Free Changeling by Kelly Meding Page B

to drop his weapon. Footsteps scuffled in all directions, around me, over me, and other voices shouted my name, Trance’s name. I peeked one eye open and found myself gazing into a purple one. Face-to-face with Trance, laying flat on her back on the damp pavement, head sideways. She blinked. Neither of us moved.
    “Trance!” Cipher’s voice, getting closer.
    Something red had splattered Trance’s cheek. Farther down, just above her right breast, where the silver armoredtank top failed to cover flesh, blood flowed in a thin stream under the slick fabric of her uniform and puddled on the cement by her arm. Near my hand. I sat up, a surprised yelp dying in my throat. She was shot. Trance was shot.
    “No,” I said, clamping my hands down on the wound. The blood was hot on my skin, pulsing from the small hole beneath my palm, unwilling to be stanched. “Help me! Someone help!”
    Screaming and shouting became a whirlwind of sound. Cipher appeared on the other side of Trance, his mouth open and silver-flecked eyes wide. He clasped her left hand to his chest. She turned her head with some effort. The violet colorations on her forehead and neck seemed to glow against the new pallor of her skin. Like bruising on a corpse.
    No! Don’t you dare think like that.
    A paramedic nudged me to the side, and I released my hold on her wound. He shouted things to a second paramedic. Blood sticky on my hands, I could only sit by Trance’s head. Sit and watch. Panic poked at the edge of my consciousness. I did not allow it in. Could not.
    A hand touched my shoulder. Tempest crouched directly behind me, an anchor to the unfolding events. Someone blurred past us, a streak of blue and black, and was quickly restrained by two police officers. They could not, however, restrain Flex’s amazing talent or her anger. Her arms snaked past the cops, toward the young man already facedown on the ground, secured by handcuffs.
    Flex screamed and tried to hit him. Onyx got in her way, said something I couldn’t hear, and she relented. Her armsretracted, and the cops let her go. Onyx steered her back, away from the shooter, who seemed unconcerned with the goings-on around him. He just lay there, disinterested in his immediate fate. Uncaring that if he hadn’t just dropped the gun after firing his single round, the dozens of police officers on scene would have shot him to death.
    The first paramedic had trouble cutting through the top of Trance’s uniform to further expose the dime-size wound. Blood continued oozing in steady streams. He gave up on cutting and placed a square of gauze against the wound, and then another. I caught a scent, something sharp and sterile. Both pads soaked quickly. His partner handed him another.
    My stomach churned and twisted; and I looked away. Trance continued to hold Cipher’s gaze. He whispered things, told her to be strong, be brave, it was just a scratch, and you’ve survived worse. Her chin trembled as her breathing became more labored. Her expression didn’t change—pain, fatigue, acceptance. Never fear. We were terrified for her, while she seemed downright calm.
    Perhaps merely having Cipher nearby kept her that way. They complemented each other in a way I had never seen, one drawing strength from the other when needed most.
    Someone brought a gurney and collapsed it down. Tempest looped his arms around my waist and helped me stand up. My head spun. I stumbled; he held tight. Bloody hands away from my body, I let him back us up. Cipher stayed glued to Trance’s side while the paramedics loaded her onto the gurney and wheeled it toward the back of a waiting ambulance.
    They were saying things about starting IVs, labored breathing, and O 2 levels, scientific stuff I just couldn’t follow. It sounded like an episode of a bad television soap opera. Fake and overly bright and too simple. Cipher climbed into the back of the ambulance. None of us moved until it peeled away, lights spinning and siren