Lachlan's blue skin had already started to creep under his fingers at the wrist—an early warning system of the thing inside him.
He ignored it and fed the energy outward.
A thin line of lightning knifed across his palm as he flexed and let the charge hiss into the nearest bit of metal.
It kissed a falling finger in midair and popped it clean off its trajectory like a splinter and sent it spinning in another direction. Finally, the finger's fall made an absurd sound: a wet, precise drum on the hood then silence.
"Nice," he said, voice dry. "I'm liking this new trick."
Lachlan grinned again and shrugged as if it had been a party trick.
The truth was much simpler: it had felt right. It felt steady. Secure. Like the world had stopped shaking for once and everything finally made sense.
The truck's interior filled with the smell of iron and the softer smell of rot.
