Vengeful (Villains #2)(106)

Up until then, she had reminded Victor of Serena, expecting the world to bend to her will. But in that moment, she reminded him of Eli. That zealous light in her eyes, the coiled energy, the conviction.

Victor had seen enough.

He turned his power on Marcella. Not a subtle impression, either, but a sudden, blunt-force blow, strong enough to fry nerves and level a body. She should have collapsed on the spot, buckled like dead weight to the cold marble. Instead, Marcella took a single surprised breath and then Jonathan’s head flicked imperceptibly toward her. As soon as it did, the air crackled, the space around Marcella filling with the same blue-white flare that had shielded Jonathan moments before.

Victor realized his error. Marcella was more like Eli than he’d guessed. Her uncanny self-assurance was an arrogance born from invincibility. Albeit a borrowed one.

Victor dropped his hold on the rest of the room, and left them gasping on the floor.

Marcella pursed her lips as the shield flickered out. “That wasn’t very sporting.”

“Forgive me,” answered Victor dryly. “I guess I got carried away.” He looked down at the men and women on the floor. “I take it I failed your test.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Your performance was . . . illuminating.”

Marcella produced a crisp white envelope.

June took the card and delivered it to Victor.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“An invitation.”

They stood there for a second, neither willing to put their back to the other.

At last Marcella broke into a smile. “You can see yourself out,” she said. “But I do hope we meet again.”

Victor wanted nothing less, but he had a feeling they would.

*

“WELL,” said Marcella, watching Victor go. “That was enlightening.”

June hadn’t said a word since Marcella mentioned Sydney, hadn’t trusted herself to speak. Now she cleared her throat.

“Do you still think he might be useful?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Marcella, taking out her phone.

“Should I follow him?”

“No need.” Marcella punched in a number. “I’ve seen enough.” Someone answered, and Marcella said, “He’s staying at the Kingsley, on Fifteenth. But right now, he’s moving west on Alexander. Happy hunting, Joseph.”

June’s stomach dropped.

How did Marcella already know where they were staying? Where Sydney was staying?

She gave June a bland look. “You didn’t think you were the only one keeping an eye on things, did you?”

June swallowed. “Do what you want with Victor, but Sydney isn’t part of this.”

“Maybe she wouldn’t have been,” said Marcella, pointedly, “if you’d told me the truth about the girl’s power instead of keeping her to yourself.” She flicked her fingers dismissively toward the door. “But go ahead. See if you can get to her before they do.”





VIII





THE LAST MORNING


THE KINGSLEY


“SYDNEY!” called Mitch, flipping the grilled cheese in the pan.

She didn’t answer.

That bad feeling, the one he’d had on the way to Merit, began to crystalize from a general dread into something specific. Like the vague first signs of an illness that suddenly sharpened into the flu.

“Sydney!” he called again, shifting the pan off the stove so lunch wouldn’t burn. He started toward the bathroom, slowing when he noticed the door was open. As was the door to Syd’s room.

And the one to his own.

Mitch glimpsed a black tail swishing absently just inside the door, and found Dol sprawled on his bedroom floor, facing the window and chewing on a scrap of paper.

Mitch knelt down and pried the paper from the dog’s lolling mouth, stilling at the sight of the crown, the sideways profile. It was a face card.

The king of spades.

Mitch was on his feet, already dialing Sydney’s cell. It rang, and rang, and rang, but no one answered. He swore, and was just about to chuck the phone onto the bed when it went off in his hand.

Mitch answered, praying it was Syd.

“Pack up,” ordered Victor. “We’re leaving.”

Mitch made an uneasy sound.

“What is it?” demanded Victor.

“Sydney,” said Mitch. “She’s not here.”

A short exhale. “Where?”

“I don’t know. I was making lunch and—”

Victor cut him off. “Just find her.”

*

SYDNEY stood on the curb, looking up.

Five years ago, the Falcon Price had been a construction project, rebar and concrete surrounded by a plywood fence. Now, it rose high above her, a gleaming tower of glass and steel. All the evidence of the crimes committed that night hidden beneath fresh cement, drywall, plaster.

She didn’t know what she’d expected to find. What she’d expected to feel. A ghost? A remnant of her sister? But now that Sydney was here, she could only see Serena rolling her eyes at that idea.

Syd knelt, reaching into her bag for the secret she’d carried so long. She eased the lid off the red metal tin, folded back the strip of cloth. For the first time in five years, Sydney let her fingers skim the soot-covered shards of bone. The finger joint. The piece of rib. The knot of a hipbone. All that was left of Serena Clarke. All that was left—besides whatever was left here.