Villain (Gone 8)

Are you hearing this? Of course you are. I know you felt the wave of pain I sent you.

Malik said, “Cruz.”

Cruz came over and stuck out her hand for her Moleskine. “You done?”

Malik met her gaze. “Francis doesn’t feel the Dark Watchers.”

“Lucky her,” Cruz said, took the notebook, and returned to her vigil at the window.

“Lucky,” Malik said, and smiled. “When you do your thing, Francis . . . this will sound wrong, but, anyway, do you keep your clothing? I mean, you can do this with your clothes on?”

Francis shifted a bit farther away on the couch. Malik couldn’t blame her.

“It’s not a creepy question, there’s a reason,” Malik said.

“Yeah, of course I keep my clothes on.”

Well, well.

Well, well, well, well, well.

“Of course you do,” Malik said, nodding. There was a change in his voice. He was still dreamy and distant, almost without affect. But something with sharper edges was taking shape in his mind. “Of course you do.”

“Why?”

“Because you may be more powerful than you can imagine,” Malik said. “You may even be too powerful.”

Francis, completely perplexed, just nodded and said, “Okay, I’ll be careful then. I’d better . . .” She nodded toward the group at the window, got up, and left.

I don’t know if you have DNA, Dark ones, don’t know whether experience shapes your lives, but you have free will. And you have random chance, don’t you? Oh, hell yes, you do. And I think maybe it will bite you in the ass.

“But are you watching, or are you playing?” Malik muttered under his breath. “That’s the mystery. Is this a show? Or is it a game?”

Tom Peaks had much the same problem as Dekka: it was hard to plan a battle when you didn’t know who you were fighting. But it seemed to him that the safe bet was still to back the military. They would see his usefulness, his power, and if not welcome him back, at least not try and kill him.

Maybe.

In a perfect world, he would sneak into Vegas unnoticed, spy out the situation, and get the lay of the land before revealing himself. But given what he’d gleaned from the car radio, the situation was chaotic, violent, and completely unpredictable.

The one thing Peaks was pretty sure of was that in the end, the superpowered villain, Dillon Poe, would be taken out by the awesome might of the military.

It still amazed him how painless it was to morph. It seemed impossible that a human body could grow horned, armored skin and rise to fifty feet, let alone have a belly full of liquid fire, and yet feel only a certain . . . itchiness. But he supposed the alien virus engineers had realized that the powers wouldn’t be much use if the pain killed you in the process.

From fifty feet up, his view of the city was much improved, his morphed eyes shifted all colors toward green. His ability to travel without a road was even more improved. Each step was twenty feet, and Dragon could move quickly when he chose.

Fwoo-WHUMP! Fwoo-WHUMP! Fwoo-WHUMP!

Each st

ep was a rush of air and an impact that shook the ground. He loped through the dark desert, crushing desperate shrubs and badger burrows, startling jackrabbits into sudden flight, shaking the ground as his many tons of weight landed on feet that were more like talons.

No news helicopter spotted him. No drone popped off a Hellfire in his direction. The highway was off to the right, a row of streetlights, flashing emergency lights, flashlights, interior car lights. Ahead the much more enticing lights of the city.

It was glorious stomping through emptiness, feeling his huge muscles contract and release, feeling within him the killing fire.

Who could stop Dragon? I am mighty! I may be the mightiest creature ever to walk the earth!

Peaks knew these kinds of thoughts were absurd, but when he was Dragon he felt such a power high it was hard not to revel in it. Let them all come at him, Dekka, Shade, Knightmare, what did he care? He would destroy them. He took particular pleasure in constructing an imaginary confrontation where he faced Dekka and burned her to ashes.