“And you need friends to do this?”
“Yes.”
Paris’s dark eyes narrowed on him. “You know, Roman, I’ve thought of several options regarding how I should handle this. I could expose you for what you’ve done, which would bring charges of treason against you, or I could simply finish it now.”
“I thought we were going to work something out,” Roman said, one eye on his power dial.
“Why do I get the feeling you didn’t come here to work something out?”
“I worked for you last time, for Ian—that worked out.”
“True, but only through threat. I don’t want to have to threaten you when I need something. When I need something, I need it then. No exceptions.”
“That’s why I think it’s best if we part ways.” Roman glanced down at his power dial. He knew he’d probably have to de-animate one of the dolls, but if he could keep them both active, he would.
“And I was right again. I wish I could retire on how many times I’ve been right. Goodbye, Roman Martin, I believe your fate has been decided.”
Her tongue flew out of her mouth, only to meet a wall of concrete that Roman had already called up from the ground.
The concrete formed a series of hands that grabbed hold of her tongue and yanked her to the ground.
Paris was shocked, sure, but she’d had enough training to react accordingly, and this reaction wasn’t what Roman had been expecting. As he continued to grow a concrete wall around her, Paris’s arms elasticated, growing six times the length of her body, and pulling her up and over.
As she landed, Paris twisted in the middle, her top half going to the rafters above and her bottom half running to the right.
Roman realized at that instant what he was up against, as her body returned to its normal size yet her arms remained six times larger than her form, her hands growing in width.
Her clothes torn away, Paris was now in a custom training bra and a pair of dark-blue tights that seemed to be made out of a polymer that stretched with her body.
“Looks like someone has a secret,” she said, and this was when Ian Turlock stepped out of the shadows, the big man flexing his muscles as more protrusions tore from his skin.
“I know who you are,” Ian told Roman.
“Of course you do; I’m the one that did your paperwork.”
“Not that. I fought you last night, you and your two lovers.”
Paris looked from Roman to Ian. “You knew about this?”
“He was wearing a mask last night; I didn’t recognize him,” the big man said, cracking his knuckles. As he cracked them, craggy spikes tore through the skin on his forearms.
“Celia, Coma, I want you to distract him,” Roman said under his breath. “I will handle Paris first; it’ll be easier that way.”
Roman was over the fact that the two dolls were dispensable.
Now that he knew he could heal them up quickly, it bothered him less that he was sending them to their doom. Coma was the first to respond, her fists lifting to the ready, the small muscles on her frail arms pulsing. Seeing her response, Celia also lifted her arms, a little unsure of herself as she had been before.
Roman would train them—he vowed to do this when he saw them step in front of him—but for now, he needed to pick off the easier of the two targets, and then focus on Ian.
“It’s a pity you’re going to die here tonight alongside your whores,” said Paris. “Your power, which I’m assuming deals with taking control of ordinary objects, would be useful for our operation.”
“I told you, I’m not going to be a cog in your machine.”
Paris’s torso elongated, her shoulders expanding back, her arms loosening as they lengthened. She launched herself at Roman, moving over the two dolls, who ran toward Ian.
Paris was fast, and before Roman could respond, the Western spy had wrapped around his body like a snake.
Roman could feel her starting to squeeze him tighter, his muscles starting to ache, his organs starting to press into one another. He had one arm outside her grasp, the one that had been up when she’d latched on.
Her neck four feet long and curved, Paris gazed down at Roman, a faux sadness in her eyes. “It’s too bad, Roman Martin, you would have been very helpful in what we are trying to do. I’ve done this before; it shouldn’t hurt for much longer,” she said, her grip on his body tightening.
Roman called all the concrete in his vicinity to his right fist and then swung it at her, causing her to scream out and loosen her hold.
He hit the ground and moved to the left, briefly checking to see that Celia and Coma were still engaging Ian.
The two had gone for a pester-and-dodge strategy, knowing full well that they wouldn’t be able to do anything to him. The big red man swung at them both, trying his best to grab one, but they were quite fast, and they moved around his punches with ease.
“You’re going to regret that!” Paris said, a hoarseness to her voice now.
Roman went for the first item he could spot, which happened to be a pipe jutting out from the wall. The pipe came down, spilling water onto the floor. Noticing his power dial flashing, and feeling his heart palpitating, Roman curved the pipe into a wheel, which he sent off in Paris’s direction.
Paris’s legs simply elongated, and the pipe went between them.
The taste of blood in his throat, Roman retracted power from Celia and Coma, leaving them stranded in front of an increasingly furious Ian.
Now in full control of the water spewing out of what was left of the pipe, Roman formed armor around himself and blasted it at Paris, the water wrapping around her throat and pouring into her mouth, choking her.
Her arms and legs flailed as the water lifted her into the air, drowning her. And he would’ve finished the job, too, if it hadn’t been for the large metal ball that struck him in the side.
His water armor protected his body, but the impact also knocked the wind out of him, forcing him to release his hold on Paris, who came crashing down to the ground, her arms drooping to her sides, a soggy mess.
What was that? Roman thought as he tried to piece together what Ian had flung at him. He saw both dolls lying on the ground now, tossed aside by Ian. It only took him a second to notice the steel ball zipping back to Ian’s hand, his silver necklace flashing.
Now that Roman knew the culprit, assuming it was some type of magnetic ballistic weapon tied to the big man’s necklace, he was prepared when Ian pulled his arm back to throw the metal ball at him.
Before he could let the ball go, which he held by putting two of his fingers in the holes of its metal surface, Roman animated Ian’s ball of metal.
It quickly engulfed Ian’s hand, spreading up his arm.
Using his other hand, the big man tried to peel the liquid metal off his forearm. He struggled to get it off, keratin spikes tearing through the metal, his muscles tensing as he tried to get control.
Figuring it was now or never, Roman called the concrete to his fists, followed by the metal, which coated his concrete fists and glinted in the soft light of the warehouse.
“That’s how we’re doing this?” Ian growled.
The fighter in Roman nodded, his water armor sluicing around him, his concrete and metal-laced fists twitching.
If someone had been standing outside the abandoned warehouse, they would have felt the two men collide. If someone had been standing three blocks away from the abandoned warehouse, they too would have heard the sickening collision, Ian’s gnarled knuckles against Roman’s concrete-and-steel-covered fists.
Roman fought his heart out, for Celia, for his own life, and for the future life he hoped to create for himself. He dodged all of Ian’s blows, connecting several times with Ian’s chest and once with the side of his face.
Ian’s luck changed when Roman moved in for another punch, missed, and Ian managed to headbutt him.
Roman went down, everything around him fading to black. With his last spark of consciousness, he po
ured as much energy as he possibly could into Coma.
Chapter Fifty-One: Unholy Alliance
Celia dropped her soft hand to Roman’s cheek. They stood in a meadow covered in ultraviolet flowers, the sky a starless vacuum of darkness.
“Celia,” he started to say, tears welling in his eyes. Her hair was back, the color had returned to her skin, and she looked healthy, happy.
“Roman,” her voice came as she moved up to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re almost there.”
Roman gasped, his eyes bulging open. He was lying in a puddle of water, his head pounding. He rolled to his side, breathing heavily, not able to fully comprehend what he was seeing.
Coma was going toe-to-toe with Ian, the masked doll dodging his advances, responding with quick punches and kicks. She moved faster than Roman had ever seen her move before, her attacks actually hurting Ian, evident in his grunts and the way he was nursing his ribs.
Roman felt the pressure of a thousand needles pricking into him. His arms and legs were numb, and once he was able to turn and look at his power dial, the realization came to him.
Roman was closer to dying than he’d ever been.
And part of him was fine with this.
Roman had never been a religious man, but seeing Celia in his dream-like stupor made him feel as if he could really go to that place, the meadow of ultraviolet flowers, and be there with her for the rest of eternity.
You’re almost there.
That was what Celia had said to him in his brief vision, and it must have meant something. Had she meant he was almost there—almost reunited with her? Or that he was close to defeating Ian?
Roman spat blood onto the concrete flooring of the warehouse. His entire body pulsed and went numb again, red flashing across his pane of vision.
It was as if his heart was the size of a throbbing watermelon, cracking against his rib cage, bullying his lungs and other organs, shaking his entire body.
Coma cried out as Ian struck her, sending her arching backward.
Now or never.
Animate inanimate objects.
Affect things at their molecular level.
Red is dead.
Roman took the power back from Coma, feeling his breath return to him.
His limbs stopped pulsing, and as Ian brought his foot back to punt Coma across the room, Roman focused on the protrusions jutting out of the man’s body.
Ian stopped moving, a look of discomfort spreading across his face. His protrusions quivered and started to shrink, but they didn’t just grow back into his body—some of them began curving towards his red skin, piercing his hardened epidermis and pressing through.
He doubled over in pain as a giant spike tore out of his back, blood spraying into the air. Ian dropped to his knee, more protrusions reversing their course and cutting into his skin, tearing through his tendons, shattering his bones.
Ian was a bloody mess by the time Roman finished.
He was also dead.
It took Roman a good ten minutes to catch his breath and finally get to his feet. Once he felt he was able, he re-animated Coma, who stood immediately, her head bent forward in an unnatural position as she came back to life.
He opened his hands to her and the masked doll moved to him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist.
“You saved me.”
Coma didn’t respond; she merely hugged him, the incarnation of Roman’s more aggressive side softening in his trembling arms.
He still felt like his energy had been drained from him, and while his power dial showed that he was running close to normal, it certainly didn’t feel that way.
“Thank you,” he said again, nuzzling the top of his chin in her dark hair. She felt human, her skin warm, her shoulders heaving up ever so slightly as she breathed.
It was incredible; she was alive because of him, and Roman was alive because of her.
They remained like that for another touching moment, one Roman would always recall when he recalled this scene.
Eventually, he animated Celia, whose first comment revolved around how disheveled everyone looked. Her second comment was a bit more gruesome. “And he’s dead,” she said, squinting at Ian, who lay in a bloody mess on the floor.
“Let’s finish this,” Roman said. While he caught his breath for a moment longer, Celia and Coma arranged Paris’s arms and legs so they were spread wide.
Roman turned the concrete beneath her wrists and ankles into liquid and sank her hands and feet deep into the concrete, pinning her to the floor. Focusing on her face and her dark hair, he quickly created a concrete band around her neck.
At that point, Roman waited, crouching next to Paris, biding his time before she awoke.
He wanted to know why she’d gone to all this trouble before he killed her, before he buried this part of his life, sealing it away in concrete.
Eventually, she blinked her eyes awake, and as she came to realize she’d been pinned, Paris tried to elongate her torso and break free from Roman’s clasps, slapping her back against the floor in the process and ultimately failing.
“What do you want?” she gasped, the concrete band around her neck tightening.
“I need to know why.”
“Why? What happened to Ian?” she cried, true fear in her eyes.
Her panic was momentary; she soon regained her composure, a trained soldier at heart. The West had more money than the East, less than Centralia and the South, and equal reserves as the North. Paris’s training had been extensive; she knew that any window of opportunity for her to get out of this was quickly dwindling.
“Red man is dead,” said Celia, her weight now tilted to her right hip.
Paris’s throat quivered, her eyes readjusting as she strategized on what might happen next. “And why did you keep me alive?” she finally asked.
“I need to know why.”
Paris tried to read the look on Roman’s face, the meaning behind his action, what he could possibly hold behind his orange eyes. The man she’d met at Heroes Anonymous was not the same man that crouched before her, blood streaked through his white hair, two seemingly innocuous doll-like women standing behind him.
“Why?” she asked, still not comprehending what he wanted to know. “And where did you get this power?”
Roman ignored her last question. “Why are you doing what you do? What are you hoping to get from the Centralian government?”
A million thoughts fired off in Paris’s head, all centered around the fact that she only had one chance to phrase what she said in a way that would appease Roman. She didn’t fancy for a moment that Roman would spare her life; he’d already killed Ian, an impressive feat to say the very least, and nothing about the way he now stood over her, killer instinct written large on his face, told her he’d let her live.
“Healers,” she finally said, going with her current assignment.
“Healers?”
“The Western Province has been ravaged by war for decades, especially in the borderlands. You probably already know this.”
“I do.”
“And we need healers.” Paris tried to laugh, to lighten the situation as best she could. “Sounds crazy, I know. I should clarify: the extent that I’ve been assigned with turning immigration advisors to gather data on healer numbers sounds crazy, not the fact that we need healers—that’s no laughing matter. Centralia doesn’t want refugees, doesn’t allow refugees really, and so we have to do something about those caught in the crosshairs of this war. So, healers. And from what we’ve uncovered, Centralia has killed all the healers.”
“That’s why you chose me? Healers?”
“The plan was more complex than that. It was actually about your officemate, Kevin Blackbook. His brother, of the same name, works in the Centralian Diplomatic Forces, which you probably know.”
“Aware. Kevin’s brother. What’s that have to do with me? Kevin’s dead…”
Paris held her tongue for a moment. If Roman didn’t know, then s
he wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. “Yes, he’s dead. Unfortunate. We wanted to use Kevin as leverage to get his brother to give us the info, which we weren’t able to do because of his death. We found another way, and from what we’ve been able to gather, Centralia has killed all but one healer.”
“I’ve never dealt with paperwork for a healer. Pretty sure Kevin hadn’t either, and if he had, it was years ago.”
“That’s because there are no more healers, like I said. Well, according to what we’ve been able to uncover, there is one, and your government has them.”
“Only one?” Roman immediately thought of Celia and watching her wither away. “Are you saying there is only one healer left in the entire world?”
Paris shrugged as best she could with her neck pinned to the floor. “Could be, or there could be more. This has changed the nature of my operation. What was once an operation to secure more healers to use in the West has now become an operation to uncover what has happened to all the healers.”
Roman glanced to his fists and noticed they were clenched tight. He thought of Celia, the fact that she could have been cured if they’d had a healer. If there’d been a healer available, she’d be with him now, alive, happy.
His knuckles grew red as he squeezed his fists even tighter. Someone was to blame.
“What do you think happened to the other healers?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“I don’t know,” said Paris, desperation flickering behind her dark eyes, “but if you let me go, we can work together to uncover the truth.”
Epilogue: New Horizons
Nadine gasped.
Life came back to her in the form of a deep gulp of air. Her lungs expanded, pressing against her rib cage, aching.
She coughed, rolled to her side, and coughed even harder.
She had no idea where she was, but she could quickly figure this out with a mental message to an Eastern Province teleporter. She couldn’t quite remember what had happened, but she did recall being attacked in her apartment, and a brief moment in which she’d been dragged up a flight of stairs.
House of Dolls Page 27
