Jeb felt their foreheads, the way he had a long time ago. “No fever. But you all feel bad? What did you have for lunch? Did you all eat the same thing?”
“Uh-oh,” said Gazzy, but Angel was so nauseated she didn’t have time to leap to a safe distance, or grab a gas mask.
Bbbbbrrrrrrrttthhhhhhttttttt.
“Mother of God, no!” Total
cried, doing a fast belly-crawl to the pool and throwing himself in. “You said it wasn’t your digestive system!”
“What was that?” Dylan asked. He winced and threw an arm over his nose and mouth. “Another nerve gas bomb?” “Sorry,” Gazzy said miserably, but he couldn’t help a tiny grin.
Nudge was clawing at a stack of towels to cover her face.
“Nice one, Gaz,” said Iggy. “You know, I just thought of something: It’s only us who’re sick. Not the normal ones, like Jeb and Akila — only the recombined ones.”
“Wait — that was Gazzy? Is that why you call him … Oh, crap,” said Dylan weakly.
Angel stood up, but her balance was a little off. “I think we should all … ,” she began, and then the world faded and went topsy-turvy, before everything went black.
61
THE WAITRESS at the all-day breakfast buffet brought me four more pancakes, looking at me doubtfully.
“Yay, thanks,” I said, making room on my plate. “You want that last sausage?” I said to Fang.
He pushed it over to me. “Okay, what’s wrong?”
I quit chewing. “What?”
“You hardly got any sleep last night, your flying has been erratic and clumsy all day, and you’re slowing down after only twelve pancakes. What’s on your mind?”
“You really do know me,” I said, and swallowed. Although — “Wait a minute. My flying was clumsy? I don’t think so.”
Fang grinned at me, with predictable heart-fluttery results.
“Okay,” I said. I poured myself a lake of maple syrup and started pushing triangular rafts of pancake into it. “I’ve been thinking. Angel said that you were gonna die. Then Dylan shows up, Mr. Perfect. Jeb comes back into our lives. Angel boots me out of the flock. Dr. God is now everywhere, and there’s someone shooting at us. What if Angel and Dr. G-H are working together? Or he’s controlling her somehow?”
Fang stared at me blankly and then looked out the window.
“What if it’s all part of some larger plan?” I continued, keeping my voice down. “Like, someone’s trying to split up the flock. Or Jeb is trying to take over again, and can’t with me there. Or you,” I amended. As a rock-solid hypothesis — ha-ha — it wasn’t much.
Fang pushed food around on his plate. “Mr. Perfect?” was his only comment.
“What? Oh.” My stomach knotted. “No — I mean, it’s just like he’s a Ken doll or something. Mutant Ken, with wings. Like he was designed to be …”
“Perfect?” Fang’s gaze was level.
“Someone’s idea of perfect,” I said. “Not mine, obviously.”
“Yeah,” said Fang. Awkward silence. “Or … it could all just be a bunch of weird stuff happening for no reason. Here’s the non-conspiracy-theory version: Dr. God is just an egomaniac. Angel is just another one in the making. Jeb and Dylan are just a couple of losers looking for a family. And maybe you were just a pain-in-the-butt leader and the kids kicked you out for good reason.”
My eyebrows rose, and Fang gave me a lopsided grin before I could shoot him down.
“Or maybe not,” he admitted. “Maybe we should call, check in?”
“I still feel responsible for them.” I sighed. “Even though they’re, you know, all backstabbing little ingrates.”
Fang nodded, and his too-long black hair swished like silk.