Countercurrent: Book Four of the Atlas Link Series Read online

  My spirits lifted with the crowd’s, and soon I pushed away the weight of the past three weeks altogether, along with everything they held. Right now, I was just Chelsea Danning, lead singer of Phoenix and Lobster. I wasn’t Atlantean. I wasn’t a soldier for TAO. I wasn’t some Navy archaeologist.

  I was Chelsea. Just Chelsea. I hadn’t been her in a very long time.

  Finally, we got to the last song of the night. “This is it for us,” I told the audience, my voice scratchy from the eighteen-song set. “Thank you so much for coming out tonight, especially to the Red Tide fans who still think they’re at the wrong show. I hope you enjoyed us anyway.”

  Laughter permeated the crowd. A smile threatened to sprout on my lips and I let it. I grinned. God, this night had been everything. Sure, this crowd wasn’t here for our music, but they were here for us and that was good enough. More than enough.

  “Okay, here we go,” I said, and I hopped away to the first few beats of “Long Time Coming,” Red Tide’s biggest anthem.

  The crowd went wild, crazier than they had the rest of the night, and soon we were all jumping in time together. I belted out the words, shaking my hips and dancing around like nothing else had ever mattered, like nothing else might ever matter again except for this moment right here. Right now.

  The breakdown of the song came, guitars going quiet, and I got the crowd to sing along with me, chanting the words, slowly bringing it back until it was time for the band’s lyric-less solo. They nailed it, the grins on their faces worth everything we’d gone through to get here.

  But then it got even crazier.

  As the band’s solo continued, someone pushed their way to the front of the crowd. Our eyes met, his a super dark brown shadowed by bleached blonde hair that fell over his eyes, and I lost it.

  “Holy shit,” I said. My voice echoed across the venue. I’d said it into the mic. Is this really happening?

  Jesse O’Malley, lead singer of Red Tide, grinned up at me and nodded at the stage, his head tilted in question.

  Him? On stage with us?

  “Hell yeah,” I said as I bent down and tapped the security guards on their shoulders. Together we hauled Jesse up onto the stage. My hands shook as we fist-bumped. The crowd lost their heads, shouting and whooping even louder when they realized whom I’d brought on stage. Sarah blushed—she’d had a crush on Jesse O’Malley since middle school—and I attempted to swallow every fangirl reaction rising to the surface.

  “Hey,” Jesse said.

  “Hey,” I replied. The band started playing the refrain again, the crowd alternating between cheering and singing the words for us. I offered Jesse the mic.

  He waved me off. “Your show. Let’s sing together.”

  And we did. When the band came back in, I was singing “Long Time Coming” with Jesse O-freaking-Malley. Singing with Jesse O’Malley. My gaze met Sarah’s, still in disbelief over this turn of events, and I grinned at her.

  As the song ended, we wrapped up the set and moved off stage to the sounds of one happy-as-hell crowd. Jesse followed the band and me backstage to the dressing room, chatting with him along the way. But all I could think was: Did we do a good enough job covering Red Tide’s songs? His songs?

  He wouldn’t have come on stage if he thought we didn’t. But I wasn’t so sure.

  As soon as the dressing room closed to the few cameras that’d made it that far backstage, Jesse turned to me and said, “That was fantastic.”

  “We were good?” Kris asked him. “Dude, you’re O’Malley. You’re here!” Fanboy mode, engaged, Captain!

  “Kris,” I said, laughing. “Chill.”

  Jesse laughed too. His tank revealed his tattoo sleeves to the world, and I noted more than a few new ones he’d gotten since the posters in my bedroom had been made. Jesse O’Malley. Here. In front of us. Was the rest of Red Tide also here?

  “I wanted to see the show,” Jesse said after Sarah asked what he was doing here. “When your manager called to clear using our music for your cover show, we were excited. It feels like Phoenix and Lobster kind of came out of nowhere, but you all came out swinging.”

  More like I came out lyrically swinging at Lexi, but whatever. “You guys were excited about us? Do you even know how big a fan we are?”

  Jesse laughed again. “Oh, yeah. Once we started looking into who wanted to cover us so badly, we realized you guys were fans and that we were in good hands. You guys smashed it tonight.”

  I didn’t know what to say. My throat kind of constricted over the fangirling-tendencies wanting to bubble over and spill out, and my fingers shook. “Thanks.”

  Waving us off, Jesse said, “Seriously. You’re amazing. Which is why I’m doubly excited to officially extend a tour offer to you guys regardless of the competition outcome.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened and she turned to Kris, who kind of let this weird, excited squeak out of his throat.

  “Uh, yes,” Sarah said, bouncing on her feet.

  But instead of being as excited as them—as excited as I should have been—my stomach sank right through to the floor. Years ago, I’d have given anything, everything, for this opportunity, and not just because it was Red Tide offering. This was Sarah’s dream, had been my dream, too. But then had SeaSat5 had happened, and the war, and now… Now I wasn’t sure what my life was.

  Maybe this signified a nearing end to this nightmare, that we were in the breakdown of the song, and all we needed was the refrain. One last obstacle before the final chorus. The thought of what that might be left me breathless, trembling.

  “Chelsea?” Sarah asked, nudging me with an elbow. “What do you think?”

  I forced a grin onto my face. “I think it’s awesome. Thanks, Jesse. This is an incredible opportunity.”

  His bright smile widened. “For a great band, too. We just have to call your manager to make it official.”

  “Or we could drink on it,” Kris suggested, thumbing over his shoulder. “We got an afterparty set up on the other side of the city. Want to join us?” He meant in his apartment. He’d somehow managed to find something affordable, even if it meant he had four roommates. But the place was huge. Gone were the days of partying in Logan’s basement after shows.

  Jesse pounded fists with Kris. “Sounds good, man. Just tell me where.”

  “We can leave now,” I said. “If I drive the equipment over, you can take my seat in the band’s van.”

  Jesse’s eyes tightened. “I can walk; it’s cool.”

  “Out of this crowd?” I asked. “They’ll follow us the whole way.” Or maybe I was just paranoid. After the attack, and after all the paparazzi of the last few years, I always rode in the vans with tinted windows. Last thing I needed was more gossip surrounding me for people to tear apart. Rather, gossip that’d ruin any career I might be able to get after paying my dues to TAO and SeaSat5.

  “All right, then,” Jesse said. “Let’s go.”

  We retreated with the band’s equipment to the vans and packed them up. I slipped my guitar case in last, right next to the driver’s seat. Luckily, while I’d been working on Atlas with Trevor and others, I hadn’t really moved into it yet. My guitar had been kept at home in Boston, safe at Sarah’s side. I stroked the black case with affection. It was the one last dependable thing I had in my life and I wouldn’t let anything happen to it.

  Sarah, Kris, Jesse, and a handful of others hopped into the other van and the car-train left the venue. Intersection by agonizing, traffic-filled intersection we made our way across downtown. I slipped on the radio and turned up the volume, trying to lose myself in the rock music instead of all the nightmarish thoughts wracking my brain. Too many questions about where Trevor was, what the White City really wanted, and how we were supposed to steal the Lifestone from a heavily guarded sacred temple in their time-place.

  How was I supposed to help them do that when all I could do was see the Waterstar map? Not constantly like before the attack, but like old times when I’d touched Li
nk Pieces—the absolute only power I had left.

  I shook my head and turned the music up louder, forcing my brain to latch on to the bass lines and drums. To allow them to swallow every part of my mind that wasn’t required for driving.

  We hit another red light when I’d finally calmed down enough to think straight. No matter what had happened for two years, I’d stuck with TAO to find SeaSat5. It’d taken forever, but we’d finished the mission. The mission now was to recover the Lifestone, stop the White City, and find Trevor. Once that was complete, no matter where it left Trevor and me, I’d leave TAO. I’d leave SeaSat5. For what, I wasn’t sure. If the tour with Red Tide went well, then I’d dive into the band for good.

  It was time to focus on something that didn’t end in hell on Earth for once.

  The light turned green, and Kris’s van took off through the light. I lifted my foot from the brake to follow suit, determination raging anew within me. I rolled past the line into the middle of the intersection until—

  Horns blared and bright headlights blinded me from the right. Another car slammed into the passenger side of my van at full speed, sending me careening through the intersection.

  Chapter Twelve

  CHELSEA

  Sirens. Their blaring horns registered first, shattering the quiet darkness around me with wails and high-pitch squeals. Pain starburst across my being, throbbing in my head and legs the most. I wiggled my toes, and those hurt too, but pain was a good sign.

  Screams and shouts made their way through the darkness next, some closer than others. I forced my eyes open slowly, giving away to confusion. I was in a car, but it’d crashed. Glass littered my hair and the dashboard, which didn’t look quite right. My shoulders ached in time with the throbbing in my legs. My breath came quick. The steady tap of something dripping onto my arm pulled on my attention. I looked down and saw red. Blood.

  Everything came rushing back—the intersection, the car that had plowed into me without a single care in the world. Skidding. Crashing. Landing.

  I glanced above me, a hunch growing, and confirmed my fear through the confusion clouding my mind. I was upside down, my shoulder digging against the seatbelt—the only thing keeping me in the seat. A half-foot of space dangled between my head and the top of the car. My legs had been pinned at some point, but now slid partially out from underneath the dashboard.

  I blinked, trying to make sense of it all. Rustling by the passenger-side window drew my attention. I slowly turned my head as shoes appeared, then knees as the person knelt. My vision blurred as a face appeared.

  “Help me,” I croaked. No way was I getting out of here by myself. Nausea rocked my stomach. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. “Please.”

  “I’m sorry,” the person said. Guy. Definitely a guy.

  Blinking away the blurriness, I squeezed my eyes to get a better look at him, but all I saw were ocean blue eyes and chaos.

  My heart dropped. “Trevor…?” Had he done this? Why wasn’t he helping me? Trevor’s here! “Help me.”

  He shook his head and stood abruptly, as if something had spooked him. His feet turned and he took off without another word.

  “Chelsea!” another person shouted. “Chelsea, can you hear me?”

  Their voice screamed in from my side of the van. Two more pairs of shoes, a set of sneakers, and a set of boots appeared by my head. One of them dropped down. Josh.

  “Chelsea—”

  “Get me out of here.” My voice broke as it came out, more a squeak than anything else, as it finally sunk in. I’d been in a car accident. The car had flipped. My legs hurt like a bitch and Trevor had been here, which meant White City soldiers might have been, too. They’d planned this. They’d tried to kill me.

  They might yet succeed.

  My breathing quickened with these realizations and claustrophobia sank in. I reached up to rip my way out of the seatbelt. Pain tore through my hand and I cried out.

  Josh pushed the rest of the glass out of the window with his boot before kneeling again. He reached a hand inside the car and moved mine away from my head. “Don’t. Don’t move. Don’t anything, Chelsea. This is bad. Real bad.” He stopped moving his fingers and I glanced up at him, seeing double. His eyes widened. “She’s bleeding!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Somewhere on her head. She’s awake, but we need to get her out of here now.”

  They could wait. The sirens drew closer with every word he said, but I agreed with his assessment. I was screwed.

  “Back up,” someone else said. Weyland, my mind filled in. “Help me rip the door off.”

  Weyland actually probably didn’t need help, considering his super strength, but appearances were everything these days. One man ripping a car door off was preposterous, but two…

  Josh stood and the next thing I knew, the sound of metal tearing apart resounded. It grated on my ears like bad mic feedback.

  “Stop. Please.” My fingers closed around the seatbelt again, pulling, tearing, but not a single piece of fabric budged. My vision swam at the effort of trying to extricate myself, so I stopped and gave in. I’d die here, in this car. And if not here, then at the hospital. And if not die, I’d at least be severely injured. Again.

  All because the White City had some damn grudge against me. Against all super soldiers.

  Because Trevor’s involved with them.

  My stomach roiled and I turned to the side and threw up. Trevor wasn’t with them. This was all an act. It had to be.

  That was when I realized I could no longer feel my legs.

  “Guys,” I croaked.

  They tore the door off the car. A few bystanders gasped, but no one ran away screaming that I could see.

  Weyland’s face appeared in place of the window. “What hurts the most?”

  “Everything,” I mumbled. Tears stung my eyes. No, stop it! I hated crying. I was done crying. “Get me out of here.”

  He touched a hand to my head. To anyone else it might have looked like he was cradling my head to comfort me, but I saw the faint navy-blue glow, felt the warmth emanating from it, and knew he was healing me enough to hopefully not die.

  “How bad… is it?” I asked.

  His breath ran ragged when he said, “Bad. The ambulance is almost here, so I can’t do this much longer. The other driver wasn’t even in the car when we got out. Thank god we were right behind you guys.”

  He and Josh had seen the accident? Oh, god. Had Sarah and the band seen it, too?

  “Sarah—”

  “She’s fine,” Weyland said. “Shaken but fine. I told her to stay back. After the backyard incident, I think she’s scared enough to listen.” Red and blue lights flashed across the frame of the van. Coldness took over my head once again, but my vision had cleared and the pain in both my head and legs was less now. I could feel my legs again. “That’s all I can do for now.”

  “Thank you,” I said to him. His eyes met mine, worry wrinkled into the corners. His lips were drawn, a mask of desperation and concern. “I’m fine, Weyland. It takes more than that to assassinate me.” I attempted a laugh, but it came out weak.

  “Just relax,” he said.

  I scoffed and looked through the windshield at the EMS staff rushing onto the scene. “Relax. Right. When you figure out how I’m supposed to do that when Trevor rammed a car into mine, please let me know.”

  His eyebrows scrunched together. “Trevor?”

  “Yes. No.” I said. “I don’t know.”

  The night faded into rescue efforts and me being strapped into a stretcher.

  Chapter Thirteen

  JOSH

  Paramedics swarmed over Chelsea, shining flashlight pens into her eyes. Weyland had done what he could without raising suspicions, but I wasn’t sure it’d be enough. No, it needed to be enough to save Chelsea. Her eyes rolled on her words and blood—god, there was so much blood. I knew head wounds bled like crazy, but when you saw it… totally different than knowing.

  Weyland and I hove
red as close as they’d let us get, and I held Sarah, Chelsea’s sister, back too. They asked Chelsea so many questions. What hurt on her body, where, and how badly? Did she remember what had happened? I’d be surprised if she had.

  A drop of rain dripped onto my nose. I wiped it off. Great. Rain only seemed appropriate given this entire damn situation.

  “Everything, and no,” Chelsea answered. She was lying. I could see it in the way her forehead creased before she spoke, like she was thinking too hard about the answer before giving it. As if she wasn’t sure what had happened. But I’d seen the whole thing.

  “Do you know what happened to the other driver?” a paramedic asked her.

  She shook her head slowly, her eyes pained. “No.”

  “This isn’t right,” Weyland said.

  “Too coincidental?”

  He nodded. “I’m thinking so.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “Found the driver!” someone shouted.

  Weyland and I turned in their direction just in time for them to announce he was dead. Thrown through the windshield, likely driving under the influence. He sure had to have been, given the speed at which he’d shot through the intersection right into Chelsea’s van.

  When I looked back to Chelsea, she’d closed her eyes. Hopefully unconsciousness had welcomed her, giving her a break from all of this.

  An officer approached us. “Are you three with her?”

  Sarah stepped forward. “My sister—I—please—”

  Weyland placed a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “We’d like to ride with her to the hospital.”

  “Are either of you the husband?” he asked us.

  Weyland and I looked at each other, then to the officer. “No.”