The Supers of Project 12: The Complete Superhero Series Page 3

  The boy in the yard was different different. His power, or whatever it was called, was scary. Devin started fires. He controlled it. Tiny sparks that lit from his fingers and jumped to whatever object he wanted to light. But now he worked on something else. Using his mind, she thought, from the way he stared so intently that it made his gray eyes turn a shade darker. She pet Harry under the chin while wondering if he could actually do it.

  Devin had dark hair and tan skin. His cheeks heated red as he focused on the pile of sticks. She watched as his eyes narrowed and he clenched his hands into tight fists—trying not to cheat. His nose pinched in concentration and he focused so hard she thought his head may explode, but Astrid heard a pop, then a sizzle, and next came the tiniest flame buried in the middle of the pile of sticks.

  He never moved, never changed positions, but Astrid stood, carrying Harry tight in her arms, and walked across the yard to the small fire growing with every step.

  Successful, Devin sat back on his heels and lifted his outstretched hands to the flame, feeling the heat. Astrid stopped over him, watching the yellow light reflect in his eyes. Devin looked to be made of fire, not just capable of creating it.

  “Does it scare you?” she asked, clutching Harry.

  It took him a moment to respond but he finally looked up at her. His eyes were actually a deep, dark, brown, and beneath the shadows she saw sadness. “Yes, but that’s why I’m doing this. Learning to control it, ya know?”

  “Yes, I know.” Although she agreed, she wondered to herself how she could learn to control the sounds buzzing in her head—the way her skin screamed and her senses overloaded. Staring into the blaze, Astrid felt the blistering heat and thought it might be impossible.

  Chapter Six

  Astrid

  A day passes, with minimal fanfare over the arrest of Tink. Astrid watches the TVs mounted in the corner of the gym, each set to a different news channel. The event is covered briefly, commenting that it was a drug deal flipped on the dealer and hopes are up about getting the lethal Pixie Dust off the street. No mention of a woman with dark hair, the goo she restrained him with, or details about the man that knocked Tink on his ass with a massive electroshock.

  She flips the program off, settling on a show about decorating houses instead.

  Astrid suspects Jensen may have had a little bit to do with the info about her being held back. He can’t let word get out about the training program, either. The good news is there have been no more overdoses, so maybe whoever is above Tink got the message. Whatever happened, Astrid can go back to her work at the gym, training new recruits to Jensen’s program, allowing Atticus to retreat to his workshop, nerding out on whatever new project he’s working on at the moment.

  “Partner up,” she says, walking over to the sparring ring. Eight new recruits came in this morning. Six men. Two women. “As you know, you were each recommended by one of our contacts at other gyms or one of the athletic programs we keep tabs on. We’re looking for qualified applicants to continue with high-level training.”

  “Training for what?” a guy with a shiny bald head says. He wears the number eight on a tag on his chest, which correlates to the name Rowe on Astrid’s list.

  “That information is classified.”

  “That’s bullshit,” he bites back. “You really want us to sign up for some training program and not know what it’s for?”

  “You can leave at any time, you know that, right? No shame in quitting if you’re not up to it.” She nods at the door. Rowe cracks his neck but doesn’t move.

  Obnoxious bastard.

  “Is it the military?” Number six asks.

  Astrid leans on the ropes. Her hands are in workout gloves and she’s wearing a tight tank and athletic pants. The compression reins in her senses to an extent. She can still smell the scent of adrenaline on the men and women, doused with a dash of apprehension. Before they’re allowed through the final phases of the process, she’ll have to read each one and determine if they’re truly ready to commit to the field work they’ll be assigned to.

  “You all signed the waivers saying you understood the level of secrecy about this program. I won’t lie to you and pretend you’re not signing up for something dangerous, but I will say that you’ll be serving your fellow citizens, which will be immensely rewarding.” She scans the faces and her eyes linger on a man with short brown hair cut close over his ears but a little longer up top. Number four. Along with Rowe, his body stands out with lean, hard muscle from his neck to his ankles. His jaw is chiseled, although his nose slants to the left—probably broken more than once. His eyes are a bright blue that contrast against his warm skin. He sets his jaw when he notices her looking and puffs out his chest. A little pride isn’t a bad thing in here.

  She adds, “I know what it’s like going into something like this blind. It’s scary, but it also can be the best decision you’ll ever make. If you make it through the selection process, you’ll get all the information you need. ” She points at the two women. “Get in the ring first. Show me what you can do.”

  The fights are intense and a way for the candidates to prove their skills. Both women are slighter than the men and handle themselves well. They’re evenly matched, both winning one of their three rounds. Rowe and another candidate shout encouragement as the girls battle it out. Number two wins the third. Astrid nods at the loser. “Head over to Mick in cardio. He’s got a workout ready.”

  The girl grits her teeth, pissed at her loss, but walks across the gym to the trainer waiting at the machines. He smiles when he sees her. Lord, he’s going to kick her ass.

  She looks back at the ring and waves the next two in, spending the next hour watching fight after fight and sending loser after loser across the gym to work with Mick.

  The final two enter the ring, eight and four. Rowe vs…Astrid looks at her list. McCrae. The first stretches his arms, revealing hard muscle from intense workouts. McCrae unzips his hoodie, revealing the full size of his stature.

  Jesus.

  Astrid spends most of her time in the gym. She’s helped train many athletes of all caliber. A few are in the MMA. Two in the Olympics. And one is an actor on one of those TV shows where they take off their shirts all the time.

  But this guy? McCrae? He’s in a realm of his own as far as physique goes, and the stirrings she normally pushes aside—very deep aside—flutter in her belly. She’d pretty much give anything to touch the corded muscles down his back just once.

  Down girl, she tells herself, although there’s no doubt things just got a little more interesting. She leans over the ropes and watches them square off. Their toes touch the inner ring.

  “Ready?” she asks. Neither look away from their opponent when they nod.

  Astrid clicks the buzzer. Both men are skilled, taking their time and assessing the other but soon the punches begin, taps to the head then faster, stronger hits. Each takes a few but once again, stamina seems to be key, and McCrae bounces on his toes with boundless energy. Rowe blocks the hits, both at his face and lower, against his belly and arms. But this isn’t a boxing match and Rowe is scrappy enough to maneuver his legs against McCrae and they both flip to the ground, scrambling for leverage over the other. Rowe has strength but McCrae has speed, plus a burning energy that Astrid can’t place. He hums with it and within minutes has Rowe face down on the mat. His cheeks are purple with anger and defeat when he taps out.

  “Mick’s waiting for you, number eight.” She glances around at the other winners. “Everyone else go shower.”

  The others head to the locker rooms, everyone but McCrae, he lingers in the ring. Sweat pools on his chest, soaking through the fabric of his shirt, making it cling in the most appealing way. He adjusts his gloves but makes no effort to move.

  “What about you?” he says, speaking for the first time.

  Astrid tilts her head. “What about me?”

  “Want to show me what you’ve got?”

  “I’ve proven myself. T
hat’s how I got the job.” She rolls her eyes and glances up at the camera she knows leads to a feed to Atticus’ office. What’s with this guy?

  “Not to me.”

  His chest is heaving slightly, worn out from the match with Rowe. There’s something about him that nags at her and she’s close to ripping off her gloves and touching him to find out exactly what demons lurk under his skin. Instead she holds his eye, the dare he’s offering her, and without thinking she steps into the ring, accepting his challenge.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she taunts. All sense of professionalism is gone.

  “Warn me about what?”

  “That I’m going to rip you to shreds.”

  He smiles, and god, it’s glorious. Makes his whole face light up and she knows right then that what she’s doing isn’t okay. It’s not even ethical. She’s here as a trainer for an official program and this? This will get them both kicked off the project.

  Astrid looks McCrae up and down one last time and realizes that for once in her life she doesn’t care.

  Chapter Seven

  Before

  By winter, Astrid’s sensitivities had changed. Each visit to the doctor, every shot administered seemed to bring her to the edge. Now when she heard footsteps in the hallway outside her bedroom the hairs on her arms stood on end—alerted to someone being outside.

  She started wearing three shirts at a time. All long-sleeved.

  She noticed other things too. The way the murmured voices of the girls next door were now crystal clear. She heard their full conversations. Knew all their shared secrets. But that’s not all.

  Harry Styles lived in the yard. He was a mouser and loved to hunt the chipmunks living under the porch. The first time she heard the scream she thought it was Demetria and shot up in her bed. But the girl was sound asleep. She heard it again, this time from down in the yard. Astrid looked out the window and spotted Harry pouncing on a rodent.

  She never knew they screamed. But they did, terrible, awful screams, and she tried to muffle the sound with her hands. It didn’t work.

  She could also hear the boys upstairs. She tried to ignore them the way they ignored her. They were older. “Hormonal,” Miss Rosalie called it while waving them along. They showered too long and had a complex odor of fresh soap and something else, something mysterious, she couldn’t quite name. When they walked by the older girls their bodies shifted. Their eyes dilated. Their heartbeats hammered. Sweat formed on their backs. Their scent altered and she recognized it to be similar to when Harry tracked prey.

  Astrid threw on another sweatshirt and held her breath when they passed through the room. Mostly she hid, finding small corners to disappear in, and shoved her fingers in her ears.

  It wasn’t just her hearing and sense of smell that changed. Everything felt weird. The hairs on her arms stood on end, all the time. Food tasted odd—strong. Even the things she always liked.

  All of this made her develop a fascination with one boy in the house. He was older—around the age of the others, but quiet. So quiet, and rarely came out of his room. He didn’t bother the girls. Seemed uninterested in them. He ignored the boys. Never spoke. But Astrid heard him anyway. His breathing and the sound of his heartbeat. The clicky-clack of his fingers on a keyboard behind the door of his room. She heard the shower turn on in his bathroom and the toilet flush.

  The boys joked that he was a ghost, not really there, and sometimes she felt like maybe that was his plan: to simply disappear.

  Astrid didn’t care. She liked him more for his peacefulness and wished everyone else could be the same.

  Chapter Eight

  Astrid

  Astrid’s head snaps back from the punch, cracking her jaw. She ducks before the next one, kicking McCrae in the knee in the process. Sweat drips down her back; he’s got her on the run, that’s for sure. He’s a better fighter than any of the trainers at the gym and she wonders if that’s his point. He’s better than this program, so what the hell is he doing here anyway?

  She doesn’t have time to think about that, because she’s fighting for her life—or what seems like it. Astrid focuses back on her opponent and gets in two quick punches before jabbing him hard with her elbow. Too bad his stomach is made of rock and he barely grunts in response.

  He’s twice her size but she’s quick and she makes the most of her speed, hoping to wear him out. She’s lost in the action, the fight, but time shifts when McCrae grabs both her hands. She blinks, sweeping his feet, and they crash onto the mat in a pile.

  “So we meet again,” he says, hovering over her. “You really need to figure out how to stay out of this position.”

  That’s when she realizes McCrae is the man from the street.

  “How?” she asks, but it’s a loaded question. How did he find her? How is he resisting her ability?

  Words fail her but that’s not how she communicates best anyway. She sniffs the air. Absorbs the sounds and smells that reverberate through the gym. But this guy? She hears his heart, smells his sweat, but the echo that her empathy draws on, even without touch she feels nothing in return.

  They stay like that for a moment, with McCrae leaning over her—touching her longer than any man—or any person—has in a lifetime. Compulsion propels her, and without losing eye contact, she wiggles her hands free. He lets her.

  Astrid is determined to test the anomaly between them. No one is immune to her echo and no one has been able to touch her like this—in any way –without making her skin crawl.

  Yet here they are.

  His blue eyes study her closely as she removes her gloves. The fight is over, that’s for damn sure.

  “Don’t move,” she tells him. It’s a demand. He listens and tentatively she reaches out to touch his face, running a finger from the top of his cheekbone to his jaw.

  Again, nothing. No echo. No memory. Just a blank slate, except his eyes tell another story—a dark one that Astrid knows she’s going to be part of. She opens her mouth to speak but a shadow falls over them and McCrae is lifted off her body in a heave.

  Atticus, with strength she didn’t know he possessed, tosses McCrae across the mat and stares hard at the two of them.

  “My office. Now.”

  *

  Astrid’s hands shake on the way to Atticus’ gym office. They’re still unsteady when she sits across from the desk, inches away from the strange man that defies everything she’s ever known about herself. Her abilities. Her weaknesses. She has spent countless hours honing both of these into a weapon to fight for the betterment of her community. But what happens if she can no longer rely on her senses?

  It’s a damning, overwhelming thought.

  Atticus holds up a remote control that Astrid knows goes to a smart-board on the wall. Without speaking he turns it on, revealing footage of the scene from two days before. Astrid and Tink fighting. The hooded man she now knows as McCrae appearing from around the corner. The electronic wave emitted from his fingertips is actually visible.

  Then there’s the final moment between them—similar to the one in the gym just before. Atticus pauses the screen and says, “When were you going to tell me about this?”

  “I don’t know,” Astrid answers truthfully. “I was still processing it.”

  His face twists in a fury she has only seen a few other times in her life. Mostly when she’s been in danger. Or done something really, really stupid. “Maybe if I had known about it I could have foreseen him walking into the gym today. Done something before he egged you on and challenged you to a fight you possibly would have lost.”

  Astrid snorts. “I wasn’t going to lose.”

  “You wish,” McCrae mutters.

  She sits up and faces him. It takes everything not to wipe the smug expression off his face. With her fist. “Seriously? I had you down. Plus, you were getting winded.”

  “Yeah, after kicking Rowe’s ass and yours.”

  A loud pounding jerks Astrid from their taunting jabs. Atticus ha
s slammed both palms on the desktop.

  “Sorry,” she mutters. “I should have told you.”

  He sighs, rubbing his head and sitting in his seat. He looks tired in a way she’d never seen before. “I knew this day would come. I’d hoped it would, but dammit, Quinn, your mentor should have contacted me so we could do it the right way.”

  Quinn. The name rolls through Astrid like a ghost.

  The man next to her stiffens and says, “Holden is dead, sir.”

  Atticus perks up. “Dead?”

  “Two weeks ago. It’s why I’m here. He left me instructions to find you,” he glances at Astrid. “And her.”

  “Dead?” Atticus asks quietly. “But I just…we just spoke a few weeks ago.”

  Astrid looks between the two men, totally lost and confused. Him? Her? Who’s Holden? And why do they both look so concerned?

  “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” she asks. “Who the hell are you? Why are you immune to my powers? And who the fuck is Holden?”

  Atticus frowns at her language. His fault for raising her in a gym surrounded by testosterone and adrenaline. A silent exchange passes between the men and Astrid thinks she may pull her hair out in frustration until Atticus says, “Astrid, this is Quinn.”

  The image—no, memory—of the scrawny boy with disheveled hair and a smile that lifted on one side, making the lights turn on and off with the flick of his hand, comes to mind.

  “Quinn?” she asks as it all crashes over her. “From the group home?”

  “And participant in Project 12,” Atticus adds.

  Quinn’s mouth, the one she’d been eyeing with thoughts of them planted firmly against hers a short while before, quirks into the familiar lopsided smile. He offers his hand like it’s any other day and says, “Astrid. It’s been a long time.”