It’s the word “us” that breaks me. No longer are villains some nameless, faceless evil enemy. No, now villains are Draven and Dante. Deacon.
“I-I’m sorry,” I say. It’s lame, but it’s the truth. “I didn’t know. I never thought of it that way. If I had—”
“What?” he snaps. “You would have stopped the heroes? You would have given them the Kenna Swift stamp of disapproval?” He shakes his head. “Oh, wait. I know. You would have pulled that fire alarm a lot sooner. Of course, the only one who avoids getting burned in that situation is you.”
I get it. He’s hurting. He’s upset. But just because he’s one step from losing it is no excuse to take everything out on me. I’m on his side here.
I have to remind myself that he’s still a villain. Just because I feel bad for him doesn’t mean I trust him. And it doesn’t mean we’ll be on the same side once Deacon is free. This is a one-time-only partnership. Because while I may have discovered there are superheroes who can’t be trusted, I’m not stupid enough to think that means all villains can be.
But I can’t rescue Deacon alone, so it’s either trust Draven and Dante or just let him die. I’m not okay with that.
“If I had known superheroes were torturing people, I would have done exactly what I plan to do now,” I say.
Draven snorts as he pulls into my driveway. “And what’s that?”
I meet his mocking gaze straight on as I reply with the most truthful answer I’ve got: “Stop them.”
Then I climb out of the car and head for my front door without waiting for him to respond.
He catches up to me halfway up the sidewalk. He doesn’t say anything, but I feel him at my back.
He wants to see me as his enemy, fine. Just because we have a mutual goal doesn’t mean we’re on the same team. That suits me fine.
Key in hand, I reach for the door.
Draven grabs my shoulder and yanks me back.
I spin, ready to rail on him for manhandling me—he should know by now I don’t stand for that kind of treatment—when he lifts his finger to his mouth. Then he points at the skinny window next to the door. The glass is shattered.
“Mom!” I gasp, panic racing through me.
I shrug out of Draven’s grip and push open the door, my only thought to make sure she’s okay. But after I step into the glass-strewn front hall, I freeze. The door should have been locked. When I snuck out earlier, I used the back door. And Mom would never leave the front door unsecured. Between her experiments and what happened to my dad, she’s way too safety conscious to ever forget to lock up.
“Wait,” Draven whispers. But it’s too late. I’m already in the kitchen.
“Oh my God.”
Every drawer has been dragged out and dumped—on the counter, on the floor, in the sink. Every cabinet is open, as is the refrigerator. The orange juice has been knocked over, and it’s dripped down the shelves to puddle on the floor below.
“Mom!” I scream for her again, racing through the living room, where cushions have been sliced open and the TV is lying on the floor. I hit the stairs running, take them three steps at a time, and make it to the second floor in a flash.
“Mom!” I ignore the open doors to my bedroom, the bathroom, and her home office. Her door is the only one that’s not either swung wide or hanging off its hinges.
I hear Draven’s footsteps in the hall as I reach for the doorknob to her bedroom. My heart tries to beat its way out of my throat. When I left, Mom had been sound asleep. Considering the damage done to the rest of the house, I’m dreading what I’ll see inside.
What if she didn’t get away?
What if whoever did this got to her?
What if they…hurt her?
I stand there, heart pounding and lungs aching, as my hand squeezes the cool metal, willing myself to twist my wrist. I can’t seem to make myself do it.
Draven comes up behind me, his presence a welcome heat at my back. He reaches around, places his hand over mine, and slowly turns the handle. He pushes open the door but doesn’t let go of my hand.
Mom’s bedroom is just as destroyed as the rest of the house. Her bed has been stripped, her mattress is on the floor, and the contents of her dresser drawers have been thrown everywhere. Her walk-in closet has suffered the same fate.
The bathroom light is on. Draven and I make our way across the room, with me holding my breath. Please, God. Please, God. Please—
My breath rushes out in a huge sigh of relief. She’s not here. There’s no lifeless body in the tub. Though the mirror above the sink is shattered, cracks and fissures radiating out from a single point of impact where it looks like something—or someone—hit the glass.
I reach out to touch the web of cracks, but feel pressure on my hand as I do. That’s when I remember that our hands are still linked, and I’m squeezing him in a death grip.
“Sorry,” I say, releasing him.
I don’t miss him shaking the feeling back into his hand, even as he tells me, “Don’t worry about it.”