It all started with that damn website. If Caelan hadn't found it, none of this would have happened.

Actually, that's probably not true. I was caught between two worlds and living in neither--you can guess how well that was working. It was only a matter of time before everything boiled over. The website just happened to be the last bit of heat needed to send us all over the edge.

I was at the diner for the grand re-opening party on Sunday night. We'd been out of business for well over six months. To jump start demand at the new and improved Silver Spoon, I'd decided to throw a party ... with free food. It was amazing what people would forgive for a little cake and punch. Citizens of Silver Springs who would have happily spit on me yesterday were enjoying a second round of appetizers tonight. All hail the healing power of pigs in a blanket.

Despite the obvious success of the party, I couldn't enjoy it. Just because people showed up for free food didn't mean they'd come back when they had to pay. Unbeknownst to my brother, Scott, I'd used our last bit of money to pay for the spread tonight. So while I dashed to and from the kitchen, dodging the carefully timed elbow or sudden appearance of a size 11 foot in my path-evidently free food didn't make them that happy-my brain was pre-occupied with more mundane things. Like, how the hell was I going to keep my brother from finding out that we were more than a month late on the house mortgage? How could I hire people when I had no money? And my personal favorite, exactly how much did it cost to declare personal bankruptcy? It actually costs money to declare that you have no money-did you know that?

All of this was perhaps why I missed the signal. I was bussing a table in the far corner of the diner--my least favorite task. When I reached for the last coffee cup, it slipped away from my fingers. So caught up in my own thoughts and worries, I didn't even pause before trying to grab it again. After all, wet hands, slick ceramic surface--no mystery there.

Until it shot away from my grasp in a zig zag pattern across the table, accelerating until it hurled itself over the edge, smashing into the ground with a much louder than normal crash. My heart jumped into my throat.

The party stopped for a second, everyone looking around for the source of the sudden noise.

I waved it off, plastering on a fake smile as best I could. "No problem. Just a little clumsy."

From across the room, I heard Sheriff Brigham's familiar snicker. "Probably thought it was one of them alien-possessed cups."

Oh, yes, the trauma of my life was one never-ending source of amusement for Brigham. Always glad to help. Though, this time, he might have been closer to the truth than he ever dreamed.

My new powers tended to be a little out of control at times, but more often than not, they did what I wanted, just in excess. So, if I wanted the cup to be in my hand, it would have flung itself at me full-force, not run away. That meant someone else was here and, more likely than not, having a laugh at my expense. And now was so not the time.

As I set the gray plastic tub of dirty dishes on table and bent down to pick up the shattered ceramic remains, I caught sight of Mrs. Sutton's pale face and wide-eyed stare.

"Did you see ... that cup ... it moved like it had a mind of its own? I never..." She raised a hand to the silk scarf at her throat, clearly unsettled by the whole unpleasant matter.

I sighed. Of course, this would have to happen in front of the biggest gossip in town. Mrs. Sutton owned the women's boutique next door. She must have come from a rich family. I didn't see how she could stay in business in a town where the sales at the local feed store determined the new look for the season. During the slow hours for her store, pretty much from nine until five every day, Mrs. Sutton liked to pass the time with her nose pressed against the front window of her shop and the phone imbedded in her ear.

I shrugged, pretending nonchalance. "Oh, you know, the table was wet and there was probably an air bubble or something trapped under the cup..." Despite the fact the table was clearly bone-dry and the cup had been right side up at the time.

Mrs. Sutton looked less than convinced.

"Excuse me," I muttered. Standing up, I grabbed the tub of dirties and headed for the kitchen, cursing Namere under my breath. It had to be her. She'd probably flipped the locks on the back door in the kitchen to let herself in--being an alien-human hybrid with limited telekinesis did come in handy sometimes.

"Everything all right?" Scott looked up from re-filling punch cups as I passed. His black hair was ruffled from all the running around, trying to keep up with everyone's demands. On his cheeks, his olive skin held a deep ruddy color from the exertion.

"Oh, just dandy," I said grimly. Or, it would be as soon as I got my hands on Namere. She knew better than this. Last time she'd slipped into town, we'd had a conversation about this very same thing.

Scott frowned, reaching up to shove his glasses back into place from where they'd drifted down his ski-slope nose. "Zara--"

I ignored him and plunged through the swinging door into the kitchen. I'd had the party catered--mainly because I'd barely talked Lucy, our cook, into coming back to work and I hadn't wanted to push my luck. So no one should have been in here. Should being the operative word.

The kitchen, with the shutters drawn over the order window and the lights down to save money, appeared as silent and empty as before. But I knew better.

Dropping the plastic tub on the center island, I spun around the room, searching. "Namere, what the hell is wrong with you?" I said in a whisper as loud and angry as I could make it. "I've got an entire room full of people out there who saw that little trick of yours. How am I supposed to explain--"

Caelan emerged suddenly from the shadowy corner near the back door. "You would have preferred I enter through the front door to speak with you?"

I froze. Seeing him hit me the way it always did--like a fist in my stomach, taking my breath away. Tonight, he wore a short-sleeved black t-shirt that revealed the thick curves of his biceps, and faded jeans that looked soft to the touch. His dark hair seemed longer, almost brushing his collar now, but then again, he probably couldn't come into town for a haircut. It didn't matter. He looked good, as usual, but it was more than that.

He stirred up a craving in me, a desire I tried to keep buried most of the time. It wasn't sexual. Well, not all of it. When he was around, my skin practically crawled with the need to touch him. To feel his arms around me, holding me tight against the warmth of his body. To hear him speak words of soothing and comfort, and sense the rumbling of his voice in his chest beneath my cheek. To taste him and fill the empty spot inside me I hadn't even known existed until I met him.

He'd made it quite clear, though, on multiple occasions that his feelings weren't quite the same. Oh, he loved me all right, and even found me attractive enough to sleep with ... once. For him, Zara, the individual, was all mixed up in Zara, the prophesied leader, and he couldn't separate 'us' out. Since loving Zara, the individual, might jeopardize the life or judgment or something of Zara, the leader, he bowed out. Just turned his feelings right off and left me hanging with an open hole where my heart used to be.

I turned away from him, grabbed the tub of dishes, and dragged them over to the dishwasher on the other side of the kitchen ... as far from him as possible and still in the same room. "What do you want?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him start toward me. I hastily yanked open the dishwasher and began slamming the dirty dishes into place on the wire racks. The distraction did not help. I could still feel him approaching, like an invisible string tied us together, tightening as he came closer.

Keeping my eyes trained on my task, I didn't look up until he held a small square of paper in front of my eyes, several 8 1/2 x 11 sheets of paper folded perfectly into fourths.

I straightened up and wiped my hands on my apron before snapping the square from his fingers, careful not to touch him or even look at him in the process. "What is this?"

"Just read it."

I shook my head. "Tell me what it is, and then I'll read it." Oh, yes, welcome to my life. A constant battle of wills with everyone around me. That's what happens when your life turns upside down and you don't know who to trust.

He remained silent, and a quick sideways glance revealed his full mouth set in a firm line. He wasn't budging.

"Fine," I muttered, flipping the papers open. After all, it was just paper. What could it possibly say that would shock me now?

I skimmed the first page, a printout from a website, and immediately went still, cold sweat breaking out over my face. Shit. "Did anyone else see this?" I asked.

"It is on display for the world to see."

"No, I mean, did Asha--"

"Would I be speaking to you if she had?"

"Good point."

I moved around him to lean against the island. My legs needed the support. The printout itself looked rather innocuous. Mostly print, not a lot of graphics, aside from the banner with the name of the organization, The Order of the True, across the top. But as they say, the devil is in the details. Or maybe it's God. I couldn't remember, but either way, it didn't look good this time.

The page told a simple, abbreviated version of the events that occurred a few months ago. It started by describing Nevan, one of the Observer Council members, and his attempt on my life with the diner bomb. The story ended with a detailed re-telling of his death at my hands in a secret underground facility.

Problem was, I'd claimed ignorance about Nevan's fate and/or his whereabouts to the police, the FBI, and anyone else who felt like asking. To do otherwise pretty much condemned me to life in prison, or worse, a mental institution. Even though I'd killed him in self-defense--burned him alive with fire from my own hand--that explanation only worked if they believed Nevan was after me for some reason. And nobody would believe me if I told them the truth. Seriously, how many alien/human hybrids do you know? Maybe more than you think if there are others like me, ones who look completely human. That's what Nevan found threatening.

"At least this explains some of the mail I've been getting," I muttered. The local Humanists hated me and went out of their way to prove it. But lately I'd been getting glowing letters of praise from a bunch of out of town branches of the extremist group, even cards commending my bravery and one flower delivery. I'd thought it was a joke, proof positive that bigots actually do have a sense of humor. Apparently, the researchers for the website just hadn't dug deep enough to discover the truth about my questionable heritage. I couldn't blame them. It made a much more inspiring story for their cause this way. Poor little human takes on the big evil alien and defeats him. It wouldn't have had quite the same effect to paint it as alien versus alien.

"So, who talked?" Only the five of us-me, Caelan, Asha, Thane, and Namere-knew what really happened that night. Nevan and his other team of hybrids-we called them drones because they seemed to be under some form of mind control-were dead. Scott, who'd unfortunately been pulled into the mess by Nevan as a bargaining chip, had been unconscious for most of it and relied on my lies for the rest. "Asha?"

Caelan shook his head. "She wouldn't do this."

I raised my eyebrows. It's exactly what she would do. She wouldn't kill me. No, she couldn't risk dividing her group over the issue. But making my life difficult? Oh, yeah, she'd enjoy that.

"She would not do this," he insisted. "It places our lives in danger as well, and you know she would die herself before taking that chance, particularly for petty revenge."

"It doesn't even mention you guys," I pointed out.

"No," he said. "But suppose a Humanist decides to greet you in person. He'll arrive in this town and find that you are despised by his brethren here and rumored to have association with four Observers living outside of town. What would happen?"

I sighed. "He'd probably feel cheated, go back and get some of his buddies and it's all 'shotgun rally at my house.'"

"Asha did not do this," he said.

"Someone did."

"There is more," he said gently. "You must see the second page."

Great. How much more could there be? The first page already contained enough to put me away for twenty-five to life. To be honest, I was a little surprised I wasn't finding this out from the comfort of my very own jail cell. If this story found its way to the right ears, particularly the big ones belonging to the government, I couldn't imagine I'd be in the free world of non-communal showers for very long.

My chest locked up at just the idea of a 5' by 5' cell, and I started to wheeze. I shoved away from the island to pace slowly, measuring my breaths

Caelan came closer, stopping a few feet from where I was attempting to wear a tread in the new linoleum. "Are you all right?"

"Don't ... just don't." I wasn't even quite sure what I was telling him not to do. Don't talk to me, don't pretend to care about me, don't stand there, and not touch me. But 'don't' pretty much covered all of that, fortunately.

"Where is your inhaler?" The word still sounded foreign from him, like it left a strange taste in his mouth.

I dug it out of my pocket reluctantly. "I don't have problems much anymore." Now that the nightmares had stopped, I was getting better. But I couldn't shake the occasional panic attack, particularly when it came to small spaces or even just thinking about them. Part and parcel of being hidden inside a drawer, as a small child, in a secret Observer research facility for God knows how long, until my creator found a way to sneak me into the human population. Ah, yes, the ideal childhood.

I sucked in a puff from the inhaler and felt it kick in almost immediately, loosening up my chest. "So why did you bring me this?" I waved the papers at him, trying to distract myself. "Other than to torture me, I mean."

Caelan waited until I paced by him and pulled the papers from my cold fingers. He removed the top sheet and placed it beneath the second. "Here. This." He leaned closer to me, holding out the papers.

I took them from him, noting that he took care not to touch me. Though I felt certain he did it to prevent some kind of accidental connection between us, not because it hurt too much, which was my reason.

The top of the page said, More Observer Secrets: What They Don't Want You to Know. Underneath the headline, they'd posted four, no, five color photos of the Observer tattoo. It wasn't really a tattoo, more like some kind of identifying mark, grown into the skin at the small of their backs. I'd only ever seen two up close before: Caelan's, when I first met him and had to remove chunks of glass from the diner explosion from his back, and one belonging to a D462, a female drone Nevan summoned specifically for the purpose of showing me her mark. He felt it proved Caelan and the others were supposed to be like her, mindless and robotic, completely under his control. Those two marks had been identical, a blue green planet being slowly consumed by the reds and yellows of fire. Some kind of planetary-wide disaster ... or victory, I supposed.

This tattoo looked different. No trace of the blue-green planet remained. It was simply a planet on fire, or perhaps a depiction of our sun or a star like it. Yellow, red, and orange licks of flame leapt off the main body of the star or planet, making it an irregular circle. Even in the low-res photos, the colors appeared to be as bright and fresh as the ones I'd seen on Caelan's skin.

"How did they get these pictures?" I asked. Observers, drones or Council members, typically weren't running around shirtless and posing for pictures, certainly not with people who wanted them dead or off the planet, and didn't care much which way it ended up. The logical answer was that the mark was a fake, added with the magic of Photoshop. To fake it, the Humanists would have had to known about the mark, and probably even seen one, to create such a similar looking thing. I'd never known such a thing existed until I saw it on Caelan, and I'd been the most avid collector of Observer facts and rumors.

Caelan lifted a shoulder. "I do not know. Look at her hair."

I opened my mouth to object to his use of the feminine pronoun. Not a single photo was shot from the front or revealed a face. Then I took a closer look. In two of the photos, where the photographer had backed off a little to reveal the mark's position on an otherwise smooth, unblemished back, the arms were clearly being held overhead, emphasizing the slim line of the waist and curve of the hips. A female form, definitely, but I still didn't see her hair. All the photos were shot from the shoulders down.

He leaned his head closer to mine, lowering his finger over the photo in the far right hand corner. "This one," he said.

I took a deep breath, struggling to concentrate on the photos in front of me instead of his mouth, inches from mine. Even if I attempted to kiss him, he would just move away. It was that thought that cleared my head enough to allow me to focus.

The photo Caelan pointed to was the only other one shot from a couple feet away from the Observer. This time, the shoulders and the first few inches of neck made it into the shot. There. Something over the left shoulder. A whitish-blur. A reflection of some kind? The poor quality of the photos made it hard to tell. It looked almost like a white feather had drifted over her shoulder at the exact moment of the photo and...

"She has white hair." Actually, in real life, her hair would probably have a translucent white and silver look to it, like Namere's. The color wasn't common among the drones, but all the Council members had hair like this. Suddenly the significance of all the clues came together for me.

My heart leapt, and a grin spread across my face. "You think this is her. The one we've been looking for."

Before he'd died, Nevan had ranted and raved about a mysterious female, one he blamed for ruining him. According to him, 'she' was the one responsible for creating me, in some kind of competition against Nevan. She'd also freed Caelan, Asha, Thane, and Namere from the mind-control that would have made them drones, though we had no idea why. We wanted to find her because she might be our only ally in the coming conflict. Well, assuming there'd be one. Nevan made it sound like the Observers had an elaborate plan for taking over the planet. That didn't bode well for the humans or the rest of us.