“I thought we were clear on who’s the boss . . .”
Justin grinned up at her and said, “Yes, ma’am.”
He was not in the mood, not really, much more interested in the Anomalous Space Object than the Predictable Female Object, but her desire for him, and his ability to feed that desire, were vital parts of
moving large chunks of money from her hands to his.
And there were worse ways to pass the time in an Iowa cornfield.
Afterward, they walked back to the rental car concealed off the main road in a little stand of trees. They drove to Des Moines, stopped at a Walmart en route, and checked into the DoubleTree hotel near the airport. Justin set up the mortar and pestle he’d purchased at the Walmart and ground the rock fragment to a powder.
Then he dumped it out onto the nightstand and used a credit card to form the powder into a line about six inches long.
“Want some?” he asked, holding out a straw he’d pocketed from the bar downstairs.
Erin considered, eyeing the gray line dubiously. But Justin knew she’d refuse. Erin liked others to take risks for her amusement; she didn’t take many risks with herself. “That’s all for you, baby.”
Justin shrugged and snorted half the line. The rest he scooped up with the credit card and stirred into his vodka and orange juice.
“Feel anything?” Erin asked.
“It stings, that’s for sure.” He sneezed and wiped his nose, then drank the laced beverage in one long swig. “Well, I guess we’ll see. It may not work. You know, it only worked for some of the kids in Perdido Beach. There may be a genetic factor or something. And then there’s the question of the dome.”
“It’ll work for you,” Erin said with quiet complacency. Of course Justin knew she was pandering to him, flattering him. But he also knew she was conflicted, had been all along, wanting to hold on to Justin’s talent, wanting to maintain at least some control over him, enjoying the dangerous rush of his company, and even (probably) enjoying his lovemaking. But at the same time she was fascinated by the idea of her young prodigy acquiring powers. She wanted to see that, to be part of that.
The artist unbound.
At which point, Justin suspected, he might no longer need her money. Or her. The possibilities were endless.
They had a bare three hours of sleep before their respective phone alarms rang. They showered together, with predictable results, and took the shuttle to the airport. They caught the ten a.m. Delta flight and settled wearily into first-class seats, reclined their chairs, and picked unenthusiastically at an early lunch of swordfish with crayfish garnish, before falling asleep.
Justin slept like only a nineteen-year-old can—deeply, totally, effortlessly, waking only in time to hear the captain on the intercom warning of strong crosswinds at LaGuardia that “might make for a bit of a bumpy landing, folks.”
As if on cue, the plane bucked, rising on a gust and then falling too fast with the sickening sensation of a roller coaster hurtling down from the first big drop. Then, just a few thousand yards from the runway, wheels already down, there came a powerful gust that shoved the plane sideways, knocking Justin’s head forward.
A startled cry that some might interpret as fear came from Justin’s lips, which he then twisted into an ironic smile in hopes that his nervousness would seem to be a joke.
It wasn’t a joke. The next swerve was positively terrifying, wild enough to cause the drinks cart to break free and slam into a bulkhead. A flight attendant seated in the rear-facing jump seat grabbed it and pinioned it with her feet.
Justin had no special fear of flying, but he had a very healthy fear of death, and a deep dislike bordering on phobia about being out of control. Adrenaline flooded his arteries. His muscles tensed. He gripped the armrests, as if twisting the leather would let him steer the plane.
And then . . .
Suddenly Justin’s roomy first-class seat wasn’t so roomy. It was odd, he thought at first, an illusion, a psychological effect of nervousness. But yes, it was as if the seat was narrowing. Justin’s shoulders felt too large, and when he turned his head his chin actually scraped against a bulbous, massive swelling that rightly belonged on a whole different person, a much larger, much more muscular person.
“What the . . .” Justin blurted. He was blowing up like an inflatable bed, muscles bulging at shoulders, thighs, arms, all of him growing. His seat belt stretched and then snapped!
“What’s happening?” he cried, snatching at the broken seat belt with fingers that were not right, not right at all.
He screamed.
The pilot fought the crosswind, and the plane rocked from side to side as they skimmed above Brooklyn. The engines surged and faded, surged and faded. Justin caught a glimpse of a cemetery just below them.
“Justin!” Erin cried suddenly, staring at him, mouth open, shying away from him as far as her own seat belt would allow. “You’re . . . you’re . . .”
“What? What?” he cried, and now it was his voice that was not right, not his voice at all! His voice had become this huge thing, deeper, more masculine, gravelly. He sounded like some weird cross between Vin Diesel and Darth Vader.
“Look at your face! Look at your face!” Erin practically screamed. But of course he couldn’t, he couldn’t look at his own face, but he could see that the rest of him was becoming something very different. It was almost impossible to believe that it was him.