by Angel Lawson
Astrid doesn’t say what’s really nagging at her. She’s seen this power at work before and he was at the group home, a member of Project 12.
“Where are Charger and Pan?” she asks, reaching the doors to the gym. The toxic smell is stronger up here.
“They chased the other kids down. I think Charger is lecturing them about private property right now.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sounds about right.”
“Echo, I really don’t like you being in there alone right now.”
“I’m not alone,” she says, pushing open the doors. “You’re with me.”
“You know what I mean.”
“If this is our chance to stop him, then I should.”
He doesn’t respond but his silence says volumes.
Astrid wedges her foot in the edge of the bleachers, climbing to the top. It’s a good vantage point. She checks the time on her screen and at exactly midnight the main doors open. Blaze walks in.
He’s thin with dark hair and she knows in her gut who he is. He’s one of them, one of the twelve.
Devin. The fire starter. It’s hard to tell from his features, but people change. Some look exactly the same but others shift so much it’s impossible to recognize them. She closes her eyes for a moment and tries to get a sense of the kid from the group home. The one so desperately trying to control his power. All she gets in return is the strong smell of sulfur and a heavy dose of angst.
“Luby!” the man calls walking in the gym. “Come out, kid!” His voice bounces back and his feet echo off the wooden floors. He stops before the bank of bleachers, checking out the incomplete mural. Astrid hides in a well at the top.
“Worthless punk,” he mutters, and she hears the unmistakable clink of a spray can. She dares a look and watches as he sprays the paint into the air and uses his fingers to light a flame. The spray instantly becomes a torch.
“I know you’re in here,” he says, and the hair on the back of her neck prickles. “Can’t mind your own damn business, can you?”
“I think he’s talking to you,” Casper says. “Do not engage.”
She ignores the Goblin.
In a swift move, Astrid hops over the edge of the bleachers and lands on the floor. Her braid flops over her shoulder and she slowly stands with her hands on her hips.
Blaze smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Looks like we’re both tracking one another.”
She shrugs. “I like knowing who I’m dealing with.”
“I thought that was clear? You and the boss had a deal.”
“Kincade is a sleazeball businessman out to make money. This isn’t about money for you. It’s something different.” She tilts her head and studies him. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and dark jeans. He’s tall and thin—not much muscle. His sideburns are long and his blue-black hair slicks back. She desperately tries to find Devin, the boy she knew at the home, in his hazel eyes but there’s nothing recognizable there. Not anymore.
“We’re both something different, sweetheart.” He smiles. “But you know that, don’t you?”
“I can’t let you destroy any more property. What you and Kincade are doing isn’t okay. It’s criminal, and I’m tired of having to go in and save lives and clean up your mess.”
“I saw your heroics on the news. People love you, what’s wrong with that? You’re special. You can handle a little risk.” He spreads his arms wide. “People love Kincade, too. He’s cleaning up this mess of a neighborhood. Rebuilding and revitalizing.”
“No. You’re hurting people.”
He winks. “Not if you and your friends get there in time. It’s a win-win, sweetheart.”
They stand across from one another but there’s no doubt he’s got the upper hand when it comes to weaponry. He’ll burn her alive before she ever reaches him and she doubts many of her tools will stop him before he lights the place up. She does the unthinkable to make him stop.
She reveals herself.
“Leave this one alone, okay, Devin?” She relaxes her pose. “For me.”
“What did you call me?”
“Devin. That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Fuck Echo. Fuck,” Casper freaks in her ear.
He narrows his eyes and the darkness behind them is intense, but there’s also something else. A recognition, a flicker of familiarity. It’s only there for an instant and then it vanishes.
“My name is Blaze and you better move out of my way or you’ll be nothing but an oily smear on the floor.” Flame bursts from his hand. It’s not the spark from Luby’s memory or even the small flame from before. It’s a ball of fire, so hot she can feel it ten feet away.
“I don’t know what happened to you, Devin,” she tries again. “But you’re not alone. I can help you. We all can.”
He reacts by throwing the ball of fire at her head. She ducks, but in her heart she knows the fire won’t hit her. He can’t use his power against her any more than she can use hers against him. But fire is tricky—dangerous—and that paint-stained wall behind her catches and a ripple of fire runs up the bleachers.
“Stop!” she screams. “This is not what we are made for!”
“This is exactly what we’re made for, Astrid!” her name bounces off the room. He knows her name. He knows her. “This is who we are. Weapons with a purpose. It’s not my fault you don’t know your place or worth in the world!”
“My place?” She eyes the growing ball in his hand. This time bigger. More deadly. It could take the whole place up.
“Don’t think they won’t come for you. I know they killed your mentor. Quinn’s and Owen’s, too. They won’t kill you, but they will find you.” He steps closer and the heat is unbearable. Sweat drips down her neck and back. “And they’ll put you to use just like me.”
He backs away quickly, faster than she can react. He tosses the massive ball of fire and it lops over her head. “You’re better off dead. Trust me, I’m doing you a favor.”
The fireball lands in the chemicals and in an instant engulfs the floor. Cans of paint heat and explode. She runs toward the door, leaping over the fire. But it spreads quickly, too quickly, and soon she’s surrounded by an impenetrable blaze.
“Cas, I’m in trouble.”
The ear piece grows hot and she yanks it out before she can hear his response.
Smoke fills the room, filling her lungs. Sweat pools against her palms and the fingertips of her gloves. Falling to her knees, she knows this is it. There’s no way in or out. Devin wants her dead.
She falls over, coughing and covering her mouth. The heat is unbearable—her skin pulls tight. A flash of black catches her eye. She’s sure it’s the reaper coming for her. A shadow crosses over her and strong hands lift her off the floor. Half-conscious, she’s aware of being carried through the flames, her head covered by something hard and metal.
The air just outside the gym is clearer but still not safe and her body is racked with spasms from the smoke. The crash of glass is followed by her falling to the ground. Wet grass. A hovering shadow. She reaches up and feels sharp angle of a jaw.
“Quinn?”
He tugs her gloves off, peeling away the melting fabric, and his warm hand meets hers.
A window explodes behind her and flame seeks oxygen. Light fills the night and she sees his face. It’s not Quinn.
His eyes aren’t quite right and his shoulders, while broad, are too narrow. He holds something over her head, protecting her from raining glass.
“You…” she says, trying to form the words. He looks down on her and his name is on the tip of her tongue.
The world turns black.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Astrid
“As.”
Her name floats down like a cloud, miles away and completely out of reach.
“How long has this been going on?” a familiar voice asks. A normally kind voice, but now it’s laced with anger.
“A few weeks,” Quinn replies. Two heartbeats echo in h
er ears. “It was under control.”
Thumpthump
Thumpthump
Both pound with tension that vibrates across her skin. The fire didn’t dull her senses. If anything, it’s made them stronger. The only time it fades away is when the nurse brings her medication and she slips back into unconsciousness.
“She nearly died, Quinn. I wouldn’t call that under control.”
That voice comes from Jensen. No wonder it sounds so pissed.
“I’m sorry. That last one. It was a trap of some kind. I thought Astrid was in the clear.”
“You thought wrong!” Jensen shouts. Astrid tries her hardest to open her eyes. She wants to tell him it’s okay. She’s okay, but that there are bad guys out there they need to find. “This little game you’re playing. This foolish idea of Atticus’s! It has to stop. It’s too dangerous.”
Her head weighs a million pounds.
“The doctor says she’s okay. She’s just sleeping to heal herself.”
“You better hope she does,” he says, followed by a loud bang that filters through the fog.
Her hand is lifted. Held. Her forehead kissed.
She sleeps.
*
The sharp scent of antiseptic and bleach wake her from a long, deep sleep. She stretches, achy from lack of movement. It’s dark outside. A figure slumps in the chair at the end of the bed and she fumbles with the switch for the light.
Owen shifts in his seat, rubbing his eyes at the sudden brightness.
“Hey,” he says, jumping up. He’s at her side, holding her hand in an instant.
“Where are we?” She swallows at the pain in her raw, smoke-damaged throat. He hands her a cup with a straw.
“Crescent General.” He brushes her cheek with the back of his hand. “Things went sideways at the school. Thought we lost you for a minute.”
“How long have I been here?” She thinks back to the faint conversations she overheard while sleeping. Quinn and Jensen had been here.
“Three days. The smoke damage was bad. The doctors wanted you to sleep it off.” He strokes her hair, and after a lifetime of little touch, it means more than she could’ve imagined. “Do you remember what happened?”
Devin’s face has been with her every second. The way he looked throwing those fireballs at her. The evil things he said. It’s too much to process right now but she says, “The guy who did it goes by the name Blaze. He works for Kincade.” She clutches Owen’s hand. “He’s one of us.”
His forehead furrows. “What do you mean?”
“He’s a Super—one of the twelve. I had a suspicion from the echo I read off the kid I chased. As a last-ditch effort to distract him, I called him on it. He knew my name.” She swallows. “And he tried to kill me.”
He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses her gently. “This job keeps getting harder and harder.”
“I know.” She notices a huge vase of purple and pink flowers. Beneath it, a green bottle of soda and a pink bakery box. She doesn’t have to ask about the flowers, but she does anyway, “Demetria?”
“Yeah,” he says with a shake of his head. “How did you get out of there? By the time Casper radioed me and Quinn, the whole place was engulfed.”
She stops. “I’m not sure. I remember the fireballs Blaze threw at me and I remember the com melting.” She holds up her hands, still bandaged from the burns. “Somehow I got out.”
“Someone dragged you out. You were left on the grass by the road. Footprints say it wasn’t just you. Jensen’s been working the case twenty-four-seven.”
She searches her memory. She does recall the fear of death and knowing someone had come for her. But beyond that, everything is hazy.
“There was so much smoke. Maybe Blaze changed his mind and got me out of there?” Even as she says it, she knows it’s doubtful. She couldn’t sense anything good about him.
“Yeah, I doubt that. But someone got you to safety. Guess you have a guardian angel.”
She laughs, darkly. “Poor bastard. They’re going to have their work cut out for them.”
“Bastard?” Owen raises an eyebrow. “You think it was a man.”
Astrid knows it was. It’s just a feeling. She nods.
“Great, just what we need is another male pissing around you.” He looks at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got to get out of here—still dodging Jensen. He said he’d be back before his morning shift.”
“Thanks for being here, Owen. It means a lot.”
He touches her chin. “We’re a team, As. You’re stuck with me and Quinn and Casper for good.”
He kisses her, soft and sweet, and when he leaves she burrows down under the covers, feeling less alone than ever before.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Quinn
With Astrid in recovery, management of the gym falls to Quinn. The trainers, Mick, and customers all seem to accept him in the position. Jensen, on the other hand, is a harder sell, but something shifts the older man’s understanding about their relationship. Quinn isn’t going anywhere, and after yelling at him for an hour about allowing Astrid to put herself at such risk (as though anyone could tell her what to do), Jensen agreed to push the next round of Elite recruits back another week. That gave Quinn time to manage the day-to-day side of the business. The recruits are her thing and he didn’t want to feel her wrath if he interfered.
The official story is that Astrid got caught in the school fire helping some boys out of the property. Jensen was able to cover up her super suit. Instead of Echo, Superhero of Crescent City, the news reports focus on Astrid, community leader and business owner. It reveals another side of her, one that Quinn didn’t fully grasp. She’s well-revered, not only to the members of the gym but in the entire community. She’s left a mark here with her kind nature and unconditional commitment. Each morning, he opens the front door and finds flowers and notes.
Today, after opening the door for the early risers and bringing in a mason jar of wildflowers, he straightens the weight area. The guys are messy and inconsiderate, leaving barbells and equipment all over the place. He puts them away, sliding them into their appropriate rack before heading over to the ring. A lone boxer—a new guy—attacks the speed bag. His muscles ripple beneath his tight white shirt and he hammers the bag like no one else he’s seen before.
Other than himself.
Quinn picks up a towel and tosses it in a nearby bin. There’s another reason he’s keeping an eye on the gym. Some of these new visitors? He’s got a feeling there’s more to them than just curiosity. The guy beating the ever-loving shit out of the punching bag is one of them.
“Hey,” he says with a nod. The guy pauses and lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face.
The guy nods back. “What’s up?”
Quinn, wanting to test this a little further, nods toward the sparring ring. “Any interest in a round or two?”
“Sure, yeah, that would be great,” the man says. He seems perfectly nice. No nefarious vibe at all, but he’s not Astrid; he can’t get an accurate read on people the way she does.
Quinn removes his sweatshirt, dropping it on the bench. He grabs a pair of gloves off the rack on the wall and climbs into the ring. There’s never been a time where he felt intimidated from the physique of another man, but standing across from this guy, who appears to have zero fat and is carved out of solid muscle, he has a moment of doubt.
Mick walks over and says, “You need a ref?”
“Sure,” Quinn replies, feeling grateful for a witness to possibly the biggest mistake of his life.
Mick waits until they’re both ready, toes on the line, and presses the buzzer.
“Show me what you’ve got,” the man says, holding his fists in front of him. The fight escalates quickly, and the guy uses his entire body with every move. His speed is incredible, but Quinn holds his own. Two jabs to his side is like pounding into a brick wall. He doesn’t flinch. Quinn kicks. He’s blocked. He punches, swerves, ducks. In a moment
, he’s breathing heavy but still holding on. The guy? Damn. He hasn’t even broken a sweat and when he looks into steel gray eyes, Quinn realizes he hasn’t even started.
Focused on his opponent, he doesn’t even notice a crowd has gathered. He takes a tooth-rattling punch to the jaw. Swearing, he spits blood, then delivers one of equal intensity and the guy actually stumbles back. The crackle of energy flickers in his hands, an instinctive protection, but he staves it off. Not here. It’s not okay, but damn Quinn wants to fry him.
The moves turn less boxing, more physical—like MMA. Quinn smashes a knee into his chest, then slams into him, wrapping his arms around his expansive shoulders. Quinn falls, grunting on impact. The other guy is sweating now. Actually sweating, and he considers that a win.
That’s how badly Quinn is losing.
Mustering his last bit of strength, he swipes his feet. The crowd, nearly everyone in the gym, shouts when the bastard falls and crashes onto the mat next to Quinn. From there, it’s a scramble. A race to the knees, then to one another. He gets his hands around the man’s massive neck, lost in the haze of competition. His fingers wrap around Quinn’s forearms. He’ll break them.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Her voice cuts through the crowd that has automatically parted to allow her through before they flee. They’re right to scatter. She’s fucking pissed.
Quinn releases his hands and interestingly, so does the guy about to break his arms. He turns his head and sees Astrid standing on the edge of the ring. Owen is next to her, eyebrow raised. Her eyes skirt over Quinn and he can only imagine what he looks like. The taste of blood pools in his mouth.
“Hey,” he says, lifting on a wobbly arm. “You’re home—”
“You?” She’s not looking at him, but rather the brute that pummeled the crap out of him. “What are you doing here? And what the hell are you doing beating the shit out of my…” she glances at him, “Quinn.”
“Just came by to check out your facility.” He looks around. “I’m impressed.”