Ignited (11 page)

Her lack of reaction seemed to enrage him just as much as anything else, and he picked up the fountain pen, flinging it to the floor. It burst, black ink oozing across the linoleum.

Edward cupped the back of Ruth’s neck and threw her off the chair, next to the growing pool of ink. Her knees hit the ground first, and her teeth jarred with the force. Hot anger coursed through her, and she was ready to give in to it—when her hands started to glow a faint red.

Not now
, she thought. The fear washed away her rage.

“Clean that up,” Edward ordered, stalking out of the room.

Ruth watched his retreating figure until he prowled out the front door and slammed it behind him. Where was this fiery passion coming from? She hadn’t raised her voice to her father once in her life, but she had felt the raw urge to stand up and scream. She’d nearly given into it.

Who was she—and more important, who was she becoming?

Ruth inspected the damage to her knees later that evening. The bruises there flared bright purple. 

The ink had stained the flooring, and no amount of scrubbing or lemon juice had gotten it out. It was still there, a faded black reminder, and during dinner, she swore her father stared at it the entire time.

Dinner had taken precedence after she’d scrubbed the kitchen as hard as she could, and then after she had cleaned up the meal, stored the leftovers, and washed the dishes, she’d made sure to redo all the programs that had been ruined. It had taken extra time, since her hand was already tired, but she’d gotten them done.

It was late, now, and as tired as Ruth felt in her body, her mind would not stop racing. Maybe she had been right. Maybe all of this
was
a punishment.

She thought of Henry’s mouth on hers. Maybe it had been worth it.

Ruth rooted around under her bed for a minute, pulling out a small container of arnica. Her father had no idea it was there. She hadn’t reason to use it
very
often, but it’d happened enough times that she felt better keeping the jar close.

Fathers weren’t supposed to hit their daughters until they bruised—not as children, and especially not when their daughters were grown women. In the privacy of her bedroom after a miserably long day, Ruth could admit that. It wasn’t right, but ….

For as long as she could remember, she’d turned to her father for spiritual guidance. There had never been a woman in her life to whom she could go. Her mother had left only months after she’d been born, and her father had never dated again. He’d made sacrifices to keep her, to raise her. All he’d ever wanted was for her to lead the sort of Christian life he approved of. She’d always trusted that he would not take her astray, and that his tactics, however harsh they felt in the moment, were sound.

She loved him. It had probably been hard for him, raising a daughter on his own with nothing but God to keep him company. Maybe he had even done his best. But her scalp still hurt from where he’d pulled her head to the side, and Ruth was tired—tired all the way down to her bones.

Henry had offered to get her away. Was it turning her back on her beliefs if she went to him and asked for help?

Ruth slipped into her nightgown, shaking away the thoughts. These were not the kinds of decisions she ought to be making late at night after a long day. Her head wasn’t clear. And thinking of Henry as she slipped beneath the sheets of her single bed—well, that wasn’t a good way to calm down, either.

It took hours before Ruth fell into an uneasy sleep.

There were hands on her stomach, tracing her navel and dipping to her sides, holding her there. Lips followed the same path, and Ruth squirmed. It felt strange, to have someone kissing her stomach, but not bad. In fact, the longer it happened, the more those lips started to wander south, and everything felt
good
.

Fingers lightly brushed at the folds between her legs, and Ruth keened. It was a gentle tease, not enough, not
nearly
enough—she wanted pressure and friction and
more
. The fingers slid inside, teased the nub at the front of her sex. Ruth clutched at her sheets. She’d never felt anything like this, like she was falling apart in the most wonderful way possible. Her muscles contracted, all tied up in delicious pressure, and she gasped, throwing her head back.

“
Henry
,” she whimpered, and then the dam inside her broke again and again and again.

Ruth blinked her eyes open, panting. Her skin was misted in sweat, and her stomach felt tingly and strange and
wonderful
. She groaned, pressing her hand against it. What had happened? Had she—?

She went bright red at the thought.

Ruth pushed herself up, head still muddled and floating. She pushed back her covers.

Her stomach turned to lead. All the pleasant after-effects disappeared.

Her sheets were scorched in the outline of her body.

CHAPTER NINE

Henry

Henry stared at the files before him, tapping his fingers idly on the top of his wood desk.

That morning, he’d awoken to find himself with a distracting problem waiting for him in his pajama pants and a mind full of Ruth Baker. He’d tried to brush it off, ignore it—but the thought of her lips, the feel of her small, pert breasts against his chest … it had been too much. He’d had to take care of himself in the shower, feeling like a teenager the entire time.

She’d walked away the night before, and it had taken all of Henry’s willpower not to chase after her and kiss her until she agreed to run away from her horrible home life to ….

To what?

A better life? Him?

Thinking about the situation had kept Henry up late the night before and had roused him early that morning. To distract himself, he’d sneaked into the clinic hours before it was set to open, making his way back to his grandfather’s office. If there was anything that could distract him from Ruth Baker, it was the mystery he’d only just started to unravel.

He went through his desk and pulled out the files he’d stashed in there days before. June Powell, Teddy Dickinson, both of the Briggs brothers, Cora Murphy Briggs, Kent Michaels—they were all there.

Looking at the files, a few things were clear to Henry. The first was that this BBC number indicated some kind of blood cell count—as much as it didn’t make sense, there was no other real explanation. The second was that the BBCs were being carefully tracked and recorded. Did that mean his grandfather knew what they did, or at the very least, suspected? Had the fog created this new blood cell?

Dr. Pinkerton had discovered the kind of medical anomaly researchers would kill to find—if he followed this research through, this could be worthy of a Nobel Prize. A new blood cell, whose developments was somehow—and Henry did not know yet how, but it
had
to be—linked to the development of superhuman abilities. It was incredible. Incredible didn’t even begin to cover it. This was a
revolutionary
find that could change the very face of medical studies in the future.

So why was his grandfather just sitting on it?

It was possible that Dr. Pinkerton was testing this on his own, working with someone in the lab in Denver. Tests could take years, and results had to be verified and published. Going public was a long term goal. But in the short term, his grandfather had a fully qualified, somewhat underutilized doctor waiting to assist him.

Yet Henry had discovered this all on his own. It put a bad feeling in his stomach, made him feel wrong-footed and uneasy to sneak around behind his grandfather’s back like this. He’d never known his grandfather to keep secrets about anything, and this was no ordinary secret.

He felt jittery, could not stop fidgeting in his chair, tapping the eraser of his pencil in a rapid staccato beat. The clinic would open soon—Mrs. McClure and Patrice hadn’t yet arrived to unlock the front door or start on their morning duties, but they were due within the next half-hour. His grandfather was still tucked away in his apartment upstairs.

Henry shuffled the files in front of him, organizing them alphabetically just for something to do. He was going to explode from nerves if he didn’t figure this out soon.

There was a knock at his office door.

Henry froze. He’d been so wrapped up that he hadn’t heard anyone milling around the office. Where was his head? “Come in!”

Dr. Pinkerton opened the door and strolled inside, smiling. He looked stronger today than he had in weeks, which was encouraging to see. His coloring was good, and he seemed less tired than he had the past few mornings. It was Henry’s medical opinion that his grandfather was overexerting himself. He was no longer a young man, and the long hours, the extra projects focused on secret blood cells—it was wearing him down. Every little illness, every cold hit his system and became a big problem. He wasn’t sure the man had been truly healthy in the past two months.

It worried Henry more than he could say. More than he wanted an able doctor nearby, more than he wanted to know what was happening with the blood cells and the strange new powers—he wanted his grandfather to be well.

“Morning, son,” Dr. Pinkerton said. He had two cups of coffee in hand. Apparently, he’d decided not to wait for Mrs. McClure that morning.

Henry sighed. Part of him thought it’d be better to keep up a charade, engage in some pleasant banter, but it was all delaying the inevitable. His grandfather was not going to be happy to find out that Henry had stuck his nose someplace it had not been invited.

“Granddad,” he started. He cut himself off with a sigh and pushed the folders forward, spreading them out so the names were visible. He grabbed the nearest one, Cora’s, and opened to her most recent blood test. The BBC stood out on the page. “I know you don’t want my help on these cases, but I really think we need to talk about what’s going on here.”

“What—” Dr. Pinkerton began. He adjusted his glasses and leaned in closer to see what Henry was waving about. When he read the name on the first file, his face fell. “Henry, what have you been doing?”

“My
job.
I was filing, and I noticed the same anomaly on each one of these people’s blood test.” Henry frowned, his brows drawing together. “You know more than you’ve let on. People are running around like madmen out there, talking about these people like they’re demons, and you have an answer that you’re just sitting on.”

“You should not have read that file,” his grandfather said sternly. His face was thunderous. “And I don’t have any more answers than you do, just another theory. Between the Soviets and the demon possessions, I don’t think we need any more of those. That new cell showed up on one of their tests, and then the next, and the next—what good is telling them about its existence if I can’t tell them
why
?”

Henry rubbed at his forehead. A migraine was forming just behind his temple. “Have you seen what’s happening in this town? Last night, people practically tried to kick June Powell out of the fundraiser because they didn’t like ‘her kind.’ It’s going to get out of hand, and
fast
. If people knew there was a scientific reason behind these changes—”

“What good will it do to give them partial answers if we can’t supply the entire narrative? They’ll doubt us until we have proof.”

It was preposterous. Surely the existence of a new cell was proof enough—but if that was the way his grandfather would spin it, fine. Henry wouldn’t be swayed. The old man was too sick and taking on too much to be trying to devote himself to this.

“All right.” The words grated in Henry’s throat, but he forced them out. “If that’s what you think is best. But I’m going to help with this. A second pair of eyes on the results might—”

“No!” Dr. Pinkerton ripped the files out of Henry’s hands and backed away, coughing as he went. All his high color and good spirits had vanished. “I don’t want you meddling in this. This isn’t something you need to get involved in.”

His grandfather was curled over the folders, his eyes hard as he glared at Henry. It was a look he had never seen on his grandfather’s face before, and it threw him. Henry sank back into his desk chair.

“I don’t understand,” he managed, sounding as lost as he felt.

At that, his grandfather softened. He kept a tight grip on the files, but his shoulders slumped. He looked suddenly older, less like the man Henry had known and loved his entire life.

“I just don’t know what this is yet,” Dr. Pinkerton said, shaking the files a bit for emphasis. “Something strange is happening in this town, Henry, and I don’t know how safe it is. I don’t want to involve you in something that could hurt you.”

The love was plain in his voice, but it wasn’t a good enough reason. All the coddling was maddening.

“This is hurting
you
. I can’t stand by and—”

Dr. Pinkerton’s voice took on an edge. “Well, I’m telling you to.”

There was a moment of silence. Henry stared at his grandfather, looking for any trace of the man who had raised him.

“How about this,” Dr. Pinkerton finally said. “The second I feel like I need your help with this, I will ask for it.” He tried to smile. It was weak.

“Okay,” Henry agreed outwardly.

Inwardly, he was already plotting how to conduct his own tests.

A half-hour after the fight, the clinic was open.

Dr. Pinkerton was quickly caught up in a patient exam—yet another one of the kind Henry had to be excluded from, he thought ruefully. Once Dr. Pinkerton was closed up in the exam room, Henry sidled up to Mrs. McClure’s desk. “Well, if there’s nothing else going on, I guess I can continue with that filing project.” 

“Oh, didn’t your grandfather tell you?” She
tsked
as Henry leaned into a pile of bills she was sorting. “He decided it would be more efficient if we cleaned out the old files first. The ones from the early days of his practice. You don’t mind, do you?”