Page 21 of Victorious

Moment of truth.

Victor took up the nebulizer.

Part of him resisted—it always did.

Even as his nerves flared, the clock ticking in his head. Even as he felt the first warning tightness in his chest, a warning that it was only a matter of minutes before his heart began to seize again.

Even still, he hesitated, unwilling to relinquish his abilities. His control. The knowledge he could bend the world, and everyone in it.

It was a hard thing, to let go of power once you had it.

To go back to being ordinary.

But then he felt it—the first real twinge of pain, behind his ribs. He brought the inhaler to his mouth, and breathed in, and as he did, his world went quiet. Not a peaceful quiet, but muffled. The network of nerves and electrical currents, all exposed to him a moment earlier, was gone, tucked behind the safety of their skin as the compound leached into his body, smothering his senses. Dampening everything.

The compound worked.

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Ardley,” said Victor, sliding the device, the other two vials, and the notebook page into his pocket.

“You really won’t tell me what it does?” asked the chemist.

“I suggest you go home to your place on Linley”—he’d flicked through Ardley’s wallet while he worked—“and forget everything about tonight.”

The chemist shifted nervously. “You’re not going to kill me?”

“You haven’t given me a reason to,” said Victor. “But if you think I should—”

“No, no,” he said anxiously. “You can trust me.”

Victor didn’t.

But he trusted the man’s fear.

He pointed to the back door. “After you.”

Victor Vale was many things, but trusting wasn’t one of them.

So when George Ardley hurried out of the alley, Victor followed.

He watched the chemist pause at a nearby bus stop, head swiveling to make sure he was alone (he wasn’t) before taking off again, shuffling to the end of the block before ducking into a convenience store.

From the darkened street, Victor saw him asking for a pen and paper, saw him reemerge, furiously scribbling down what Victor could only assume was the formula—as much of it as he remembered as he rounded the corner.

Victor sighed and drew the gun.

So much for his powers of persuasion.

It was late, and no one heard the shot, quiet as it was.

No one saw the thin blond man bend over the corpse and retrieve the slip of paper before blending back into the dark.

Later that night, as Victor watched the scratch paper burn in the sink, he considered his position. The formula worked. It could be recreated. But he couldn’t afford to keep killing chemists. Bodies had a way of drawing notice. Especially when they could be linked by a profession.

He drew the jack of spades from his wallet and snapped the faucet on, rinsing the ashes down the drain.

IXNOW. THEN.MEANWHILE, IN MERIT …

IT was the way she said his name that woke him.