Vengeful (Villains #2)(123)
Marcella pushed Eli back down the bar, iron scraping his insides as his back hit the pillar.
He let out a snarl.
“You don’t seem to be healing,” said Marcella, holding up a stained palm. “Still planning to kill me?”
“Yes,” hissed Eli, blood leaking between his teeth.
Marcella clicked her tongue.
“Men.”
She dug her nails into his injured stomach. Pain flared through Eli as layers of skin and muscle peeled away, and organs shriveled, and he began to die.
*
ELI’S strangled scream cut through the marble hall as Victor was forced to the floor.
“Can’t hurt what you can’t see,” said the EON soldier at his back, which wasn’t strictly true. Especially when they were foolish enough to have put their arm around his throat.
The soldier cried out, as if his arm had been broken. No doubt it felt that way. As soon as the limb slackened around Victor’s throat, he swung up to his feet and turned on the soldier, felling the man with the short flick of a now-expert hand.
The soldier slumped, unconscious, to the marble, and Victor turned his attention back to Eli, pinned against a metal fixture, a few feet off the ground.
Shots echoed through the courthouse. Stell seemed to have figured out that Jonathan’s particular ability required a line of sight, and was now emptying his own gun at the EO up on the balcony above. Blue-white light flared, but then Stell’s gun clicked, the magazine already empty, and Jonathan retaliated, unleashing a hail of his own bullets, forcing both Victor and Stell to dive behind adjacent pillars.
Victor was genuinely torn.
If he took down Jonathan, Eli might be able to kill Marcella.
If he didn’t, Marcella might actually kill Eli—a death Victor longed for.
And one he still wanted for himself.
In the end, Victor’s decision was made for him, not by Eli, or Marcella, but by June.
June—who appeared before him, once again wearing Mitch, and put a gun to the big man’s head. “I asked nicely, but you didn’t listen.”
June brought her finger to the trigger.
“Kill Marcella,” she ordered, “or lose him.”
Everything about June, from the steady hand, to the even gaze, told Victor that she would shoot Mitch, simply to make a point, let alone get what she wanted.
“When this is over,” said Victor, “you and I are going to have words.”
And with that, he rounded the pillar, already reaching for Jonathan’s nerves. The shield flared up anew, blue and white and defiant, and sweat beaded on Victor’s skin. He’d never unloaded this much charge into one person, and his own nerves crackled and hummed from the sheer effort, threatening to short out once and for all.
But at last, the forcefield began to splinter.
*
ELI’S vision swam as Marcella’s hand clawed deeper.
But he still saw the burst of light on the balcony behind her.
Eli’s lips moved, as if in pleading, and when Marcella leaned closer, he slammed his head into hers as hard as he could. Without Jonathan’s protection, the blow landed, and Marcella staggered back, holding her cheek. She spun, and saw Jonathan’s own cracking shield. She started across the room toward Victor, leaving Eli pinned to the pillar.
The wrought-iron bar still jutted from his front, though Marcella had half ruined it—along with his stomach. Eli slammed his fist down into the rusted metal, and it crumbled away.
He got his foot up against the pillar behind him and pushed himself off the lower remains of the bar, dropping to the floor. Eli’s stomach was a ruin of blood and gore, but without the wrought iron driven through it, the wound was already healing. Organs closing, tissue knitting back into clean, smooth flesh.
A deafening crack cut through the courthouse as Jonathan’s forcefield finally shattered. The EO toppled forward over the banister and fell, hitting the floor below with the dull thud of dead weight on stone.
Victor swayed and then sank to one knee, gasping from the effort. He didn’t see Marcella moving toward him, her stride quickening as her hands began to glow.
Eli reached her first, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, pinning her back against him.
“Honestly,” she snarled, “take a hint.”
Her power flared, fast, and hot, and Eli’s world went white with pain as she pitted her strength against his.
Back in the lab, Haverty had measured Eli’s rate of recovery, the speed with which he healed, had marveled at the way it never slowed, like a battery that couldn’t run down. But none of Haverty’s tests had strained Eli’s body the way that Marcella’s power did now.
She tipped her head back against his shoulder. “Are you having fun yet?”
The air itself rippled with the strength of her will.
Marcella’s power was no longer coming from her hands alone. It radiated around them both, warping the nearest table, sending hairline cracks across the thinning marble at their feet. It ate away his suit and her dress, melting, ruining, erasing everything, until they stood in a shallow pool of ash atop the weakening floor, Eli’s arms—caught in a constant transformation from skin, to muscle, to bone, and back—pressed against Marcella’s bare chest.
“If you’re counting on my modesty,” said Eli. “You should know, I have very little left.”