Vengeful (Villains #2)(87)

Eli drew up short. “Why two weeks?”

Stell hesitated at that. “Because,” he said slowly, “that is how long I’ve given her to prove her worth as an asset.”

Eli reeled. “You made a deal? With an EO?”

“The world is not black and white,” said Stell. “Sometimes there are other options.”

“Where were mine?” snapped Eli. “The lab or the cell—those are the only ones I was given.”

“You killed forty people.”

“And how many has she killed already? How many more lives will she destroy by the time you see fit to put her down?” Stell didn’t answer. “How could you be so stupid?”

“You will remember your place,” warned Stell.

“Why?” demanded Eli. “Tell me why you would make a deal with her.”

But Eli knew. Of course he knew. This was how far Stell was willing to go to keep him in this cage, contained, controlled.

“What did you mean,” he said through gritted teeth, “when you said her worth as an asset?”

Stell cleared his throat. “I’ve given her a mission. A chance to succeed where you have failed.”

Eli stilled. No. The open file. The unsolved case. Victor.

“The hunter is mine,” he growled.

“You’ve had two years,” said Stell. “Perhaps it’s time for fresh eyes.”

Eli didn’t realize he’d approached the fiberglass until he slammed his fist against it.

This time, the gesture wasn’t calculated. It was pure rage, a moment of violent emotion turned to violent action. Pain flashed through him, and the wall hummed in warning, but Eli’s hand was already falling away.

Stell’s mouth twitched, a grim smile. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

Eli watched the director go until the wall went white, and then he turned and slumped back against it, sliding to the floor.

All of his patience, his subtle pressures. The ground beneath him shuddered, threatened to break. One misstep, and it would crumble, and he would lose Victor and Marcella both, and with them, justice, closure, and any hope of freedom. It might already be too late.

He studied the back of his hand, where a single smear of blood marred the knuckles.

“How many will die for the sake of his pride?” mused Victor.

Eli looked up and saw the phantom standing over him again.

He shook his head. “Stell would rather let the city burn than admit that we are on the same side.”

Victor stared at the wall as if it were still a window. “He doesn’t know how patient you are,” he said. “Doesn’t know you like I do.”

Eli cleaned the blood from his hand.

“No,” he said softly. “No one ever has.”





XIX





TWO WEEKS AGO


FIRST AND WHITE


JUNE whistled softly as she rinsed the blood from her hands.

Marcella had swept out of the penthouse in her red dress, Jonathan trailing like a shadow at her heels. She didn’t say where she was going, or when she’d be back, didn’t ask June to come with, which was fine with her. Jonathan might be a lap dog, but June preferred to work alone.

Which, mind you, wasn’t the same as being alone. Too much silence, too much space. But idle hands and all that—which is how June ended up wrists deep in someone else’s blood.

She hadn’t taken a new job in more than week. Hadn’t needed to. Hutch had been the final name on her personal list, and Marcella had been working up a roster of obstacles, as she called them—men and women most likely to resist her rapid ascent—so whenever June got bored, she just went out and knocked a few off the list.

Marcella didn’t seem to mind.

Some people were matches, a bit of light and no heat. And some were furnaces, all heat but little light. And then, once in a blue moon, there was a bonfire, something so hot and bright you couldn’t stand too near without burning.

Marcella was a bonfire if ever June saw one.

Of course, even bonfires eventually went out, smothered by their own ashes. But in the meantime, June had to admire the other woman’s ambition, and had to admit she was actually enjoying herself.

The only thing missing was Sydney’s soft laugh, her bright smile . . .

June snapped the water off, dried her hands, met her gaze in the reflection.

No. Not hers. Not her hazel eyes. Not her red hair. Not her freckles.

But she’d found herself taking this aspect—brown waves, green eyes, sharp chin—more and more often. It felt strange, holding on to one face long enough for other people to remember it.

Was it worth it? Syd had asked her that night, when she confessed to giving up her face, her life, herself. And it was, it was, but that didn’t stop June from craving the light of recognition in someone’s eyes. The comfort of being seen, being known.

She could be anyone, these days, a million outfits at her disposal, but she tried not to get too attached to any one of them. After all, people died, and when they did, their shape vanished from her closet. (Sometimes she didn’t even know they were gone until she went looking.)

Only one shape was guaranteed to be there, and it was the one she wouldn’t wear.

June heard the door swing open, the signature click of Marcella’s heels on the marble floor. June went to find her, and passed Jonathan on his way to the balcony, a cigarette between his teeth. Marcella shrugged out of a white trench coat.