Shades of Gray - By Jackie Kessler & Caitlin Kittredge Page 0,23
had no idea how lucky they were that Night was one of the good guys. They had no idea how easy it would be for him to scourge the world of fear and oppression once and for all.
Night smiled again, a knifelike flash of humor. Of course, he’d never be a villain.
He appreciated that Corp had rules. Good rules were part of good discipline. And as a Shadow power, Night intimately understood the importance of discipline. All that stood between him and the Shadow was his own willpower.
And that, ultimately, was why he was marching to his comrade’s side right now.
Night strode through the hospital wing until he got to the room where they’d put Blackout. His brother in Shadow was lying on a cot, looking pale and somewhat bloody. Various tubes hung about him, dripping things into his veins through numerous IVs. His heart rate and blood pressure and other things were being monitored.
None of that mattered.
But then, as Night and Blackout were the only two living Shadow powers in Squadron: Americas, no one else on this side of the world knew what they really should be looking for. And that’s where Night came in.
Night sat down on the edge of the cot, one hand behind his back, clenched tightly. He scanned Blackout’s face. It was too thin, nearly gaunt. If he’d smiled in recent weeks, Night couldn’t remember. “Blackout,” he said softly. That was the first test: Did the man remember who he was?
Blackout stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. Brown eyes, bloodshot and haunted. But free of the telltale stain of Shadow.
Good. That was a start. Behind his back, Night’s hand loosened, just a little.
Blackout’s mouth moved, and he croaked, “Night. Christo, Night.”
“We can talk freely,” Night said. “I’ve put up a Shadownet. No sound will be recorded. We have privacy.”
Blackout sighed, and his eyes closed. “Okay.”
“Blackout,” Night said, putting his other hand on the man’s thin arm, launching into the second test. “Tell me. What happened?”
“Don’t know.”
Night’s jaw tightened. Not good. Not good at all. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a blank. There’s nothing there.” Blackout opened his eyes, implored Night to understand. “I was talking to Les, and then I woke up here.” A shudder worked its way across his bony shoulders. “Dr. Moore was here when I woke up. Legitimate doctors too—but why him? Christo, Night … I think they cut me open.”
Night silently agreed. “It’s okay, man,” he said, lying smoothly. Behind his back, his hand tightened.
Blackout rasped, “What did they do to me?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Night said, mostly to himself. “If they were looking for something, either they found it or they didn’t.” He looked at Blackout, searched the man’s face. “Can you still call the Shadow?”
Blackout paled visibly. “Rick … I’m scared.”
Night bristled; he loathed it when he was called by his nondesignation name. But clearly, that added … human touch … was what his teammate needed. “George,” he said, “you have to do it. You have to see if they took that away from you.” If they’d neutered him. This was the third, and final, test. “This will prove whether Dr. Moore tampered with your brain.”
Blackout sighed. Then his lips slowly turned blue, and his breath frosted from his nose. From his left hand, a creeper of Shadow inched out, hesitantly, as if tasting the air.
“Excellent,” Night said, relieved. “Good job. It looks like Moore didn’t get inside your head after all.”
Blackout hissed out a slow breath. “Then why can’t I remember?”
“Trauma, most likely.” Night clapped Blackout’s shoulder lightly. “You and I both know the real fight isn’t against the supervillains, don’t we?”
Blackout let out a weak laugh. It sounded like a scream.
Behind his back, Night released the Shadow knife, and it unwound, slowly, and sank back inside of Night’s flesh. Blackout had passed, though it had been a close thing.
But close only mattered, as the saying went, with grenades and horseshoes.
Night smiled, pleased that he wouldn’t be alone in the Shadow. But as he talked with his power brother, he couldn’t help but wonder what, exactly, Dr. Moore had wanted with Blackout.
Interlude
This way,” Julie says, lending a hand to old Mrs. Summers. “Sorry about the clutter.”
“This is nothing.” The old woman laughs. “You should see my place after my grandkids visit. Worse than Jehovah’s scorched earth, it is. And you’re a dear for letting us stay.”
“’Twasn’t nothing,” Garth says around an armful of boxes. “Glad to have you and the others.”