Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera Read Online Free Page B
Author: Kelly Meding
and trainees included. Everything came to a head in Trenton, New Jersey, after four innocents and one Ranger were killed during a string of jewelry heists. Five cold-blooded murders. Six city blocks burned to the ground. Five years of bitter, violent fighting followed.
Chicago was left a smoldering husk. The Great Salt Lake became too alkaline to live near, and most of Salt Lake City remains unoccupied. Los Angeles and New York City bore the brunt of the attacks. L.A. still has half a million stubborn inhabitants, but the majority of New York’s five boroughs are abandoned. The War trickled overseas a few times—Paris, Moscow, some tiny village in the Philippines. London took the worst of it, and kids over there still sing some little ditty called “London Bridge Is Burning Down.”
Mostly it stayed here in the States, drawing all known Metas to its center like a crow to a cornfield. Battles devastated small towns and large cities with alarming frequency. The War finally ended on the evacuated island of Manhattan and left the surviving Metas as powerless as any other Joe (and Jane) Citizen.
As powerless as I’d lived for the last fifteen years. Powerless to remain in Los Angeles where I’d grown up, raised to be a hero. Powerless to stop the taunts of other children who saw my purple hair and hated what I no longer was. Powerless to affect the course of my own life.
Bitter fear coated the back of my tongue. Not fear of my strange appearance. No, that particular fear lived in a tinyblock of ice, deep inside my gut. This was an old fear of imminent death. Fear of how painful it would be to die at the hands of an angry Bane. Fear of my own cowardice.
“No, no, no.”
That part of my life was over. I tried to shut off the unbidden, unfocused slide show. Colorful faces from long ago, wearing strange uniforms of all shapes and sizes. Raging battles. Destroyed towns and leveled city blocks. Hundreds of innocents dead or dying.
No. No!
I hauled ass to my feet and pushed through the towel, managing to rip it the rest of the way down, and stalked to the opposite side of the apartment. As far from the mirror as I could get. I needed a drink. Badly. With no liquor on hand, I settled on bottled water from the refrigerator. I gave the outdated milk quart a suspicious glare.
Cool air from the interior of the fridge caressed my face. I shivered. It had been cold and raining, the devastated skyline black with smoke. Air thick with the stench of death. My father had led the final Ranger assault—a mixed unit of active and retired Rangers. Eighteen inexperienced children tried to fight. Six died. I thought I would die, too.
The overwhelming terror of that day still held my heart in its icy vise—terror I’d revisited in violent nightmares for years. Huddling with the other Ranger children, listening as the Banes blazed a path across Central Park. I remembered a handsome boy with silver eyes trying so hard to be brave for us as we prepared to make our final stand. They prepared—I’d cowered, too afraid to fight.
The last of the Banes had found our hiding place. And then the pain had started, radiating from within and spreading outward, burning through my body like fire and destroying the thing inside that made me special. Made me a Meta. All at once, for no real reason, Rangers and Banes alike were left without power—confused and exhausted and unable to remember why we were there in the first place.
The bottle of water slid from my boneless fingers. It hit the floor, bounced, and rolled toward the front door. I slammed the fridge shut and backpedaled, not stopping until my hip slammed against the counter. Distant bass from somewhere else in the building thrummed through the floor.
Had whatever mysterious force that stole our powers reversed itself? Confusion and incredulity momentarily blurred my vision and set my head spinning. Standing alone in my cold apartment, I desperately wanted to be wrong. I wanted to return to
Chicago was left a smoldering husk. The Great Salt Lake became too alkaline to live near, and most of Salt Lake City remains unoccupied. Los Angeles and New York City bore the brunt of the attacks. L.A. still has half a million stubborn inhabitants, but the majority of New York’s five boroughs are abandoned. The War trickled overseas a few times—Paris, Moscow, some tiny village in the Philippines. London took the worst of it, and kids over there still sing some little ditty called “London Bridge Is Burning Down.”
Mostly it stayed here in the States, drawing all known Metas to its center like a crow to a cornfield. Battles devastated small towns and large cities with alarming frequency. The War finally ended on the evacuated island of Manhattan and left the surviving Metas as powerless as any other Joe (and Jane) Citizen.
As powerless as I’d lived for the last fifteen years. Powerless to remain in Los Angeles where I’d grown up, raised to be a hero. Powerless to stop the taunts of other children who saw my purple hair and hated what I no longer was. Powerless to affect the course of my own life.
Bitter fear coated the back of my tongue. Not fear of my strange appearance. No, that particular fear lived in a tinyblock of ice, deep inside my gut. This was an old fear of imminent death. Fear of how painful it would be to die at the hands of an angry Bane. Fear of my own cowardice.
“No, no, no.”
That part of my life was over. I tried to shut off the unbidden, unfocused slide show. Colorful faces from long ago, wearing strange uniforms of all shapes and sizes. Raging battles. Destroyed towns and leveled city blocks. Hundreds of innocents dead or dying.
No. No!
I hauled ass to my feet and pushed through the towel, managing to rip it the rest of the way down, and stalked to the opposite side of the apartment. As far from the mirror as I could get. I needed a drink. Badly. With no liquor on hand, I settled on bottled water from the refrigerator. I gave the outdated milk quart a suspicious glare.
Cool air from the interior of the fridge caressed my face. I shivered. It had been cold and raining, the devastated skyline black with smoke. Air thick with the stench of death. My father had led the final Ranger assault—a mixed unit of active and retired Rangers. Eighteen inexperienced children tried to fight. Six died. I thought I would die, too.
The overwhelming terror of that day still held my heart in its icy vise—terror I’d revisited in violent nightmares for years. Huddling with the other Ranger children, listening as the Banes blazed a path across Central Park. I remembered a handsome boy with silver eyes trying so hard to be brave for us as we prepared to make our final stand. They prepared—I’d cowered, too afraid to fight.
The last of the Banes had found our hiding place. And then the pain had started, radiating from within and spreading outward, burning through my body like fire and destroying the thing inside that made me special. Made me a Meta. All at once, for no real reason, Rangers and Banes alike were left without power—confused and exhausted and unable to remember why we were there in the first place.
The bottle of water slid from my boneless fingers. It hit the floor, bounced, and rolled toward the front door. I slammed the fridge shut and backpedaled, not stopping until my hip slammed against the counter. Distant bass from somewhere else in the building thrummed through the floor.
Had whatever mysterious force that stole our powers reversed itself? Confusion and incredulity momentarily blurred my vision and set my head spinning. Standing alone in my cold apartment, I desperately wanted to be wrong. I wanted to return to
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