Читать книгу: «Scorched»
Scorched
Erica Hayes
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Contents
Erica Hayes
Copyright
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Love Romance?
About HarperImpulse
About the Publisher
Erica Hayes
I'm an Aussie living in northern England, where at least the hospitality and the beer are warm. I write in coffee shops, feed my enormous cat, and watch TV or read until far too late at night. If it's got serial killers, superheroes, monsters or spaceships – preferably all four – I'm there.
On the big issues: Captain Picard is cooler than Captain Kirk, Batman would beat up Superman, and vampires are hotter than werewolves any day. See, I knew we'd get along.
You can follow me on Twitter @ericahayes.
1
I'm not a bad person.
I repeat it, over and again until the words scorch into my brain. I'm not a bad person. I don't deserve this.
It's the white room again. I'm strapped to the hard metal chair, my eyelids taped open. A dangling light bulb flickers. My feet are bare, my half-shaved hair a knotted mess under the heavy alloy helmet they've bolted around my skull to neutralize my power. I'm sweating in my gray hospital smock. It itches and stinks of piss. I don't remember pissing myself.
I don't remember much about anything.
But I'm not a bad person. They can't trick me into believing I am. Hour after hour, I repeat the words, so they can't make me forget: My name is Verity Fortune. I'm thirty-one years old. I'm not a bad person.
In the dim control room behind safety glass, the pretty doctor pushes her glasses up on her nose. She's the one I call Dr. Mengele, blue eyes like ice and a thick blond braid over her shoulder. She wears a clean white coat. She twiddles knobs on her machine and hurts me.
I brace for the next assault, struggling to keep my thoughts untangled. They can't make me forget. I know who she works for. My archenemy, the psychopath who locked me up in this place. He's the evil one, not me. If I ever get out of here…
Mengele presses one of her buttons. Current crackles along my skin, and the tiny hairs on my arms jerk taut. My muscles crunch and twist in agony. An angry bonfire ignites behind my eyeballs, and even after so many days—even though I know it's what she wants—I can't help it.
My power flexes, a warm muscle in my head. I remember that, all right. I can break glass, crush concrete, move objects at will. But nothing happens. The augmentium helmet just heats up, absorbing my telekinetic energy. Electrodes sizzle. My skin burns, the stink of singed hair. I gnash my teeth. Spit bubbles on my lips, coppery with blood.
"Zero point three micra on the left frontal." Dr. Mengele's voice, distorted over the tannoy.
The orderly waddles closer, his grin full of bad teeth. It's the fat one today. The fat one likes to hurt people, and his greasy hospital greens are already pinpricked with blood—mine or from one of the other poor fools they've got locked up in this dungeon. A black expanding baton dangles from his thick waist. The nametag sewn onto his shirt says Frank.
I've been watching the orderlies, while each day they tie and untie me, shove me from room to room, bring my plastic trays of pureed food. Fat Frank is slower and stupider than the others. And today, I'm more awake than he thinks.
Last night I choked up my meds, mashed peas and acid and two little red capsules of mindfuck. Again this morning. I'm feeling more alert, more alive than I have in weeks. And for the past few days, I've been giving Frank attitude. Making wise-ass remarks. Spitting stewed apple in his face. He's already blacked one of my eyes, and he wants to hurt me more. He's easy game.
Frank looms over me, his globular shadow blotting out the light. I whimper, like I usually do. Let myself drool. Fight to keep my senses sharp, though the raw-scraped nerves in my brain scream for silence and surrender.
Keys jingle on Frank's belt. My ears twitch. I can smell the peculiar sweetness of his breath, like spoiled flowers. His sour body heat is an unpleasant caress. His thigh squashes mine. He reaches for my helmet to make the adjustment.
Clickety-snap. The vise-tight band around my skull loosens, just a fraction.
I sink my teeth into his fat wrist.
Blood spurts. Frank howls, and slaps me upside the head. My ears ring, and the helmet knocks crooked, just an inch or two.
Told you he was stupid. An inch or two's all I need.
I let loose with a clumsy surge of power, and rip the buckle from my left wrist. I'm out of practice—creaky, like a rusty cell door in some ancient prison—but the leather tears clean off its studs. A crushing ache squeezes my skull, but I don't care.
Mengele shouts. Frank's already lurching for me like a bleeding ox. But he's too slow. With my free hand, I tear the helmet from my head. Horrid thing, now I see it, wires and clamps and a rusty bolt at the back. I throw it across the room, and I'm free. My power thrashes and screams, a tortured beast released at last, and I pick Frank up with a huge invisible fist and slam him into the wall.
He hits with a splat like the blubbery sack of shit he is, and slumps. Blood trickles from his nose to stain his shirt. Never mind. A few drops more won't make a difference.
I crack my neck, satisfied. See? A bad person would have killed Frank. But Frank—so far as I can tell from the way he's groaning—isn't dead.
I rip off my restraints. Tear the tape from my eyelids. Blink, one-two-three-four-five-six. Ah, sweet relief. In the control room, Mengele's reaching for the alarm, calling for her heavies to come pin me down.
The glass pane judders in my unseen grip, and the window explodes. I dive through headfirst, hit the console and tumble onto the floor in a glittering hail.
Mengele backs off, stumbling for the door. I slam the bolts shut and jump up.
She cowers, alone. In close-up, with no glass separating us, she looks slender and breakable. Her fear smells rotten, like she's crapped herself. Maybe she has. But that sly headshrink's guile still glints in her gaze. "Okay, I can see you're upset. Would you like to talk? We can talk about whatever you want—"
"Shut up!" My voice is rusty, too, like I've forgotten it or screamed too long. "Give me my files."
"I can't divulge personal information."
I fling out my hand, palm outwards, and an invisible force rams her against the wall. My hands quiver in memory of everything she's done to me, the machines, the voltage jerking my muscles tight, the agony chewing in my skull as she tortured me. I'm sweating, shaking. My breath's on fire. My power is starved and vengeful, hungry for prey. A bad person would squeeze the life from her.
I ease up, just a fraction. "Give me the goddamn file before I crush your throat."
"Okay." Mengele's voice strangles. Her face gleams bloodless. She believes me. "On the shelf, white document box. Just let me go."
I let her go and tear the box from the shelf. It's empty but for a single pink slip of paper, duplicate to a form headed INPATIENT ADMISSION. The carbon-copy handwriting is dusty and black. I blink stinging eyes, confused. I don't recognize the name or birthdates. My thoughts swirl and tangle, sinking into chaos…
No. I grit my teeth. I know who I am. I'm Verity Fortune. I'm thirty-one years old. These details are fake. They just don't want anyone to find me.
Date of admission: October 2nd. Must be what, three weeks ago now? Addresses, phone numbers, none of which I recognize. Ten square boxes for my fingerprints, but the ink doesn't show on this copy. A scrawled signature at the bottom that I can't read. The space for Discharge Date is blank.
My knuckles crack white, and the paper crushes in my fist. It's not enough. I need details. Proof. Once I'm gone, they'll deny everything. "Where's the rest of it?" I demand.
Mengele swallows. She's stalling. "It's digital. That's the only paper copy."
"Then download it—"
The door implodes, and her heavies pile in. Six of them, armed with batons and capsicum spray and hissing tasers. One of them's holding an iron-ribbed strait jacket.
Fine. Screw details, if that's the way they want it.
I stuff the paper into my itchy gray scrubs—no pockets—and fight.
Ten minutes later, I'm done. Outside, on the mountainside, it's nighttime, the wispy fog drifting though fragrant eucalyptus trees. It's warm for October, and in the valley, Sapphire City's towers glitter like frosted flames. Smoke roughens my throat. Shadows flicker, and behind me, someone screams.
I leap the fence and run into the forest. The dirt feels good under my bare feet.
Before I left, I opened all the doors and set the asylum on fire.
2
By the time I reached the city, it was long past midnight. Behind me, fog wreathed the tree-lined hills, grasping wispy fingers down into the valley. Stars wheeled overhead, their constellations strange and lopsided. Street lights burned oddly bright. Even the air smelled weird. Freedom. I never wanted to forget it again.
I stole some clothes from a hobo's shopping cart in some alley off Castro Street. Distant sirens howled. A painted mural rainbowed the wall where the hobo slept, and he muttered and rolled over, wrapping himself in his greasy jacket and a mist of stale rotgut whiskey. Rats scuttled under a trashpile as I rifled the cart. It was very warm for October, and shorts and a T-shirt would have done. But I needed to stay hidden, so I chose a dirty black hoodie, grimy jeans and a pair of flip-flops, and threw my piss-stinking hospital gear in the dumpster.
A discarded pizza box lay half crushed in the gutter, a rat poking his long nose inside. My stomach grumbled, but I left it alone. Not quite that desperate, yet.
Clothes sorted. Nothing I could do about my beaten-up face, or the ragged state of my hair. I looked exactly like an escaped mental patient. I stank like one, too, and my head ached like… well, like I'd had a metal helmet bolted to my skull for three weeks. But I couldn't go home. His goons would be hunting me. I had no cell phone, no cash, not even a dollar for a phone call.
And truth was, I felt naked and helpless without my mask. Sure, that foul helmet was gone, and I was strong again, but these days you couldn't just flash your powers around in Sapphire City and expect to avoid attention. There's a reason we augmented folks have secret identities.
In the real world, we're called augmented, see. Life isn't a comic book. I'm not from another planet, and I didn't get bitten by a mutant spider or drown in toxic waste only to be resurrected with super powers. I was just born this way. It didn't make me good or evil. That's a choice we all make, one way or another.
But wielding powers attracted unwanted attention, whether from the villains, the lynch mob or the press, all equally dangerous in different ways. That's why we wear masks and costumes to work: what we do isn't safe. And without my mask—or any idea of what had been going on since I'd somehow pissed the villains off enough to get locked in some prehistoric loony bin—I was trapped like a bug in a jar inside my own cover story. Hi, I'm Verity Fortune, freelance journalist. Who's that, you say? The Seeker? Black vinyl catsuit and mask? Fights crime? She's just a rumor, friend. She's not real. Trust me, I'm a reporter. If she was real, I'd know, wouldn't I?
No, I had to stay incognito until I got a grip on the situation. For the moment, I was just plain Verity, but I still had villains on my trail who'd happily carve my brain into cat food, or worse. Which meant I needed to see my father, and pronto.
My father was Thomas Fortune, owner and chairman of Fortune Corporation, a multi-million-dollar company specializing in security and weapons technology. By night, he was Blackstrike, Sapphire City's best-loved crime-fighter, wielding his dark mastery of shadow to defeat the Gallery, our local gang of villains. Only our family knew that Tom Fortune was Blackstrike (for a guy his age, I've gotta say, Dad still looks rockin' in that black trench coat) and that FortuneCorp was just a front for the real family business: fighting evil.
Augmentation came with the Fortune blood: me, my two brothers, my sister, my uncles, our cousins. Though we didn't always get along—big sister, in particular, had the mother of bad attitudes—Dad kept us in line, and he didn't risk unmasking himself without good reason. Still, the bad guys had just benched me for three weeks in the middle of a cease-fire, and FortuneCorp couldn't take a hit like that without fighting back. Dad would know what to do.
But my wits spun in drunken circles, and my vision blurred with fatigue. I couldn't remember Dad's phone number. And I couldn't just turn up at FortuneCorp HQ without being sure I wasn't followed. I'd just have to stick with what I did remember.
I tugged my hood forward as far as it would go, and walked on.
Broken glass littered the sidewalk on Market Street, where galleries and colorful boutiques squeezed in beside restaurants and crowded bars. Garbage piled in the gutter, spilling onto the street, and a few pale people in shapeless clothes picked through it for food. Yellow hybrid taxi cabs cruised for customers, amongst zipping traffic, bicycle couriers, rattling painted trolley cars.
I passed some drunken guys in suits, a gang of teenagers riding skateboards, and prostitutes, the expensive ones in thigh boots and fishnets, as well as their poorer, more desperate sisters, wearing whatever skimpy clothes they could scrounge. Homeless dudes harangued passers-by for change or booze. Graffiti on the brick alley walls read U.S. OUT OF IRAN and SAVE OUR CHILDREN: VOTE NO TO PROP 101 and GOD HATES AUGMENTS, but one phrase in particular stood out…
It was everywhere. Scrawled in chalk on the broken sidewalk. Spray-painted in fat scarlet letters like blood-soaked balloons. Etched on a window with bold, sharp strokes beneath a blotch of melted glass:
BURN IT ALL
My thoughts melted like ghosts, a haze of glassy memory come alive. Flames lick the hot metal walls. Radiant heat scorches my face, inexorable, hungry. No. I fling out my hand, grasping for my power. Chilling laughter taunts me, and flame stings my palm in warning, a threat or a caress…
My shoulder bounced hard off a lamp post, and I stumbled. I blinked to clear my head and walked on.
I stole some change from the tip jar in a fire-bright trance bar and caught the trolley car, downtown where neon-lit doorways beckoned and people spilled out onto the streets in their clubbing gear, tight rubber dresses and high-cut leather jackets and the silky slide of Lycra. Searchlights split the sky between skyscrapers and old town houses, amid sirens and thudding helicopter blades. One of the clubs was gutted by fire, just a charred shell, sprouting twisted metal and glittering with broken glass. Yellow crime scene tape strung tight across the gaping hole, and black-uniformed cops with truncheons moved people along.
I stared, pressing my nose to the trolley car window. The Gallery's work, no question. One entire corner of the building had been chopped off and burned debris littered the sidewalk. The exposed steel beams had bubbled at the ends, the ragged brickwork melted. Cauterized. Like a white-hot razor had sliced it clean through.
BURN IT ALL
I shuddered, and looked away.
The sidewalk was crowded with street performers and food carts selling pizza slices or hot dogs. Mmm, real food. My mouth watered at the delicious salty scent. We passed a police blockade, then another, the cops with their holster-locked sidearms and polycarbonate riot shields checking IDs. Gangs of youths in baggy jeans and hoodies slunk around and glared at each other. No one walked alone.
I frowned. Tense. Had the war erupted again? More work for FortuneCorp?
The tram turned right and rattled along the waterfront where, through the palm trees, the double-decked Bay Bridge suspended creaking across the water, its sweeping neon arcs glistening in misty moonlight. Overhead, seagulls wheeled and squawked. On the opposite shore, suburban lights sparkled like scattered jewels.
I hopped off and walked two blocks south, to an ornate redbrick apartment building, its gilt-etched windows hidden behind security mesh. I strolled casually to the next corner. Didn't see or hear anyone. No one did a sudden double take, or grew a lizard's skin and attacked me, or carved the street open down to the subway with burning razorwhips. When the Gallery are involved, you have to guard against everything.
I slipped alongside the building and jumped up to the second floor fire escape. My flip-flops slapped on the metal landing. Inside, a shadowy living room beckoned. No lights. No movement. No one was home. Fine. I'd just go inside and wait.
I twisted the security screen aside with a swift tug of mindsense, unlocked the window and quietly slid the sash upwards.
Cold hands grabbed my throat, and dragged me inside.
3
Lights flared, blinding me. I hit the floor, my bones jarring, and scrambled to my feet, ready to fight by ear and scent. A steely arm caught me across the chest, and slammed me into the wall. My breath sucked away. Struggling, I grabbed an invisible handful of power and prepared to throw it, hard.
"Verity?" The grip on my throat loosened. My vision cleared, revealing curly blond hair, broad shoulders. I smelled leather and cologne, and memory twinkled bright. "Is that you?"
I choked, eyes watering, and let my power ebb away. Damn, his voice felt good in my ears. "Christ on a cheeseburger. That's no way to greet your sister."
My big brother wrapped me in a hug, crushing my breath away all over again. I clung to him, overcome. He was so warm. So human. His voice muffled against my hair. "Verity. Holy Jesus. I can't believe it's you. Where the hell have you been?"
"Steady on," I grumbled, and pushed him away, but I couldn't help a tired grin. Adonis Fortune is sixteen months older than I am and, unlike me, he inherited Dad's patrician good looks: six foot two, blond and blue, with a smile that kills at twenty paces. No joke.
Adonis works for FortuneCorp in public relations, but he's also Narcissus, vigilante crusader for peace, wielding the power of charisma. Which sounds like a pretty lame augment, until you consider all the crazy things people will do if they think they're in love with you.
I've seen Adonis charm hardened criminals into giving up their weapons, talk suicidal teenagers down from the edge with a wink and a smile. Once, last year, when Razorfire and the Gallery were terrorizing the dockyards, we were holed up in this greasy warehouse and—
The world blotted black, and I stumbled to my knees in a dizzy whirlpool of misery.
Razorfire.
Goddamn it. I said his name.
It pierced my ears, mocking me, echoing like his eerie laughter, and jagged memories hacked deep into my brain.
I cling to the side of the skyscraper, my fingers wrapped tight around a glassy ledge. Raindrops sting my face, the October breeze chilled with the promise of winter. My hair blows wild. I grit my teeth and climb. My feet slip on the glass. Only seconds now, until the weapon goes off…
Dad calling my name, his shadows curling…
…silvery metal glints in the spotlights, a glass canister of poison gas on a cell phone timer. It's an aerosol weapon, ionized particles for maximum adhesion. The building is fifty-six stories high. From this altitude, the poison will spread rapidly, blanketing the city center within minutes. Maximum loss of life. Not a moment to lose. My hands shake. I reach for it, grasping…
…don't hurt her… last chance…
Something slams into my face, and I fall into iron-strong hands. Coiled lightning whips an inch from my cheek, searing me. I struggle, blood streaming into my eyes, but it's no use. They grab my legs, my arms, wrap a fist in my hair. I'm taken…
"Verity, stay with me." Adonis gripped my shoulders, dragging me from the shattered mess of my mind. His cool fingers stroked my face. "My God. What happened to you?"
I throttled down a scream, and forced my eyes open, willing the nightmare to leave me be.
BURN IT ALL. Razorfire, archvillain, wielder of flame and poison. My nemesis. Hell, that raging psycho was everyone's nemesis. Ruthless, rage-riddled, driven by indomitable conviction that he was smarter and stronger and better entitled to be alive than everyone else. But us augmented folks at least rated a fight and a wise-ass remark or two while he preached his hatred. Regular people weren't even fit to breathe the same air.
I'd crippled his weapon at the last second, stopped his insane poison plan. But I hadn't gotten away clean. Oh, no. I'd swallowed the full, sick force of his vengeance. Three endless weeks in that mediaeval torture chamber…
Adonis shook me gently. "Listen to me. Stay with me. What did they do to you?"
"What happened?" I gasped, blood trickling hot from my nose. "That night. Tell me. Did he… did Razorfire…?"
"He got away, Verity!" Adonis's words cracked like whip leather. "Don't you remember? We looked everywhere for you."
"They locked me up!" My scream broke, glass shattering on iron. I twisted from my brother's grip. "They bolted my head in augmentium so I couldn't do anything, and they tortured me. There was no point to it. They didn't ask me any questions. They just…"
Adonis stared, pale. He'd cut his hair, I noticed, and grown a short beard. Since when?
"Don’t stare at me like that! Why didn't you come for me?" Hot liquid rage welled in my eyes. I knew it wasn't Adonis's fault. Razorfire was clever. He'd hidden me well.
But that didn't quench my anger. And I couldn't bear my brother's silence. I needed him to talk to me, to prove I existed in the real world, and not just in a rusty white cell, or the broken wasteland of a tortured mind. "You left me there," I accused, shaking. "You left me in that forsaken place—"
"Everyone thought you were dead." The dimple in his handsome chin tightened. He was just as furious. "You were gone so long, and we looked everywhere…"
"So long? You gave up pretty damn fast. It's only been three weeks!"
Adonis eyed me, incredulous. "Three weeks? Verity, it's July."
My vision doubled. "Huh?"
"It's July. You've been gone for over nine months."
Flame flashes, the dark depths of a pit, the agony in my head flaring like a supernova…
I swallowed, sour. "Th–that can't be right. I counted. It was only…"
Oh, shit.
I stalked to his computer, and swiped the screen to wake it up. The date glared at me like an evil eye from the top corner. July 12th. I scrabbled through the glossy marketing magazines on his desk. June issue, a year I thought hadn't yet begun. The Financial Times, July 12th, the Dow Jones down again, the new deutschmark tumbling, riots in Zurich, some crisis in Chinese fusion energy production.
The sweat slicking my forehead suddenly taunted me, cackling in my head like a witch. Stupid me, I'd thought the warmth unseasonable. Evil laughter, clanging in my ears, metal clamps grinding tighter and tighter…
Panicked, I sucked in air, hyperventilating, the taste of rust invading my lungs, stewed apples, my bitter medication, the saccharine moisture of Frank's breath…
"I am so sorry, Verity." Adonis's face was wan with shock. "If I'd known, I never would have… Hey, easy. It's all right." He stilled my twitching hands, tried to make me sit. "I'm just happy you're alive. Let's get you a shower and some food and we can talk."
My tired body whimpered in response. Food sounded great. A shower, even better. But I didn't have time for comforts. "Look, I just need to talk to Dad. He can sort this out. I've lost my cell phone, my memory's a bit hazy, can you…?"
My brother's gaze blackened like a thundercloud.
"What?" The word parched my throat.
"Don't you remember?"
My pulse squirted cold. "What? Tell me!"
“Dad’s gone, Vee.” His eyes glittered, sky-blue to the brim with anguish and rage. “The night you were caught. He tried to help you, and Razorfire killed him.”
4
I must have fainted, because next thing I knew, I woke in Adonis's bedroom, with sunlight pouring in the window. His red feather quilt was tucked around me. I groaned, and rolled over. A pair of black lacy panties scrunched under the pillow. They weren't mine. Apparently some things hadn't changed.
From the next room, I could hear Adonis, arguing on the phone. His closet lay open, the mirrored door pushed aside to reveal tailored suits, expensive knitted sweaters, soft leather jackets, perfect shoes. Sharp fashion sense was another trait of Dad's that I'd somehow missed out on. I was a T-shirt-and-favorite-jeans kinda girl, and with a pang of dread, I wondered what had happened to all my stuff after nine months. Had they kept my apartment? My clothes? My costumes?
I levered myself out of bed, a mess of headache and bruises and broken heart. Enough feeling sorry for myself. Time to get back to work. I hadn't forgotten that Dad was dead because of me. Murdered. Razorfire's sweet-sick revenge.
But mine, I vowed, would be sweeter still. Adonis and I would see to that. Thomas Fortune wasn't an affectionate father. More the aloof, practical type. But he'd loved us. Trusted us. Treated us as equals. I didn't know how Adonis had been running things at FortuneCorp while I was gone, but I knew I wouldn't let Dad's murder go unpunished. No way.
I still wore my greasy hoodie and jeans, and they stank real bad. I peeled them off and stumbled under the shower. At the first flush of hot water, I shivered in bliss. I'd forgotten what it felt like, clean water flooding my skin, sloshing through my filthy hair. Dirt swirled over the rough creamy tiles and down the drain.
The welts on my skin stung, but I polished off half a bar of Adonis's musk-scented soap and three handfuls of shampoo before I was satisfied. Still, I'd have to squeeze in a rare visit to the salon. I'm not a beauty-product girl—not much point—but I could really use a manicure, not to mention a wax. I twisted the water off and stepped out onto the mat, and the misted mirror reflected my face.
I froze, towel halfway to my dripping hair. Leaned closer. Slowly wiped the mirror clean.
A horrid sickle-shaped scar curled over my left cheek, from my temple to the side of my nose. The skin there was seared away, replaced with shiny red scar tissue. Half my eyebrow had burned away for good. My cheekbone was dented, and when I touched it, it ached faintly, the echo of something lost.
Christ on a cracker. I'd never been pretty. But this…
Memories of pain scorched my mind. The helmet, current arcing blue, skin sizzling to the backdrop of my screams…
I wanted to scream again, claw at my face. They'd carved me up pretty good. I should be thankful my eye had been saved. That the damage was only cosmetic.
But it wasn't.
The bruises, the welt where the augmentium helmet had cut into my scalp: they'd heal. But the burned scar was too old, too brutally deep. I'd never fix this. I'd have to live with it forever. And every time I touched it—every time I glimpsed my reflection, in a mirror or a window or someone else's eyes—I'd remember what Razorfire had done to me.
Guess it was lucky for me I wore a mask most of the time, then.
I let out a deep breath, and stared my scarred reflection down. I had stuff to do. No point crying over what was lost.
Not that I ever rated much in the beauty department to start with, right? The Seeker, in her mask and tight leather, attracted far more interest from the opposite sex than plain Verity ever did, and that suited me just fine. Lots of guys thought it was kinky to sleep with a masked vigilante. They never wanted her phone number afterwards. But relationships are a tedious mess of half-truths when you've got a secret identity to protect, and the Seeker just took what she wanted and vanished into the night. Fun all round, no one gets hurt.
But still, as I studied my new scar-bright face, the hungry hate-seed inside me burrowed fresh poison shoots into my heart. This went above and beyond normal hostilities. The damage was spiteful, unnecessary. When I finally caught up with Razorfire—and I would, so help me, if it sucked out every last drop of my strength—maybe I'd return the favor before I killed him.
I dried off and hunted for something to wear. My body was skinny and malnourished, and Adonis's clothes were too big for me at the best of times, but I found a Versace T-shirt and some sweats that didn't fall off once I tied knots in strategic places. Shoes were more of a problem. I opted for the hobo flip-flops, once I'd given them a good scrubbing.
I slouched into the living room. Sunlight slanted in, glinting on polished oak floorboards. Adonis's apartment was meticulously tidy, telling a familiar tale of paid housekeeping and too many hours spent at work. White Italian sofa, plush rugs, four televisions on mahogany shelving, tuned to four different news channels with the sound muted. An array of computers sat on the glass-topped desk, alongside three cell phones. Through the open glass doors lay a sparkling view of the bay, and a saxophonist's melancholy wail mingled with the sounds of traffic and café customers. The smells of bacon and French toast made my mouth hurt, and my empty stomach protested with a growl.
Adonis's voice drifted in from the sun deck, with that sarcastic edge that meant he was talking to our sister. "Yeah, whatever. I'll bring her in, you can talk to her yourself… Well, cancel the fucking meeting, then… Jesus, E., don't go out of your way or anything."
My mouth twisted. That was my sister, all right. Not Thank God Verity's still alive! or Is she okay? or even Where the hell's she been all this time, I'll wring her telekinetic neck for making me worry.
Just grief about cancelling some damn meeting.
I raided the fridge while I waited, hunting for waffles or eggs. I pushed aside a bottle of Moet, a gift box of Belgian chocolates, a wheel of triple cream brie. "Jeez, don't you do anything but seduce debutantes? Haven't you got any real food?"
"Blow me," came the reply.
"The places you've been? Not likely." I grabbed the OJ and swigged, a fresh burst of sweetness. Finally, I unearthed a box of Pop-Tarts and dropped four into the stainless steel toaster. My mouth watered harder at the fruity scent. How long since I'd eaten properly?
The tarts popped, and I burned my mouth wolfing the first one down. Oh, God. My knees weakened, and my taste buds had their own little private moment on that hot strawberry goodness. Mmm.
I unfolded the Sapphire City Chronicle on the breakfast bar as I munched, wiping drool from my chin. All those computers and Adonis still had this thing for newsprint. VILLAINS ON THE RISE! yelled the headline, above a half-page, blurry security camera photo of masked bandits heisting an armored van. They had balls, to rip off a van in full view of the cameras. Hubris, not to shoot the cameras out first. Arrogance, even. The guy in front was giving the camera the finger, his sawed-off shotgun brandished above his head in victory.
I peered closer. A glint showed on that cheerily-displayed middle finger, so tiny you could barely see it. But I knew what it was. A Gallery ring, marking him as one of Razorfire's petty minions. His Archvillain-ness despised normals, sure. Didn't stop him recruiting all kinds of petty criminals and bad-asses to wreak havoc and perpetuate the kind of climate he reveled in: fear.
As I read, I frowned. The article listed a grotesquery of heists, sieges, kidnappings, shootings, and assorted mayhem, all in the last couple of weeks. A crime wave, in fact.
Adonis walked in, dropping phone number four into his jacket pocket. He looked great in black, and his suits always fit him perfectly, from square shoulders to neat white cuffs to the green or violet or sapphire-blue ties he liked. He flipped a tart from the toaster and bit into it. "Typical. Back for five minutes and already you're into my secret stash."
"Hey, I'm the one who's been eating stewed puke for nine months. Give over." I swiped the tart from his hand with my talent, and it flew across to splat onto my plate. But an ache flared in my skull. I couldn't control it. The plate spun onto the floor and smashed to shards.
"Sorry." My cheeks burned, and I felt queasy. Had they broken me in that place? If I couldn't control my talent, I was useless. I knelt and scrabbled for the mess, but my fingers were just as clumsy. I smeared strawberry jam, splinters stabbing my knees.
Adonis knelt beside me. "It's okay."
The broken plate cut into my fingers. I didn't care. I had to fix it, make it right. Chipped glass slices my palms as I climb… the poison vial, smooth and cool under my fingertips. I reach for my mask, force my thumbs underneath, drag it off…
"Verity, stop." Adonis's voice pulled me back to the present. He grabbed my hand, forcing me still. "It's okay, damn it!"
I shook my dizzy head to clear it. "Uh… sure. It's all good. I just made a mistake, that's all. Tired, I guess."
He helped me up. "I heard you last night. Didn't sound like nice dreams."
I didn't remember. Probably a good thing. I'd had enough nightmares to last a lifetime. I shrugged, and reached for another tart.
Adonis watched me. He hadn't said anything about my face, and I was grateful. What was there to say? "Finish up, already. Big sister wants to see you."
"Whatever. Like she cares." I pushed the newspaper over the counter towards him, my mouth full of strawberry goo. "What's wrong with this picture?"
He shrugged, avoiding my gaze. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean." I stabbed my finger at the photo. "Where are FortuneCorp in all this? Are we letting the Gallery get away with this stuff now? Jeez, I take a few months off and the place goes to hell."
"Did you read further down?"
"Huh?"
He flipped the folded newspaper over. Bottom half of page one, beneath the crime picture.
MAYORAL RACE HEATS UP ON CRIME
Villains Won't Drag Us Down, Says Fortune
Sapphire City's mayoral race is still too close to call, after candidates campaigned yesterday in the inland suburbs, the scene of many of the violent incursions that have terrorized citizens in recent weeks. Experts are predicting that policies on law and order will play a decisive role in the poll, to be held in just under two weeks, and it seems the candidates agree. The newest man in the race, local businessman Vincent Caine, visited a Bayview housing project where he promised long-time residents that, under his governance, their community would not be forgotten. "Too long, our disadvantaged communities have been easy prey for the unchecked violence of these power-augmented criminals," Mr. Caine said. "Only by regulating these people's activities and neutralizing their psychotic outbursts will our citizens once again feel safe." To that end, Mr. Caine promised the Chronicle that he will make an announcement on his innovative law and order policy in the next few days.
By contrast, the opposing candidate, Assistant District Attorney and socialite Equity Fortune, gave an impassioned speech at a charity luncheon, saying that she will not rest until the violence is stopped—but that conciliation, not regulation, is the key. "All Sapphire City's citizens must have a voice," Ms. Fortune said, "and that includes those with whose methods we do not necessarily agree. Freedom of speech is sacrosanct, and if sectors of our community must resort to unsavory acts in order to be heard, it is because we are not listening. If you elect me your mayor, I promise you, citizens: I will listen."
I tossed the paper away, disgusted. Typical. Equity was the eldest, and she'd always liked getting on TV, either with her mask on as Nemesis, the bringer of justice, or in the clear as assistant DA, trying high-profile cases and putting the villains away. "Our sister's running for mayor? God help us. What's all this crap about conciliation?"
Adonis shrugged, and flipped the paper back to the security photo. "As you see. FortuneCorp's taking a step back."
"So Equity can win votes from the bleeding-heart civil liberties sector? Give me a break. Has she unmasked? Told the world she's augmented?"
"Of course not."
"Of course not," I echoed ironically. "Even the bleeding hearts wouldn't vote for that, would they? And who's this other moron…?" I checked the name. It seemed familiar. "Local businessman Vincent Caine," I read. There was a picture of him, typical guy-in-a-suit. I squinted at it, trying to remember. "Oh, right. The smartphone guy?"
"That's him."
"'Neutralizing their psychotic outbursts', huh? Nice. Sounds like a hater to me." A few of Sapphire City's prominent citizens insisted all augments were bad news, whether good or evil, and that we should all be locked up for public safety. Apparently, this Caine was one of them.
"Maybe. A clever one, if he is. His company invents new-generation IT hardware, and they say he's still the brains behind it. But he's got the common touch. Self-made man, and all that. A lot of people like what he's got to say."
"People with crappy lives always like what scaremongers have to say. It justifies being afraid of their own shadows."
"Maybe," Adonis said again. "Or maybe they're just hardworking normals who've had their businesses torched by Razorfire, or their kids held hostage by some Gallery scumbag. Powers all look the same to people who don't have any."
"Yeah, well, there'd be a lot more scumbags holding kids hostage if you and I weren't around," I pointed out. "People always hate what they don't understand. Doesn't make it right."
"If you say so. But Caine's popular. Loaded, too, if the color of the campaign he's running is any guide."
"More loaded than the family Fortune?" I scoffed. "Say it ain't so."
"I know. Unthinkable, isn't it?"
I swallowed the last mouthful and smacked my lips. "Whatever. Let Equity play at politics. You and me against the world, eh? Let's get to work and kick some villainous butt."
"It's not that simple, Vee."
I cocked one singed eyebrow. "Villain's ass, my boot. Seems pretty simple to me."
"I told you. Equity wants FortuneCorp to take a step back."
I snorted. "Good thing Equity's not in charge, then."
Adonis just looked at me.
My bones chilled. "But… you're Dad's favorite. You know the company inside out. We always thought… You're the only one who can do what Dad did. It has to be you!"
"Equity's the eldest. It's how he wanted it." His eyes glinted, a flash of ocean-blue resentment. Gone so swiftly I could have imagined it.
But I knew I didn't, and my heart broke for him, like it had already broken for Blackstrike, our father, murdered at the ugly hands of Razorfire. Dad could have left anyone else in charge—his superconducting brother Illuminatus, for instance, or even Phantasm, our tetchily invisible cousin—and Adonis would have understood. But Equity?
She'd always treated me with disdain, because I spoke my mind instead of weighing every word for political correctness. I'm named for truth, after all, and in strategy meetings Dad always relied on me to tell it how it was. Still, it saddened me that she and I weren't closer, because on those rare occasions when she forgot to be a bitch, we actually got along okay.
But Equity resented Adonis. Not just for being Dad's favorite—like every guy of his generation, Dad wanted a son—but because Adonis was everyone's favorite. It wasn't enough for Equity to be strong, intelligent, a kick-ass attorney, and master of the power of light. She wanted to be glamorous, too. Adonis had the augment that Equity longed for, and she hated him for it.
It didn't make sense. Everyone knew Equity lived on celery sticks and jealousy. So why the hell had Dad left her in charge?
My stomach squirmed. I knew how it felt to believe your family had abandoned you. "Jeez. I don't know what to say."
"Say nothing. It's done. Equity's the new boss."
"And you're on board with that?"
"I have to be. What am I gonna do, go work for another secret crime-fighting family? Oh, wait, there aren't any." Adonis sounded resigned, like he'd already thought this over too many times. Didn't stop him sounding angry, too.
"But we're still equal shareholders, right? What about Chance?" Our littlest brother, with his cheeky surfer-boy smile and careless charm, was the only one Equity had any time for, probably because he made it easy for her to feel superior.
"You know Chance. Doing his own thing, as ever." Adonis's tone twinged sharp.
I understood his frustration. Chance didn't take the family business seriously. Sure, Adonis parties hard, but he'll drop it all in a heartbeat if there's work to be done. As a geeky teenager, I used to be jealous of Adonis's girlfriends, until I learned it's never the sister who gets her heart broken.
Chance, on the other hand, has talent up to his baby-doll eyelashes, but by Dad's standards, he's the family screw-up: instead of fighting crime, Chance prefers to use his lucky augment to risk his life at extreme sports, win the long odds at roulette and pick up girls.
Chance follows his heart; Adonis locks his heart away. I know who I trust more. "But what if—"
"It doesn't matter what Chance says, even if we could get the cocky little shit to turn up. The chairperson has the veto. Always did. You know that. Forget it, okay?" Adonis pushed me towards the bedroom. "Big sister awaits. Go get ready."
I chugged more OJ from the bottle and jammed it back in the fridge. "I am ready," I announced.
He eyed me critically. "Wearing that? You look like a hobo."
I snorted, glad of the change of subject. "Hey, they're your clothes. And oh, look." I patted my nonexistent pockets and frowned. "I seem to have misplaced my crime-fighter's spring collection while I was in the nuthouse. So sad. C'mon, we can worry about my fashion sense later."
"Just a sec." He vanished into the bedroom, and soon reappeared with a black suitcase, which he dumped on the table before me. "You might want these."
I unzipped it. Folded neatly inside lay my clothes. Some of them, anyway. My favorite blue jeans, soft from months of wearing. My T-shirts, even the wise-ass ones I knew he hated, and my leather belt. My old black lace-up boots, scuffed and charred from fighting. Even—bless him—a set of my knife-proof leathers.
And my mask.
I fingered the soft black leather. So familiar. My suit still smelled of flame and city dirt, a faint whiff of some perfume I didn't remember wearing.
All still here, even though I'd vanished. With this stuff, my brother had kept me alive.
My eyes burned. I was real after all. Or rather, the Seeker was real, and she was the important part of me. The Seeker was strong. Verity was weak. Nine months bolted into an augmentium helmet had proved that.
Without my power, I was nothing.
Adonis shrugged, sheepish. "They gave away your apartment after the memorial service. I couldn't keep everything. But I wanted… I couldn't just let you disappear."
I struggled to swallow on a lumpy throat. "You always were a sentimental idiot, Ad."
"You're welcome." He hugged me, one arm around my shoulders. "I'm glad you're home, Vee."
Home. It sounded good. I hugged him back, and his warm spritzy scent unleashed a fresh flood of memory. Only this time, they were good memories. I wasn't alone.
Adonis kissed my bruised forehead. “Go get changed. You don’t want to be late. Equity’s skipping a meeting, don’t you know?”
5
We stepped from the elevator on the top and fifty-sixth floor of the FortuneCorp building. The long fluoro-lit lobby with its pewter-colored carpet still looked the same. On the way in, we passed Illuminatus, Dad's younger brother. He looked like an older, silver-frosted version of Adonis, and he threw me a handsome grin as he passed. His superconducting alloy bracelets crackled with static charge. "Verity. Heard you were back. Good to see you, girl."
"Thanks, Uncle Mike. You too." I grinned back, but it soon faded. Illuminatus and Blackstrike. Sapphire City's original crime-fighting duo. They'd never fight together again.
A skinny receptionist wearing too much makeup sat behind a curved glass desk. Adonis flicked her a smile, and she picked up the phone, frowning. "Ms. Fortune? Mr. Fortune and Ms. Fortune are asking to see you. Adonis and… and Verity."
I laughed. "Yeah, right. Pretty please. Whatever." When this was Dad's office, any of his kids could just walk right in. And I felt fine and belligerent once more in my jeans and kicker boots. My black T-shirt read I'M ONLY NICE TO ONE PERSON PER DAY, and then underneath, it said TODAY IS NOT YOUR DAY. It pretty much summed up how I felt.
I strode up to the frosted glass door and turned the handle.
It wouldn't open.
Frustrated, I tried again, harder.
Adonis put a cool hand on my shoulder. "It's just security—"
"Security, my ass." I broke the lock with an angry flash of talent. The handle snapped downwards with a crunch, and I shoved the door open and stalked in, ignoring the receptionist's protests.
Afternoon sun streamed in the floor-to-ceiling windows. Below, the city glittered, the sunlight flashing on metal and glass skyscrapers, gloating over the flat summer waters of the bay. I squinted in the harsh glare, wishing I'd remembered to bring sunglasses. Equity has a natural affinity with light, and she likes it bright. The vast corner office was lined with ugly green plants that turned their faces sunwards, and at the far end, behind Dad's big blondwood desk, sat our sister.
She came around the desk to greet us. Tall and gangly as ever, she wore a neat navy-blue suit and heels. A rope of black pearls coiled around her neck over her white silken blouse. Her makeup was flawless, and she'd dyed her straight-bobbed hair, from plain old brown like mine to lustrous news-anchor auburn. She and I had inherited Mom's coloring. Like me, Equity would never be beautiful, but she looked elegant. Professional. Like a politician.
"Verity," Equity said, with all the warmth she could muster, which wasn't much. "Welcome back."
"Hey, E.," I replied grudgingly. If my ruined face shocked her, she'd hidden it admirably, and it cost me nothing to be pleasant. "Nice haircut. You look like President Palin. I'd vote for you."
Equity smiled, gracious. Obviously, she'd been practicing. "Adonis told me your tale." The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "I'm sorry for what happened to you. That was a vicious attack. Quite uncalled for. I'm glad you're safe."
She sounded like she meant it. "Thanks," I muttered. "Listen, I want to get back to work—"
"Of course. Please." She ushered us to her little plush sofa arrangement by the sunlit window. A vase of silk orchids sat on the glass coffee table. Dad never liked fake flowers. I missed his big Chesterfield armchair, his smell of leather and cigarettes. When I was little, he'd play hide-and-seek with us, me and Chance and Dad's shadows. Equity had spoiled the game then, too.
I sat opposite her, and Adonis stood by the window, sunlight gilding his hair. Equity crossed her long legs, stockings gleaming. "How are you feeling, Verity?"
Dr. Mengele's blue gaze stabs mine like an iced needle. Her fingertips cool my fevered cheek. Static prickles in my hair, the stink of ozone and sweat. "How do you feel now?" she asks. My stomach knots in terror, and I vomit in her lap…
I blinked, dizzy. How the hell did Equity think I felt, after nine months in the loony bin? "I feel fine."
She and Adonis exchanged glances. "You've had a horrible experience," she said. "It's only natural you'd be suffering some ill effects—"
"So my head hurts," I interrupted, scratching my itchy palms. On the way here, I'd filled Adonis in on everything they'd done to me. What had he told her? "Yours would, too, if you'd had the Augmentium Helmet of Death bolted to your skull. I'm fine."
"Even so," Equity said coolly, "you should see a doctor."
"No!" I'd jerked from my seat before I realized I'd moved. My guts cramped, and for a horrible moment I thought I'd wet myself. "A shrink, you mean. No fucking way. Never again!"
Sweat stung my burned cheek. My palms hurt, and I realized I'd jammed my nails into them. I was shaking. Jesus.
Adonis touched my arm. "Steady, Vee," he whispered. "No one's making you. She's just worried about you."
I sucked in deep breaths, trying to quiet my screaming nerves. I stuck my hand in my pocket, where I'd shoved my mask. It felt smooth and warm, soothing. I gripped it tightly for a moment. Only one thing could put the howling horror in my soul to sleep: Razorfire, drained and dying at my feet. "I don't need a doctor," I insisted. "What I need is to get back to work. Dad's dead, and R—and he's still out there, spouting his burn-it-all bullshit. I'm gonna remedy that."
"I'm afraid that will have to wait." Equity poured me a frosted glass of water from the carafe, her favorite set of gold bracelets clinking on her wrist.
I gulped the drink. "What? Why?"
"The situation is very delicately balanced out there. I've put a lot of work into negotiating a peace."
I snorted. "Yeah. I saw the police barricades, the shitfight on the front pages. Gallery goons running amok all over town. How's that peace working out for you?"
She strode to the window, and rounded to face me, hands clasped behind her. "Be sensible, Verity. If we've learned one thing in all these years, it's that you don't provoke this psychopath. If you go after Razorfire, the city will erupt. It's what he wants. Now's not a good time."
"Not a good time?" Water splashed my hand, and I set the glass down hard before I broke it. Muscles twitched in my thighs. I wanted to kick something. "He murdered Dad, E. He had me tortured. He tried to poison the whole damn city, and you don't think it's a good time?"
Equity eyed me coldly, augmented light glinting fiercely in her eyes. "This campaign is important. If we win, we'll have a blank slate to start making changes. I won't have you stirring up trouble."
"Stopping villains is not stirring up trouble," I retorted. "It's what we're here for. Razorfire is a murdering bastard. He doesn't deserve to live. If Dad was still alive—"
"I'm in charge now!" Angry white light flashed from Equity's fist. Swiftly, she quenched it, her jaw popping with the effort. "Dad's policies were outdated. Times have changed. War is no longer our objective. You'll do as you're told or I'll have you suppressed."
"Suppressed?" I repeated in astonishment. "What the hell does 'suppressed' mean? You gonna arrest me, is that it? Lock me up?"
"If I must."
Adonis raised his hand. "Calm down, kids—"
"No," I interrupted, furious. "I want to hear this. Let me get this straight, Equity. Razorfire has been our archenemy ever since we were kids. We've fought him and his filthy Gallery on the street since forever. Dad devoted his entire life to this war. Now Razorfire's winning, and you want to back off?" My fist clenched, warm. It felt good, after all, to say his name. It gave me power.
"No one's backing off." Her glib politician's tone only infuriated me more. "We're rejecting violence as a solution."
I guffawed, it was so ridiculous. "Are you insane? I bet the Gallery are just hanging out to renounce violence."
"I don't care what the Gallery want. Sinking to their level is no longer acceptable."
"Sinking, my ass," I snapped. "What are you so afraid of?"
She flushed, ugly. "I'm not afraid."
I strode up and stared her down. She was taller than me. I didn't care. "The hell you aren't," I said, my voice shaking. "You're a coward, Equity."
Adonis tugged his hair behind his neck and sighed. "Verity, chill out, will you?"
"Shut up, Ad. You know it's true." I laughed, and it tasted bitter. "Sure, let's sit down with Razorfire. It'll be fun. Hell, I'll even buy the sick freak a beer, just to let him know it's okay that he murdered our father!"
Equity's face stormed over, like it did when we were kids and I stole her toys, and I knew I was going too far. But I couldn't stop. The truth just frothed up, tainted with rage, and I spat the words into her face like poisoned darts. "He might as well kill the rest of us, too. Torture us, do whatever he wants. No need to worry, because FortuneCorp is rejecting violence as a solution!"
"Oh, grow up, Verity," Equity snapped at last. "There's more at stake here than the mess on your ugly face."
My throat swelled shut and, inside, my mind exploded in blood.
I shrieked, and slapped her. The crack of her cheek on my palm was loud, satisfying. But it wasn't my slap that sent her flying across the room.
My power erupted, thundering like monstrous drums in my head. Equity flew backwards into her desk. Paper and hardware scattered. A glass globe on the desk shattered, falling shards prisming in the sun.
Equity stumbled to her feet. Her mouth twisted, and she flung up one angry fist and hurled light at me.
So bright, my skin scorched like sunburn. My retinas seared blind. I screamed, and something in my brain stretched itself to the limit and tore. Somewhere, a window exploded, and dimly, I felt Adonis crash-tackle me to the floor.
My head clanged. Water poured from my eyes. My throat was swollen, I couldn't breathe. I wheezed, gulping for air.
Gradually, the glare faded. Adonis hovered into focus above me. I blinked, reeling, my eyes burning like acid. He gripped my wrists, shaking me. "Verity. Let it go. Chill. C'mon."
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