Free Shades of Gray by Jackie Kessler Page A

stormed down the hallway of Squadron headquarters, ignoring the pissants and lapdogs who tried to stop him with their tedious social obligations. He had no time to be bothered with “How are you?” or “Terrific collar” or “Who do you like for the series this year?”
    Blackout was in the hospital wing.
    Blackout, from the little that Luster had mentioned upon Night’s return from battle, had lived up to his designation and blacked out. Just for a second or two, Bradford had insisted, playing up how quickly the medics had arrived and how strong Greene was and no worries, mate, he’ll be back in black, tally ho.
    Luster, for all his tactical brilliance, could be a fucking idiot.
    No, Night allowed as he stomped down the last corridor. Not an idiot. Lester Bradford was many things—egocentric, proud enough to put peacocks to shame, and smart enough to do Corp to the letter whenever anyone was watching. But idiotic? Not Luster.
    So when Night had returned from defeating Gold Digger and Luster had gamely by-the-byed Blackout’s “episode,” what Luster hadn’t said had spoken volumes. Of course Bradford had tried to make light of it; that’s what he did, in his sardonic way. But Night could almost smell Luster’s apprehension, could nearly taste Bradford’s unease. For all his bravado, Luster had been concerned—even scared.
    Night’s lips pulled into a quick, tight smile. If Luster ever saw the Shadow for what it really was, then he’d know what fear truly meant. Then he’d know what it was to fear the Dark.
    But the Lighters never thought about the Dark, not really. They thought their little power could banish the Shadow and make the world safe and sound. Lighters, as a class, were a joke. At least Bradford was a genius, which made him interesting, and even a worthy teammate. Sometimes.
    But whether Light or Earth or Water or Fire, or any other power, they were all weak before the Shadow. They would all crumple, gibbering their way to madness. No one was infallible—except for those born with the ability to handle, to master, the Shadow. Like Night.
    Corp 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.