The private airfield was a desolate stretch of wet tarmac. The Kaufman family's Gulfstream G650 sat waiting, its engines whining a high-pitched song.
Kaela climbed out of Miller's car. She had stripped off the hoodie and mask in the back seat, stuffing them deep into her bag. She was back to being the "redneck"-flannel shirt, messy hair, eyes downcast.
Miller stayed in the car, too terrified to face the Kaufman security team.
Kaela walked up the stairs. The flight attendant, a woman with a smile so tight it looked painful, blocked the entrance to the main cabin.
"Rear seating for you, Miss Moon," she said, pointing toward the back. "Mr. Kaufman is resting in the medical bay."
Kaela nodded, clutching her canvas bag to her chest. She shuffled past the galley.
The mid-section of the plane had been converted. A hospital bed was bolted to the floor. Barron lay there, eyes closed, an IV line running into his arm. Dr. Sterling sat next to him, reading a tablet.
Sterling looked up. She didn't recognize Kaela. To her, the "masked doctor" and this "Detroit trash" were two different species.
"Don't breathe on him," Sterling snapped. "Go sit in the back."
Kaela mumbled a "yes, ma'am" and tried to squeeze past the narrow gap between the bed and the fuselage.
As she passed, the air shifted. The scent of rain and those strange, bitter herbs on her clothes drifted over the bed.
Barron's heart monitor beeped. A slight jump in rhythm.
It's her.
Barron kept his eyes shut, but his mind was reeling. The scent was identical. The voice he'd heard whisper in his ear-I know you're awake-had the same cadence as her mumble, just stripped of the command.
His fiancée. The country bumpkin. The Fixer.
He had to be sure.
As Kaela squeezed by his hip, Barron let out a low groan. His right arm flailed out, a clumsy, "involuntary" spasm. His hand struck the glass of water on his bedside table.
The glass tipped. Ice water splashed all over Kaela's jeans and the side of the bed.
"Oh my god!" Sterling shrieked, jumping up. "You clumsy idiot! Look what you did!"
Kaela froze. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from snapping the doctor's neck. She crouched down to pick up the glass.
"Sorry," she whispered.
Barron's hand was hanging off the bed, wet from the spill. As Kaela reached for the glass, her hand brushed against his.
Skin on skin.
It was like touching a live wire.
Barron felt that same wave of silence crash over his brain. The static noise that constantly plagued him vanished. Her bio-electricity, or whatever the hell it was, grounded him.
He let his fingers go limp, resting heavily against her hand for a second longer than necessary.
Kaela paused. She felt his pulse through his fingertips. It went from agitated to dead calm in a split second.
He's doing it again, she thought. He's feeding off me.
She pulled her hand away, grabbed the glass, and stood up.
"Go," Sterling hissed. "Get out of the way."
Kaela retreated to the rear of the plane. She sat in the corner seat, buckling the belt. She pulled out a pair of noise-canceling headphones and put them on, shutting out the world.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled photograph. A woman with kind eyes and a tired smile. Her mother.
I'm going into the belly of the beast, Mom, she thought. I'll find out what they did to you.
Up in the medical bay, Barron didn't move. He didn't open his eyes. For the first time in six months, he drifted into a natural, deep sleep.
Sterling watched the monitor, baffled. "REM cycle? He's... sleeping? Without the drip?"
She looked back at the girl in the flannel shirt, then shook her head. Coincidence.
The jet roared down the runway and lifted into the grey sky. Barron slept through the turbulence, his hand still damp where she had touched him. He had found his anchor. And he wasn't going to let her go.
