Chapter Eighteen
Owen
The house is tucked between two vacant lots—both filled with junk, trash, and an obscene amount of drug paraphernalia. Owen adjusts his mask, getting used to the screen in front of his eyes. He’s been wearing it in training, but it’s still weird.
“Stop messing with your domino,” Casper hisses in his ear. “It jerks the camera around. I’m getting vertigo.”
“It’s too tight,” he complains, shifting the elastic strap in the back.
“It’s molded exactly to your face. Echo sent me measurements. The old one was too big.”
“If I get lines on my face…”
“Shut up, you big baby. I’ve never heard a guy—a superhero, at that—complain so freaking much.”
Owen mutters a swear word, tired of the bickering. “Any intel?”
“Echo is across the street. Charger is under the front picture window. I’m getting heat sensors off four people inside. Two aren’t moving, which makes me think they’re the homeowners. Probably tied up.”
“That leaves two home invaders.”
“Yep.” Casper pauses and clicks everyone on the comm. Their faces all appear in the corner of the screen. “I’ve been working on something that can get us better information. Now seems like the time to use it.”
“You better hurry,” Astrid says. “I’m not waiting much longer. We got the call twenty minutes ago.”
Take-out from Pesto’s Pizza had just arrived at the gym when all three phones lit up with an alert. The same push number as last time—a number Casper tracked back to Kincade. He’s now sending them crimes in progress way before the police arrive.
The man has eyes everywhere.
Quinn assumes it’s a test, so they suited up and got down to the middle of the Swamp as fast as possible. Home invasion. Shots fired. It was their job to save the day, or rather prove themselves to that slimy bastard Kincade.
“Give me two minutes.”
“We don’t have that long,” Quinn whispers.
“Deal with it,” Casper says.
The whirring sound comes from overhead, Owen jumps, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. A small, card-sized triangle zips through the air.
“Is that you?” he asks.
Casper laughs. “Yep. A recon drone.”
Footage runs in the corner of his eye mask. The others can see it too. The goblin is right, the information is priceless. From the window, the crime scene is visible. A woman and a man, tied to a chair. The man is bleeding. The woman crying. And a young boy squirms in her lap.
“Fuck. A kid,” Astrid mutters. “That information would have been helpful, Kincade.”
“It’s almost like he wants us to fail,” Owen adds.
With the new information, a plan unfolds, and he takes his spot at the back of the house. They’ll come in at once. Quinn will blow the lights. Astrid will track their movements with her senses and he’ll do what he does best—mess with their heads.
Owen’s screen goes blank, giving him full visualization. He’s on the back step, careful not to trip over a tricycle, when the fuses blow. Voices raise inside the house and he hears the glass break at the same time he kicks in the door. Running in the room, he flicks his hands, altering the guns--at least to the invaders’ eyes--from weapons into a ball of spiders.
“Ah!” one yells, dropping the gun on the ground. The mother and child scream. The spiders scatter and the gun returns to shape. The invader and Quinn lock eyes and they both dive for it.
The other guy, bald, ugly, and with a crappy tattoo on his neck, flinches but doesn’t drop his gun. He aims it at Owen and fires. Owen ducks and pulls the two blades from his waist. He’s been practicing on his own, figuring out how to make these weapons work with his ability. A blade isn’t always a blade, he realized. It’s just an object that he can alter.
His move is fluid, one knife cuts along the wrist, forcing him to drop the gun. The other alters mid-air, shifting from a blade to a weighted rope. It twists around his legs until the thug falls, landing hard on his back.
Astrid grabs the gun and tosses it to him and he holds it over the intruder’s face.
Quinn has his opponent face down in the carpet, hands behind his back. He jerks his chin. Everyone is secure.
“Casper, call the police,” she says, untying the victims. She bends over the boy and takes his hands, gloves off.
“It’s going to be okay,” she tells the kid. Her voice is calm, only skips once as she gains her strength. Her eyes connect with Owen’s and he nods. She can do this. Make the scene better instead of worse. “You’re going to be okay. The bad guys are gone. Your mom and dad are safe.”
“Are you one of the superheroes?” he asks, touching her mask.
She smiles and holds his fingers. “I’m just trying to help. We all are.”
Police sirens wail. They don’t need to be there when they arrive. That’s definitely not part of the deal with Kincade.
“What’s your name,” the kid asks when Astrid releases him. There’s no doubt he feels better—that she channeled his fear and turned it into something else.
“I’m Echo,” she says, then looks at Owen and Quinn. “And we’re the Elite.”
*
Two days have passed since the home invasion and the gym is under siege by the media.
There’s no one to blame but Astrid, and she knows it.
The Elite.
That’s what she told that kid in the Swamp the other night, and they told either the police or the media and by the next morning, every news station in Crescent City was banging on the gym door.
“Why doesn’t one of us have the ability to reverse time?” she asks, pacing in front of the television. She cancelled her sessions for the day and has been up in the apartment compulsively watching the news.
“That would be cool,” Owen says from the bathroom in the hallway. He’s shirtless, standing over the sink. Shaving cream covers half of his chin and cheek. He tried doing it with the door closed, but Astrid kept yelling questions at him or the TV and he gave up any sense of privacy.
The whirr comes from the kitchen, drowning out any reply. Owen rinses his razor and takes a deep breath.
Quinn is in the kitchen, firing up the blender. Every three minutes the machine whirrs, interrupting the talking news heads and their quest for the truth.
Astrid appears in the doorway. “What did you say?”
“I said that the ability to reverse time would be cool. Also, you did fine with the reporters.”
Her eyes widen in horror. “Dude, no I didn’t.”
“Yes you did.” He drops the razor and grabs the remote from her hand and rewinds it to one of the interviews being shown on constant replay. He presses the button and the scene unfolds:
Astrid stands in front of the gym, her hair long and hanging over her shoulders. She’s wearing a black gym T-shirt and manages to keep her nerves in check. “Atticus started the gym with the hopes of helping the best athletes with their training. The result was dozens of graduates from his programs that have entered into a variety of careers. Do I think a few of them are out there fighting crime, unofficially under our name? I have no idea, but it would be pretty cool.”
The remote is snatched out of his hand and she presses the mute button before tossing it on the couch. It lands an inch from Harry Styles, who hisses at her, and Owen can’t help but laugh at the cat.
“Oh Harry,” she says with a sigh, reaching down and picking him up. She snuggles him close to her chest. Harry eyes him with smug contempt. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
Man, he hates that cat.
The blender revs up again and they both glare over at the kitchen. Quinn is in the zone, tossing kale and spinach and yogurt into the container. Astrid makes a face like she’s about to barf.
“Do you have to make all that noise?” she asks him.
He looks up. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m almost done.”
The cat squirms from her arms and she lets him go. He walks into the bathroom, grazing Owen’s legs. He fights a grimace and focuses on shaving. It’s not like he can go around with half his face clean.
Astrid watches him in the mirror and he tries his damnedest not to get distracted. It’s harder and harder though, being trapped in these cramped quarters.
Like the couch. It’s not just a couch—it’s also Owen’s bed. Yeah, he’s still sleeping in the living room. The three of them are living in a small apartment made for two. A girl and her guardian. Not a full-grown woman and two men, one who takes up the space of a gorilla. All of them burning with adrenaline, super powers, and hormones.
As the days pass, Owen can’t help but notice their differences. Astrid is a freaking disaster. Messy, sloppy, eats like a twelve-year-old boy. Quinn is obsessed with health, exercise, and work. And Owen? He’s not used to being around this many people, or a cat.
Especially not the cat.
He eyes Harry, who is now sitting on the back of the toilet watching him shave. He has an audience even for this. He doesn’t mind the gorgeous blonde in her endless tank tops and form-fitting yoga pants. Things haven’t changed since they kissed that night after they went bowling. They’ve been too busy. It’s too crowded. Another dude lives here and he’s pretty sure she kisses him too—if not more.
Seriously, the whole thing is getting confusing. Add in the stress of Kincade, the publicity, and the tight living situation…it’s getting to him.
“Are you okay?” Astrid asks. He must have sighed out loud.
“Feeling antsy, I guess.” He finishes up and rinses off his face. Pulling his shirt over his head, he almost runs into Quinn. He finally poured his smoothie into a glass. “Sorry man.”
From the tight set of his shoulders, Owen has a feeling it’s getting to him, too.
They either need a mission or someone needs to get laid.
He’s willing to volunteer for either.
The news comes back from commercial and Astrid’s face appears again.
“Agghhhhh! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” she yells at the screen, clenching the remote in her hand. She pulls back like she’s about to throw it and Owen and Quinn jump toward her. If she breaks the TV, they may really all lose their minds.
Owen lunges over the couch, reaching for the remote. Quinn drops his smoothie and tackles her. Astrid fights back, sliding off the couch with a shriek and rolls on her belly.
“Hand it over, As,” Quinn says, grabbing her legs. Owen goes for her arms, which are tucked under her body. She squirms away, dropping a series of curses.
“Man, you have a filthy mouth,” he says, smiling at the woman.
They battle for a minute longer but it’s two against one and he’s got Quinn on his side. Owen manages to get his fingers on the remote and after another intense struggle, pries it out of her grip. She flips on her back, breathing heavy, her hair a complete mess. Damn, she’s freaking beautiful, and he stares at her a minute too long.
“I’m not giving this back,” he says, shoving the remote in his back pocket.
Quinn sits back on his heels. “I think we may all need to get out and do something.”
He laughs. “You think?”
“Don’t make me go out there. At least during the day,” Astrid says. The press has been hovering outside the door.
“Any ideas?” Owen asks.
“Yeah,” Astrid says, pushing to her knees. “You know, I think maybe I do.”