Villain (Gone 8)

She frowned and said, “What the . . . ?” but she did not remove the finger.

“Tell me what you see.”

“I see myself. I have a finger in my nose.”

“And do you remember me telling you to do that?”

Her answer came slowly. He could practically see the wheels turning in her mind. Then she said, “I can’t pull my finger out. It’s stuck.”

He shook his head. “No, you can’t stop until I tell you to stop. Watch. Saffron? Pull your finger out of your nose. Oh, and you can move—if you like, that’s up to you.”

For what felt like a very long time she looked at her finger, then up at him. “You’re one of them. You’re a mutant. Like on TV. You’re Rockborn!”

“Well,” he said with a sort of shy shrug, “I’m not a monster.”

“No.” She stood up and walked slowly around him. Then she frowned as if concentrating hard and reached a tentative finger to touch his cheek. “Are you. . . green?”

“Only after too many burritos,” he said. Then, in a more normal voice, “It seems like I am. But people don’t seem freaked out.”

“Freaked out? Why would they be? You’re . . . gorgeous. I mean, really. I can’t stop looking at you.”

It was an odd feeling, being inspected this way. He was simultaneously vulnerable and all-powerful. And yet it felt erotic.

“The casino downstairs is full of cops and security and ambulances wheeling people out. I thought there had been some kind of terrorist thing. Was that you?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

He shrugged again, even less comfortable and yet even more excited. “I was testing my power. It seems like anyone who hears my voice has to do what I tell them. No matter what.” He did not tell her about the drunk tank or the cheesecake incident. He had the feeling that they made him seem immature.

“How did this happen?”

“Would you like something to eat or drink? I can call room service . . .”

She shook her head slowly, and a long strand of black hair fell forward to bisect her forehead. “Why me?”

“I, uh . . .”

“Is it about sex?”

“No,” he lied quickly. “No, I would never make you, you know . . .” He smiled, and she smiled back. And he had not made her smile! Of course, he reminded himself, she wasn’t smiling at the old Dillon, but at the new and improved Dillon.

“Good,” she said, still smiling. “Because then I would have to spend the rest of my life getting my revenge.” Her mouth was still smiling, but her voice was not. Then she shifted tone. “So, wow, Dillon. Wow. What are you going to do with this power?”

“Well,” he said sheepishly, “I’m not sure. It’s mostly why I . . .” He let his thought trail off.

“It’s why you brought me here?”

“Kind of.”

She let loose a sudden, sharp bark of laughter. “Oh, my God: you want me to be your henchman. I’m a minion! Hah!”

Actually, he’d been thinking “girlfriend,” but as soon as the rather old-fashioned word “henchman” was out of her mouth, he echoed her laugh and said, “Yeah!”

“Do you have a name yet?”

“Dillon?”