Damsel[ed]: Some Rescue Required (#2 of the Damsel[ed] series)

Chapter Forty-Eight: Burn

Heaven.

Poison is gone. He kicks free and writhes out of my grip, his hand slimy with stress-sweat. Good on him, leaving me alone, for once. But it doesn't matter, because my eyes are focused on the flame. Crackling, outlining the villain's face in a glowing silhouette. He looks different now, the wrinkles smoothed flat and tight, eyes like hot coals in his pale face.

Angelos struggles to his feet, Gats supporting him by an elbow. There's a wolf at his feet. In my state of mind, I don't find it all that surprising. Wolves have yellow eyes. Toby told me this. Never blue, never brown. That's how you can tell them apart from, say, I really big dog. That and their teeth.

Jaylin looks on at the flames, her eyes big. Face upturned, hair tucked neatly behind her ears. The darkness slithers across the floor, moving in ripples. Natalie tucks herself in the corner, Owl sitting on the metal table, legs kicking. The toe of her boots, shiny and red, dipped into the darkness, trying it out.

"Dad!" Poison says, again, wings flexed out. I move to the opposite side, drudging through the humming dark. It smells like sulfur and sinks into my sneakers, squishy between my toes. The wolf, fluffy and gray and huggable like a stuffed bear despite its fangs, shrinks behind Angel's legs.

"She's shy," Angel says, dipping his head to apologize for it. "Kepler, Heaven. Heaven, Kepler."

"Kepler?"

"As in Johannes Kepler. You know, laws of planetary motion?" He lifts his head, black eye angled away from me. Smile, tentative. There's a bruise on his face, yellow and smeared purple at the center. Already fading, a sign of a good healing factor.

I shake my head. Can't help a little grin. "Nerd." Some things don't change.

His attention shifts away from me, eyes on Fallout. Gats does the same, stealing glances at me from his feet every minute or so. He won't look too long, like he's risking a glimpse of the sun. They look at Poison, heads bouncing as they trace out the feathers in their minds. At least, I know that's what I'm doing, watching his shimmering wings, arched as if to give him and his father privacy. Not that he can have any. We're all supers here, and that means we have super-hearing, too.

"Dad," he hisses again, his voice lowered this time. It's as if that's the only word he can think of saying. He steps to the side and I can make out his hand, clamped around his father's wrist. The flame-ball morphs into a flickering tear-drop, a length of flame stretched above the rest of the fire. Fallout's aura jumps. Jolts up from the floor, the flood of ink clawing up into the air in tendrils, curling at the tips. Jaylin is on her knees, knelt as if praying. Piety. Sometimes I forget about that, the respect villains show other villains. She hasn't said a word, and she looks awfully pale, her head down, eyes to the floor.

"Get out of the way." Fallout's voice changes, too. Higher. Sneerier. Younger. Like son, like father. Not that actual phrase, but close enough for me. Angelos holds his breath. Stares at his hands. I can remember him trying to kill me. Memories like that don't fade easily, even if you wish they did. The black aura, coiling up on the floor and lashing out at the tile like cattails. I crouch low on my knees, hands curling into a guard once more.  Prepare to fight fire with blows, though if he attacks Owl, I'm staying out of it. I don't condone killing, but I'm not saving Owl if it comes down to it. Maybe it's a personal thing. Maybe I know she's gonna hurt my city, the one I've done a lousy job of protecting.

"Don't do it." Poison's injured hand rests on the blade of his wing, elbow crooked over his head. My eyes glide from the tips of his fluffed feathers to his skinny jeans, down to his knees. They're trembling. Knocking together. "Stab her." His voice is a shaky whisper. "But don't use the aura. It isn't worth it." Smoke fills my lungs. Chokes the air out. Angelos catches my eye and teeters to the door. He jerks his chin to the smeared glass, gray with dust. I can almost read his thoughts, I've known him so long, but I guess anyone with a sane head would be thinking the same. Screw this. He shakes his head. I'm going home.