Page 78 of Fuse

No fucking wonder they woke me up early.

But somehow—I really don’t know how—I fight every flame of the panic and rage. Refuse to punch either of those fucking buttons. It’s like fighting a forest fire with a blowtorch, but I have no choice. Now more than ever, I’ve got to keep this holocaust contained. To conserve the energy of the ions as much as possible. Every collision and spark to my system means less ionization and a greater possibility that the team’s grueling work will be for nothing. I’ll return to being the dead brick on their table again—or worse.

Because if Faline finds a way back into my blood again…

With that injunction in mind, I face Lydia again. Fold my arms over my chest, deciding to just go for the obvious. “I take it you did look in our bedroom?”

She nods. “Even out on the sun deck.”

It doesn’t surprise me that she knows about Emma’s little “happy spot” for escaping the world, and normally I’d be happy about the sisters’ special closeness, except for the way Lydia’s wearing every shred of her stress now. Something’s wrong, and the woman knows it. On top of that, I’m unable to feel Em at all for myself. Reaching out to her feels like trying to hear a whisper at a rock concert. There’s a fuck ton of extra noise in my senses right now, and organizing it into manageable files is going to take some time.

Time I don’t have.

Where’s a cosmic MacGyver when I fucking need one?

A question that ’Dia’s obviously asked for herself, as she swallows hard and lifts her dark, watery gaze back to me. “We’ve covered the rest of the house and grounds too—but they’re not here.”

Through sheer force of will, I summon strength to my legs and some balance to my head and use both to stumble outside to the driveway, where Foley is already waiting with a clenched expression and a stiff stance. “We’ve done the motor pool inventory,” he declares. “Angie’s rental is gone.”

Ground control, we’ll need to upgrade that hitch to a full shit storm, please…

I breathe hard, fighting a total nosedive into moroseness while leading the way into the house.

Once we’re in the foyer, I’m slammed by air that doesn’t feel right at all. Doesn’t smell right or even sound right either. Not without Emmalina here. Suddenly, the house has simply become a building. A structure. Walls and steps and furniture and a roof. Not my home.

Not our home.

Still, I suck all that shit back up and smack my hands together with a defined whomp—a sound loud enough to drown the cacophony in my senses so I can turn and grab one of my tablets from the foyer hutch. Swiftly, I swipe to the app that’ll show me where Emma’s phone is located—only I’m still waiting for it to load when Lydia grabs me by the wrist, already shaking her head. “I already tried. She left it here.”

I stare as if her head has fallen off. Clench my teeth as my bloodstream’s electrons eat away at their solar infusion. “What the hell?”

’Dia chews into her bottom lip. She’s picked up the habit from Emma and emulates her little sister to the point that I rub against the ache in my chest. “Reece,” she rasps. “The serve’s not lining up with the box here.”

“Bingo.” Foley’s exclamation goes with that like an orgasm in church, though his victorious grin only widens as Lydia and I toss over a pair of gapes. He holds his phone aloft as if toasting with the communion wine. “Emma left her phone behind, but Angelique didn’t.”

“Thank God.” Lydia rushes over, grabbing his device while popping on tiptoes to buss the bottom of his jaw. “You’re brilliant.”

I swear to God, Foley puffs up just like that kid on Stranger Things after locking lips with Eleven at the Snow Ball, though he recovers rapidly enough to mumble, “Not brilliant enough to have thought of it before now—though it says the signal’s been parked at that spot for several hours now.”

“There? In Rancho Palos Verdes?” Lydia responds. “But what the heck is that place?”

“Fuck.” Foley and I spew it together. But even with his fraternity, I fight to use the acid in my gut to dissolve my horror instead of my reason. For talking myself out of remembering that RPV contains a lot of other structures in it than just the one the Consortium once used as their stateside recruitment facility. And that maybe Angelique has a damn good reason for traipsing off there without telling anyone here.

With Wade and Emmalina in tow.

After she demonstrated, very vividly, that there’s more going on under her skull than a marbled light show.

Synapses that Faline has claimed now too? And now controls? And calls to her bidding the same way she remote-controlled Kane?

“Fuck.” I all but punch the echo onto the air. Foley leans in to look after Lydia spreads her thumb and forefinger across the screen to zoom in.

Don’t leap to conclusions. It could just be a fluke. Cart before the horse only makes a mess, especially if the horse just got out of a four-hour coma.

I grit back the damn tizzy, even while watching Foley and Lydia staring at the screen, the separate gold shades of their hair mingling as they lean in. I’m doing damn well until Lydia mutters, “What the hell is that? Church? Shopping plaza?” She jumps an astounded stare to Foley’s profile and then back to the screen. “That can’t be a house, can it?”

I already know what Foley’s going to say before he snarls our favorite four-letter word again. I know it because the instincts I couldn’t link to Emma just a minute ago are now going off like fucking fireworks, compelling my mind to face the truth before I yank the phone from Lydia. Before I blink back the furious fog from the edges of my gaze, knowing I’ve taken tizzy to advanced ionization but I’m unable to fight the fucker. Before I swipe the map back down in order to orient the pin to the surrounding areas.

And sure enough, there’s Christmas Tree Cove to the north, Golden Cove to the south, and the exclusive strip of oceanfront mansions along one of Southern California’s most prime coastal bluffs. When I switch the view to a satellite overhead, I see the Consortium’s estate, with its sloped Mediterranean roof and an electric security fence along the perimeter. The designer pool is still in the backyard, with deck chairs as pristine as the last time I laid eyes on the place. The damn things have likely never been used.