James Knight: Teenage Superhuman - B2

One

JAMES

I opened my eyes to a mix of shadow and glow. Above me, the night sky stretched out in deep purples and dark blues—rich and heavy, like a bruise or something regal. Stars scattered across it like silver flecks, while the darkness below felt thick and endless.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced around the wide, quiet neighborhood. One house stood out, blazing with light like a miniature Vegas strip. The glow pulsed in time with the music inside, and the heavy curtains swayed faintly with the beat.

The phone vibrated again before I finally pulled it out.
"How can I help you, Sam?" I said.

"You said you'd help me carry boxes into the basement," Sam muttered, clearly irritated.

"Yeah," I answered, already annoyed with myself.

"First of all," he said, lowering his voice, "this is a public neighborhood. People can see you."
So far, Hollywood was living up to its reputation.

"Second," he said, "Noah and Derek are helping me since you're out there, and—"

The sound of shattering glass blasted through my phone speaker, cutting Sam off and turning his voice into static.

My dad was standing in the doorway in his pajamas, eyes wide and bloodshot. He paced back and forth, dragging his hands through his hair. We both paused near the door, waiting.

"Derek's completely out in the lab," Noah muttered.

Dad's face tightened as he tried to think. His brow creased, and every deep breath came out in a visible cloud. He looked overwhelmed—red-faced, sweating, jaw clenched, eyes stretched wide with barely contained panic.

I didn't wait. I bolted down the basement steps and hurried to Derek.

Sam looked just as bad. His hair was filthy and tangled, his face flushed, dark circles carved deep under his eyes.

The basement itself was beyond saving. Boxes of Sam's experiments were scattered everywhere. One wrong step and you'd be standing on broken glass—and honestly, that would be the least of your problems.
"Sam, you'd better start explaining," I snapped from the bottom of the stairs, staring up at him.

Sam was clutching Derek to his chest, pressing his fingers against Derek's lips like that alone could keep him alive.

"He's not dead, James," Sam said quickly.

The problem was that Derek didn't exactly look alive. His skin was drained of color, his lips tinted blue, his body completely slack.

"So... that's what I looked like?" I asked, stepping over shattered equipment and scattered notes.

Noah went pale. Sam let out a quiet, "Yeah," before lowering Derek to the floor. "Put him on the couch or something," he added automatically—clearly forgetting I knew exactly what he was capable of.

I rolled my eyes, slid my arms under Derek's torso, and lifted him. He didn't even stir. Noah and Sam trailed behind me as I carried him into the living room.

The room was in chaos. Derek lay motionless on the sofa while Noah hovered nearby. My father stood rigid across the room, tall and imposing, his badge clipped to his belt, his gun resting heavily at his side. He never trusted Sam—and this wasn't helping.

Derek's head lolled against my shoulder before I eased him down. His face grew even grayer, dark circles deepening under his eyes, his hair a tangled mess.

"Dad," I growled, stepping between him and Sam, "calm down."

My father adjusted his holster and shot his brother a sharp, furious look. "Don't you ever pull something like this again, Samual."