Toxicity (Out of the Box Book 13)

by Robert J. Crane

  “I dunno, I think he broke his hand beating on his own chest or something,” I said with a shrug. “Maybe he hit the pool deck, I didn’t really see.”

  “You …” Mr. 5% gave me a wretched look, accusing and tearful all at once.

  “I … what?” I asked, daring him to say that he’d broken his hand while trying to punch a woman in the jaw. And failing at it. I had a feeling his pride was about to kick in and forbid it.

  I watched the emotions dance across his face. “I … hit my own chest,” he said finally, holding back the tears.

  “You didn’t know your own strength,” I said sympathetically, “or how diesel you’ve become with all those lifts. The sad thing is … if you had a little more body fat for cushioning, this might never have happened.” Or if he’d possessed 95% less prickishness, I didn’t say. Thought it real hard, though, enough that he probably got it.

  On second thought … nah. He was nowhere near self-aware enough to pick that up.

  I watched the attendant help him up as I wandered off toward the shore, my robe rubbing against me. I had a one-piece bathing suit beneath, but it didn’t exactly cover me modestly. Sometime between when I’d walked out and when I’d taken the punch, I’d decided to drink down by the shore today.

  Because why the hell not? It wasn’t like I had anything better to do.

  I strolled down to the ocean’s edge, reflecting on the chaos I’d just caused. I always did this, everywhere I went. Challenged people, pissed people off, and it somehow inevitably trended right toward violence. Maybe because it was the easiest course for me—

  Maybe you’re just a violent person, Gerry Harmon said in my head.

  “I’m not ruling that possibility out,” I said, clutching my robe around me as I strolled down the wet sands, toward the isolated end of the beach, far from my fellow vacationers. I dawdled, taking my time, feeling the sand against the pads of my feet.

  “I hope there are lots of possibilities you’re not ruling out,” came a voice from behind me. I hadn’t even heard the footsteps on the sand until he was nearly upon me, and when I spun I had a moment of panic because the person I found waiting, just twenty paces away, was Scott Byerly.

  The man whom the US Government had set to the task of hunting me down.

  7.

  Scott

  “Nice setting—” Scott barely got out before she came at him, white terrycloth robe flaring in the wind made by her motion. She had him by the lapels a second later, and he reached out instinctively and drew on the ocean standing not ten feet away, dropping it on both of them as though the entirety of a sea had emptied down from above—

  Sienna’s eyes flared as the cold water drenched her. She did not let go, however, jerking Scott forward, her movement slowed by the water surrounding them. Her eyes blazed, fire burning out of them, her blond wig removed by the sudden downward pressure of the water that had encased them. She was panicked, he realized, but also furious, and he quickly made a motion—

  And the water retreated back to the shore as quickly as it had come. Scott lifted his hands and broke her grip in the way he’d learned from Parks long ago, taking a few defensive steps back as he dried himself with his powers, leaving her dripping, her robe partially open to reveal a one-piece bathing suit beneath. She didn’t look quite like how he remembered her, but he didn’t think she looked bad. A little wet and a lot irritated, and he did what he could to fix the former while hoping it would take care of the latter.

  “I didn’t come here looking for a fight,” he said as the water streamed out of her robe and hair to his hands where he made a show of discarding it into the sand.

  “You’re wearing a suit and dress shoes on the beach,” Sienna said, that irritation bleeding out as she stood there, looking less and less like a wet cat and more and more like a woman scorned. Which was odd, Scott thought, because he was the scorned one, really. “You can’t tell me you’re here to party.”

  “I’m filming an episode of The Bachelor,” Scott quipped. “I’m sorry, but you’re not getting a rose.”

  “Oh noes,” Sienna said, narrowly slitted eyes watching him for signs of deception. “Whatever will I do?”

  “Get over it, apparently,” Scott said, trying to temper his own annoyance. “I came here because … I need your help.”

  That did not cause her to get less annoyed. “Bullshit,” she said.

  “No, really,” Scott said, and he coughed. It wasn’t a show; he was still gacking up that purple junk, though at least now he wasn’t bleeding from the lungs anymore. “I had a clash with a couple of metas this morning who are on a downward spiral power trip—”

  “That’s my expression.” And it was; he’d stolen it from her, though he couldn’t recall when.

  “Which describes what I’m dealing with here,” Scott said, trying to put aside the edge of frustration that threatened to burst out. “We’ve got a Bonnie and Clyde of metas rolling through Florida right now.”

  “Nice. Taking care of that sounds like your job,” Sienna said, turning her back on him and heading up the beach.

  “Actually, hunting you is my job,” Scott called after her.

  “Way to go on that,” she tossed back over her shoulder.

  He gritted his teeth and started after her, coming alongside while trying to give her plenty of warning. “I know,” he said, “I’ve been really bad at it. Intentionally, I might add.”

  “Is that so?” she asked, her robe still dangling open, apparently not so much concerned about it anymore. He looked, unashamedly. It wasn’t a stretch for him to imagine why he’d been interested in her, even if he couldn’t remember their relationship. “I’m up here,” she said crossly, and drew her robe closed.

  “You’re not just up there,” he fired back.

  “The part you’re supposed to talk to is.”

  “Well, the part of you that’s supposed to listen didn’t seem to be paying attention, so I figured I’d try a different tack.” He started to put a hand on her shoulder to stop her but thought the better of it, grimacing. “Look—”

  “How’d you find me?” she asked, keeping up her pace. It wasn’t breakneck, or flying, so clearly she didn’t intend to lose him … yet. “Anonymous tip?”

  “What? No,” Scott said. “The guy you were after in New York turned up dead in the US Virgin Islands. I’m not a great investigator, but I can put two and two together.”

  “It does? Well, if the FBI thing doesn’t work out, you’ve got great career prospects as a remedial math teacher.”

  “Please,” Scott said, gently touching her shoulder and causing her eyes to flare at the touch, “I’ve been avoiding you. Been keeping them off your trail.”

  “Why?” Sienna asked, not recoiling away, holding her ground, stiffly.

  “Because of everything I put you through last year while I was chasing you.”

  “You weren’t chasing me because you wanted to. You were chasing me because—”

  “Because Harmon messed with my head? Maybe. But he had some stuff to work with, so I let him—”

  “You didn’t let him do anything,” Sienna said, sighing. “He’s a telepath. People with a hell of a lot less grievance than you got twisted against me by that asshole.” She cringed. “You are an asshole, and you know it.”

  “I am?” Scott froze, staring at her, slow recognition dawning. “Wait. You didn’t … is he … ?” he pointed at her head questioningly, “In there?”

  “Unfortunately,” Sienna said. “Not by my choice. He tricked me, the bastard.”

  “Tricked you … into absorbing his soul?” Scott goggled. “How did he do that, exactly?”

  “He touched me a bunch of times when I wasn’t paying attention—you know what? People wanting to imprison themselves in my head isn’t a fate I’d often considered worth guarding against. So it kind of snuck up on me when he did it, okay? I didn’t see it coming.”

  Scott shook his head. “Fair enough. I don’t think I would
have, either.”

  But you’re already in here, Scotty. Part of you, at least, Harmon’s voice sounded sonorous, suddenly in his head.

  “Gyah!” Scott said, spine straightening as every muscle in his back contracted.

  Sienna stared at him as though he’d just lost his mind. “What?”

  “He talked to me! In my head!” Scott drove his index finger into his temple so hard it stung.

  Sienna seemed to think about that for a moment. “Huh. I knew he could read minds in here. I never thought about him being able to reach out to others.”

  From beyond the grave, yes, Harmon’s voice came again, like a distant conversation he could hear on the wind. This time it was slightly less eerie.

  “Why are you talking to me, man?” Scott asked, feeling his calm slipping away a little.

  Because you betrayed me, Scott.

  “You rewired my brain so I would serve you,” Scott said.

  Yes, but you betrayed me just the same. Like a blender going faulty at the exact moment when you need it to blend a shake.

  “I don’t believe for a second you make your own shakes,” Scott said.

  “Are you still talking to him?” Sienna asked. “Because this sounds like a weird conversation. Is this what I sound like to others when I’m talking to the people in my head?”

  “Weirder,” Scott said.

  It’s a metaphor, you simpleton, Harmon said.

  “Harmon,” Sienna said, “stop it, or I will cage you.”

  Bye, Scott, Harmon said. We’ll talk again soon.

  “I hope not,” Scott said.

  Sienna frowned. “Were you talking to him? Or hoping I wouldn’t cage him?”

  “Cage him all you want,” Scott said, “please. I didn’t come here to have my brain read through by that bastard.”

  “He really is a bastard, isn’t he?” Sienna nodded, staring off into the distance. “All right … you want my help. Tell me what you’ve got, and … I’ll consider it.”

  8.

  Sienna

  Scott showing up on the beach where I’d parked my ass for the last couple months was a bit of shocker, probably only marginally less shocking than Mr. 5%’s entire repertory of comments. It had really caught me off guard, but it was pretty telling that although I stormed away from him, mostly out of a cold and visceral anger from one of our last meetings (the one where he stopped me from keeping my house from burning to the ground), I hadn’t immediately flown back to my room to retrieve my crap and vanish.

  Yes, the head of the FBI Task Force assigned to hunt me had shown up at the place I was hiding, asked for my help, and I hadn’t flown off. In Sienna Nealon world, this would be what I call “dumb.”

  “There’s a couple of bandits working their way down the east coast,” Scott said, falling into step beside me as I walked down the beach, my toes sinking slightly into the sand.

  “Got a file for me to read?”

  “No,” he said, frowning. “But I can give you the particulars. Their names are June Randall and Elliot Lefavre—”

  “Why haven’t I heard about them on the news?” I asked. “You know, if they’re tearing their way through the eastern US?”

  Scott stopped, amusement lighting his features. “I think we both know that the media has no room in their heart or airing schedule for any other dangerous meta but you right now.”

  Yep, that sounded right. “Point. Proceed.”

  “They haven’t killed anyone yet,” Scott said, a little sweeter and more gently than I would have expected given these were criminals he was pursuing. “I’d like to try and keep it that way.”

  I stopped, my feet squishing in the soft, wet sand where the tide had recently receded. “These things never go that way. Once someone gets a taste of that power, their ego kicks in. They run roughshod over lesser humans, and let’s face it—cops are scared of metas, and rightly so. We’re such a mixed bag, you never know what to expect. What are these two, anyway?”

  “He’s an aeolus,” Scott said. “She’s a poison type, not sure if it has a name. Creates clouds of toxin that—well, they’re nasty. Acidic, and when you breathe it in, the stuff makes it feel like someone doused your lungs in gas and lit a match.”

  “Lovely,” I said. “Why didn’t you call Reed about this? He’s back on duty. With a crew of his own, no less.”

  “Reed’s good,” Scott said, falling in next to me as I started walking again. “But he’s not the best. Not at this sort of thing.”

  “Yeah, but he’d take a more compassionate line on these lawbreakers than I would.” I made a face at him. “Come on. I’m the Queen of Mean now that Leona Helmsley is dead. My reputation is finding the bad guys and making them suffer. If you think I’m going to take it easy on a couple of petty crooks aiming to armed-rob their way into infamy …”

  “I think you’ll take it easy on them, yeah,” Scott said, surprising me.

  “Like I did for Nadine Griffin?” I asked dryly. “According to you, at least.”

  His face hardened slightly. “Let’s not talk about Nadine.”

  I studied his face and decided to leave that one alone. “What do you think is going to happen with these two? July and Smelliot or whatever their names are?”

  “Clever.” He stared out over the ocean and gave it a long bit of thought. “I think if they keep going the way they are … they’re going to go out like Bonnie and Clyde, for real. Just roll around a corner one day and find police waiting to mow them down, and nobody’s going to mourn them, because let’s face it, they’re well on their way to earning that fate. When they put their first body in the morgue …”

  “That does tend to be a game changer,” I said solemnly. How many times had I seen this? Stupid kids with their heads all full of glory because they’d manifested superpowers and nobody could stop them without plugging them in the brain. Surprisingly, drilling someone at a distance wasn’t as popular an option as you might think.

  Dozens of times, I’d seen some variation of this power-mad spiral. Dozens. And only one of them ever turned out to be a humble, willing-to-take-penance person rather than an angry, confrontational, socially maladjusted miscreant drunk on their own awesomeness.

  But the thought lingered—What if this was a trap? A trick on Scott’s part to get me somewhere that he could spring a trap of his own on me?

  Then you will break out of it, leaving corpses aplenty strewn in your wake, Wolfe said lustily.

  Or maybe just fly off, Zack said. No corpses necessary.

  Boring, Bjorn said.

  What was the alternative, though, really? Sitting on this beach for another six months? Failing to put the damned fork down as I ate and drank through my feelings of loneliness, uselessness, and self-pity? Because that was working out so well.

  I vote no on that one, Bastian said.

  Yes, your ass has gotten fat enough, Eve said.

  Seconded, Harmon said. Thirded, fourthed—all the way up, actually, because your additional square footage allows—

  Asshole! I thought at him, very hard, and also slapped him hard enough mentally to make him cry out in my head. He earned it.

  “Okay,” I said, putting aside my reservations as I looked at my ex and imagined all the different ways this idea could go horribly, horribly wrong. Still … it was better than continuing to do the nothing I’d done these last few months. “I’m in.”

  9.

  June

  The hotel was nice, not cheap, which June liked, and pretty far from the beach, which she didn’t. She and Ell were laid out on the bed, the deed done again, their bodies entangled. She had her head nestled in the crook of his arm and nuzzled against the faint layer of chest hair that covered his barely-there pecs. She sighed contentedly. “This was nice. It’s always nice.”

  “Yeah,” Ell said, sounding preoccupied. He hadn’t quite been himself during the act, as though his mind was elsewhere. That wasn’t a huge surprise, though, was it? He’d been a little off all day, act
ing a little outside the usual bounds.

  She nuzzled him again, then rested her sweaty hair against his shoulder, closing her eyes. That was all right. Everyone had their off days.

  “Why did you do that to that man on the beach?” Ell blurted out.

  June’s eyes snapped open, and she blinked furiously. She lifted her head off his chest and shot him a fiery gaze as her breath caught in her throat. “This is how you come at me? Right now? After that?”

  Ell’s eyes widened, then darted left and right as he sat up and leaned against his elbows. “I—I didn’t—I mean—”

  “No, this is great. Just great,” June said, throwing off the sheets and getting out of bed. She let her hair fall over her shoulder in a tangled knot as she headed for the bathroom.

  “You didn’t need to do that to him,” Ell called after her as she sat down heavily on the toilet. He appeared a few seconds later as she flushed and went to wash her hands, staring at herself in the mirror, still nude. “And at the convenience store—”

  “You totally wussed out at the convenience store, Elliot,” she said, using his full name like a blunt instrument.

  He took a staggered step back as though she’d struck him. “I—I was just trying to keep things from getting worse—”

  “So you’re saying I make things worse?” She pushed past him, not particularly gently, and snatched her tank top tee off the floor, hurriedly pulling it on. She didn’t want to be naked right now. Not anymore. It felt too intimate for the moment.

  “I’m not saying—”

  “Sure you are,” she said, throwing it right back at him. “You always say it. Every time we fight. I can see it in your eyes, even when you’re not saying it.”

  “Why are you so angry with people?” Ell asked, throwing his arms wide.

  “I’m not angry with people. I’m angry with stupid people. There’s a difference.”

  “You almost killed that guy on the beach,” Ell said. “In front of his daughter—”