finality in her apology and cursed under his breath, using a bolt of superspeed to race toward her, but Mirabelle had already vanished.
“Dammit, Mirabelle. We can talk about this.” He scanned the room, knowing it was futile but unable to help himself. “I know you can hear me. Be reasonable, Belle. At least let me help you. I can be useful to your cause, can’t I? If you won’t leave with me, at least let me watch out for you. Belle? Belle!”
He waited a moment, listening for the sound of her breathing, anything. But all he heard was the sound of his own curse and his fist going through a brick wall.
Darla Powers felt like a world-class idiot. Which made sense, because all evidence of the last three days pointed to her being a world-class idiot.
She’d woken up this morning wallowing in regret that she’d let Lucien get away. Again. Replaying their interactions from the previous days, she’d vacillated between the conviction that she was right to release him and recriminations for her stupidity in letting him go. She felt like a razor-tipped pendulum in a macabre Poe story, swinging steadily between black and white and slicing bloody cuts into her own concept of morality with each pass. She’d had Wroth in her grasp, but she’d just flown away and hormones were her only excuse. He’d looked too good to be bad. If by too good she meant too mouthwateringly wicked.
The heist she’d flown off to stop had already been a dead scene by the time she got there. No villains to fight, no culprits to capture, just evidence for the police to examine, but nothing for her to do.
She’d flown back to Lucien’s lair, but of course he was long gone, her chance at redemption up in smoke.
As exhausted as she’d been last night, she hadn’t been able to sleep, kept awake by her restless thoughts. But eventually she’d drifted off. There were only so many different ways she could call herself the world’s biggest fool before even that became boring enough to put her to sleep.
Her cell phone buzzed. She considered ignoring it, until she caught a glimpse of the caller ID out of the corner of her eye. Darla cringed and connected the call. “Hi, Mom.”
Her mother’s high, girlish voice burbled through the earpiece. “Baby, what’s this we’re hearing about you being hospitalized by Demon Wroth’s son?”
Good God, the rumors had made it to China.
Dwight and Pamela Powers, AKA the Daring Dynamo and WonderGirl, were on a diplomatic tour of Asia, helping the Chinese cope with the sudden emergence of supers in their midst, but thanks to modern technology, half a world away was still close enough to worry. Darla glanced at the clock—it had to be after midnight in Beijing.
“It’s nothing, Mom. You know how reporters like to exaggerate things.”
“Honey, you know what your father always says, you handle the press or they will handle you. Now, how are you handling it?” The scold was delivered in her mother’s gentle way, but it still made Darla’s hackles rise.
“There’s nothing to handle, Mom. It’s over. How’s your trip going?”
Her mother ignored the attempt to change the subject like the mild-mannered bulldozer she was. “Don’t underestimate the value of damage control, sweetie. If we’re hearing about it in China, then obviously it’s not over yet.”
“Tell her to go on the offensive,” her father’s blustery voice called out in the background, clearly audible to Darla’s supersensitive ears. “You can’t just wait for these things to blow over.”
“I heard him,” Darla said before her mother could repeat the advice. She could picture the pair of them, her father’s big frame sprawled out on the bed of their hotel suite, searching for something in English on TV as her mother leaned against the window or stood on the balcony looking out over the city.
Darla had inherited her father’s red hair and superstrength and her mother’s ability to fly, though her figure was
“Dammit, Mirabelle. We can talk about this.” He scanned the room, knowing it was futile but unable to help himself. “I know you can hear me. Be reasonable, Belle. At least let me help you. I can be useful to your cause, can’t I? If you won’t leave with me, at least let me watch out for you. Belle? Belle!”
He waited a moment, listening for the sound of her breathing, anything. But all he heard was the sound of his own curse and his fist going through a brick wall.
Darla Powers felt like a world-class idiot. Which made sense, because all evidence of the last three days pointed to her being a world-class idiot.
She’d woken up this morning wallowing in regret that she’d let Lucien get away. Again. Replaying their interactions from the previous days, she’d vacillated between the conviction that she was right to release him and recriminations for her stupidity in letting him go. She felt like a razor-tipped pendulum in a macabre Poe story, swinging steadily between black and white and slicing bloody cuts into her own concept of morality with each pass. She’d had Wroth in her grasp, but she’d just flown away and hormones were her only excuse. He’d looked too good to be bad. If by too good she meant too mouthwateringly wicked.
The heist she’d flown off to stop had already been a dead scene by the time she got there. No villains to fight, no culprits to capture, just evidence for the police to examine, but nothing for her to do.
She’d flown back to Lucien’s lair, but of course he was long gone, her chance at redemption up in smoke.
As exhausted as she’d been last night, she hadn’t been able to sleep, kept awake by her restless thoughts. But eventually she’d drifted off. There were only so many different ways she could call herself the world’s biggest fool before even that became boring enough to put her to sleep.
Her cell phone buzzed. She considered ignoring it, until she caught a glimpse of the caller ID out of the corner of her eye. Darla cringed and connected the call. “Hi, Mom.”
Her mother’s high, girlish voice burbled through the earpiece. “Baby, what’s this we’re hearing about you being hospitalized by Demon Wroth’s son?”
Good God, the rumors had made it to China.
Dwight and Pamela Powers, AKA the Daring Dynamo and WonderGirl, were on a diplomatic tour of Asia, helping the Chinese cope with the sudden emergence of supers in their midst, but thanks to modern technology, half a world away was still close enough to worry. Darla glanced at the clock—it had to be after midnight in Beijing.
“It’s nothing, Mom. You know how reporters like to exaggerate things.”
“Honey, you know what your father always says, you handle the press or they will handle you. Now, how are you handling it?” The scold was delivered in her mother’s gentle way, but it still made Darla’s hackles rise.
“There’s nothing to handle, Mom. It’s over. How’s your trip going?”
Her mother ignored the attempt to change the subject like the mild-mannered bulldozer she was. “Don’t underestimate the value of damage control, sweetie. If we’re hearing about it in China, then obviously it’s not over yet.”
“Tell her to go on the offensive,” her father’s blustery voice called out in the background, clearly audible to Darla’s supersensitive ears. “You can’t just wait for these things to blow over.”
“I heard him,” Darla said before her mother could repeat the advice. She could picture the pair of them, her father’s big frame sprawled out on the bed of their hotel suite, searching for something in English on TV as her mother leaned against the window or stood on the balcony looking out over the city.
Darla had inherited her father’s red hair and superstrength and her mother’s ability to fly, though her figure was
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