Nevermore: The Final Maximum Ride Adventure mr-8 Read online

  He’d become a man.

  At first the thought made me a little sad. And then it kind of scared me. But then it actually… excited me, somehow.

  And what have you become, Maximum Ride? I thought. Definitely not a woman. And definitely not a savior. Barely a leader, anymore. Basically, I was nothing.

  “So… no offense, man, but why’re you here?” Iggy asked, his mouth fully loaded with cake, spraying us all with chocolate crumbs. “Shouldn’t you be with your gang?”

  Fang shoved a hunk of cake into his mouth. He glanced at Iggy and shrugged. Fang was giving us the silent treatment, just like old times.

  “I’m just looking for some answers, man,” pressed Iggy.

  “The gang is done,” Fang answered shortly, taking a swig of the chocolate milk. A shadow passed over his face, and I remembered what Ari had said about Maya. “So, how’s Dylan doing?”

  Dylan, the elephant in the room (well, in the living room). The rest of the flock stared at me expectantly. Iggy whistled, and Gazzy made kissing noises.

  “Out!” I yelled at them. They scrambled away, taking the rest of the cake with them.

  “Dylan’s fine,” I told him, as nonchalantly as possible. “Doing well on his flying and fighting techniques, adjusting in the community, you know…”

  “Uh-huh.” Fang stared at me, his dark eyes focusing on me intently, a tight little smile on his lips. “You look… different, Max. Lighter, or happier, or something.”

  Or something.

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” I snorted dismissively, but inside, my stomach leaped a little. Was he trying to say I looked good? Maybe even… pretty?

  “I guess Dylan was just what the doctor ordered,” Fang went on, unlocking his eyes from mine abruptly and stabbing his fork into his cake.

  “Yeah, right. The insane Dr. Gunther-Hagen, that is. I really trust the guy.” I coughed. “Anyway, thanks, but… you actually look a little like roadkill, and I’m pretty freaking worried. What happened?”

  He gave me a penetrating stare that made me shiver—not unpleasantly—from my neck to my toes. “Basically, I came back from the dead, Max. And I’m ready to move on now. End of story.”

  As if it wasn’t bad enough that my evening with Dylan in the tree house had pretty much filled my every thought up until about an hour ago, now that Fang was back I was having flashbacks of kisses with him.

  The different memories kept swirling through my head like a swarm of tadpoles in a muddy pond, twisting into darker and darker masses of shapes until I couldn’t tell which way was up.

  Or which intensely beautiful winged boy I was fantasizing about.

  48

  FANG AND DYLAN stood across from each other, both silent, arms crossed. Dylan shifted his weight, rubbed absently at his temple. It wasn’t like he was facing the mostly-ex-but-it-was-confusing boyfriend of the girl he loved or anything.

  “You wanted to talk to me about something?” Dylan asked finally, cursing the anxiety he heard in his own voice and envying the expression on Fang’s face—that cool blankness that gave nothing away.

  “Yeah,” Fang replied quietly, yet with so much hostility in the single word that Dylan was taken by surprise.

  The time away from the flock had left Fang leaner, more angular. Add in the amount of still healing bruises and cuts on his face and the pissed-off scowl, and Fang looked downright menacing.

  Not that Dylan couldn’t take him in a fight, if it came to that. He totally could. But still. An ideal situation, this wasn’t.

  “So…?” Dylan said after another long minute of uncomfortable silence. “Talk.”

  “I heard you’ve been sleeping in Max’s room,” Fang said, his dark eyes narrowing.

  Ohhhh. So that’s what this is about, Dylan thought. Note to self: There is a reason Max calls Nudge “the Vortex of Friendly, Chattery, Bambi-Eyed Doom.” She sees, hears, and talks about all.

  “Yeah, and?” Dylan said, feigning as much boredom as he could muster. He even picked at his fingernails.

  “And”—Fang leaned forward—“that’s not necessary.”

  Dylan put up his hands. “Look, you don’t need to get all alpha on me, man.” Regardless of his history with Fang, he wasn’t about to actually fight him there, in the middle of the house. Especially not after all the headway he’d made with Max. “I just like to sleep there. There’s nothing going on,” Dylan said, and instantly wished he hadn’t.

  “Oh, nothing’s going on?” Fang barked out a laugh that made Dylan flush with humiliation. “No kidding, Casanova. You don’t need to tell me that much—Max has standards, after all.”

  Dylan opened his mouth to protest, to tell this jerk exactly what kind of standards Max had, to blurt out every detail about the scene in the tree house—Max’s mouth, Max’s skin, Max’s soft feathers under his hands. But in that instant Dylan also saw what would follow—the hurt on Max’s face, the accusation—and stopped short.

  “Look, maybe you think you’re protecting her or something,” Fang continued. “Who knows? But she’s safe here, with all of us around her. She doesn’t need you curled up at the foot of her bed like a lovesick dog.”

  Dylan clamped his lips shut and tried to talk himself out of decking Fang. Not worth it, he told himself.

  “So you can stop protecting her,” Fang said. “I’m back now. The flock is together again.” He faltered for a split second, and Dylan knew exactly which person had just crossed his mind—a small blond person with white wings. “Max is fine.”

  Now it was Dylan’s turn to laugh. He looked at Fang coolly. “Excuse me? You’re back now, so automatically everything’s good again? Who do you think you’re kidding? Things got worse the moment you came crawling back through that door.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Fang. “Worse for you, you mean, now that your little dream world is ending?”

  Dylan ignored that. “You’re supposedly doing this all for Max, right?” he challenged. Fang nodded, leaning back against the doorjamb. “Well, sorry to break it to you, but by coming back, all you’ve done is put Max in more danger.” Dylan sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees.

  Silence. Then: “What?”

  Dylan looked at Fang with a level gaze. “Haven’t you noticed that, like, the entire world is hunting you?” he asked.

  Fang shifted. “They’re after all of us. They always have been,” Fang said quietly, but he was frowning.

  “You seriously don’t know? You’re the one they want, not Max, not the rest of the flock!” Dylan was shouting now. “It’s you, Fang. It’s your DNA they’re after.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not.”

  “My DNA?” Fang laughed, but it sounded tinny and hollow to Dylan’s ears. “My DNA is, like, Generation Zero.”

  “Well, fifty-fourth, actually,” Dylan said. “But apparently they discovered something that has every whitecoat in the world after you.”

  “Who did? I don’t believe you,” Fang spat, but the uncertainty in his eyes—the fear—betrayed him. “What kind of discovery could they possibly make about me that I wouldn’t know?”

  Dylan let out a breath. “I… can’t tell you.”

  Fang pushed off the doorjamb and crossed the bedroom in two strides. He stood in front of Dylan, fists clenched, the veins in his neck straining. “You can’t tell me? And why is that? Because you’re making this up? Because a little bird told you? Because you’re on their side?”

  “I’m on the side of Max surviving,” Dylan shot back. “I didn’t make this up. But I can’t tell you the details unless—”

  “Unless what?” Fang’s voice was tight.

  “Unless you swear to leave… and never come back.”

  They stared at each other, black eyes locked onto blue, night and day.

  “I can’t swear that,” Fang said in a low voice.

  Dylan’s jaw clenched. “Then I can’t be held account
able for anything I do to you. You’re putting her in danger. You’re putting everyone in danger. Don’t you even care?”

  “My Voice said to be with Max,” answered Fang. “I’m never leaving her again.”

  49

  “PAWS OFF, BUCKO,” I barked, slapping the Gasman’s hands away from my slice of pie. “You already ate an entire half of the pie. Your pie privileges have been revoked.”

  “Paws off?” Total said, looking up from his plate. “I resent that. You’re saying that all pie stealers have paws? Is that it?”

  “Chillax,” I told Total. I’d forgotten he was sitting there. “It’s just a turn of phrase.”

  “Hmph,” said Total.

  “And you,” I said, turning back to Gazzy. “Step. Away. From. The. Pie.”

  “Poop,” Gazzy mumbled. “Dylan wouldn’t give me any of his, either. Neither would Nudge. Or Iggy.”

  “And what have we learned from this experience?” I asked, raising one eyebrow.

  Gazzy shuffled. “Um… everyone but me needs to work on their sharing skills?”

  “No,” I said patiently. “We learned that if you eat half a pie, you get your pie privileges taken away. Capiche?”

  I am such a good not-mom.

  The Gasman started to say something else but was cut off by the sudden appearance of Fang, who had entered the living room like a freaking shadow.

  Just like old times.

  I glanced at Fang and was startled by how pale he was. His normally inexpressive face looked taut, and his lips were pressed into a thin white line.

  “What’s wrong?” I said immediately, getting ready to do a head count. “Is everyone okay?”

  Fang hesitated. “Can you come with me?”

  I took one last bite of pie, then followed Fang down the hallway, past Nudge’s room, Iggy’s room, Gazzy’s, mine, Dylan’s, and Total’s. (Yes, the dog got his own room.)

  Fang opened the door to the guest room and led me inside. His laptop was open and running on the bed, and I saw the page for his blog pulled up on the screen.

  “Wait, this is about your blog?” I exclaimed, one part relieved and two parts annoyed that he’d gotten me all worked up for nothing. “From your face, I thought we were gearing up for Armageddon!”

  He sat and motioned to the laptop. “Read the comment on top.”

  Great. Probably another Fang fan-girl (Fang-irl?) gushing about how incredibly guh-orrrrr-geous he was. I sighed and sat down next to him on the bed.

  What? My heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe.

  Feeling completely numb—I refused to get my hopes up—I clicked on the image that came with the comment. Fang and I were both silent, waiting with bated breath, as the image loaded.

  It was a blurry, grainy photo, maybe taken on an old cell phone. The background was dark and murky, with a couple of blocky shadows that looked a bit like hospital equipment. I ignored that and focused on the foreground, which had better lighting.

  Better lighting that revealed a chunk of limp blond ringlets. A clump of dirty white feathers. A small, pale hand—the same hand I’d held a million times throughout the years.

  “Oh, my God,” I breathed. “Oh, my God.”

  Fang leaned toward the computer screen, gazing at the photo. “So you think it’s really her?” he asked softly. I caught the faint undercurrents of insane, wild, un-Fanglike excitement.

  “Yeah,” I squeaked, hardly believing I was saying it. “Yes,” I said louder, looking into his eyes and seeing my own certainty reflected there. “Fang, I think that’s Angel.”

  “What?”

  It wasn’t Fang who’d spoken. The two of us turned to the doorway to see Nudge and Gazzy staring at us. Gazzy was holding the second pie, and Nudge was carrying two forks. Under different circumstances, I’d have whooped their conniving, thieving little behinds. But right now, all I could do was frantically process plans, ideas, possibilities, while I tried to contain the enormous hopeful smile that was threatening to take over my face.

  “Angel,” said Fang. “Angel might be alive.”

  The Gasman gasped and dropped the pie, which splattered all over the floor. None of us even flinched. “What?” he said again.

  “Look,” I choked out, and he and Nudge hurried over to the bed. I watched as they read this Mazin Nourahmed person’s comment and studied the photo.

  “Trap?” Nudge asked immediately. That’s my girl.

  “Maybe,” I replied. Then I regretfully added: “Probably.”

  “Do we care?” That was Gazzy. I knew how much he wanted to see his little sister again—under any circumstances.

  Fang and I glanced at each other, then answered at the same time: “No.”

  The four of us sat there for a few more moments, just letting the news sink in.

  Then Gazzy hollered, “Iggy! Dylan! Fang’s room! Now!”

  “Oh, my God!” Nudge yelled, bouncing on her heels in excitement. “Oh, my God, Angel!”

  “Did I hear ‘Angel’?” Dylan asked, poking his head around the door.

  “What?” Iggy demanded, coming on Dylan’s heels and skidding to a stop in the hallway.

  Gazzy read the blog comment aloud. As before, we were all quiet for a bit as Iggy and Dylan processed the information.

  And then—without any warning—we all leaped up, screaming and yelling and hugging until our voices and arms gave out. Nudge was sobbing; Gazzy kept chanting “My sister’s alive! My sister’s alive!” over and over; Iggy was laughing maniacally; Dylan stayed next to me, grinning, while I acted like my usual stoic, leaderly self (read: sobbing just as hard as Nudge). And in the middle of all of us, Fang was smiling with an abandon that I’d never seen him show before.

  For the first time in my life, I saw tears in Fang’s eyes.

  He squeezed my hand, and I knew right then that regardless of traps, regardless of risks, everything was going to be all right. The flock was about to be complete again.

  Our baby was coming home.

  50

  THE VERY NEXT morning, all six of us—Gazzy, Nudge, Iggy, Fang, Dylan, and I—got up bright and early to leave on the first rescue mission in… how many months? Three? Four? Man, that might have been the longest period of time without a rescue since Jeb had whisked us away from the School. Impressive.

  We didn’t bother telling the principal or teachers at Newton the small, insignificant fact that their precious bird kids were leaving on an impromptu trip to California, possibly never to return. After all, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: We’ve spent our entire, unglamorous lives not being controlled by grown-ups. Why start now?

  “Okeydokey,” I said to myself, stuffing another bag of beef jerky into a backpack. “Provisions, check. Clothes, check. Enough explosives to pose a legitimate threat to multiple small countries”—I eyed the duffel bags that Gazzy and Iggy had packed—“check. Destination”—I glanced at the printed-out sheet with a marked map, courtesy of Mazin Nourahmed the Helpful (and Possibly Evil?) Blog Commenter—“check.”

  Six backpacks were laid out before me, for six bird kids. Usually I’d have to pack one for Total, too, but following my recommendation, he’d agreed to stay behind for this one. I’d arranged for him to stay with Akila. If this mission didn’t go well, I didn’t want his canine ladyfriend to end up a widow.

  “Ready?” Fang asked, sliding his arms through the straps of his backpack and giving me a warm, excited, anxious look—a look that betrayed way more emotion than I was used to seeing Fang display.

  “Yup. Let’s bust this joint,” I said. Nudge and Gazzy exchanged smiles—we all had the same feeling about this mission. Just like old times.

  Except, of course, this wasn’t old times, or just any mission. It was Angel. And it was probably a trap. And even if we did somehow manage to find her, she might not be as okay as we were all desperately hoping she was. A lot can happen to a seven-year-old girl all alone at a School.

  I let out a long breath, my hands shaking as I
fumbled with my bag’s zipper. Stay positive. She is alive.

  “It’s okay,” said a familiar voice beside me. Dylan. “We’ll find her.”

  I turned to face him. He looked serious and sincere. A lump suddenly formed in my throat, and I wanted to hug him. But Fang was right behind me, so I just nodded, knowing that Dylan understood, and praying hard that he was right.

  I hoisted my backpack into the proper position for flight, looking over my shoulder at Fang as I did so. We exchanged a brief look, I did a silent head count, and then he said, “Okay! Everybody ready?”

  “Ready!” the flock shouted in unison. Then, with Fang leading the way, we all kicked off the ground and soared into the bright blue sky.

  Please be okay, Angel. We’re coming.

  51

  IT WAS THE beginning of the end, but not the end that Angel expected.

  When she awoke, her lungs were screaming. She thought she saw a blurry flash, and then the image of a giant, belching fireball exploding behind her damaged eyes, and she cried out in terror.

  Another vision of the apocalypse. It had to be. There was nothing else that sent hot panic surging through her like that. The very essence of chaos, fire and brimstone. The violent sound of the earth being savagely reclaimed for nature.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Angel thought. When the end comes, I’m supposed to be with Max. With my flock. When we die, we will be together.

  She had just sucked in a ragged, hot breath of stinking smoke when she realized she was still in the lab, clamped to the table, her limbs splayed out as if she were a butterfly on display. For a fleeting second the surrounding madness was drowned out by the deafeningly quiet memory of the whisper-sound of her feathers drifting to the lab floor, the endless flow of tears running down her face. After that, she’d passed out.

  Now she coughed weakly into her shoulder, but she couldn’t seem to take in enough oxygen as she choked on the smoke that was forcing itself under the door and into the room where she lay, alone.