Rob Thurman - Chimera

I didn’t think she was. I really didn’t. But some would be like Michael or Peter. Some could be saved. But without the help of the authorities, I couldn’t guess how a large-scale operation like that could be pulled off—not now at any rate, but I wouldn’t forget those kids, and I didn’t think Saul would either. “Keep your ears open, Saul. Just in case. Okay?”

He promised he would, then hung up. Damn, I’d forgotten to ask if he knew how Jericho had lost his hand. The information probably wouldn’t be useful, but you never knew.

“What did you find out?”

Damp hair neatly combed, Michael was sitting cross-legged on the other bed opposite me. Skin pink, eyes bright, he was apparently healthy as a horse. Yeah, a horse whose racing was done in healing, not on the track. Scrubbing both hands across my face, I filled him in on what Saul had told me. That Jericho was involved in genetics wasn’t news, but the chimera aspect was. I mentioned the stronger, faster, and smarter, keeping the accelerated healing to myself. I wanted to discuss that separately.

Michael was a chimera; that couldn’t be avoided. The question was whether he had been born one or whether genetic manipulation had taken place after he was kidnapped. Saul had mentioned a chimera could be found by way of a blood test. If Michael was a natural chimera like Jericho, that information could’ve been obtained surreptitiously from the hospital where Lukas was born or from his pediatrician. I had a hard time buying that natural chimeras had always been among us and no one had noticed their so-called superhuman qualities. Maybe Jericho had been the first of his kind, a new breed of chimera. And it wasn’t that far a jump to believe Jericho could have used his knowledge of genetics to somehow force other normal chimeras into the same mutation. That had led to the creation of the accelerated healing and fatal talent for cellular destruction, although so far Jericho hadn’t shown any signs of the latter. That must have been an “improvement” that he stumbled upon during the process. He’d made something amazing and frightening, half wonderful and half dire. He was a cruel god, Jericho.

“Smarter,” Michael mused. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Uh huh, I’m sure you do.” As for stronger, he had seemed stronger than a kid his age should be when he dragged me to safety across the parking lot, but not freakishly so. I stood and felt my joints howl from the drug-heavy sleep of the night. “I’m going to grab a shower, Einstein. Try not to formulate any theories while I’m gone.”

“Just as well. I’m not sure that any theory could explain you.”

Smart-ass kid.

The hot water eventually loosened up my muscles enough that I was able to gingerly wash my hair. But first I simply stood there, head hanging while I leaned with my hands against the mustard yellow tile. The water poured over me and whirled down the slow-working drain. It was hypnotic . . . liquid glass spinning in lazy rotations until it was swallowed from sight. It wasn’t as soothing as it should’ve been. Jericho was still out there. I’d hoped the son of a bitch had died there on the asphalt, in midmaniacal laugh. But now . . . I was less optimistic. Even with Michael’s chip gone, I didn’t like the idea of Jericho’s still trolling the waters looking for us. It might take him longer to find us, but it was by no means impossible. It could be done.

Hadn’t I done it?

It had taken years and years to find Michael, but I hadn’t had government help or at least not the kind Jericho had at his disposal. I didn’t think it would take Jericho as long—not nearly.

By the time I finished showering, shaving, and dressing in jeans and socks, it was nearly a half hour later. Feeling slightly more alive, I walked back out into the room to see Michael watching porn. “Holy shit!” I bounded over to the TV and turned it off. The directions for the play-for-pay channel were labeled clearly on top of the television. They were easy enough for a self-proclaimed genius like my brother to comprehend. “You little otradbe .”

“Brat?” He blinked with an innocence that was suspect at best. “A curiosity about the human body is natural in a teenager my age.”

“So’s an ass kicking. You wanna place bets on which is the more natural?”

As he lay on his stomach with pointed chin resting on folded arms, his air of amused disdain couldn’t be missed. He’d seen all I had done and was yet willing to do to keep him safe. To say that put a serious kink in any future disciplinary threats I might make was putting it mildly. That I was thoroughly screwed was the more accurate assessment. Giving in was not in my nature, though, and dumping the batteries of the remote into my hand, I tossed the device back to him. “Knock yourself out.”

“Foiled again,” he said, grinning. “How will I ever cross nearly three feet to turn it on manually? It boggles the mind.”

“Silicone rots the brain, kid. Hang in there. We’ll find you a nice girl closer to your age and basic chemical makeup.” Tossing the batteries into the nightstand drawer, I gathered up the first aid kit for a bandage change.

Either taking pity on me or being more curious about what I was doing, Michael ignored the television for the moment and sat up to watch me work. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I began to strip away the wet bandage from my side. When the graze, red and puffy, was revealed, he immediately frowned.

“Something’s wrong.”

It seemed all right to me, a little inflamed, but there were no other signs of infection and no fresh blood on the bandage. “What? It looks okay.”

“It hasn’t healed at all.” He moved in for a closer look. “It should be nearly half closed by now.” Brown brows met in an ominous scowl. “That man. That doctor .” His mouth twisted as if he wanted to spit the word. “He did something, didn’t he? Poisoned the wound, infected it.”

The prime opportunity to bring up the healing issue had just appeared. “Whoa, Misha, you’re jumping the gun there.” I looped fingers around his wrist and squeezed gently. I’d never been one for physical displays of affection. Mom had been, Lukas too. As a child, he had been all about spontaneous hugs and football tackles. I’d taken more after our father in that respect, but if ever someone needed some tangible affection in his life, it was Michael. And changing my ways hadn’t turned out to be as difficult as I might have imagined it to be. “You don’t know, do you?”

He didn’t. It was plainly seen in his puzzled and wary expression. “Know what?”

Jesus. Where to start? And how could he not be aware of a difference between us that was so fundamental? “Your back. It’s healed already, right? I saw it.”

He nodded, still perplexed. “Of course it’s healed. It’s been almost twelve hours, and it was a small incision to begin with.”

Releasing his wrist, I stalled a little as I squirted out a generous wad of antibiotic cream onto a square of gauze. I wanted to phrase this in a way that he wouldn’t feel any more to the left of normal than he already did. “It’s like this, kiddo.” I applied the cream and hissed at the raw bite of it. “Your average Joe takes a while to heal. Something like those won’t completely scab over for days; it’s too big. And it won’t fully heal for weeks.” If I were lucky. “It seems, along with the extra dose of smarts you seem so sure you received, you and the other kids have some kind of accelerated healing. Jericho too.” Holding the gauze in place, I nodded at him to rip me off a few pieces of tape. “See? You can do something good. Pretty damn miraculous in fact.”

Independently of the rest of him, his fingers mechanically tore off sections of tape and handed them to me. “I don’t under . . . I didn’t know. We heal more quickly?” His gaze moved to the bruise that he’d given me. There, on my wrist, which wasn’t covered by a shirtsleeve now, was more evidence of what I was telling him.