Wilderness. Barbara Hancock J.

      Colin ran on.

      Tess sipped a fresh, steaming cup of coffee. The whipped cream that floated on top wasn’t frivolous. It was medicinal. She needed the caffeine and the calories and the comfort. Her nerves were so shot she could almost hear them crying out for her favorite indulgence, but the brew didn’t prove itself as soothing as usual.

      For one thing, the steam floating off the top of her Styrofoam cup teased across her lips like a moist reminder. Tess shivered and licked cream off her upper lip.

      She was twenty-four years old. She’d shared a few kisses, but none had left her trembling hours later. Her lips still tingled from the werewolf’s kiss. The Super’s kiss. She corrected herself and looked around guiltily in case any of her fellow H.A.E.S. had detected her less-than-PC thoughts.

      Supernatural was the appropriate name for any human with special abilities. Like Colin. Like Lily. Even like herself. Though, in her case, special might be too strong a term to describe her dreams. She had escaped being put on the government’s wanted list because she’d almost died from the flu. She’d been ill for weeks. Lily hadn’t had so much as a sniffle.

      Logically, Tess knew she’d been weakened by her long bout with depression following her parents’ death. Her will to live had been shaken. Her hope for the future almost lost. Then, she had lost her sister and suddenly she’d found new depths of resolve. Logically, she knew that she and Lily shared the same genes and similar psychic abilities. Still, in her heart of hearts, Tess didn’t consider herself a Supernatural. She wasn’t super in any way. No cape. No tights. And she’d never heard of anyone shouting, “Dogged determination to the rescue!”