Finally, she shrugged.
“Friends, please lower your weapons and engage the safeties. I believe him.”
I heard the mob do exactly as she commanded, with zero hesitation. Even so, I didn’t lower my arms until I had time to check again over my shoulder. Not only was I no longer a target, but the crowd sat down and resumed dining as though nothing had happened. They lookedharmless, as before.
“Very nice. Thank you.”
“Like I said, I’m better now.”
I rolled out a crick in my neck and said, “So am I.” Then I dropped every single person in the building except us.
Glasses and plates crashed against tables and then to the ground. Diners slumped out of their chairs, waiters collapsed to the floor, and the maître d’ fell right into a potted plant. Even four guys out of sight in the kitchen went down. I never took my eyes off Lyla. “Honest conversations rarely happen with loaded guns in the room,” I said.
She only shook her head.
“So you are stronger now. Why not drop them when they drew their weapons?”
“All those guns, all those fingers wrapped around triggers . . . some of them would have gone off when they fell. Didn’t want anyone getting hurt.”
Her smile was tinged with sadness.
“Same old Scott. Always worried about the innocent,” she whispered.
“Not the same old Lyla, though, is it?”
Her gaze drifted away before answering, and I noticed dark areas under her eyes. She looked exhausted.
“You are correct. I am different.” Soft and quiet at first, Lyla sounded like a shy child telling me her age, but when her eyes came back to mine, she had an edge. “I’m not a pawn anymore.”
Here we go.
“Like me, you mean.”
“You are what you are. If you take offense, perhaps you should wonder why the truth riles you so much,” she said. Lyla’s ability to make an insult sound regal hadn’t waned. God, even without using her powers she had a way of controlling my emotions. Especially when she wanted to piss me off.
“Says the woman whose entire existence is built around making people into pawns. Nice, but I’m nobody’s lackey.”
“Then you apparently have a very poor memory,” she said.
I could feel burning in my cheeks and neck as the anger boiled.
“You wanna hate me because of Carsten—fine. I made the tough choice, and I’ve had to live with it every goddamn day for the last five years. But don’t tell me my memory sucks, because it works just fine. My memory is disgustingly, nauseatingly perfect . . . no matter how hard I try to forget.” I wasn’t lying. Over the last few years, I was lucky if more than two days went by without me reliving the moment.
CHAPTER 7
I stand in burning, smoky ruins. Sirens and screams from all directions. A broken rotor from a crushed helicopter whines behind me. The bodies of doctors, nurses, and soldiers litter the rubble. Some are dying, most are already gone. The government calls this place a “psychiatric assessment center,” but that’s just politically correct bullshit. We know what it is—the high-security wing of a mental institution—and we know what it means for one of our own.
It’s the end.
Except no one bothered to tell Crusher. He rises up from the wreckage, all seven feet and four hundred pounds of him. His clothes are burned away, courtesy of repeated bolts of lightning from Blaster. Diego used everything he had before collapsing, brilliant sustained blasts of electricity arcing from his fists across the remnants of the building. Millions of volts, hell, maybe billions, and Carsten just laughed. Didn’t even bother to throw the tank at him. He just went ahead destroying everything else and waited for Diego to wear himself out.
Carsten looks at me now, and his eyes are scary. I don’t know what they see, but it’s more than what’s really here. Everything a danger, everyone an enemy, monsters and demons all. Sanity is like water pumping out of a hand-cranked well— he’s tried so hard to
“Friends, please lower your weapons and engage the safeties. I believe him.”
I heard the mob do exactly as she commanded, with zero hesitation. Even so, I didn’t lower my arms until I had time to check again over my shoulder. Not only was I no longer a target, but the crowd sat down and resumed dining as though nothing had happened. They lookedharmless, as before.
“Very nice. Thank you.”
“Like I said, I’m better now.”
I rolled out a crick in my neck and said, “So am I.” Then I dropped every single person in the building except us.
Glasses and plates crashed against tables and then to the ground. Diners slumped out of their chairs, waiters collapsed to the floor, and the maître d’ fell right into a potted plant. Even four guys out of sight in the kitchen went down. I never took my eyes off Lyla. “Honest conversations rarely happen with loaded guns in the room,” I said.
She only shook her head.
“So you are stronger now. Why not drop them when they drew their weapons?”
“All those guns, all those fingers wrapped around triggers . . . some of them would have gone off when they fell. Didn’t want anyone getting hurt.”
Her smile was tinged with sadness.
“Same old Scott. Always worried about the innocent,” she whispered.
“Not the same old Lyla, though, is it?”
Her gaze drifted away before answering, and I noticed dark areas under her eyes. She looked exhausted.
“You are correct. I am different.” Soft and quiet at first, Lyla sounded like a shy child telling me her age, but when her eyes came back to mine, she had an edge. “I’m not a pawn anymore.”
Here we go.
“Like me, you mean.”
“You are what you are. If you take offense, perhaps you should wonder why the truth riles you so much,” she said. Lyla’s ability to make an insult sound regal hadn’t waned. God, even without using her powers she had a way of controlling my emotions. Especially when she wanted to piss me off.
“Says the woman whose entire existence is built around making people into pawns. Nice, but I’m nobody’s lackey.”
“Then you apparently have a very poor memory,” she said.
I could feel burning in my cheeks and neck as the anger boiled.
“You wanna hate me because of Carsten—fine. I made the tough choice, and I’ve had to live with it every goddamn day for the last five years. But don’t tell me my memory sucks, because it works just fine. My memory is disgustingly, nauseatingly perfect . . . no matter how hard I try to forget.” I wasn’t lying. Over the last few years, I was lucky if more than two days went by without me reliving the moment.
CHAPTER 7
I stand in burning, smoky ruins. Sirens and screams from all directions. A broken rotor from a crushed helicopter whines behind me. The bodies of doctors, nurses, and soldiers litter the rubble. Some are dying, most are already gone. The government calls this place a “psychiatric assessment center,” but that’s just politically correct bullshit. We know what it is—the high-security wing of a mental institution—and we know what it means for one of our own.
It’s the end.
Except no one bothered to tell Crusher. He rises up from the wreckage, all seven feet and four hundred pounds of him. His clothes are burned away, courtesy of repeated bolts of lightning from Blaster. Diego used everything he had before collapsing, brilliant sustained blasts of electricity arcing from his fists across the remnants of the building. Millions of volts, hell, maybe billions, and Carsten just laughed. Didn’t even bother to throw the tank at him. He just went ahead destroying everything else and waited for Diego to wear himself out.
Carsten looks at me now, and his eyes are scary. I don’t know what they see, but it’s more than what’s really here. Everything a danger, everyone an enemy, monsters and demons all. Sanity is like water pumping out of a hand-cranked well— he’s tried so hard to
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