by Angel Payne
I actually feel invigorated about it now—for which I am surely going to hell—but I can’t help myself. For the first time, people are in honest-to-crap trouble, and I can honest-to-crap help them. And I’m not going to lie about how good that recognition feels. Really, really good.
“Fill us in,” Reece demands when the chief returns from his radio exchange. Since Davidson stepped away, my husband has donned his battle leathers demeanor, despite still standing here in his crisp ’20s-style pinstripes. The all-business tone plus his classy, romantic threads incites we-want-to-lick-him stares from the two policewomen stationed across the lobby—but I have no time to toss around my possessive wifey weight, especially when Davidson’s ready to refocus at once.
“They’ve finally cleared enough debris to start working on the lower-level meeting spaces,” the captain supplies, dropping his bushy brows. “When your friend did his fun little ‘walkabout’ two years ago, the hotel sustained most of its damage on those levels.”
“The lower level,” I echo. “That’s where the bigger room is, right? The Biltmore Bowl, where a bunch of the Academy Awards were held?” In response to the man’s scrutiny, I supply, “Had to learn the trivia when I started working here. Was there a lot of damage to it? And what about any personnel?”
“Holy shit,” Lydia utters. The good and bad news here is that the quake hit on a Saturday night. Since the hotel’s lower level is still under reconstruction, there shouldn’t have been any guests in the affected area—and, hopefully, no members of the restoration teams either.
Before the chief can answer, my son launches into a bunch of boingy happy jumps. “Holy shit! Holy shit!” If the situation wasn’t so dire, I’d likely be snort-laughing at my little dude. Yeah, the little genius already comprehends that grown-ups don’t always communicate happy news with balloons, goodie bags, streamers, and cake—and now actually thinks Lydia’s calling for a party. “Holy shit! Holy shit!”
“Lux Mitchell Tycin.” Reece reprimands him with a gentle but firm look. “Hey, it’s time to take a chill pill, buddy.”
“Chill pill.” Lux echoes the words, which are new to him, and obviously decides he likes them. A lot. “Chill pill,” he giggles out. “Chillll Pilllll.”
After indulging one more smile his son’s way, Reece returns his focus to Davidson. “Lay it on us,” he charges, his stance fully alert. His shoulders are thrown back, his hands coiled but not clenched at his sides. His jaw is strong and set—and, I have to admit even at a time like this, breathtaking. “What are we looking at, and how can we help?”
Davidson, like the man’s man he is, re-braces his stance and meets Reece’s gaze. Only at this second, when his mien switches up, do I realize the guy probably didn’t come here seeking Reece by choice. Reece has told me before that police and fire personnel tend to think he’s still the spoiled brat billionaire playing games with the superhero persona. In short, maybe one step up from a Hollywood star ride-along. “No offense, man, but if I knew what we were ‘looking at,’ I’d likely not be here asking for your enlightenment on the situation.”
I hold back from smacking the man only because of Reece. Though he tells me all the time that I’m his spiritual better, times like this he teaches me how to be the better person. “Are you able to share a fly-over of the deets, then?” Reece asks while punching in the code to Sawyer’s number on his phone. As if the code is a summoning spell, Sawyer bursts out of the executive office double glass doors, hands full with what looks like our battle leathers and already dressed in similar attire.
“Get yourselves ready first,” Davidson returns. “I can brief you on the way over.”
I nod along with Reece, thankful for the brief—very brief—break to impart some fast instructions to ’Dia about Lux’s bedtime care, reassure my brain that I’m ready and trained for this, and then swiftly climb into my brand-new battle leathers. The outfit, newly designed for me by Fershan and Alex, features gold-colored piping along the inner seams of the legs and arms. They’ve installed similar accents in a rich cobalt blue to Reece’s gear. While both ensembles are still meant for slipping in and out of shadows undetected, the different colors help us keep track of each other.
Davidson’s so eager to get back to the building with the Roman columns and its distinctive barrel-vaulted entrances, the two-block journey to the Biltmore becomes damn near a jog. We enter the hotel at the main floor level off Olive Street. Across the street, at Pershing Square, the large geometric sculptures are joined by command centers for the Red Cross, the police department, and several fire battalions of the LAFD. If just some of what the fire chief has told us is true, all of them may be needed.
During the trip, Davidson dropped a few hints as to why he specifically sought us out. When the Biltmore’s security team made its initial sweep, nothing out of the ordinary was yielded—until the officers started hearing voices. A lot of voices. Not cries for help or anyone in pain but also not belonging to anyone they could see. The whisperings seemed to belong to the walls themselves. They’d come from everywhere and nowhere at once and were in a slurred, unidentifiable language.
“And I do mean nothing we could pinpoint,” Davidson clarifies as we pause inside the hotel’s entrance. “Nearly every man in my battalion is decently fluent in Spanish,” the chief goes on. “And we also have guys who speak Filipino and Japanese. With some additional help, we were able to rule out Russian, Chinese, Hindi, and most of the European languages. We still have no pinpoint on the language or dialect, just as we still have no exact location on the exact source point of the voices.” His face twists as if he’s just smelled something rancid. “Between you and me, it’s just a lot of fucking creepy.”
Creepy. It’s a decent descriptor for the hollow scuffs of our boots against the heavy tarps that have been laid out to protect what’s left of the marble floor in the hotel’s most famous public space. The last time I was here, marveling at the resplendence of the soaring Rendezvous Court, Mom and I met for high tea on a bright Sunday afternoon. I’m gutted as I look across the gloomy room now, still awe-inspiring despite being devoid of all chairs, tables, and even its polished grand piano. The famous Renaissance-style balcony, along with its intricate pillars, astrological-themed clock, and double-sided staircases are also shrouded, looking like a massive ghost preparing to grab us.
Reece and I share a meaningful glance. We both understand, with crystal clarity, the jaded fire chief sucked back his ego far enough to bring in the billionaire superhero and his “blondie” partner.
But while the atmosphere is eerie, it’s not terrifying. I’m puzzled by that and sense the same dilemma is pounding at Reece too. While I’m not as sensitive as Angelique to the poison of Faline’s nearness, I’d still take a legal oath that I don’t sense her anywhere near. Yet I don’t feel like this is a run-of-the-mill case of locating someone’s lost cat.
So what the hell is going on?
Reece maintains the all-business mien while pivoting back toward Davidson. “I assume you checked all the back hallways and storage areas already? The pool and spa areas too?”
“All of which have been closed for the last two years,” Davidson rebuts. “But yes, we searched them thoroughly, along with the basement storage space.”
“And nothing?”
“Not unless you count some spooked rats and a storage closet stacked with old cash registers as ‘something.’”
“No humans, then?” Like the focused professional—and gentleman—that he is, Reece doesn’t flinch at Davidson’s condescending tone. “Not even some sleeping transients?”
Davidson shores up his posture. Sweeps us both with a steeled stare. He almost looks insulted—and likely would be, if he wasn’t so blatantly freaked out. “Nothing and nobody with two legs.”
He overemphasizes the syllables into determined spits—though the remainder of his saliva chokes in his throat the second a giant crash resounds through the room. As the loud bwwaamm collides against the vaulte
d ceilings, Davidson and I visibly jolt. Reece looks more like we’ve just gone to an escape room for date night and been handed a new clue. “I take it that’s a new sound?” he murmurs.
He doesn’t wait for Davidson’s answer, probably because it’s already stamped across the fire chief’s face. Instead, Reece cocks his head while jogging across the room, around the fountain, and then over to the elevator banks beneath the balcony. I don’t hesitate to follow, easily keeping pace in my sturdy but light-soled boots, the beloved black Danner Acadias I’ve been using for training and running with Sawyer.
Once we’re in the alcove, every one of my senses easily spikes to high alert. Not a surprise when all my pores pop open, allowing the glow of my bloodstream through. It’s definitely an advantage in the dim space below the balcony, where the air isn’t so ventilated. Everything smells like disuse and feels like a sepulcher.
I stop when Reece does. Our movements would likely cause chirps on a cleaner floor. I turn into a brighter glow worm because of my heightened instincts but ignore Davidson’s stupefied gasp. There are much bigger issues to stress about than shattering this man’s mental checkboxes.
Like how the interior of the elevator shaft continues to shudder and hum and vibrate.
Then faster.
And faster.
The slit between the lift doors begins pulsing with light. Rapid-flashing hues of silver, gold, and green.
Then brighter.
And stronger.
We look to the indicator numbers over those doors.
And gape because they’re all ignited.
“Just an electrical issue,” I blurt. “Yes?”
My husband, encased in the glowing, godlike arrogance of his full Bolt mode, exhales a grunt that makes really unprofessional parts of me tingle. “You truly believe that, Velvet?”
I don’t waste time with a verbal answer. Surely he already witnesses the answer in my gaze—as well as the other internal war I’m waging. My heartbeat is a mess of lightning bolts in my throat. My chest thumps and thrums, tight with fear and anticipation—and the full comprehension of what’s going on in regions south of my waistline. Dear God. Seriously? I barely hold back from emphasizing with an eye roll.
But appropriate or not, I’ve returned to a repeat performance of my runaway senses on the very first night I ever laid eyes on the Bolt of Los Angeles, when gawking at the news channel footage from over Neeta’s shoulder. Just like then, I’m breathless with apprehension but tingling with awareness. The man in the leathers, facing an unknown danger, will never stop turning me into a puddle of enthralled mush.
But unlike then, I can’t just slump against my credenza and then count out Zen mantras until I’m clearheaded again.
He needs me coherent. Now.
Lucid. Now.
Focused. Really right now.
As the elevator shaft keeps tremoring.
As the lights inside it intensify.
As Reece looks back for one fervent second and commands, “Stand back!” before extending his hands and directing a narrow pulse at the split in the carved lift doors.
They begin to part. And then open wider. And at last, they succumb to the pressure of my husband’s incredible power.
When they slam all the way open, the alcove is bathed in rays of surreal light. Davidson cusses as he hurries backward. The profanity doesn’t last long, replaced by his barked orders into his radio. “This is Battalion Chief Davidson. All units stand by! Possible detonation of incendiary device at the Rendezvous Court elevators. Possible multiple devices. Over!”
“Copy your request, Davidson. This is Battalion Chief Garza, Battalion Fifteen, and we’re moving into position. ETA two minutes. We’ll be standing by with your men at the Olive Street entrance, awaiting further instruction. Over.”
As that exchange happens, I read my husband’s body language. Reece is resolute, not shirking from his promise to learn the truth about what’s happening here. We still have no way of knowing if the lightshow in the elevator shaft is related to the voices in the walls, but it’s the best we’ve got to go on.
But that also means somebody’s got to be the first to look.
And my stud husband, with his awe-inspiring cajones, has volunteered for the mission.
He leans over, his ruggedly beautiful profile bathed in a mix of sky and ocean blues, sucking the air out of my system once more.
In spite of my dorky fangirl reaction, I force myself to inch toward him. “What is it?” I prompt. “Zeus? What’s going on?”
Reece shakes his head as if my query is nothing but a breeze on the air. He crunches in his eyebrows. Tightens his lips. The bold angle of his jaw juts against his taut skin. “Davidson!” he bellows.
“What? What is it?” The fire chief jogs over but halts a few feet back. His face is set with the grim resignation of a man who’s done this before. His career is comprised of running toward crisis instead of away, even with the knowledge that he may not emerge alive. So yeah, no wonder he was a little grumpy about seeking us out for help—but over the last three years, the man I love has emerged from behind his mask in more ways than one. Reece has a right to be here. He’s shattered the world’s labels and expectations and proven they don’t define the man—the hero—he was born to be.
Even when that means peering down an elevator shaft that’s gone completely Old Faithful with torrents of blinding light.
“How far down does this shaft go?”
And gone totally creepy movie with its distant, urgent creaks and crashes.
“The basement under us, and then one, maybe two below that for city infrastructure access. Why, Richards? What’ve you got?”
And now, even its streams of disembodied voices.
Disconcerting shouts—that soon become disturbing screeches.
And desperate wails.
And frightening outcries.
In an incoherent language.
“Might be a better question for you.” Reece stretches his arms out, bracing his grip on either side of the shaft’s opening, while cocking his head around. “What have I got, Davidson—since this thing is coming up from a hole a hell of a lot deeper than that?”
“The hell?” The chief sprints forward before either of us can warn him back. But in truth—holding him back from what? His demand is valid, as is the follow-up query as soon as he has a chance to peer down the shaft, and whatever else Reece has discovered in it, for himself. “What the living, fucking hell?”
Reece yanks Davidson back up just before the fireman leans past the point of no return. “Good to know I’m not hallucinating.”
“Would be better if we both were,” Davidson snaps. “Where the tarnation did that chasm come from? And why?”
“More importantly,” Reece prompts, “what about the voices? They the same you heard before?”
“No,” the chief counters. “I— I mean yes, but no. Same gibberish but clearly a different party. Or whatever the hell these bastards have going on now.”
Reece hauls in a heavy breath. “Well, something tells me it’s not the world’s most elaborate episode of Punk’d,” he states as the elevator—or whatever is still in that chute—really revs to life. So far, I’m still betting on an elevator car, with its gears grinding, pulleys squeaking, and ropes whooshing. That doesn’t stop my nerves from becoming metal spikes—and my composure the balloon that’s hovering over them.
A torment worsened by my husband’s next moves.
As he backs up by three wide steps, pacing off the space he’ll need for a clean attack at the approaching enemy.
As he drops into a battle-ready pose: legs spread, knees bent, arms reaching around an imaginary beach ball.
As I fight not to picture the colors of that ball as the shades of his blood, bruises, and sliced-open vitals. And severed limbs. And dying eyes…
And I was feeling triumphant about getting to do this…why?
“Shit,” I rasp. “Ohhhh shit-shit-shit-shit.”
Even as I crouch next to my husband—and assume the same battle position.
Have I gone insane?
It feels like the only explainable excuse, despite how the word feels like a battle flail in my gut.
Yeah. I’m insane.
Despite how I know we’ve trained for this. How I remember every second of every plan we’ve devised and perfected, exploiting the combination of our powers to their fullest. Despite how I’m pretty damn sure Reece and I will likely kick major ass and succeed, even if an army of bloodthirsty zombies spills out of that lift.
All of it still feels like insanity.
Even though we’re both completely primed. Balanced on our tiptoes. Fingers sizzling. Bloodstreams humming. Heads lifted. Stares set.
Bring it on, fate.
Show us your worst.
But while my brain and body resound with the challenge, all my soul can think about are two pieces of motivation. The safety of the city I love and the face of the world’s most perfect little boy, getting ready to fall asleep in it this very moment.
And just like that, I’m clear again.
I’m not insane.
I volunteered for this out of unbearable, immeasurable love. The commitment to protect my son’s hopes, dreams, heart, and future. And I already know it’s the same fire for Reece’s spirit. I’m drenched in a wave of the energy I usually only detect when he’s with Lux. He’s sending it on purpose, with one sole intent. To assure me that I’m right. To welcome me into a league bigger than both of us: the connection to every warrior who’s been in our position before. Embracing the reality of possibly losing my life while embracing the things that truly mean life.
As if by doing that, I can camouflage myself with life.
So death will have no choice but to pass me up.
Not that I’m believing it anymore—as the ropes and pulleys in the lift continue to roll and move.
As the painful whines of biological lifeforms now mix with the grinds and screeches—and drag the whole elevator car into view.
I hiss while baring my teeth.
