Vengeful (Villains #2)(15)

VIII





THREE YEARS AGO


CAPITAL CITY


IT was happening again. Again. Again.

Victor braced himself against the dresser, the pills from Malcolm Jones’s supply arrayed before him, that ever-present hum turning to a high whine in his skull. He searched the labels again for something he hadn’t tried—oxycodone, morphine, fentanyl—but he’d tried all of them. Every permutation, every combination, and they weren’t working. None of them were working.

He stifled a frustrated growl and swept the open bottles from the counter. Pills rained down onto the floor as Victor surged out into the apartment. He had to get away before the charge reached its peak.

“Where are you going?” asked Sydney as Victor crossed the room.

“Out,” he said tightly.

“But you just got back. And it’s movie night. You said you’d watch with us.”

Mitch put a hand on her arm. “I’m sure he won’t be long.”

Sydney looked between them, as if she could see the omissions, the lies, the space where truth had been carved out. “What’s going on?”

Victor pulled his coat from the hook. “I just need some air.” The charge was spilling out now, into the air around him, energy crackling through his limbs. Dol whimpered. Mitch winced. But Sydney didn’t back down.

“It’s raining,” she protested.

“I won’t melt.”

But Sydney was already reaching for her own coat. “Fine,” she said, “then I’ll go with you.”

“Sydney—”

But she made it to the door before him.

“Get out of my way,” he said through clenched teeth.

“No,” she shot back, stretching her small body across the wooden frame.

“Move,” said Victor, a strange desperation creeping into his voice.

But Sydney held her ground. “Not until you tell me what’s going on. I know you’re hiding something. I know you’re lying, and it’s not fair, I deserve to—”

“Move,” ordered Victor. And then, without thinking—there was no room for anything beyond the rising charge, the slipping seconds, the need to escape—Victor took hold of Sydney, and pushed, not against her nerves, but against her whole body. She stumbled sideways, as if hit, and Victor surged past her for the door.

He was almost there when the spasm hit.

Victor staggered, braced himself against the wall, a low groan escaping between clenched teeth.

Sydney was on her hands and knees nearby, but when he stumbled, all the anger drained out of her face, replaced by fear. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Victor bowed his head, struggling for breath. “Get her—out—”

Mitch was finally there, dragging Sydney back, away from Victor.

“What’s happening to him?” she sobbed, fighting Mitch’s grip.

Victor got the door open, and managed a single step before pain closed over him like a tide, and he fell.

The last thing he saw was Sydney, tearing free of Mitch’s arms, Sydney, rushing toward him.

And then death erased it all.

*

“SYDNEY?”

Victor dragged in a shallow breath.

“Sydney, can you hear me?”

It was Mitch’s voice, the words low and pleading.

Victor sat up and saw the man kneeling on the floor, crouched over a small shape. Sydney. She was stretched on her back, her pale hair pooling around her head, her skin porcelain and her body still. Mitch shook her by the shoulder, put his ear to her chest.

And then Victor was up, the room tilting under his feet. His head felt heavy, his thoughts slow, the way they always did in the wake of an episode, and he turned his own dials up, sharpened his nerves to the point of pain. He needed it, to clear his mind.

“Move,” he said, dropping to a knee beside her.

“Do something,” demanded Mitch.

Sydney’s skin was cold—but then, it was always cold. He searched for a pulse, and after several agonizing seconds of nothing, felt the faint flutter of her heart. Barely a beat. Her breath, when he checked, was just as slow.

Victor pressed a hand flat against her chest. He reached for her nerves and tried, as gently as possible, to turn the dial. Not far, just enough to stimulate a reaction.

“Wake up,” he said.

Nothing happened.

He turned the dial up a fraction more.

Wake up.

Nothing. She was so cold, so still.

Victor gripped her shoulder.

“Sydney, wake up,” he ordered, sending a current through her small form.

She gasped, eyes flying open, then rolled onto her side, coughing. Mitch rushed forward to soothe her, and Victor sagged backward, slumping against the door, his heart pounding in his chest.

But when Sydney managed to sit up, she looked past Mitch to Victor, her eyes wide, not with anger but sadness. He could read the question in her face. It was the same one crashing through his own head.

What have I done?

*

VICTOR sat on the balcony and watched the snow fall, flecks of white against the dark.

He was freezing. He could have put on a coat, could have turned his nerves down, muted the cold, could have erased all sensation. Instead, he savored the frost, watched his breath plume against the night, clung to the brief period of silence.