James Patterson: Max

“Come in! Come in!” A short, balding guy in a flashy suit waved us in, big smile in place. I ratcheted up my DEFCON level to orange. “I’m Steve Blackman.”

There were four of them altogether, three guys and Sharon with the great hair. She blinked when Total trotted in after us, a small white bandage still covering the tip of his tail. He’d gotten more mileage out of that weensy flesh wound than I’ve gotten out of broken ribs.

“Good God,” I heard Total mutter as he looked at the woman. “She can’t be real.”

“Max!” said Steve, holding out his hand. “May I call you Max?”

“No.” I frowned and looked at his hand until he pulled it back.

The other two guys introduced themselves, and we just stood there, unsmiling. Actually, Nudge smiled a little. She loves stuff like this. She’d even worn a skirt. Angel was wearing a pink tutu over her jeans. My clothes were at least clean and not blood-spattered, which is about as good as it ever gets with me.

“Well!” said Steve, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s sit down and get to know each other, huh? Can we get you something to drink? You kids hungry?”

“We’re always hungry,” said the Gasman seriously.

Steve looked taken aback. “Ah, yes, of course! Growing kids!” He was trying hard not to look at our wings, with limited success. He reached over and tapped a button on his desk, which was so big you could practically land a chopper on it. “Jeff? How about some drinks and snacks in here? Thanks.”

“Please, sit down,” Sharon said, with another hair toss. I made a mental note to practice doing that in a mirror the next time I saw one. It seemed a useful skill, right up there with roundhouse kicks.

We sat, making sure no one was in back of us or could sneak up on us. I was wound so tight I was about to break out in hives.

A young guy in a purple-striped shirt came in with a tray of sodas, glasses of ice, and little nibbly things on several plates. “They’re tapas,” he explained. “This one’s calamari, and this one’s -”

“Thanks a million, Jeff.” Steve cut in with a smile. Jeff straightened and left, closing the door quietly behind him. Then, as we fell on the food like hyenas, Steve turned to us again, looking so dang enthusiastic that I wondered how much coffee he’d had this morning. “So! You kids want to be big stars, eh?”

“God, no!” I said, almost spewing crumbs. “No way!”

Oddly, this seemed to throw a petite wrench into the convo.

SHARON AND STEVE and the other two agents went silent, looking at us in surprise.

Steve recovered quickly. “Models?” he suggested, his eyes noting that we were all tall and skinny for our age.

I almost snorted Sprite through my nose. “Yeah. ‘Wings are being worn wide this year,’ ” I pretended to quote. “ ‘With the primary feathers tinted fun shades of pink and green for a party look.’ I don’t think so.” I tried not to notice Nudge’s momentary disappointment.

“Actors?” Sharon said.

Total perked up, chewing busily on calamari, which, if you’re interested, is Italian for rubber bands.

“Nope.” I could see this interview was going south, so I started inhaling food while I could.

“Max, I mean – Max,” Steve said, with no idea what else to call me. “You’re selling yourself short. You guys could do anything, be anything. You want your own movie? You want flock action figures? You want to be on T-shirts? You name it, kid – I can make it happen.”

“I want to be an action figure!” Gazzy said, wolfing down some mini-enchilada thingies.

“Oh, yeah!” Iggy said, holding up his hand for a high five. The Gasman slapped it.

Steve smiled and seemed to relax. “Hey, I didn’t catch everyone’s names. You, sweetheart,” he said to Angel. “What’s your name?”

“Isabella von Frankenstein Rothschild,” said Angel, absently picking something out of her teeth. She’d lost one of her front ones recently, so her grin had a black hole in it. “You got your shoes on eBay,” she told Sharon, whose eyes widened about as far as they could. “But you’re right – it doesn’t make sense to go retail, not on what Skinflint Steve pays you.”

Yep, that’s my little mind-readin’ darlin’!

There was dead silence for a few moments. Sharon blushed hotly and looked anywhere but at Steve. One of the other agents coughed.

“Ah, huh,” Steve said, then turned to Gazzy. “How about you, son? You want to be an action figure, right? What’s your name?”

Gazzy nodded eagerly, and I promised myself I’d kick his butt later. “They call me the Sharkalator.”

“The Sharkalator,” Steve repeated, his enthusiasm waning. What can I say? We have that effect on grown-ups. Even on other kids. Well, okay, on pretty much everyone. We were created to survive, not to be the life of the party.

“I’m Cinnamon,” said Nudge, licking her fingers. “Cinnamon Allspice La Fever. This shrimp is awesome.”

Steve started to look depressed.

“They call me the White Knight,” said Iggy, expertly finding the remaining food on the trays with his sensitive fingers.

“Oh?” Sharon said, trying to salvage the situation. “Why is that?”

Iggy looked in her general direction. He gestured to his pale blond hair, pale skin, unseeing blue eyes. “They’re not gonna call me the Black Knight.”

Fang had sat silently this whole time, so still that he was practically blending into the modern tufted sofa. He had drunk four Cokes in about four minutes and steadily worked his way through a plate of fried something-or-others. Now he felt all eyes turn to him, and he looked up, the expression on his face making me shiver.

No one looks like Fang – dark and still and dangerous, like he’s daring you to set him off. But I’d seen him rocking Angel when she’d hurt herself; I’d seen him smile in his sleep; I’d seen the deep, dark light in his eyes as he leaned over me…

I blinked several times and chugged the rest of my Sprite.

Fang sighed and wiped his fingers on his black jeans. He looked around the whole room, at the four agents, at the younger kids having a ball with this, at Total slurping Fanta out of a bowl, at me, sitting tensely on the edge of my chair.

“My name is Fang,” he said, standing up. “And I’m outta here.” He walked to the sliding glass doors that led to a landscaped balcony, twenty-two stories above the ground.

I nodded at the flock and reached over to tap the back of Iggy’s hand twice. He stood up and followed Fang’s almost silent footsteps, weaving unerringly around tables and large potted plants.

Fang slid the door open. It was windy on the balcony, and he raised his face to the sun. I hustled the rest of the flock outside, then turned and waved lamely at the four open-mouthed, big-shot Hollywood agents.

“Thanks,” I said, balancing on the balcony edge as my family took off one by one, leaping and unfurling their wings like soft, rough-edged sails, “but no thanks.”

Then I threw myself out into the open air, feeling it rush through my hair, my feathers; feeling my wings buoy me up, every stroke lifting me twelve feet higher.

We’re just not cut out for all this media circus crap.

But then, you already knew that.

“ALL I’M SAYING IS, would going on Oprah just once be the end of the entire world?” Nudge crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at me. Since Nudge is about the sweetest, easiest-going recombinant-DNA life-form I’ve ever known, this was serious.

“No,” I said carefully. “But the end of the entire world would be the end of the entire world, and that’s what we’re still trying to stop.” For those of you who are still catching up, I’ve been told that my mission in life is to save the world. No pressure or anything.