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 much less aerodynamic than WonderGirl’s sleek, girlish physique. Raised in a super family, Darla never questioned her duty to the city, never doubted the need for good to triumph over evil.
But what if evil isn’t so evil?
“Did something happen between you and that Lyle? There’s the strangest quote—”
“Kyle,” she corrected absently. “Yeah, it’s over.”
“Oh, sweetie, are you okay?”
“What did she say?” her father demanded.
“She and that Kyle broke up,” her mother explained.
“Good. He was never good enough for her anyway.”
Darla smiled, comforted by those words from the only man whose arms had always been stronger than hers. Until Lucien. Her father never thought anyone she dated was good enough for his baby. What would he think of a man who wasn’t good at all? How would the villain, with his unexpected integrity, measure up?
Not that she could ever tell her parents about the kiss. There would never be anything between her and Lucien Wroth. If he knew what was good for him, she’d never set eyes on him again.
A heavy pounding shook the front door of her apartment. Darla flinched.
“Hang on a sec, Mom.”
It was probably a reporter. Unless some supervillain had sent her a bomb by UPS again. She shuffled over to the door with her mother chattering about press conferences and being visible in a positive way. At least she wasn’t still in her pajamas. Her ratty old jeans and threadbare T-shirt weren’t exactly DynaGirl couture, but they were a step up from answering the door at noon in her pajamas.
The knock came again, hard enough to make the frame shudder, and something in Darla’s chest tightened with anticipation.
It couldn’t be…
It was.
Lucien Wroth, brooding demigod of the villain persuasion, stood in the hallway outside her apartment.
“We need to talk.”
“Darla? Baby? Is there someone there with you?”
Darla tried to speak, but her tongue suddenly felt three sizes too big. “Mom, I’ve, uh, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you later. My love to Daddy.” She disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto the side table in her entry. Careful to keep her focus on Lucien Wroth’s midnight eyes so she didn’t betray her intentions, she slid her hand past the deadbolt, the open door blocking the movement from his view, and palmed the modified tranq gun she kept in a holster for hostile guests. “What are you doing here? I told you—”
“That you’d lock me up if I ever came near you again. I remember. This is important.” He swallowed thickly, looking uncertain for the first time since she’d met him. His eyes flicked toward her hidden hand and she tensed, ready to take his ass down if he even sneezed at superspeed. “I need your help.”
Darla blinked. Well that was unexpected.
Chapter Nine
Bad Pennies & Superhot Criminals
Please let her refrain from tasing my ass.
Her eyes gave nothing away, but she had a weapon behind that door, Lucien was sure of it. Probably aimed, cocked and on a hair-trigger.
He knew he was taking a chance, coming to Darla. She was the poster child for everything heroic and good, while he was barely staying out of a cell, but
something
had moved her to let him go the last time. He had to hope whatever soft spot she had for him was still feeling warm and squishy.
She was different from the other supers. He had to believe that because he was about to lay all his cards on the table and pray for the best—and he wasn’t a praying man.
“It’s my sister.”
Darla didn’t relax, but her tension shifted, becoming less defensive, more curious. “Mirage?”
Play on that curiosity. Use every weapon you have.
“She went back to the guy who got her thrown into Area Nine in the first place. They have some plan. Something big. Real villainous shit.”
Come on, Darla. I know you can’t resist a chance to go on a justice rampage.
“I need to figure out what’s going down, and you have access I don’t. You can tell me what he had her steal. We can stop them…” He hesitated before forcing out the next word. He’d always worked alone, but now… “Together.”
She pursed her tempt-a-saint mouth, doubt tracking across her eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
He didn’t try to hide his motivations. She would never believe he gave a shit about the greater good anyway. “I want Mirabelle out of there. I’ll help you catch everyone she’s working with, the entire crime ring, especially the mastermind.”
And you can kick his ass into next week with my blessing.
“All I need is your word that Mirabelle goes free. She’s all that matters to me.”
“She’s a criminal.”
“She’s a kid.” He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “What if I swore to you that she would never commit another crime in your city? Help me get her away from that guy and we’ll be gone. Just like you wanted. You’ll never see or hear from us again. On my word.”
“The word of a villain.” But the words weren’t mocking. She was considering it.
Come on, DynaGirl. Take a chance.
“Just…help me, Darla. I need you.”
The words sounded awkward coming out of his mouth. He’d never asked anyone for help before. He was discovering he didn’t like it. Maybe next time he’d try chopping off his own arm for fun instead.
Darla stood immobile, one hand still hidden by the door, only her eyes moving, searching him as if she could see his trustworthiness—or lack thereof—written on his flesh.
She could tase him and cart him off to jail. She could slam the door in his face. She wouldn’t need to say no, her actions would scream it. Lucien realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to let it out.
He wouldn’t beg. He’d break into the Crypt again before he begged. Mirabelle’s face as he’d last seen it rose up in his mind. Determined. Fierce. So damn young.
“
Please
, Darla.”
The word seemed to jolt her out of her trance. She swung the door open wider and stepped aside, resting a modified tranquilizer gun against her thigh. “Maybe you should come in.”
There was a distinct surrealism to seeing Lucien Wroth sitting across her white French country kitchen table. He would’ve looked out of place even if the dainty elegance of her furnishings hadn’t made him look like a giant. Darla studied his fierce glower.
Or an ogre.
He shifted nervously, the spindly chair creaking under his weight, and traced the pattern on the soda can she’d handed him after he’d wrinkled his nose that she didn’t have any beer in the house. She’d had to bite her tongue on a reprimand that noon was too early to drink anyway. She wasn’t his mother. She was his partner.
Sort of.
It sounded so foreign, she ran the words through her head again, trying to make them fit into her worldview, but they were hopelessly the wrong shape to find a place in any of the slots she tried.
Lucien Wroth is my partner.
Impossible.
She’d never worked with anyone before. Not that she was against having a partner. She’d seen how well it had worked out for her parents and for Tandy’s parents and dozens of other superhero power couples around the world. But Lucien wasn’t her husband. She wasn’t even sure she
liked
him, let alone trusted him with her life to the extent necessary in a super partnership. Sure, they had chemistry. Undeniable, incendiary, making-her-squirm-in-her-chair-just-because-he-was-in-the-same-room chemistry, but that didn’t mean she trusted him. Without trust she was worse off than if she worked alone.
But he was desperate and she’d been so stupidly glad to see him, she would have taken the flimsiest excuse to invite him to stay. It didn’t hurt that he needed her either. She’d always been a sucker for a damsel in distress—even of the strapping, black-leather, can-punch-through-a-cement-wall variety.
Darla cleared her throat, since Lucien obviously didn’t intend to end his brooding silence any time soon. “Why don’t you tell me what you know so far?”
She actually heard his jaw pop as he unclenched it.
A little tense there, big guy?
“I know Mirabelle’s part in things, but I was locked on her, so I probably missed some pieces of the big picture.” He set down the soda with care, staring at his hands as he flexed and clenched them. Darla recognized the gesture from her own attempts to keep from demolishing her surroundings with a frustrated flick of superstrength.
“The table is polymer-reinforced if you need to hit something.”
Lucien’s head snapped up at that. “Must’ve cost a fucking mint.”
And what a waste of the precious polymer
, she heard beneath the words.
Darla’s chin tipped up a notch, pride making her next words sound even more pompous. “It was a gift. From Trident Labs. I helped them test the polymer, and they were grateful.”
Lucien snorted. “They would be. If you only got a table, you got screwed.”
Since the release of a series of super-related products—the most publicized and profitable being the anti-superstrength polymer—Trident Labs had become a billion-dollar company overnight. Darla decided not to mention her thank-you gift had also included enough stock to let her retire to Monte Carlo whenever the mood struck her.
Lucien apparently decided he didn’t need to test the table’s polymer with his fists. Instead he folded his hands and spoke, his voice low and intense. “To the best of my knowledge, it started a few months ago. Mirabelle was a sophomore in college this year. She seemed to have settled in nicely. Good grades. Good friends. Nothing to worry about, so I thought it was a safe time to take the work trip to Singapore I’d been planning.” At her raised brow, he gave a defensive shrug. “Even
spawns
have day jobs, Darla. I’m an engineer.”
Darla nearly choked on her soda. She barely stopped herself from blurting,
Do all engineers wear black leather and I’m-even-better-than-I-look smirks?
“One of my colleagues in Singapore has been working on a new propulsion system. I wanted to take part in the project, but he wasn’t interested in collaborating unless I was willing to commit to being essentially locked up inside his lab for a year. His security made Area Nine look cozy.” His gaze flicked back to hers. “If you worked with Trident at all, you know how paranoid these guys can be about protecting their patents.”
“So you were totally out of touch. And…” she prompted.
He shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t totally cut off. I got emails from Mirabelle, and at first everything seemed normal. Then…” Lucien rubbed both hands down his face. “I don’t know what it was, but she just started sounding different. A name I’d never heard before began popping up in her emails.
Kevin
. Mirabelle hadn’t decided on her major yet—she’s never been very decisive—but all of a sudden she was talking about
purpose
and
callings
and what she was meant to do with her life. I would’ve been excited, but there was something off about it. The words didn’t sound like they were coming from her. It was like she was one of those cult members who can only parrot what their prophet tells them.
Kevin said
became a constant refrain.”