Villainous (3 page)

“
Val
.”

“Look, I’m sorry.” I hopped off the couch, unable to sit still any longer. “I was hoping I could take care of it and not worry you.”

The only thing keeping Dave from rising to his feet after me were his injuries. “Forget worrying me. I think I have a right to know if I need to show up in court. What are they charging me with?”

“Nothing. I made a deal. It’s taken care of.”

His gaze searched me, going from angry to concerned as though someone had flipped a switch. “What did it cost you?”

“Ever heard of psyc?”

I gave him the quick and dirty version of what Agent Lagarde had told me.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said when I finished. “We can call off the deal. I’ll go to court—”

“You most certainly will not.” I put my hands on my hips.

“A trial is worse than you putting your life at risk? I know you and the Prophet King are old friends, but if he finds out you’re working with the DSA to bring him down, he’ll kill you.”

“I won’t let him kill me. And I’ll have DSA agents for backup.”

“The DSA isn’t going to make your safety a priority.”

“Harsh words, considering you used to work for them.”

He took a deep breath through his nose, not nearly as hard to antagonize as Agent Lagarde. “That’s different. I chose to work for them. For a cause I believed in.”

“Then it’s not different at all. I chose to take their deal because I believe very strongly that I don’t want to see you in the Inferno.”

“And I don’t want to see you get hurt.” His voice was tender, and I hated it.

“You think losing you wouldn't hurt me? Think what it would do to this family if you went to prison—what it would do to Elisa.”

That was a low blow, I know. (No need to get so judgmental.) But I hadn’t spent fifteen years fighting him and three years married to him without knowing his weak points. Dave would do anything for his daughter.

He sank lower in his chair and was silent for a long moment. “The deal was probably Walter’s idea,” he muttered finally. “Either I go to prison, or you risk your life to do his dirty work. It’s win-win for him.”

“Yeah, he’s enough of an idiot to think threatening
me
will work out well for him.”

Dave looked up at me, and I knew from the worry and regret in his eyes that I’d won. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”

“And you shouldn’t have had to fight the DSA and a bunch of super-powered psychopaths to keep me from getting framed for murder, but you did. Now let me return the favor.”

The question now was how angry he was going to be, but to my relief, he patted his thigh invitingly. I crossed the distance between us, sat in his lap, and kissed him deeply. His hands grasped my waist, and he was gentle, always oh so gentle and careful not to break me.

“I don’t know why you’re upset about this.” I kept my arms around his neck, my fingers brushing the hair above his neckline. “I’m stopping a big bad crime boss from distributing a bunch of evil drugs. Obviously, I’ve seen the error in my ways and am one of the good guys now.”

He smirked. “Obviously.”

“It’s true. I’m practically a role model.”

“Val, you’re many things, but the thought of you being a role model terrifies me.”

I shifted my position so that I was straddling him instead of sitting sideways, and whispered in his ear. “Sweet-talker.”

Loud footsteps pounded overhead, and Elisa shouted, “Will you guys knock it off?”

“Sorry, dear!” I called back.

Ah, the joys of having children. It wasn’t her fault, though. She couldn’t help that her telepathy let her sense the thoughts and feeling of everyone in the house at all times. I’d just have to work harder on training her to control it.

But in the meantime, it was murder on my sex life.

Chapter 3

I walked into the restaurant at
six
p.m. sharp the next day, dressed for battle. That meant a sleeveless, black sheath dress with red flower print hiding the wire a female DSA agent had attached firmly to my bra. My sandals were deceptively sturdy and strapped securely to my feet, and I had a small Derringer pistol in my purse. I extended my senses, tasting the margaritas on the diners’ tongues and feeling the tiredness in the waitresses’ limbs. It wasn’t hard to pick out the undercover DSA agents and Jean-Baptiste’s men, both keeping watch on the other while pretending not to.

Honestly, the place was kind of tacky. The dark wood of the floor and walls was nice enough, but they’d overdone the decorations. They had everything from a mounted ship’s wheel to a stuffed parrot to a huge swordfish hanging over the bar. Framed newspaper reviews of the food were displayed next to autographed photos of famous athletes and superheroes who’d presumably dined here, and there was even a lobster tank so you could tap on the glass and annoy your food before you ate it. The place did good business, though. If Jean-Baptiste hadn’t already reserved a table, I’d probably have waited at least twenty minutes to sit down.

He sat alone in the corner, one elbow resting casually on the back of his chair while his other hand held his drink. He was a stocky man, hair shaved close to his scalp, and he wore his designer suit like nobody’s business. Blind, he had his head tilted in a way that meant he was listening intently to everything around him. His men would be alert for any sign of danger, but only a fool would rely on them completely.

“Valentina,” he greeted before I could announce myself. “How about that drink I owe you?”

A waitress appeared to take my order the instant I sat down, either knowing the city’s crime lord was sitting at her table or identifying the handsome, well-dressed man as a good tipper. Jean-Baptiste was having a Rhum Barbancourt on the rocks, unless I missed my guess. I nearly ordered the same but then changed my mind.

“I’ll have a Black Valentine,” I said.

Yes, I have a drink named after me. That’s how you know you’ve risen above the ranks of normal villainy. I mean, do Madame Guillotine or Dr. Grim have cocktails named after them? Well, all right, if you scoured the Internet, you could probably find a recipe for something, but good luck ordering one, because the bartender would have never heard of it. Black Valentines had risen in popularity about fifteen years ago to become a bar standard, and they’d probably stay there long after memory of my heists and murders had faded. Funny how my most lasting contribution to history will be a drink.

Once the waitress left, I said, “I sound like a total asshole when I order that, don’t I?”

Jean-Baptiste smiled. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Settling in, I spotted the biggest threat to myself if Jean-Baptiste decided to take offense at my involvement with the DSA. The statuesque, dark-skinned woman sitting two tables over was Amala Kapoor, aka Ember, Jean-Baptiste’s bodyguard and main muscle. Her black leggings and orange tank top made her look like any other single woman out on the town, but her boots gave her away. Ankle-high, thick-soled, and clasped with no less than five metal buckles, they were serious ass-kicking boots. I used to own a few pairs like them myself.

Jean-Baptiste set down his glass and shifted so that he was facing me directly. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again so soon.”

“I couldn’t help myself. I heard the most fascinating rumor about you.”

“Oh? I hope it’s not the one where I’m helping the Illuminati give people special abilities by drugging the water. I can’t say I care for that one.”

“That’s hilarious, but no, not that one. It
is
drug-related, though.”

Jean-Baptiste didn’t stiffen or twitch or give any sign of surprise. He was still and silent—perhaps a little too much so.

I leaned forward across the small table and lowered my voice. “It’s about psyc. Clever little drug, isn’t it? Giving normal people telepathy. I hear you’re the one who’s importing most of it.”

“And you’re interested in that why?”

I smiled, knowing that even though he couldn’t see it, he could hear it in my voice. “I want in.”

The waitress reappeared with my drink, and I paused to thank her and take a sip. Good. The bartender hadn’t skimped and used a cheap brand of black vodka. That always ruined it.

Telepathically, where the eavesdropping DSA agents had no chance of hearing, I said,
The DSA are on to you. They made a deal with me to bring in enough evidence to take you down.

“I thought you were retired,” Jean-Baptiste said aloud. “Why dive into the drug trade now?” In his head, he asked,
Why are you telling me this?

“I’m bored,” I said. “Retirement isn’t making me relaxed so much as restless. I’m not looking to don my old costume and take over a city, but a little side operation sounds right up my alley.”
Do you think I’d sell you out to the DSA after all we’ve been through together? Wait, no, don’t answer that. Just know that I have no intention of cooperating with them completely.

“And what do you have to offer me?” This time his thoughts matched his words.

“Darling, what
can’t
I offer you?”
I have to give the DSA something, which means you’ll need to give up some inventory and a few underlings to throw them off your trail. You hide the real route of the drugs, I get credit for the bust, and the DSA feels like they accomplished something. Everybody wins.
“Are you saying you don’t have a use for someone who can control people’s minds and read their thoughts?”

The overhead lights dimmed, and on the other side of the restaurant, the wait staff started singing
Happy Birthday
to an embarrassed diner. Jean-Baptiste finished off his rum, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he took his last swig. I merely ran my fingers along my glass, feeling the cool condensation as I searched his face for some sign of his thoughts. A decade or so ago, I’d have been able to read his mind with no problem, but these days, he was much better at blocking me out.

“I’m not opposed to the idea of working with you again,” he said, as the upbeat but off-key song continued in the background. “Quite the contrary. But I need time to consider.”

An answer to both my fake offer and my real one.

“Fair enough,” I replied. “But don’t wait too long or—”

“Amala!” he shouted, and dove to the floor.

I didn’t pause to question. I didn’t even take time to wonder what his reason might have been. I just dove to the floor after him. An instant later, gunshots slammed into the wooden wall behind us. The
Happy Birthday
song broke off with screams, and one of the undercover DSA agents shouted, “Drop your weapon!” I moved to see who was responsible, but then the barrel of a gun hit my side.

“What are you trying to do?” Jean-Baptiste snarled. If he pulled the trigger now, I’d get a bullet through several important internal organs.

“You can’t think I’m behind this,” I said, though considering I’d invited him here, he really could.

“I’m not sure what disappoints me more,” he said, “That you’d try to kill me after all our history, or that you’d be so sloppy about it.”

He jerked as Amala crouched behind him and pressed a gun to the back of his head.

“That’s Amala,” I said for his benefit. “She’s really quite loyal. I’m having to make her see you as someone else in order to get her to do this.”

His low voice came out as a growl. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Crashes, pops, and screams continued. Someone was still trading bullets over there.

I sighed. “JB, if I wanted to kill you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d be getting rigor mortis, and I’d be establishing an alibi on a beach somewhere.”

Creases formed on Jean-Baptiste’s forehead, and after a long moment, he pulled the gun away from my side. After counting to three, I had Amala do the same.

Jean-Baptiste cocked his head. “What’s that buzzing?”

A second later, I heard it, too. Then an explosion rocked the room.

More people screamed, but then everything went eerily silent. I peered around the table to see smoke and debris in the air. A chunk of the bar was missing, the edges of the wood blackened and smoldering. Three bodies lay prone on the floor nearby, two DSA agents and one of Jean-Baptiste’s men.

“Everybody stay where you are!” It was a male voice, and judging by the way it nearly cracked, it belonged to someone either young, nervous, or both. “Don’t run, but you can go ahead and call the cops. And feel free to start recording this, because nobody’s ever seen anything like me before.”

The speaker stepped into my view. He was twenty-something, skinny, and wearing a black trench coat. A trench coat in Florida when it must have been eighty-five degrees outside. Honestly. His white T-shirt had an image of a mushroom cloud on the front, so three guesses who was responsible for the explosion. He had a handful of similarly young punks with guns flanking him.

“I’m the Combuster,” he announced. “Guess you didn’t see me coming, did’ya, Prophet King?”

Eh, five out of ten on the supervillain codename scale. Too bad he was just outside the range of my telepathy, or I could end this right now.

“Could you release Amala?” Jean-Baptiste asked me politely.

“Oh. Sure.”

I let go of my mind-control, giving her a telepathic summary of what she’d missed so she wouldn’t be disoriented. She shot me an enraged glare but was enough of a professional to not punch me in the face until after the immediate threat was dealt with. Her eyes closed, and her eyebrows tightened in concentration. Then a glowing substance like lava flowed out from the pores of her skin. It covered every inch of her visible flesh, then hardened into a sleek black armor. When she opened her eyes again, they glowed red-orange like embers.

She stood up, grabbed the table, and hurled it at the Combuster. The Combuster flung himself aside with a shouted curse. Amala stalked toward him. It was going to be fun to watch her bludgeon him to death with a chair. The other punks opened fire, but the bullets bounced off Amala’s armor with nothing more than light pings.

One of Jean-Baptiste’s men reached us and crouched down beside him. “Are you hurt, sir?”