Powerless (7 page)

My ears strain for sounds of movement or danger. I don’t hear anything, so after a minute, I step out into the stairwell. It’s a circular staircase—which is weird enough in a lab—so I can’t see the bottom. I close my eyes, take a couple deep breaths, and start down one slow step at a time.

I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe this. How can there be a secret level?
Why
is there a secret level?

I’m confused, worried, more than a little scared. And annoyed, really annoyed. My mother lied to me. She looked me straight in the eye and lied. She made me doubt Rebel, made me doubt myself, and that pisses me off. It also makes me wonder what else she’s lied about. And why.

At the bottom of the staircase there is a door. It’s locked, requiring a security pass. I swipe my mother’s badge and the light changes to green. Proof that she not only knows about this level, but she has authorization to be here.

Before I open the door, I look through the narrow, rectangular window just above the doorknob. Two cameras hang on the opposite wall, scanning the length of the hallway, one on each side. The whole thing is monitored at all times.

Which pretty much sucks for me. My mom might have clearance, but I certainly don’t. If they catch me on camera, I can’t even begin to imagine how much trouble I’ll be in.

But I’m close, so close, to finding out what’s going on down here. I came back to the lab against my mother’s specific orders because I have to know. I have to prove to myself that the crazy thoughts I’ve been considering for the last eighteen hours are as nuts as they seem. Villains aren’t victims. They’re liars. I can’t walk away. Not now.

So I wait and I watch the cameras sweep the hallway again and again and again. I track the arc. I memorize the pattern, rendering the data as a 3-D image in my mind. And I notice a blind spot. A couple of them, actually.

There are exactly four seconds when neither of the cameras picks up the hallway right outside the door. Two seconds when they meet in the middle and can’t see directly beneath each other, and then another four seconds when the second camera can’t see the end of the hallway.

It’s a long distance, but if I time it precisely right—and run like hell—I can make it. I hope.

I wait a little longer, count the seconds again as I watch the cameras run through one, two, three more sweeps. I know if I don’t go now, I never will. I’ll lose my nerve and I’ll never know what’s down here.

Taking a deep breath, I wait for the camera to get into position and launch into motion, running full-speed down the hallway. I get to the first true blind spot, where the cameras cross, and wait, breath held, always counting. Then I book it again.

I’m terrified I’m not going to make it, but I do. I turn the corner, breathing heavily and praying there aren’t more cameras on this hallway.

My hope is in vain, because of course there’s another camera. But thankfully only one, which gives me a lot more time to walk down the hall without getting caught.

I make it down this hallway and another using that same technique. I’m not sure where I’m going, or even what I’m looking for. But I figure I’ll know it when I see it.

There are labs on either side of me, dark rooms that look empty. And while there’s a part of me that wants to know what’s behind every single door, there isn’t time. What I’m looking for—what I need to see—will be wherever Mr. Malone and the gray suits went. Which means I need to keep moving.

I turn the corner again, expecting to have to dodge yet another camera. But in this hallway there are no cameras, at least none that I can see. This only makes me more nervous. After all that security, all that surveillance, why would this area be unwatched? Unless there’s something going on here that Mr. Malone and the Superhero Collective don’t want
anyone
to see.

Fear rockets down my spine. It’s not fear of getting caught that paralyzes me. It’s fear of what I’ll find. Of what I’ll see. I don’t want my faith in the superheroes to be misplaced.

But I’ve gotten this far and I’m not going back until I know. Squaring my shoulders, I keep going. Most of the rooms are dark, but fluorescent lighting pours under one of the doorways. Someone is in there.

I drop to my knees and crawl along the wall. The window in the center of the door is covered by tightly closed blinds. I’m just inching up to peek through when I hear it. A scream so pained, so tortured, that I swear it chills the blood in my veins. Every hair on my body stands at full attention.

I freeze. Another scream rends the air, this one even worse than the first. Adrenaline pours through me. My chest tightens and it’s hard to drag air into my lungs. I move to a kneeling position and search the window, desperately looking for a split in the blinds so that I can see something, anything.

There’s a gap at the right side of the window where one of the blinds is bent. It’s small, but it’s enough.

I peer through, and my heart stops.

Rebel’s boyfriend, Dante, is tied to a chair in the middle of the room. He’s badly bruised, his head hanging down, shoulders slumped. I can’t be sure, but it looks like the only thing keeping him upright is the strap around his torso and arms, pressing his shoulders against the back of the chair.

All kinds of cables are hooked up to him, and as I watch, his entire body jolts and shakes, almost like an electric current is running through him. My hand covers my mouth to keep me from crying out as he jerks and shudders and screams.

Oh God, does he scream.

I’m not sure how much time passes before the shaking stops and his body goes limp. But it’s right after he vomits all over himself.

Somebody I don’t recognize hits him hard on the side of the head. He barely reacts, his body listing to the side under the pressure of the blow. But that’s it. His eyes are blank, his face slack. Then he starts to jerk again.

I can’t watch anymore. I whirl around and sink my butt to the floor, my hands still clenched tightly over my mouth. Oh my God. Oh My God. OH MY GOD! What is going on? What the hell is going on?

My mind races and my eyes sting. This must be what shock feels like.

I sit there for a minute, two, trying to get my head together. Trying to make sense of what I’ve seen. But there’s no sense to be made. What’s going on in that room isn’t an experiment—which would be bad enough. No, it’s torture, pure and simple.

Another scream rips through the quiet. This can’t be happening. This just can’t be happening.

But it is.

It really is.

I take a deep breath. The hall spins around me, but I force the nausea down and climb back to my knees. I peer through the slit in the blinds again, then wish I hadn’t. Huge fists rain down on Dante’s shoulders, his chest, his back, his head.

A movement in the corner of the room catches my eye, and I press my cheek against the glass. Mr. Malone and the gray suits are watching, observing casually, like they’re looking at a painting in a museum.

The look of
pride
on Mr. Malone’s face turns my veins to ice.

I want to rewind time by ten minutes and not find the entrance to sub-level three. I want to stop this guy’s pain. I want to open the door and scream at them at the top of my lungs. But I’m smart enough to know that would get both of us killed. By
heroes
.

The knowledge turns me inside out.

All my life there have only been three absolutes: ordinaries are useless, villains are evil, and heroes are good. Heroes are supposed to be the people the rest of the world looks up to, the very best examples of humanity.

I’ve spent my whole life distrusting villains—hating villains—and now I find out that some heroes are just as bad. Maybe worse. This kind of brutality is worse than anything I’ve ever heard villains accused of. This is worse than what they did to my father. Worse than murder.

Heroes are the good guys, the ones who stop things like this from happening. The heroes I know would never do this. But they are. They are. So what’s going on?

Hypnosis? Mind control? I don’t know. Somebody is responsible for this. There’s no other explanation.

But who? What are they getting out of it?

Another scream pierces the air, and I shudder. I’ve never felt so useless in my life. There is nothing I can do to help him, to save him. Nothing I can do to make it stop. What I wouldn’t give to have
any
superpower.

I’ve been powerless my whole life, but nothing prepared me for the horror that crawls through me.

I have to do something. I can’t just walk away knowing what they’re doing to Rebel’s boyfriend. Villain or not, he’s a human being and no one—
no
one
—deserves to be treated like that.

With that one thought clear in my mind, I pull myself together. Crawl out from beneath the window. Race down the hall. I want out of here. Now. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to run full tilt back to the elevator. I have just enough awareness to remember the cameras. So I pause at the corner of the hallway and count. Then I run.

Pause. Count. Run.

Pause. Count. Run.

I do it again and again, until I’m at the stairwell.

I fling open the door and fall inside. I’m sobbing now, close to hysterical, but I make myself think. I drag myself up the stairs to sub-level two and press the elevator call button. When the door opens, I stumble inside. I swipe Mom’s security badge and jab the button for sub-level one.

All I can think of is getting back to the safety of my mom’s lab.

I need to pull myself together. Every second I waste is another second Dante will be tortured. That thought, more than any other, brings me back. My tears dry and my breathing quiets.

I’m not calm—how can I be?—but I’m functioning. And for now that’s enough. I take a second to splash cold water on my face. Then I grab my research log and shove it into the back of my jeans. I leave the rest of my materials. I shove the boxes back into the cabinets at my station so it won’t look suspicious. I even leave my backpack. No one will know I’ve been here. Then I race toward the emergency stairwell.

I spare a quick glance around to see if Mr. Malone’s newly installed cameras cover this part of the hallway yet. I don’t see any, so I reach over and pull the fire alarm.

I can’t rescue Dante right now, but hopefully this will buy him a reprieve.

As the alarm shrieks, I book it up the stairs to the lobby. By the time I get there, one of the security guards is on the phone with the fire department while the other ushers me out of the building.

I follow his directions, but the second he turns his back on me, I sprint toward my car. I don’t think I actually breathe until I’m pulling out of the parking lot. And even then, I’m only one shaky step from frantic.

I put some miles between the lab and me, then park at a drive-through custard shop. I pull out my cell phone and text Rebel.

Need to c u now v important

I wait impatiently for her answer. It only takes about thirty seconds.

U ok?

Yes but need to talk r u home?
I reply.

No 4179 Valmont Ct

I don’t know where that is and I don’t care. I enter the address into the GPS on my phone, then dash off another text.

B there in 20

Fifteen minutes later I park in front of a large, gray house in an area of town I’ve never been before. An area said to be popular with villains.

If I was less desperate or upset, I’d probably turn and walk away. But I
am
desperate and I
am
upset and I have nowhere else to go. No one else to trust. Not when my own mom lied to me about the secret sub-level.

If she knows it exists, she probably knows what goes on in there. And if she does, I don’t know what to think. All I know is I can’t face her. Not now. Not with this.

I text Rebel to let her know I’m here, and by the time I get to the door, she’s standing there waiting for me.

The instant I see her, tears burn the back of my eyes again. I blink, try to make them disappear, but they roll down my face instead.

“Kenna!” She reaches out for me, pulls me into a hug. “What’s wrong?”

“I saw them. I saw—”

“What? What did you see?”

I choke up. “I found the secret level.”

She stiffens against me, and before I can say anything else, the door is yanked wide open. Draven stands there, looking just as dark and scowly as he did the previous night. Just as badass. Like he can take on anything.

I never thought I’d be so relieved to see a villain.

“What did you see?” he demands, his voice hoarser, more gravelly than I remember.

I swallow and force out the words, even knowing how much they’re going to hurt him and Rebel. “They have your boyfriend. They’re torturing him.”

For a moment, silence hangs in the air as they stare at me, wide-eyed.

Draven clears his throat, and though his face is pale, his voice is even when he says, “I think you’d better come in.”

I hesitate.
These
are
villains
, I tell myself.
Bad
guys. If I walk through this door, I’m committing treason.
But then an image of Dante comes back to me, strapped to that chair with electricity running through his body until he screams and vomits and cries.

Black and white is dissolving. So is right and wrong. If some heroes can be bad, maybe I have to trust that some villains can be…good?

I don’t know if I can, but I don’t have a choice. I haven’t since the moment I peered in that window.

Taking a deep breath, I walk through the door. As I do, I feel the ground shift beneath my feet.

I only thought I was mixed-up before.

Because the moment I cross the threshold and get a good look at who Rebel’s hanging out with, everything I thought I knew, everything I thought I saw, gets a little more chaotic.

Dante stands there looking whole and healthy and entirely
un
tortured. His fauxhawk’s perfectly groomed, though his eyes look dead and his face is completely drained of color. It’s as if I had only imagined the scene back at ESH.

But I didn’t imagine it. I might be confused, but I’m not crazy.

“You… Y-y-you’re… I
saw
you.” I shake my head. “How is this possible?”

I can’t help but back away from the ghost. As I do, I collide with something. Someone.

“Deacon.” Draven’s voice is low and hard against my ear. “You saw his brother, Deacon. This is Dante.”

“Deacon?” I echo.

“Identical twins,” Rebel says as she wraps her arms, her whole body, around Dante as if she’s trying to protect him. Shield him.

“I—” My voice catches in my throat. “I didn’t know.”

When she said they were brothers, I never imagined they might be
twins
. Does that make it worse? I look at Dante and think maybe it does.

For several long, heavy moments the room is silent except for our breathing and the soft, gentle words Rebel whispers into Dante’s ear. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but it seems to be having some kind of soothing effect on Dante because he’s clinging to her like she’s the only thing keeping him standing.

Not that I blame him. Not when he just found out that his brother is being tortured as we speak.

His twin brother. Deacon. The guy they broke into the lab to find.

The puzzle pieces start assembling themselves to form a picture.

No wonder they had been so angry and frantic. No wonder Nitro nearly blew the place to bits. If they had even a clue what was happening to Deacon, then their restraint was actually pretty impressive. If something like that was happening to Rebel and I couldn’t get to her, couldn’t find her… Well, let’s just say I’m shocked they didn’t do more damage to the lab. A lot more damage.

I want to say something, to apologize for what’s happening. To apologize for ratting on them to the SHPD last night, for stopping them before they found him, for not doing more for Deacon than pulling the fire alarm tonight. But before I can get out much more than “I—” Draven slams his fist into the wall. Slams it
through
the wall, to be more exact.

“Two-faced sons of bitches.” He hits the wall again. And again. By the time he pulls back to smash his fist into the drywall for a fourth time, his knuckles are bruised and bleeding.

“Hey.” I don’t know what possesses me—or why it bothers me so much to see him hurt himself—but I wrap my palms over his fist. “Don’t. That won’t help anything.”

I rub my thumb gently over his injured knuckles. He stiffens and glances down at where our skin touches.

His voice is rough when he says, “How do you know what will—”

“Was my dad there?” Rebel interrupts, talking over him.

I can’t even form the words. How do you tell your best friend that you saw her dad standing over her boyfriend’s twin, casually watching a torture session as if it were a baseball game? Tears spring to my eyes as I drop Draven’s hand and shake my head helplessly. Not to say no, but because I don’t know how to tell her yes.

“I knew it,” she whispers, then turns back to Dante. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

He doesn’t answer. While Draven looks like he’s ready to tear the whole world apart, Dante just looks like he’s in shock.

Who could blame them?

“Of course Rex was there.” Draven wipes his bloody knuckles on his jeans. “It’s as bad as we feared. It goes all the way to the top. The whole damn hero world is corrupt.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “It’s not
all
heroes.”

He sneers at me, his fierce eyes blazing with a rage that paradoxically sends a shiver up my spine. “Don’t be naïve, hero girl.”

While he didn’t
say
“hero-worshiper,” his tone tells me that’s exactly what he means. He thinks I’m no better than the men who are torturing Deacon.

“Draven’s right,” Rebel says, like she’s begging me to understand. “It’s time you finally saw the truth.”

“You’re wrong.” I’m not trying to be difficult, but I can’t accept the idea that
all
heroes are bad. “I work in that lab. I see heroes being heroic every day. Just because a few bad apples—”

“No, Kenna,” Rebel interrupts. “It’s not just a few. I’ve been digging into this for almost a year. It’s way more widespread than you think.”

My mind reels at the thought. It’s bad enough to think that a small group of rotten eggs have worked their way into power. What she’s talking about is so extreme it’s practically incomprehensible.

Some heroes, yes. Obviously. But not
all
. Not even
most
.

I can’t believe the League would let that happen.

“I don’t—” I shake my head. “There must be a logical explanation. Like mind control or—”

“You don’t get it!” Rebel shouts.

I jerk back, stunned at her rage. This is my best friend, the girl I’ve known all my life, the girl I know better than anyone. How could I not realize how bad it’s gotten?

“Rebel, I—”

“Of course she doesn’t get it.” Draven again. “She’s been drinking the League Kool-Aid. Cherry-flavored, is it?”

“Hey, screw you!” I turn on him, frustrated and furious. “Just because you think you’re so big and bad doesn’t mean you’ve got all the answers. In fact, last night you seemed pretty—”

I freeze as it hits me that I’m not supposed to remember the break-in. Rebel might have told me about her boyfriend, but I’m not supposed to know who Draven is, am not supposed to remember him at all. The last thing I want is for a bunch of villains to know about my immunity, even if they are friends of Rebel’s. Whatever Draven does to push my buttons almost pushed me into revealing my biggest secret. I can’t lose control like that.

“Stop,” Rebel says, calmer now that she’s taken a few breaths. “Just…stop. You can’t defend them, Kenna. You have no idea—” She closes her eyes. “This is only the tip of an iceberg of evil. Trust me when I say it’s not just a few bad heroes, and it’s not as simple as mind control. It’s much bigger and much worse than anything you can imagine.”

I open my mouth, but what can I say? I trust Rebel. The villainous identity of her secret boyfriend aside, she has never lied to me. And while she may be a bit out there, she’s never been one to leap to unjustified conclusions or make unfounded accusations. Why would she start now?

Part of me refuses to accept her claims though. Part of me believes that she’s wrong and there is some non-world-shattering explanation. Except right now, it doesn’t matter. Right now, the only thing that matters is getting Deacon out alive.

As if reading my thoughts, Dante whispers, “Tell me.”

My heart thunders.

Rebel turns to him, taking his face between her palms. “Babe, no.”

Behind me, Draven says, “Don’t.”

I don’t want to relive any of it. What I saw—I’m not sure I can put it into words. I’m not sure I should.

But when Dante pushes Rebel’s hands away, his cheeks splotchy and eyes glistening, I can’t look away. I try to imagine what I would want if I were in his situation, if it were my mom or Rebel in that chair on sub-level three. I can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like if it were my
twin
.

Still, if it was me, I’d want to know. I would
need
to know. And as painful as it will be, Dante
deserves
to know.

I have to tell him.

“They had him strapped to a chair,” I begin, and have to pause to maintain my composure. “I think they were shooting electricity through him.”

Dante squeezes his eyes shut and Rebel hugs him tighter, petting him softly while she rests her head on his chest. I want to close my eyes too, to shut out the memories, but I can’t take my gaze off Dante. As I replay all the horrifying details for him, for all of them, Dante’s legs give out and he collapses onto the couch. Rebel goes down with him, holding him still.

“I pulled the fire alarm on my way out,” I tell them, “hoping it would”—I look at Draven—“distract them, maybe.”

I feel so helpless. When I stopped these villains in the lab last night, I hadn’t known the truth. But tonight…I know. And I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I’m not used to feeling helpless. Powerless, yes, but helpless? It’s not a feeling I like.

There must have been something more I could have done for Deacon. I should have burst into that room and made them let him go. I should have threatened to expose them. I should have done something,
anything
, rather than run away.

I don’t realize there are tears streaming down my cheeks too, until Draven reaches out to wipe them away. His eyes are distant, but his hands are gentle.

Rebel, the girl who never cries—not even when she broke her ankle flying off the swing set in fourth grade—sobs into Dante’s shoulder.

The seconds tick by as we each dwell in our own private torment. Then Dante lets out a primal scream.

The windows rattle and a picture falls off the wall.

“Dante, no—” Rebel shouts, but she’s cut off by a roar of wind.

Draven shoves me behind him as a dining room chair flies across the hall, slamming into the wall and splintering into kindling. Books fly off shelves and the TV crashes to the floor.

A mini tornado tears through the house, tossing around everything in its path. Every time Dante yells, it gets stronger, adding another gust of wind to the destruction.

Guess I know what Dante’s power is.

“Baby,” Rebel yells above the din. “Baby, come back to me. We’ll find him.”

Draven shields me against the nearest wall.

“You shouldn’t have told him,” he growls at me, as debris pelts him in the back.

Who is he to decide what Dante should hear? “It’s his brother. He has the right to know.”

I shove at his shoulders, but Draven doesn’t move. He just glares at me. His obvious blame mixes with my own guilt about abandoning Deacon, leaving me angry at myself instead of him. I stop trying to push him away. Take the protection he’s giving me.

“We can go get him,” Rebel says, still trying to get through to Dante. “Kenna knows how to get to the secret level. We can rescue him.”

In a blink, the wind is gone. Airborne objects fall to the ground and the windows stop rattling.

“Now.” Dante’s voice is rough and harsh. “We go now.”

“Damn straight now,” Draven replies, backing away now that the threat is gone. He asks me, “How do we get in?”

“
You
don’t.”

“The hell we don’t. Either you tell us how or I
will
make you.” His voice is calm, which only underscores the menace in his gaze. And the absolute confidence that he can bend me to his will.

His irises grow colder, start to crystallize, and I know that if I don’t stop him, he’s going to use his mind power on me. And when it doesn’t work, I won’t have to worry about keeping my immunity a secret anymore.

“I mean you
can’t
,” I hurry to explain. “No villain can.”

He frowns, like he wants to argue, but his eyes go back to normal.

“She’s right.” Rebel squeezes Dante’s hand. “The new security protocols the zeroes put in place will keep out anyone with a villain power signature.”

“They can’t keep me out,” Draven insists.

Everything about him—his shoulder, his jaw, his voice—is tense. He might be looking for a fight, but he and Dante would be dramatically outnumbered. They would never stand a chance, and then neither would Deacon.

“Even without the new protocols,” I interject, trying to be the voice of reason, “the place is swarming with guards and heroes. They’re on high alert, especially since I set off the fire alarm. There’s no way we’ll be able to get in, get him, and get away without being caught.”

Draven’s eyebrow shoots up in the middle of my speech. I lift mine right back up, as if saying,
Yeah, I said we
.

“Then what do you suggest, hero girl?” he asks. “Call and ask them to release him? Politely?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far.” In fact, my thinking hasn’t progressed much beyond don’t-get-killed. “But I know that running in, powers blazing, will only get
us
caught and you dead. Deacon too, probably.” It’s a low blow, but I figure even if they’re willing to endanger their own lives, they won’t want to do anything that might turn retribution against Deacon—especially after everything he’s suffered.

They might have broken in last night with a stolen security pass and a guy who can wipe minds, but under the new protocols they wouldn’t get through the front door if they had Mr. Malone’s own badge.

“We go to my dad,” Dante says.

“No way,” Draven counters. “Telling Uncle Anton is a bad idea.”

“Uncle Anton?” I echo. “As in Anton the Annihilator? As in—”

“Yes,” Rebel interrupts, ending the questions.

Dante’s father—Draven’s uncle—is Anton Cole, the leader of the Core, the supervillain equivalent of the League? The guy is a legend, in the worst possible way. Rebel’s own father—who usually only gets involved in the most heinous of cases—is the one who set the price on his head. Fifteen million dollars. No villain anywhere has ever commanded such a steep bounty.

Rebel couldn’t have picked a more dangerous family to hook up with, which is why I return her look with one that says oh-boy-do-we-need-to-talk-about-this-later.

“Dad will get him out,” Dante says. “No matter the cost.”

“Exactly,” Draven argues. “No matter the cost. We bring Uncle Anton back from the negotiations early and this will turn into all-out war.”

Dante snarls. “Sounds good to me.”

“Not to me,” Draven counters. “You know what happens in a war? People do stupid things that get other people killed.”

“As long as heroes are getting killed,” Dante replies, “then what’s the problem?”