Elites: The Supers of Project 12

by Angel Lawson

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  ELITES:

  The Supers of Project 12

  By

  Angel Lawson

  This book is dedicated to Anita Baker (the cat) She was my animal inspiration for this book.

  RIP Friend

  Chapter One

  Astrid

  Maybe Skull Knockers is closed.

  At least, that’s what Astrid hopes, but the door swings open, revealing a swarm of bodies and loud music inside the crappy bar. Patrons spill out, reeking of booze and cigarette smoke, giving her no choice but to go inside. She’s not here for fun but for a mission. Her first real mission, and it’s important she prove herself. Prove that it’s all been worth it.

  She flashes her ID, keeping her expression plain—something she learned to do when she was just a kid. The bouncer nods her in, although she’s pretty sure it’s less about her perfectly created fake ID and more about the ridiculous amount of cleavage she’s showing. She’s not underage, but she also isn’t using her real name. Either way, it works, and she enters the seedy bar, passing a dirty, cracked mirror just inside the doorway and catching a glimpse of herself.

  “Jesus,” she mutters at the stick-straight black hair and blunt bangs.

  Her wig looks like shit and she fights a grimace at the whole get-up. This is what she gets for listening to Atticus. He always had a thing for slightly slutty, stereotypical costumes. Dirty secretary. Naughty librarian. Repressed school-marm. Lucky for her, tonight called for Gothy-emo chick.

  Atticus isn’t like that with her personally. God no. Gross. He’s like an uncle or older brother or you know, some guy that raised—trained—her when no one else would. Unlucky bastard.

  He saves his perversions for consensual relationships. The thought, plus the image of her get-up, makes her roll her eyes.

  “I saw that,” Atticus says in her ear about the grimace. She fights the urge to touch the hidden earpiece.

  “God, you’re such a stalker,” she breathes in reply, smiling quickly at a patron passing her. Atticus is lucky she doesn’t rip off the camera disguised as a pendant around her neck.

  “I’m not a stalker. I’m your mentor. And let’s see if you’re ready to handle the big leagues.”

  “You think trolling for low-level drug dealers at a shitty bar is the big leagues?”

  “Astrid, I just want to see if it works.”

  “You mean if I work.” She tugs the edge of her gloves, unwilling to take them off. Yet.

  There’s another mirror behind the bar and she takes in the skin-tight custom-fit pants, thigh-high boots, and flaming red lipstick. Lord, her ass looks huge in the unforgiving leather outfit. Her gloves are black tonight—long ones that go over the bend of her elbows.

  The bar is packed. Dollar margarita night. The wolves are on the prowl.

  “Just do it like we said. Nothing big. Feel the room.” Atticus reminds her.

  Getting the men to approach her was not a problem. Atticus planned that. If she came to the bar dressed in her standard clothing, no man would even glance her way. White-blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail. Hoodie and leggings. No, this is a test and there’s no getting out of it. Astrid clenches her hands, the leather gloves tightening around her fists.

  “Hey,” a voice calls. She’s certain it’s not for her and she walks toward the bar—the only place for her to go. But a hand grabs her shoulder and she spins, her fingers already locked around his wrist. She’s met with a handsome face sporting wide, surprised eyes.

  “Oh, uh…” He’s familiar and from the uptick of his heartbeat and the sharp scent of fear, she’s caught him off guard.

  “Astrid, right? I’m Henry. From the gym.”

  “Henry, right. From the gym. Yes.” She releases her grip. She knows from seeing him train that he’s bigger underneath the clothing than he looks. “You surprised me.”

  “I should have known better than to sneak up on you. I’ve seen you working out.”

  Henry comes to the Elite Training Center almost daily. Her workplace and home. She should have recognized him instantly, especially his scent. Atticus is surely taking notes on all her failures.

  “So, uh,” he says when Astrid doesn’t speak. “Do you come here often?”

  He looks embarrassed as soon as he says it, but at the same time he’s taking in her outfit—the hair. She touches it self-consciously. Freaking Atticus and the wigs.

  “No, I’ve never been here. Thought I’d try something new, you know?”

  He smiles. “Yeah, I do.”

  *

  Astrid was eight when she was sent to the group home. Her parents were dead—killed in a tragic car accident that she miraculously survived. She remembered none of it. Not the crash. Not before. She only remembers sitting in her car seat, wondering why her skin itched so badly.

  She was alone and frightened. Numb, actually. She remembers little about arriving, other than a social worker named Marcy who drove her to the big white house in the country in a minivan that smelled like dogs and spoiled milk.

  Astrid sat on the front porch and listened to Marcy tell the woman that answered the door that Astrid was special—sensitive. That was the grown-up word she’d used. Astrid knew that word wasn’t enough to describe the way her skin felt when people touched it. Or how her socks being off center made her want to rip her hair out, and how wearing a hat clamped down over her ears made everything a little more peaceful.

  The woman at the door promised she wouldn’t make Astrid take off her hat. Or her hoodie. Or the three layers of socks she wore under her pink cowboy boots. She promised she’d tell the other children not to make fun of her—but Astrid didn’t care. She didn’t wear the hats and socks and coats because she wanted to. It was because she had to.

  If she didn’t, she may die. Or at least that’s how it felt.

  The first night wasn’t so bad. A little scary. She had a roommate named Demetria who was obsessed with unicorns. The girl was ten, knew the name of all the ponies and unicorns, and stuck pictures she’d drawn all over the wall. She was nice—even if a bit weird, but her eyes only lingered over Astrid’s pink hat for
a second before going back to her games. Astrid got the idea fairly quickly that Demetria actually thought the ponies were real.

  There were worse dreams to have.

  The home was run by a woman named Miss Rosalie. She didn’t smell like Astrid’s mother and had wrinkles all over her face, but she made waffles for breakfast and there was always apple juice. Astrid loved apple juice. There were twelve kids in the home. Seven boys and five girls. She was the youngest.

  On Monday, Astrid thought they would go to school, but Rosalie taught them at home. They each had a notebook with their names across the front and a little cubby off the kitchen. Astrid didn’t mind. She didn’t want to go to school anyway. She didn’t really want to do anything.

  Except go home.

  But even at eight, Astrid knew there was no such thing as home anymore. There was just this new place where the boys were loud and ate all the cereal and made the bathroom smell bad. The older girls listened to music and talked about which boy in the band was the cutest (Harry Styles) and Demetria and her never-ending unicorn drawings—more and more every day.

  Things were okay. Not great, but okay. Miss Rosalie was strict but in the good way, because rules made Astrid feel safe. And after a few weeks, when the doctors showed up, Astrid felt ready to talk to them. The social worker told her that she would need to talk about her feelings and that it was okay to wear her hat.

  She could handle that--the talking and the meetings--even if she didn’t understand why they gave her a shot after every visit.

  *

  It’s no mistake that Atticus sent Astrid to the dive bar on the edge of Crescent City on a Tuesday night, dressed for notice. Three weeks ago, eighteen-year-old Madeline Reynolds never came home after separating from her friends at the bar. Her body was found two days later, DOA at the emergency room, an overdose from a lethal new party drug the cops had never seen before.

  A week later, the bouncer told the Crescent City police that he saw Adrienne Miller waiting for an Uber outside the bar. She’d fallen into spasms before the car arrived. Dead from an overdose. Same drug. This time, there was a name.

  Pixie Dust.

  Last week, Miriam Walker, sorority girl and honors student, passed out in the library. A clerk found her and called an ambulance. She’s alive but in a coma. Pixie Dust, in a tiny plastic bag with a stamp of Tinkerbelle on the outside, was found between the pages of her psychology book.

  So obviously, Atticus thinks sending Astrid to the bar is a great way to test her abilities and track down whoever is selling the lethal drug on the edge of campus.

  “Stop flirting,” Atticus says in the ear com. “Don’t lose track of the mission.”

  “So,” Henry says, giving her a reason to ignore her mentor, “can I ask a question?”

  “Sure.” The bar is getting louder and louder, making it harder for her to focus. It’s also getting smellier. Stale smoke and cheap beer. She wrinkles her nose. “Unless it’s about my wig. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “It’s not about your wig—although black suits you.” He takes a sip of his beer. “How come I never see you around, you know, outside the gym?”

  “Oh you know…I’m pretty focused on my training and the program.”

  He takes another drink and she can’t help but notice how the foam clings to his upper lip. “Are you going to any competitions or anything?”

  “Change the subject,” Atticus says. “Ask him if he’s been around the bar. Has he heard anything about the girls?”

  “Just the local ones at the gym. My boss, Atticus? He’s a total hardass and thinks the only person we should compete with is ourselves.”

  “I heard that.”

  “So…you’re a student at the University?” Astrid asks Henry, changing the subject.

  “Grad school.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure, grad school.” She spins her glass on the table. “Have you heard about the overdoses? Sounds awful.”

  “Crack is whack.” He jokes. She laughs, even though it’s not funny.

  “Seriously though, I hear the stuff can be awesome—great for partying. Do you know anyone selling?” Her voice isn’t low, but loud enough to filter to those around her.

  “Uh, I know there’s a guy. Well, a rumor about a guy named Tink.” His answer is vague enough that she doubt he knows anything, and this is only confirmed when he stammers on about how he could maybe ask his roommate. Astrid fights rolling her eyes. Atticus is right. She’s wasting her time flirting with Henry. He’d just been a safe way to acclimate, but it’s possible she really could help in the investigation if she made an effort. “You know, could you grab me a water from the bar? The smoke is really bothering me.”

  “Yeah, be right back.”

  Astrid watches him leave and takes a deep breath. It’s too crowded in here. Too hot. She can’t get a read on anyone. She speaks to Atticus in a quiet voice. “This is a waste of time.”

  “You’re probably right,” Atticus agrees.

  Wait. He agrees? Atticus never agrees. Not about giving up. Does that mean he thinks she’s not up to it? Astrid sighs and looks down at her hands. She really didn’t want to have to do this, but slowly she tugs at the fingers of her gloves, revealing her slim, pale hands. Cuffs made of sliver and leather wrap around her wrists.

  She flexes her fingers and stares at the slick gloss of the black paint on her nails.

  “You’ve got this—”

  “Shut up, Atticus.”

  He actually shuts up.

  She drops her hands, dangling them at her sides. The bar is so crowded it only takes a second for the first person to knock into Astrid’s hands, grazing their skin against hers. Astrid closes her eyes and a jolt shocks through her, skipping from her skin to her brain and whips of images as well as the echo of memories fill her mind.

  I can’t believe I cheated on that test and got away with it.

  Max is smiling at me. Is he smiling at me? I think he’s smiling at me.

  God, I could use a hit of Dust right now.

  Liar! Filthy cock-sucking liar!

  Each one comes across as an individual voice. Crystal clear. The images are an echo of an emotion. Astrid just channels them—processes them into a bigger story. Each contact she makes with another human’s skin sends her spiraling into their deepest thoughts and feelings.

  The sensation makes her skin crawl and she wants to rip her hair out to make it stop. It’s awful, intrusive, and rarely do people have nice things going on in their minds. But some people are bad. Really bad, and that’s why she does it. It’s why she and Atticus are testing how much she can take with experiments like this.

  But enough is enough and she’s close to giving up when a hand brushes hers, slow and warm. The imagery rips through her; plastic packets, dozens, filled with shimmery powder. Tinkerbelle stamps. Piled on a mirror like a mountain of glittery sand. The sharp sound of inhaling—snorting.

  Astrid jerks her hands back at the same time that her eyes pop open. Henry is inches away and his bright blue eyes meet hers.

  He’s smiling when he hands her the water and asks, “Want a walk home?”

  Chapter Two

  Astrid

  Astrid walks down the sidewalk, occasionally bumping shoulders with Henry. She only reads people through her palms, but all of her senses are heightened, any touch skin-to-skin is too much. She keeps her hands clasped behind her back.

  “Echo, back down. This was an info-gathering mission. You gathered. Get back to the gym.”

  She ignores him and the stupid code name he keeps trying to make happen and focuses on the streets around her. Winter is coming. The smell of cold northern air blowing down from the lakes is in the air. A few nearby houses have fires going. The smoke is faint and any other night, with any other man, it could be considered romantic.

  As if Astrid knows anything about going on dates.

  There’s another scent building around her. Something feral. Dark. She’s scented it before when r
unning in the woods and seeing animals tracking prey. It’s not Henry. He smells like soap and laundry detergent. Clean. Safe. She knew when she reached for the glass at the bar and let her finger graze his that he was not who she was looking for.

  Astrid isn’t clean and she certainly isn’t safe, she picked that up in the bar. He’s out here and he smells like a predator—his adrenaline is high.

  “Thanks for offering to walk me home. I can take it from here.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You think Atticus won’t kick my ass if something happens to you?”

  She smiles. “I can take care of myself.”

  He shrugs and a sad look flickers across his face. His heartbeat skitters—disappointment? Rejection? Whatever it is, it’s time for Henry to go.

  “Maybe I’ll see you at the gym.”

  “Maybe,” she says, walking in the opposite direction but keeping an eye on Henry and that he’s made it around the block. His footsteps fade and another’s take their place.

  She turns and spots the figure in the shadows, slinking down the sidewalk. She picks up her pace.

  “Hey girlie,” he calls. “I heard you talking inside. You looking for Tink?”

  She stops. “Why? Are you him?”

  He steps away from the fence, out into the street light. He’s a big man. A little older.

  “Who’s asking?”

  She shrugs. “I’m Astrid, just a girl looking for a little fun.”

  He narrows his eyes at her and hears the blade slip from his pocket, then the metal snick when it opens. She faces him directly and says, “That escalated quickly.”

  “You don’t think I can smell a narc a mile away?”

  “I don’t know what you can smell but I’m just looking for a good time. You can put that away.”

  He’s not stupid, this guy. He seems to recognize that Astrid is a threat, so she tries something else.

  “You know what I smell? Fear. Desperation. Paranoia from that shit you’ve been snorting non-stop. You’re using it—and killing those that take it.” His heartbeat upticks a notch. Sweat coats his upper lip. “I suggest you put the knife down and surrender.”