Blindside Read online

  “Tell our viewers about the inhibitor.”

  “You’re the reporter. Dig.”

  Amy re-crossed her legs. “The initial serum was developed during the Cold War against a threat of heroes controlled by the Soviet Republic. If I remember correctly, it was modified in an incident involving your father?”

  He should have known Amy had done her homework. Even before the harbor incident, any report she’d done on him had ended with a small vicious jab. “My father assisted in increasing the desired effect.”

  A fluttering of lashes. “And what is the desired effect?”

  “The paralysis of ‘gifts’ lasts much longer, depending on dosage and one’s body weight.” Unlike Williams, Mac didn’t bother with air quotes.

  Last night, he’d calibrated the liquid for Lana’s last recorded weight, which he had Cass look up from her last visit to the hospital. He couldn’t bring himself to read through the list of surgeries.

  “In you, the serum lasts about twenty-four hours?”

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t ask about side effects, the destruction of his liver, or the ice cold he’d lived with since the first kiss of the drug. Those expertly smudged eyes nailed him as if he were a frog about to be dissected. “Can you explain how the Night Rook has your abilities? Did you transfer them before you left San Mike?”

  Behind the desk, Williams rose up, a hard commanding presence. “We don’t know how it’s possible,” he said, and bared his teeth at Amy’s lifted eyebrow. “The point is, Mr. Gamble is here to stop him.” He made a slashing motion across his neck. “This interview is done.”

  With a whisper of silk clad legs, Amy got up and tucked away her notepad. And jerked away when Williams got up in her face.

  “You want every perp out there to try for superpowers? Just what we need, them fighting to get his attention on the streets.” His hand was on her arm, hard fingers digging.

  Mac pushed between them, forcing Williams away, but not before Amy nearly clocked him. “I don’t need a damned knight.” With a neat step on mile high heels, she shoved her mic on Williams’ desk. “The public has the right to know.”

  “And you’re just a whore for ratings.”

  This time, the smile was edged in bitter ice. “You got him back here, that’s your business. You want to use me? Fine. But you don’t tell me how I do my job, and what I can’t or cannot ask for. If he can transfer ‘gifts,’” another set of sarcastic curling fingers, “San Michael’s got the right to know.”

  “It isn’t a disease, Ms. Avalon.”

  She smoothed back perfectly straight hair. “It corrupts, and it kills. Turns people into monsters. What would you call it if not a disease?” The door closed behind her with a smooth click.

  Williams sank behind his desk, as if the chair infused him with strength. “She hates your kind. I heard she chased the idiot hero in New York before getting fired and moving up here to play ace reporter. ” He pressed a phone up to his ear and jerked his gaze back at Mac. “Get me the Rook or get out of San Michael. Either way, Avalon is going to mobilize a mob.”

  ***

  She stayed in her apartment instead of finding somewhere to hole up. Pride—possibly idiotic—refused to give in to the fear of being caught. With all “Night Rook” things stashed in a safe she had installed under the carpet, Lana tossed and turned in thin snatches of sleep.

  I will stop you. Mac’s mouth moved over hers, kisses hungry and yet somehow tender. His large palm curved behind her neck, holding Lana a willing prisoner.

  Dreaming in bold bright colors, she burned under the potent draw of his gaze, the brilliant green, stormy with passion. She couldn’t seem to get any air.

  Panic bled through in rivulets of heat, leaching her vision with gray edges. His lips no longer on hers, she fought for air, struggling to push past the constriction in her lungs so she could scream. No longer able to see, she knew in her dream that Mac watched from somewhere above her, his gaze icy, his palm still curved over her neck.

  “Being a hero is about saving innocents.”

  Fire bubbled and hissed over her skin, her body assaulted by pure energy. Those sculpted lips curved in a smile.

  Help me.

  “I can’t.” His lips gave her air, his large hands pumping her stuttering heart.

  Help me. Please.

  Somewhere above Mac screamed her name, but she couldn’t gulp the fiery air, razor sharp blue and red slicing her eyes. Then she was free, the fire in her skin doused enough to let her gasp in the harsh lights.

  Mac was a steady presence at her back when Lana looked into a face she hadn’t seen in years. “Nicky!”

  Same cocky grin, same dark Italian eyes, same stubborn cheekbones. “Rookie.” Tears threatened at that somber tone. “You know this isn’t what I want.”

  “I’m going to make them pay.”

  “It’s not going to bring me back.”

  “I know that.” She would have fallen to her knees if Mac, silent and steady, didn’t support her when she stumbled. “I have to do something. I have to pay them back.” The wind snatched the words away, the rising fog slick and black. Whips of fury coiled in her hands, familiar and lethal.

  “You have to stop this, Lana.”

  “Nicky…I can’t.” She didn’t intend to let the lightning out of her hands, white coils wrapping around him like blazing wires. “Nicky!”

  Helpless, she searched for him amidst the fire and the acrid smoke, groping for him in suffocating darkness. Ice burning her throat, she screamed his name as a blast of heat lifted her off the ground, her skin shielded from licks of fire, her head slamming on burning, unforgiving docks.

  Breathe! Come on, Lana. Hands on her chest, pumping acrid air into lungs, lips on her dry gaping mouth. She knew his touch, his hands, but in razor lights, she couldn’t see his face.

  Pain in her head, a drill of fire. She couldn’t think past the screams, the shriek of sirens, the nausea a lead ball in her gut. Despite his lips on hers, she couldn’t breathe, the hands pumping her chest pushing harder, constricting what precious air she had left.

  “You have to stop.” And something wet and sloppy bathed her face, the weight gone from her chest, her neck prodded with something cold and insistent.

  With the iron shades drowning her apartment in darkness, she opened her eyes to make out an insistent canine grin.

  “You’re gonna suffocate me one day,” she said burying her face in the coarse fur of Big Al’s neck.

  After a minute, he bathed her face in a sloppy kiss, and nudged one of his rope toys against her shoulder.

  “Too early to play,” she mumbled, but nevertheless, sat up. She’d gotten used to him waking her up from nightmares. She hoped he’d gotten used to having to stay indoors during the day, his walks dependent on daylight savings time as much as weather. “Come on, get off the bed.”

  He didn’t budge and Lana was in no mood to tug and wrestle. Instead she bribed him with a piece of last night’s dinner: butter on real Russian rye bread.

  “You gotta have something other than coffee.”

  She looked up at her brother, her vision blurry from lack of sleep. “I eat anything else, I’ll puke in the captain’s office.”

  Nerves jittered through her skin. You’d think she’d be used to them after six months of the academy and a year on the job. In a couple of hours, she would know if she passed probation after a full year on the street.

  “You don’t eat, you get brain fog. I sure as hell wouldn’t want you armed without food and too much coffee.”

  He leaned against the doorframe, his recently adopted Mastiff grinning at her with brown happy eyes. “I ran across a bakery uptown. They swear it’s the real deal. I figured you could put it to the test.”

  From behind his back, he whipped out a paper bag, and the delicious scent of fresh baked bread had her mouthwatering.

  “You didn’t.”

  He unwrapped the bread and with his other hand, present
ed her with a tiny container of butter. “Somebody has to babysit your ass. Mom worries you don’t eat.”

  Telling Big Al to lie down on her daisy welcome mat, Nick made his way into the kitchen. “Come on, young lady, time for breakfast.” He drew out one of her cobalt plates and, with a flourish, snapped open a citrine colored napkin. “Nothing but class at Chez Rossini.”

  “Dork.” But she broke off a hunk and brought it up to her nose, savoring the smell, the thick unmistakable scent of rye bread.

  “So?”

  Expectant looks, both from her brother and the dog. She stalled, making a show of spreading whipped butter on the torn-off piece, then taking a small savoring bite.

  “Yeah. It’s the real deal.” And nearly impossible to find. She took another bite and with her mouth full, tore off another chunk for Nicky who shook his head.

  “I still don’t know how you can eat it.”

  Knowing full well Nick got pissed when she fed Big Al from the table, she whistled for the dog.

  Instead of bitching, Nick simply shook his head. “He filches something from the counter, it’s your fault.”

  The nerves inside her belly settled. “Good thing the big goof ain’t my dog.”

  Next door, a slap broke the silence. Something shattered against a wall, loud and obnoxious, the sound so clear she ran her hand over her pillow expecting shards.

  Lava coiled and hissed under her palm in tandem with Al growling into the darkness.

  Nothing she could do, Lana thought and padded barefoot to the bathroom, bumping into a chair on the way. Sometimes, she hated this apartment, this thick, colorless darkness, the dense iron shutters on the windows keeping the light at bay.

  The argument next door grew louder, the male screaming something about money. The dog a comforting presence beside her, Lana snagged a carton of ice cream from the freezer, her fingers going numb until she rummaged in the back for the emergency non-sugar-free stash.

  Another slap, then unmistakable sound of a woman weeping.

  Since there was nothing she could do, Lana ignored them the same way she ignored the drab gray room illuminated by the laptop.

  “You got into the system?”

  The hacker known as Crash didn’t bother with a greeting, nor did he request she turn on the video portion of a program that let them communicate without needing to type. “I need specific details to search for.”

  Another crashing noise came from next door, maybe a lamp or a cheap vase. Big Al pushed his nose under her armpit, probably waiting for a chance to snag the ice cream while she wasn’t looking.

  “I’d rather have full access.”

  “That wasn’t our deal. I give you exact data or the transaction’s off.”

  The argument next door escalated to curses, the female screaming inventive expletives. Big Al snuck a quick lick over the carton lid and, despite the burn under her skin, she had to smile.

  “Fine. Search for Rossini. I need police case files, everything you got. HR reports, complaints.” She waited a beat, fortifying herself with dairy and sugar and strawberries.

  “There’s a number of them. Got a first name?” The way he asked made her skin itch.

  “Nicholas Andrew.”

  A tap of keys followed by a soft grunt. “Give me an hour. Stay online.”

  Ice-cream forgotten, she ran her own searches, trying to dig in her limited ways, the screen a muted flash of blue, the least painful color in the spectrum.

  Crash came back about fifteen minutes later. “Truckload of data from IA. Want that as well?”

  “It’s bullshit,” Lana heard herself saying before she could force her mouth to zip, the room around her suffocating in shadows, rain scratching fingernails over the windows she kept shut. Next door, the neighbors went to round three.

  You’re no hero. Not her business.

  “Not my place to judge,” came through the laptop speakers. “Although I had this friend that used to say if there’s smoke….”

  “Yeah, give me everything you got from the IA.”

  “You can’t let them see you’re nervous.” Nicky sipped his own coffee, his dark gaze clear and somber on her face.

  “Because I’m Rossini?”

  “That. And because they’ll think you got something nervous to be about. Where’s there’s smoke and all.”

  Big Al abandoned her to sniff the tower of boxes by the sofa. She kept ordering decorations, picking just the right pieces to display in the gorgeous corner apartment with huge windows to let in light.

  “You want to talk about what crawled up your rear?”

  Nick rubbed his hands over dark, tired eyes.

  “Why do you want the job? Forget the third generation cop thing. Why do you want it?”

  She studied him over the hunk of bread “I don’t have time for psychobabble. And you aren’t weaseling out of this conversation again.” She brought up the big guns. “Or I’m calling Mom.”

  He didn’t smile back. “I’m serious.”

  And looking into his face, Lana saw that he was. “I want to help people.”

  “Why?”

  She tore off another chunk of black bread—the only thing she’d eaten for weeks after her parents took her from the orphanage. “I don’t know, Nick. Protect the innocent.”

  “You can’t save everyone.”

  “I know.”

  He dragged a hand through shaggy hair. “Look, you’ll do great. I’m just…tired. Working OT too long.”

  The city cut out overtime because of the new budget. She put the bread on top of the fridge where Big Al probably couldn’t reach it and walked behind Nicky to smack him on the head.

  “Cut out the bull and spill it.”

  “Look, Rookie—”

  “No.” She dragged a chair to sit across from him and look him in the eye to see if he was lying. “The truth this time.”

  “I can’t. Not for a couple of days.” He pushed a hand through the shag of his hair. “Do me a favor. Keep Big Al for a few days? I’ve been working so much, he hasn’t had a decent walk in weeks.”

  The damned dog stole her ice cream. While she paced the floor, waiting for Crash to come back online, Big Al licked through most of the carton.

  When she tripped over a chewed-up water bottle, she flipped on dim blue light to see Big Al’s innocent grin over the demolished cardboard that used to be ice cream. Pointless to yell after the fact, and since he had to wait for his walk after sunset, Lana let him off the hook this time. Nothing like bribery to ease some of the guilt.

  Two in the afternoon was when they slept, with her having come back from “work,” exhausted. And if she was exhausted not only from chasing leads but chasing dealers off the street, nobody had to know.

  A ping from her computer indicated Crash came back online. She stepped onto a knotted-up rope toy and was rewarded with a warm tongue on her bare foot.

  “That was quick.”

  A soft grunt was her answer. “The city’s got shit for security. I got your data. IA records, medicals, family. Adopted sister named Svetlana.”

  She didn’t like the way he pronounced her name, putting the emphasis on the first syllable. Then again, not like she spoke much of the language.

  “Something pop on her?”

  At the quick tap of keys, the itch between her shoulder blades fueled the burn of lava.

  “Russian name. Funny.”

  A slap next door. The dog stopped licking his chops long enough to whine.

  “Yeah? How’s it funny?”

  More tapping. More crashes against the wall, glass shattering, a quickly cut off yelp. She didn’t know how the keyboard didn’t spark under her hands with all that lava simmering inside her. A warm, automated female voice murmured at her: “Svetlana. One who makes light.”

  A long, heartbreaking wail punctured the stretched-out silence. This time, Al let go of the ice cream to glower at the wall, ears pinned back, teeth showing.

  “I gotta go,” she said, and
pushed her sunshades on her aching head. “Let me know how much I owe you.”

  She refused to think about the Friends of the City money she’d just spent for vengeance. The daylight in the hallway, vicious despite the glasses, egged on by the throbbing in her head.

  “What do you want?” Short hairy legs visible below dirty shorts, a stained white wife beater. She couldn’t see behind the man who answered her brisk knock, but she heard the muffled sob.

  “Keep it down or I’m calling the cops.” Nobody had to know that she was bluffing.

  Another tearful gasp, the sound bitten off as though a fist was shoved into a quivering mouth. God knew she didn’t miss domestic calls.

  “I’m sorry, miss. We’re just talking loud.” He shoved the door closed in her face; the movement revealed a limp snake of a belt he clutched behind him.

  She didn’t try to clamp down on a power burst, and threw her shields up in time to avoid splinters of old wood.

  “Hey! You’re nuts, you know that? I’m gonna call the fucking cops.” He swung the belt in her direction and gave her the excuse to paint that worn out profile with blood. He stumbled back, crimson drops spraying against her shields. Watching him sit onto the carpet the color of old vomit, Lana flexed her fingers at the small yet satisfying string of pain.

  “Oh my God, Carl?” A woman with ugly welts covering her bare legs rushed to his side. “Call an ambulance! Carl, what should I do?”

  “Shut up! No ambulance! You lost your mind?” Carl shoved the blubbering woman back.

  “Get out!” Flailing fists, sobbing words. “Just get out!”

  “Call the damned cops. Or I’ll do it next time.” Disgust bitter in her mouth, Lana turned back into the hallway.

  Dark heavy power seared her blood. Under the bitter burning day, she felt her way down the endless corridor, the walls rasping her fingertips, her door a cool relief. The landlord would be pissed about the door. Her neighbor wouldn’t be the type to blab about a woman’s fist taking him down, but nevertheless, the door would have to be another dip into the Friends of the City fund.

  Back in the blue tinted darkness, she leaned against the wall for a moment, the dog watching her with a serious gaze.