Heroine Complex (19 page)

Molten rage coursed through me, pure and hot, and I was suddenly very aware of the fact that my palms were burning up. But I didn't care. I ceased to notice the crowd, their titillated murmuring fading to nothing more than an inconsequential burble. All I could see was Aveda in front of me. Trying to bully me into obedience. Trying to boss me around. Trying to put me in my place.

And after I'd jumped in front of her and saved her damn life.

Fuck her,
I thought savagely.

“I'm more than that,” I snarled.

I opened my hand and sent my fire blazing directly at Aveda's head.

I saw her eyes widen in fear, saw her stumble out of the way just in time, saw the burst of flame whiz over the crowd and incinerate a hideously expensive pair of boots.

Then I ran.

I FLEW OUT
of Nordstrom, zipping down the escalator, darting between shoppers, pushing my way out to the bustle of the street. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't think about the fact that I usually hated exercise. All I knew was I had to keep moving.

It was the exact opposite of what had happened during that long-ago library disaster, even though my emotional response was basically the same: pure terror.

No, back then I'd been the last one standing, rooted to the spot as rubble and flame and crumbling pages swirled around me in a cruel parody of an apocalyptic blizzard. Were it not for the campus firefighter who finally hoisted my shell-shocked body over his shoulder and hauled me from the building, I might've ended up forever buried underneath the stately grounds of San Francisco College, a bitter ghost haunting thousands of undergrads.

I guess underneath the fear, I'd still prided myself on my ability to stick around during a time of crisis.

This time? There was none of that. I just ran.

When my pace finally slowed and I took in my surroundings, I realized I'd ended up back at HQ. I crawled up the stairs to my room, changed into a raggedy tank top and pajama pants, and lay down on top of the covers. I made my brain empty. Blank. I didn't want to think about what had just happened.

Ah, but that
is
like what happened after the library. You made yourself blank then, too. So blank you haven't really felt anything in years
—

Nope. Not going to think about that, either. Not going to think about anything.

I shook my head at the bothersome little voice in the back of my mind, banished all feeling until I was completely numb.

Eventually I heard voices, rustling around, the opening and shutting of doors. I kept myself still and quiet. I didn't want to see anyone. I doubted anyone wanted to see me either. I stared out my bedroom window, studying every shade of the changing sky as San Francisco turned dusky and gray. I concentrated on counting the stars as they winked into existence, filled my mind with that task so I wouldn't have to think about anything else. I was so immersed, I barely heard the knock at my door. I held my breath, hoping whoever was on the other side would go away. Instead the door creaked open and Nate appeared.

I sat up and stared at him. Maybe if I didn't say anything, he'd leave.

“I have . . . I brought you . . .” He shook his head, as if trying to get the words straight. “Your neck.”

“You brought me my neck?”

“No.” He stepped into the room and held up a jar of something. “I thought you might have some bruising from that thing trying to strangle you. So I mixed up this salve.”

“Oh. Okay.” I couldn't think of anything better to say. Words beyond that would require me to break out of my state of numbness, and I couldn't let that happen. He crossed the room, settled in behind me, and gently moved my tangled snarl of hair to the side. Cold air hit the back of my neck and I shivered. He hesitated.

“Is it okay if I . . . I mean, you can apply this yourself, but there might be some places you can't reach—”

“You can do it.” My voice was flat, monotone. Nothing to see here. Just keep numb.

Then he'll go away and you can go back to counting the stars.

His hands brushed against my neck, massaging an oily solution into my skin.

“There's a bruise right here.” He touched a spot on my neck. “And this looks like a minor burn.”

“That hand thing must've singed me a little before I got it off,” I said.

“I thought you'd like to know that we managed to collect a sample from the dust it left behind,” he said, his tone turning businesslike and clinical. “Just the tip of a thumb, but it may give us something. I've prepared it for dissection tomorrow.”

His fingertips pressed against the top of my spine and I felt tension I didn't know I'd been holding evaporate. “Perhaps it can finally give us some answers about the oddities we've been seeing the past few days,” he continued. “Because once again: there was no portal. And as with Tommy, no swarm of demons, just this one specimen. I suppose the hand could have imprinted on a mannequin hand or something similar, but that still doesn't answer the question of—”

“It moved like the other ones,” I mumbled.

“What?” His hands brushed another bruise on my neck and I winced. Feeling, both physical and emotional, started to leak back in. My shoulders slumped.

“It moved like the other oddities—Tommy and the Aveda statues. That weird, zombie-like lurching.”

“So perhaps the dissection will tell us more—”

“Nate.” I couldn't bear it anymore. The gentle warmth of his hands moving against my skin made my bruises come to life, brought every single one of my repressed emotions to the surface. I couldn't shut them out, couldn't remain numb any longer. “What else happened? After I . . .”

“It was fine,” he said a little too quickly. “Lucy found a fire extinguisher, Aveda made up a story about how the two of you staged the incident for the crowd as a further demonstration of her power-sharing abilities, I gathered the sample, and we managed to leave the scene without additional drama.” He pressed the salve into a spot near my collarbone and I winced again. Definitely a bruise there. He massaged it a little, his hands continuing to ease my tension. “Everyone decided it would be best to retire for the night and regroup tomorrow.”

His hands slid to my shoulders. Still warm, still gentle. Still there.

“Evie,” he said softly. “You're shaking.”

I looked down at my hands. I was.

“I used it.” The words slipped out, unbidden. Like they'd been waiting until I was weak enough for them to escape my throat. “It wasn't like usual, like I was just letting it happen. And it wasn't like I was defending myself or trying to save a bunch of people from an evil demon thing. I used it on purpose. I used it
for
a terrible purpose. I didn't care that it was wrong. I didn't think about the fact that other people were there. I just knew I
could
and that was all that mattered. I was so fucking angry and I was going to show her she couldn't dismiss me, she couldn't . . .” I closed my eyes. “I used it.”

“You didn't hurt anyone,” he said.

“No, but . . .”

But I wanted to.

In that moment the power had coursed through my veins like wildfire, demanding to be released. Demanding that Aveda feel pain.

I'd wanted to hurt her. I'd aimed for her head.

“Bea was there,” I said. Now my voice was shaking, too. “What if I get mad at her? I mean, I already do. All the time. But what if I get mad at her like I got mad at the mall? If something happened to her, I couldn't live with myself. But if something happened to her and it
was my fault, I . . . I'm supposed to be taking care of her. After Mom died and Dad took off, I promised I'd be there for her. Always. I'd be there for her like our parents couldn't be. But what if me being near her is the thing that destroys her?”

I was babbling, the words pouring out of me like overcooked hangover spew. He said nothing, just kept his hands on my shoulders.

I turned around to face him.

“This is what I've always been afraid of. That I would get angry over something petty and selfish and I would fucking use it and I would incinerate everything and people would
die
—”

That last word clogged my throat, choking me, and then I was crying, tears pouring down my face in messy, unstoppable rivulets. Goddammit.

Nate's hands—those big, gentle hands that had warmed my skin while I babbled—cupped my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn't stop coming.

The warmth of his touch soothed me, but the tears still wouldn't stop and I cried silently, helplessly, unable to do anything else. His thumbs kept brushing the tears away: a rhythmic stroke against my flushed cheek.

“No one died,” he said. “And I don't think you're petty. Or selfish.”

He brushed another tear away.

“I think you're brave.”

I hiccupped and the tears picked up speed, spilling and spilling and spilling.

“I think,” he said, “you want to protect the people you love and you don't always know how. I think you're smart and resourceful enough to figure out how to take down a bizarre hand creature we've never seen the likes of before. I think that right before you lost your temper with Aveda, you saved people from very real danger.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I think you make the occasional mistake. Just like everyone.”

He leaned closer, his hands still cupping my face.

“And I think,” he said, his breath warm against my cheek, “that I would give anything to take away your pain right now.”

I hiccupped again. “Even,” I squeaked out, “your Nordstrom frequent shopper's card?”

A smile broke out over his face, slow and surprised. He touched his forehead to mine.

“Even that.”

I looked up at him through wet lashes. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world for my hands to plant against his chest, to feel his heartbeat through the soft cotton of that ever-present black T-shirt. To feel it speed up at my touch.

I wasn't sure who closed the remaining sliver of space between us this time, but somehow my lips found his, somehow I was drinking him in again, the strong, clean scent of him all around me.

Our first kiss was wild, desperate: insatiable hunger expressed through lips and tongues. This one was softer, more tentative. Exploratory.

He nibbled at my upper lip, his hands sliding into my hair, pulling me closer. His mouth opened fully under mine, and I tasted the salt of my messy tears. My arms wound around his neck and my chest pressed against his, our heartbeats growing faster and more erratic in unison. Heat bloomed low in my belly and a moan escaped my throat. I repositioned myself, straddling him, wanting to feel every inch of him against me, wanting and wanting and
wanting
—

No.

I broke our kiss abruptly. “We can't,” I said, my words landing in a staccato rhythm between shaky breaths.

His right hand dropped from my hair and splayed across the small of my back. I felt his fingers flex, relax, flex again. Like his hand couldn't decide what it wanted to do. He was breathing hard, his eyes dazed. There was
something irresistible about seeing him so unguarded—on the verge of losing every bit of his gruff veneer, of going over the edge.

“It doesn't feel right?” he said. “Because you are currently experiencing a disproportionate amount of emotions and you might regret—”

“What? No!” I took a deep inhale, trying to even out my breathing. “I don't mean, ‘We can't because I'm afraid you'll crush my delicate girl-soul—'”

“I don't think you have anything resembling a delicate—”

“I mean, we can't because I will burn you to death.”

His fingers flexed against my back again and I felt another stab of
wanting,
so fierce I gasped out loud.

“Remember the closet,” I managed to get out.

We just stared at each other for a moment, our breathing still jagged. Even though I knew it was a bad idea to stay all tangled up in him, I couldn't quite bring myself to get out of his lap.

“Evie,” he finally said. “At the mall, you directed the fire at Aveda. You controlled it.”

“No need to rub it in,” I muttered.

He gave me a half-smile. “On the contrary; I thought it was impressive.” He took one of my hands in his and brushed his thumb over my palm. “Your hand isn't even hot,” he said. “Despite what just . . . happened. Between us.” Color rose in his cheeks. “Consider the changes your power appears to have gone through the past few days. It seems to be gaining more nuance.”

I opened my mouth to protest.

But then I did consider it. Not only had I taken out Tommy and the hand, I'd also managed to keep the fire inside during moments of extreme stress. Like when I'd had to deal with Maisy and Shasta outside the Nordstrom security office. Or when Nate had infuriated me so much, I'd stalked off in a huff. Or when I'd found myself getting more and more enraged with Bea and Aveda before the hand had attacked us . . .

Wait a minute.

In that case I'd
told
the fire to stay put.

I'd given my power an order, and it had obeyed.

And, hell, hadn't I also kind of given it an order when I'd gotten the disembodied hand off me? Telling it to come out gradually, so I wouldn't burn myself up? If anything, the moment in The Gutter closet was an anomaly.

I wiggled my fingers experimentally. My palms were still cool. Okay, so maybe my temper could use some work, but when it came to the fire power itself, was I actually gaining control?

“I'm sorry,” Nate's voice broke into my thoughts. “I didn't mean to push. I'm not trying to . . . to . . .”

“To get it on with me, thereby fulfilling your weird fetish that involves burning down entire buildings and getting yourself incinerated?” I cocked an eyebrow.

“No!” He looked horrified. “I'm sorry. I'll leave. I—”

“No—don't.
I'm
sorry. I was kidding. Badly.” I brought my hands to either side of his face, studying his features. Usually so harsh, they were rendered softer and less distinct by the darkness of the room. “I think you're right. My control is getting better. Much better.”

His hands tightened around my hips and desire flooded my senses again, overwhelming everything.

“And I think . . . I would like to have sex right now. With you,” I clarified. My breathing had gotten all shaky again.

“There's still the question of regret,” he said. “You have a lot happening at the moment, a lot of conflicting emotional states, and tomorrow I don't want you to feel like—”