Bear in Sheep's Clothing | Book #1

one: hold on, I gotta go

Satina took a step forward. "Four years, Lady Iamí."

"Four years." Iara put on her robe. "And for four years, you both had stellar results in your missions."

She was being ironic. Right?

"Well. In some of them," Iara added.

"We always do our best, Lady Iamí," Satina said. Satina Hamman, the woman who promised never to kiss anyone's ass ever again... and there she was, doing just that. "We're glad you gave us this opportunity. We appreciate it."

Anachronica gestured forward, guiding the two villains around the swimming pool and towards a darker area, hidden by a curtain of beads and pearls. A bluish-green divan waited; in front of it, a round table and four chairs. Two of them were already occupied.

Iara pointed at the bar. "Grab something to drink, then join us. There's something I need to ask you."

The woman sashayed through the curtain and onto the divan while Satina and Léon walked in the opposite direction.

"I'm not liking this one bit," Léon whispered. "There's something wrong here."

Satina munched on her silence and nodded. She fished a bottle of whiskey and poured a double. "She's the boss." She raised her glass. "You gotta comply."

Léon gnawed at his lower lip. He thought about going for orange juice, but maybe he'd need something stronger this time.

Maybe he was going to be fired. That wouldn't be a surprise, but he still had a family to support. His mother had just started medical college, which meant her nurse's paycheck would have a bleeding cut. She and his little brother needed his money to complete their monthly almost-nothing. Besides, he had just bought a new gaming rig and a uniform. Shit, he was paying it in installments... that month would be the third out of thirty-six!

"C'mon, Leo." Satina tugged at his jacket, and they followed inside the curtains.

Could he make a mortgage payment? Not that the shithole he lived in was worth anything, but maybe it was enough to pay for the boots in his outfit. Or one of them...

Anachronica stood, hands clasped at her back. Sitting on the divan, Iara gestured towards the chairs.

Sat on one of them was Mary, the third part of their trio. On the other, a strange figure had a jute bag covering his head. The bulky man was tied to the chair with nothing but a thin rope, even though his muscles made it clear he could easily break them.

That was strange.

"Hey, Mary," Léon greeted, quirking an eyebrow.

He wanted to ask about her launch party, but—considering her shiny gold jumpsuit, her high heels, and the amount of makeup and glitter she was using—Léon had the impression she was dragged away from it way before it ended.

"Oh, hello! How are you, Leo, Tiny?" Mary smiled, waving a hand filled with golden rings and bracelets. It was always difficult to read past her always-cheerful demeanor.

Let's use our monikers today," Anachronica said.

Iara gave them a lopsided smile. "You three are so sweet. It'd be a shame if you were to lie to me. I'd have to skin those pretty faces of yours." Her gentle tone and the way she curled her lips made Léon wonder if she was serious.

Considering Satina's terrified expression, she was.

"When I offered you a job," Iara continued, "when I accepted you into my family, I asked you a question." She stopped and leaned in. "I asked you if you knew anyone related to The Heroic League. You said you didn't."

"And we don't, Lady Iamí." Satina glanced at Léon in a silent request for help.

"We're from Old Continent, and we only managed a spot in New Continent four years ago," Léon said. "It's not even possible that—"

Iara silenced him with a gesture. Anachronica took a step towards the mysterious figure in the room and pulled the stained jute sack, revealing the prisoner's face.

"Do you know him?" Iara asked.

Léon raised an eyebrow, a deadpan stare studying the ugly mass of beaten, wet flesh. Blood dripped from his wounds, and one of his eyes was closed, covered by a dark, swollen eyelid.

"Maybe. I mean, how can one recognize anything in there?" Léon asked.

The tied man chuckled, then winced in pain.

"Never saw it before in my life," Satina answered.

"Really?" Iara asked. She raised her hand, palm up, and Anachronica gave her a baton. Iara got up. "That's funny because..." She walked to the man and poked his chest. "He asked for you, specifically," she said, glaring at Léon. Her lips twitched. "Léon Dickens, Reality Warp, and his team. That's exactly how he said it."

Léon frowned. No one but his Mom—plus a few other villains—knew his secret identity.

"You can surely imagine my surprise when this man waltzed into our secret base and into my office," Iara said, putting a lot of weight on those two words, "and asked me to see my three favorite protegees, can't you?"

Favorite? Léon didn't like where this conversation was going. A cold shiver ran down his spine, telling him to keep his mouth shut.

Satina blinked several times and took a swig of her whiskey for each one of them. "And... what does the Heroic League have to do with this half-dead dipshit here?" She pointed to the man tied up.

Iara suppressed a laugh. "Right. Let's see if you can recognize him." Her thumb slid over a dark screen on the baton; it hissed and crackled with electricity. Without mercy or a second thought, she thrust the rod against the prisoner's nape, making him growl, then shout a gargled, strange sound as a current of high voltage ran through his body.

Mary shut her eyes; Satina's moved aside.

Léon, though, couldn't look away. His chest tightened, and his vision blurred as dark smoke left the man's fried skin. As much as his heart stung, something tugged at his thoughts. The tribal tattoos on the man's arms glowed in an intense green.

"What about now? Do you recognize him?" Iara insisted. For the first time, her voice trembled as if she was trying hard to contain it. The man's tattoos shone brighter and brighter, to the point green enveloped the room completely, leaving no other color around them.

The baton flicked, buzzed, and crackled until the energy stopped. Panting, Iara threw it aside on top of a small pile of similar rods. Fried out, every one of them.

"I-I," Léon said, eyes widened. "He's fucking Grizzly Bear. The Superhero!"