Power: Arca Book 3

by Karen Diem

  POWER

  Arca Book 1

  KAREN DIEM

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by Karen Diem. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Snausages is a trademark of Del Monte Corporation. Taser is a trademark of Axon Enterprise, Inc. Batman and Superman are registered trademarks of DC Comics. Spider-Man is a registered trademark of Marvel Characters, Inc. Crock-Pot is a trademark of Sunbeam Products, Inc. Kimber is a registered trademark of Kimber of America, Inc. These and any other trademarks appearing in the book are the property of their respective owners.

  eBook Version 1.01. Published May 22, 2018.

  ISBN: 978-0-9975740-4-3

  To contact Karen Diem or subscribe to her newsletter, go to http://www.karendiem.com.

  Cover by Deranged Doctor Design.

  Dedication

  Dedicated to my family, my fearless and funny beta readers, and anyone who’s ever wanted a pet T-Rex.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Spanish and Portuguese Glossary

  From the Author

  Arca Chronology

  Chapter One

  In retrospect, perhaps ambushing your best friend was not the best way to start a conversation… especially in a cold, sullen drizzle that brought down the chilly October temperature several additional degrees and enhanced the scent of moldy leaves and wood smoke.

  Rocking on her heels, Zita Garcia fought the urge to jog in place, or better yet, set up an obstacle course using the many Halloween decorations that littered the front lawn where she stood. A nice free running session would make the waiting much easier. As a trickle of water snuck inside her secondhand brown bomber jacket and dribbled down her muscular back, she glanced up at Wyn beside her. “I hope you know what we’re doing.”

  Beneath an umbrella emblazoned with the logo of an environmental organization, her best friend smiled serenely and tossed an errant chestnut ringlet over her shoulder. As Wyn moved, creamy embroidery flashed at the wrists and waist of the close-fitted navy jacket the tall, sylph-like woman wore. She adjusted the dainty matching hat, her lashes drooping over hazel eyes. “Andy will be delighted to see us, and he needs this. We’ve allowed him plenty of privacy to grieve the failure of his romantic relationship. Now we should remind him he has friends.”

  “If you say so,” Zita said, not bothering to keep the dubiousness from her voice. She studied the customer’s house where her other best friend had yet to emerge. After quarantine for a mysterious coma had reunited her with two buddies from her teenage years in the cancer ward, she was still getting used to the idea of having close friends. Hiding their superpowers—and the enforced proximity of the quarantine—had only cemented the bond, so now they felt as much like siblings as her two actual brothers.

  Of the three ubiquitous brick home models repeated ad nauseam in the older Maryland suburb, this was the single-story rancher with the requisite big living room window and miserly twin windows flanking it. The lawn clung grimly to life, though brown streaks and the litter of unraked leaves marred the green expanse visible between plastic interpretations of Halloween monsters. To offset the narrow lots that made conversations between houses possible without stepping outside, mature trees and shrubs delineated the properties and circled all the front lawns and yards. Despite the thick concrete sound barrier wall two houses to the south, noise from the nearby highway still leaked into the neighborhood. A tangle of overgrown bushes and the odd tree lined the barrier, filling the narrow strip between it and the closest home. Wyn’s car waited several houses to the north, in front of a claustrophobic park that offered a fancy, oversized interpretation of a tree fort and a place for children to play if they didn’t mind running a mere fifty feet in any direction.

  Before they could say any more, Andy emerged from the kitchen door of the house carrying a black trash bag and wearing a rain poncho over wrinkled coveralls and a downtrodden expression. Little blue plastic booties on his feet squished and splashed as he approached and dropped the bag in the can. His mood and footwear did not change his normal smooth, balanced glide, the hallmark of an accomplished martial artist. He banged the lid on and trudged over where his dad’s work van had been parked at the curb. Confusion crossed his face as he searched for the vehicle, and his eyes widened when he caught sight of the two women. “What are you two doing at a job site?”

  “Remember, I invited you to eat with us?” Wyn said. She smiled sweeter than the tea she favored. “You never said no, so we came to take you to lunch. Shall we be on our way before Zita becomes an ice cube?”

  “I am freezing my cute little brown culo off,” Zita admitted, as icy rain dripped from the soaked hood of the fluorescent orange sweatshirt she had layered beneath her jacket. She glared overhead, and water spat in her face, proving the clear and sunny forecast a lie. The eternal rain that has been plaguing Anne Arundel County this past month better not have spread to Prince George’s County. I’m not ready to put my motorcycle away for the winter yet, and usually Maryland’s okay for another month.

  Almost automatically, Andy shot back, “You can’t freeze off what you don’t have.”

  “Sure feels like I can, and if I pretend long enough, maybe I’ll grow an ass someday,” Zita said, cheering up at his response. If he’s feeling up to harassing me, he could be coming out of the funk he’s been in since New York. It has been a whole month after all.

  “You keep telling yourself that,” he grumbled, but the corner of Andy’s mouth tilted up.

  Her tone gentler than her words, Wyn took his side. “You’d need to remain still for more than a minute at a time, Zita, and I’m not certain you have that capacity.”

  With another shiver, Zita snorted. “Haters, both of you. Sitting around is boring. I’ll remain awesomely fun and interesting, thanks. Can we go drip inside Wyn’s new car now? Have you seen it? It’s adorable and dry, though she needs to pump up the color, but I bet the heater works good.”

  Wyn giggled, raising a hand to her mouth. Her umbrella had kept the worst of the drizzle off. The few drops that escaped clung to her like tiny diamonds, accenting the face and form that could have stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. “It would have to be some garish neon combination for you to approve of the paint.”

  Zita waved a hand in dismissal. “Not true.
You could get something cool and discreet since you’re not woman enough for neon. Oye, I know! You could do a red interior, a green exterior, and toss in some subtle stripes in a lighter green on the outside. Totally sweet.”

  Furrowing her brow, Wyn glanced down at her. “Are you describing a car or a watermelon? Andy, we should go. As usual, it’s time to feed Zita.”

  “Lunch would be awesome,” Zita admitted. Her stomach rumbled agreement.

  Andy averted his eyes. “I have to work today,” he said, his expression falling flat. “Maybe we can try to meet another day for lunch. You should take Zita and go before she turns into the half-drowned kitten she resembles.”

  “Kitten?” Zita said, her chin jutting out. “I’m at least a full-grown cat if you’re going to say that sort of thing.”

  “While it’s commendable that you’re dedicated to assisting the growth of your father’s business in between teaching classes, he said he could spare you on the next appointment, so you have plenty of time to eat with us.” Wyn beamed at Andy.

  Zita nodded. “Since it’s the last appointment before he leaves on that big cruise he’s all excited about, he scheduled an easy one and doesn’t need you. He said so right before he took off in his work truck.”

  Andy continued to stare at the puddles on the ground.

  If he’s going to admit that he lost his university job, now would be his chance. Wyn just thinks he’s been teaching nights, and I’m so not getting involved. When Andy didn’t admit anything, Zita plastered on a smile and forged ahead. “Long lunches must be a perk to being the boss’ kid, am I right? I can tell you being the boss’ sister doesn’t get you that kind of benny. Let’s get going.” Unable to stand still any longer, she bounded over to him and punched his arm. Even though his invulnerability would prevent her from hurting him, she kept the hit light.

  If she had had any doubts before that he had been avoiding them, they were dispelled when Andy failed to raise his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck. “I… how did you guys find me, anyway?”

  Zita shrugged. “Weirdly enough, your stepmom likes me. When we showed up at your dad’s place and knocked on the door, she told us where to find you. Though really, mano, you need to get the whole idea that you and I got something going on out of her head. We both know that ain’t happening.” She shuddered and made a face, a gesture he mirrored.

  Andy groaned. “That’s certainly true. Don’t worry, she just doesn’t know you well enough to be grateful we have nothing between us. Give her time.”

  Before Zita could retort, Wyn strolled over and hooked Andy’s arm with her own. His plastic poncho crinkled with the movement. “So, where shall we go?” She slanted a winsome smile at him.

  He narrowed brown eyes at the taller woman, ignoring Zita. “Are you certain that interpreting statements to your own benefit isn’t one of your powers?”

  With the quirk of an elegant eyebrow, Wyn’s smile grew. “Just the witchcraft and telepathy. Don’t worry. I only use my powers for good.”

  Something crashed, once, twice, and then multiple tires squealed on the other side of the highway noise barrier. After another boom rattled Zita’s teeth, a thin plume of smoke fought its way upward from the other side of the wall.

  Glancing in the direction of the crash, Zita grimaced in sympathy for whomever had been involved in the accident. That sounds bad, especially since we’re not that close to the wall. “Given the sounds of that, we should take back roads to get to lunch.”

  Andy said, “I appreciate the efforts you’ve made to come out here, but—”

  Zita missed the rest of his excuse, as a man ascended in the air, his hands glowing. Light shot down once, twice, before he swooped out of view. “Save the ahoritas for people who don’t recognize excuses when they hear them. Was that Pretorius?” she said.

  She rose on her tiptoes, craning her neck to see better. Zita had gotten nothing more than a glimpse of a man’s form and blond hair before he dived out of sight. “Is that murdering chingado asshole back in town? If he’s kidnapping people again…” Her focus on the flying man, Zita sped off in a run past a startled Andy. I’m not letting Pretorius get away with hurting anyone else. He assisted that psycho who tortured my brother, and even now, Quentin’s still not the same.

  “Wait, Zita!” Wyn cried out.

  Gunfire exploded on the other side of the wall in a series of rapid bursts.

  Reaching the shelter of the bushes at the base of the pebbled sound barrier, Zita stripped off most of her layers of clothing down to a tank with its built-in bra and capris. Happily, she wore the Spandex-like sportswear—made from a fabric disappeared in her animal forms but kept her clothed in human ones—beneath her regular clothes. Others seemed to assume she was crazy if she tried to talk to them while naked. She barely acknowledged the warm touch of Wyn’s telepathy tying her together with her friends in what they jokingly called “party line.”

  Zita, you need to calm down, Wyn sent as she ran toward the wall.

  Calm down, my culo. Last time we saw him, he was supervising human trafficking, a meth lab, and a psychopath’s sick games. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but it can’t be good. He’ll be even harder to catch now as he must’ve been practicing his flying. Before, he was slower, like he was riding an invisible escalator instead of zipping around like that. She shifted to the gray feathered form of a gavião-real harpy eagle and flew to the top of the wall. Perching there, her sharp vision let her take in the busy scene.

  On the other side of the sound barrier where she perched, trees crowded close to the road, leaving only a narrow strip of grass before the asphalt began. The broad expanse of a multi-lane highway stretched wide before another slim bit of green, with the east- and westbound lanes split by a long low wall of cement traffic barricades. Another high wall on the other side separated the noisy road from whatever lay beyond it.

  All lanes were shut down. To the west, two electrical poles had fallen in front of an overpass, one on either side of the highway, creating an impassable barrier of snarling, snapping live wires. At the far end, to the east, a cement truck and a sixteen-wheeler heavily laden with steel rods obstructed both directions. Armed men stood behind the shelter of the trucks, peering around them with an assortment of assault rifles. Farther down, past the thugs, a pair of police cruisers attempted to block the roadway. A seething mass of vehicles turned and escaped down the vacant lanes with only slightly more finesse than those near the electrical lines.

  The source of most of the noise came from the west, beyond the poles, where a long line of cars had devolved into swirling chaos. Panicked drivers tried to turn around on the narrow shoulder or battled other cars to slip through a narrow gap in the cement barrier, showing little patience or care for anyone around them. Horns yowled, people shouted, and the occasional low-speed collision added screeching and crunching to the din.

  At the edges of the west side, sparks arced and played in a wide aura around the snapped lines. One forlorn and unfortunate bucket truck sat on a broken power line, dark streaks blooming with each new incandescent discharge racing over it. The original wording on the sides of the vehicle was unreadable, and nothing moved within. Sorrow for the occupants tugged at Zita before the blond man from earlier caught her attention. He drifted in the air fifteen feet above the dangerous voltage. While she couldn’t make out his words over the cacophony, he held a bullhorn to his lips, and the wind carried the occasional burst of derisive laughter.

  Gray crest lifting, Zita shifted on her taloned feet. Not Pretorius after all. I don’t remember his name, but he’s familiar and not in a good way.

  Just outside of the sparking area, a now-shattered tree and the curious angle of a vehicle straddling two empty lanes suggested a passenger van had been driven off the roadway. It had apparently spun upon impact with the wood and bounced partially back into the street. Now, a thin line of smoke drifted up from the wrecked vehicle’s engine. Something moved inside.

  In the
area blocked off by the trucks and downed poles, two prison transport vehicles and a pair of police cars sat near the edge of the sparking area on the opposite side of the road from the crashed van. Tires on all four vehicles sagged, the rubber visibly peeling off one. The prison vehicles had been turned as if to make a run across a gap in the center barrier and down the westbound lane. One transport’s windshield was missing, and the other had starbursts of broken glass where gunfire had pierced it, splattered with a lot of blood. Cops crouched behind the engine blocks and tires of their vehicles, weapons aimed at the truck blockade.

  Incongruously, between the trucks and cruisers, a panel van with the logo of a major network news station was planted in the grass, all four tires flat. While no one stood outside, the driver’s side window was down, and the black, inquisitive nose of a camera poked out at the scene.

  Zita swore mentally. Seriously? No way a news crew just happened to show up and be allowed that close. Whoever’s doing this must’ve brought them or tipped them off. You guys need to see this. The mess of prison vehicles must be the target.

  Bracing herself, she was prepared when her vision doubled, and she had the sensation of someone breathing down her neck, a sure sign that Wyn was borrowing her sight. She fidgeted on her perch and focused on what she wanted her friends to see.

  At least it’s not rush hour, or the mess would be even worse, and traffic copters would be everywhere overhead, Zita thought. The double vision disappeared. When their party line’s warm connection resumed, the first thing she heard was Andy swearing in resignation.

  From behind the cement truck, another blond man—a more familiar and hated one—threw blobs of white light at those guarding the vans. His attacks forced the men to retreat behind the prisoner transport vehicles, the only solid cover left as the escort vehicles and ground around them became riddled with holes. Gigantic and hairy, a midnight-furred wolf stalked inexorably toward the prison vans, a large, feminine satchel slung across his giant withers. Zita wasn’t a fan of him either. Oye, that evil pendejo Pretorius is here, and he brought the deranged furball Garm with him.