A/N: Holy reviews! God, I just love you guys. Thanks for showing me love. This was a tough chapter for me... I just couldn't get it to turn out the way I wanted. But it is what it is. I hope you enjoy more than I do.

FOURTEEN

When I woke up, I was freezing. Not totally unusual for me, of course—we've already discussed that I have an issue with thermoregulation—so for a split second, I just chalked it up to the cold weather, the wind, and the fact that we were sleeping outside. Then I remembered that we were, in fact, not sleeping outside. We were sleeping in a motel with the thermostat set to depths of hell.

The alarm bells in my head started ringing at top pitch. My eyes flew open and squinted against the dark. It couldn't have been later than five in the morning. We were still in the motel, safe and sound. So why was I so cold?

The heater next to me was no longer blasting, and a throw blanket had been tucked around me. I frowned. I hadn't fallen asleep with a blanket. In fact, I distinctly remembered falling asleep with just a sheet, which had only been for modesty purposes.

Cue the onslaught of memories from last night. I groaned and burrowed closer into the pillow at my side. Oh, God, that had been embarrassing.

Note to self: wear a full sweatsuit to bed from now on.

As I slowly became a bit more conscious, it became evident that I wouldn't be falling back asleep. I sighed and prepared for at least two hours of tossing and turning while I allowed the rest of the flock to get the rest they deserved. Running around this early wasn't going to benefit anyone.

When I was finally a bit more coherent and aware of my surroundings, I forced my eyes open to seek out Angel and make sure she was 1) alive and 2) getting some sleep. This time, as my vision adjusted, I became acutely aware that the pillow I had burrowed into was warm and smelled very distinctly like something—or someone—very familiar.

It was also shirtless.

How can a pillow be shirtless, you might ask? Well, faithful reader, that's because it wasn't a pillow at all. It was Fang.

He was asleep on his stomach with his head turned away from me. And at some point in the night, my frigid self had apparently decided that it was okay to exchange my dignity for a heat source. My forehead was warm from where I'd slept with it pressed against his shoulder, and I'd shoved my knees against his bare thigh where his shorts had ridden up.

All of this information slammed to the front of my mind at once like a twelve-car pileup on the interstate. I flailed away from him in what was probably one of the least graceful things I've ever done in my life. Only when I jumped to my feet did I remember that I was only wearing one of Iggy's giant t-shirts and a pair of polka-dotted underwear. Scrambling, I picked up the blanket and held it up to my front, wondering how any of this could possibly be at the forefront of my mind when we had a so many other bigger, eviller fish to fry.

Adolescence. Nobody gets out unscathed.

A snicker came from the boys' bed at the far end of the room. Then Iggy, sleepswept but wide awake, popped up on one elbow. A wicked smile split his face from corner to corner.

"I was waiting for one of you to wake up," he whispered. "God, all this time I was hoping I'd be spared by the sexual tension, but I can hear you sleeping all cuddled up together." He made a retching sound. "Oh, man, I'm going to be sick—hey!"

He dodged the pillow I'd chucked with perfect accuracy.

"When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it," I hissed. "And trust me—don't hold your breath on that one."

"Everything alright?"

I jumped about a foot in the air at Fang's rusty voice. He'd turned and was eyeing me from the floor, looking alert despite the fact that he'd just woken up.

"Oh, just ducky," whispered Iggy in a teasing voice. "Max was just—"

"—saying how cold it is in here," I said through gritted teeth, speaking over Iggy. "What happened? I went to sleep overheating, now it's freezing."

Fang's dark eyes didn't stray from mine. "I woke up in the middle of the night and tried it again. It shut off. I figured you'd be cold." He jerked his chin in the direction of the blanket, as if to say, You're welcome.

My heart did that stupid, idiotic, schoolgirl a-fluttering again. I clenched my jaw. My first instinct was to snap at him, be angry—you know, something irrational. But in reality, all he'd done was look out for me. No ulterior motives, nothing to get worked up over: he was my best friend, he knew me well, and he had tossed me a throw blanket while I was asleep.

The more I paid attention to my first instincts, the more I was realizing what a quick trigger finger I had. Emotionally, that is.

"Oh, Fang," Iggy gushed. One of his hands found his heart. "How considerate! What a gentleman you are—"

Oh, he was dead. I balled up the blanket and tossed it across the room at Iggy, hitting him in the face this time. Then I wrestled a pair of jeans out of my backpack and tugged them on before crossing the room.

Iggy's face changed from one of mirth to confusion. "What are you doing?" he asked. He scooched back against the musty headboard. Next to him, the Gasman made his first signs of life.

"Huh?" Gazzy murmured against his pillow. Eyes still shut, he lifted his head up. "Wha's going on?"

I launched myself onto the bed at Iggy. I cinched my thighs around his rib cage, effectively trapping him in place. Iggy tried feebly to roll out of the way; when he failed, he laughed again, loudly this time.

I grabbed the pillow I'd tossed at him and shoved it over his head. "I'll make you regret you were ever born."

"Is Max trying to kill Iggy?" said Nudge groggily from behind me.

"Mmmmfgh," Iggy intoned against the pillow.

I released some pressure on the pillow. "Try again."

"I said, two can play at this game."

I had a half a second to process this when Iggy was thrashing beneath me. I held my position and shoved the pillow back over his face, more forcefully this time. "If you don't keep your mouth shut, the rest of your life will be a living hell."

I pulled the pillow away. Iggy sucked in a giant breath of air. "Alright, alright, alright!"

I wasted a glare on him. "Don't forget that I can still kick your ass."

"Yeah, yeah," Iggy said, shoving me off him. He sat up against the headboard and eyed me with creepy accuracy as I trudged back to the other side of the room. "Christ almighty," he muttered.

"Hostile this morning, are we?" Fang said with a pointed look in my direction.

"Can it," I spat.

With my plan to let the kids sleep totally foiled, we headed back to Goodchurch's apartment bright and early. Fang and I did not speak, interact, or even make eye contact for the entirety of the way there. Angel, being eight years old and blissfully unaware of the joy of hormones, hopped around like her typical bubbly self, completely immune to the tension she'd caused.

After an hour of waiting around, a man with a baseball cap and sunglasses strolled by about ten feet in front of us. He was walking a golden retriever, stopping every so often to let the dog sniff around.

I smacked Fang probably too hard on the shoulder. Fang followed my gaze and his eyes widened a fraction. Any weirdness from yesterday instantly evaporated.

"That's him," he said with a nod. "Definitely."

Fang's memory is one of those things that I've never once doubted. It's an absolute truth. One plus one is two, up is up and down is down, and Fang remembers every single thing he's ever seen, heard, or done in his entire life. Nobody knows why.

Fang and I stood and walked slowly behind Goodchurch. He nervously looked left and right, clearly paranoid, but didn't happen to look behind him.

His dog, however, did.

"Whoa, Jack," Goodchurch said lowly, pulling gently on the dog's leash. Jack pulled right back, running toward Fang and I with a wagging tail. I pasted a smile on my face and knelt, petting the dog behind his ears.

Jack, however, was far more interested in Fang. He launched himself at Fang, standing up on his hind legs and placing his front paws on Fang's thighs. Fang, uncharacteristically startled, took a couple of stumbling steps back before steading himself and eyeing the dog warily.

"What a good boy," I cooed. Fang glared at me. Jack, however, hit me with the classic we-just-met-but-I-love-you-unconditionally look. It caught me weirdly off-guard.

Goodchurch looked nervous but gave a half-smile back. "This is Jack."

"Jack," I repeated. The dog wagged his tail even harder and galloped over to me. His tongue lolled out of one side of his mouth as he appraised me happily. "Hi, Jack."

"Okay, Jack," Goodchurch said anxiously, pulling on the leash. "Let's go, buddy."

"Actually," I said, standing back up, "I was wondering if we could ask you a few—"

Goodchurch's eyes widened. Without hesitating, he dropped Jack's leash, turned, and sprinted down the sidewalk.

It only took me about a half-second to shake off my shock, but that was enough time for Fang to chase after him, grab him by the shoulders, and tackle him against the trunk of an oak tree.

"Just a few questions, Gideon," Fang said lethally. Jack was barking excitedly at his feet. "About Vector."

"I—I don't know anything, I swear to you," Goodchurch choked out. He looked absolutely terrified.

Fang pushed his elbow a bit tighter against Goodchurch's neck. "How sure are you about that?"

"I—I'm positive," Goodchurch wheezed.

"So positive that you'd bet your life on it?"

"Fang." I tugged on Fang's arm. "Back off a little."

Fang glanced down at his death grip and, looking a little surprised, released some pressure.

"Fang?" Goodchurch said questioningly. Then he looked at me and back to Fang as a horrified look of understanding dawned on his face. "Oh, no…"

"'Oh, no?'" I demanded. "What do you mean, 'oh, no?'"

"You're… you're the hybrids," Goodchurch said breathlessly. "You're alive."

"Surprise," I snapped sarcastically.

"I was so afraid he'd already gotten you—you shouldn't be here. You need to get out of here, it isn't safe—"

"'He?'" I said. "Who's 'he?'"

"I can't—I can't say any more—please—"

Fang used the arm that wasn't strangling our prisoner to drive a bark-shattering punch into the tree next to Goodchurch's head. "Think a little bit harder." The man flinched and whimpered.

Well, that checked find a tree trunk for Fang to decimate off the to-do list.

"Explain," Fang demanded.

Goodchurch shook his head. Something about him seemed sincere; I wondered where that observation fit in with the rest of this ridiculous picture. "If they find out you're here, they'll capture you. Or kill you."

"Who's 'they?'" I growled. "Vector? Your company? Let me guess—if we let you go, you'll run back to your headquarters and tell them exactly where we are?"

Goodchurch's eyes widened. He shook his head again, wildly this time. "No—you don't understand. I'm not in charge there anymore."

I snorted. "We may be rough around the edges, Gideon, but we aren't stupid. We know your story. The golden boy from the slums who developed a company in honor of his mother and created us for his own sick, twisted fascination—"

"No!" he cried. "No, no—you have to believe me—I was overthrown years ago—when he took over, he turned it into a multinational conglomerate, but he wants it all hush-hush—he swore me to secrecy, told me I had to pretend I'm still in charge!"

Uh, what?

Fang and I exchanged a look of confusion. None of this made any sense. My brain felt close to exploding.

"Angel?"

The rest of the flock slinked forward from where they'd gathered behind a clump of trees. Angel took a few steps forward. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Hey, sweetie. What's he thinking?"

Angel stared at Goodchurch for several moments. She cocked her head to the side and frowned. "He's telling the truth. But he's really scared. They've been blackmailing him. The guy who's in charge is really evil." Then she looked at Fang. "He can't really breathe, you know."

Fang released Goodchurch completely from his grasp. "Run, and I'll make you wish you didn't," he promised.

Goodchurch rubbed a hand over his neck, looking equal parts relieved and terrified. "I swear, I'm telling you the truth," he said. He glanced nervously about again. "They have eyes everywhere. The boss—he'll stop at nothing to have total control, total power."

"Over what?"

"Over everything," Goodchurch said emphatically. "I told you—it's a conglomerate now. I developed this company to do good, to help people, and he's turned it into something dangerous, insidious, and there was nothing I could do. When he found out about you, he became obsessed with finding you, with running more experiments, with creating more of you. Or, if he couldn't contain you—eliminating you."

I looked back to Angel immediately. She nodded. "Still telling the truth."

"Holy shit," Iggy said. "This is, like, some extra-level evil we're talking about, here."

"I shouldn't be talking to you," Goodchurch said. He glanced around again in a panic. "They're always watching. I've said way too much. Please, I have to go."

"I need more information. Anything that you can tell me. We can protect you."

He shook his head vigorously. "You don't understand! Nobody can protect me, can protect any of us. Not from him. He's got the police in his pocket, the FBI—you have no idea how many people he's hurt to keep everything hush-hush—"

Fang shoved him back against the tree trunk. "More. Information."

"I haven't been in charge there since 2004," Goodchurch said lowly. His voice was trembling so much he was difficult to understand. "To the whole world, I'm still the CEO. Only his direct employees know he's running the show. The boss… he's killed so many of them that anyone who's left is terrified to speak out about what he's doing, what he's done. And if they ever do, I'll have to publicly counter it as the CEO, or he'll kill my mother and sisters." His eyes jumped between all of us. "Please—you need to let me go—nothing can happen to my family. Please."

"I need a name."

Goodchurch shook his head. "I can't." Fang shoved his forearm against Goodchurch's trachea again. Tears sprung to Goodchurch's eyes. He started to hyperventilate. "Please! You have to understand—my family—"

"Let him go," I told Fang. Fang hesitated, looking like he wanted to defy me. "Fang."

Fang dropped him.

"An address, at least," I said. Goodchurch continued to shake his head no. His anxiety was rubbing off on me—it was obvious that this man wasn't lying to us, that he was truly terrified down to his bones.

"Gideon," I said softly, "I know you're a good person. I know you're looking out for your family. But we're here to take him down, to end this for everyone involved, and I can't do that if you don't give me anything to work with. If you tell me where to find him, you can live a normal life. Without fear."

Goodchurch leaned around Fang and peered down the street, into the trees, back through the park. Then, from his pocket, he pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, scribbling something out as inconspicuously as he could.

He pressed the piece of paper into my hand while crying, "I won't tell you anything! Stay away from me!" With that, he retreated down the street.

Fang looked ready to take off after him. I held up a hand and unfolded the sheet of paper.

Marion Rodgers

Back Bay

Tell her Gid sent you

Wordlessly, I held the paper up to Fang. "Can't be our head honcho," he said. "Goodchurch kept saying he."

I shrugged. "Guess we'll find out."

I read the paper off to the rest of the flock. Iggy groaned. "Another person we have to hunt down?"

"What's Back Bay?" Nudge asked.

"Another part of Boston. Like Southie. It's big, covers a lot of area," Fang said.

"So we have no idea how to find her?"

Fang shrugged. "Phonebook?"

We went back to the thrift shop. But this time, we bought the goddamn phonebook.

Before cracking it open, we made the hike to Back Bay. The fun thing about Boston is that, like New York City, it's full of fun little neighborhoods. However, unlike New York City, Boston does not have a grid system, so it's nearly impossible to freaking navigate. One hour and several curse words later, we were in a very busy, populated area of the city.

It had started to rain about halfway through our trip. The balmy, fifty-degree weather had since passed; now it was barely above freezing and so windy that it was essentially raining sideways.

"Max," Gazzy said. When I turned, he was wordlessly pointing to a sign that said Boston Public Library.

We piled into the library, soaked to the bone and freezing cold. Once we found a table that was relatively isolated, Fang cracked open his laptop. He and Nudge peered over it while Gazzy and I went line-by-line through the yellow pages. Angel and Iggy were our lookouts.

"There's no Marion Rodgers in here," I said after twenty long minutes of searching. I dumped my head onto the phonebook, silently counting to ten, forcing myself to stop overheating from frustration. It was really starting to feel like one step forward, fifty thousand steps back.

"Can't find anything here, either."

"Hang on," Nudge said. "Try Googling her name with Gideon Goodchurch."

Fang typed quickly and then hit enter. Then he looked at Nudge with surprise.

"'Billionaire Gideon Goodchurch Suits Up as Best Man,'" Nudge read. "Click it!"

I leaned over Fang's shoulder again. The article discussed in detail how Goodchurch stood beside his best friend, Silas Scythe, at his wedding. The bride? Marion Scythe.

"Got to be her, right?" I asked. Fang nodded. "Rodgers must be her maiden name."

"Why did he write her maiden name down, then?" Nudge asked.

"Maybe they got divorced," Iggy said.

Fang opened a new tab and Googled Marion Scythe. The first thing that popped up was the Whitepages.

I prepared myself for a defeat. The Whitepages had been useless in hunting down Gideon Goodchurch. Just as I opened my mouth to tell Fang to pack up so we could go wandering around Back Bay, Nudge gasped.

"Wait! Marion Scythe, Atlantic Apartments, Back Bay, Boston," she read hurriedly. "Look—here's an address!"

Fang pulled a sticky note off the desk and copied the address down in his slanted handwriting. Then, he plugged it into Google maps.

"Ten minute walk away," he said. He met my eyes. My call.

No-brainer. "Let's go."

We piled out of the library and back into the elements. The rain seemed to have died down a bit in intensity, which truly wasn't saying much. I eyed Nudge's Top-Siders and sighed; she'd need a new pair of shoes soon. I couldn't even remember what number that was on my to-do list.

My head was starting to ache again, but I couldn't tell in what way. I'd been crossing my fingers that since removing the chip had removed the Voice, it had also removed the recurring brain explosions I'd been having, but there was no way to know for sure. I rubbed my forehead and bit back another sigh. Fang was watching me, I knew, and I didn't have time to deal with his antics right now.

The address Fang and Nudge had found turned out to be one of the richy-richest areas of Boston that we'd seen so far—we found ourselves in front of a three-story brownstone in a row of about a million other identical brownstones.

When I knocked on the door, a middle-aged woman opened it. She was about Dr. Martinez's height and had orange-brown eyes and dark brown hair. Deep blue bags sat under her eyes—she looked absolutely exhausted in more ways than one.

She looked definitively not like an evil, blackmailing, murderous CEO. But I'd been deceived by looks too many times to let down my guard.

"Marion Rodgers?"

"Hi, kids," she said, taking in our soggy clothes and ragged appearance. "Are you selling magazines?"

Behind me, Iggy snorted and muttered, "Not quite." I kicked him in the shin.

"We're actually here to ask you some questions. About a company called Vector?"

Marion's face immediately transformed from one of confusion to one of fear. Without hesitating, she reached back to slam the door shut with force.

"Wait!" I edged my way halfway through the doorway, grimacing when the doorknob slammed into my hip. "Wait, wait," I begged. "Gid sent us."

There was a brief pause. Then, ever so slowly, the door opened all the way again. Marion stepped forward so only her eyes, rusty and sad, blinked back from the shadows. "Gid who?"

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. As if this lady knew more than one Gid. "Goodchurch."

Her eyes were hard and revealed nothing, but I knew that look—she was deciding whether or not to talk to us. To trust us with some dark part of herself that most people didn't know.

"How do you know Gideon?"

"We're… connected to the company," I said vaguely. "We didn't know Gideon had been… overthrown. We want to take down the new person in charge."

She stared at me blankly. A laugh that seemed half-bitter and half-nervous fell from her lips. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, obviously unsure of what to say.

"And what did Gideon say I could help you with?"

"He seemed to think you may have some answers for us."

"Did he?" she asked bitterly. She barked out another odd laugh. "God, I'll kill him…"

"Listen," I said harshly, taking a step closer to her. She shrank against the wall under my height. "If you cooperate, this will be much easier for you."

A look of understanding crossed her face. "Hang on—do you think I'm in charge?" This time, when she laughed, it was genuine. "What on earth did Gideon tell you?"

"Not enough for me to trust you."

"Well, I'm sorry to say that he misled you if he implied that I have anything to do with any of this."

Next to me, Angel tugged on my shirt. "She's telling the truth."

Marion shot a look of confusion at Angel but didn't say anything.

"What do you know about the head of the company?" I demanded.

There was a moment of silence. I looked to Angel again, who narrowed her eyes. "She's got walls up in there… I can't hear anything."

Marion's eyes were wide. "What are you doing?"

"You should tell me what you know," Angel said in a strange voice. For a split second, Marion looked like she was under Angel's spell, but with a shake of her head, it was gone.

"Is she—are you—?" Marion choked out. She backed further into her apartment with a horrified look on her face.

I called Angel off. I suspected that the more we scared this woman, the less eager she'd be to dish out valuable information.

But Marion's face had transformed into one of wonder. She sucked a quick breath in between her lips; a quiet whistle rang through the air. "Oh, no. I know exactly who you are," she breathed.

My stomach twisted. "And who's that?"

"The human-avian hybrids. The angel experiment kids."

No, no, no. Left and right, we were finding more people that knew about us. How did this lady tie into Goodchurch and Vector? How did she know who we were?

I advanced on her again. Marion stagger-stepped backward. Behind me, Fang and Iggy stepped forward and shoved the younger kids protectively behind them.

"And why would you say that?" I forced out, hoping she couldn't hear my heart positively thundering in my chest.

"Because my ex-husband is Silas Scythe," she said.

Who cares? "What does that have to do with this?"

"Everything," she said with a defeated little sigh as she hung her head. "Because he's the guy you're looking for. He's the CEO of Vector."

A/N: Some of you have voiced concerns about Angel. I know that James Patterson turned her into a maleficent, violent, creepy child (effectively totally decimating her character), but in this story, we're dealing with the cute, innocent, Max's-baby Angel that we all came to know and love in The Angel Experiment. This isn't a spoiler, don't worry—just a clarification.

I'm a bit behind in writing so the next update may take a bit longer than a week. This story is finishing up nicely… I'm starting to brainstorm about my next project. I'd love to hear what your recommendations are! xo :)