But this…
Memories of pain scorched my mind. The helmet, current arcing blue, skin sizzling to the backdrop of my screams…
I wanted to scream again, claw at my face. They'd carved me up pretty good. I should be thankful my eye had been saved. That the damage was only cosmetic.
But it wasn't.
The bruises, the welt where the augmentium helmet had cut into my scalp: they'd heal. But the burned scar was too old, too brutally deep. I'd never fix this. I'd have to live with it forever. And every time I touched it—every time I glimpsed my reflection, in a mirror or a window or someone else's eyes—I'd remember what Razorfire had done to me.
Guess it was lucky for me I wore a mask most of the time, then.
I let out a deep breath, and stared my scarred reflection down. I had stuff to do. No point crying over what was lost.
Not that I ever rated much in the beauty department to start with, right? The Seeker, in her mask and tight leather, attracted far more interest from the opposite sex than plain Verity ever did, and that suited me just fine. Lots of guys thought it was kinky to sleep with a masked vigilante. They never wanted her phone number afterwards. But relationships are a tedious mess of half-truths when you've got a secret identity to protect, and the Seeker just took what she wanted and vanished into the night. Fun all round, no one gets hurt.
But still, as I studied my new scar-bright face, the hungry hate-seed inside me burrowed fresh poison shoots into my heart. This went above and beyond normal hostilities. The damage was spiteful, unnecessary. When I finally caught up with Razorfire—and I would, so help me, if it sucked out every last drop of my strength—maybe I'd return the favor before I killed him.
I dried off and hunted for something to wear. My body was skinny and malnourished, and Adonis's clothes were too big for me at the best of times, but I found a Versace T-shirt and some sweats that didn't fall off once I tied knots in strategic places. Shoes were more of a problem. I opted for the hobo flip-flops, once I'd given them a good scrubbing.
I slouched into the living room. Sunlight slanted in, glinting on polished oak floorboards. Adonis's apartment was meticulously tidy, telling a familiar tale of paid housekeeping and too many hours spent at work. White Italian sofa, plush rugs, four televisions on mahogany shelving, tuned to four different news channels with the sound muted. An array of computers sat on the glass-topped desk, alongside three cell phones. Through the open glass doors lay a sparkling view of the bay, and a saxophonist's melancholy wail mingled with the sounds of traffic and café customers. The smells of bacon and French toast made my mouth hurt, and my empty stomach protested with a growl.
Adonis's voice drifted in from the sun deck, with that sarcastic edge that meant he was talking to our sister. "Yeah, whatever. I'll bring her in, you can talk to her yourself… Well, cancel the fucking meeting, then… Jesus, E., don't go out of your way or anything."
My mouth twisted. That was my sister, all right. Not Thank God Verity's still alive! or Is she okay? or even Where the hell's she been all this time, I'll wring her telekinetic neck for making me worry.
Just grief about cancelling some damn meeting.
I raided the fridge while I waited, hunting for waffles or eggs. I pushed aside a bottle of Moet, a gift box of Belgian chocolates, a wheel of triple cream brie. "Jeez, don't you do anything but seduce debutantes? Haven't you got any real food?"
"Blow me," came the reply.
"The places you've been? Not likely." I grabbed the OJ and swigged, a fresh burst of sweetness. Finally, I unearthed a box of Pop-Tarts and dropped four into the stainless steel toaster. My mouth watered harder at the fruity scent. How long since I'd eaten properly?
The tarts popped, and I burned my mouth wolfing the first one down. Oh, God. My knees weakened, and my taste buds had their own little private moment on that hot strawberry goodness. Mmm.
I unfolded the Sapphire City Chronicle on the breakfast bar as I munched, wiping drool from my chin. All those computers and Adonis still had this thing for newsprint. VILLAINS ON THE RISE! yelled the headline, above a half-page, blurry security camera photo of masked bandits heisting an armored van. They had balls, to rip off a van in full view of the cameras. Hubris, not to shoot the cameras out first. Arrogance, even. The guy in front was giving the camera the finger, his sawed-off shotgun brandished above his head in victory.
I peered closer. A glint showed on that cheerily-displayed middle finger, so tiny you could barely see it. But I knew what it was. A Gallery ring, marking him as one of Razorfire's petty minions. His Archvillain-ness despised normals, sure. Didn't stop him recruiting all kinds of petty criminals and bad-asses to wreak havoc and perpetuate the kind of climate he reveled in: fear.
As I read, I frowned. The article listed a grotesquery of heists, sieges, kidnappings, shootings, and assorted mayhem, all in the last couple of weeks. A crime wave, in fact.
Adonis walked in, dropping phone number four into his jacket pocket. He looked great in black, and his suits always fit him perfectly, from square shoulders to neat white cuffs to the green or violet or sapphire-blue ties he liked. He flipped a tart from the toaster and bit into it. "Typical. Back for five minutes and already you're into my secret stash."
"Hey, I'm the one who's been eating stewed puke for nine months. Give over." I swiped the tart from his hand with my talent, and it flew across to splat onto my plate. But an ache flared in my skull. I couldn't control it. The plate spun onto the floor and smashed to shards.
"Sorry." My cheeks burned, and I felt queasy. Had they broken me in that place? If I couldn't control my talent, I was useless. I knelt and scrabbled for the mess, but my fingers were just as clumsy. I smeared strawberry jam, splinters stabbing my knees.
Adonis knelt beside me. "It's okay."
The broken plate cut into my fingers. I didn't care. I had to fix it, make it right. Chipped glass slices my palms as I climb… the poison vial, smooth and cool under my fingertips. I reach for my mask, force my thumbs underneath, drag it off…
"Verity, stop." Adonis's voice pulled me back to the present. He grabbed my hand, forcing me still. "It's okay, damn it!"
I shook my dizzy head to clear it. "Uh… sure. It's all good. I just made a mistake, that's all. Tired, I guess."
He helped me up. "I heard you last night. Didn't sound like nice dreams."
I didn't remember. Probably a good thing. I'd had enough nightmares to last a lifetime. I shrugged, and reached for another tart.
Adonis watched me. He hadn't said anything about my face, and I was grateful. What was there to say? "Finish up, already. Big sister wants to see you."
"Whatever. Like she cares." I pushed the newspaper over the counter towards him, my mouth full of strawberry goo. "What's wrong with this picture?"
He shrugged, avoiding my gaze. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean." I stabbed my finger at the photo. "Where are FortuneCorp in all this? Are we letting the Gallery get away with this stuff now? Jeez, I take a few months off and the place goes to hell."
"Did you read further down?"
"Huh?"
He flipped the folded newspaper over. Bottom half of page one, beneath the crime picture.
MAYORAL RACE HEATS UP ON CRIME
Villains Won't Drag Us Down, Says Fortune
Sapphire City's mayoral race is still too close to call, after candidates campaigned yesterday in the inland suburbs, the scene of many of the violent incursions that have terrorized citizens in recent weeks. Experts are predicting that policies on law and order will play a decisive role in the poll, to be held in just under two weeks, and it seems the candidates agree. The newest man in the race, local businessman Vincent Caine, visited a Bayview housing project where he promised long-time residents that, under his governance,