Superluminary (Powered Destinies Book 1)

by Olivia Rising

Mr. Turner separated himself from the group to extend his hand to Chris. “Perfect timing, Christina. Your new costume is nearly finished.”

  She reluctantly shook the outstretched hand. “Mind if I take a closer look?” she asked, pointing at the mannequin. She wasn’t in the mood to make small talk with the man who was assigned as her supervisor.

  “Go ahead.”

  As Chris stepped over to the costume, the cluster of workers scattered away. As she ran her fingers over the material, she felt solid Kevlar plates beneath the fuzzy fur covering her chest and back. When she tested the weight, she was glad the plating wasn’t as heavy as she expected, maybe a pound or two at most.

  To her relief, the designers had ended the body suit just above the ankles, allowing her to wear the shoes of her choice. This way, running wouldn’t pose a problem.

  “Sweet, thanks. It looks great,” she told the workers without looking at them. She pulled the helmet off the mannequin head and tried it on, turning to see her reflection in a nearby mirror.

  Hello, Mascot.

  Compared to her old costume, her peripheral vision was much better now. Actually, she could see almost as well as if she wasn’t wearing a headpiece at all. The tinted lenses of the overly large eyeholes would provide some protection from blinding effects, and the plating in her helmet might stop a small-caliber bullet if she was lucky.

  With her head still covered, she turned until she saw Mr. Turner’s skinny figure through the tinted lenses. “Do I have to wear this all the time?” she asked.

  “Outside of headquarters, yes,” he said. “It’s our policy that the rest of the population identify Wardens at all times.”

  No surprise there. She was sure Mr. Turner had a policy for everything, even when and where she could go to the bathroom. She assumed that she would get used to it eventually.

  “Fine.” She lifted the helmet off her head. “Where do I get suited up? I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  ***

  When the five costumed Wardens arrived at the airport, a throng of people awaited them. There had to be hundreds spread across every possible age group, jostling each other in front of San Francisco International’s main terminal to catch a glimpse of the national hero team. A murmur went through the crowd as the Wardens got out of the car, followed by the Secretary of Evolved Affairs. Dozens of smartphones appeared, held at arm’s length up in the air to take photos and videos.

  Mascot experienced a feeling of déjà vu as she spotted the ANBE news vehicle. She wasn’t a homeless rogue, waking up on a park bench this time, but the sight of those guys still bugged her. She resisted the urge to give the news van the finger, but she knew Mr. Turner wouldn’t appreciate such an active effort to sabotage his PR stunt.

  Additional news teams had film equipment hoisted on their shoulders as they gathered near the terminal’s main entrance. Waiting to bombard the Wardens with questions, no doubt.

  Mr. Turner should care less about our costumes and more about the killer, she thought, cringing at the sight of the crowd. Now that the Wardens were all over the news, the killer only had to watch one of the popular channels to become aware of their mission.

  The Counselor was easily spotted thanks to his costume. He wore a checkered black-and-white suit accompanied by a matching briefcase and a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker hat. As an experienced investigator the hubbub should have annoyed him, but his face revealed only cool professionalism.

  “Why couldn’t we us the military airport instead?” Mascot heaved her travel bag out of the car trunk with a strong tug.

  “Can’t you just pretend to be friendly while the news crews are around?” Overdrive muttered before relieving her heavy bag with a gallant smile for the cameras.

  Noire glared at Mascot from behind the eyeholes of her horned silver-and-purple mask. “Aw, too heavy?” she cooed. The ribbons attached to her waist and arms streamed in the wind, drawing the attention of journalists and bystanders alike.

  Mascot yanked her bag back and gave Overdrive a warning look. She wasn’t keen on playing the helpless damsel for any reason. Her focus was on dealing with the psycho and keeping an eye on the kid.

  Overdrive shrugged before stepping to the front of the group to offer a wave in the direction of the camera teams. Some of the TV people waved back.

  Looks like someone’s found their element, Mascot observed. She was glad he gave her some breathing space by drawing most of the attention. The crowd looked oppressive even from a distance.

  “Don’t worry,” Kid assured her, taking her hand. “I’ll talk to them so you don’t have to.”

  Mr. Turner, dressed in a bright white suit, must have overheard. “You’re under no obligation to speak to the press,” he told the Wardens. “In fact, we prefer you don’t. The Counselor and I will handle any questions.”

  “Fine by me,” Noire muttered.

  Chris recalled that Noire had always been harshly portrayed by the press because she accidentally hurt several people during her transition. A few media outlets had even called for a renewed execution order on her. Mascot chalked it up to fear mongering, and for an instant she felt a twinge of sympathy for the Darkshaper. The girl was an imposing figure with her arms crossed across her armored chest and ribbons flailing out behind her. Definitely more intimidating than a wide-eyed raccoon bear, Mascot decided, bemused.

  “You guys are both so antisocial, you could be BFFs,” Overdrive jested. Both young women responded in unison by raising a middle finger. Mascot felt her lips curl into a smile. Noire’s masked face broke into a grin at the same time, almost a bonding moment.

  I hope someone caught that on camera.

  Mr. Turner and the Counselor spearheaded the group as they migrated over to the terminal building, and the crowd parted to allow them through. The camera teams stirred into action, prepping their equipment and readying fake smiles.

  “Good morning, Wardens,” one of the TV reporters called. Several others chimed in with similar polite openers before the barrage of questions began.

  “What do you think your roll in this investigation will be, Kid? Do you think you’ll be able to sense the killer?”

  “How are you getting along with your new teammate?”

  “Can you tell us where you’re flying today?”

  “Do you think the Wardens will take on more cold cases in the future?”

  Mascot didn’t pay attention to any of it because her attention was drawn to Saint, whom she spotted through the glass of the terminal’s main door. The bald-headed, brown-skinned man walked toward the terminal entrance, his white linen toga fluttering with each stride.

  He must have come in a back door, Mascot assumed, momentarily overtaken by an inexplicable sensation which put all thoughts out of her mind. Within milliseconds, every cell in her body was alight as some sort of overwhelming connection flared between them. It was something strangely familiar, magnetic. The draw toward Saint was so strong that she would have picked him out from the crowd even if he had shown up in his civilian clothing. Considering that they never met before, the experience was both strange and fascinating.

  Without a second thought, she separated herself from the others. Stepping past the TV crews and ignoring the questions they tossed her way, she made a beeline through the main entrance to the only other remaining Guardian on earth. Mr. Turner called her name somewhere behind her, but Mascot never slowed her pace. She knew she was going off-script and she didn’t care. The pull of the other Guardian’s presence was irresistible.

  As the electronic sliding doors closed behind her, and the din of the crowd disappeared, the next thing she knew, she was looking into Saint’s dark eyes. His face glowed with anticipation, his bushy eyebrows perking up. He must have felt the connection, too.

  “You must be Mascot. So, we finally meet,” he said, his voice in a heavy Portuguese accent.

  When he extended his right hand, she caught a glimpse of the cross-shaped brand burned into his palm. According to rumors
, he had done this to himself. She couldn’t imagine how painful that must have been. No, she didn’t envy this guy at all.

  “Hi, Saint,” Mascot murmured from inside her helmet.

  When the hands of the two Guardians connected, the familiar sensation coursing between them manifested as a palpable jolt of energy. It took her breath away, and she was overcome with an intense sense of … what, exactly? It was like déjà vu—only much stronger. When it passed, she was frustrated and confused like she should have remembered something important, but she couldn’t.

  “Yes, we are the same,” Saint confirmed as he withdrew his grasp.

  Mascot looked at her hand. The sensation of their connection lingered, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if Saint had somehow burned his cross right onto her own palm.

  “You are protected by me now,” he said. “Now I must go to the others.”

  She knew what he meant: he had extended his protective powers to her. Nobody could harm her now. Anyone who attacked her would cause harm and pain to Saint instead. The poor guy was resistant to the damage, but not the pain.

  A faint click and a flash of light announced that the media had caught up to them. Mascot ignored the reporters and their questions as the others filed in. In the lead was Mr. Turner, his eyebrows scrunched up in disapproval. Behind him, however, the Counselor wore a grin beneath his investigator’s cap.

  Mascot gave him a small smile in return. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to work as part of the Wardens team, after all.

  ***

  The flight to Ellendale, North Dakota, took about three hours. The Wardens were met on the tarmac by a heavyset sheriff named Schmidt, who had been involved in the initial investigation of the Sioux man’s disappearance. Because no one had informed any reporters of the Wardens’ destination, they weren’t exposed to any questions or cameras. The absence of the media made it easier to at least pretend that the goal of this mission really was the capture of a serial killer.

  They reached the hamlet of Cowley after a short drive past sparse landscapes and impoverished roadside communities. While almost all of the houses were ramshackle shacks constructed from basic materials, they passed many tent trailers as well.

  Chayton Wallace’s former house was a cabin in the woods on the outer edge of the small town, constructed from plywood, mismatched windows, and a tin roof. There was no doubt that the man had built it himself, as indicated by the leftover materials strewn behind the building.

  “He lived alone,” Sheriff Schmidt said as the small group of Wardens and police drove up the unpaved driveway.

  “Did he have some friends around here?” Kid piped up in a hopeful voice.

  “Wasn’t the social type,” the sheriff answered, gruff, as they made their way to the shack’s front door. “Most of his family still lives on the reservation. But the way I heard it, they didn’t get along.”

  “A loner, huh?” Mascot muttered. She knew all about that.

  “He sometimes sat outside here with his pipe.” The sheriff pointed at a straight-backed wooden chair on the sunken front porch. “A calf pipe, as they call it.”

  Chris pulled her bear helmet off, and tucked it beneath her arm to get a better view. Nothing hinted at a crime, let alone one that involved powers. The scent of grass and flowers in the air reminded her of some of her happier days, the ones she spent outside during summer vacation, worrying about nothing and no one.

  Back before Dylan. Back when Ryan was still her best friend, not her sister’s boyfriend.

  She watched as Kid bent down to pick some wildflowers. Don’t let them take these days away from her, she wished. Let her stay a kid just a little bit longer.

  Once the sheriff tore away the red police tape that sealed the door, he dug around in his pocket for the key to unlock the cabin. The door swung open with an eerie creak.

  “All right, Wardens.” The Counselor clapped his hands together once. “Let’s look for items with connections.” He looked at Kid, who had her nose buried in the small bouquet of flowers she had collected. “See if you can get a feel for the atmosphere, but let me know if anything makes you uncomfortable, and take a break if you need one.”

  Get a feel for the atmosphere? Chris didn’t know all that much about Kid’s powers yet, but apparently she was able to absorb the general ‘mood’ of her environment even without a specific target.

  “Okay,” Kid agreed. She pressed her bouquet into Sheriff Schmidt’s plump hand before hopping over the doorstep into the house.

  Chris couldn’t help but to grin at the big lawman’s perplexed expression.

  As the smell of tobacco wafted from the open door, the urge to light a smoke became overwhelming. But this wasn’t the time or place, especially with Kid around.

  “I’ll let you take it from here.” The sheriff handed the keys to the Counselor. “You know the protocols.”

  “Right. Things are in good hands,” the Counselor said.

  If you say so. Chris followed Kid’s lead and stepped into the cabin.

  “Call me if anything comes up,” the sheriff called over his shoulder as he descended the stairs to head for his patrol car. “I’ll send one of my guys to pick you up in a couple of hours.”

  It took Chris’s eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness. When they did she found herself in a small living room filled with furniture that would have been at home in any lower-class American’s apartment: a threadbare armchair, an ancient-looking TV, and a small table flanked by two cheap folding chairs.

  As soon as Overdrive stepped inside, every light bulb in the small cabin came alight. “That’s better,” he muttered with satisfaction.

  “Hey. Careful, buddy,” Noire cautioned him, walking through the doorway. “Try not to blow anything up.”

  “Try not to scare anyone to death with your creepy shadow,” he retorted before wandering into one of the three adjoining rooms. Two seconds later, the muffled sound of radio static was heard through the closed door.

  “Don’t mess with other people’s stuff!” the Counselor’s voice rang from outside.

  Noire sniggered.

  The radio fell silent. “Boring,” Overdrive commented, returning to the living room to peruse the bookshelves. After a few moments, he sighed. “I wish we could actually do something. I mean, it’s kind of pointless that we’re all here.”

  I can’t argue with that, Chris thought without commenting.

  “It’s probably about government funding,” she said instead. “The Wardens have been doing squat for, like, a year, right? The Department of Evolved Affairs is demonstrating how useful the States’ hero team is.”

  “Well, I just wish that they had picked something I could actually help with,” Overdrive grumbled.

  Chris didn’t disagree. Watching the Counselor and Kid examine every inch of the cabin made her feel useless. Kid wandered through the room and stopped in front of the big fieldstone fireplace, the cabin’s showpiece and its only source of heat during cold North Dakota nights. On the mantle was an oblong wooden tobacco box with an image of a calf carved onto the lid.

  “Even I can smell how much that guy cared about his pipe,” Chris joked, coming up beside Kid.

  “He was happy here,” the girl said with a half-lidded gaze. “He didn’t mind being alone.”

  “But he was superstitious,” Overdrive added, leafing through one of the books that he had taken from the shelf. “There’s stuff about spirits, and charms, and rituals.”

  “Are you allowed to touch that?” Chris asked.

  He shrugged.

  “Well, the police’s done here and they don’t act like they care what we do, so I guess it doesn’t matter,” she said in response to her own question.

  Overdrive bent down to take a closer look at the collection of books. “Hey, these books are all about native groups and traditions. How many tribes are there anyway?”

  “Not a clue,” Chris admitted. “A few hundred, something like that.”

  T
hey were interrupted by Noire’s voice, booming from the back room. “We’ve got our serial killer! Come look at this shit!”

  Chris dashed into the other room before Noire finished talking. She didn’t even realize that she had triggered her hyperspeed until she was standing right in front of the Darkshaper.

  “Dude!” Noire gasped. After reassembling her cool demeanor, she added, “Don’t be such an ass.”

  At that point the others had joined them in the room, which appeared to be some sort of workshop based on the wood shavings littering the floor. A drying rack stood against the back wall, and a half dozen rabbit skins dangled from it. More furs were tacked on the walls or stacked on the table alongside woodworking tools, a needle box, and rolls of coarse thread.

  “This is your evidence?” Chris asked, bemused.

  “Yeah. That’s a lotta dead rabbits.” Noire grinned.

  “Funny,” Overdrive replied. He put his hand on Kid’s shoulder and patted it in an attempt to soothe her.

  “It’s okay,” the girl assured him. “They didn’t suffer. They all just kinda fell asleep.”

  Chris stepped back into the living room just as the Counselor walked in through the front door, finished with his search around the building. He was in the midst of doing his thing; headphones and a small MP3 player dangled over the front of his checkered suit jacket.

  Let’s hope the power boosting works, she thought. We’ll need all the help we can get.

  Their team leader moved through the room, his eyes half closed and his hands hovering over various items. His fingers flexed as he moved between items of interest as if he was plucking invisible strings and following them to the next target. He came to a pause in front of an assortment of tools and knives that hung from a wooden bar near the front door.

  “Something is missing from here,” he murmured, considering the array in front of him. “A knife. It should be here, but it’s not. And it’s important.”

  “The murder weapon?” Noire asked.

  Overdrive prodded her with a finger. “There was no blood, dumbass.”

  Chris studied the distant look on the Counselor’s face. She didn’t know the details of how his Visionary power worked because he hadn’t explained them to her yet. She wondered whether he sensed the connections between items with his mind’s eye, or if he experienced actual visions about the last time Chayton had been at home. Since he was considered a miracle man, who solved the FBI’s most difficult murder cases in minutes, she suspected there was more to his power than luminescent strings hanging in the air.