The White Knight & Black Valentine Series (Book 5): Superhuman Disaster (

by Brand, Kristen

  “Give me one minute,” I said. Not waiting for Eddy to respond, I walked towards Val.

  My knee burned with each step, and the cane wasn’t enough to help me walk steadily. My face felt puffy and stiff, and my torso felt like it belonged to Frankenstein, like someone had stitched together pieces of murder victims and then hit me with a bolt of lightning. The air was humid, and in the distance, thunder rumbled, heralding an oncoming storm. Elisa moaned, urging me faster until I reached the spot where Mr. Lucifer crouched, bleeding, on the street.

  I eased myself into a sitting position, my joints protesting every movement. Mr. Lucifer tore his gaze from Elisa and grinned.

  “You can’t help her, White Knight. You can’t help either of them.”

  I ignored him. He might be sitting in the driver’s seat at the moment, but this was Val’s body, and she was still in there somewhere. I could feel it. The two of us had a connection, not something telepathic in our minds, but deep in our souls. I knew her better than anyone. I loved her more than anything. Mr. Lucifer hadn’t been able to stop us from getting married, and he couldn’t stop us now.

  I cupped her face in my hands and tilted it towards me. Mr. Lucifer tried to pull away, but I shut him out. I shut out the pain pulsing through my body, ignored everything in the street around us, and focused only on her. Her face was soft and smooth except for the bumps of her scars, and all of it felt right in my hands. I knew the shade of her dark brown eyes better than any other color in the world, and I stared into them, searching past the cold, cruel gaze of Mr. Lucifer to the woman locked up inside.

  I leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

  “Don’t let him hurt our daughter.”

  There was a short, sharp intake of breath. She jerked back, and I let her go. Wincing, she clutched her forehead. Then her back arched, and she threw back her head.

  “No,” Mr. Lucifer rasped.

  “Yes,” Val replied.

  Eddy said something behind me, and I turned to see him helping Elisa up. He’d been right. Val would rather die than hurt her. Me? That was a different story. White Knight and the Black Valentine had fought for years. We’d hurt each other plenty. But Elisa? That went against every instinct Val had.

  A low growl came from Val’s throat, and she thrashed. I reached out to steady her, and she hunched over, making a soft noise of pain.

  “Dave?”

  “I’m here,” I said quickly. “I’m right here.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You can. You have to. I need you to come back to me.”

  She reached out—both physically and telepathically. I took her hand and gripped it tight, letting down my mental shields so she could get in.

  It felt like a crowbar to the skull.

  Her mind was in chaos. Her consciousness and Mr. Lucifer’s clashed like rabid wolves, biting and tearing and going for each other’s throats. Emotions hit me in rapid fire: rage, fear, disbelief, disgust—I couldn’t tell who was feeling what. The bullet wound in her leg sent steady waves of agony through it all, adding to the bedlam.

  Flashes of memory flickered weakly in my awareness. A small, young Val whimpering in pain as her father loomed angrily over her. Then she was older, yet still a child, arms trembling from the unexpectedly strong recoil of a gun, a man choking up blood on the floor in front of her. I felt the presence of Mr. Lucifer beside her before that memory vanished, replaced by Val lying a hospital bed, face burning dully, as her father derided her weakness.

  I’d give just about anything to deck her father in the face right now, but I’d have to find another way to help. I concentrated hard on our good memories together: the first time I’d cooked her dinner in my apartment; standing on the beach on our wedding day, a light, salty breeze ruffling her veil; Elisa’s last birthday in our backyard. Then I remembered others: a slow dance outside a bar, a secret rendezvous with both of us in costume—but they were from Val’s point of view, not mine. I felt a shift, like that feeling in a fight when my opponent starts to slow and my fists keep landing.

  I could feel Val all around me, her strength and fury drowning out all else. The bitter, poisonous feel of Mr. Lucifer’s consciousness ebbed with all the solemn dignity of a cat being forced to take a bath. He clawed and bit, but Val tore into him with equal ferocity.

  Then she ripped him clean in two.

  Flashes of memory hit me like candy bursting from a pinata.

  Mr. Lucifer sat in his wheelchair, wearing a scratchy orange jumpsuit and giving orders to one of the prison guards. Valentina might nominally be in charge of the family organization while he was locked up, but he didn’t trust her with everything.

  A gangster lounged in a smoky New York speakeasy, his sleeves rolled up and cards in hand, eyeing a waitress in a flapper dress. She had jet black hair and a temptress’s curves, and her eyes were the same shade of dark brown that his used to be.

  A mafia man stood underground, the darkness kept at bay with oil lamps, plotting a murder with other men in old-fashioned suits. They listened to him, bowing to his experience, but his lungs hadn’t been working right for months now, and he’d have to leave this body soon. Winning their respect all over again as someone new would be tedious. Maybe he needed a fresh start someplace else.

  An aging heiress sat on a balcony overlooking the canals in Venice on a sunny spring day, drink in hand. She’d achieved a life of perfect luxury and traveled in the highest of social circles, yet she wasn’t satisfied. She had no real power. Women could have respect and riches, but power… That was the domain of men.

  A scullery maid panted, heart racing in glee. She’d done it again! She’d possessed another person like a demon. The possibilities made her dizzy. She could leave behind the life of poor, pockmarked Claudia and be anyone she wanted. She thought of her pampered mistress, never having to work a day in her life, and smirked.

  And that was it: the end of the memories, the end of Mr. Lucifer. His conscious had shattered, the pieces dispersing like smoke in the wind. He was gone for good this time.

  Val took a deep, shuddering breath and leaned her head against my chest. The world outside our heads came back into focus: the hard, rough asphalt under me and the humid night air. A car had come down the road, and Eddy was waving them away, shouting that we’d already called 911.

  “Mom?” Elisa asked in a shaky voice, standing over us.

  Val raised her head and smiled tiredly. “It’s me, sweetie. I’m so sorry about all this.”

  Elisa dropped to her knees and threw her arms around her mother, and Val held her tightly. Although I was exhausted and aching, I couldn’t help but be warmed by the sight.

  “Dave,” Val murmured, still resting her head atop Elisa’s, “Can you do something for me?”

  “Anything,” I said.

  “Take your jacket and wrap it around my leg. I’m about to bleed out.”

  “Shit,” said Elisa, summing up my feelings exactly.

  A minute later, I’d torn up my jacket and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet. It was better than nothing, but I still wanted to get her to a doctor. Eddy limped back, having gotten rid of the car, and looked Val closely up and down.

  “Lucio?” he asked.

  “Dead and gone,” she replied.

  He exhaled, briefly closing his eyes. “Good to have you back, kid.” He glanced at her leg and winced. “Sorry about that.”

  I was about to snap that he should be, but Val grinned.

  “Don’t be. It was the best strategy you had. And you should’ve felt Dad’s outrage that you actually shot him. It was hilarious.” Her smile faded, and she swallowed. “Eddy, if I could’ve saved Irma—”

  “Stop.” He held up a hand. “She wouldn’t want us to waste time moping about it. Now, are we going to make our getaway or go help the junior heroes? Because we can’t stay in the street.”

  “Julio.” Val tried to stand and flinched. As she fell back down, Elisa and I both reached out to catch her. “We
have to help Julio.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, feeling my stomach drop.

  “Sweet has them. He knew they were coming. He told Dad—” She bit back the details. “We need to go. Now.”

  I didn’t argue. I just reached out a hand to help her up, and she took it.

  Chapter 18

  The van barreled across the golf course towards the clubhouse, and with every yard we crossed, I felt my shoulders and back grow tighter.

  “Where security?” I asked. “We should be drowning in teargas right now. They should be shouting at us over bullhorns to stop.”

  “Just keep going,” Val said from behind me.

  The reason I was driving instead of Eddy was in case they started shooting at us, but it seemed like a pointless precaution. I pulled up behind the clubhouse without seeing so much as a single rubber bullet. We all piled out of the van, Eddy and I supporting Val while Elisa went ahead. Two agents in suits were posted by the service entrance in the back of the building. One lay dead on the pavement; the other stood at his post as if nothing was wrong.

  Elisa tensed, ready to fight him, but he made no move to apprehend us. He scratched his nose and continued to blandly survey the area.

  “Um, the building’s under attack,” Elisa said. “You should probably, you know, do something about that.”

  “Everything’s fine,” he said, slurring slightly. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “Ignore him,” Val said. “He’s ingested the drug.”

  “Can you snap him out of it?” I asked.

  “I do that, and he’ll try to arrest us. I can barely keep my eyes open. Let me conserve my strength for the real fight.”

  Elisa got the door, and we moved inside. The carpeted hallways were tastefully decorated with antique side tables, vases of flowers, and fine oil paintings. It was quiet, but everything screamed that something was wrong. The first person we passed was a young man in a tuxedo holding a flute of champagne. Blood covered his hands and was splattered across his crisp jacket and shirt.

  “Lovely evening, isn’t it?” He smiled dazedly and wandered past us.

  Turning a corner, we came across another corpse on the floor. The only difference was that this one had a janitor cleaning its blood out of the carpet, humming softly to himself like the mess was no more than a spilled drink.

  “Left,” Val directed, and we all gave the janitor a wide berth as we passed.

  We passed more people strolling dreamily through the hallways with vapid smiles on their faces, a good portion of them bruised and bloodied. What had happened here? Had this many people already been infected by Dr. Sweet’s drug? If we didn’t stop him… Whatever had happened here, it could happen anywhere at any time.

  “Howard! Howard, please.”

  We came upon an older woman in an evening gown pulling frantically on the arm of a dazed, gray-haired man I assumed to be her husband.

  “We have to leave,” she begged, teary. “What’s wrong with you? Howard!”

  I looked at Val. She’d said she needed to conserve her strength, but the woman’s fear hit me in the heart. “Can you…?”

  Howard gasped, jerking and looking around like he’d just woken from a nightmare. “What…?”

  “Thanks,” I told Val.

  “Wasn’t me.” She smiled fondly at Elisa.

  “Head out the back,” Elisa told them. “You can go across the course to the street.”

  “Thank you,” the woman said breathlessly, pulling on her now much more compliant husband.

  “Wait,” I said. “Can you tell us what happened here?”

  The woman looked quickly up and down the hallway like she expected to be attacked. “I—I can’t explain it. Everyone was mingling and there was music, and it all seemed normal. Then those two superheroes—the ones on the news—I don’t—”

  “Freezefire and Blue Sparrow,” her husband supplied.

  “Yes, those are the ones. They burst in and said we were in danger, something about the water being drugged. We were starting to leave, but…” She shuddered. “Half the guests went crazy and started attacking the others. Janice Whitfield—I’ve known her half my life—tried to strangle me. I ran and hid, but the others...” She pointed a shaky, ring-adorned finger down the hallway. “They’re still in the ballroom. I don’t know what’s being done to them.”

  I thanked them and bid them to be careful, and we went our separate ways. When we drew near the ballroom, Val directed us around it to a small door with a plaque reading “Staff Only.” We crept down a narrow, poorly-lit hallway with scuffed floors and pipes running along the concrete walls. I could hear a voice in the distance, though it was too muffled to make out. Passing sound equipment and a ladder, I realized we were backstage.

  Holding onto my shoulder as Eddy and I supported her, Val was breathing raggedly. I glanced down at her leg, hopping the tourniquet was holding, and called myself an idiot for not bringing her immediately to a hospital.

  How are you doing? I thought at her.

  Good enough to finish this, she replied telepathically.

  There was a gap in the curtains. I gently disentangled myself from Val, leaving her to lean on Eddy, and hobbled to it to look out onto the ballroom without being seen. Tables were overturned, food and flowers scattered across the floor. A small crowd of guests and waitstaff huddled in the center of the room, surrounded by a mix of No-Men and their mind-controlled peers.

  “Really, Mr. Decker,” said Dr. Sweet. “Don’t expect any special treatment. I’m giving you the same offer as everyone else: drink this, or I’ll kill you.”

  Dr. Sweet stood not far from the stage, giving me a view of his bald spot and the back of his greasy head. Agent Lagarde flanked him, and they stood across from Raymond Decker. A tall, African-America man, he held his head high. His bowtie was askew, his jacket missing buttons, and there was a bruise around his left eye. Standing to either side of him and gripping his arms to prevent his escape were Julio and Jocelyn.

  They stared ahead blankly, obviously under mind-control. I clenched my fists.

  “Kill me, then,” Decker said. “That’s better than a lifetime as your puppet.”

  I mentally applauded. If Decker survived this, he’d definitely have my vote.

  “I think special treatment is in order, after all,” said Dr. Sweet—the second one, who’d been helping himself at one of the hors d'oeuvres tables while his twin ran the show. He strolled over, popping a shrimp into his mouth and licking his fingers. “Hold him still. We’ll shove the champagne down his throat.”

  The first Sweet sighed dramatically. “Oh, alright.”

  Decker struggled, but Julio and Jocelyn held him tight. Dr. Sweet stalked towards him with a glass of champagne, and I looked back at Val. How were we going to do this? We had to make our move now, or—

  The doors burst open, and two No-Man dragged in a stout, red-faced man in a rumpled suit whom I recognized well.

  “Walter Franke,” the first Dr. Sweet greeted. “Here to marshal the DSA against us? How’s that working out for you?”

  Well, on the bright side, Moreen’s warning must have reached him, and he must have believed her. But too much of the DSA must already be under Dr. Sweet’s control. I felt a weight settle in my stomach. There was no backup coming, nobody else who even knew this was happening. It was us or nothing.

  “You disgusting, pretentious lunatic!” Walter roared, trying to break free of the No-Men. “I don’t need the rest of the DSA to punch your fat face in!”

  “Such a temper,” Dr. Sweet tutted. “Don’t worry. Mind-control is a proven stress reliever.”

  The No-Men brought Walter forward and shoved him to the floor in front of Dr. Sweet. The crowd murmured fearfully, and Walter gave the doctor a defiant glare.

  “You’ve been poking around in the dark for months now,” Dr. Sweet said, strolling around him, “grasping onto the smallest traces of my grand plan—”

  “Like hell am I listening to
this,” Walter spat. “Agent Lagarde, your undercover assignment is officially over.”

  “Yes, sir.” She pulled her gun and shot Dr. Sweet in the back. The crowed screamed, and before I could blink, she’d turned and shot the second Dr. Sweet. Her shot went slightly wide, grazing his shoulder, but it still took him to the floor.

  I could only stare. Just like that, both doctors were neutralized. And Agent Lagarde hadn’t really switched sides? I knew it! Not that I’d known her very well, but she hadn’t seemed the type to turn evil. I wished Jocelyn wasn’t under mind-control so she could see it.

  “Everybody, stay calm!” Walter shouted at the crowd. The No-Men were still in the room, and so were all the people under mind-control. They just stood there, unmoving. Walter scanned the ballroom, taking it all in, before his eyes fell on Raymond.

  “You hurt, Mr. Decker?” he asked.

  “Just scrapes and bruises,” Decker said, glancing at where Julio and Jocelyn still held his arms. “They’re not coming out of it.”

  “Dr. Sweet has a machine,” Agent Lagarde said, eyes on her daughter though she was speaking to Walter. “It mimics a telepath’s brain somehow and is sending out the mind-control signal. I know where it is, so we can shut it down.”

  “Go take care of it,” Walter said. “I’ll keep an eye on…them. Why are there two of them again?”

  “His abilities allow him to reproduce asexually,” Agent Lagarde said stiffly. “It… It put me off my lunch when I saw it, sir.”

  “Ugh. I don’t need the details, then. Get moving.”

  She nodded crisply and turned to leave. Then the second Dr. Sweet started laughing. Agent Lagarde stopped and trained her gun back on him, but he just laughed, clutching his bloody shoulder and lying on the floor.

  “Oh, no,” he chuckled. “How horrible. Lagarde’s betrayed us.” He lifted his head to look at her. “Did you think it would be that easy? I had you on the operating table for sixteen hours when I was fixing your spine. Plenty of time to put in something a little extra.”