Villain (Gone 8)

The cheerleaders stepped back and Dillon’s eyes widened. “Who are you?”

“Who, us?” Malik asked, his voice low and silken. “We’re the ones coming to save your life, Charmer.”

“What?” It was a sob.

“You’re losing a lot of blood,” Malik said. “But, see, what you don’t know is that each time you morph—you know, change—your body is renewed.”

“I . . . what?”

“De-morph, dumb-ass. The bullet wound is to the morph, your own body will be fine. And then . . .” He shrugged. “You can re-morph. All better!”

“Why would you . . . why are you helping me?” Dillon was in pain but still sm

elled a rat.

“Simple,” Malik said. “The Dark Watchers, Dillon. You know who I mean. I’m . . . with them. I can’t de-morph; if I do, I die an agonizing death. So”—he shrugged—“if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

“They asked you to save me?”

“Why else would I be here?”

Malik sensed Francis’s worry. Would she know to play along?

“They like you,” Francis said. “They think you’re, you know . . .”

“Funny?” Dillon croaked.

Francis blinked. “Yes. Funny.”

“Oh, thank God,” Dillon said. “I just have to . . .”

Malik watched as Dillon Poe, the nerdy-looking kid who wanted to be a comedian, slowly emerged from the snake. He watched the bullet wound close, and then disappear.

Dillon blinked. He sat up. He flexed his fingers as if checking that they were real. He touched the place where the bullet had gone. His ridiculous tuxedo, the outfit he’d thought would give him some class, was still soggy with his blood. But the wound was gone.

“And now I can just morph again? Hah! Hah!” He jumped to his feet. “Oh, they think they’ve seen the worst I can do. Just wait!”

“You could re-morph,” Malik said. “But I have a deep and powerful hatred of fire, and an even deeper hatred of the kind of sick creep who would burn innocent people.”

Dillon smirked. “Well, too bad.”

“Yeah,” Malik said. “Too bad.” He closed his eyes and focused on the no-longer-transformed and entirely vulnerable young sadist.

Dillon screamed.

“Anyone here have, like, super night vision?” Justin asked. He was on his feet, steadying himself with a hand on Tolliver’s tank body and staring intently toward the east, toward the moon, toward that fleeting shadow he’d glimpsed.

“What is it?” Tolliver asked gruffly.

“I saw something.”

“Step back, I need to turn to aim my sensors,” Tolliver said. Tolliver had an array of sensors meant to improve his usefulness as a weapon.

It was no easy thing turning Tolliver on the crowded flatbed truck. It was like watching a very old person try to execute a three-point turn on a narrow street.

“Ahhh!” The pain chip twisted Justin’s nerves for a second time. “Am I the only one with a chip?”

“Mine is still in,” the turtle woman said. “But I’m not getting hit.”