Scorched

Erica Hayes

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Contents

Erica Hayes

Copyright

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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."

"Okay… Fine… Get off me." I scrambled to my feet, panting. The window behind me was smashed, and breeze swirled in, ruffling the plants and scattering paper on the floor like tumbleweed. What the hell had I done? Equity pissed me off, but attacking her was uncalled for. "Jesus. I'm sorry, E. I didn't mean it. Guess I'm still a little tense."

"I think you should leave now." Equity advanced on me, her eyes alight with chilly fury. Silver light glittered between her fingers, and sparks crackled from her hair. "I don't want to see you. I don't want to talk to you. See a doctor, don't see a doctor, I really don't give a shit. But I swear to you, Verity, if you interfere with my campaign I will come down on you like an act of God. Now get out of my office, and don't come back."

My vision swirled. "What? I said I didn't mean—"

"Didn't you hear me? You're fired. Get out."

"What?" Adonis was incredulous. "Jesus, E. Give her a break."

I laughed. "I'm a Fortune. You can't fire me."

Equity smiled back, thin and cold. "I can. I just did. Get out."

My jaw dropped. Speechless, I looked to Adonis for something—anything—but he just gave a tight shrug, his gaze guarded. Later, it promised. Don't make this worse.

I swallowed. Flexed my fingers. Coiled my power tightly. "Fine," I said calmly, and walked out. Behind me, Adonis swore and started arguing with her. I didn't stop. Didn't look back.

On the way down in the elevator, I let my forehead fall against the cold metal wall, and closed my eyes. She'd fired me. My own damn sister. Fine, I shouldn't have hit her. But she was letting my enemy get away with murder…

Wind whips my hair back. Tears scorch my chilled cheeks. I scrabble for the poison vial. It's just out of my reach. I stretch out with my power, but something yanks me backwards. I fall. My face slams into metal, and a lick of razor-sharp flame slices the floor apart an inch from my nose…

My head swam, images and memories mingling like water. FortuneCorp were the good guys. We were meant to fight villains, not encourage them. Not—the word stung sour in my mouth—negotiate with them.

I stood straighter, and scraped my hair back, automatically checking my look in the mirror, a second before I remembered what I'd see.

My stomach tilted, sick. My eyes looked dark and hollow, my mouth a tight line. Still burned. Still scarred. Still hideous.

There's more at stake than your ugly face.

Oily rage boiled inside me, and I shoved it away, pounding my fists against my thighs until my burning blood subsided. She was wrong. Yes, I wanted revenge. For my face, my shattered memory, all those months of agony. I wanted to make Razorfire suffer like I'd suffered, scrape that knowing smile from his lips, watch the fire flicker out in his hate-bright eyes and whisper, this is for what you did to me.

But it wasn't just about my face. It wasn't even that Razorfire killed Dad and had me tortured until my mind nearly shattered. Razorfire was a public menace. A terrorist and mass-murderer. A psychopath who despised everyone and everything, who'd stop at nothing until he owned the world, or burned it all.

He didn't deserve to live. And I wasn't going to let him.

Hot determination forged to steel in my heart. I pulled my mask from my pocket and wrapped it tightly around my fist. The leather's soft stretch across my skin felt safe. It gave me strength. If Equity wasn't on my side, fine. I'd talk to Adonis, our cousins, Dad's old friends, even Chance. And if they wouldn't help me? I'd just have to do it on my own.

The elevator pinged as it reached street level. The doors slid aside, and I walked out.

Into two big guys, who grabbed my shoulders and yanked me forwards.

I stumbled, but they dragged me to my feet. A woman in a pale suit smiled at me. A blond woman with glacial blue eyes, who held a gleaming silvery helmet.

Dr. Mengele.

No. My blood screamed cold. My muscles spasmed in terror, the remembered stink of piss and fear. I'm not a bad person. I can't go back there. I can't.

Someone had betrayed me. They were sending me back to the asylum.

A wail of denial ripped my lungs raw. Escape, or die.

6

I yelled, and let my power explode.

The glass walls shattered, and crashed in silvery waterfalls. Breeze swept in from the street, dragging my hair wild. People in the double-story lobby screamed and ran. The two heavies stumbled, and something sharp scraped the skin between my neck and shoulder, the hot sting of a needle. A plastic syringe tumbled onto the tiles. They'd been about to stick me, fill me full of sleepy-time shit so I wouldn't struggle.

Good luck with that.

Mengele kept coming. Should have killed the evil bitch when I had the chance. More of her people came out of nowhere on all sides, running for me. Behind the reception desk, the lobby security guy reached for his radio. I crouched, panting, and sized up my enemy. Surrounded. No way through. No way out.

I gathered my power beneath me, and leapt.

Force flung me skywards. I somersaulted, and fell, dragging the air downwards with all the strength I could muster. The heavies looked up. I landed in a crouch in their midst, slamming my fist into the tiles with a crack like thunder.

Boom! The shock wave rippled outwards, shattering ceramic as it went. The floor quaked. Mengele and her heavies staggered, and I sprang to my feet and sprinted for freedom.

I hurdled spiky broken glass and screeched out onto the sunlit street. People gawked. I shoved them aside. Behind me, heavy footsteps pounded, Mengele's goons coming after me. I had a few seconds' head start, if that. Better make the most of it.

I ran across the street, dodging honking traffic. Despite the danger, it felt good to run, wind in my face, blood pumping in my legs. But my scratched shoulder felt hot and numb at the same time, and I knew with a sinking stomach that some of their helljuice had made it into my system. It was only a matter of time before I fell and couldn't get up. If I wasn't safe before that happened…

I ran faster, my thighs protesting with a fresh burst of lactic acid. Tires squealed and drivers yelled abuse as the goons followed, not as agile as I was. I ducked through a corner coffee shop, leaping the tables with a flex of power. The goons would have to go around. Score another few seconds for me. I skidded around another corner, out of sight for a few precious moments. A brick two-story was jammed in between two ten-floor glass office buildings. An old guest house or something, converted into a bank, its sloping tiled roof shimmering in the sun.

No time to think. I leapt onto the roof, and crouched beside the chimney pot, dying to gasp for breath but barely daring to inhale.

The goons tumbled around the corner. My chest ached for air. I didn't dare move. Sweat trickled down my neck. My shadow loomed frighteningly large on the roof tiles. Surely, they'd see me. The buildings either side were too tall, even for me. I can jump, sure, but I can't fly. And I couldn't climb those smooth glassy walls…

My sweaty fingers slip as I clutch the glass. The stairway's cut off, enemies everywhere. I have to climb. Fifty stories below, the ground looms. Swirling wind threatens to sweep me away. My stomach plummets, but I scrabble and drag myself skyward…

I swallowed, dry. The numbness in my shoulder was spreading. I had nowhere else to run. Surely, they had to see me.

But the goons didn't look up. They just kept running.

I let out my breath in a rush, and gulped for air. They weren't dumb. I didn't have much time before they realized their mistake and came back. Gotta get out of here.

I stood, and dizziness rinsed my balance thin. I staggered, clutching the chimney. Jesus. My fingers were numb. I couldn't stand straight. Fighting creeping nausea, I crawled to the rear of the building and peered over the edge.

The ground telescoped, shimmering. I closed my eyes, lowered myself over the gutter. Dropped to the ground, cushioning my landing with a clumsy flex of power.

The narrow alley was shadowed and caked with grime. A few plump black trash bags heaped next to a dumpster. I leaned against the wall for a second or two, sweating, struggling to straighten my thoughts.

I had no other clothes. Couldn't disguise myself. And I had nowhere to run to. I couldn't go back to Adonis's place. Someone in my own family had betrayed me, and they'd know where to look. I was on my own…

Someone shoved me, and I bounced off the brick wall and fell.

Terror squeezed my guts. I scrabbled to get up, run. But a boot slammed my shoulder, pinning me down. A smoke-roughened voice taunted me. "What have we here, lads? An uppity little augmented bitch, that's what."

Huh? I fought to clear my vision. Big blond kid, sleeveless black hoodie, steel hoop earrings. Not a Mengele goon. Three of his friends slouched behind him. A skinhead one spat nonchalantly on the sidewalk, the chains on his jeans clanking. A dreadlocked girl popped pink bubblegum, stretching it around one tattooed finger. Another fat one sweated, his pasty skin gleaming, and clutched something shiny and round in his fist.

Haters. Great.

I struggled to rise, but my thigh muscles softened like pudding, and the ground kept sliding out from under me. Frustration jabbed me sharp in the belly. I didn't have time for this. "Look, just lemme 'lone, 'kay."

"I seen you jump onto that roof, bitch." The leader prodded my collarbone with his boot, cracking my head back into the bricks. "Who the fuck you think you are, Supergirl? You're not welcome here. Geddit?"

"Uh-huh. Whadebba … " My mouth was stuffed with sticky string. Goddamn it. I tried to focus, to stretch the air like elastic and fling these assholes away from me, but I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't flex. I was just plain Verity, and I couldn't get away.

Shit.

He kicked me. I barely felt the pain, just my ribs bending under the force, my skin swelling. Again, more, all four of them getting into the act.

Hysterically, I laughed. These morons would kick me to death before Mengele's goons could get to me. And thanks to the drug, I couldn't even feel it. That was some funny shit.

I tried to crawl away, to cradle my head in my arms. The sidewalk scraped my elbows raw. Crimson splotched from my nose. A punch slammed me into the wall, dizzy. I spat red, and crawled some more. What else could I do?

The leader loomed over me, his spiked blond hair dripping with sweat, and dragged my chin up with a fist in my hair. "Like that, bitch? Where's your power now?"

Dimly, I fumbled for my list of oh-so-witty replies. Up your butt, you stinky hater. Your momma wears jackboots. Or just plain screw you. That's always a good one.

The fat one gave a slobbery grin. "You ever make an augmented bitch squeal, Bro?"

"I don't believe so, Slugger." Bro's smile split wider. "I'm thinking we should see to that."

"I'm thinkin' you're right."

The girl popped her bubble gum, shuffling. "Jesus Christ. You can't do that."

"Shut up, Cookie." Bro dragged my head back harder, and reached for his belt buckle.

I coughed out a bloody mouthful. Take that out and I'll bite it off, you whiskey tango son of a bitch, I tried to say. "Urrphh…"

He screamed, and clawed at his own face.

I scrambled back, bewildered.

He kept screaming. Kept digging his fingers deeper into his own eyes. The others did the same, howling and flailing about in unseen agony, and finally they hurled curses and staggered off.

Huh? I hadn't done that. I couldn't do that. What the hell just happened…?

The air shimmered like heat haze, and a shadow coalesced on the bloodstained concrete.

A tall, broad shadow, in the shape of a man.

I scuttled away like a dizzy crab, fumbling on the rough sidewalk. Who the hell was that?

But my eyelids drooped. My numb lips drooled. I dragged my swimming head up, forcing my blurry eyes to focus. There he was, leaning against the dumpster. Long legs in jeans and boots, a scuffed leather coat. A glimpse of tousled black hair and white teeth, mingled with shimmering shadows. I couldn't see his face. Need to see…

I fought my clogged tongue, my sinking wits. Who are you? I wanted to say, but the drug overcame me. I caught the warm scent of vanilla as the stranger lifted my limp body in his arms, and the world dissolved into murky nothing.

7

I awoke sluggishly, in dim electric light that hurt my eyes. Soft cushions squished beneath me, a whiff of dark vanilla. An ancient incandescent bulb swung above on its cord, an inch one way, an inch the other. The tiny breeze stirred my hair. The air smelled crisp, recycled. Overhead, I heard rushing water, and something large and mechanical rumbled distantly.

The subway, I registered dimly. I was underground. But where? And how?

I sat up on the bed, wincing. Thirst tore my throat, and my body ached like poison. I stretched, popping my vertebrae one by one. Bruises everywhere, purple and yellow. Those assholes had really kicked the shit out of me. And… uh.

I wore a man's white shirt. Soft and clean, buttoned over my chest. Underneath, I was naked.

My ribs itched, and when I scratched them I found gauze and white paper tape. Someone had washed me, tended my bruises. I touched my face gingerly, and my fingers came away clean and smelling of antiseptic ointment.

Whoever had tended me, they didn't necessarily mean well.

But hey, at least I wasn't wearing hospital scrubs and an augmentium helmet. That had to be an improvement. Right?

I swung my legs over the bed's edge and tried to stand. Instead, I fell, a six-foot drop. I landed, shaken, on a cool concrete floor. Roughly, I tugged the shirt down over my butt. Very funny.

The bunk bed was jammed into an alcove behind me. I squinted into the gloom. Large square room, low ceiling, walls fading into darkness. Next to the bed, in another alcove, sat a claw-foot bathtub with a rusted shower. Somewhere, a generator hummed, and a keyboard clattered as someone typed.

I swallowed, my throat crispy. Would I discover my shadowy rescuer's identity at last? I might not like what I found. Sapphire City vomited up new villains as fast as we could wash the old ones down the drain.

But I had to know. Mr. Mysterious had probably saved my life—not to mention my dignity—from the haters at least, and probably from Mengele's goons too. Presuming it wasn't all a trap, of course. If we didn't get along, I'd just flip him a quick thanks for nothing and run again. I was getting good at running.

I followed the clickety-clack of keys, tiptoeing past gray metal shelves loaded with books, files, boxes of photographs, newspapers, cables and electrical components I didn't recognize. Light flickered between the shelves. I clenched my fist, readying my power for a swift onslaught, and crept out.

A double row of screens gleamed—websites, television channels, CCTV—above a long desk covered in a mess of paper and photographs six inches deep. In a high-backed chair hunched a long lean figure, his shadow looming huge and monstrous on the wall.

He didn't stop typing. Didn't look up. Just jerked his head towards the corner of the room. "Door's that way."

So much for stealth. I cleared my throat, and stepped out where he could see me. But I still clasped my hands tightly behind my back, ready. "Excuse me?"

"You can leave whenever you want. I won't stop you. No need to break things." His voice was rough and rich, like old bourbon. His battered leather coat hung over the back of his wheeled chair. He finished whatever he was doing, and swung his chair around, skidding into the light.

Strong, lean, the same tight black T-shirt and jeans he'd worn before. A few days of beard shadowed his chin, dark against his olive skin, and his wild black hair had a single albino splash at the front. He wore a leather band buckled around one wrist, and a silver ring on his right ring finger.

Intriguing. Younger than I'd expected, for a guy who'd sent a gang of haters screaming. Warmer, somehow. I wanted to see the rest of his face.

But I couldn't. He wore a mask. A black one, like mine, tied at the back of his head and cut around sharp cheekbones that made him look feral or crazy. All I could see were his eyes, deep and starlit black.

Uh-huh. I wanted to fidget. Handsome devil, to be sure. The crazies often are, in that offbeat, intriguing sort of way. It's a rule of the universe, or something. Sick equals sexy.

But suddenly I was conscious of my scarred cheek, my bruises, the fact that I was wearing his shirt and nothing else.

I dragged in a fistful of power and swept a pile of books off his desk. "That's close enough."

Paper drifted in dust, and settled. He didn't move. Just glanced at the mess I'd made, and then back at me. His black-and-white hair stuck up in odd directions, like a skunk who'd partied too hard. He reminded me of my little brother Chance, only Chance was cheerful and careless. This guy looked neither. "Threat taken," he said calmly. "You done?"

I studied him, wary. No reaction. No move to retaliate. Whatever his augment was, he was keeping it holstered for now. Was that stripe in his hair real? He didn't seem the type to make like a skunk. "For the moment," I said at last. "But you'll talk, or maybe I will start breaking stuff. Starting with you. Who are you?"

"You can call me Glimmer."

I recalled my assailants, clawing for their eyeballs though nothing was there. Glimmer. A hypnosis trick, maybe? "Is that what your friends call you?"

"I don't have any friends." He folded his arms, and muscles bulged in the sleeves of his T-shirt.

"Figures. You always wear your mask in the house, Glimmer?"

"I have a guest. It's only polite… oh, wait." He stuffed a hand into his back pocket and offered me a little black bundle. "This was in your jeans. I kept it for you."

My mask. I snatched it, careful not to touch him, and unrolled it, enjoying the warm softness in my fingers. It smelled of him: vanilla and danger.

Okay. So he knew I was augmented. I knew the same about him. Not a recipe for friendship.

Glimmer smiled, bittersweet. "Don't mention it."

"I didn't. How did you chase those idiots away?"

Strange watery shadows flickered over his face, from no light source that I could see. "I poured acid in their eyes," he said at last, and his black eyes gleamed with eerie starlight.

"No, you didn't," I accused. "I was there."

He scrunched his hair in one fist, and showed me a crooked smile. Bashful. Harmless. For an instant, I almost believed it. "Very astute. Of course I didn't. But they didn't know that. It's just a little illusion."

"A glimmer?"

"If you like."

"Okay." I fidgeted, relaxing only slightly. We had mindbenders at FortuneCorp. Adonis, for one, and our shifty cousin Ebenezer with the fear talent. If this Glimmer used his hypno-mojo on me, he'd be sorry. "Why did you help me?"

He shrugged. "I don't like haters."

"Not good enough." It came out harsher than I'd intended. I was grateful, after all, that he'd saved me from another round of Dr. Mengele's sadistic games. But it didn't mean I had to like this, or him. "You could've chased them off and left me."

"I was passing by. You needed help. And you were drugged, probably against your will. Somehow, I didn't think hospital was a good idea. I'm no medic, but…" He indicated my bandages. "You feeling okay? You've been out for two days."

Great. More lost time. I shrugged, brusque. "What've you done with my clothes?"

"There was blood. I washed 'em." He pointed to a pile on a chair, my jeans and T-shirt with boots on top. "You hungry?"

Inwardly I cursed, but too late. My stomach croaked audibly.

He laughed, warm whiskey. "C'mon, lady, chill out. If I was your enemy, you'd already be dead. Whoever you're running from, they haven't found you so far. Will a few more minutes kill you?"

I sighed, defeated. "Okay. Fine. Can I wash up? And can I, uh, use your phone?"

"You gonna call the cops?"

"No." Like I'd tell him if I was.

"Then knock yourself out." Glimmer tossed me a cell phone, swiveled back to his glowing screens, and ignored me.

I grabbed my clothes and headed out back to the bathroom. My wound dressings got in the way of having a shower, but I washed up as best I could with a towel. The water from the bath taps tasted coppery, but it was hot, and his soap smelled of vanilla and spice. My freshly washed jeans felt crisp against my skin. I didn't see a washing machine. Had he done them by hand?

I pulled my T-shirt over my head, uneasy. Maybe he truly didn't mean me any harm. Then again, I'd heard of serial killers who treated their victims like pets.

I tied my boots and smoothed my damp hair. The mask, I stuffed into my pocket. He'd already seen my face, and clearly knew I was augmented. Probably knew everything else about me, too. What did I have left to hide?

I studied the cell phone he'd given me. Full reception, even though we were underground. Maybe he had a repeater or something. I squirmed, suspicious. It was a risk. But I didn't know what else to do. No one at FortuneCorp had this number. If I didn't stay on the line for very long, they'd never find me. Right?

I held my breath, and dialed my brother's number, the only one of his four that I could remember. Despite everything that had happened, I couldn't believe Adonis would lie to me.

He picked up after three rings. "PR."

I swallowed, dry. "Hey. It's me."

"Jesus." A muffled sound, like he'd put his hand over the phone. "Where are you?" he whispered. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"The doctor from the asylum. Someone told her where I was. I…" Stupid tears blinded me. Fuck. I'd forgotten how much I'd missed his voice. How much he gave me strength. "Someone's after me, Ad. I don't know what to do."

"Okay. Verity, listen to me." Calm, collected, in charge, like always. "You can't come home. It's not safe for you here. Find somewhere to hole up, and I'll sort this out. Equity will listen to us once she's calmed down. I know she will. But I can't protect you unless I know who your enemies are."

Relief sweetened my blood, but at the same time, tiny poisoned claws pricked my heart, sour with suspicion. He would say that, wouldn't he? a harsh voice hissed in my ear. If he was in on it, that's exactly what he'd say. "She'll listen to you, Verity, just tell me everything…"

No. It wasn't true. If he was in on it, he'd say, "Come home, Verity, I'll take care of you, it's not safe for you out there. Come home."

Adonis loved me. He was on my side. I knew it in my heart.

But that didn't mean his phone wasn't tapped. I struggled to keep my voice low. "No. I have to do this on my own. I'll get to the bottom of this, I promise. I'll be in touch. I… I just wanted you to know I'm okay."

"But—"

"Talk soon, Ad." I ended the call, and broke the phone open with shaking fingers. Pulled out the SIM card, and crushed it beneath my boot. Now, no one at FortuneCorp could trace me. At least, I hoped not.

I wiped my leaking eyes. Enough with the self-pity. I had things to do.

Taking a steadying breath, I walked back into the room. The delicious smell of cooked tomato and oregano watered my mouth. Glimmer was messing about in his little kitchenette, his crazy hair sticking up like a mad scientist's. He looked like a cross between Dr. Jekyll and Pepé le Pew.

It was unsettlingly charming.

I held out the gutted phone. "I, uh, had to break your SIM. Sorry."

He shrugged. "It's okay. I go through dozens." He yanked a bowl from his microwave and shoved it across the cracked bench towards me. "Hungry?"

My stomach grumbled. Lasagna, my favorite, homemade, steaming hot and dripping with herbed tomato sauce and cheese. Beat the hell out of Pop-Tarts. "Um—"

"Eat," he insisted. "I've had a dozen chances to poison you already. You've got serious trust issues, you know that?"

I snorted. "Hey, pal, you're the one with the secret underground lair."

That crooked smile. "Yeah. Well. A little paranoia is an occupational hazard."

"Uh-huh. And what is your occupation, exactly?"

"I watch things. Record them. Do a little cleaning up. As you see." He extended his hand in an after-you gesture. His wrist was scarred on the inside, I noticed, old pale lines criss-crossed over the veins. I looked away, uncomfortable. He wouldn't be the first augment to loathe his own skin. Steel slicing soft flesh, warm blood spurting, the bitter taste of copper…

I took the bowl and spoon and headed back to his desk. He sat, bathed in his screens' pale light. I took a cautious bite of lasagna. Mmm. Delicious herbs and roasted tomato made my mouth weep, and I gave up and dug in.

"What's all this?" I mumbled, my mouth full. Touchscreens, data flows, a virtual display projecting fine white light in three dimensions. It reminded me of the set-up in Adonis's living room, only bigger, flashier, more sinister and a whole lot cooler.

"My eyes and ears." Glimmer's fingers darted over the keyboard, and real-time CCTV flashed up, fuzzy black-and-white video of bright-lit shelves of cigarettes and snack food, a security grille, logo-painted windows. "Will you look at this? That's the fourth time the Gallery have robbed that same convenience store in six months. Someone forgot to pay their protection."

Curiosity got the better of me, and I leaned over his chair. Twenty-four-hour news channels, local and national, video upload websites. Stock market watch lists. Sapphire City Chronicle website. Bank and tax records. Police department database, dispatch comms, vehicle movement maps. Custom search engines, automatically sorting and filing hits. An optical satellite tracking system, GPS, cell phone grid triangulations, all overlaid on a digital map of Sapphire City. His own files, reams of information, dates and names and events meticulously catalogued. And all of it about crime and criminals.

Here were images, filed and numbered, mug shots, security cameras, paparazzi snaps and surveillance shots. I swiped through them on the big touchscreen. Gallery hooligans, the unaugmented kind with shotguns and pistols, robbing banks and gas stations, holding hostages, fighting with riot police, whipping up violence at mass demonstrations against poverty or war. Torched housing projects, the charred shells of stores and warehouses. Corpses, shot, burned and mutilated, the victims of gang violence and other angry Gallery shenanigans.

But also the augmented, masked and costumed. I leaned closer, spooning in another tomato-drenched mouthful. Damn, he could cook. This image showed a skinny African-American woman, in a fish-tailed black Goth skirt criss-crossed with scarlet ribbons. Her arm was cocked back, long-nailed fingers bent like talons, midway through hurling a cloud of screeching insects at a fire engine. Her hair flew in a bright crimson tangle, and her eyes were painted with cruel black makeup like a mad Egyptian queen.

"That's Witch," Glimmer said absently, typing as he talked. "She's Gallery. Real name Patience Crook. Owns an occult shop, crystals, tarot cards, all that quasi-Wiccan stuff. Only she's the real deal."

I raised my eyebrows. Nice. We'd never been able to track her true identity down. I swallowed the last of my dinner—mmm, delicious, he'd make some woman a good wife one day—and left the bowl on the desk. "You got some good info here. How come I never heard of you?"

"Maybe I don't want to be famous."

"Give it a rest, Glimmer. You know what I am. We're in the same game. How come we never met?"

He shrugged, but his black gaze darted away. "I keep to myself."

"Right." I flicked to the next image. Another Gallery villain, a stocky guy with long greasy hair, slamming his fist through a shopping mall's glass ceiling and freezing it to glittering icicles. "Awesome," I remarked. "My good buddy Iceclaw. Charming son of a devil. Nearly lost three fingers to frostbite one time because of him…"

I bit my tongue, appalled. Jeez, did I just share? What was this, a crime-fighters' coffee club? For all I knew, this Glimmer character was Gallery too, and playing sly tricks with me.

But I didn't think so.

Call me naïve, but some fragile instinct warmed my blood about him, and it wasn't just that he was sorta cute and smelled great and cooked like a punk-ass Jamie Oliver. He was good-guy material, no question.

And I had to admit, it felt good to be back in the game.

"Likewise," Glimmer said, either oblivious or pretending not to notice my discomfort. "Iceclaw's real name is Declan Finney. He doesn't have a regular job. Just hangs around the docks, crushing knuckles and collecting tribute money from the Dockside Boys."

I wrinkled my nose, disgusted. "Charming. One of those guys who just likes wrecking stuff. He giggles when he freezes things, d'you know that? Like an evil little boy killing ants with a magnifying glass."

The next image popped up, and I had to bite my tongue again. My uncle Mike, masked in silver, his bracelets alight with charge. He crouched on the roof of a trolley car, blue lightning crackling from his fingers.

I stiffened, unwilling to speak. How much did Glimmer know about our family?

"Illuminatus," supplied Glimmer. "With an augment like that, he could be a terror. I'm still figuring out who's who in the zoo around here. Luckily, this guy seems to be on our side."

I snorted. Fishing for information? Good luck with that. I wasn't about to tell him, for instance, that Uncle Mike was basically a human lightning rod, and that if he ever took those bracelets off, there'd be charred ground and broken glass from here to Oakland. "Our side?"

"Yeah." Glimmer slanted warm dark eyes at me. "Y'know. Truth, justice, freedom from violence. That sort of thing?"

"Uh-huh." I folded my arms, defiant. "Let me give you some advice, young Jedi. Be careful who you trust. You don't know me from a kipper. For all you know, I'm the Gallery's latest trick. What makes you think I give a damn for truth and justice?"

That quirky smile again. "I've had plenty of chances to hurt you, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, we've covered that. Thanks so much, and all. What about it?"

"Well, so have you, lady, and you haven't come at me yet. That's good enough for me." He tilted his chair back. "Now can we move past the Mexican standoff and get down to business? You have enemies, so do I. Maybe we can help each other. But if you want to leave, go right ahead. I won't stop you." He spun back to his screens, dismissing me.

In the screens' eerie glow, his shadow loomed on the wall, distorted, a stick insect with crazy hair. I dragged a hand across my chin, frustrated. He was right. At least he hadn't tried to kill me, or throw me in an asylum, at least not yet. And—be realistic—what other choice did I have?

I had no friends left. I couldn't trust my own family. Adonis's phone was probably tapped. And my power was erratic, at best. I was damaged. Until I recovered from Mengele's screw-your-mind tricks, I wasn't operating at full capacity.

Razorfire, on the other hand, was unharmed, and wreaking havoc unmolested. Apparently, I couldn't defeat him even at the height of my powers, let alone half crippled like this. Add to that his fanatical Gallery chums, augmented and normal, who'd cheerfully hunt me down in a heartbeat on his say-so…

Maybe—just maybe—I couldn’t do this alone.

8

"Okay." My mouth dried up like I'd just said I love you. Jeez, if Skunkboy went all welcome-to-the-team on me, I'd die of embarrassment.

But Glimmer just flashed that crooked smile at me over his shoulder. The pale stripe in his hair glistened silver in the screenlight. "Relax, tough girl. Doesn't mean we're dating, or anything."

Bless his cute little butt. I snorted, grateful. "Not in this universe, pal."

"Famous last words." He pointed at the image of Uncle Mike on the trolley car, and it sprang onto the virtual display, zooming into high resolution on a streetlamp's orange halo. "See? That faint oval shimmer under the streetlamp? That's Phantasm. A light-bender. He's hard to pin down. I only got that shot because of the three-angle shadows."

I peered closer, thankful to get down to work without any more friendly-ass fuss. Heh. So it was: Cousin Jeremiah. Wait till I tell the OCD little brat he's been made. He'll count toothpicks for a week.

Still, I fidgeted, memories dancing an elusive waltz. Uncle Mike saw me outside Equity's office. He could have set Mengele on me, though I had no idea why he'd want to. Hell, for all I knew, Phantasm-slash-Jeremiah was skulking about in Equity's office the whole time.

Thing was, I hadn't been paying attention. I'd been too damned angry at Equity to care.

I swiped the picture away too roughly, and the display skipped a few. Another pic flashed up, shadow piled upon shadow, a tall dark figure facing a towering wall of liquid fire.

"Blackstrike," Glimmer said, unnecessarily. I'd know my father anywhere, his spare frame, his black coat swirling, his long fingers fashioning those writhing plumes of darkness.

My throat hurt. I wanted to reach out, slide my fingers over the glass. Touch him, give him one of our rare, awkward hugs. Tell him I was sorry he'd died trying to save me.

Too late for that, old girl.

Maybe that was it. Uncle Mike and Dad had been inseparable. Maybe Mike was inconsolable, and blamed me…

"That's my last image of him," Glimmer continued. "Five days after that, he vanished. They say he's dead. I'm not so sure, but he covers his tracks too well. I don't have a real name to trace him with."

Clank! My jaw dropped, along with the penny. "You really don't have a clue who I am, do you?"

His eyes narrowed, midnight slits. "I know you're not Blackstrike, if that's what you mean."

I laughed, dazed. Glimmer didn't know me. Had no idea, in fact. About me, or Dad, or FortuneCorp.

About any of it.

My mind splintered, glitter-sharp. All just coincidence. Maybe Glimmer really did just stumble over me in that alley. Maybe he really had built up all this intel by himself, from nothing. Fact was, I wasn't sensing a single ounce of guile in my glimmery new friend.

Either that, or Mr. Tall-skunk-and-handsome was a most excellent liar.

"Dude, you have so much to learn." I shook my head, incredulous, and flicked to the next image.

Glimmer spoke, but I didn't hear. I stared, frozen, my vision soaked in crimson death.

Razorfire always wore red.

My pulse pounded. Sick heat washed over me, and I covered my mouth.

Just a sneaky snapshot of him, rounding an office building's corner with his sleek head cocked to one side. Tall, angular, graceful like a shark. He had a fetish for this long close-fitting coat in the Mandarin style, high-collared and shiny red. His hawk-like mask was dark and glassy, some heat-reflective alloy, a rusty color like dried blood. He stared directly at the camera, like he didn't give a shit he was being watched, and though I couldn't see anything burning, his eyes gleamed orange, the triumphant reflection of fire.

Glimmer looked up. "What? You okay?"

I nodded frantically, fingers plastered over my lips. Blood thundered in my skull. I wanted to scream. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to smash the screen, clamber through the shards into that little glass world and squeeze the sick bastard's throat in my bleeding hands until he choked his last. "It's…" I spluttered, and forced my hands down. "Razorfire," I managed, strangled. "What have you got on him?"

"More than I want to." Glimmer reached for the screen, ready to access more, but glanced at my face and apparently thought better of it. Instead, he skidded his chair back. "But less than I need," he admitted. "He always slips my surveillance. It's like he knows he's being watched, and can disappear at will—"

"You got a name?" I interrupted. "A picture in the clear? Anything?"

A soft laugh. "You're kidding, right? Believe me, lady, that one's personal. If I knew who Razorfire was, I wouldn't be sitting here with my thumb up my—"

"What about the night Blackstrike died? Have you got CCTV?"

"Nope. I've got nothing. It's the damnedest thing. Everything from that night has been erased…" He narrowed black eyes at me again. "What do you know about that?"

"Blackstrike's dead," I repeated flatly. "Razorfire killed him. I was there. You can add that to your file."

Glimmer leaned forward, elbows on knees, clasping his strong hands together. "Lady," he said slowly, "I think it's time you told me who you are."

My stomach twisted tight, laundry in a wringer. Damn it if I didn't want to trust him. But could I?

Did I have a choice? I was safe here, at least so far. I'd no one else to confide in. Nowhere else to go.

No one else who gave a shit.

"Long story," I offered at last, trying to keep it light.

"I've got all night—" An electric alarm screeched, and he spun his chair around to face the screens. "Uh-oh. It's on."

I leaned over him. "What was that?"

"I've got alerts set on CCTV and satellite surveillance. My algorithm matches known villains with suspicious activity, police comms traffic, emergency calls, that sort of thing. Not always accurate, but it lets me sleep." He pointed, and virtual video burst forth in black and white. "Look. Hostage situation. Looks like… the Bay Bridge."

I peered closer, and my pulse quickened. A thin figure in a shiny black catsuit leapt about like a big insect on the five westbound lanes of the upper deck. Her long black hair flew in the breeze. She was tossing cars left and right with what looked like a lasso made of thick glassy rope.

"Fuck." My fists clenched. "I know that skinny Gallery bitch."

"Arachne." Glimmer typed swiftly, his dark gaze darting from screen to screen. "Last week she cleared an attempted murder rap for crashing a trolley car. Looks like she's getting her own back." He jumped up, scooped his long leather coat from the desk and tossed it to me. "You up for some action?"

Nonplussed, I caught it. The worn leather warmed my fingers. "Uh. Sure."

He unearthed a pistol—matte black, semiautomatic—from the junk on his desk, and swiftly checked the magazine. Smart lad. I approved. Like I said, life isn't a comic book, and all the augments in the world won't save you from a bullet in the neck. Only an idiot takes anything less than a gun to a gunfight. "Good," he said, clearing the chamber with a snap! "Put that on and let's go."

"But it's not cold," I protested, more out of contrariness than any distaste for wearing his coat. Au contraire. Clever, cute, reclusive, a disarming touch of paranoia. He could even cook. Hell, I could learn to like this Glimmer character, if his bleeding heart didn't get us both killed first.

I blushed, though he couldn't hear my thoughts. Or at least I hoped he couldn't. Jeez. Did I have a fever, or was that a soft spot coming on?

"It will be, on the bike." He caught my amused glance, and paused, the magazine halfway back in and a bruised expression on his face. "What?"

I laughed, and it felt good in my belly. "Because you couldn't just drive a car, or anything uncool like that. The dark and dangerous mystery man. Hell, I bet the girls really go for that."

Shadows flickered over his face, so brief I almost missed it. And then he finished with the pistol and clipped it to his belt, and wrinkled his cute upturned nose at me in a smile. "I'll let you be the judge. You ready?"

I shrugged his coat on, and cracked my neck, flexing the warm invisible muscle of my power. “Let’s go.”

9

Traffic clogged the on-ramp to the bridge's lower deck, horns honking in the warm night air. We passed a couple of black police LAVs, en route to the carnage but as caught in traffic as everyone else. Luckily for us, we wanted the upper level. The one where we were heading in the opposite direction to everyone else.

When you're doing this? There's no point in driving like you give a shit.

Glimmer gunned the motor, and scooted over the median strip and up the wrong side of the interstate. Drivers swerved, cursed, flipped us the bird. Moonlight rippled through wispy fog as he weaved the bike in and out, headlights flashing at us. Heh. It was fun. The swaying was exhilarating and calming at the same time.

I held on, Glimmer's back warm against my cheek. He felt strange but familiar, like a friend long lost, a blurred memory of someone I once knew. Maybe he just reminded me of Chance, with his crazy hair and wild-thing smile, but there was a fair slice of Adonis in him, too, the determination that hardened his stubbled jaw, the tension in his lean muscles. A serious young thing. Weight of the world, and all that. What had happened to him, I wondered, to make him so intense?

We crossed above the waterfront and out over the wide dark expanse of the Bay. Salty seaside breeze dragged my hair back from my masked face, fingered beneath my clothes. I huddled tighter in his coat. I didn't know much about bikes, but this one was gleaming chrome and ruby-red, well cared for, but not polished within an inch of its life like he had nothing better to do. We'd emerged from his underground ramp onto some dark backstreet, a couple of blocks from the docks, warehouses and freight company offices and yards crammed with shipping containers stacked four high. The engine's sweet note rattled in my ears, and red taillights flashed in the mirrors as we canted to the side to get around a truck.

Ahead, I could hear screams, amid the crunch and crash of abused metal and glass. Now the lines of traffic were crooked, cars bunched together like they'd stopped in a hurry. A few had collided, their fenders dented and headlights smashed, and glass fragments littered the road amid swearing drivers.

Wreckage littered the bridge across all five lanes. One car lay upturned with wheels spinning, another had slammed into the suspension cables and nearly sliced in two. A minivan lay on its side, and its dazed occupants clambered out through jagged glass to crawl away.

And in the middle of it all, Arachne leapt and wailed like a triumphant banshee. She wore shiny black leggings and heavy boots, beneath a tight black scoop-necked top that covered her skinny arms to the wrist. Her waist-length black hair flapped. She flung out her arm, snapping her rigid palm outwards, and her augment uncoiled itself: a glassy rope, like the silken line a spider makes, only thicker and much, much stronger.

It speared from the center of her palm, ten, twenty, thirty feet, and split, into three grippy glass claws that slapped across a shiny black car's roof and lodged there, sharp points stabbing through the steel.

People screamed, and scattered. Arachne just laughed, a horrid shrieking sound like a thousand cicadas in agony, and pulled.

The rope retracted, back to where it had come from, almost too fast for me to watch. Her claws unhooked, and the car sailed through the air and hit the suspension cables. Crash! The thick steel bars thrummed, a deep-throated harp. The car's windows shattered, the screeching buckle of steel. Arachne's glassy hookvine broke, and fell to the road, where it splintered into a thousand tiny fragments. She hopped like a dervish in delight, and flung out another, heaving a second car high into the air and dashing it to mangled scraps on the road.

My heart clogged my throat. That one was empty. The next might not be.

Glimmer skidded the bike to a halt, and we jumped off. Already, the bridge began to shake. My pulse raced. Too much more of this, and there'd be serious damage as the wires stretched and bent. Not to mention injuries, broken cars, the traffic snarl from hell…

Glimmer cocked his pistol and wiped sweat back into his hair with his forearm. His midnight eyes glittered inside his mask, no longer warm but sharp black icicles, deadly. "Can you lift a car?"

"Sure." I cracked my neck, left and right. Hell, I hoped so. My power hadn't exactly been cooperative over the last forty-eight hours. Still, a car shouldn't be a problem. Putting it down quietly might be another matter, but Glimmer didn't need to know that.

"Then stop her breaking anything else." And he ducked for cover and ran. Leaving me no time to argue or say no.

Gallant little skunk, wasn't he? I swore, and got on with it.

Arachne saw us, and hooted laughter. "Pretty things in masks," she gloated. Augmented fire ignited in her eyes. Her scarlet-painted lips curled, a sharp bloody smile soaked in hatred. "Come get it."

Glimmer leveled his pistol at her, two-handed. "First, last and only chance, lady. Give yourself up."

"Go fuck yourself." She rolled her skinny wrists, and flashed out twin glassy vines. They crawled across the ground like psycho snakes, searching for prey.

Glimmer didn't say anything. He just fired. I like a man who keeps his promises.

Quick as a jumping spider, Arachne leapt, impossibly high. The bullet sang harmlessly between the steel cables. Her vines split, their evil claws glistening like wet glass, and crunched onto the roof of an orange-striped white bus. People still clambered about inside, the ones who hadn't worked up the guts to run. Now, escape was impossible. They screamed, slapping their palms on the windows, wild and ripe with terror.

Arachne landed in a whippy-legged crouch, hair streaming aloft. She let loose a triumphant wail that shivered my bones, and pulled.

I sprinted, heart thumping, and flung out a wall of power on one outstretched fist. Hot wind seared my face. The bus slammed into my invisible wall and stuck there, shuddering on its side in mid-air, her hooked vines still attached to the roof.

Inside, the people tumbled and squeaked like trapped rats. A window broke, and a girl fell out, dropping twenty feet to the road. She lay there moaning, and Glimmer ran for her and dragged her from the bus's looming shadow.

Arachne cursed, spitting little drops of poison that caught the air like a cloud of angry gnats, and dived for me. The backs of my hands blistered. I braced myself, legs apart, and held on. Arachne yanked her vines harder, gritting her teeth. Still I held on. The bus shuddered and groaned, metal twisting under the opposing forces. Sweat poured down my temples, soaking my mask. My head ached, bright and stinging like sunburn. I couldn't see. The stink of hot metal choked my nose, and I could feel my back stretching under the stress, muscles popping fibers and bones twisting.

But damn, it felt good to let my power loose.

I flexed my fist, and the bus's steel shell twisted, just a few inches. The metal creaked in protest. My blood burned, urging me to more, harder, darker. A bad person would crush Arachne with this bus. Hurl it on top of her and grind her to bloody pulp, and damn the consequences…

Glimmer ran forward. Now he was between Arachne and the bus. Damn it. I gritted my teeth, and held on.

Arachne spat poison at him, and whipped her wrists downwards. Her vines snapped off, only a few inches from her palm. The long ends dangled from the bus, slapping lifelessly onto the ground. Quick as a striking snake, she speared them out anew, five wicked barbs on each, like twisting hands clawing for Glimmer's face.

I wasn't sure whether what happened next was real.

Glimmer ducked, so swift he blurred. The snaking spikes shot past him, writhing, searching blindly for prey. She howled and tried to whirl, to re-attack from a different angle. But Glimmer kept running at her. He grabbed her hair and yanked, forcing her to look at him, and snapped his fingers an inch from her eyes. "Watch me," he commanded.

Her flame-bright eyes shuttered black.

She froze, her body motionless except for her flapping hair. The fierce glassy vines halted, rigid, snapped frozen in mid-air.

I stared, warm and chilled at the same time. That was some hypno-mojo.

"Lose the spikes." Glimmer's voice was calm, cold, resonating, even above my bus passengers' screams. He didn't drop his dark gaze. Didn't blink. Didn't let her go.

Arachne obeyed, staring blankly into his eyes. The glassy spikes sucked back into her palms, a slicing sound like sword blades. No blood. No ripped flesh. Just something she was born with. Did it hurt, I wondered, when she let them out?

"Cross your arms," Glimmer ordered softly. "Palms on your chest. Then don't move."

She did as he told her. Like a black leather mummy, those dangerous palms pressed flat to her own shoulders. If she spiked now, she'd run herself through. Clever.

I licked dry lips, sympathy itching. I was a freak, sure. But my freakdom was invisible compared to hers. If I had glassy spikes growing inside my hands, what would my life have been like? Would it be so easy for me to choose good over evil?

I flexed my aching fist, and slowly lowered the bus to the ground.

Crunch! The dust settled, and people started climbing out. One guy was already filming us on his smartphone. A few windows were broken, but all in all, I'd done well. Probably a good thing I hadn't squashed Arachne. But like always, it niggled me like a phantom itch that being a good guy meant leaving the sick mofos alive.

I popped my stiff spine, twisting left and right. Ahh. Inside my head, my power coiled and relaxed, and a pleasant afterglow ache flooded my muscles from head to toe. I stretched, lazy and content despite my raging headache. My thighs tingled. Someone pass me a cigarette. Was it wrong that my augment felt better than sex?

Was it like this for other augmented? I'd never asked. It wasn't the kind of thing I liked discussing, especially not with Dad or Adonis, and I sure as hell wasn't about to ask Glimmer. Maybe I was just doing the sex thing wrong.

Whatever. I didn't have time to ponder my choice of pleasures now. At last, the distant howl of frustrated police sirens from the east inched closer. We didn't have much time. Even with FortuneCorp's full powers at my back—we helped the police, they helped us, it had been that way ever since the PD realized all those years ago that Blackstrike and Illuminatus were in Sapphire City to stay—I'd only ever had an uneasy relationship with cops. Now I was a loner. A vigilante. An outlaw. Cops were bad news.

Seemed Glimmer knew it too. He jerked his chin at me, never taking his eyes from Arachne's. "Duct tape, please. On the back of the bike."

I scrambled over broken iron and glass to the bike. Sure enough, in the little saddlebag was a fat black roll of tape. I tossed it to him. He caught it, and ripped the end free with his teeth. I stepped up to help, and in half a minute, Arachne looked even more like a mummy, wrapped from collarbone to solar plexus in tape, her hands bound immovably to her chest. Another couple of twists bound her ankles tight.

Still she stared straight ahead, into Glimmer's masked eyes. Her red lips had dried. She didn't lick them. Didn't move. Didn't even blink.

"Nice," I commented, tossing the empty roll away. "Remind me never to let you tie me up." Or hypnotize me, I added silently. Like I'd be able to do anything about it if he did, judging from the way Arachne stared like a dead thing into his eyes.

Glimmer plastered the last scrap of tape over her lips. Gently, sufficient to silence her but not hard enough to tear the skin. "Should stop her spitting. Any poison get you?"

"A little. Nothing I can't scratch off."

"You did good with the bus."

"Thanks." Behind us, motorbike engines rattled to a halt, and tires screeched. "Time to go," I said.

"Yeah." He passed his hand in front of her face. "Arachne?"

"Mmph." Her voice clogged through the tape.

He clicked his fingers. "Wake up."

Her eyes snapped golden. Scarlet shame bled in, stained black with poisoned fury. Glimmer grinned, and we ran.

Two motorcycle cops ran for us, guns drawn. They still wore their helmets, visors down. "Freeze!" one yelled, muffled.

Yeah, okay. Let me wait here while you arrest me. Idiot.

Arachne struggled and cursed, vile and skin-crawling even through the tape on her lips. Glimmer jumped on his bike and kicked the engine. I vaulted on behind him, and he gunned it, the back end sliding out.

The cops shot and missed. Bullets zinged. I held on tight, ducking my head against his back. Glimmer rode for the piled-up cars, and instinctively I squeezed my eyes shut. The engine revved, brutal. Suddenly we were airborne, weightless for a few glorious, ear-splitting seconds. And then we hit the road, and bounced, my bones jarring.

The engine grunted in protest. I whooped, exhilarated. He skidded the bike into a turn, scattering broken metal fragments, and we howled away.

10

By the time we reached Glimmer's hideout, dawn's gleaming fingers crept along the horizon. No streetlamps lit the back alley where he eased the bike down the ramp. Somewhere in the dark, the iron grille clattered aside, and we rolled in. Once the grille slammed shut, orange security lights popped on, revealing a deserted underground parking lot, and he stopped the bike in its alcove and shut off the engine.

I climbed off, stiff and weary, my nerves still jangling. I hadn't forgotten how easily he swept Arachne under his power. Sure, I was dangerous, too, but at least everyone could see what I was doing. Glimmer's augment was insidious, invisible, unknowable.

My stomach turned over, watery. Mindbenders gave me the creeps. What had I let myself in for?

An electric combo-locked steel door like a safe led to his lair. Inside, his screens still flickered, information and images flowing, collating, like the thing had a brain of its own. Cool, but spooky, too. Glimmer tossed his gun onto the desk-shaped mess and headed for the fridge. "Want a beer?"

"Huh?"

He paused, the door half open. "Beer. You know. A drink?"

"Uh. Sure." I dragged off my sweaty mask, uneasy. I was thirsty. That wasn't the problem. I'd already taken too much from him. Taking meant debt, and I wasn't sure owing a dark and mysterious mindfucker who wouldn't take off his mask was a particularly stellar idea.

He tossed me a bottle, and I caught it. At the sight of the amber fluid, my mouth stung. I sure could use one. Screw it. I wrenched off the top and chugged. Mmm. Cold, bitter, bubbly. All that a beer should be.

Except free.

He cleared a space on his dusty sofa, pushing aside a pile of green circuit boards and memory chips. "Have a seat. Make yourself at home. Mi casa, and all that."

I sat, fidgeting. Did he think I was going to stay here, in his place? Fact was, I hadn't thought about what I'd do next. Could I sleep here, with him around?

Did I have anywhere else to go?

I took another bitter swig. Damn him. Damn them all. Razorfire, Equity, Mengele, Arachne, those cops on the bridge, whoever it was at FortuneCorp who'd dumped me in this mess. Once, I had a life. Now, I had nothing.

Except my revenge, and this flashing time bomb of an ally.

Watch me, he'd said. And Arachne stared into his eyes, and her will dissolved.

Glimmer slouched in his desk chair, stretching his long legs, and leaned over to clink bottles with me. "Cheers. Here's to another Gallery shitball in custody." He swallowed half his beer in a long chug, cold drips running down his strong forearm. He had a long, lean throat, olive skin dappled with soft dark stubble…

Uh-huh. Staring. Not cool.

I coughed, and dropped my gaze. He still hadn't taken off his mask. Didn't seem inclined to, at least not in front of me. Heh. Maybe I should creep up on him while he slept and take a peek, like lovesick Psyche, who couldn't resist shining a lamp on her mystery boy toy.

Yeah. Because that ended well. Boy toy turned out to be Cupid, and Psyche lost him forever. Secret identities, see. They never work out for the best.

"Ah. That goes down fine." Glimmer wiped his mouth with the hand holding the beer. "You up for breakfast? I do a mean omelet—"

"Could I stop you?"

He paused, beer halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"If you pulled your look-into-my-eyes trick on me." I took a hot breath. "Would I even know about it?"

He studied me, silent, his midnight eyes warm and inscrutable. "Probably not," he admitted at last.

"Could I stop you?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I never know until I try."

"That's not an answer." My mouth crisped. I swallowed more beer. It didn't help.

"It's the only answer I can give you. You're a force-bender. That power comes from your mind. You might have some resistance—"

"Don't bullshit me!" I slammed my bottle down and jumped up, pacing.

"You want me to do it to you? So you know how it feels?"

"Why the fuck would I want that?"

"Hell, I don't know." For the first time, tension stretched his whiskey voice to a harsh edge. "I'm trying here. I've been by myself a long time. I don't know what else to give you."

"But—"

"Think!" He spun his chair and pointed at the desk, where his pistol lay. "You could shoot me right now. Hell, I imagine you could cave the roof in and crush me to pulp any time you wanted. So why don't you?"

Because I'm not a bad person. I cleared my throat. "I hardly think that's—"

"There's nothing in it for you, that's why." He ruffled his hair, weary or frustrated. "I told you. We can help each other. I couldn't have trapped Arachne without you. If you weren't there, I'd probably be dead right now, so tell me why the hell I'd want to hypnotize you!"

To make me stay. My mouth opened, the words alive on my tongue.

I swallowed them.

I've been by myself a long time. His words echoed, bitter. I'd seen the look on his face when he spoke them. I'd worn it myself, through long hours abandoned in Mengele-inflicted agony, and as I looked at him, my heart swelled hot and uncomfortable.

I knew how it felt, to be so utterly alone it hurt. He needed a friend. And—God help me—so did I.

I stalked up to the console, and poked the touchscreen until it exploded with virtual 3D images. I flicked through the pile, keeping some, discarding the ones I didn't want. Finally, I flipped the whole thing though ninety degrees so he could see, and pointed at the first one, a handsome blond guy in a designer suit. "Who's this?"

Glimmer didn't blink, or argue. "Narcissus. A mindbender, like me."

"My brother, Adonis Fortune. He's a PR consultant at my father's company."

His eyes slitted inside his mask. But he didn't laugh, or claim I was lying. Just went along with me.

I flipped to the next image: the trolley car, same as Glimmer showed me before.

"Illuminatus and Phantasm?"

"My uncle, Michael Fortune, and his son Jeremiah. You don't have one of Ebenezer, but they don't let Eb out much. Augments run in my family, okay? We're called Fortune Corporation."

"As in, the Fortune Corporation? Defense and security contracts? That big flashy skyscraper in the financial district?"

"Our cover story is security and weapons technology, yeah, but our mission is to fight the Gallery and keep the city safe." I flicked up the picture of my father, wreathed in shadow and flame, and another one, showing a dark-haired woman in dusty leathers, a black mask covering her eyes, dragging boulders from a pile of rubble.

"Blackstrike," I confirmed. "Thomas Fortune, my father. Late chairman of FortuneCorp. And me. Verity Fortune, also called the Seeker. Last October, Razorfire murdered Blackstrike, and imprisoned me in a lunatic asylum, where his minions tortured me until I escaped three days ago."

Glimmer rubbed his chin. "Uh-huh," he said blankly, like it was all he could come up with to say.

"I don't remember exactly what happened, but I know those assholes who were chasing me when you found me were Razorfire's people. Someone in my family set them back on me, when I thought I was safe." I swallowed on bitter grit, and flicked to the next image, a woman wearing reflective silver armor, a slender knight brandishing a fistful of light. "This is—"

"Nemesis," Glimmer cut in swiftly, as if suddenly I wasn't talking fast enough for him. "Some kind of photonic power… This is extraordinary!" His dark eyes danced. "These are the links I've been searching for. God, I'm so slow. To think this was all there, right before my eyes the whole time…"

"Nemesis is Equity Fortune, assistant district attorney," I interrupted. "My sister. She took over FortuneCorp when Dad died."

"The Equity Fortune who's running for mayor?"

"The very same." My throat stung, and I sucked in a steadying breath. "I think… maybe she's the one who betrayed me. I wanted to avenge Dad's death, but she didn't want me stirring up trouble during her campaign. She's initiated a policy of non-violence against Gallery villains."

Glimmer nodded. "Okay. That explains a lot. Gallery activity has been escalating. But doesn't that mean that…?" He looked askance, haunted. He didn't want to say it.

Hell, I didn't want to say it either. "Somehow, Razorfire's gotten to her." My tongue stung sour. I wanted to spit, wash my mouth out, make those words untrue again.

But I didn't know how. I didn't know what else to think. Damn her. It had to be her. No one else had a motive that I knew about… or did they? I recalled Uncle Mike, smiling at me in the fifty-sixth floor lobby. He'd always liked me, or so I thought…

"I'm sorry," said Glimmer softly, and damn it if he didn't look like he meant it.

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry, too." Stupid tears swelled my eyelids. God, I wanted to let them fall. Wanted to let Glimmer be sorry for me, comfort me, stroke my hair and tell me everything would be okay.

Fuck.

I coughed, and blinked fiercely, dragging my mind back to problems I could solve. "It doesn't matter, okay? You said you had a problem with Razorfire? Well, so do I. We can help each other."

Glimmer scrunched his hair, considering. "And that would involve…?"

"Your information, my experience. Let's put them together. Work as a team. If Equity is Razorfire's latest trick, we can't let her take charge. FortuneCorp won't fight the Gallery? Fine. You and I can do it alone. We'll hunt the evil bastard down like the shitworm he is!"

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