Tempest Read Free

and supposedly the last identities they’d ever steal. But before that, King, the Changeling possessing Aaron, had been a murderer. He’d taken multiple hosts and left their empty shells behind.
    Aaron Scott, on the other hand, had just been a selfish drug addict, so supercombo Aaron/King got a pass on the murders. Or something.
    The duality of it all made my head pound. It was Teresa’s call, anyway. She’s the boss.
    Speaking of Aaron, he’d arrived with the rest of the usual suspects in tow, and they were settling in. Gage grabbed the remote and unmuted the large television that dominated the corner of the room. I’d been ignoring the images on-screen but now I found myself unable to stop staring.
    The gates of the Ranger’s HQ stood tall and proud behind the podium and the Winstead for Peace! posters strung up around it. Past the gate was the shape of the Base, and to the left, out of sight, would be the Housing Unit. On the right, also out of sight, the bulldozed remains of what had once been Medical. The HQ had been abandoned since January and was still technically owned by ATF. Why they hadn’t just razed it all was beyond me.
    The last time I’d been back there, I was caught in an earth-bomb and tossed through a plate-glass window.
    Fun times.
    I zoned out the talking heads in the network studio, whose commentary was filling time until Winstead got his ass up to the podium. I’d seen other interviews and clips on television, and seen his picture in the paper more times than I could count. But there was something about today, seeing him back at HQ now that the Meta powers had returned, that was different. Like a criminal you just can’t believe would return to the scene of a grisly murder.
    Dahlia snapped her fingers in front of my face, and I jumped. Had she been talking?
    “What?” I asked.
    She gave me a funny frown. “You okay?”
    “Yeah, why?”
    “Because you were stirring the breeze a little,” she said, this time in a whisper.
    Crap. I hadn’t realized I’d been doing that. Didn’t do it often, just when I let myself get upset and my mind wandered. It had been happening more in the last month or so than usual, but still. Not a big deal.
    “Sorry,” I said, then grinned. “Really, I’m fine.”
    She didn’t believe me. I saw it in her eyes. Dahlia knew me too well, but then it didn’t matter because Renee said, “Finally,” and Winstead was on the television screen.
    My skin crawled at the sight of him, all sleeked down and suited up in something pin-striped and expensive. He looked like anyone’s grandfather might (if that grandfather had a few grand to waste on a single suit, which most didn’t nowadays), with his gray hair and wire spectacles. I might hate him, but his appeal to the public wasn’t lost on me. He radiated calm and assurance—the kind of person you wanted in charge during a crisis. And this country had been in a state of crisis for more than twenty years.
    Marco growled, an unmistakable sound. He’d come into the lounge in his panther form—the form he’d spent most of his nonworking time in ever since his abduction by another hybrid Changeling two months ago. Far as I knew, he hadn’t talked to anyone about the experience. As a kid, he’d spent the majority of his time in animal form, and seeing him retreat like that again now . . . it worried me. But you can’t make a panther talk to you, and he has mighty long teeth.
    Winstead’s stump speech went like most of his others. “Blah, blah, blah . . . our struggling country . . . blah, blah, blah . . . same fear in the heart of every citizen . . . blah, blah, blah . . . abuse of these incredible powers . . . blah, blah, blah . . . destroyed our cities . . . blah, blah, blah . . .” So forth and so on, for about ten minutes.
    Finally, he said something new. “Many of you may be wondering why I chose this particular location today.” He smiled at the press like they all shared