Chapter 2
The school’s office had little pumpkins, bats, and ghosts cut from construction paper taped to the walls. Cheap, but at least they were making an effort. As usual, the woman at the front desk pretended not to stare at my scars, thinking that there was something naggingly familiar about me. And as usual, I erased the thought from her head before she could follow it to its conclusion and start a fuss. No one at Elisa’s school had figured out who her parents were yet, and I wanted to keep it that way. My daughter had enough to worry about.
Elisa walked through the door hunched over and clutching her books to her chest as though they were some kind of shield. There was a lot of her father in her. She was tall like him, taller than I was, even when hunching, and while she was lanky now, I had a feeling she’d grow to be an Amazon. Her jaw clenched in the same way as Dave’s when she was angry, and their eyes were the same shade of light brown. When she was younger, before I’d told anyone—even Dave—that he was her father, I used to worry that another supervillain would take one look at her and say “That’s White Knight’s kid,” but no one ever did. I guess other criminals didn’t spend as much time gazing into his eyes as I did. Their loss.
She turned to the boy behind her, whom I’d initially assumed was just coming in at the same time, and murmured, “Thanks.”
“Text me when you get home?” he asked in a low voice.
“Sure.”
Hello, there. And who was this? I hadn’t risked reading Agent Lagarde’s mind, but I had zero reservations about this kid. I pried into his head and found genuine concern mixed with the giddy euphoria of a teenage crush. No ulterior motives or anything I’d have to mind-wipe or murder him over. Excellent. I signed Elisa out and walked her to the car.
“You took aspirin?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
She was in a monosyllabic mood, exchanging the words “hi” and “fine” with Eddy before staring out the window in silence as we drove home. Typical teenage angst, but Elisa had better reason for it than most. When I’d gotten arrested two months ago, the stress had brought on her breakthrough, and my poor girl had gotten my telepathy along with her father’s super-strength. Then the very next day, one of Dave’s old enemies had kidnapped her. (She’d killed him and escaped, but I wish he’d survived. I owned a little place in the woods about two hours outside the city where I could have kept him until he’d thoroughly paid for what he’d done.) I had Elisa in counseling for the kidnapping, and Dave was working with her to control her strength, but the telepathy was harder. She was having trouble making it through the day without the barrage of her classmates’ thoughts giving her a migraine.
“I suck at this.” She didn’t take her gaze from the window, but that was four whole syllables. She must want to talk.
“You do not.” I gave her a light shove. “It hasn’t even been two whole months yet. The fact that you managed to come back to school at all is great.”
She turned from the window. “Did you have this problem?”
“It’s not a contest. Everyone adjusts to their powers differently.”
“So you didn’t have this problem.”
Well, let no one say I never taught my child how to see through bullshit. I changed tactics.
“So who was tall, dark, and handsome back there?”
She looked back out the window as though she’d never seen the palm trees lining the street before. “Nobody.”
“You should have casually said his name and what class you had together. We need to work on your lying skills, my dear.”
She turned back, and her attempt at a poker face was decent. “Carlos. We have chemistry together—chemistry class. We’re in the same chemistry class.”
There goes the poker face. I tried not to grin too widely. Carlos, huh?
“Well, move at your own pace. Don’t get pressured into doing anything you’re not comfortable with, but don’t let people shame you out of doing what you want, either. Although now that I think about it, I’m going to have to revise our sex talk now that you’ve got super-strength.”
“Mom!” Elisa glanced toward the driver’s seat with bulging eyes. “Not in front of Eddy.”
“What’s that you said, kiddo?” Eddy called loudly. “I’ve gone temporarily deaf.”
“Sure you have,” Elisa said.
“It’s a medical condition, honest.” Eddy glanced back at us through the rearview mirror. “I have spontaneous periods of deafness. Just ask any cop who’s tried to question me.”
“We’re not having this conversation,” Elisa declared. “Carlos and I—that’s not happening for a long time.”
“And that’s fine,” I said. “But when you do reach that point with someone, remember super-strength isn’t a game-ender. There are plenty of creative ways to—”
“I will throw myself out of this car.” Elisa grabbed the door handle to emphasize her point. “Don’t think I’m bluffing. I’m invulnerable now. I’ll survive it.”
I smiled but kept my mouth shut. She wasn’t moping anymore, which had been my goal, so I shifted the conversation to less embarrassing topics like homework and band practice for the rest of the ride home.
Home was a Spanish-style mansion on Star Island, and when we walked in the door, Irma was waiting with a cup of chamomile tea for Elisa just like she used to make for me when I was younger. She was a gaunt, gray-haired woman in a pale blue dress and apron, and on paper, she worked as my maid. In reality, she was much more than that, but she really was good at cleaning. You’ll never meet a person who knows more methods of removing bloodstains.
“Oh, sure,” Eddy said. “You’ll meet her at the door with tea, but I ask you to bring me a beer, and I get death threats.”
Irma’s wrinkled face didn’t twitch. “One of these days, I’ll skip the threat and go straight to the death part. You won’t see it coming.”
“Nah, you’d be miserable without me.”
“Welcome back, Valentina,” she said, smoothly ignoring him. They’d worked together for over fifty years, so being able to ignore each other was probably the only thing keeping Irma from bringing him that beer after she’d poisoned it.
I was joking, of course. Irma wouldn’t poison him; she’d use a knife.
Elisa muttered something about lying down and went upstairs, and I homed in on the thoughts of the one person in the house I wanted to see more than any other. These days, it was impossible to read his mind without getting a healthy dose of pain. He’d taken a lot of punishment in August—all to save me, which still made me grind my teeth every time I thought about it. It took a horrible amount of force to leave lasting injuries on someone as strong as he was.
Strong is a good word for Dave. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, he’d never be mistaken for an easy target by any criminal. It was hard to say what I liked best about him: the hard lines of his jaw, the tan of his skin, the slightly crooked nose of a man who’d taken more than one punch in his day. He could snap someone’s neck with one hand, which should make it absolutely terrifying to be in the same room with him, but ninety-nine percent of the time, his eyes were too kind and his words too polite for him to scare anyone. (But during that other one percent, he’s been known to make criminals soil themselves.) I found him in the living room, staring out the glass doors at our backyard and the sparkling waters of Biscayne Bay beyond. He was thinking that our deck needed a good cleaning.
“Dave, if you try to do any yard work, I will smother you with a pillow while you sleep,” I said.
He turned around with a smile. Last month, it would have taken him a while to maneuver the wheelchair around like that, but now the movement was smooth and natural. He shouldn’t have to use the chair for more than another month or so, but if he kept bending himself out of shape to do home improvement projects, recovery was going to take a lot longer. I’d caught him lifting up the entire refrigerator the other day to get a better look at why it was leaking.
“No elaborate death
trap?” he asked. “A pillow seems kind of anti-climatic considering how long White Knight and the Black Valentine have fought each other.”
“Smothering is a perfectly valid murder method.” I tossed myself down onto the couch across from him. “It’s hard to find ways to kill people with unbreakable skin, you know.”
“I’m sorry I’m not more murderable.”
“You should be.”
Did I really have to ruin this nice conversation? I could wait until after dinner to tell him, couldn’t I? Except I’d already waited too long. Sometimes I hated being honest.
“We need to talk.”
Dave was already sitting with military posture, so it was amazing how he managed to straighten up even taller. “What? Is Elisa all right?”
“She’s fine. It’s just a migraine. Typical telepath stuff. This isn’t about her.”
He relaxed a fraction, and I smoothed back a loose strand of my hair. “Remember when I said my lawyers didn’t think you’d end up in court for the thing back in August?” I paused, but of course he remembered. “I might have been overly optimistic.”
Dave gave me a look he usually reserved for criminals who’d just taken hostages. Ah, nostalgia. It gave me shivers.
“You weren’t having lunch with your sister, were you?” he asked.
“No. Bianca’s still in L.A.” In L.A. negotiating an arms deal, but there was no need to mention that little detail. I’d been half-afraid something would go wrong and she’d end up on the news and expose my lie, but it was more believable to say I’d gone to meet her than one of my other sisters. My relationship with Sonia was complicated, to say the least, and I had no idea what Mary was up to these days.
“Val.”
“Look, I’m sorry.” I hopped off the couch, unable to sit still any longer. “I was hoping I could take care of it and not worry you.”
The only thing keeping Dave from rising to his feet after me were his injuries. “Forget worrying me. I think I have a right to know if I need to show up in court. What are they charging me with?”
“Nothing. I made a deal. It’s taken care of.”
His gaze searched me, going from angry to concerned as though someone had flipped a switch. “What did it cost you?”
“Ever heard of psyc?”
I gave him the quick and dirty version of what Agent Lagarde had told me.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said when I finished. “We can call off the deal. I’ll go to court—”
“You most certainly will not.” I put my hands on my hips.
“A trial is worse than you putting your life at risk? I know you and the Prophet King are old friends, but if he finds out you’re working with the DSA to bring him down, he’ll kill you.”
“I won’t let him kill me. And I’ll have DSA agents for backup.”
“The DSA isn’t going to make your safety a priority.”
“Harsh words, considering you used to work for them.”
He took a deep breath through his nose, not nearly as hard to antagonize as Agent Lagarde. “That’s different. I chose to work for them. For a cause I believed in.”
“Then it’s not different at all. I chose to take their deal because I believe very strongly that I don’t want to see you in the Inferno.”
“And I don’t want to see you get hurt.” His voice was tender, and I hated it.
“You think losing you wouldn't hurt me? Think what it would do to this family if you went to prison—what it would do to Elisa.”
That was a low blow, I know. (No need to get so judgmental.) But I hadn’t spent fifteen years fighting him and three years married to him without knowing his weak points. Dave would do anything for his daughter.
He sank lower in his chair and was silent for a long moment. “The deal was probably Walter’s idea,” he muttered finally. “Either I go to prison, or you risk your life to do his dirty work. It’s win-win for him.”
“Yeah, he’s enough of an idiot to think threatening me will work out well for him.”
Dave looked up at me, and I knew from the worry and regret in his eyes that I’d won. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”
“And you shouldn’t have had to fight the DSA and a bunch of super-powered psychopaths to keep me from getting framed for murder, but you did. Now let me return the favor.”
The question now was how angry he was going to be, but to my relief, he patted his thigh invitingly. I crossed the distance between us, sat in his lap, and kissed him deeply. His hands grasped my waist, and he was gentle, always oh so gentle and careful not to break me.
“I don’t know why you’re upset about this.” I kept my arms around his neck, my fingers brushing the hair above his neckline. “I’m stopping a big bad crime boss from distributing a bunch of evil drugs. Obviously, I’ve seen the error in my ways and am one of the good guys now.”
He smirked. “Obviously.”
“It’s true. I’m practically a role model.”
“Val, you’re many things, but the thought of you being a role model terrifies me.”
I shifted my position so that I was straddling him instead of sitting sideways, and whispered in his ear. “Sweet-talker.”
Loud footsteps pounded overhead, and Elisa shouted, “Will you guys knock it off?”
“Sorry, dear!” I called back.
Ah, the joys of having children. It wasn’t her fault, though. She couldn’t help that her telepathy let her sense the thoughts and feeling of everyone in the house at all times. I’d just have to work harder on training her to control it.
But in the meantime, it was murder on my sex life.
Chapter 3
I walked into the restaurant at six p.m. sharp the next day, dressed for battle. That meant a sleeveless, black sheath dress with red flower print hiding the wire a female DSA agent had attached firmly to my bra. My sandals were deceptively sturdy and strapped securely to my feet, and I had a small Derringer pistol in my purse. I extended my senses, tasting the margaritas on the diners’ tongues and feeling the tiredness in the waitresses’ limbs. It wasn’t hard to pick out the undercover DSA agents and Jean-Baptiste’s men, both keeping watch on the other while pretending not to.
Honestly, the place was kind of tacky. The dark wood of the floor and walls was nice enough, but they’d overdone the decorations. They had everything from a mounted ship’s wheel to a stuffed parrot to a huge swordfish hanging over the bar. Framed newspaper reviews of the food were displayed next to autographed photos of famous athletes and superheroes who’d presumably dined here, and there was even a lobster tank so you could tap on the glass and annoy your food before you ate it. The place did good business, though. If Jean-Baptiste hadn’t already reserved a table, I’d probably have waited at least twenty minutes to sit down.
He sat alone in the corner, one elbow resting casually on the back of his chair while his other hand held his drink. He was a stocky man, hair shaved close to his scalp, and he wore his designer suit like nobody’s business. Blind, he had his head tilted in a way that meant he was listening intently to everything around him. His men would be alert for any sign of danger, but only a fool would rely on them completely.
“Valentina,” he greeted before I could announce myself. “How about that drink I owe you?”
A waitress appeared to take my order the instant I sat down, either knowing the city’s crime lord was sitting at her table or identifying the handsome, well-dressed man as a good tipper. Jean-Baptiste was having a Rhum Barbancourt on the rocks, unless I missed my guess. I nearly ordered the same but then changed my mind.
“I’ll have a Black Valentine,” I said.
Yes, I have a drink named after me. That’s how you know you’ve risen above the ranks of normal villainy. I mean, do Madame Guillotine or Dr. Grim have cocktails named after them? Well, all right, if you scoured the Internet, you could probably find a recipe for something, but good luck ordering one, because the bartender would have never heard of it. Black Valen
tines had risen in popularity about fifteen years ago to become a bar standard, and they’d probably stay there long after memory of my heists and murders had faded. Funny how my most lasting contribution to history will be a drink.
Once the waitress left, I said, “I sound like a total asshole when I order that, don’t I?”
Jean-Baptiste smiled. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
Settling in, I spotted the biggest threat to myself if Jean-Baptiste decided to take offense at my involvement with the DSA. The statuesque, dark-skinned woman sitting two tables over was Amala Kapoor, aka Ember, Jean-Baptiste’s bodyguard and main muscle. Her black leggings and orange tank top made her look like any other single woman out on the town, but her boots gave her away. Ankle-high, thick-soled, and clasped with no less than five metal buckles, they were serious ass-kicking boots. I used to own a few pairs like them myself.
Jean-Baptiste set down his glass and shifted so that he was facing me directly. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again so soon.”
“I couldn’t help myself. I heard the most fascinating rumor about you.”
“Oh? I hope it’s not the one where I’m helping the Illuminati give people special abilities by drugging the water. I can’t say I care for that one.”
“That’s hilarious, but no, not that one. It is drug-related, though.”
Jean-Baptiste didn’t stiffen or twitch or give any sign of surprise. He was still and silent—perhaps a little too much so.
I leaned forward across the small table and lowered my voice. “It’s about psyc. Clever little drug, isn’t it? Giving normal people telepathy. I hear you’re the one who’s importing most of it.”
“And you’re interested in that why?”
I smiled, knowing that even though he couldn’t see it, he could hear it in my voice. “I want in.”
The waitress reappeared with my drink, and I paused to thank her and take a sip. Good. The bartender hadn’t skimped and used a cheap brand of black vodka. That always ruined it.
Telepathically, where the eavesdropping DSA agents had no chance of hearing, I said, The DSA are on to you. They made a deal with me to bring in enough evidence to take you down.
Villainous Page 2