Vengeful (Villains #2)(74)

And there, at the bottom—Antony Hutch.

As Marcella watched, June plucked a pen from the edge of the bar and struck the name out. “Well, that’s done,” she said, half to herself. And just like that, June was back, a manic light in her eyes as she spun in her seat, folded her arms on the bar. “What do you plan to do next?”

Marcella looked into her empty glass. “I think,” she said slowly, “I’ll take over the mob.”

June snorted into her drink. “Brilliant.”

But Marcella wasn’t joking.

She had only settled for a place at her husband’s side because no one would give her a seat at the table.

But she was done settling.

According to Marcus, power belonged to the man with the biggest gun. Marcella thought of the remains of Tony Hutch’s body, staining his white carpet.

“How many of us do you think there are?”

“EOs?” June hesitated. “Who knows? More than you’d think. We don’t exactly go around advertising.”

“But you can find them.”

The glass was halfway to June’s mouth. Now it stopped. “What?”

“Your power,” said Marcella. “You said when you touch someone, you can take their appearance, but only if they’re human. Doesn’t that mean you can tell when they’re not?”

June’s smile flickered, and returned twice as bright. “You’re awfully sharp.”

“So I’ve been told.”

June stretched on her stool. “Sure, I can tell. Why? You looking to find more of us?”

“Maybe.”

“Why?” June shot her a sideways glance. “Trying to eliminate the competition?”

“Hardly.” She finished her drink and set the empty glass down, running a gold nail around the rim. “Men look at anyone with power and see only a threat, an obstacle in their path. They never have the sense to see power for what it really is.”

“And what’s that?” asked June.

“Potential.” Marcella tightened her fingers on the stem of her glass. “This ability of mine,” she said as her hand glowed red, “is a weapon.” As she spoke, the glass dissolved to sand, slipping through her fingers. “But why settle for one weapon when you can have an arsenal?”

“Because an arsenal stands out,” said June.

Marcella’s lips twitched. “Maybe it should. People with powers like ours, why should we hide? The life I had is gone. There’s no getting it back. I’d rather make a new one. A better one. One where I don’t have to pretend to be weak to survive.”

June chewed her lip thoughtfully. And then, having answered what private question she’d been pondering, June sprang to her feet.

“Come on.”

Marcella didn’t know if it was the girl’s sudden, infectious energy, or if she simply had nowhere else to go, but she stepped down from her stool.

“Where are we going?” asked Marcella.

June glanced back, a wicked light in her eyes.

“I’m in the mood for music.”

*

IF the Palisades had been a dump, the Marina was worse. An underground bunker, half bar and half seedy jazz club, and every surface sticky. Small round tables, trimmed by rickety chairs, half of them empty. A low stage along the back wall, bare but for a few instruments and a standing mic.

June slung herself into a vacant seat and gestured to the chair across from her.

“What are we doing here?” asked Marcella, eyeing the whole situation with suspicion.

“Darling,” said June, with dramatic flair. “You must learn to blend in.” As she said the words, she changed, shedding the bohemian brunette for an older black man in a faded button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

Marcella stiffened. The lights were low, but not that low. She glanced around. “Not exactly subtle.”

June chuckled, her voice smoky in the old man’s throat. “I thought you were done with hiding.” She flicked her hand dismissively at the half-empty club. “People can see an awful lot, and believe none of it.” The old man rocked backward in his seat, the front legs coming off the floor as his face vanished into the club’s deep shadow. When the chair tipped forward again, June was back to one of her usual selves, loose brown waves tumbling into her face. “Won’t you sit?”

Marcella lowered herself into the wooden chair as June went on. “Truth be told, I didn’t bring you for the music. Not directly. But if you’re interested in other EOs, I might have a treasure for you.”

She drew a phone from her pocket and scrolled through her texts, before turning the cell toward Marcella.

A single name stood out on the screen: Jonathan Richard Royce.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“A sax player,” said June, “a decent one at that. Or he was, until he went and got addicted to heroin. Finds himself in debt to Jack Caprese.”

Caprese, thought Marcella. That was a name she knew. Merit was carved up among four men: Hutch, Kolhoff, Mellis, and Caprese.

Hutch had the biggest portion, but Caprese had big eyes, and bigger teeth these days. And a bottomless appetite.

“He couldn’t break the habit,” continued June. “But he couldn’t afford it, either. So Caprese’s men go over to sort out the balance. Break a few fingers. Only Jonathan’s wife is home too. She pulls a gun, and it all goes sideways. Wife dies. According to medical records, so does Royce. For a few minutes, anyway. But in the end, he pulls through. So Caprese sends more guys around, and those end up dead too. Now no one wants to take credit for a botched kill, and no one wants it getting out that they failed, but for all that they still need Royce in the ground. So they outsource.”