Free Shades of Gray by Jackie Kessler Page B

“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
    T his 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.”
    “Safety in numbers,” Julie adds cheerfully.
    He can’t help but send her a look. You’d think she’d be supportive of him trying to call up the Network, what with her praise of big numbers. But no—Julie, like the rest of the Latents he’d spoken with over the past few days, is flat-out opposed to the idea.
    She smiles back at him, content as a cat with feathers poking from its mouth.
    Mrs. Summers is chatting happily with the Brewers from across the street. Garth shakes his head as he hefts the cartons to the floor. Poor Heather and Paul, and their youngsters Alex and Jacob, all but thrown out of their apartment thanks to their landlord deciding that now is the perfect time not to pay Deke O’Connor.
    Garth sneers as he thinks of that small-time crime lord—the sort whose idea of Irish pride was to tat Celtic symbols over every inch of his arms. Word is, ever since Iridium had paid him a call a couple weeks back at the Blarney Stone, Deke had gone looking to prove how far he could piss. Word is, Deke had explained to the Brewers’ landlord just this morning that even with New Chicago festering worse than an unlanced boil on a leper’s arse, it’s