Free Changeling by Kelly Meding Page A

Cipher—it made him grin like a loon and tweaked my curiosity—and then strode toward the gaggle of reporters. I double-timed it to catch up and fell into step next to her. Questions flew at us the moment we were within shouting distance. I lost track of who asked what.
    Good Lord, did I ever sound like that?
    Trance stopped a few feet away, hands clasped loosely behind her back. I took a similar position slightly behind her on her right. The questions ceased almost immediately; they knew how this would play out. Trance’s violet gaze dancedover the crowd for almost a full minute before she selected someone.
    “Go ahead, Shannon,” she said.
    A middle-aged woman with a mop of unruly brown curls thrust her microphone forward. “Shannon Milton, Channel Four. The Rangers have kept a pretty low profile this past week. What brought you out today?”
    Something flashed across Trance’s face, there and gone so quickly I couldn’t identify it, and I doubted anyone else noticed. “First of all, there hasn’t officially been a Ranger Corps in fifteen years. Six months ago, we separated from the former MetaHuman Control Group arm of the ATF, and we are now an independent organization. As you well know, but thanks for asking.” Shannon seemed unaffected by the barb. “As for why today, because we were called and our help was requested. We do what we can, when we can, and if someone asks, we respond.
    “It was a difficult fire, one fueled by chemicals and uncontrollable with water. We brought skills that helped contain it long enough for the Los Angeles County Fire Department to put it out completely.” To the short, balding man on Shannon’s left: “Andy, go ahead.”
    “From where we were standing,” Andy said, “it looked like Ember there put the fire out on her own. Is she that powerful?”
    My heart thudded. Don’t single me out, please don’t do that.
    Trance’s eyes narrowed. “Ember’s skills kept the fire’s heat from increasing and the flames from spreading. Tempestpulled oxygen away from its core. Captain Hooper’s men did the rest. It was a complete and total team effort.”
    “Ember, why did you pass out?”
    I blinked, surveyed the crowd, but could not locate the source of the question. No one owned up, so I ignored it.
    “So what are you calling yourselves?” Shannon asked, nudging in another turn.
    “Labels only serve to pigeonhole people,” Trance said. “You all know who we are. Does it really matter what we call ourselves?” A murmur spread through the gaggle. “Now, if there is nothing else of pressing importance—”
    “I have a question.” A distinctly male voice rose up from the crowd. Heads turned, trying to locate the source. Bodies shifted and allowed a young man to step forward. He wore colorful surfer shorts and a T-shirt under a loose, too-large Windbreaker, and didn’t look like a reporter. No notebook, no recorder or camera. Just a dim-eyed stare and thin, grim mouth. He moved toward the front of the barrier, hands in his jacket pockets.
    Everything about him set me on edge. Instincts screamed to keep him at bay, don’t let him get too close. Next to me, Trance tensed. We both sensed it keenly, like a scent in the air: danger.
    “What is it?” Trance asked.
    He smiled. His right arm moved faster than should have been possible, faster than I could react, and his question came in the form of a single gunshot.

Seven
    Aftermath
    T he gunshot report rang in my ears, which were further deafened by the cacophony of screams and shouts from petrified reporters. Someone knocked me to the ground. I smacked my funny bone on a chunk of gravel and bit my tongue. Blood and pain blossomed in my mouth, adding to my disorientation. I tucked my legs up to my chest to prevent the feet stampeding around from trampling me, and mentally tested my other extremities. Arms: check. Chest and stomach: check and check. Head: check.
    Nothing else hurt. I wasn’t shot.
    Men shouted, ordering him