Vicious (Vicious #1)

“Besides,” said Victor, sliding to his feet, “this way’s more fun.”

The air in the room began to hum, the exposed skeleton of the building reflecting back the energy until the whole space buzzed.

“You should wait outside,” he said to Mitch.

Victor had perfected his art, could pick a person out of a crowd and drop them like a stone, but he still didn’t like bystanders. Just in case. Now and then he got a touch too zealous, and the pain spilled over, leaked into others. Mitch knew him well enough, and didn’t ask questions, just tugged a veil of plastic tarp aside, and left. Victor watched him go, flexing his fingers as if he needed them supple. He felt a faint pang of guilt at involving Mitch in this at all. It’s not as though hacking was the only reason the man had ended up in such a high security prison, but still. Abducting an officer was a serious offense. Not as serious as the crimes Victor himself was about to commit, of course, but given Mitch’s record, it wouldn’t look good. He’d considered dismissing his friend as soon as they were on the free side of the Wrighton Penitentiary fence, but the simple fact was that Victor didn’t possess superhuman strength, and someone would have to help him dispose of bodies. That, and he’d grown rather accustomed to Mitch’s presence. He sighed, and turned his attention to the officer, who was trying to speak. Victor crouched, his knee digging down into the man’s chest as he peeled the duct tape back.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” growled Officer Dane. “You’ll fry for this.”

Victor smiled quietly. “Not with your help.”

“Why should I help you?”

Victor returned the tape to his mouth, and stood.

“Oh, you shouldn’t.” The hum in the air sharpened, and Officer Dane’s body spasmed, his scream muffled by the tape. “But you will.”





VIII


THIS AFTERNOON


THE ESQUIRE HOTEL


ELI was still staring down at the gridded screen of the police database when he heard the door open behind him. He tapped the screen, closing the profile of a suspected EO named Dominic Rusher just as a pair of slim arms wrapped around his shoulders, and a pair of lips grazed his ear.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“Looking for Sydney.”

He tensed. “And?”

“No luck yet, but I’ve put the word out. At least we’ll have a few more pairs of eyes. How was the bank?”

“I don’t trust Stell,” said Eli for the hundredth time.

Serena sighed. “How was Barry Lynch?”

“Dead again by the time I got there.” He lifted the childlike drawing from the desk, handed it blindly back to her. “But he left this.”

He felt the drawing plucked from his fingers, and a moment later, Serena said, “I didn’t know Victor was so thin.”

“This isn’t a time for joking,” snapped Eli.

Serena spun his chair to face her. Her eyes were cold as ice. “You’re right,” she said. “You told me you killed Sydney.”

“I thought I did.”

Serena leaned down, and slid the prop glasses from Eli’s face. He’d forgotten he was still wearing them. She tucked them into her hair like a makeshift headband, and kissed him, not on the lips, but between the eyes, the place that wrinkled whenever he resisted her.

“Did you really?” she breathed against him.

He forced his skin to smooth beneath her kiss. It was easier to think when she wasn’t looking in his eyes.

“I did.”

He sighed inwardly with relief as he said it. Two small words—half truth at most—and nothing more. It was hard, and it left him drained, but there was no doubt, he was getting better at holding back.

She pulled away enough to hold him with her cold blue eyes. He could see the devil in them, silver-tongued and cunning, and Eli thought, not for the first time, that he should have killed her when he had the chance.





IX


LAST FALL


UNIVERSITY OF MERIT


THE music was loud enough to shake the pictures on the walls. An angel and a wizard made out on the stairs. Two naughty cats tugged a vampire between them, a guy with yellow contacts howled, and someone spilled a Solo cup of cheap beer near Eli’s feet.

He snagged the horns from a devil by the front door, and set them on top of his head. He’d seen the girl walk in, flanked by a Barbie and a Catholic schoolgirl flaunting numerous uniform infractions, but she was in jeans and a polo, blond hair loose, falling over her shoulders. He’d lost sight of her for only a moment, and now her friends were there, weaving through the crowd with interlocking fingers held over their heads, but she was gone. She should have stood out, the lack of costume conspicuous at a Halloween party, but she was nowhere to be found.

He swept through the house, avoiding the attempts of several pretty undergrads to delay him. It was flattering, and after all, he looked the part—he’d looked the part for ten years—but he was here on business. And then, after several unsuccessful tours of the first floor, she found him. A hand pulled him onto the stairs, into the shadows.