying to warm it. I stroked his dark, bloodied hair. The blood vessels in his eyelids and cheeks had burst, and there were tiny red lines streaking over his pale face. The face I’d grown up with, the face I loved. His neck was all blotchy, covered in dark purple, hand-shaped bruises—it looked like Dylan was still choking him.

“He’s supposed to be immortal, anyway, right?” Iggy said from next to me. He was trying to sound tough, but I heard the fear in his voice, and saw how tightly he was pressing his lips together. “Right, Max?”

I shook my head. Iggy hadn’t quite understood Jeb’s shorthand scientific gobbledygook, but I couldn’t explain it to him now. I couldn’t speak. All I could think about was what Angel had said long ago: Fang will be the first to die.

I pressed an ear to Fang’s chest, holding my breath. His heartbeat was weak and erratic, but it was there.

“He’s alive,” I said with a sigh, sweet relief flooding through me. Behind me, Gazzy cheered, and I heard small, hiccupping sobs coming from Angel. “He’s okay, he’s okay—he’s just knocked out,” I continued, my voice hard and determined. “He’s going to be fine.” I concentrated on Fang, trying to will his strength back into him.

“Do you think he needs blood or x-rays or—” Iggy started to say, and then he suddenly froze, a strange expression on his face.

Everything changes now, I heard my Voice say in my head. Be ready. You’ve won this battle, but the real threat has been unleashed. The war has only just begun.

I watched Gazzy’s face grow even paler and saw the despair in Nudge’s eyes, and I realized that the Voice wasn’t just in my own head this time. Every member of my little flock had heard the same thing.

Be ready, the Voice repeated. The 99% Plan is in effect.

70

I DIDN’T EVEN have time to launch into a full-fledged freak-out over the Voice’s message before my thoughts were drowned out by a distinctive chopping sound that was quickly getting louder and louder.

“Is that a helicopter?” Nudge asked, peering out a window. “There’s a helicopter now?”

The chopper was super close—almost right on our roof, it sounded like. I hated leaving Fang for even a second, but I hurried over to the window. Outside, the treetops were bent almost double and dead leaves were flying everywhere. The house windows were starting to shake when the whirring sound of the blades slowed and stopped.

“I seriously can’t deal with this right now,” I muttered. For the first time, I really didn’t know if we were up to any new challenge. My flock was bloody and beaten up, Fang was still out cold, and Dylan was gone. If this was some new threat, I didn’t have a Plan B. Or a Plan A, for that matter.

I needed a break. But leaders don’t get breaks.

“Okay,” I said, straightening my shoulders even though inside I was screaming. I pushed a strand of blood-soaked hair out of my eyes. “I’m going to go see what’s up. If I’m not back in ten, I’m either dead or asleep on my feet. Stay with Fang—keep him safe. Do not come after me.”

With that, I walked woodenly back outside. It was fully light out. I stepped over the fallen Erasers and past Jeb, who was still lying next to the porch, unconscious. I didn’t have enough energy to feel anything toward the man who had created me, the man who had betrayed me in the worst way imaginable—more than once. I’d been awake since about three AM, and most of those hours had been spent locked in fatal combat. I was too exhausted to feel anything but despair.

The chopper had landed on a piece of flat ground right next to the house. I squinted but couldn’t see through the tinted windows, so I stopped and waited to see what fresh disaster was about to emerge.

The chopper’s small door opened.

I braced myself.

My mother, Valencia Martinez, stepped out.

That did it. My knees gave out, and I crumpled in an ungraceful pile on the trampled grass.

71

“MAX!” MY MOM cried, and her voice washed over me like a warm breeze. She sprinted toward me, her arms open, her face twisted with concern.

“It is really you?” I asked, blearily looking up at her as she lifted me from the ground. She nodded and smiled her warm, familiar smile.

After a quick embrace she pulled back and gently placed both of her hands on my shoulders, her worried eyes appraising my blood-spattered clothes and dirty face.

“Let me look at you,” she said. “What happened to you?”

“Jeb,” I said bleakly. “Jeb happened. And Ari. And his Erasers. And Dylan… He attacked Fang—they were all trying to kill Fang, and…” I couldn’t stop the sobs that overtook me then.

“Oh, honey,” she said, hugging me tight. “I’m so sorry. I tried to get here sooner….”

“It’s not your fault,” I said, still crying. I hugged her back with all I had, breathing in her warm, homey scent.

“I’m not so sure about that, Max,” she said quietly, her voice wracked with pain.

I pulled away, wiping my nose on my dirty sleeve, and stared at her blankly. I couldn’t process what she might have meant; I was too wrapped up in the joy of having her back.

Mom looked at me solemnly, seemingly prepared for the worst. “Where is Fang?” she asked. “Is he alive?”

I nodded, pointing toward the house, and she dashed off.

The next hour was a blur of my mom checking on Fang and then helping the rest of us get patched up as best we could. Gazzy and Nudge both needed stitches, and I was so glad that my mom was a trained medical professional. For animals, but still.

“Fang will be fine, I think,” she said, and I breathed another sigh of relief. “He has a concussion, so he needs to take it easy for a while. But he should wake up soon. Everything else looks worse than it actually is.”

I nodded. With Fang sorted out, I finally asked the other burning question that had been on my mind: “Mom, what happened to you? Where have you been all this time?”

Her eyes flicked to Angel and filled with something it took me a moment to recognize. “It’s… a long story,” she replied hesitantly. It was shame she had in her eyes, I realized. Angel blinked, looking down, and said nothing.

My heart froze as I remembered what she’d told me: Max, your mom was there. I saw her. Dr. Martinez. She’s one of them. The expression on my mom’s face now told me Angel hadn’t been hallucinating.

“No,” I said, drawing in a sharp breath. “No, Mom, not you…” I felt like I was trying to swallow a whole ice cube.

“Please believe me when I tell you this, Max,” my mom said tentatively. “I was brainwashed. Jeb brainwashed me as effectively as the Doomsday Group did Ella and Iggy. You remember how quickly that cult spread, like a pandemic. I… I never thought I’d be a victim of that kind of thing, and it still seems impossible to me that it happened. I’m a doctor, a pragmatist, not some unhinged fanatic! It’s a mystery that I’m going to investigate for the rest of my life. But, honestly, Max, I don’t have time to deal with that just now. All I know is that I have to get you kids to safety right away—”

“Not so fast, Mom,” I interrupted, crossing my arms over my chest and shaking my head in disbelief. “If you were brainwashed, how do I know you’re not ‘under the influence’ anymore?”

She looked at me intently, her eyes pleading. “I know it’s hard to believe, Max. But after Jeb left, this… spell, or whatever it is… disappeared. Wore off. I don’t know. Jeb just knows me too well. He’s an incredibly smart and powerful man, and apparently he’s figured out how to use his power to control me. I somehow fell into believing again in a man I once thought could change the world, stupidly following him into the darkness.”

For the first time, my mother seemed imperfect. And a hundred percent human.

“When Jeb left the lab,” she rushed on, “I suddenly saw the true horror in everything and everyone around me at the facility. I knew Jeb was insane at that point. But I also gained valuable information as… one of them. I knew 99% was beginning, so I left the lab and immediately notified Pierpont that we had to get to you and the flock. To implement the final steps we’d been working on together for so long.”

The rest of the flock was crowded around me, shocked into silence. My face was hard, giving nothing away as I listened. I didn’t like the sound of the words “final steps we’d been working on together for so long.” It seemed like this new development came with more secrets, more lies. The stuff my life was made of.

“I promise you this is the real me, Max.” Mom swallowed, looking at me levelly. “And I promise you, all of you, that I’m back now. I know what’s right, what’s true, and I’m on your side.”

None of us answered her or so much as breathed, but I could feel the eyes of each member of the flock on my face as they waited for my next move. Whatever I said, they would follow my lead.

“Angel, check her mind,” I said faintly, still trying to harden my heart against the possible outcome. “See if she’s telling the truth.”

My mom closed her eyes, openly accepting the mind reading. Please let that be a good sign, I said to myself.

After what seemed like multiple eternities, Angel said, slowly, “She’s being honest. Dr. Martinez isn’t with the 99% Plan anymore. She’s a good guy.”

72

“NINO HAS A jet waiting for us, back near the city,” my mom said. “We can take the chopper there. With the 99% Plan taking effect and God knows how many scientists seeking Fang for his DNA, you won’t be safe here. You need a new beginning.”

Four pairs of eyes turned toward me, pleading. The flock waited for my decision.

“Yeah,” I said wearily. “Getting out of here sounds good.”

The flock responded with the biggest smiles I’d seen in weeks.

But as we raced through the house gathering our things, Total weaving between my legs, barking orders about packing techniques, two thoughts wouldn’t leave my mind: Where is Dylan? And: What about Jeb?

I didn’t know why Dylan had done what he’d done or where he’d disappeared to, so there was nothing I could do about the first question, regardless of how confused and devastated it made me feel. But Jeb was here, out in the Oregon air, unconscious, with broken ribs that I’d caused. If we left him, he would freeze during the night.

I was helping Angel and Nudge carry their bags to the chopper when I finally made my decision. I flagged down my mom, who was turning off the lights and shutting the front door. “Wait—we need to bring Jeb,” I blurted before I could change my mind.

“What?” Angel hissed, recoiling in surprise.

Iggy was indignant. “Max, he wanted to kill Fang, we can’t just—”

“We can’t just leave him out there to die,” I cut him off. “He saved our lives once, and we owe him this. No matter what he’s done.”

Sometimes being a leader isn’t about winning. Sometimes it’s about doing what’s right, instead of what’s powerful.

“We’ll keep him under lock and key,” my mom agreed, giving me a look that said I’m proud of you. “He’s a sick man, but not an evil one.”

She immediately set about tying up Jeb’s hands and feet while the rest of us loaded Fang into to the chopper on a makeshift stretcher. Total had to be forcefully scooped and carried into the back, protesting all the while that he couldn’t go anywhere that might be too far away from Akila. Mom reassured Total that Akila would be waiting for him at the place we were headed. She refused to divulge anything further.

The pilot started the helicopter, and the deep noise of the blades filled our ears as we fastened our seat belts.

I sighed as the chopper lifted off the ground and we left everything—all of our emotional baggage, Ari, a hundred dead Erasers, and the empty house in Newton—behind us. I wondered briefly what the neighbors would think of the mess we’d left in our wake, and couldn’t help smiling.

73

WE WERE FIVE hours into a very long flight on Nino Pierpont’s fancy private jet when Fang’s eyes finally fluttered open.

“Fang!” I shrieked. I was so ecstatic I almost kissed him right there, in front of everyone. Instead I settled for hugging him tightly, like my life depended on it—way too roughly for his injuries.

“Max?” he croaked. “What… happened?”

I took a deep breath and told Fang that he had been hurt really badly in a fight, and that when the fight was over, he was unconscious. I told him that Ari had been taken down in the fight, but I didn’t mention Dylan. I told him how my mom had come for us, how it turned out that, in the end, Jeb was just another stupid whitecoat who had lost his mind. I was breathless, talking as fast as I could. I was afraid if I stopped talking, even for a second, I’d start sobbing again.

“Whoa, there.” Fang smiled and reached up, tracing a hand down the side of my face, winding strands of my hair around his fingers. “Stop talking and let me just tell you how great it is to wake up staring at your face. Okay?”

That was maybe the most direct thing Fang had ever said to me. A lump formed in my throat. “Okay,” I croaked.

“Okay, so… it’s really great to wake up looking at your face.” He blinked, like his eyes were still trying to focus. “It’s… beautiful, actually.”

The lump in my throat got bigger. Way bigger. “I thought…” I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. “I thought you were never going to wake up.”

“Come on. You really thought I’d leave you right when things were getting interesting?” Fang gave a gruff little laugh that sounded more like a cough. “Not in a million years.” His eyes turned serious then, and he took my hand, bringing it to his cracked, swollen lips. “I’ll never leave you, Max. Not ever again.”

My heart leaped. I squeezed his hand and nodded. “Me neither.”

For the rest of the flight I didn’t budge from Fang’s side. Sometimes I just sat there and watched his bruised face as he slept. Sometimes I woke from my own dozing to see his dark eyes watching me, as if I were a stranger and he was meeting me for the first time. And the whole time, awake or asleep, Fang never let go of my hand. Not once.

And here’s the weird thing: Even with all the awful stuff that had gone on, that was still going on, I felt content. I felt whole.

I felt right.

I wasn’t afraid of anything anymore. With Fang and the flock by my side, I could face anything. Come what may.

“So, where are we going, again?” Fang asked, yawning. He squinted out the window.

“To the one place in the world where you’ll be safe,” my mom said, turning around in her plush seat a few rows ahead of us. “To paradise.”

Book Four

PARADISE

74

SIX BIRD KIDS and one very jet-lagged flying dog stepped off Pierpont’s plane into glorious sunshine and tropical humidity.

We left Jeb on the plane; my mom said that this place had a medical team who would deal with him, and that they knew to keep him under guard.

“Just a short walk to your new home,” my mom said, and soon we were parading after her through the welcome shade of the rain forest.

I looked around me, struck dumb with wonder. Vines snaked up towering trees fuzzy with neon moss. Birds twittered and trilled all around us. Through a window of branches, we could see distant cliffs falling sharply to a beach of bleached sand and turquoise water.

My mom was right: If you looked up “paradise” in the dictionary, this would be it.

“Whoa,” I breathed.

“To our new life,” Fang said, threading his fingers in mine, his smile implying so many things we hadn’t been able to put into words: Together. Our new life together.

I grinned, dizzy with the possibilities of this place.

“Oh, my gosh!” Nudge said breathlessly. “Iggy! Feel the moss on the trees. Everything is lush and gorgeous and so green. And there’s parrots!” she squealed. “That’s the noise you hear above, that weird cackle. There are tons of ’em—blue and red and yellow. They’re huge!”

Gazzy flew up to join the parrots and started swinging from vines, Tarzan-style, and Iggy zoomed up after him, deftly maneuvering through the trees.

“Quickest way to ruin our first day in paradise? Scraping your feathered butts off the jungle floor!” Total yelled, and Gazzy hung upside down by one foot, giggling maniacally.

“Ooh, I bet there are waterfalls, too,” Nudge continued, ignoring the boys. “Tropical paradises always have waterfalls! Don’t they?”

My mom smiled indulgently. “They do, and there are.”

“Tree house!” Gazzy yelled from above. “Oh, man! You guys, look at all the tree houses!”

The tree houses were camouflaged so well that I hadn’t noticed them at first, but he was right—now I could see their shapes forming a village high in the jungle’s canopy.

A village just for us.

“They have our names on the doors!” Gazzy yelled. “Nudge, this one’s yours.”

“Really?” Nudge bolted up there as fast as her wings would carry her.

Nudge’s tree house was the most chic-looking of all the tree houses: ultramodern, with sleek, clean lines. It was minimal—almost delicate—and seemed to be held together by nothing more than sap. “A canopied bed!” I heard Nudge exclaim from inside. This was followed by a “Gazzy! Off!” I snorted with laughter.

“I think that’s yours over there, Total,” my mom said, pointing to an enormous mansion of a tree house.

“Mine?” Total asked, gaping upward. “Oh, Dr. M! Look at those glorious arches, the Grecian lines! Plush, with understated elegance and seaside charm,” he gushed. “So classy! So regal! It’s so… me.”

Just at that moment we heard a bark—and it wasn’t Total’s high-pitched yap, but the joyful call of a much bigger canine. A wet nose peeked out from between some of the tree-house branches above.

“Akila!” Total was off in a flash to be reunited with his furry lady love.

Wow. They really have thought of everything, I thought.

Laughing, Angel, Fang, and I followed my mom farther down the path.

“This is you, Max.” My mom nodded up at a mammoth banyan tree.

My new home was almost impossible to see if you didn’t know it was there—the perfect hideout. At the top of the towering trunk, a canopy of leaves reached for the sun.

“It’s beautiful,” I said in awe.

“It suits you,” Fang said from behind me, his breath making the hairs on my neck stand up.

I looked at the brittle, gnarled roots snaking all the way up and around the trunk, creating a hard, protective layer for the tree’s core. Maybe Fang wasn’t so far off.

“How do we get in?” I asked.

My mom turned and smiled at me. “You fly.”

75

I COULD FLY in here, I thought breathlessly. Inside my own house.

The tree was completely hollow. The ceiling was made of thick protective glass, but it was all the way up top, near the banyan’s broad, glossy leaves. Strips of sunlight filtered through the canopy, reminding me of old, dusty churches with swallows darting among the rafters.

Angel stayed with me to explore the place after Mom had taken Fang somewhere—who knows where; maybe a floating tree-house hospital in paradise?—to remove the bandages from his quickly healing wounds. As we explored, all kinds of cool little details caught our eyes. The furniture looked like the tree itself had just grown naturally into rough, chairlike shapes, and tunnels from the main room led to elaborate balconies with comfy hammocks. It all looked kind of haphazard, but at the same time beautifully, thoughtfully designed.

Someone knows me very well, I thought.

I pressed a button on one wall and a metal ladder spiraled silently down to the jungle floor below. Mechanical. Fancy.

I soared upward, the wood circling around me in a blur, and found the latch to a door in the glass ceiling that lead to the roof. There was a small balcony high above the jungle’s canopy where I could see everything: the towering cliffs on the other side of the island, the sea lapping against the sandy coast… and, of course, it was an ideal spot for spying on my wayward flock.

The perfect perch. Angel and I sat there together for a moment.

I was dreaming of long days of swimming, cliff-diving, soaring above the most beautiful place I’d ever seen, so I was surprised to suddenly catch sight of Angel’s distant, unsettling look.

“What, honey?” I said gently.

She looked up at me urgently. “I want to stay here forever,” she said, gripping my hand tightly. “Max, I never want to leave.”

“You won’t have to, sweetie,” I promised her. I peered at the banyan’s sturdy silhouette and beamed. “None of us will ever have to leave again.”

I felt so much relief as I said it, knowing it was true. But Angel was still staring at me, like she didn’t want to let me out of her newly recovered sight. Her eyes were huge in her little face, and she seemed pretty spooked.

“Angel?” I said uneasily. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, but it came out as a stressed little squeak. “It’s just… nothing.”

I put my arm around her. “I know you’ve been through a lot lately, but that’s all over now. You can trust my mom. We’re thousands of miles from anyone who would hurt you, and totally off the radar. It’s safe here. Really.”

Angel let out her tense breath and smiled. “Thanks, Max.” She walked over to the doorway. “I’ll be at my tree house if you want to find me.”

As I gave Angel a quick good-bye hug, I noticed that a thick branch connected my home to another tree house. I shimmied across it, wondering which member of the flock’s butt I’d have to kick in the mornings, weighing the pros and cons of waking up to Nudge’s sugary pop music versus being downwind of Gazzy’s infamous morning emissions.

Instead, the bold, black letters staring back at me from the wooden plaque on the door caused a helpless little squeak to come out of my mouth: DYLAN.

Does. Not. Compute.

That name on the door was like a hard fist to my stomach, and I felt all the stuff I’d been so good at swallowing come back up: Anger that he’d almost killed Fang in front of all of us. Hurt and confusion over his complete freak-out. Shame for all the stupid, fluttery feelings I’d felt when he looked at me with those ocean eyes of his. Clearly he was not my perfect other half. Everything came spewing out like some sort of emotional vomit.

Romantic, huh?

And because the universe just loves to screw with my emotions, I felt a hand on my shoulder right then, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Was he…?

“Don’t worry, Max,” my mom said, striding past me.

I exhaled. The ladder—I’d left it down.

With one hard wrench, she pried the nameplate off the door and tossed it out of the tree like yesterday’s garbage. “That sign will be replaced.” Mom sighed.

“Uhhh,” I groaned, totally incapable of any other response. I clenched my jaw and concentrated on pushing every stupid thought of Dylan back down again.

“Fang! Up here! Come see your house,” Mom called from the balcony. She looked back at me with… what? Pity? “I’m sorry, honey,” she said, giving my arm a squeeze. “He wasn’t… expected.”

76

“THERE’S SOMETHING ELSE you need to know,” my mom said when we all met up again, and Fang’s eyes flicked to mine.

Was it all too good to be true?

“What?” I asked uneasily.

“Let me show you,” she said, and then she called the rest of the flock to join her.

After a short, brisk hike through the jungle, during which my anxiety steadily grew, the flock finally emerged to face the spectacular cliffs we’d seen from our houses. My heart leaped. I couldn’t wait to dive over the edge and weave through all those crazy crevices, the wind surging through my feathers.

But before I could take off, my mom put two fingers to her mouth and let out a crisp, high-pitched whistle. A signal. The flock looked around, confused. The place seemed abandoned.

Then slowly, tentatively, people started emerging from the surrounding trees and from fractures in the rocks. I remembered what Angel had said about my mom earlier, that she was a traitor, and had a moment of panic. Hostiles?

I immediately took a defensive stance and the flock followed suit, ready to attack, but then I realized something.

“There aren’t any adults,” I said, relaxing. “It’s all kids.”

Their expressions were serene, welcoming, and as they came closer I saw scales, tails, metal arms.

“They’re mutants!” Gazzy squeezed Iggy’s arm.

“Yes,” my mother answered. “All enhanced kids. Just like you.”

As if to punctuate her words, a girl who looked about eight years old unfurled a pair of speckled black and gray wings, laughing to her friends. They all soared upward ten, twenty, thirty feet.

“Just like us,” Nudge whispered, echoing my mom.

Even Fang was grinning. It was impossible not to. After so many years of being experimented on, of doing what everyone else wanted us to do, of running, running, running, we were finally in a place where we belonged.

“Max,” Mom said, and I followed her gaze to the jungle behind us.

There, with a ginormous grin on her face, was my half sister.

“Ella!” I squealed as she barreled into me for a bear hug. I hadn’t seen her since our mom had her rescued and squirreled away from the 99% cult, who almost had her brainwashed. Back before Angel disappeared.

In the middle of our embrace, someone tapped on Ella’s shoulder and she turned around to see Iggy, looking shy and totally lovestruck. Her face lit up in a huge grin and she leaned in and kissed him, right there in front of all of us, and then Iggy wrapped her up in a long, tender hug.

Watching them, I was drunk with love and hope and happiness all at once, and as the other mutant kids on the cliffs started cheering, I looked at Fang standing beside me, silent and strong. His fingers found their way to mine and his smile said everything I couldn’t.

We were finally, truly home.

77

THEN THE PARTY started.

We walked into a hidden cove with lush green foliage surrounding a breathtaking waterfall, just like my mom had promised. I was waiting for unicorns to come galloping out and fairies to start singing.

Nudge waded into the water, grinning as two girls her age chatted her up, their wings unfurled proudly around them. She looked so happy, so comfortable in her own skin.

Iggy did a perfectly executed back dive with a half twist off the cliff, slicing the shallow water next to Ella with minimal splash, and I thought she was going to faint right there.

Even Angel was looking more like her former self, laughing and splashing with Total and Akila as the Gasman torpedoed into them underwater.

Fang and I were seated with Mom and Nino Pierpont at a wooden table off to the side, watching the festivities. Pierpont looked impossibly cool in his deliberately rugged, undoubtedly expensive trekking outfit as he watched us wolf down a huge meal of braised pork and paella, prepared by his bustling team of private chefs. If there is a way to our hearts, it is definitely though our stomachs—which is why I was getting a little nervous.

“So, what’s the catch?” Fang asked, obviously thinking the same thing.

I housed a giant bite of sausage, wanting desperately for there not to be a catch, for once.

“Hmm?” Mom asked, too innocently.

“Like, is this how it all ends?” I asked. “No more experiments? No more running? Happily ever after, sleeping under the stars in our beautiful tree houses, living carefree in our island paradise?”

My mom smiled, but her eyes said something different.

“I wish, Max… I hope. God, I hope.” Her glance flicked to Pierpont, who was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “But…”

“But what?” Fang asked accusingly, tensing beside me.

“This is your new world. Your new community,” my mom said. “But it’s a community for…”

“The ones who will survive,” Pierpont finished her sentence gravely.

“Wait,” Fang said, dropping his fork. “The ones who what?”

I looked at my mom in alarm, and she nodded sadly. I’d been hearing about the world ending for so long, had been preparing for this moment for years, but it still hit me like a rock falling out of the sky. “Can someone tell us what’s going on?” I asked, my voice rising. “Can someone, for once, please just be honest with us?”

“Where do I even start?” My mom sighed.

“How about with the part we know—that the 99 Percenters want to save the earth and its environment through the genocide of… well, almost the entire human race. So, what exactly is their plan?”

My mom took a deep breath. I knew this was going to be hard to listen to, and I took Fang’s hand.

“They’ve been working for years on developing a form of avian flu that has a terrifying ability to quickly mutate and has been manufactured to mimic other, even deadlier, viruses, ebola among them.” Mom looked me in the eye, letting her words sink in. “The virus is called H8E, but it’s known among the 99 Percenters as ‘The Finisher.’ ”

“So we’re more susceptible to it because we’re bird kids?” I asked.

“No, actually,” Mom said, smiling. “It seems counterintuitive, but because of your mixed DNA, you kids have a natural immunity to it that we haven’t seen in any other species. Of course, Ella and Nino and I, and some of the other enhanced kids—and Jeb, of course—aren’t immune.”

My heart jumped into my throat.

“And if, by some fluke and despite our precautions, the virus spread to this island and we became infected, and the virus then mutated after evolving through the simple human system—”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Maximum,” Pierpont cut in, waving at my mom to shut up. I narrowed my eyes at him. “We’ve been working for years—since before you were born—to create a safe refuge for those who have the most hope of surviving and continuing the human race. We believe that you children will absolutely thrive here.”

“Wow, and here I would’ve thought that if you knew a biotoxin was being manufactured for decades, you might’ve been spending that time trying to create a vaccine or something,” I said dryly.

Pierpont took off his chic safari hat and ran his hands through his short, silvery hair.

“It mutates too fast for that, Max,” my mom said, unfazed as usual by my insolent audacity.

“On the surface, of course, you have a tropical paradise,” Pierpont continued, gesturing widely at the waterfall. “But should the worst occur, you will be safe inside a luxurious city of caves protected by a force field created with the latest technology. A complex system of passages will allow you to live quite comfortably belowground.”

“You mean until the biotoxin becomes extinct, along with the rest of the human race?” Fang asked.

Mom and Pierpont were quiet, which I took as a “yes.”

“So… what exactly does this ultimate toxin do?” I asked, not sure if I really wanted to know. But I had to find out. I didn’t want any more secrets.

My mom studied her notebook. Then her eyes flicked to Ella, who was splashing in the waterfall. Then she stared down at her shoes. Mom was one tough cookie. If she couldn’t say it outright, it was way worse than I’d thought.

“Just give it to us straight,” I said, huddling closer to Fang, who wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “We can handle it.”

“Okay.” She sighed and started to read. “The toxin is first inhaled and moves through the lungs, causing a slight cough and, in some cases, a rash. The cells multiply, creating internal fissures in the organs and hemorrhaging into the bloodstream. A short time later, boils appear on the skin’s surface. When the boils burst, the wounds weep, shedding billions of the highly contagious cells and infecting, basically, anyone in the vicinity.” Mom cleared her throat. “At this point, with so many open sores secreting contagion, the victim will likely develop a staph infection that will quickly progress to necrotizing fasciitis, literally rotting the skin off the body in a matter of days.”

So, to break it down: You breathe in this little villain, and it basically liquefies your organs, then moves to your bloodstream, and then rots off the surface of your skin until you’re a bleeding, writhing mass of agony, all while infecting everyone around you in every way possible.

I felt bile rising in my throat. Fang’s face had gone white, and I could feel him shivering. “Mark,” he said under his breath. “The contagion…”

We were remembering the same thing: Mark’s last words at the hospital where Angel had been held captive. “Mom,” I said, “could the… threat have been released already?”

My mother didn’t flinch. She obviously knew the answer. And she was going to tell it to me straight.

“Yes,” my mom said softly. “The toxin itself will kill almost all of the population on its own. But based on the agonizing effects it has on the human body, we estimate that at least half of the deaths will be from suicide.”

I let out a slow, unsteady breath.

It was so much worse than I could’ve imagined.

78

LATER THAT NIGHT—after I’d finally been able to put all of what I’d learned out of my mind for a few blessedly peaceful moments—Fang crept across the branch connecting our tree houses.

He gave a low whistle. “Penthouse, eh?”

“Yeah.” I nodded, watching the lithe movements of Fang’s body as he surveyed my new digs, his glossy black wings folded behind him. “Honeymoon suite.”

Fang turned around and cocked an eyebrow, and my stomach leaped. “Well, in that case…” He strode toward me and, in one slick move, picked me up. He carried me out to a giant hammock on one of the balconies. I think we’ve established that I’m not the type of girl who needs to actually be swept off her feet, but the suggestion in his mischievous eyes was enough to make even the most cynical assassin woozy.

We settled in together, and I was incredibly aware of the heat coming from Fang’s body, which was pressed against mine as we snuggled.

He nuzzled my neck, inhaling deeply. “Mmm. You smell so good.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, smirking. “I call this new perfume ‘Le Jungle grime et tropical BO.’ ”

“Dirt and sweat. Very sexy.”

I laughed, but Fang’s voice was husky, and he was already leaning closer. Then his soft lips were on mine.

Everything in my body was buzzing, aching for more, but there was a kernel of guilt buried underneath it that I just couldn’t ignore.

“Fang,” I whispered.

“Mmm?” Fang mumbled, his lips brushing my neck and sending shivers through me.

I kissed him again. Lately, my life felt like a freaking rags-to-riches fairy tale, complete with the perfect guy whispering sweet nothings in my ear. This felt so easy. So right. So overdue. Everything was finally as it should be. Except…

The flip side of that was that while we were here, in paradise, chosen to be saved, humanity was about to be wiped out. It was so completely screwed up.

I sighed, pulling away from Fang’s embrace. “I’m sorry. I just keep thinking about what my mom said. Trying to make sense of it.”

“I know,” Fang said softly, brushing my knotted hair out of my eyes. “I was trying not to think about it, pretend it wasn’t happening, but it’s always there now, isn’t it? I keep thinking of my blog, all those kids reading it, dying in the way that Dr. M. described. It’s, like, totally… incomprehensible.” I couldn’t tell if it was him or me who was trembling.

I was so frustrated I wanted to scream. “We’ve been searching for something like this forever—safety, a place that could finally, really be home. And now that we have it, it’s at the expense of everyone else’s survival.”

“Welcome to the real world,” Fang said, bitterness creeping into his voice. “Where kids are raised in cages, six-year-olds are tortured for the ‘betterment of science’ ”—we both stiffened, thinking of Angel—“and a group of genocidal wackjobs can wipe out the entire planet with a bug cooked up in someone’s kitchen.”

Fang and I were silent for a long time, the trees casting shadows on our faces and the knowledge of the world’s imminent doom sitting like the Grand Canyon between us. The moon shone down on us, a giant eye, a quiet witness.

I thought back to those miserable early days in the cages at the School and the short-lived freedom afterward, when Fang just felt like a brother and Jeb actually felt like a father. When I barely knew how to survive, let alone fight. When I first heard my Voice telling me I had to save the world.

How long ago those days felt now.

“I just feel so, so old now,” I said, looking up through the leaves at the sky with its endless stars. “Like… twenty-one or something.”

Fang snickered. “We could always create a new birthday for ourselves,” he said, reminding me that we’d done that once.

“Seriously. How ridiculous is it that we can’t legally drink alcohol, but the fate of the whole freaking world is on our shoulders?”

Fang shifted in the hammock so he could peer down at my face in the moonlight, a wry half smile on his lips. “Since when do you care about what’s legal?” I jabbed him in the ribs. Then his gravelly voice turned serious again, and I felt like he was looking right into me. “Also, saving the world isn’t on us anymore, Max,” Fang said. “Or you. We’re past that.”

I blinked up at him and felt the last three years of my life fall away in shreds.

He was right, of course. But if I wasn’t supposed to save the world…

Then who is Maximum Ride?

79

FANG WRAPPED HIS strong, sinewy arms around me. He stroked the spot between my wings as we swayed in the hammock in the cool night air. My whole body screamed to just drown in this moment with Fang, in his love—one hundred percent mine now, finally—but my conscience just wouldn’t shut up.

“I know I should be grateful,” I said after a few moments, my mind whirring. “But to be honest, I kind of resent Nino Pierpont—and even my mom—for protecting us, for saving only us. Like just because others don’t have wings or aren’t enhanced they’re not superior enough to live?”

“It’s so frustrating,” Fang said, sighing. “We’ve spent our whole lives either being totally exploited or trying to protect other people. And this time, there’s no way to save them, no one to kill.”

“We’re powerless.” I sighed. We’re all aware of my control issues.

“It kills me,” he agreed. “But I do know that we were brought here, that we were saved, so that you could help this island full of kids who need you. You’re one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met, Maximum Ride. You’re also incredibly intelligent, and beautiful, and charming when you want to be, which is probably why you can manipulate people into doing what you want most of the time.”

“I’m not manip—” I protested.

“But those qualities also make you a brilliant leader,” Fang interrupted. “And an awesome fighter. That’s why you were chosen for this—to lead the new generation.”

“And meanwhile the rest of the world’s just screwed?” I said.

“Maybe.” His soft feathers brushed against my skin, enveloping us. “But if the world’s doomed either way, maybe we can have this one night of our lives to just be together and forget that anyone else exists. To just be happy.”

I was quiet for a moment. Just be happy. How I ached for that freedom.

“Max?”

“Hmm?”

Fang lifted my chin and looked down at me intently. He took a deep breath. “I’ve waited my whole life to be with you. Do you get that?”

My heart fluttered as I nodded. I did. I felt exactly the same way.

“So can’t we just enjoy this? Just for a little while?”

Fang’s eyes were liquid black in the darkness, that familiar lopsided little smile playing across his lips. His lips… My heart raced as he leaned in again, never taking his eyes from my face. Then those perfect lips met mine in the softest, most tender kiss, and I closed my eyes and breathed in the sweetness of him.

When I finally opened my eyes again, dazed with happiness, Fang looked shocked, almost pained, like he’d just realized something.

“What?” I asked, nervous.

“Nothing. I just…” His voice was hoarse. “This is everything. You’re all I need.”

Then Fang’s lips crashed into mine again, even more passionately, almost desperately. I kissed him back fiercely. I felt his fingers tangle in my hair, then his hands moving over my stomach, my hips, pulling me closer.

I pressed against him, our legs twisted in the hammock. My entire body was shaking as I kissed him deeper, with a desire—a need—I didn’t even know I had. I wasn’t actually positive I was even breathing.

Fang held me tightly, like he’d never, ever let go again, and we kissed for what felt like an eternity, for all of those tense moments that had been building between us for years, and for every second we’d been apart. We kissed like we were inhaling each other, like we would live and die in this moment.

We kissed like the world was ending.

80

AND THEN, SUDDENLY, it was like the world really was ending.

Without warning, an explosion tore through my tree house, dangerously rocking the structure like an earthquake. Adrenaline overloaded my system and Fang and I scrambled to untwist from the hammock and ran inside. Our senses were hammered from all sides: Glass shattering. Wood splintering. Someone crashing toward us with the force of a tornado. What on earth—

“GET OUT!” someone yelled at full volume. “GET OUT NOW!”

A tall figure emerged from the shadows, looking totally strung out and insane and desperate.

I nearly shrieked in fury. After ruining everything else, now he was ruining my perfect night with Fang.

“Dylan!” I exploded at him. “What are you even doing here? On our island?”

“Max! Just give me a chance to explain—”

“A chance?” My mouth hung open. I could not believe what I was hearing. “How dare you. You went ballistic!” I yelled. “You abandoned the flock. And, oh, yeah, you TRIED TO KILL FANG! You don’t get anything, do you? There are no more chances!”

“But this is it!” Dylan persisted. “I saw something, in the sky.” His eyes were wild. “We have to get out right now!”

“No. You need to get out,” Fang said in a low voice. He stepped closer so that his face was inches from Dylan’s. “Now.”

Dylan didn’t flinch, but grabbed my wrist and tried to pull me toward the door. Fang shot forward, batting his hand away. Fang’s face was warped with anger, his body rigid and his wings spread wide. He looked deadly.

Things were spiraling out of control.

“Look, I know things haven’t been the best between us lately,” Dylan said, backtracking. “But you guys just have to trust me—”

“Trust you?” Fang almost spit. “Why should we trust you?”

“Because I have always, always had Max’s best interests at heart,” Dylan answered. Fang scoffed, but Dylan continued, his voice rising. “Because every second you stay here you’re putting her at risk—putting everyone at risk. Do you really want that on your shoulders? Don’t you care about her at all?”

“Enough!” I yelled, stepping between them. “Okay,” I snapped, pointing to Dylan. “You have sixty seconds. Start talking. Now.”

Dylan swallowed. “I saw something. In the sky,” he said, breathing heavily, trying to speak coherently. “I don’t know how to explain. We have to get to the caves, get all the kids out. Now.”

I shook my head. “It’s okay. We know about the plague and the 99% Plan. This place was built to protect us. We’re safe.”

“Even if no one else is,” Fang muttered from behind me.

“None of that matters!” Dylan shrieked. His eyes were wild, crazed. He looked like he was about to jump out of his skin. “This isn’t a plague. Not even close.”

I put a hand on his arm to try to calm him. After everything we’d been through, it still hurt to see him like this. “You… saw something in the sky,” I said gently, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “Did it have wings? Was it a jet? A flyboy?”

“No, nothing like that.” Dylan shook his head. “It’s something… big. And it’s moving too fast for me to clearly see what it is. But it’s headed this way.”

Fang walked to the window and peered out. I looked at him questioningly, but he shook his head. “Sky’s totally clear. The leaves are still—there’s not even any wind. Are you sure you didn’t just see a shooting star, buddy?” Fang asked dryly.

Dylan’s eyes hardened, his jaw tightening. “It was no everyday shooting star.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, thinking.

I glanced back at Fang and saw his eyes flashing threateningly through his curtain of dark hair. He was rational to a fault. My real “other half.”

And then there was Dylan, in front of me, looking all broken and insane and like he really needed me.

“Do you not hear what I’m telling you?” Dylan asked in frustration. “Max, I was created to protect you.”

“Protect me?” I bristled. “I have spent years leading this flock, making split-second decisions based on well-honed instincts,” I growled. “You have been alive for, what, a minute? And you’ve spent the past few days having a well-documented meltdown. Now, after almost murdering Fang, you have the nerve to show up here, to insist that we follow you because something weird is about to just… fall from the sky?” I was hitting a fever pitch. “Who do you think needs protection more, Dylan, me or you?”

His eyes were pleading, but I wasn’t moving. “It’s coming now,” he said. “Please.”

I sighed. “Dylan, just… go.”

“Fine, stay here. I’m getting the rest of the kids to the caves. I’m not having their deaths on my head.” Dylan sighed sadly. “I know you don’t trust me anymore, Max. But I’ve never lied to you, not once, and though it might seem like I’ve done some questionable things, I’m not crazy. You have to know that everything I’ve ever done, I did for you.”

I cringed as he turned his back on us, his shoes crunching over the broken glass.

“And Max,” Dylan called from the doorway, “after I get everyone to safety, I’ll be back for you. Even if it means dying with you out here. That’s the only way I want my life to end. With you.”

81

“WHO DOES THAT guy think he is?” Fang exploded after Dylan was out of sight.

“Seriously!” I was as cranky as a wet cat and pacing furiously. “What the heck does he think he’s doing barging into my house”—I gestured dramatically—“in the middle of—” I locked eyes with Fang. He raised an eyebrow, and his smirk sent a buzz through my whole body. “In the middle of the night. Trying to freak everyone out?”

I yanked an upturned table back over and slammed the door Dylan had left open.

“Max,” Fang said cautiously. When I turned around, there was uncertainty on his face. “Do you think he might’ve really seen something? His vision is crazy sharp, isn’t it?”

“Oh, please,” I huffed. “It’s not that great. And I don’t know if he’s short-circuiting or what, but he’s clearly not the brightest bulb right now.”

Fang nodded and bent to right an overturned chair. One of the reasons Fang and I work so well together? He keeps his mouth shut when I’m in fire-breathing dragon mode. Unlike Blondie down there.

At that point, I’d almost gotten used to Dylan strapping us in for his own personal roller-coaster ride of highs and lows, complete with lingering nausea at the whole rotten experience. This, however, was on a whole new level.

I was made to protect you, he’d said, his sea-blue eyes begging me to trust him, still full of that same fierce drive he’d shown when I’d taught him to fly, not so very long ago. But that dopey innocence, which had seemed almost endearing then, was nowhere in sight now.

I shook my head. I couldn’t afford to be sentimental. Not anymore. Sentimentality is for suckers. And a sucker, I ain’t.

Harden your heart.

Done. My heart is a freaking diamond. Only less glittery.

I bent to help Fang pick up the pieces of glass from the shattered window, and I couldn’t help staring down at the havoc Dylan was already wreaking on our little paradise. The place had gone from zero to sixty in minutes, and I watched as he herded dozens of hysterical kids into the ultra-secure underground cave system.

Abuse of privileges. Mom was gonna freak.

“Gazzy!” I shouted when I spotted him moving along in his bobbing gait. “Nudge!” Iggy was with them, consoling Ella as they hurried toward the caves. Even Total was barking anxious orders at Akila in their dog language. “You guys, he’s delusional. Cuckoo. There’s nothing to worry about!”

In the chaos, they didn’t seem to hear me.

“Oh, no,” I fumed. “This. Will. Not. Stand.” Making a mess was one thing. Hijacking my flock was another. “Wait, where’s—”

“Angel.” Fang pointed at the ragged-looking ball of feathery fluff zooming toward us through the trees.

She was sobbing as she crashed into my arms.

“Whoa,” I said, cuddling her close. “It’s okay, Ange. You’re okay.”

Angel shook her head, her soft curls framing her tear-streaked face.

“You guys have to get to the caves,” she said, hiccupping. “It’s coming. Dylan saw—”

“Yeah, I’m going to put a stop to that,” I reassured her.

“No!” she wailed, her blue eyes wide with fear. “Dylan knows what he’s doing. I saw things when I was in that lab, Max. Horrible things.” Her little face contorted, and my mother-bear instincts raged. As soon as we get off this island, I swore, I am going to hunt down those sickos who hurt my baby.

“But we’re never going to leave here, Max. We can’t leave. You promised!” Angel cried, reading my mind.

I wiped the tears from her face and cupped her tiny chin in my hands. “It’s okay, sweetie. Deep breaths. What did you see in the lab?”

“I saw trees falling over like dominoes. This place, coated in ash. The light comes first, then the sound. And you and Fang, blown out of the sky.” Fang’s dark eyes flicked to my face, but he didn’t move. “When we landed, it seemed familiar, but I wasn’t sure. It all makes sense now, though. Dylan is right—the sky is falling.”

It’s time, the Voice inside my head said. Listen to her, Max.

82

THE WORLD WAS ending, and we were in paradise.

I knew I should join the others, kiss away the rest of humanity, and spend the next fifty years snuggled up to my winged prince charming, finally free.

Fang and Angel were both studying my face closely. I shook my head slowly. I knew this was the decision that would define my life.

I just didn’t have it in me to die like a coward.

“I’m flying back to the States,” I said. “Now.” I stepped past them, out onto the limb between the tree houses. Below, the jungle was quiet, the leaves rustling softly. Except for a few small figures I could see at the cliffs in the distance, everyone was already safe in the caves. If I was going to do this, if I was going to walk away from my flock, maybe forever, I had to go before I lost my nerve.

“What?” Angel looked horrified.

“Are you sure?” Fang asked, his face trusting and true.

I nodded, trying not to look into his eyes, trying not to think about what I was leaving behind. “If the toxin has been engineered like my mom said, there has to be an antidote. Or maybe Mark was lying. Maybe the contagion hasn’t been released. Maybe we can stop the psychopaths before they release the bug. But if it is released… Well, at least we can warn people.”

Angel shook her head. “Max, you don’t understand what you’re up against.”

“Look, it’s not like the odds haven’t been stacked against me before,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “I always come out all right in the end, don’t I?” I didn’t say what everyone else was thinking: that it might actually be the end this time.

“Please don’t do this now,” Angel pleaded, reaching for my arm. “We have to get to the caves. Fang, tell her! We’ll be safe, I promise. Just come with us.”

Listen to her, the Voice repeated. Go.

I’d been obeying my Voice for so long, trusting whatever it said, even when it seemed to be mocking my existence. But I couldn’t do it this time. Not when the consequences were so major.

“I can’t, sweetie,” I said to Angel. “I’m tired of running from the unknown. If this threat is real, I’m going to face it, whatever it is, with the rest of the world.” I looked at Fang, standing next to her. I’m sorry, I mouthed, my heart breaking.

But Fang walked out to the limb and took my hand. He brought it to his lips and, without taking his smoldering, coal-black eyes from my face, said, “I’m with Max.”

“Fang, no, you can’t,” I said. If this really was it, the end of the world, I couldn’t ask this of him.

“Yes, I can. We’ll fly back to face 99%,” he said, nodding at me.

I stared at Fang for a long moment. It felt like we were one person.

“I’m with you,” he repeated solemnly.

“But it’s not them!” Angel shrieked from the ledge. “Aren’t you listening? All the preparation Dr. Martinez and Pierpont and Jeb and all the other whitecoats did, poking and prodding and testing us, shooting us up with God knows what to make us immune—it was all totally pointless! It’s not coming from 99%. It’s coming from the sky.”

Fang shrugged. “Then we’ll face the thing in the sky. Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.” He gave my hand a squeeze, and tears streamed down my face.

“You’ll die here!” Angel cried. “You’ll both die, falling, just like what I saw.”

I looked down at her, not sure how to explain myself. “Angel, I was supposed to save the world,” I said quietly. I paused for a moment, realizing the gravity of that statement, and then stood up straighter, suddenly more sure of myself than I’d ever been. “I was supposed to save the whole world—not just the ‘special’ ones, not just the ones who have the protection of some multibillionaire. So if the rest of the world has to die, I have to go down with them.”

I looked out across the row of abandoned tree houses with the pristine beaches in the background.

So long, paradise. It was nice knowing you.

Fang and I snapped out our wings and prepared for takeoff.

“Max!” Angel shouted. “Listen to me. You have to. I’m your Voice!”

83

I COULDN’T HELP but gasp. Then I quickly regrouped. I retracted my wings and shot her a supremely annoyed look. “You’re not serious,” I managed to say.

“You always listen to your Voice, right?” Angel said, hovering in front of us, her white wings outspread. “So please, please, listen this time.”

“Are you really going to do this right now?” I growled. “Come on. I think we’ve all grown out of playing games at this point, Angel. You especially.”

“I’m not playing games. It’s me. It always has been.”

“Let’s just go, Max,” Fang said, his fingers brushing mine. “You know what she’s doing.”

“I’ve always been your Voice,” Angel insisted. I’m sure my face positively dripped with skepticism—I’m not exactly good at hiding such things—but she started counting on her fingers. “Before you found your mom, way back when we were looking for the Institute, your Voice guided you into the sewers with a riddle, right? Something about rainbows?” She cocked an eyebrow.

There’s a pot of gold under every rainbow, Max.

Angel laughed, and it sounded creepy, almost disembodied. “I definitely had more fun with it, in the beginning, being inside your head.” Her eyes darkened, and I looked at Fang uneasily. “Then it got more serious. When you first killed Ari, the Voice told you that you had to do it, didn’t it?”

I winced, thinking of the day I’d murdered my half brother. The first time, when he had really felt like family. I was speechless. We didn’t talk about that day.

Why was she doing this?

“That was me, too. I could feel your anguish, Max. And I knew he’d come back anyway, again and again, worse every time.”

“Angel.” Fang’s voice was hard, protective. “That’s enough.”

But she went on.

“I was the one who told you that you had a greater mission in the first place. This is that mission: leading the new society after the apocalypse.”

The Voice had said all of those things, true. And, true, no one knew about them but me. But Angel could read minds. Of course she could know everything the Voice had ever said to me. She was manipulating me.

Again.

“No, Angel. The only thing you told me was that Fang was going to die.” I looked at her accusingly.

“I told you that Fang would be the first to die because I saw it, in a vision. I saw him falling.”

“And you were wrong about that, weren’t you?” I asked. “He’s still here.”

“It’s still true, though.” Angel frowned. “It’s not over yet. Soon, but not yet.”

No. NO. I shook my head against her idiotic claims, her attempts at mind control. We had been through all of this too many times before.

“I know it hurts,” Angel said sadly. “Didn’t I tell you to harden your heart?”

“You’re wrong,” I said through tears, clutching Fang’s hand. “You’re lying.”

“I told you knowledge was a terrible burden, Max,” Angel whispered, and I could hear the Voice saying those exact words in my head, years before. “That’s why I couldn’t tell you. Do you know how hard it is, seeing everything that’s going to happen all the time?” There were tears shimmering in her eyes, a bitterness in her voice. She sounded jaded, old. So much older than a seven-year-old should ever sound.

“Imagine feeling what people feel, thinking what they think. It’s so hard to stop listening, even when it hurts. Your Voice said she considered you a friend and loved you more than anyone. I meant it, Max. I always will. Don’t you trust me?”

I thought about that question long and hard.

How I’d missed her, how I’d felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest when we thought she was dead. But it was Angel who tried to hijack my leadership, who put the flock in danger over and over again. Angel who could kill us all.

She was my baby, and I loved her so, so much. But did I trust her?

Angel’s face crumpled; she looked hurt and betrayed. She turned from us then and soared off toward the cliffs.

Don’t deny the truth, the Voice said inside my head, and this time it was Angel’s voice, sweet and coaxing. Now is your time! Save yourself and the others! Do it now!

I spun around, flabbergasted. I was choking on tears.

“What are we supposed to do?” I asked Fang. I’d been doing this for so long, taking on the responsibility, making all the decisions, that I’d forgotten what it felt like to have absolutely no clue where to turn. “After all that, what the heck are we supposed to do now?”

Fang shook his head and stroked the sides of my face with his slender fingers.

“I’ve spent my life trying to deny what I felt, when all I ever really wanted was to be with you, Max,” he said. “I don’t care what Angel says. I’m with you. Always. Whatever you decide.”

But as I looked into Fang’s angular face, his pupils suddenly dilated to pinheads as the world lit up around us.

I wasn’t going to get to decide, after all.

84

THE SKY WAS on fire.

I mean really, actually, burning through the clouds on fire. A moment before it had been blue and calm, but suddenly the entire sky was exploding, as far as I could see, reaching from the jungle all the way across the ocean.

The light was nearly blinding as the yellow and orange flames licked overhead, burning through the atmosphere. I heard Fang inhale sharply next to me, and we both stared in awe and wonder. Seconds felt like hours as we watched the whole horizon transform into a raging inferno.

I could not move.

It was… dazzling. More than that. It was awesomely, terrifyingly beautiful. Like, it hurt to look at. The most spectacular sunset the world would ever see—this was the world’s final good night.

Moments later, a gash ripped across the sky, splitting it into two flaming halves, with an aching hole of nothingness between them. Then the split opened wider, like a horrible, garish sneer, and I felt all the dread I’d been bottling up sigh right out of it. I held my breath as I waited for the hand of God, or aliens, or even vindictive Ari, back from the dead one last time, to reach out and pluck me from where I stood.

Instead, from that gaping mouth came a wave of excruciating heat that swept through the jungle and right over us.

I snapped out of my trance and collapsed to the floor in agony, tearing at my feathers, my clothes; I was sure my skin was boiling off. I couldn’t even scream—my lungs were like shriveled little steaks baking inside my chest.

I was hyperventilating, trying desperately to breathe. Everything was getting fuzzy, except the pain. I was passing out.

But after what felt like a century of torture, the gap zipped closed as quickly as it had opened.

I gagged, sucking in the cooling air. I was alive. With intact skin and feathers. How was that even possible? I squinted upward, disbelieving. Except for some dying red streaks, the fire was no longer scorching the sky.

My adrenaline finally caught up to the insanity and the world rushed back into place. I scrambled to my feet, looking around wildly. I didn’t know what I was looking for—just an answer, a direction I could follow.

“Everybody’s at the caves!” Fang wheezed over the now furious wind. Smoke and ash billowed around us.

I shook my head stubbornly. “Not Angel,” I croaked, my throat raw. Fang looked me in the eye and saw what else I couldn’t say: Or Dylan.

They’d be at the cliffs, rounding up the rest of the community.

Like I should’ve been from the start.

Together, in silent agreement, Fang and I shot into the sky. A few hundred meters away, all the trees were scorched—a few more seconds of that heat and we would’ve been human fireworks. As we raced over the smoking jungle toward the coastline, we saw trees crashed down on one another like dominoes. Their trunks were stripped of bark and branches from where the fire had come.

Suddenly then there was a bang like nothing I’d ever heard—like a bomb connected to an amp had been detonated right inside my skull. It sounded like what the fiery explosion should’ve sounded like, but it came more than a full minute later.

It was like I’d been shot.

I felt it in my teeth, and vibrating through my brain.

I felt it in my wings as I flapped and spun uncontrollably.

It sang through my eardrums and made my eyes blur.

And then we were falling.

Down.

Down.

Like Angel knew we would.

I watched, helpless, as the ash whirled around and the jutting precipice of rock raced up to meet me.

Then the eyes of the world winked shut.

85

GET UP, A fuzzy voice shrieked. Get up get up get up. It sounded water-soaked, low and slow. Was it my Voice, or Angel’s, or someone else’s entirely? I didn’t even know if it was real.

The ringing in my head grew, turning into a sound like the hiss of rushing water, an echo bouncing around like a rubber ball inside my head. Wind whipped around me and the hiss grew to a wail. My brain throbbed.

I covered my ears and felt wetness. The metallic smell of blood burned in my nostrils. I pried open my eyes, and that’s when the hurricane-strength needles of rain started to hit my face.

I turned to look for help and felt my stomach lurch as a strong arm yanked me back, keeping me from plummeting over the edge of the cliff. “Get up!” Fang yelled in my face, finally piercing through my confusion and dragging me to my feet.

I looked across the cliffs for the other kids, but saw only a wall of water out in the sea. Not just a wall—a massive wall, miles long and taller than a skyscraper. Surrounding us. The monstrous wave grew more massive by the second, almost blotting out the smoking sky as it surged toward the precarious crag we clung to.

A mega-tsunami.

I instinctively tried to flap, but a searing pain shot through my mangled, bleeding wing. Panic froze my heart. This was it.

There would be no more.

I felt a sob of self-pity building in my chest, but Fang held my face in his hands and looked at me urgently, his eyes locked on mine.

“I love you, Max,” Fang said, and those words, the ones I’d been waiting to hear forever, towered above all the chaos, making everything else fall away. Whole universes were built and destroyed by those words. There were tears in his eyes. “God, Max, I love you so much.”

I know, I thought. I’ve always known.

Then Fang’s stormy eyes grew blacker than I’d ever seen them as they looked past me, at our fate. I turned to see the wave swelling toward us, seconds away, the white foam of its mouth howling higher and higher. But I wasn’t surprised, or scared, or even angry. I accepted it like a friendly wind, come to fly me home.

It’s okay, I thought. And it was.

Fang kissed my eyelids, my cheeks, and then my lips one more time, whisper soft. Then he clutched my head to his chest and we took one last deep breath, wrapping ourselves in each other’s arms for eternity as the warm water crashed over the cliff and swallowed us whole.

I love you, too, Fang.

Epilogue

MAX’S

LAST

WORDS

NOW, DON’T GET all weepy on me, dear reader. No chin-quivering or nose-sniveling, either. These pages do not need to be all soggy with your mucus.

There’s nothing to moan and groan about, anyway. The truth is, I am the luckiest girl in the world.

Don’t give me that I-can-see-right-through-you-Max- and-not-just-because-you’re-freaking-dead look. I’m serious.

Think about it. When the end comes, will you be buried in the arms of the one you love? Of the one who knew you your whole life, who loved you your whole life? The one person who could really and truly love you like you needed to be loved?

I hope so.

Because I was, and I wouldn’t change any of it—not for anything.

Not even the world.

Okay, I can see that you’re upset. I know you must be wondering, just like I’m wondering right now: Was I really supposed to save the world, or was it all just a big lie?

In other words, did I fail? (Gosh, it sounds so ugly when you put it like that.)

Or was my life just a metaphor for what we’re all supposed to do with our lives—that each of us is supposed to believe that we can, that we must save the world? That the world will be saved only if we each take that kind of responsibility?

Because if this life has taught me anything, it’s that we can’t leave anything up to fate or chance, or for someone else to clean up. Because in the end, “special” people are still just people. Because, PS, those so-called special people can’t actually save us.

We all have to save ourselves.

Or maybe this was a lesson in carpe ever-loving diem—seize the day, kiddos, and hold tight to your loved ones, the only part of life that really matters, and live each moment to the fullest, because you never know when an explosive ball of gas is going to light up the sky and blow you into oblivion.

But no, really.

Was it all just a big shrug of meaninglessness that will now plunge you into a pit of existential emptiness and melancholy?

I hope not. At least, don’t blame me for it. What, carrying the weight of the whole world wasn’t enough? I have to look out for your happiness, too?

Jokes aside, I really do hope that my life meant something in the end—that it meant all of those things. I don’t know what’s next—what any of us can expect—but I do know that I’m ready to see what’s out there for me. In fact, I think I hear Fang calling my name now. He sounds so far away….

You guys? I don’t want to, like, freak you out at this point in our journey, but I think I’m starting to see that famous light at the end of the tunnel that you always hear about. This is where we part ways, I’m afraid.

Before I go, even if you’ve rolled your eyes at every bit of cheesy advice I pulled out of my butt when the flock needed some pep in their patooties these last few years, know that I mean this last little nugget from the bottom of my not-really-so-cynical little freak heart:

Save your world. Love it, protect it, and respect it, and don’t let haters represent it.

Don’t leave the saving to anyone else, ever, because, exhibit A—why, hello there!—it’s way too much for one person. And if you want to skip out on the responsibility train, my whole life—and death—will have been in vain.

It’s yours. It’s all yours for the taking!

You’re not going to waste it now, are you?

Epilogue the Last

THE

BEGINNING

One

WHEN I OPEN my eyes, everything is dim blue wonder. Playful shapes of light dance across my vision, diving, and dipping, then merging into shadow. I thought heaven would be brighter.

I’m spinning, and I watch in bug-eyed wonder as my hand moves in front of my face in slow motion, my fingers leaving streaks like sparkler trails in the dark as my eyes try to adjust to their movement.

I can feel the air as I push and poke, think I can taste the sound of what blue feels like—a whale’s warbling echo.

Or is that singing?

Of course my angels sound like strangled whales.

It’s wonderful feeling weightless, free. Almost like flying, but without even having to move—floating toward an easy, carefree eternity of being rocked like a baby, free of all burdens and responsibility. I actually sigh with relief.

Wait a minute. I just sighed. I’m… breathing?

Underwater?

I’m alive?

“Max,” I hear a voice call from above. What a magical sound that is.

Hmm? I think. Voice, is that you pestering me again? Do not disturb. Busy floating. Call if you want to talk rainbows.

A disembodied hand grasps mine and pulls me upward.

Are you there, God? It’s me, Max.

“Max!” The voice is clearer, immediate.

The water cradles me closer. Am I moving at all? Is this real?

My eyes trace slowly, lazily up the hand that’s entwined with mine, the squared fingers tan and vaguely familiar. And strong. Like the arm and shoulder the hand is connected to. The face finally registers just as we break the surface.

As does shock.

Thrashing, I stupidly suck in a huge breath through my nose, instead of using the gills I developed long ago. The harsh air rips through my lungs, and I double over, coughing and choking out water.

“I told you I would come back for you,” Dylan whispers, rubbing my back.

Two

FANG, DYLAN, ANGEL, and I sit perched on a large, exposed ridge of rock that rises high out of the water. We’re alive. A little soggy and a lot banged up, maybe, but still living, breathing.

Survivors.

Hawks soar above us, diving through the narrow crevices, their long brown feathers mirroring my own. As the sun warms my face, I long to join them.

I peer out over the vast strangeness of the landscape, a charred wasteland: the island, now broken up into hundreds of smaller islands, with narrow inlets snaking in and out of them; the spindly remaining trees, branchless, barkless, standing straight up like frightened soldiers with an army of dead brothers at their feet; the hardening ash, swirling into surreal silver spirals, hot air belching out of cracks in the crust to form thermal pools; and an unfathomable high-tech city of luxury, sealed in caves that are now buried below the turquoise water.

It’s been only a few hours since the Split—when the gash in the sky severed this new world from the old one—but we swam and limped and swerved into our new existence feeling changed.

But we haven’t changed, really; the rest of the world has. And somehow, this new world makes sense in a way that the old one never did.

Fang’s tying a singed but sturdy branch to my wing with a scrap of his T-shirt, creating a splint. My wing, though still painful, is already healing before my eyes. Because it was made to. We are not fragile creatures, after all.

And that is why we’re still here.

Dylan is watching Fang’s movements—deft, efficient—but there’s no threat there. Something has shifted.

In all of us.

“I read about something like this happening in Russia,” Dylan says, answering the question we’re all asking in our heads: What, exactly, was that thing that split our world in two? “The Tunguska event, I think it was, in the early twentieth century. A meteor exploded near the earth’s surface and wiped out miles and miles of forest.”

I can’t help but notice how confident he sounds, how he doesn’t look down when he talks, how he’s no longer embarrassed about his interest in science, his love of books. He’s just eager to share the knowledge that will help the group survive. He knows, as we all do, that we can use any help we can get.

“This seems a lot bigger than that one, though,” he says. “I wonder if anything like this is happening elsewhere—like a ripple effect or something. Just look at the sky. I’ve definitely never read about anything like that.”

The sky has taken on this bizarre, Technicolor hue that warps and shimmers like some psychedelic black-light poster—totally surreal. Yet… it feels familiar, somehow. Like I’ve been dreaming about it every night of my life, but I’ve just forgotten my dreams each day on waking to the life in which I have been trapped.

I keep thinking how amazing this place is going to be to explore by air.

Dylan stands up. “We should probably start combing the perimeter for possible other entrances to the caves. The main line I took everybody through is now underwater.”

“I’ll check out the tree-house village,” Fang says. “See if there’s anything left, start the rebuilding.” He gives my hand a tight squeeze, but that desperation, that urgency between us is gone. No insecurities. Max and Fang. Fang and Max. No longer a question. We just are.

Angel and I sit together on the edge, watching the guys soar through the air. We don’t need to talk, because everything is understood. The weirdness that had come between us is gone, and since resurfacing I haven’t heard a word from my Voice, trying to tell me what to do. There’s no leader now, no power. We’re all working—quickly, efficiently—together.

It’s well documented that I’ve never been very good at school or any of the other junk normal kids are supposed to slog through. That’s because I’m not normal, and never have been. None of us are. But in this postapocalyptic world, on this tiny, wrecked island, I have a feeling we’re going to excel.

“Dylan’s right that this thing’s big,” Angel says after a few minutes. “I’m tapping into Dr. Martinez’s thoughts, and they’re monitoring satellite connections all over the world from inside the caves. This wasn’t the only event. It’s triggered a ripple effect. There’s been major volcanic and tectonic activity. Whole countries may be covered in water, ash, or flame. It’s unclear at this point.”

The two of us are silent for a long moment, letting that sink in—that the whole world and probably most of the people we know in it are done for.

“I’m so glad that it wasn’t me, that it wasn’t us,” Angel says, her eyes brimming with tears. “Isn’t that selfish?”

I shake my head. “It’s not selfish. We’re here. We’re alive. I’m not going to apologize for surviving.” That might sound harsh, but through the grief and the devastation, I can’t help feeling hope, too. If you could choose between life and death, wouldn’t you leap toward living with everything you had?

No one wanted life as we knew it to end. But we were made for this. Surviving, I mean. And the truth is, we weren’t that great at fitting in to life as we knew it, anyway. In fact, life as we knew it kind of sucked. Stuck in cages, trackers implanted beneath our skin, all that power they shoveled between us, turning us into sideshow freaks.

That’s all over now. The whitecoats only know how to live in a world where they can have cushy homes and order factory-farmed, premade food. This is definitely not their world.

It’s ours.

“I know what you mean,” Angel says, reading my thoughts. Her blue eyes have a faraway look, and even without the ash in her feathers, she looks older, more mature. Like she grew a century in an hour. Like she grew into that Voice of hers. “It’s almost like we were meant for this world, and not that other one. Like it’s finally our time.”

It’s a dark thought, but one I can’t turn away from. This is an environment that requires a little something extra from its inhabitants. Half of it is underwater. And we have gills. The other half is made of unreachable cliffs and towering trees. And we have wings. This place is primal, and it’s raw.

I was made for this.

And if I’m going to start this new life being who I am truly meant to be, there is something I know I have to do.

I look beyond Angel’s windblown curls and see that Fang has returned and is looking at me.

I walk over to him, our gazes fully locked. And when I reach him, I don’t hesitate to say what I know is the most important truth of my life. The only truth.

“I love you, Fang,” I whisper.

He smiles and takes my hand.

We stand together on the precipice, opening our wings to their full span and watching the long feathery shadows reach out over the land below.

In a way, maybe I did die in that wet grave, because it’s like I was completely reborn when I came up from that water. The air feels different to me now. I’m breathing it differently now. Like my body is a whole new machine.

It is my time.

The time of Maximum Ride.

I have some really bad secrets to share with someone, and it might as well be you—a stranger, a reader of books, but most of all, a person who can’t hurt me. So here goes nothing, or maybe everything. I’m not sure if I can even tell the difference anymore.

The night my parents died—after they’d been carried out in slick black body bags through the service elevator—my brother Matthew shouted at the top of his powerful lungs, “My parents were vile, but they didn’t deserve to be taken out with the trash!”

He was right about the last part—and, as things turned out, the first part as well.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Please forgive me…. I do that a lot.

I’d been asleep downstairs, directly under my parents’ bedroom, when it happened. So I never heard a thing—no frantic thumping, no terrified shouting, no fracas at all. I woke up to the scream of sirens speeding up Central Park West, maybe one of the most common sounds in New York City.

But that night it was different.

The sirens stopped right downstairs. That was what caused me to wake up with a hundred-miles-an-hour heartbeat. Was the building on fire? Did some old neighbor have a stroke?

I threw off my double layer of blankets, went to my window, and looked down to the street, nine dizzying floors below. I saw three police cruisers and what could have been an unmarked police car parked on Seventy-second Street, right at the front gates of our apartment building, the exclusive and infamous Dakota.

A moment later our intercom buzzed, a jarring blat-blat that punched right through my flesh and bones.

Why was the doorman paging us? This was crazy.

My bedroom was the one closest to the front door, so I bolted through the living room, hooked a right at the sharks in the aquarium coffee table, and passed between Robert and his nonstop TV.

When I reached the foyer, I stabbed at the intercom button to stop the irritating blare before it woke up the whole house.

I spoke in a loud whisper to the doorman through the speaker: “Sal? What’s happening?”

“Miss Tandy? Two policemen are on the way up to your apartment right now. I couldn’t stop them. They got a nine-one-one call. It’s an emergency. That’s what they said.”

“There’s been a mistake, Sal. Everyone is asleep here. It’s after midnight. How could you let them up?”

Before Sal could answer, the doorbell rang, and then fists pounded the door. A harsh masculine voice called out, “This is the police.”

I made sure the chain was in place and then opened the door—but just a crack.

I peered out through the opening and saw two men in the hallway. The older one was as big as a bear but kind of soft-looking and spongy. The younger one was wiry and had a sharp, expressionless face, something like a hatchet blade, or… no, a hatchet blade is exactly right.

The younger one flashed his badge and said, “Sergeant Capricorn Caputo and Detective Ryan Hayes, NYPD. Please open the door.”

Capricorn Caputo? I thought. Seriously? “You’ve got the wrong apartment,” I said. “No one here called the police.”

“Open the door, miss. And I mean right now.”

“I’ll get my parents,” I said through the crack. I had no idea that my parents were dead and that we would be the only serious suspects in a double homicide. I was in my last moment of innocence.

But who am I kidding? No one in the Angel family was ever innocent.

“Open up, or my partner will kick down the door!” Hatchet Face called out.

It is no exaggeration to say that my whole family was about to get a wake-up call from hell. But all I was thinking at that particular moment was that the police could not kick down the door. This was the Dakota. We could get evicted for allowing someone to disturb the peace.

I unlatched the chain and swung the door open. I was wearing pajamas, of course; chick-yellow ones with dinosaurs chasing butterflies. Not exactly what I would have chosen for a meeting with the police.

Detective Hayes, the bearish one, said, “What’s your name?”

“Tandy Angel.”

“Are you the daughter of Malcolm and Maud Angel?”

“I am. Can you please tell me why you’re here?”

“Tandy is your real name?” he said, ignoring my question.

“I’m called Tandy. Please wait here. I’ll get my parents to talk to you.”

“We’ll go with you,” said Sergeant Caputo.

Caputo’s grim expression told me that this was not a request. I turned on lights as we headed toward my parents’ bedroom suite.

I was climbing the circular stairwell, thinking that my parents were going to kill me for bringing these men upstairs, when suddenly both cops pushed rudely past me. By the time I had reached my parents’ room, the overhead light was on and the cops were bending over my parents’ bed.

Even with Caputo and Hayes in the way, I could see that my mother and father looked all wrong. Their sheets and blankets were on the floor, and their nightclothes were bunched under their arms, as if they’d tried to take them off. My father’s arm looked like it had been twisted out of its socket. My mother was lying facedown across my father’s body, and her tongue was sticking out of her mouth. It had turned black.

I didn’t need a coroner to tell me that they were dead. I knew it just moments after I saw them. Diagnosis certain.

I shrieked and ran toward them, but Hayes stopped me cold. He kept me out of the room, putting his big paws on my shoulders and forcibly walking me backward out to the hallway.

“I’m sorry to do this,” he said, then shut the bedroom door in my face.

I didn’t try to open it. I just stood there. Motionless. Almost not breathing.

So, you might be wondering why I wasn’t bawling, screeching, or passing out from shock and horror. Or why I wasn’t running to the bathroom to vomit or curling up in the fetal position, hugging my knees and sobbing. Or doing any of the things that a teenage girl who’s just seen her murdered parents’ bodies ought to do.

The answer is complicated, but here’s the simplest way to say it: I’m not a whole lot like most girls. At least, not from what I can tell. For me, having a meltdown was seriously out of the question.

From the time I was two, when I first started speaking in paragraphs that began with topic sentences, Malcolm and Maud had told me that I was exceptionally smart. Later, they told me that I was analytical and focused, and that my detachment from watery emotion was a superb trait. They said that if I nurtured these qualities, I would achieve or even exceed my extraordinary potential, and this wasn’t just a good thing, but a great thing. It was the only thing that mattered, in fact.

It was a challenge, and I had accepted it.

That’s why I was more prepared for this catastrophe than most kids my age would be, or maybe any kids my age.

Yes, it was true that panic was shooting up and down my spine and zinging out to my fingertips. I was shocked, maybe even terrified. But I quickly tamped down the screaming voice inside my head and collected my wits, along with the few available facts.

One: My parents had died in some unspeakable way.

Two: Someone had known about their deaths and called the police.

Three: Our doors were locked, and there had been no obvious break-in. Aside from me, my brothers Harry and Hugo and my mother’s personal assistant, Samantha, were the only ones home.

I went downstairs and got my phone. I called both my uncle Peter and our lawyer, Philippe Montaigne. Then I went to each of my siblings’ bedrooms, and to Samantha’s, too. And somehow, I told them each the inexpressibly horrible news that our mother and father were dead, and that it was possible they’d been murdered.

Can you imagine the words you’d use, dear reader, to tell your family that your parents had been murdered? I hope so, because I’m not going to be able to share those wretched moments with you right now. We’re just getting to know each other, and I take a little bit of time to warm up to people. Can you be patient with me?I promise it’ll be worth the wait.

After I’d completed that horrible task—perhaps the worst task of my life—I tried to focus my fractured attention back on Sergeant Capricorn Caputo. He was a rough-looking character, like a bad cop in a black- and-white film from the forties who smoked unfiltered cigarettes, had stained fingers, and was coughing up his lungs on his way to the cemetery.

Caputo looked to be about thirty-five years old. He had one continuous eyebrow, a furry ledge over his stony black eyes. His thin lips were set in a short, hard line. He had rolled up the sleeves of his shiny blue jacket, and I noted a zodiac sign tattooed on his wrist.

He looked like exactly the kind of detective I wanted to have working on the case of my murdered parents.

Gnarly and mean.

Detective Hayes was an entirely different cat. He had a basically pleasant, faintly lined face and wore a wedding ring, an NYPD Windbreaker, and steel-tipped boots. He looked sympathetic to us kids, sitting in a stunned semicircle around him. But Detective Hayes wasn’t in charge, and he wasn’t doing the talking.

Caputo stood with his back to our massive fireplace and coughed into his fist. Then he looked around the living room with his mouth wide open.

He couldn’t believe how we lived.

And I can’t say I blame him.

He took in the eight-hundred-gallon aquarium coffee table with the four glowing pygmy sharks swimming circles around their bubbler.

His jaw dropped even farther when he saw the life-size merman hanging by its tail from a bloody hook and chain in the ceiling near the staircase.

He sent a glance across the white-lacquered grand piano, which we called “Pegasus” because it looked like it had wings.

And he stared at Robert, who was slumped in a La-Z-Boy with a can of Bud in one hand and a remote control in the other, just watching the static on his TV screen.

Robert is a remarkable creation. He really is. It’s next to impossible to tell that he, his La-Z-Boy, and his very own TV are all part of an incredibly lifelike, technologically advanced sculpture. He was cast from a real person, then rendered in polyvinyl and an auto-body filler composite called Bondo. Robert looks so real, you half expect him to crunch his beer can against his forehead and ask for another cold one.

“What’s the point of this thing?” Detective Caputo asked.

“It’s an artistic style called hyperrealism,” I responded.

“Hyper-real, huh?” Detective Caputo said. “Does that mean ‘over-the-top’? Because that’s kind of a theme in this family, isn’t it?”

No one answered him. To us, this was home.

When Detective Caputo was through taking in the décor, he fixed his eyes on each of us in turn. We just blinked at him. There were no hysterics. In fact, there was no apparent emotion at all.

“Your parents were murdered,” he said. “Do you get that? What’s the matter? No one here loved them?”

We did love them, but it wasn’t a simple love. To start with, my parents were complicated: strict, generous, punishing, expansive, withholding. And as a result, we were complicated, too. I knew all of us felt what I was feeling—an internal tsunami of horror and loss and confusion. But we couldn’t show it. Not even to save our lives.

Of course, Sergeant Caputo didn’t see us as bereaved children going through the worst day of our tender young lives. He saw us as suspects, every one of us a “person of interest” in a locked-door double homicide.

He didn’t try to hide his judgment, and I couldn’t fault his reasoning.

I thought he was right.

My parents’ killer was in that room.

My gaze turned to the angry face of my ten-year-old “little” brother, Hugo. From the look of outrage he directed toward the cops, I got the feeling that he felt they were villains, and that he wanted to take Sergeant Caputo apart like a rotisserie chicken. The thing is, Hugo is probably as strong as a full-grown man. I thought he could actually do it.

What else could Hugo do?

He sat in the “Pork Chair,” a pink upholstered armchair with carved wooden pig hooves for feet. He looked adorable, as he almost always did. He was wearing an enormous Giants sweatshirt over his pajamas. Because Goliath was his biblical hero, he allowed a haircut only once a year, so it had been eleven months since Hugo’s last trim and his brown hair eddied down his back like a mountain stream.

My twin brother, Harrison—aka Harry—sat on the red leather sofa across from Hugo. You would like Harry; everyone does. We’re fraternal twins, of course, but we look very much alike, with dark eyes and hair that we got from our mother. I wear my hair below my shoulders, sometimes with a headband. Harry’s hair has curls that I would die for. He wears Harry Potter–style dark-rimmed glasses. We both twirl our hair with our fingers when deep in thought. I do it clockwise, and he does it in the other direction.

Harry also has a great smile. I guess I do, too, but I almost never use it. Harry uses his a lot. Maybe he’s the only Angel who does, actually.

That night, Harry wore painter’s pants and a sweatshirt with the hood pulled half over his face, which told me that he wanted to disappear. His breathing sounded wheezy, like he had a harmonica in his throat, which meant an asthma attack was coming on.

Samantha Peck, my mother’s kind and beautiful live-in personal assistant, had spent the night in the apartment, behind our locked doors. She worked for Maud, and that made her a suspect, too. She stood behind Hugo with her hand on his shoulder, her sandy-colored braid cascading over her pink satin robe. Her face was drawn and pale, as if her heart had stopped pumping. I thought she might be in shock.

Caputo pointed at Robert’s TV, which broadcast static 24/7. He said, “Can someone turn that off?”

Hugo said, “We never turn it off. Never.”

Caputo walked to the wall and pulled the plug.

For an instant, the room was completely quiet, as Caputo watched us to see how we would react. I found myself wishing more than anything that my older brother, Matthew, would suddenly appear. I had tried to reach him several times, but he wasn’t answering his phone. He may not have been on the best terms with our parents, but I wouldn’t be able to entirely focus until he had been informed of their deaths. And Matthew, I was sure, would know how to deal with these police officers.

Sergeant Caputo shoved his sleeves up farther on his forearms and said, “The penthouse is a crime scene. It’s off-limits until I say otherwise. Are we all clear?”

I thought about how my parents would have wanted us to behave in this situation.

My mother was like a perpetual-motion machine, never stopping, hardly sleeping at all. She seemed to barely notice people—even her children. Her strength was in analyzing financial markets and managing the billions in her exclusive hedge fund.

My father co-owned Angel Pharmaceuticals with his younger brother, Peter. He was a chemist with a gigantic brain and enormous gifts. Unlike my mother, Malcolm engaged with us so intensely that after a few minutes of contact with my father, I felt invaded to the core.

Even with all their faults, Malcolm and Maud had had their children’s interests at heart. They tirelessly taught us to harness what they called our “superhuman powers”: our physical strengths, our emotions, and our remarkable IQs.

Our parents wanted us to be perfect.

Even in this situation, they would’ve wanted us to behave perfectly.

You can probably imagine that the constant press toward perfection might affect your relationships with others and the expectations you have of yourself. It’s like being a camera and the subject of its photographs at the same time.

That’s screwed up, right?

Still, somehow the Angel kids survived this—perhaps by a means that I might describe as…not entirely natural. But we’ll get to that later.

For the moment, I decided to use the skills my parents had driven into all of us, and to refuse to react the way Caputo wanted me to.

“Of course, Officer Caputo,” I finally responded to his demand. “We wouldn’t want to interfere in your very thorough investigation.”

I would just have to wait until the officers were out of my way.

If only Caputo could interrogate Robert. You see, Robert sees stuff. He knows stuff. About the Angels. About me.

Such as: He knows about the time I put my foot right through his TV screen.

On purpose.

Or so I’m told.

I don’t even remember it. But I know it happened because one day I was the best lacrosse player at All Saints, and the next day I woke up in the hospital with fifty stitches in my foot and leg.

In the hospital, Malcolm and Maud’s stern faces had looked at me without sympathy. Maud said she never thought lacrosse was good for me, anyway. (I would never play again.) Malcolm announced that my Big Chop was going to be repairing Robert so that he was as good as new. (My efforts were, sadly, flawed; that’s why Robert only watches static these days.)

And that’s pretty much all they’d told me. You don’t demand answers from Malcolm and Maud.

Hugo was the only one who saw what happened. He said I flew into the apartment in such a rage that he hid behind the Claes Oldenburg sculpture and watched me kick the hell out of Robert, screaming,

“They killed her. They killed her!”

My foot crashed through Robert’s screen with the force of a wrecking ball, he claims.

How could I do that? I’d need almost superhuman strength. When I asked Matthew, he shrugged and said only: “It’s a piece of art, Tandy. It’s not industrial strength.”

More important, though, was why I would do that. Could I really have been talking about my dead sister, Katherine?

Was I accusing Malcolm and Maud of killing their eldest daughter?

And why don’t I remember it at all?

Caputo was still pacing and coughing, giving us the evil eye and warning us that if we crossed into the no-go zone of the penthouse suite, he would have us removed from the apartment.

“I’m doing you a favor, letting you stay downstairs. Don’t make me sorry.”

I stared back at the menacing detective and remembered what it had been like growing up here in the Dakota—a gated island on an island. It was one of the few places in the world where I felt secure.

Yet Malcolm and Maud Angel weren’t the first people to be killed at the Dakota. Everyone knows that Mark David Chapman gunned John Lennon down right at the front gates, where the police cars were now parked. And just two floors below us, the actor Gig Young killed his wife and then shot himself.

Now my parents had been murdered in their own bed by an unknown killer for a reason I couldn’t imagine.

Or maybe I could… but I digress. Those are very private thoughts, for later.

As I sat beside Harry, under the withering gaze of Sergeant Caputo, crime-scene investigators trooped through the private entranceway that very few New Yorkers had ever seen, even in photographs. They crossed the cobbled courtyard and used the residents’ elevators to come upstairs, which was strictly forbidden by the cooperative’s bylaws.

Sergeant Caputo had banned us from our parents’ suite—but I lived there. I had rights. And I had already taught myself basic criminology.

I learned all about JonBenét Ramsey when I was six, the same age she’d been when she was murdered. She had been an adorable little girl, seemingly happy and unafraid and loving. I was so moved by her death that I wrote to the police in Colorado, asking them why they hadn’t found her killer. No one wrote back. To this day, her killer has not been found.

The unsolved Ramsey case had inspired me to read up on the famous forensic pathologists Michael Baden and Henry Lee. I had consumed practical guides to homicide investigations, so I knew that the longer it took to solve a crime, the more likely it was that it would never be solved.

I wasn’t one to trust authority. Who knows, though—maybe Caputo and Hayes were decent cops. But my parents were just a case to them. That was all they could ever be.

Malcolm and Maud were my parents. I owed them. I owed it to myself, and to my siblings, to try to solve their murders.

The fact is, I was the ideal detective for this case. This was a job that I could—and should—do. Please don’t think I’m completely full of myself when I say that. I just knew that my doggedness and personal motivation would trump any training these guys had.

I am an Angel, after all. As Malcolm always said, we get things done.

So as I sat in the living room that night, I took on the full responsibility of finding my parents’ killer—even if it turned out that the killer shared my DNA.

Even if it turned out to be me.

You shouldn’t count that out, friend.

Are you familiar with the phrase unreliable narrator? Maybe from English-lit class? It’s when the storyteller might not be worthy of your trust. In fact, the storyteller might be a complete liar. So given what I just said, you’re probably wondering: Is that me?

Would I do that to you? Of course I wouldn’t. At least, I don’t think I would. But you can never tell about people, can you? How much do you really know about my past?

That’s a subject we’ll have to investigate together, later.

For now, back to my story. I was about to begin the investigation of my parents’ murders. While the two detectives conferred in the study, out of sight, I climbed the stairs to the long hallway in my parents’ penthouse suite. I flattened myself against the dark red wall and averted my eyes as the techs from the medical examiner’s office took my parents away in body bags.

Then I edged down the hall to the threshold of Malcolm and Maud’s bedroom and peered inside.

An efficient-looking crime-scene investigator was busily dusting for fingerprints. The name tag on her shirt read CSI JOYCE YEAGER.

I said hello to the freckle-faced CSI and told her my name. She said that she was sorry for my loss. I nodded, then said, “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

CSI Yeager looked around before saying, “Okay.”

I didn’t have time for tact. I’d been warned away from this room and everything in it, so I began to shoot questions at the CSI as if I were firing them from a nail gun.

“What was the time of death?”

“That hasn’t been determined,” she said.

“And the means?”

“We don’t know yet how your parents were killed.”

“And what about the manner of death?” I asked.

“The medical examiner will determine if these were homicides, accidents, natural deaths—”

“Natural?” I interrupted, getting fed up. “Come on.”

“It’s the medical examiner’s job to determine these things,” she said.

“Have you found a weapon? Was there any blood?”

“Listen, Tandy. I’m sorry, but you have to go now, before you get me in trouble.”

CSI Yeager was ignoring me now, but she didn’t close the door. I looked around the room, taking in the enormous four-poster bed and the silk bedspread on the floor.

And I did a visual inventory of my parents’ valuables.

The painting over their fireplace, by Daniel Aronstein, was a modern depiction of an American flag: strips of frayed muslin layered with oil paints in greens and mauve. It was worth almost $200,000—and it hadn’t been touched.

My mother’s expensive jewelry was also untouched; her strand of impossibly creamy Mikimoto pearls lay in an open velvet-lined box on the dresser, and her twelve-carat emerald ring still hung from a branch of the crystal ring tree beside her bed.

It could not be clearer that there had been no robbery here.

It shouldn’t surprise me that the evidence pointed to the fact that my parents had been killed out of anger, fear, hatred…

Or revenge.

As I stood outside my parents’ bedroom a shadow fell across me and I jumped, as if I were already living in fear of the ghosts of Malcolm and Maud. Many ghosts in my family already haunt us, friend, so it helps me to know that you’re here.

Fortunately, this shadow just belonged to Sergeant Caputo. He pinched my shoulder. Hard.

“Let’s go, Tansy. I told you, this floor is off-limits. Entering a crime scene before it’s cleared is evidence tampering. It’s against the law.”

“Tandy,” I said. “Not Tansy. Tandy.”

I didn’t argue his point; he was right. Instead, I went ahead of him down the stairs and back to the living room, arriving just as my big brother, Matthew, stormed in from the kitchen.

When Matthew entered a room, he seemed to draw all the light and air to him. He had light brown dreadlocks tied in a bunch with a hank of yarn, and intense blue eyes that shone like high beams.

I’ve never seen eyes like his. No one has.

Matty was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt under a leather jacket, but anyone would’ve sworn he was wearing a bodysuit with an emblem on the chest and a cape fluttering behind.

Hugo broke the spell by leaping out of his chair. “Hup!” he yelled at Matty, jumping toward his brother with outstretched arms.

Matthew caught Hugo easily and put a hand to the back of his baby brother’s head while fastening his eyes on the two homicide detectives.

Matthew is six-two and has biceps the size of thighs. And, well, he can be a little scary when he’s mad.

Mad wasn’t even the word to describe him that night.

“My parents were just carried out of the building in the service elevator,” he shouted at the cops. “They were vile, but they didn’t deserve to be taken out with the trash.”

Detective Hayes said, “And you are…?”

“Matthew Angel. Malcolm and Maud’s son.”

“And how did you get into the apartment?” Hayes said.

“Cops let me in. One of them wanted my autograph.”

Caputo said to Matthew, “You won the Heisman, right?”

Matthew nodded. In addition to having won the Heisman and being a three-time all-American, Matthew was a poster boy for the NFL and had a fat Nike contract. The sportscaster Aran Delaney had once said of Matthew’s blazing speed and agility, “He can run around the block between the time I strike a match and light my cigarette. Matthew Angel is not just a cut above, but an order of magnitude above other outstanding athletes.” So it didn’t surprise me that Caputo recognized my brother.

Matty was sneering, as if the mention of his celebrity was offensive under the circumstances. I kind of had to agree. Who cares about his stupid Heisman right now?

Fortunately, Hayes was all business. “Look, Matthew. I’m sorry we had to take your folks out the back way. You wouldn’t have wanted them carried around the front so the rubberneckers could gawk and take pictures, would you? Please sit down. We have a few questions.”

“I’ll stand,” Matthew said. By that point, Hugo had climbed around Matthew’s body and was on his back, looking at the cops over his brother’s shoulder.

Caputo went right into hostility mode. “Where have you been for the last six hours?”

“I stayed with my girlfriend on West Ninth Street. We were together all night, and she’ll be happy to tell you that.”

Matthew’s girlfriend was the actress Tamara Gee. She’d received an Academy Award nomination the previous year, when she was twenty-three, and was almost as famous as Matty. I should have realized he would be at her apartment, but I really had no way of contacting him there. I met Tamara the one time Matty brought her home to meet our parents, and while she was certainly pretty in real life, and maybe an order of magnitude above other actors in smarts, I understood easily from her posture and way of speaking that she wanted nothing to do with us. She certainly wasn’t passing out her phone number in case I ever needed to call my brother at her apartment. Especially in the dead of night, to inform him that our parents had been murdered.

My father, on the other hand, seemed to admire Tamara’s obvious distrust of us, and later remarked to me that she was the last piece of the puzzle to make Matthew’s future all but certain. You see, he wanted Matty to run for president one day. He was certain Matty would win.

Incidentally, Malcolm also thought that Matthew was a sociopath. But, except for Harry, all of us, including my father, had been called sociopaths at some time in our lives.

“My siblings will tell you that I haven’t set foot in this place, or even seen my parents, for months,” Matthew was saying to Detective Hayes.

“You have a problem with your parents?” Hayes asked.

“I’m twenty-four. I’ve flown the coop.” Matthew didn’t even try to disguise the fact that he had no use for Malcolm and Maud.

“We’ll check out your alibi soon enough,” Caputo snapped. “But listen: We all know you could have left your girlfriend in the Village, killed your parents, and gone back to bed before your twinkie even knew you were gone.”

It was just short of an accusation, obviously meant to provoke a reaction from Matthew. But my big brother didn’t bite. Instead, he turned to Hugo and said, “I’m going to tuck you into bed, Buddy.”

Caputo hadn’t gotten anything from Matty, but he’d forced me to face my own suspicions. My brother hated our parents. He was a 215-pound professional football player, a cunning brute.

Was he also a killer?

Confession

I have pretty bad associations with the Heisman. My therapist, Dr. Keyes, has done a lot to help me forget that night, but every now and then, a memory will pierce my mind’s eye.

It was after the celebration, after we’d returned to the apartment from dinner at Le Cirque. Malcolm and Matty had both had more than a few drinks at that point, and Malcolm said, “So, let me hold the Angel family Heisman now, son.” He latched on to the trophy, like Matty should hand it over. “Remember, you owe everything to us,” he went on. “Your speed, your strength, your endurance. Your career. Your money.”

That did not go over well with Matty. To say the least.

“I didn’t ask for what you gave me,” he said through clenched teeth. He slammed his fist on the glass dining table and I jumped as a crack appeared, sure his hand was going to get sliced to ribbons. Matty was so angry I don’t think he would have even noticed. “You created each and every one of us to live out one of your freakish childhood fantasies! We’re Malcolm’s puppets. Maud’s baby dolls. Malcolm and Maud’s precious little trophies.”

And that’s when he hurled the Heisman trophy through the living room window, less than two inches above my head.

He could have killed someone walking down below. He could have killed me. Would he have regretted it?

They didn’t call us sociopaths for nothing.

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.