The Dark One

tonight. After all that had happened.

'Are you okay?' Maria asked. She didn't know how he could be. First his brother and Max, who was at least as much his brother as his biological brother was, had tried to kill each other. Then Trevor had joined up with DuPris, who had tried to kill them all not so long ago and who had killed Michael's parents. And Max's, and Isabel's, and Adam's. And Trevor's.

'Did you just ask if I'm okay?' Michael scrubbed his hands through his black hair, making it even more spiky. 'Me guy,' he said, pointing at himself. 'You girl.' He pointed at her. 'So don't be asking if I'm okay. If anyone asks anyone if they're okay, I'll be the one asking.' He looked at her, his gray eyes unreadable. 'So, are you okay?'

He's gone into lockdown, Maria thought. He's taking whatever it is he's feeling and caging it up somewhere. He doesn't get that that never works.

'I'm basically okay,' Maria answered. 'But I'm not the one whose brother just-'

'Went over to the dark side?' Michael interrupted. He stood up. 'I'm going to head out. I want to see how Adam's doing.'

'Call him. Tell him to come over,' Maria answered. She didn't want Michael to leave. He was hurting so badly, he was about to shatter. Whether he'd admit it or not.

'Nah,' Michael answered. 'I don't want him to have to drag his butt over here. Adam's got to be wrecked.'

'Project much?' Maria asked.

Michael groaned. 'Don't be going all psychobabble on me. If you have to do something, just give me one of your vials of oil to sniff. At least that will only take a second.'

'I know how much it meant to you to find out you had a brother,' Maria said, not letting him off the hook. 'I think you should talk about-'

'You want me to talk?' Michael exploded. 'Fine. My inner child, freaking little Mikey or whatever, is peeing in his pants because big brother Trevor turned out to be a freaking psycho. Okay? Happy now? Or what? You want me to cry for you? You want me to-'

'I just wanted you to-' Maria shook her head. This was pointless. Maybe someday he'd decide to let her in. But clearly not now. 'Forget it.'

'Fine,' Michael snapped. He turned and strode toward the door. Maria followed him. He fumbled with the lock, cursing under his breath, and she reached around him and slid the bolt back for him.

He jerked open the door. Then, out of nowhere, he turned and pulled her to him. He hugged her so tightly, her ribs ached, but she didn't pull away. She held him as hard as her arms could manage-held him until he pulled away and left without a word.

TWO

Isabel crawled into bed, even though it wasn't anywhere near time for her two hours of sleep. Her bones ached. She could feel them each distinctly, feel the places where they connected to each other.

'I feel four hundred years old,' she muttered. She rolled over onto her side, trying to find a comfortable position. It didn't help. The blankets felt too heavy. The weight of them made her bones throb. She kicked them off, wincing at the sound of one knee cracking.

That better not happen at cheerleading practice, Isabel thought. She could just imagine what Stacey Scheinin would say if she heard Isabel's bones creaking like some old person's.

Isabel shifted onto her back. She could feel each vertebra, as if there were no flesh between the bones and the mattress. Her pillow chafed against the back of her skull, and suddenly it was like she could feel each individual thread of the pillowcase pricking her head. She felt like her skull was being pierced by thousands of needles.

What is happening to me? she thought wildly. She sat up fast, and the bottom sheet ground against the back of her legs. She gasped in pain.

Max. Have to get Max.

Isabel gritted her teeth against the pain and flung herself out of bed. The coarse strands of the carpet felt like they were shredding her feet. She stared down, expecting to see blood coating the floor, but there was none.

On her tiptoes so as little of her skin touched the carpet as possible, Isabel ran to the door. Even the smooth metal of the doorknob felt rough to her, but she managed to turn it and fling open the door.

Somehow she reached the stairs without screaming. And then she was fine again. The wood of the stairs felt pleasant under her feet.

Relieved, Isabel rushed down to Max's room. 'The weirdest thing just happened,' she exclaimed as she burst in after a quick knock.

Max didn't answer. Of course not, she thought. Some girls probably had brothers who hid out in their rooms to read Playboy. Isabel had a brother who closed himself in his bedroom to connect to the collective consciousness. Not that he wasn't partially connected all the time now.

Isabel snapped her fingers in front of his face. He was in deep. It gave her the creeps just looking at him, mouth slack, eyes staring off at nothing. I should take a picture of him so he can see how gross he looks, she thought. Not that Max would care. Her saintly brother was above caring about anything like his appearance-except for using his power to get rid of his zits.

'Max, I need to talk to you.' Isabel gave his shoulder a shove. He didn't even blink. That had never happened before. Usually physical contact could bring him out of it.

She considered getting a glass of water and throwing it in his face but decided against it. The bizarre I-can- feel-my-own-bones sensation was gone, and Max… Max just wasn't that fun to hang out with anymore. Part of his attention was always on the consciousness now.

Isabel ran her foot across Max's carpet, pressing down hard, testing. No pain. No problem.

'It was probably a nightmare,' Isabel muttered. 'I was in bed and everything.' She made her way back out into the hall, not bothering to be quiet. The whole house could explode around Max and his heartbeat would stay slow and steady.

She wandered into the kitchen, reluctant to go back to bed even though she still felt exhausted. That nightmare might still be there, waiting for her. A tiny shiver raced through Isabel's body.

'Wonder if Mom or Dad made it to the store,' she whispered. The two of them weren't home yet. It wasn't even eight o'clock, and this was an out-of-Roswell day. They wouldn't make it home from their second law office in Clovis for at least half an hour. Isabel wished they would walk through the door right that second. A night watching one of those Lifetime movies with her mom while her dad made bad jokes would be the perfect nightmare antidote.

They'll be home soon, she told herself. She pulled open the freezer door. Ice cubes. And two boxes of peas frozen together. Plus lots of that clumpy frost. Definitely time to defrost. Isabel opened the lower door, turned the coolness setting all the way off, and started unloading the food onto the kitchen table. A cleaning project was almost as good as some Mom-and-Dad time. Not as much fun, but a good way to keep her mind off…

That nightmare. It hadn't really felt like a nightmare. It had felt real.

Oh, like it would be a nightmare if it felt totally fake, she thought sarcastically. She pulled open the vegetable crisper and wrinkled her nose at the broccoli, which had partially turned to slime. This was what happened when you had two lawyer parents who wanted to save the world. They tended to forget about the vegetable crisper.

Isabel reached over and grabbed a garbage bag from the cabinet under the sink. Then, using two fingers, she picked up the what-was-once-broccoli. Her stomach heaved as its stench reached her nose. It was as if the odor took on a physical mass as she breathed it in, coating her nose, sliding down her throat… and then expanding. The thick, foul-tasting mold left too little room for air. Isabel wheezed, struggling to pull a breath through the pinholes that were her nostrils and her throat.

'Max! Help!' She didn't have enough breath to scream. She was going to suffocate right there in her own kitchen.

No! Isabel would not let that happen. She jammed one of her fingers down her throat. If she could just get a little of the mold out, she'd be able to get some oxygen in. Her throat convulsed with a gag reflex, but she hadn't even touched the mold.