Superlovin': Midnight Justice

by Vivi Andrews

  Damn, Belle. He wanted to be angry with her, but he could only be impressed. It took an insane amount of energy and concentration to reproduce a believable double, but Mirabelle was managing three copies of herself.

  The gangplank clattered onto the dock in front of him.

  “Do come aboard, Mr. Wroth,” the thin man called from the stern, his oddly modulated voice identifying him as the infamous Kevin. “I’ve so been looking forward to shaking your hand.”

  Lucien could think of better uses for his hand, like wrapping it around Kevin’s throat, but he obeyed the request, striding up onto the deck.

  “Won’t you have a seat?” Kevin asked, waving to the couch opposite the one where he was cuddling with Mirabelle. Lucien grudgingly sat as the crewmen went to work drawing up the plank again and shoving away from the bumpered dock. There were easily twenty armed men aboard. Bullets wouldn’t hurt Lucien, but he couldn’t start a firefight with Mirabelle in range. Shit.

  Kevin waited, casually sipping Perrier until they were well away from the shore. When the city lights were just a gleam on the horizon, he raised a hand and the boat stopped. Without the wind and engine noise, it was eerily quiet, the only sounds the creaking of the boat and the soft slap of water against the hull.

  “Mr. Wroth,” Kevin began, rising from the couch. Mirabelle stayed with her legs tucked beneath her, gazing up at Kevin with all the blank adoration of a puppy. All the sharp intellect had been wiped from her eyes. Lucien wanted to kill Kevin for that alone. “I understand you are under the misapprehension I am manipulating Mirabelle or trying to use her in some way.”

  Lucien didn’t hear a question, so he didn’t bother replying, just watched Kevin steadily until a sly smile curled the thin man’s lips. He was barely more than a boy. Only a few years older than Mirabelle, but already there was a sinister maturity in his eyes. A cruelty that had aged him beyond his years.

  “It was Mirabelle’s idea that I call you, you know. Clever girl.” Kevin gently stroked her head, like one would a favorite pet. Mirabelle sighed happily. “She didn’t think you would come if we simply invited you. Apparently, your sister believes you only respond to threats against her life, Mr. Wroth.”

  Lucien’s glance flicked briefly down to Mirabelle, but she was still gazing worshipfully at Kevin and didn’t meet his eyes. A tinge of guilt stirred. He did ignore her if she was happy, only sweeping to the rescue when she was in trouble. Small wonder she was always in trouble.

  “Don’t you want to know why I invited you here?” Kevin asked. “Your lack of curiosity is astonishing.”

  “I don’t care why. I’m only here to take Mirabelle home.”

  She didn’t even blink at the sound of her name. “What if she doesn’t wish to go with you?” Kevin murmured, still petting Mirabelle’s hair. “She is a grown woman, Mr. Wroth. Fully capable of making her own decisions.”

  “Is she making her own decisions?” Lucien snarled, feeling a rare savagery at his sister’s trancelike state. “What’s she on?”

  Kevin smiled, an oily snake smile. “There are no drugs in her system, I assure you.” He bent down and stroked Mirabelle’s cheek, whispering something in her ear. She nodded and her eyes fell closed, a blissful expression on her face as she began to sway in time to the rocking of the boat.

  Kevin straightened and something fell away from his expression, leaving it even more coldly dangerous than before. “I have no interest in your sister, Mr. Wroth. It’s you who fascinate me. Your strength.”

  “The Apocalyptum. You used Mirabelle to get to me.”

  Kevin’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Very good, Mr. Wroth. Yes, sadly my new toy is useless without superstrength. But you are quite strong, aren’t you? So rare in one on the less-than-heroic side of the spectrum.”

  The word spectrum bothered him, reminding him of his earlier debate with Darla on the grey areas of good and evil. “So I agree to trigger your bomb for you and you release Mirabelle?”

  “I do enjoy working with someone for whom I don’t have to spell everything out.” Kevin smiled, a reptilian twist of his thin lips.

  “It will kill me.”

  “Most likely, yes. But you seem the noble sort. Just think of it as saving your sister’s life.”

  “And murdering thousands. Possibly millions.”

  “There’s no way to be sure of how many casualties there will be, of course, with no tests ever conducted on the blast radius of Apocalyptum. Such an unpredictable material.”

  “It won’t help your cause.”

  Kevin laughed. “There is no cause, Mr. Wroth. No manifesto. The cause was all for Mirabelle’s benefit, to bring her into the fold.”

  “Then why?”

  “To get rid of the heroes, of course. Everyone who can stop me will be in pieces, and anyone looking for a villain to blame will only see you.”

  “It doesn’t seem like a very good deal for me.”

  “Even for sweet Mirabelle’s sake?” He patted her head.

  “I could just kill you now.”

  Kevin tipped his head, still smiling like a serpent, his eyes as flat and inhuman as one. “You could try. Though I should warn you, I’ve been playing with a new toy lately. A sort of modified pacemaker. If my heart stops beating, this boat explodes. Now, you would survive. It isn’t an Apocalyptum bomb. But Mirabelle is so much more fragile, isn’t she?”

  Shit. This was why he didn’t go into situations relying on brute strength.

  “I’d like your answer, Mr. Wroth. Will you promise to trigger my Apocalyptum when I call on you in exchange for Mirabelle’s release?”

  A promise could be broken. “Sure.”

  “Swear it on your sister’s life, Mr. Wroth.”

  Just words. They were only words. He could still go back on them, but this time the promise stuck in his throat.

  “Mr. Wroth.”

  “I swear. On Mirabelle’s life.”

  Kevin beamed. “Excellent. Then she’s all yours.” He tapped Mirabelle’s cheek, and she raised her face to him adoringly. “Your brother is here, precious.”

  Mirabelle looked over at Lucien and beamed. “Luc!” Her pupils were blown, her expression still vacant enough to concern him. For a blink, the image of her flickered, becoming the girl she had been a decade ago, when they’d lived briefly in their father’s mountain lair, but the image vanished abruptly and the adult Mirabelle returned. Lucien went to her side and took her arms, helping her to her feet, even though her muscles seemed to have the consistency of jelly when she tried to stand.

  “We’re going home, Belle.”

  “Oh good,” she murmured, the words whispered through a breathless fog. What had Kevin done to her?

  A cold hand closed over the bare skin on Lucien’s forearm.

  “You didn’t really think it would be that easy?”

  The voice was Kevin’s, but it sounded different, thicker, as if it had been layered over itself and become its own echo. It seemed to come simultaneously from far away and deep inside Lucien’s brain. He tried to move, but his limbs weren’t responding to his commands. No, not like this. A strange numbness seeped through his body, radiating out from the touch on his arm. If inertia were a physical sensation, it would feel like this. His thoughts began to loosen and unravel, too fuzzy and soft to hold any shape.

  “You don’t want to leave, Mr. Wroth. You promised to stay and help me. To save Mirage. I can’t stand the thought of precious Mirage being hurt, so I will keep her by my side. We’ll retreat to a safe location. And you will bomb the Super Summit, won’t you, Mr. Wroth?”

  He didn’t make any intention to form the words, they simply happened, as if he’d heard someone else speak. “I will.”

  “Very good, Mr. Wroth. Very good.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Superbad for Beginners

  Darla stormed out of the mayor’s office, knocking the door clean off its hinges and too angry to care. “Pompous bastard,” she muttered as she stalke
d down the hall and into the rotunda.

  After all the times she’d protected this city, he hadn’t even had the decency to pretend to believe her. And she had proof! The bug she’d placed on Lucien when she hugged him goodbye had picked up more than enough to condemn Kevin—before it and the GPS device had gone dead.

  Darla shoved the MP3 player into her purse before she crushed it in her grip. Admittedly, the recording didn’t exactly paint Lucien in the most innocent of lights, but when she’d insisted Kevin was using some kind of mind control on him and the mayor needed to mobilize the city’s resources to mount a rescue mission for Lucien, the self-important bastard she’d helped put into office had the nerve to pat her hand and tell her to take a few days to go to a spa. A spa!

  “I’ll shove a spa up his ass,” Darla snarled, stomping down the steps of city hall, the midday pedestrians darting out of her path.

  As much as she wanted to pummel the mayor, ninety percent of her anger was directed at herself. She’d lost Lucien.

  She’d followed him last night, skulking—as much as it was possible to skulk among the cumulus clouds—until the boat had simply vanished, so abruptly she knew Mirage had to have a hand in it. The sound recording on the device she’d borrowed from Trident Tech was the only evidence she had that the entire previous day hadn’t been a figment of her imagination.

  But it wasn’t. Lucien was in trouble.

  Her cell phone rang and she lunged for it, hitting the talk button so hard it was a small miracle the screen didn’t crack. Thank Trident for that polymer. “Lucien?”

  “Lucien?” Tandy parroted back. “Who do we know called Lucien, and why are you so eager for him to call?”

  Shit. Stupid, Darla. Of course he wouldn’t call. He’s busy being mind-fucked by a sociopath. “Tandy, I can’t really talk now.”

  She needed to find Lucien, which meant she needed a plan, but he hadn’t been wrong when he said heroes were all instinct and muscle. Planning wasn’t really her forte. Think like a villain, Darla. What would Lucien do?

  “Have you seen the papers?” Tandy went on.

  “I’ve seen them.” DemonSpawn: Public Enemy Number One. Lethal Force Authorized. Darla had flown straight to the mayor’s office as soon as she’d seen those words.

  “I can’t believe he would do that.” Tandy gasped.

  “He wouldn’t,” Darla insisted. “I know him, Tandy. It has to be mind control.”

  “Mind control? Oh, honey, I know you want to think the best of Kyle, but sometimes an asshole is just an asshole.”

  “Kyle? What does this have to do with Kyle?” The time in her life when Kyle had even been a blip on her radar felt like a million years ago. Only Lucien mattered now.

  “The picture on the society page? Kyle and Charlotte Chase? Wait, what were you talking about? Who’s under mind control?”

  “No one. I’ve gotta go, Tandy.”

  “Wait! Are you free this Saturday? My brother is coming back from the super-exchange thing, and we’re throwing a party. You’ve gotta come.”

  “We’ll see. Bye, Tandy.” She hit the disconnect button. Saturday was a lifetime away. She had a villain to save and a bomb to prevent from blowing a crater in the entire city before then. And she didn’t have the first idea how.

  It was lowering to admit it, but she was a weapon. The mayor fired her, and she went where he pointed her. Strength and instinct—and a righteous sense of justice—but today she would be more. The mayor didn’t pull her strings anymore.

  She may not know where Lucien was now, but she knew where he would be on Friday, and she’d be ready for him. Just as soon as she called her old contact at Trident and found out everything she could on their experiments on mind control.

  She had no idea how she’d get into the Super Summit. The security at Victory Hall would be intense for the event, and the guest list was so tight her parents hadn’t even been able to score her an invite—and no one liked saying no to the Daring Dynamo. Darla might have been able to skate in as their plus one if they’d been attending, but they’d still be in Asia on Friday, enjoying their roles as the super ambassadors to the largest growing population with developing powers. At least she didn’t have to worry about them being blown to smithereens by an Apocalyptum bomb. She had enough reasons to have a nervous breakdown already.

  The good news was if Darla couldn’t get in the door, Lucien wouldn’t be on the authorized list either. Where would he be? How would he do it?

  She mentally ran through all her busts in the last decade for hints, looking at them for the first time through a criminal’s eyes. No time like the present to learn how to crash a major political shindig.

  DynaGirl was going rogue.

  Lucien Wroth was not in his right mind.

  He knew it, knew the thoughts in his head weren’t his own, but that knowledge was buried deep in some almost-forgotten corner of his mind, beneath layers of gauzy reassurance that he was meant to be doing this. He’d promised. For Mirabelle. And really, what wouldn’t he do for Mirabelle? What was a little explosion—

  Massacre.

  —a little self-sacrifice when you looked at the big picture? Didn’t he owe it to her? He’d left her to their father’s neglect, left her to be poisoned by his venomous worldview, but now, this would make it up to her. This would even the scales, release him finally of his guilt. He’d be at peace—

  Dead.

  —and so would Mirabelle.

  Owe her an apology, so damn hard to fight this, to fight him—

  She’d be free—

  Trapped with Kevin—

  Justice would be done, and she could go on with her life, live it as she was meant to live. Happy. She’d be so happy. All he had to do was activate the rock. Harmless little rock—

  Doomsday. Apocalypse.

  Darla wouldn’t understand—

  Thank God she wasn’t there. Thank God Kevin hadn’t been able to use her strength to trigger the bomb. Better it was him. Better she got to go on being a blindly faithful do-gooder and making the world a better place. Better just for having her still in it…

  —but some things were bigger than self-interest. This was his purpose. His entire life had been leading up to this moment.

  Lucien shuddered, the slight tremor the only physical symptom of the war being waged inside his head. From all outward appearances, he was just another man with a laptop case slung over his shoulder, a weary working stiff waiting for a commuter train on the 39th Street platform. The six-oh-five train to the burbs.

  The train that ran directly beneath Victory Hall.

  A countdown clock ticked down in his brain, tightening the coils of compulsion around his thoughts. Soon. Soon he would board the train. Take his seat. Wait until the right moment to open the laptop, activate the Apocalyptum core—

  An old paper whipped up in the wind from the train tunnel and smacked into his leg. Lucien reached to remove it, his movements sluggish, his hands feeling foreign, oddly distant. He held the paper, marveling for a moment at how the texture felt wrong, almost foggy against his fingertips, before he noticed the picture dominating the front page. His picture. A grainy action shot from a surveillance camera, blurred by the speed he’d been moving. Taken almost a week ago, on the night he’d met Darla.

  Darla.

  His knee twitched, a minor rebellion against the puppeteer in his brain, but Lucien could manage no more than that. Sweat broke out on his brow.

  The platform was nearly abandoned. Not that it mattered. What was a little collateral damage in a war?

  His stomach turned. Fight it, Lucien. This isn’t you.

  The layers of gauze parted, his mind coming closer to his own control, but his body remained detached, hidden behind the veil of numbness. Lucien focused on the picture.

  Why hadn’t someone stopped him? How could America’s most wanted just wander onto a train platform in the middle of the city and sit down?

  He heard the familiar sounds of a scuffle fr
om one of the hallways leading to the platform—muted exclamations, thuds, a sizzling charge like the sound of a taser—but he couldn’t turn his head to look. Apparently, his programming didn’t include curiosity.

  The six-oh-five train rattled into the station, right on time. Lucien rose. Complete your purpose. He crushed the thought, but his legs carried him through the open doors onto the train. Lucien fought for control, a silent, invisible battle, but the countdown clock continued its relentless ticking.

  Seventeen minutes. Then Mirabelle will be free.

  Darla Powers had beaten a SWAT team unconscious. She really ought to feel guilty about that.

  When she’d heard the call go out over the police scanner that Lucien had been spotted and the order shoot to kill, she’d hauled ass to get to the 39th Street Station before the specially armed anti-super SWAT team could move on his position. Before that moment in the crowded station corridor, she’d still been on the side of the angels. Pummeling a battalion of cops was a pretty solid indicator of her fall from grace. But she couldn’t let them kill Lucien. Not if she could stop him.

  You better be worth it, Wroth.

  Darla rushed onto the platform in time to see the six-oh-five train pull out of the station—and Lucien Wroth’s profile through the window of the second-to-last car as he stared straight ahead, unblinking. Darla cursed and launched herself off the platform, taking off into the tunnel after the train. She flew up to the last car, catching hold of the handles beside the door and resting for a moment, hanging on to the back of the train, before wrenching open the door and tumbling inside.

  The car was crowded, and several faces looked up from their cell phones and newspapers to gape at her less-than-heroic entrance. She couldn’t worry about her image right now though, she had to stop Lucien. Calling out to the passengers to remain calm and remain seated, she threaded her way quickly up the aisle to the next car. It was even more packed than the previous one and for a moment she didn’t see Lucien.

  Had he moved?