Heat Wave, page 33
Nick’s heart banged against his rib cage. “No.”
“Yes,” Burke said. “I wonder how many bones a telekinetic can pull from a body before it—”
A pounding at the double doors, insistent, loud.
Burke jerked his head toward the door. “I thought I said no interruptions. Anthony, deal with whoever that is.”
Now or never.
Anthony moved toward the door.
Patricia grunted, the smoke tendrils quivering.
Dad grimaced, twisting his head away from the ice spike dimpling his cheek.
Miles and Bob and Trey fought against the smoke wrapped around them.
Rebecca Firestone’s finger twitched on the trigger.
Simon Burke turned back toward Nick.
“You underestimated people,” Nick said, taking a step toward him. “And here’s the thing about prey: sometimes, we fight back.” He nodded toward the screen hanging on the wall. “That thing get channels?”
The pounding on the door continued, raised, muffled voices on the other side.
“It does,” Burke said slowly.
“Why don’t you turn it on?”
Burke hesitated, staring at Nick, who smiled at him. He went to the screen, touching it. Rows of apps appeared, and he pressed his finger against the live-news app in the bottom-right corner.
Five different boxes appeared, each showing a different angle. Four of them were from high up, looking down on the room they stood in, Patricia Burke centered in each frame. The fifth was a lower angle, showing almost the entire room. This last box had Rebecca Firestone, gun to her head, finger on the trigger. The goons with their guns drawn, Anthony still standing next to the door. Burke, standing in front of the screen. Behind him, in sharp focus, a row of containers holding pills.
And Nick standing proud and strong, center frame.
“What is this?” Burke whispered.
“This,” Nick said, hands curling into fists, “is how you’ve lost. All you’ve said since stepping inside this office has been broadcast to every single screen within a ten-block radius. Cell phones. Televisions. You ever gone viral before? No? Well, guess fucking what. Now you have. All those people, Burke. You invited them here. You gathered thousands of them, and we couldn’t have planned this better had we tried. Your message is already spreading across the world. How do you think those you call sheep feel now that they know exactly the kind of man you are?”
Burke whirled around, rage filling his face.
Anthony pulled the door open, but before it could even get partway, Nick jerked his head, and the door slammed closed, followed by the sound of the lock clicking back into place. Fireworks burst outside the window, so much like the spark in Nick’s head, the room a kaleidoscope of fractured color.
Nick bowed slightly, one hand across his chest, the other behind him. “And now, a catchphrase. I’m pretty proud of it. Thought it up myself and everything. You ready?” He grinned as he stood upright, looking up at the ceiling. What came next was a battle cry, a song of war. “It’s time to burn!”
The ceiling panels expanded, cracked, breaking apart as a great burst of fire rained down, Pyro Storm at its center. He hit the floor in a crouch, flames snapping around him, the red lenses in his helmet flashing brightly as he turned his head toward Patricia Burke. “You ran away before we could finish last time. Let’s go again.”
And then he launched himself toward her. Patricia snarled at him, stumbling back, the smoke around her collapsing. The Dad Squad plummeted toward the floor, but before they crashed into it, Nick raised his hands. Pyro Storm collided with Patricia, knocking her off her feet right as Nick caught the Dad Squad, bodies jerking as they came to a sudden stop a few feet above the floor.
His vision exploded when a fist connected with the side of his head, breaking his concentration. The Dad Squad fell the remaining distance, Miles and Trey groaning, Bob and Dad already pushing themselves up.
Before he could recover, another fist flew toward Nick’s face. He managed to grab it before it hit him. Burke’s eyes widened comically as Nick spun on his heels “Dad!” Nick shouted midturn. “Coming your way!”
He let Burke go, flinging him toward his father. “This is for hurting my kid,” Dad snarled before uppercutting Burke in the chin. Burke flew back against the bay of windows, a spiderweb of cracks snapping along the glass. Dazed, he rubbed his hand along his jaw. Nick was about to charge toward him when arms wrapped around him from behind, lifting him up off the floor.
Anthony’s breath was hot against his ear. “Caught you.” His big arms squeezed around Nick, the bones in Nick’s chest groaning in protest as Burke approached, eyes glittering as fireworks burst behind him.
“Bitch, you thought,” Nick growled. “Backflip of Chaos!”
Except it didn’t work. Anthony was too heavy, and Nick’s feet couldn’t reach the floor. All he succeeded in doing was wiggling in the asshole’s arms. Anthony chuckled until Nick turned his head and sank his teeth into the meat of the bicep wrapped around him as hard as he could. Anthony bellowed in pain, dropping Nick. He whirled around, only to be tackled by Anthony to the floor. The impact was immense, and Nick wheezed when the large man landed on top of him.
“Hey,” Nick managed to choke out as Anthony loomed above him. “Have you met the ceiling yet? No? Let me introduce you.” With all his might, he pushed, and Anthony flew upward in a blur, crashing into the ceiling panels, which caved in around him. Nick rolled out of the way as Anthony fell back down, hitting the floor with a terrible crunch, shards of the ceiling hitting his back. He groaned quietly but didn’t rise.
Nick shot to his feet in time to see the Dad Squad grappling with the three remaining goons, Miles jumping on one of their backs, beating him upside the head with his fist. Pyro Storm ducked an attack from Patricia, ice and smoke amassing into a roiling whip, hitting the glass containers full of pills, shattering them, spilling their contents onto the floor. He responded with a ball of fire, but Patricia was already on the defense, pulling water out of the goddamn air in a wave in front of her. The fireball struck it, steam billowing as the water doused the flames.
Nick was about to charge toward Pyro Storm when the double doors burst open, wood splintering, hinges shrieking. More people poured in—at least a dozen—guns drawn, all wearing black security uniforms and grim expressions. Burke cried, “Kill them! Kill them all!” but before the new group could do as asked, Nick brought his arms back and the spark in his head flared. He thrust his arms forward, and Anthony lifted off the floor, arms dangling, head lolling as he flew across the room, striking Burke’s security force, knocking them down.
“I’ll do it myself,” Burke snarled, and rushed toward Nick. He took three steps before a gun went off. Burke’s left shoulder jerked back as blood bloomed on his shirt like a rose. He groaned, hand going to the wound, pressing down.
Rebecca Firestone said, “The next one goes in your head. They may not kill, but I have no problem with it. After what you did to my father, I’ll—” She gasped when the gun was ripped from her hands and flung across the room, bouncing off a window, causing more cracks to appear.
Patricia Burke stood in the center of the room, hair billowing around her as the air begin to spin, picking up debris like a tornado. The lights above flickered, and Pyro Storm groaned against a thick column of writhing smoke that held him on the floor. “You shot him,” Patricia whispered. “How dare you!”
She raised her hands toward Rebecca Firestone, and Nick moved then, doing something he would have never expected: protecting Rebecca Firestone again. And when Patricia Burke screamed, the tornado growing larger, causing the whole room to shake, he answered with his own shout. The tornado hurtled toward them, and Nick caught it, even as his feet slid back, the muscles in his arms burning. Hands shaking, he forced them together, and the tornado died as quickly as it arrived.
“Thanks,” Rebecca Firestone whispered behind him.
“Don’t mention it,” Nick said, glaring over his shoulder. “Seriously. I never want to hear it mentioned again. You helped us, but you’re still the worst. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take care of some—”
Rebecca Firestone’s eyes widened as she looked over his shoulder. He didn’t have time to react as her hands shot forward, gripping his shoulders and pulling them both down. A second later, a metal strut flew right where they’d been standing, slicing through the air, causing it to whistle. It embedded itself into the wall.
Nick gaped at Patricia Burke and the Lovecraftian horror bursting from her back, tentacles of smoke and ice and crystal-clear water pulling more struts from the ceiling, gutting the area above the room. Plaster and dust rained down around her.
“And now you made Rebecca Firestone save me?” Nick growled. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You’re welcome,” Rebecca Firestone muttered.
“I don’t like you,” Patricia hissed.
“Feeling’s mutual,” Nick said, pulling himself to his full height. More fireworks exploded outside the windows, and above the noise, he thought he heard the sound of sirens in the distance. Nick ignored this as he charged toward Patricia.
Another tentacle threw a metal strut, much larger than the first, and Nick fell to his knees, sliding along the floor, leaning back against his legs. The strut crashed into Burke’s desk, flipping it end over end, the Guardian helmet bouncing off the floor and landing at Rebecca Firestone’s feet. Nick was already up and moving before Patricia could throw another, and he leapt the last few feet, back bowed, fists joined together above his head.
An ice tentacle crashed into his chest, shattering, knocking him to the side. He hit the floor hard, sliding on a surface of water and hundreds of pills. The broken pieces of ice from the impact began to move toward him, crawling up his legs. Cold. So cold. He yelped, trying to shove them off, but more and more came, hitting his legs, his hips, his chest. He couldn’t think. The spark in his head dimmed, lost under a wave of crippling panic.
“You shouldn’t have touched my man,” Pyro Storm growled, and then the seventy-second floor lit up as if the sun had crashed into Burke Tower. Nick stared in awe at the room awash in fire, spreading like wings from Pyro Storm, molten hot and almost white. Flames leaked from Pyro Storm’s hands, crackling angrily, like whips made of fire.
Pyro Storm swung them above his head in circles. He snapped one forward, and Patricia Burke fell back on her ass, spreading her legs as the tip of the fire whip slapped the floor between her thighs, leaving a smoldering scorch mark.
“Neat trick,” Patricia panted. “I’ve got one, too.” She rolled backward, legs going up and over her head, hands pushing up off the floor. She landed on her feet, head snapping up. She raised her hand, and thick beads of water shot up her forearm, coalescing in her palm as a large bubble. Pyro Storm raised his whips above his head, crossing his arms. Before he could fling them forward, he … just … stopped.
“All that fire,” Patricia said. “And yet, you’re still made of water, just like everyone else.” She closed her fingers around the bubble in her hand, and Pyro Storm turned toward Nick stiffly, mouth hanging open. Behind him, Dad grunted and fell to his knees when a goon smashed a gun into the back of his head. Miles lay on the floor, eyes open but dazed. Trey and Bob stood above him, both glaring as more security pulled themselves to their feet.
“I … can’t … control … it,” Pyro Storm said through gritted teeth. “Nick … run.” And then he attacked.
Nick yelped and rolled left as a whip of fire hit the floor, the tremendous heat almost too much to bear. He rolled right when the other whip snapped toward him, causing the stone tiles to crack upon impact.
“I’m sorry!” Pyro Storm yelled, pulling the whips back. “This isn’t me!”
“I know that!” Nick yelled back. “Bitch, you better step the hell off my—oh shit!” He fell back onto the floor, the whip cutting the air just above his face, singeing his hair, his eyebrows. He slapped at his face, sure he was on fire. As Nick lowered his hands, Pyro Storm took jerky steps toward him, moving as if he didn’t have joints, rocking side to side. The whips shrank into his palms, turning into twin fireballs. Patricia Burke stood behind him, Pyro Storm mimicking her movements: hands spreading far apart before being brought together. The fireballs combined into a single burning star.
“No,” Pyro Storm ground out. “Don’t … do this.”
“You did this to yourselves,” Patricia hissed. She brought her hands to her side, then thrust them forward so hard, Nick thought he heard her shoulders and elbows popping.
But that was the least of his concerns, because Pyro Storm did the same, hands holding the fireball, bringing it to his side, then thrusting it toward Nick. The fireball—at least three feet in diameter and growing bigger—shot toward Nick, leaving a line of black on the floor.
Nick screamed and raised his hands in front of him, as if that would do anything to stop his coming death. The moment before impact—the fire so bright—the spark in his head exploded. Nick felt it roll through him, traveling down his neck to his chest, his arms, his legs. He screamed as it coursed through him, the pain immense, too much—
And then nothing.
Nick opened his eyes slowly.
His hands, outstretched in front of him. Beyond them, the ball of fire, stationary, suspended in air, the surface moving like liquid. A little sun, and Nick had caught it.
“Holy shit,” he heard someone breathe.
Nick stood, hands still in front of him, and the fireball moved with him. He grinned ferociously. “Now that’s what I call playing with fire! We really need to start writing these down.”
He expected Patricia to be outraged. He faltered when he saw she was smiling just as widely as he was. “Didn’t your parents teach you anything? Fire safety, Nicholas.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking—”
An alarm began to blare, a little red light above the doors flashing red. A split second later, water began to rain down around them from the sprinklers embedded in the ceiling. Nick was drenched almost immediately, the fireball hissing, steam pouring off it as it shrank. Knowing there wasn’t much time left, he pushed, and, as Pyro Storm leapt out of the way, the diminishing fireball flew toward Patricia Burke.
She didn’t move. The fireball grew smaller and smaller, and when it struck her in the chest, it was the size of a quarter, barely leaving a mark on her.
“Well,” Nick said. “That didn’t go like I thought it would.”
Water coated the floor, and when he took a step toward Pyro Storm, toward Patricia, it rose up around his boots, making it feel like he was trapped in quicksand.
Patricia raised her hands, and the thin layer of water covering the floor lifted, growing larger as the sprinklers continued to spray. It covered Pyro Storm, who sucked in as much air as he could before it washed over his face, trapping him inside a bubble of water.
Panic screamed in Nick’s head as his chest heaved. He tilted his head back as the water reached his neck, and then he was also entombed. With his eyes open, the room took on a squirming facade, harsh lines now wiggling. He held his breath, knowing that it was futile, that he was about to drown. Burke appeared in front of him outside of the bubble, drenched, hair plastered on his head, his shoulder wound leaking blood through a ragged hole in his shirt.
“There, there,” Burke whispered, voice oddly muffled through the water. “It’ll be over soon.”
Nick looked beyond him as if in a dream, blood rushing in his ears. Pyro Storm, head twisting side to side. Miles and Trey trapped in their own bubble, hands joined between them. Bob’s head bowed, his thin hair waving around his head, air leaking from his nose.
And Dad. Dad, on his hands and knees. Dad, surrounded by goons. Dad in his own bubble, eyes wide and panicked. Then the panic faded as he looked at Nick. He smiled and mouthed, Love you, kid.
Nick screamed, water pouring into his mouth and down his throat, choking him. Lights began to dance across his vision, and the spark in his head began to dim.
The room darkened, and he thought he saw movement outside the windows of Burke Tower. Another firework exploded, illuminating the seventy-second floor in blues and reds.
And there, floating outside the tower, was a figure.
Nick thought, Who … who is …
The windows exploded inward, shards of glass flying through the air. Patricia Burke cried out when a sharp piece of glass pierced the skin of her right arm. Another cut her on the cheek, leaving a ragged line. She fell forward. The bubble around Nick collapsed, and he took in a great, gasping breath before vomiting what felt like an endless amount of water.
The figure floated through the opening, shadows amassing around him. Feet hitting the floor with a quiet splash, he moved through the room with purpose just as the sprinklers switched off, the alarm falling silent. Nick reached for him, but gagged and vomited once again. “What…” Nick said thickly. “Where…”
The figure ignored him. He ignored the security who tried to rise to their feet only to slip and fall. He ignored Anthony, who lay on his back, breaths shallow. He ignored Pyro Storm, his helmet dripping water as he spat again and again. He ignored Rebecca Firestone, her skin pale, mouth opening and closing, opening and closing. He ignored Miles and Trey, who crouched down next to Bob, who lay flat on his back, eyes closed, body limp. Trey pressed against Bob’s sternum, pumping up and down. Miles bent over, pinching Bob’s nose closed, breathing into his mouth, causing his chest to expand. He ignored Dad, hair hanging around his face.
He ignored his parents, Burke blinking up at the ceiling, Patricia screeching as she tried to pull the glass from her arm.
Owen Burke ignored them all. Through bleary eyes, Nick watched him cross the room, heading toward the counter against the wall. Colorful water sluiced around his feet, and it took Nick a moment to realize where it’d come from.
The pills, melting in the water.
Some had survived, a mixture sitting on the counter, protected by the remains of the containers that had once held them. Nick tried to rise as Owen picked through them as if he had all the time in the world. He lifted a yellow one. Tossed it aside. A green one. The same. Blue and orange. He paused with a white one before shaking his head. He bent over the counter. When he turned back around, he held a pile of pills in his hand.
