Vengeful

  Victor was too good at seeing through things.

  Sydney shut the window and started toward the bedroom door, but halfway there, she felt her steps slow, something catch in her throat.

  The two voices beyond were muffled, but distinct.

  Victor’s, low and steady. “He was incompatible.”

  Mitch’s halting reply. “That was the last one.”

  Something pitched inside Sydney’s chest.

  The last one.

  She pressed a hand against her sternum, as if trying to stop its fall. She realized what it was as it slipped between her fingers. Hope.

  “I see.” That was all Victor said.

  As if it were a mild setback and not a death knell.

  Sydney’s head came to rest against the bedroom door, her most recent victory forgotten. She waited until the space beyond was quiet. And then she stepped out into the hall.

  The door to Victor’s room was closed, and Mitch was a dark shape out on the patio, his head bowed, his elbows resting on the rail.

  In the kitchen, a piece of paper sat crumpled on top of the trash. Sydney drew it out, smoothed it on the counter.

  It was Victor’s last EO profile.

  His last lead.

  The page had been reduced to a wall of black lines, interrupted only by five letters, scattered across the page.

  F I X M E.

  Sydney held her breath. Behind her eyes, the surface of a lake cracked under Victor’s feet.

  XXII

  ONE WEEK AGO

  DOWNTOWN MERIT

  BY the end of the first week, Stell knew he’d made a terrible mistake.

  He knew it when he saw the sinkhole on Broadway. Knew it when he was called to the collapsed building on Ninth. And he certainly knew it when he stepped into the ballroom at the Continental.

  He moved through the vast space, a hazard mask cinched over his nose and mouth. The ballroom was high-ceilinged and ornate, a popular place for business execs and powerful families alike to throw parties. Stell assumed that was what had been happening the night before. After all, the tables were still laid out, the gossamer and ribbons still drew ghostly lines through the air.

  Only the people were missing.

  No, not missing. A fine patina of ash covered every surface. It was all that was left of the forty-one guests in the Continental’s evening register.

  Needless to say, the scene had tripped the Merit PD’s strange shit alarm.

  Stell had seen enough—he retreated into the hall, pulling the mask from his face as he dialed.

  Two rings later, Marcella’s smooth voice answered. “Hello, Joseph.”

  “Do you want to tell me,” hissed Stell, “what I’m looking at right now?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Then I’ll tell you,” he snapped. “I’m standing outside a ballroom at the Continental. It looks like a fucking snowstorm in there.”

  “How peculiar.”

  “What part of lying low did you not understand?”

  “Well,” she said coyly, “I didn’t sign my name in the ashes.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are making it very hard to look the other way.”

  “Crime has gone down, as promised.”

  “No,” said Stell, “it’s simply been consolidated.” He lowered his voice as he paced the hall. “Tell me you have something to show me, besides this gross display. Preferably something related to the subject of our mutual interest.”

  Marcella sighed. “You really do take the fun out of things. I thought we could have lunch to celebrate, but since you’re obviously busy, I’ll go ahead and tell you now. I found your EO killer.”

  Stell stiffened. “Is he with you now?”

  “No,” said Marcella. “But don’t worry. A deal’s a deal. And I still have a week.”

  “Marcella—”

  “I’m sending you a photo. To whet your appetite.”

  XXIII

  ONE WEEK AGO

  EON

  SHE really was clever, thought Eli.

  He lay, stretched out on the cot, staring up at his reflection in the mirror ceiling as he turned the problem like a coin between his fingers.

  Through some combination of strategy and luck, Marcella had managed to flank herself with two compatible powers. He lined them up in his mind.

  The ruiner. The shapeshifter. The forcefield.

  Up close. Long distance. And everything between. Together, their powers were nearly impregnable. But find a way to separate them, and Marcella would die just like anyone else.

  Footsteps sounded beyond the glass, and a second later, the far wall went clear, revealing a very red-faced Stell. “Did you know?”

  Eli blinked and sat up. “I’m not omniscient, Director. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  Stell slammed a piece of paper against the barrier. A printout. A photograph. Eli swung his legs off the cot and approached the glass. Stilled when he saw the face in the photo. There he was, the narrow face, hawkish in profile, chin grazing the collar of his trench coat. Not a good photo, not a clear photo, but Eli would recognize him anywhere.

  Victor Vale.

  “Two years,” said Stell. “That’s how long you’ve had to track him down, and Marcella delivers this in less than two weeks. You buried it. You knew.”

  But Eli realized, staring at the photo, that he hadn’t known, not really. He’d wanted to be right, wanted to be sure, but there had always been that fissure, a line of doubt. Now, it sealed, smoothed, solid enough to bear the weight of the truth.

  “I guess you didn’t burn the body.”

  “God dammit, Eli,” snarled Stell. He shook his head. “How is this possible?”

  “Victor’s always been terrible at staying dead.”

  “How?” demanded Stell.

  “Serena’s little sister had the inconvenient ability to resurrect the dead.”

  “Sydney Clarke? You listed her among your kills.”

  “Technically,” said Eli, “Serena was supposed to take care of her. Obviously she got cold feet.”

  One more thing he’d have to handle himself.

  Eli dragged his gaze away from the photo. “What are you going to do about him?”

  “I’m going to find him. You two can each have a cell to rot in.”

  “Oh, great,” said Eli dryly. “We can be neighbors.”

  “This isn’t a fucking joke,” snapped Stell. “All your talk of cooperation, I knew it was a ruse. I knew you couldn’t be trusted.”

  “In the name of God,” scoffed Eli. “How many excuses will you find to vindicate your own stubbornness?”

  “He’s been out there, killing humans and EOs, and you knew.”

  “I suspected—”

  “And you didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t burn the body!” roared Eli. “I put him down, and you let him get back up. Victor Vale’s continued existence, and the deaths he’s since accrued—those are your failures, not mine. Yes, I kept my suspicions from you, because I hoped I was wrong, hoped that you hadn’t been so foolish, hadn’t failed so catastrophically. And if you had, well, then I knew my warnings would fall on deaf ears. You want Victor? Fine. I’ll help you take him again.”

  He went to the low shelf, drew the hunter’s folder from the row of case files.

  “Unless you’d rather let Marcella lead you through her hoops instead.”

  He dropped the folder in the open tray.

  “I’m sure once she figures out Victor’s value, she’ll make you pay every cent.”

  Stell said nothing, his face a poor imitation of a stone wall as he slowly reached for the file. But Eli, of course, could still see every crack.

  “My advisement,” he said, “is on the last page.”

  Stell skimmed the instructions in silence, and then looked up. “You think this will work?”

  “It’s how I’d catch him,” said Eli, truthfully.

  Stell turned to go, but Eli called
him back.

  “Look me in the eye,” said Eli, “and tell me that when you find Victor, you will kill him once and for all.”

  Stell met his gaze. “I’ll do as I see fit.”

  Eli flashed a feral grin. “Of course you will,” he said.

  And so will I.

  XXIV

  TWO DAYS AGO

  DOWNTOWN WHITTON

  SYDNEY was back on the ice.

  It stretched in every direction. She couldn’t see the banks, couldn’t see anything but the frozen stretch of lake ahead, behind, the plume of her own breath.

  “Hello?” she called.

  Her voice echoed across the lake.

  The ice crackled just behind her and she spun around, expecting to see Eli.

  But there was no one there.

  And then, from somewhere in the distance, a sound.

  Not the cracking of the lake. A short, sharp tone.

  Sydney sat up.

  She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she was curled on the sofa, Dol at her feet and thin morning light seeping in the windows.

  The sharp tone sounded again, and Syd looked around for her phone before she realized that the sound was coming from Mitch’s computer. The laptop sat open on the table a few feet away, pinging like a beacon.

  Sydney tapped the computer awake.

  Mitch’s black lock screen came up, and she typed in the password—benedición. The screen gave way to a matrix of code, way beyond the basics he’d been teaching her. But Syd’s attention went to the corner of the screen, where a small icon bounced up and down.

  Results (1).

  Sydney clicked the icon, and a new window popped up.

  Her breath caught. She recognized the page’s format from the paper she’d found crumpled in the trash. It was a profile. A distinguished man, dark-skinned with a trim white beard, staring out at her from a professional photo.

  Ellis Dumont. Fifty-seven. A surgeon who’d been in an accident the year before. He hadn’t abandoned his old life; maybe that was why he hadn’t shown up in the system. Not enough markers. But this—this was the important part. Ever since he’d returned to work, his patients’ recovery rate had skyrocketed. There were links to news articles, pieces praising this man with a near prescient ability to discover what was wrong.

  She scrolled down the page until she found Dumont’s current location.

  Merit Central Hospital.

  Sydney surged to her feet and hurried down the hall. The soft hush of the shower spilled from Mitch’s room. Victor’s door was ajar, the space beyond dark. She could just make out the lines of his body on the bed, his back to her.

  The first and only time she’d ever woken him, it had been from a nightmare, and he’d lit her up like a Christmas tree. The pain had echoed in her nerves for hours.

  She knew it probably wouldn’t happen again, but it was still hard to force herself forward. In the end, it was a wasted fear.

  “I’m not asleep,” said Victor softly.

  He sat up and turned to face Sydney, his eyes narrowing.

  “What is it?”

  Sydney’s heart was racing. “There’s something you should see.”

  She sat, perched on the edge of the sofa, as Victor read the profile, his expression carefully blank. She wished she could read his mind. Hell, she wished she could read his face.

  Mitch appeared in the doorway, large towel draped over his bare shoulders. “What’s going on?”

  “Get your things,” said Victor, rising to his feet.

  “We’re going to Merit.”

  XXV

  TWO DAYS AGO

  FIRST AND WHITE

  MARCELLA leaned back in her chair and admired the view.

  The city spilled away beyond her floor-to-ceiling windows, rolled out like a carpet beneath her feet.

  Once upon a time she’d stood on the rooftop of a college frat and thought she could see all of Merit. But it had only been a few small blocks, the rest swallowed up by higher buildings. This was a real view. This was her city.

  She turned back toward the desk, where the cards sat waiting.

  They’d arrived in a lovely silk box—one hundred crisp white invitations, the front of each embossed with an elegant gold M.

  She drew one from the box and flicked it open.

  The words were printed in curling black, the edges embossed with gold.

  Marcella Morgan and her associates

  request your presence at the exclusive reveal of

  Merit’s most extraordinary venture.

  The future of the city starts now.

  The Old Court house.

  This Friday, the 23rd. 6 p.m.

  Invitation admits 2.

  Marcella smiled, turning the card between her fingers.

  What now? June had asked. You’re going to throw yourself a fucking party?

  Marcella knew the girl had meant it as a joke, but Stell had tipped his hand, the night they met, and let a face card show.

  No more grand displays. The last thing this city needs . . .

  But, of course, Stell hadn’t really been talking about the city. He meant EON. Yes, a little publicity would be bad for their business.

  And so, that was exactly what Marcella planned to give them.

  She was done playing by other people’s rules. Done hiding. If you lived in the dark, you died in the dark. But stand in the light, and it was that much harder to make you disappear.

  And Marcella Renee Morgan wasn’t going anywhere.

  XXVI

  TWO DAYS AGO

  ON THE ROAD

  MITCHELL Turner had a bad feeling.

  He got them, now and then, the way other people got migraines or déjà vu.

  Sometimes it was dull, abstract, a sense of wrongness that crept in like night, slow but inevitable. Other times it was sudden and sharp, like a pain in his side. Mitch didn’t know where the feelings came from, but he knew to listen when they did.

  Bad feelings were warnings, when you had bad luck.

  And all Mitch’s life, he’d had bad luck.

  Bad luck made sure he was the one who got caught.

  Bad luck landed him in jail.

  Bad luck crossed his path with Victor’s—though he didn’t see it at the time.

  It was like a rubber band. Mitch could only get so far away before the invisible hand slipped and he went crashing back into trouble. Other people were always surprised when bad things happened. When good things stopped. Not him. When Mitch had one of those feelings, he listened.

  Watched his step.

  Kept one eye on the breakable things in his life.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Sydney, curled up in her red bomber jacket, booted feet draped over Dol. She was wearing a pink wig, the synthetic strands falling over her eyes. Mitch shot a surreptitious glance at the passenger’s seat and saw Victor staring out the window, his face unreadable as ever.

  Merit rose in the distance ahead of them.

  “Everything that goes around, comes around,” said Victor. His cool blue gaze cut sideways. “You should keep driving.”

  Mitch frowned in confusion.

  “If this doesn’t work,” added Victor softly. “Even if it does. Take Syd and—”

  “We’re not leaving,” said Sydney, bolt upright in the backseat.

  Victor sighed. “I should have,” he murmured.

  The bad feeling nipped like a shadow at Mitch’s heels. How long had it been following him? Days? Weeks? Months? Had it been there since the night at Falcon Price, when he set fire to Serena’s body? Or was it simply the fact that when it came to Mitch’s luck, it was only a matter of time before it ran out?

  “How far?” asked Sydney in the backseat.

  Mitch’s throat felt dry when he answered.

  “We’re almost there.”

  * * *

  FUCK.

  June had overslept, woken with the sun full up and in her eyes. This is why she preferred killing to stalkin
g—you could do it on your own schedule.

  She lurched out of bed, stumbled to the window, studied the apartments across the street. There was no sign of Syd on the balcony. No glimpse of Victor or Mitch in the rooms beyond. For days, they’d passed like shadows through the apartment, lounged on furniture, taken the dog for walks.

  Now, the curtains were pulled back, and the place looked barren.

  June swore, and got dressed.

  She crossed the road, caught the door just as someone was coming out. They didn’t even look twice—and why should they? She was just a kid, thirteen, gangly, innocent. June loped up the stairs, shifting again before she reached the fifth-floor landing, ready to pass herself off as a college kid, canvassing for politicians.

  She knocked on their door, but no one answered.

  June pressed her ear to the wood, swore again at the wall of silence, then produced a few narrow picks and let herself in.

  The door swung open.

  The apartment was empty.

  A horrible déjà vu—of another city, another abandoned place, a full year of useless searching—but June steadied herself. Sydney was no longer a stranger. They knew each other. Trusted each other. June returned to her hotel room and fetched her phone from the bedside table, sighing with relief.

  Sydney had already texted.

  Syd: You’ll never guess where we’re going.

  June knew the answer before she even read Sydney’s next message.

  Merit.

  Five minutes later, June was on the road, driving a solid twenty over the speed limit as she barreled toward Merit in their wake. She called Marcella on the way.

  “He’s on the move,” she said, catching herself before she said they. “And headed to Merit.”

  “Well,” said Marcella, “I wonder what gave him that idea.”

  “It wasn’t you?”

  “No,” she said, sounding a little put out. “But this is better. See that he gets here safely. We’ll welcome him with open arms.”

  June frowned as she wove around a semi. “I thought you were trading him to EON.”

  “I never said that,” replied Marcella pointedly. “I told you I hadn’t decided yet. And I haven’t. You know I like to know my options, and I have to admit that Stell’s reaction to the news of Victor Vale has piqued my interest. I’ve done a little homework, and this Vale is quite an interesting case. He could turn out to be an asset. Or perhaps not. But I certainly don’t plan on handing him over to EON until I’ve had a chance to meet him.”