I glanced at him, not knowing how to reply. “He’s not” seemed obvious and insensitive, but I’d always been aware of Dave’s vulnerabilities. Perhaps that was the difference between a former supervillain like me and a hero like Julio: I was always on the lookout for weaknesses.
Julio slouched, looking at Dave as he rested his chin on his hands. “Nothing seemed to faze him when we used to fight together. I’ve never gotten used to him being hurt.”
“It doesn’t happen often,” I said. “I wish it happened less.”
We both looked at him lying in the bed, hoping he’d suddenly shrug it off like he had so many other injuries. It didn’t happen, of course. I was beginning to fear nothing would change his condition.
“Seems like he’s gotten the crap kicked out of him more often lately, though,” Julio added with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“He’s not the only one,” I said with a pointed glance at his cast.
He looked down at his hand. “Yeah. Taking an ass-kicking is part of the job, though. At least I get paid for it.”
“You remind me so much of him.” The words slipped out of my mouth, and by the end of the sentence, my voice broke. I swallowed, regained my control, and offered him a wry smile. “And I mean that as a compliment.”
He gave a weak huff of laughter. “Good. I was worried for a second.”
After a few more minutes, Julio’s phone rang, and he excused himself to take the call. It was the DSA summoning Freezefire to work. Dave may have retired from fighting crime as White Knight, but his former employers had taken note of his attack.
“We’ll find out who did this,” Julio promised after he hung up the phone and explained he had to go. “When I know something concrete, I’ll pass it along.”
“Thank you,” I said. “When he wakes up, I’ll tell him you came by.”
Julio looked at Dave, his mouth flickering as he fought off an expression of utter despair. Then nodded briskly at me and left.
Alone (No, not alone. Dave was there.), I bowed my head and buried my face in my hands.
Chapter 4
About an hour later, Bianca arrived.
Bianca was my favorite sister. She was four years younger than me and still an active supervillain, and the two of us had a definite family resemblance. I had a few inches on her in height, and her black hair was cut into a bob, but we had the same curved face and dark eyes. She walked up in black boots, tight jeans, and a sleeveless green shirt that showed off the tattoos covering both her arms—arms that immediately embraced me.
“Hey,” she said. “How are you holding up?”
I didn’t bother trying to smile. “Badly.”
“Tell me everything.”
I sat down and gave her the summary, and though it was the fourth time I’d gone through it, my voice wavered at several key moments. It must have been because she was family.
“And you really have no idea who did it?” she asked. “Come on, you can tell me.”
That stung. I expected suspicion from the DSA, but Bianca was my sister. Surely, I deserved a little more trust. “It was pitch black. I couldn’t see a thing. All I know is they were professionals.”
Sitting in the chair Julio had vacated, Bianca leaned back and crossed her legs. “Well, who have you ticked off lately?”
“No one. I’m retired.”
“Pfft.” She made a face. “People in our line of work never really retire. You must have a few things running on the side.”
I glared. “I’ve been spending time with my family and enjoying the Florida sunshine. I’m out of the game. I don’t know why anyone would attack us now.”
“Come on, Val. Were you expecting to ride off into the sunset with your knight in shining armor and have a happy ending?” Bianca leaned forward. “You were never that naive.”
No, I hadn’t been expecting a perfect little happily ever after. But I hadn’t been expecting this, either. Bianca was right, though. I should have been more prepared, and I should already have a list of suspects. While I might not be making any new enemies, I had no shortage of old ones who’d like revenge, and neither did Dave. Dr. Sweet sprung immediately to mind, fresh out of prison with a long-standing grudge against us, but really, it could be so many people.
Time to start narrowing down the list.
“I’m not naive,” I said. “And I’m not a fairy tale princess. I’m the evil queen.”
Bianca smirked. “That’s better. So, your highness, do you want me to look into it? I’ll find whoever did this and bring their hearts back in a box.”
“That’s not why I asked you to come. They hurt my husband, my family. If anyone’s going to carve out their hearts, it’s going to be me.”
The smirk left Bianca’s face. “Then why did I just fly five hours from California?”
“Because I don’t know who the target of the attack was—Dave, me, or both of us. I can’t leave him alone to get revenge when someone might come to finish him off. He’s too vulnerable.”
Bianca rubbed her eyes. “You brought me here for babysitting duty? Shit, Val. You know I had to ditch Sara for this, right?”
I exhaled sharply through my nose. I couldn’t lose control, not even in front of my sister. “Bianca, they don’t know if Dave is going to wake up.”
Whatever Bianca had been about to say died on her lips. She glanced at Dave lying in his bed, and her face softened. She hadn’t liked him when we first got married, but he’d grown on her over the years. Not that he’d been trying. Dave was nice to people without expecting anything in return.
“Keep him safe for me,” I whispered. “Please.”
Bianca took a deep breath, and when she turned back to me, her jaw had set. “If anyone so much as looks at him wrong, they’ll deal with Lady Nightmare.”
“Thank you.”
I stood, the knot of anxiety in my stomach loosening ever so slightly. Dave would be safe with her, and now I was free to tear the city apart brick by brick if that’s what it took to find his attacker.
“Where are you headed first?” Bianca asked.
“To Jean-Baptiste.”
Bianca cocked her head. “The Prophet King? You think he’s behind this?”
“No, but I think he’ll have a good idea who is. He knows everything that goes on inside his turf.”
“Yeah, but weren’t you in the Keys? That’s a little outside city limits.”
“The boat that attacked us didn’t sound big.” The sound of its engines rang out, echoing in my mind, and I fought off a shudder. “It had to come from somewhere relatively nearby. Even if it wasn’t Miami, I won’t lose anything by asking.”
Bianca shrugged. “All right. Tell Jean-Baptiste I say hi.”
I nodded and headed for the door. Then I stopped and looked back at Dave, a pain in my chest making it difficult to breathe. There was nothing I could do for him. It made me want to scream, but it was true. So, I left to do the only thing I could: find the people who did this and make them pay like hell.
• • •
Before seeing Jean-Baptiste, I had to go home and shower. It probably wasn’t the wisest decision. If whoever had tried to kill us found out we’d survived, they’d be watching the house. But at this point, I’d welcome it. I had no idea who or where they were, but if they attacked me, I could get the answer to those questions real fast.
When I stepped into the bedroom, it undid me. It was too much, too many memories, too many traces of him in plain view. The silver watch I’d given him for his birthday sat on the dresser; he hadn’t wanted to pack it since it wasn’t waterproof. Then there was that stupid alarm clock that he set far too early every morning. A pair of handcuffs rested next to it, ones he’d surprised me with to replace the set he’d accidentally broken a while back. I sat down on the bed, the soft mattress sinking beneath me, and took a deep breath.
It wasn’t enough. All the emotions I’d been trying to suppress flooded out like blood after a stab wound. With a sc
ream, I grabbed the lamp off the nightstand and threw it at the wall. It broke with a satisfying crash, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy me. I kicked over the nightstand, and it hit the floor with a loud crack as if something inside had broken, and the picture frame that had been resting atop it shattered. It was a picture of Dave and me on our wedding day.
I sank to the floor, sobbing messily, and stayed that way for far too long. When I finally came back to myself, my face hot and chest aching, I realized how pathetic I must look and went to take a shower.
The hot water soothed me, and by the time I finished, I had my emotions under lock and key again. My closet held too many options, and I didn’t have time to dawdle. A red dress and heels tempted me, but then I’d never be able to carry my good luck charm: a tiny Derringer pistol strapped to my ankle. I went with a black pinstriped Armani pantsuit instead, the pants leg hiding my Derringer and the silk-lined blazer covering my shoulder holster and the Beretta 92F inside. Practical shoes, diamond earrings, and one more Beretta in my purse completed the preparations. I left the house, disappointed no one had tried to kill me yet.
Jean-Baptiste had chosen to meet at a bakery in Little Haiti. It was an unassuming little place sandwiched between a hair salon and a laundromat, and a young woman stood outside the door, arms crossed and alert. Amala Kapoor, AKA Ember. She was tall and statuesque, with brown skin and dark hair piled artfully atop her head. She wore white boots, tight black pants, and a fabulous purple jacket with pointed shoulder pads. Large, white-framed sunglasses covered her face, and her necklace bore a circular obsidian medallion carved with a stylized E. It was a good look: supervillain chic. I gave her a nod as I walked up.
She returned the nod as I swept the place telepathically. Jean-Baptiste and I had known each other long enough that I didn’t invade his mind without permission, but his people were fair game. Ember had no knowledge of any plan to attack me; she was just feeling vaguely aggravated as she thought about how I’d mind-controlled her the last time we’d met. But she was a professional and didn’t say a word, much less attack me as I strode in through the front door.
The bakery’s interior was stark and simple: unadorned white walls, a few plastic chairs and tables, and a large glass case filled with breads and pastries. Not exactly a treat for the eyes, but the nose was a different story. The air smelled of parsley, thyme, pepper, and onions, slow-cooked meat and freshly toasted bread. My mouth salivated, reminding me I hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday. I was in the right place to fix that, but business came first.
Jean-Baptiste Dupree, the Prophet King, Miami’s criminal kingpin, was the room’s only occupant besides the woman behind the counter. He sat in one of the plastic chairs, his expensive white suit and tie showing up the dirty, scuffed walls. Jean-Baptiste was a devilishly-handsome man in his mid-thirties, and he was a good person, relatively speaking. Sure, he had the local market cornered on drug-dealing, prostitution, and arms-trafficking, but he was efficient at it. That meant good working conditions for his people and no needless violence. You really didn’t have anything to worry about unless you got in his way.
“Valentina,” he greeted in a deep voice that had a slight Haitian accent. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Jean-Baptiste.” I sat in the chair across from him. “I need a favor.”
“Again?” Jean-Baptiste smiled humorlessly, his sightless eyes hidden behind expensive sunglasses. “You’re digging yourself deep into debt. When was the last time you did something for me?”
“I don’t have time for witty banter today.” A dull throb had started behind my eyeballs. I reminded myself that I didn’t need to keep the grimace from my face, just the strain from my voice. “Give me the information I need, and I’ll do just about anything you want.”
“Interesting.” He twisted one of the gold rings on his fingers. “I’m not agreeing to anything, but I’ll hear you out over breakfast. What would you like? I’d try the guava juice, personally. The pastries here are heavenly, but the coffee is shit.”
“Guava juice it is, then. And a pastry, while you’re at it.”
“Of course. Rachelle?”
He didn’t turn to face the woman behind the counter, but she sprang into action all the same. Body tense, she snatched plastic cups and rushed to a plastic drink dispenser.
“My family was attacked,” I said, done wasting time. “Dave’s in the hospital.”
The laugh lines on Jean-Baptiste’s face smoothed as his smile faded. “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s his condition?”
“They’ve stabilized his vitals, but he hasn’t woken from his coma. No telling if he will.” The words sounded detached to my own ears, like I didn’t care. “The people who attacked us were professionals. They knew the range of my telepathy and made sure to stay outside it. Do you know anyone in the area who could pull off something like that?”
Jean-Baptiste drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened. All the details. From the beginning.”
How many times would I have to repeat this story? I took a deep breath and started with the sound of the boat motor in the darkness. Rachelle came by with two cups of guava juice and a puff-pastry, and I scanned her mind out of habit to make sure she wasn’t trying to poison me. When I finished speaking, Jean-Baptiste sat in quiet contemplation, so I started on the pastry. Its delicate crust crumbled in my mouth, releasing the savory beef filling, and any other time, I would have enjoyed it slowly to relish the taste. But today, I only cared about the energy it would give me. I finished it in under a minute and drank the juice to cool the burn the spice had left on my tongue.
“You’ve been sitting there quietly for a few minutes now,” I said. “Care to share your thoughts? Or should I just read them?”
“I’m trying to think of a way not to disappoint you. I’ve heard rumors, but nothing substantial.”
Only rumors? Jean-Baptiste was usually more thorough than that. But what did it say about the people who’d attacked us that they could stay off the Prophet King’s radar? It wasn’t exactly promising.
“Well, even a rumor would be more to go on than what I have now,” I said.
His mouth remained frustratingly closed.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re like a loaded gun,” he said after a moment. “I’m afraid of the consequences after I point you.”
“Oh, please. If you give me the wrong person, I’ll know the instant I read their mind. It’s not like I’m going to torture anyone for information.”
“I suppose that’s true.” He twisted his ring again. “But there are consequences if I point you in the right direction, as well.”
“Consequences for them,” I hissed. “Because I’ll make them regret every breath they draw, when it means another second living in mind-breaking agony.”
“Hm.”
He couldn’t have been silent for more than a few seconds, but it seemed like hours. Why was he hesitating? My vision blurred, and I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. Twenty-four hours’ lack of sleep must have caught up with me. I hadn’t pulled an all-nighter like this in a while.
“What are you afraid of?” I asked. “Who are they?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say.”
“You can’t say? What the hell does that—” Dizziness enveloped me, and I grabbed the edge of the table to keep from falling. This wasn’t a single night’s worth of sleep deprivation. I stared at the empty plastic cup and porcelain plate on the table, trying to focus, but my vision wouldn’t clear. The guava juice? Or the pastry? They couldn’t have been drugged; I’d read the woman’s mind. But they must have been. Jean-Baptiste made no move to help me. He would have, if he wasn’t responsible. Gravity seemed to have increased. As my consciousness slipped away, I struggled to lift my heavy head to look at him.
“How...?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But you would have done the same in my place.”
Chapte
r 5
I’d been betrayed before, of course. It was all part of the game when you were a supervillain, but there was one time that stood out above all others.
It happened…oh, seventeen or eighteen years ago while I was still an active supervillain. The Black Valentine had slipped from the top of the DSA’s Most Wanted List, but I was sitting comfortably at the number four spot at the time. More importantly, I was sneaking off to secret, amorous rendezvous with White Knight whenever nobody was looking.
The media will try to convince you that supervillains spend most of their time fighting superheroes, but really, infighting gets more of us than the costumed crimefighters could ever hope to. (Though fighting is usually a sign you’re doing it wrong. A good villain pulls off their scheme without anyone even knowing what they’re doing until it’s too late.) At the time, I was engaged in a turf war with a minor crime boss called Madame Guillotine, but I had an ace up my sleeve. Her name was Electric Jane.
I don’t have friends. Part of the reason is that my lifestyle makes it hard to trust people, but it’s mostly because I’m not a nice person that someone would want to be friends with. But Electric Jane used to be the exception. She understood that supervillainy should be fun, and she could down tequila shots like nobody’s business. When she came to me saying Madame Guillotine had hired her as a henchwoman, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. For weeks, she fed me information about the villainess’s operations, allowing me to disrupt and sabotage them.
In hindsight, I should have realized Jane never gave me any critical intel. It was just enough to let me annoy Madame Guillotine and feel as if I’d accomplished something, solidifying my confidence that Jane was on my side. After our initial meetup, she only communicated by phone, so I couldn’t read her mind. The idea to become a triple agent must have come to her after she proposed being a double agent to me, because I hadn’t sensed any duplicity when she’d first offered.
The White Knight & Black Valentine Series (Book 4): Kill Them All Page 4