Powerless (4 page)

I’ve volunteered to sort and organize everything a million times, but she loves the chaos. I, however, can barely think in here. A grizzly bear could be hiding in this clutter forest and you’d never know.

“I swear, sometimes that man just—” Mom drops into her desk chair and shakes her head.

She and Mr. Malone have had their conflicts over the years. I often wonder why she keeps working for him. Any genetics lab in the country would be thrilled to have her, even if she can’t include all of her work at ESH on her resume. For whatever reason, though, she stays on. Her research drives her, and I don’t think she could walk away from it before she’s finished.

I suppose I understand. I feel the same way about my research. It’s my passion and it’s personal.

I remove the half-empty box of petri dishes from the stool next to her desk and sit down.

“Do you believe him?” I ask. “Do you think the new security measures will keep the lab safe?”

Mom scoffs. “He doesn’t even know how they got in. How can he know what will keep them out?”

I shrug as I roll up my sleeve.

Getting immunity shots is routine. Mom doesn’t even use a syringe anymore. She has this futuristic injection gun that does all the hard work. She just pops in a vial, holds it up to my arm, and pulls the trigger.

But when she opens her bottom desk drawer and pulls out a vial from the box she keeps hidden in the back, she curses.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“It’s clouded.” She flings herself back in her chair. “And I haven’t started a new batch. I was going to do that tomorrow.”

I don’t know much about the immunity serum besides what it does, but I do know that when it goes cloudy, the chemical bonds have broken and it’s on its way to becoming toxic.

“It’s no big deal,” I tell her, even though I know she thinks it is. “A couple of days won’t make much of a difference.”

She turns her scientist glare on me. I can already hear the speech in my head.
The
dose
is
carefully
calculated
to
match
your
metabolism. Immunity only lasts a week at full strength. After that, it gradually wears off.

Sometimes I wonder if she even notices me—Kenna—anymore, or if all she really sees is the powerless girl she’s desperate to protect.

I throw up my hands. “Hey, I’m not responsible for it going bad.”

“I know.” She tugs me into her lap for a hug. “I’m just shaken up after the break-in. When I first heard…”

I give her a tight squeeze before pushing back to my feet. On the one hand it’s annoying how overprotective she can be. On the other…I totally understand. I already lost my dad, and now I’d do anything to keep her safe.

“What time is it?” I ask.

Mom checks the clock on her computer. “Almost two in the morning.”

“No wonder I’m so beat,” I say, stifling a yawn.

I’m usually good for another couple hours of my own work, but I guess the villain situation took a toll on me. Besides, it’s not like I can get anything done in the lab now.

“You go on home and get some rest.” She squeezes my shoulder.

“Sure you don’t want to come with me?”

She shakes her head. “I need to make sure those idiots don’t mess with any of my research while they’re cleaning up.”

“And you need to start the new batch of immunity serum.”

“And that,” she says with a smile.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to help?”

I’m always offering, but she always refuses. I’m not even allowed to observe the process.

“I just need a little catnap. I’ll be good as new.”

I give her a quick kiss on the cheek before heading back to the lab. I want to grab my things and then go straight home to bed. As I walk down the hall, I have a flashback to when Draven appeared around the corner. All I had seen was a gorgeous guy, tall and dark and way too hot to be hanging out at a lab.

I wasn’t wrong. He
is
too hot to work in a lab. He’s also too dark, too dangerous, and too twisted.

A villain.

Draven is a
villain
, and I can’t afford to forget that. He didn’t kill me this time, but that’s no guarantee he won’t if we ever run into each other again. Forgetting that, even for a second, is like signing my own death warrant.

With that thought in mind, I round the corner into a world of chaos. At least a dozen heroes—most of whom I don’t even recognize—are working to restore the lab.

The Cleaners. Definitely the Cleaners.

A woman with frizzy blond hair—who looks more like an escapee from a hippie commune than a hero—waves her hand over the shards of glass littering the hallway, sending them swirling through the air toward the empty window frame. Another swish of her hand and the shards coalesce like the most complicated jigsaw puzzle ever, filling the space with a cracked version of the pre-Nitro window. A tall, skinny guy with white-blond hair and a nose like a rat flicks his fingers at the glass, and in one melty swirl, the cracks disappear. The window looks good as new.

Bet Nitro would be pissed to know how easily we fixed his handiwork.

Inside the lab proper, heroes clear scorch marks off the walls and ceilings, air-sweep spilled chemicals into a containment bin, and repair the half-melted tabletops closest to where Nitro had been standing. A telekinetic hero swoops up a stack of papers and folders from the floor, floating them into growing piles on one of the unmelted tables.

Must be nice. Seeing all these different powers at work could make a girl crazy if she was the type to dwell on what she doesn’t have. Which I so totally am not.

Except…I cast another look over my shoulder. That melty-glass power is pretty cool. I’ve never seen that one before. Vending machines wouldn’t stand a chance against that.

A team of lab assistants goes from cabinet to cabinet, making a list of all the supplies that need to be replaced. When they head back toward my station, I’m jolted out of stunned observation.

“No,” I shout, blocking the path. “This is mine. I’ll handle the inventory.”

They look at each other and shrug before moving on to the next cabinet. Mom may be okay with other people touching her research, but mine is off limits.

I make a quick sign that reads KENNA’S STUFF DON’T TOUCH in big red letters, and then draw a giant skull and crossbones on it before taping it to the door. With the kind of chemicals around here, the Cleaners should take the warning seriously.

“Excuse me,” a woman says.

She points at the floor beneath my stool where an ooze of green liquid is seeping out in an ever-growing circle. It looks like Mom’s Dissolve All—an acid formula that will liquefy any nonorganic material, so it’s safe to touch but incredibly difficult to contain. My stool starts sinking as the acid melts the legs.

I move away and let the woman do her job. I watch as she uses her hands to sweep the goo into a special organic container. Gross.

“Ooof.” Someone knocks into me, sending me stumbling.

“Sorry,” the guy says without taking his gaze off the ceiling.

I need to grab my stuff and get out of here. I’m in the way, and if I’m not careful, I’ll get hurt. Or worse,
not
hurt—as in my immunity will show, and then where will I be? Grounded for life, that’s where.

Avoiding situations that might reveal my immunity is an art.

On my way out, I collide with another person.
God, could I be more useless?
I start to apologize, then realize I’ve crashed into Riley.
Damn
.

He clutches his smartphone to his chest. “Kenna. Hi, hello.”

“Hey, Riley,” I answer.

“Terrible business here tonight,” he says, gesturing at the lab around us. “And you? Having to face down villains, um, face-to-face. That must have been awful.”

And
without
a
single
power
to
help
you.
He doesn’t have to say the words out loud for me to hear them. They’re written all over his face. As if he could outfly one of Nitro’s fireballs.

I’ve always felt like a powerless little goldfish in the big superpowers pond when I’m around him. He watches me. Studies me. I can tell he doesn’t understand how Rebel and I are friends.

Then again, Rebel is pretty much beyond everyone’s understanding most of the time.

“Not an experience I want to repeat, no.” I cover my mouth to hide a yawn.

Riley doesn’t take the hint.

“Well, it won’t happen again. The new security measures will be unparalleled,” he explains. “Retinal scans on the elevators. Freeze rays aimed at every entrance ready to stop any intruders in their tracks. An electromagnetic shield around the entire campus, configured to allow only authorized personnel signatures. It should all be up and operational within a week.”

I nod absently, wondering how long I have to stand here listening to him. Riley has a tendency to ramble. If he goes on much longer, I might pass out right here.

“The IT crew will also be installing security cameras in every hallway this afternoon,” he continues magnanimously. “Dad can ask them to add a camera in the lab too, if you’d like.”

“No,” I blurt out. “
That
won’t be necessary.”

Mom and Mr. Malone have had this argument before. Mr. Malone thinks we need cameras—for security and so we have a record of the research in case of an accident or another problem. Mom doesn’t want to feel like she’s being watched.

“It’s no problem,” Riley insists. “If it will make you feel safer—”

Something connects with my head. Hard. “Ouch.”

I rub at the sore spot and move out of the way of the guy hovering five and a half feet off the ground as he works on a sprinkler head in the ceiling above me.

Only I could get kicked in the head by a flying superhero. I don’t actually have the power of invisibility, but some days it’s hard to remember that. Especially around here. To the superheroes of the League, an ordinary like me might as well be nonexistent. The powerless are pretty much beneath their notice, unless they have a useful skill like Mom’s super brain.

When my research is complete, I’ll be invaluable to the heroes. They’ll have to notice me.

The collision draws Mr. Malone’s attention. “Kenna, sweetheart, I thought you were heading home.”

“I am, Mr. Malone.” I gesture at the flurry of activity around us. “Just wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

“Our team has the cleanup under control,” he says with his standard patronizing smile. He exchanges a look with Riley, who resumes typing on his smartphone. “You go on home. Everything will be good as new by morning.”

Before I can respond, he wraps an arm around Riley’s shoulder and guides him away. And just like that, I’m dismissed. I get it. I’m not a super, so there’s nothing I can do to help. I’m in the way.

That’s the problem with being an ordinary in the world of heroes—it’s impossible not to feel
less
all of the time.

It
won’t always be like this
, I promise myself. Mom might be working on a way to neutralize villain powers and
amplify
hero ones, but I’m working on a way to
create
them.

If my research is successful, if I can get the chemical sequencing right, then I won’t be ordinary forever. I’ll be powerful, and more important, I’ll matter.

To everyone.

The elevator doors glide open and I step inside, away from the chaos of the heroes and the Cleaners and the aftermath of the security breach on sub-level one. Walking away from the lab feels strange. Everything is different now, and not because of the break-in or the explosion. It’s because of him.
Draven
.

For a second the image of his face pops into my head—all high cheekbones and sculpted jaw—but I refuse to acknowledge it. Refuse to acknowledge
him
. If I don’t think about what he said, what he did, what he
didn’t
do, then I don’t have to think about how confusing it all is.

Villains are bad. I know this. I have
always
known this. I’ve seen them blow shit up on the news a million times. Seen the aftermath of the earthquakes and fires and devastation they’ve caused around the world. One of them killed my dad in cold blood while another—

I stop myself. I’ve worked too hard to put that behind me. The fact that I’m even thinking these thoughts now is just more proof that Draven and his friends are bad news. Just because they didn’t kill me doesn’t mean they aren’t bad—and bad
for
me.

After all, it’s not like I ran into them while getting a milkshake at Sonic or hanging at the mall with Rebel. They were breaking into a top-secret superhero lab to steal…something. I don’t know what, but they were really pissed that they couldn’t find it.

Not pissed enough to take it out on me, but they were distracted. And in a hurry. Thinking, even for a minute, that they might not be evil simply because they let me live is stupid. Worse, it’s suicidal.

Draven might have stuck up for me once, but I doubt he’d do it again. Besides, my wrists still hurt. Which means if I’m around the next time he catches on fire, there’s no way I’m putting it out.

With that promise to myself, I turn the corner into the ESH lobby. The face we present to the public is all very normal looking. Shiny chrome, gleaming leather, and sparkling glass. Just what you would expect from a company that designs innovative technology.

There’s no indication that the ESH has anything to do with superheroes, which is how they’ve managed to keep their power and influence out of the limelight for more than sixty years.

I’m almost to the exit when men start streaming through the front door. It’s the middle of the night and even Mr. Malone, who doesn’t normally have a hair out of place, was dressed down. Not these men. Each is dressed in a perfectly pressed suit in some shade of gray—heather, slate, asphalt, ash… And they’re all wearing sunglasses. Aviator Ray-Bans, it looks like. They spread out in pairs, fanning across the lobby like an army. Or a plague of locusts.

“Let me see your ID,” one says as he and his partner approach me.

Who
are
these
guys?
I mean, they look like top secret government agents, but that doesn’t make sense. SHPD has already taken over this investigation. Besides, it’s not like we have a superhero version of the CIA or FBI. We’ve never needed one. Superheroes take care of their own trouble.

“I’m just leaving.” I try to step around the one who addressed me.

“Your ID,” the second one insists, blocking my way. If possible, he sounds even more obnoxious—and determined—than his partner.

“Who are you?” I demand.

“Your ID,” the first one repeats. There’s no emotion behind his voice. No threat. No rage. Just the assurance that I am not getting out of here until I give them what they want.

I’ve had enough. I took enough crap from the villains tonight. I’m not taking it from these guys too.
Where
do
they
get
off?

I go nose to nose with Suit 1. “Do
you
have a badge?”

He reaches into his jacket, produces a small leather wallet, and flashes a shiny gold badge and ID at me. I can only make out the initials NTF before he stuffs it back in his chest pocket.

“What did that say?” I ask. “I couldn’t even—”

“If you don’t produce your ID,” Suit 2 says, “we will take you into custody until your identity can be confirmed.”

“Are you kidding?”
I’m
not the one who doesn’t belong here.

“Counterfeit IDs were used to access the facility,” Suit 1 says. “All personnel IDs must be tested for authenticity.”

When I don’t immediately reach for my badge, he steps toward me and clamps a big, beefy hand around my forearm.

“Don’t touch me!” I yank at my arm, but he won’t let go.

Fine.

Annoyed all over again, I fork over my ID and watch as Suit 2 swipes it through a small, handheld machine. It beeps, long and high-pitched, and I tense despite myself. I have a reason for being here. I’m not doing anything wrong. But these guys don’t look like they care one way or the other. For a moment I have visions of being swept into a nondescript vehicle and taken away to parts unknown.

If that happens though, I’m not going without a fight. I am sick and tired of being pushed around.

“Thank you, Ms. Swift.” Suit 2 hands my ID back to me. “Have a safe night.”

And then they’re turning away, walking away, as if they didn’t just threaten to physically detain me without cause. As if they didn’t just grab me. I guess I should be grateful they’re letting me go, but all I am is pissed.

Determined to get out of here before things get even more screwed up, I make a beeline for the door, plowing straight into my best friend who is walking in as I’m rushing out. Rebel wraps me in a vanilla-and-leather-scented hug.

“Oh, Kenna! Thank God you’re okay!” She squeezes me tight enough to cut off my oxygen supply.

And for a second—just a second—I cling to her.

“I’m fine,” I tell her, pulling away. “What are you doing here?” I keep my voice to a whisper, though I’m not sure why. Maybe because I still have the heebie-jeebies after my run-in with the suits.

Rebel has no such heebie-jeebies—and no such reason to keep her voice lower than a shout. “I was worried about you! My dad got the alarm that there was a break-in. Then I started thinking about how you like to work late in your mom’s lab and I tried to text you, but you never answered. I drove by your house and your car wasn’t there. I freaked out.”

She stops to catch a breath and I take advantage of the pause to get out a few words of my own.

“I wasn’t hurt,” I tell her. “The villains who broke in were looking for something—I don’t know what—but they didn’t do much damage, at least nothing the Cleaners can’t fix.”

Rebel looks relieved. “So nobody was hurt?”

“Nope. Just some broken glass and scorched walls. Your dad and Riley are on it,” I say. “Oh, and by the way, did you know your brother has taken to wearing a cape?”

Rebel rolls her eyes. “He swears it’s just a coat. But I’m so glad you’re all right!”

She throws her arms around me again, and again I put up with it, despite her studded leather belt digging into my stomach. After all, that’s kind of par for the course in a Rebel hug.

My best friend is about as different from her dad and brother as she can get and still be a member of the Malone family. In fact, while there’s never a doubt in anyone’s mind that Mr. Malone and Riley are
heroes
—they pretty much wear it on their sleeves…or their
capes
—at first glance, most people in our world would assume Rebel is a villain. She’s the sweetest person I know (to everyone except her dad, at least), but it’s easy to see how someone could make that mistake.

Tonight, she’s dressed in a short leather skirt with ripped-up, melting tights in black and white, a black tank that proclaims “Love is the movement,” and worn combat boots that have definitely seen better days. Her razor-cut, bleached-almost-white hair is short and spiky, and she’s wearing more jewelry than I even own: four earrings in her left ear, three in her right, a bunch of mismatched bracelets on both wrists, and a ring on every finger. Even her bright blue eyes—so like her dad’s and brother’s—look punk with heavy, black eyeliner and fake lashes.

“Were
you
freaking out?” she asks when she finally pulls away.

“You know me,” I say with a meaningful shrug. Rebel is the only person besides my mom who knows about my secret immunity and that I can’t be harmed by superpowers. Who can a girl trust, if not her best friend, right? “I handled it. I even put one out with a fire extinguisher.”

Rebel bursts out laughing. “You put Nitro out with a fire extinguisher? I wish I could have seen that!”

“I did. It was—” Her words suddenly register. “Hey, I never said it was Nitro.”

Guilt flashes across Rebel’s face, but it’s gone so fast I almost think I imagined it. Almost.

“Of course you did.”

“No, I didn’t.” No way would I make that mistake. Not when I’m pretending that I can’t remember
who
broke in. “All I said is that they were villains.”

“Huh. Well, I guess I just assumed. What other villain actually needs to be extinguished?”

I huff out a little laugh and shake my head. “Good point.”

After all, if I hadn’t been so stunned by the situation, I would have known it was Nitro just from his abilities. Why wouldn’t Rebel? Especially when life at her house is a daily course in villain identification. I swear if Mrs. Malone would allow it, Mr. Malone would display photos of the twenty most-wanted villains in their house like a museum displays Picasso paintings. All in an attempt to memorize their faces so he can eradicate them from the planet.

“So, are you going home?” Rebel asks after an awkward silence.

I nod. “My mom doesn’t want me here during the cleanup.”

“She’s right. No one wants to be here for that.” Rebel slings an arm around my shoulders. “Too much time with the zeroes…oops, I mean
heroe
s
”—she gives me an overly dramatic eye roll—“could cause cavities.”

I ignore the dig. She knows it bugs me when she calls them that.

“But seriously,” she says, “you shouldn’t be alone tonight. Come home with me.”

Normally I would protest, out of pride if for no other reason. But the truth is that I really don’t want to go home. While I’m not exactly freaking out, I think I’ve earned a night at my BFF’s house.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

Rebel gives me another oxygen-depriving hug before walking me to my car. Then I follow her home.

The Malones live about ten minutes from the lab in a house that looks like a giant wedding cake. Big and white, with huge plantation shutters and trees lining a driveway that stretches a half a mile from the street to the front porch. It looks more like a vast southern estate than part of a wealthy Boulder neighborhood.

I park in my regular spot in the designated guest parking area—yes, her parents are more than a little anal—then follow Rebel into her house. There’s a light on in the foyer but the rest of the house is dark, which means her mother is still in bed. I can’t help feeling relieved. I like Rebel’s family, but they’re all a little high strung. My half-goth, half-hipster best friend is actually the low-maintenance one in the Malone household.

Rebel and I became friends in kindergarten. On the first day of class, the teacher asked everyone to demonstrate their powers—teleporting, cloud making, even changing the color of people’s hair, which Rebel totally wishes she could do. When they got to me, I had to admit that I didn’t have a power. It wasn’t unheard of for an ordinary to attend the school for superheroes, but it was unusual. Enough so that no one wanted to sit with me at lunch.

When she saw me sitting alone at a table, Rebel made a big production of picking up her lunch, skipping across the cafeteria, and sitting next to me. She said, “You’re special. We should be friends.”

We’ve been inseparable ever since.

Once we’re in her room, Rebel loans me a pair of pajamas and it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open long enough to change into them. Funny, half an hour ago I was pumped so high on adrenaline that I felt like I’d never come down, and now I’m crashing so hard all I want is to pull the covers over my head and hide for a week.

I reach instinctively for my journal. Even exhaustion can’t keep me from my nightly ritual of scribbling at least a line or two about my day, about my results.

But my backpack isn’t where I usually drop it in Rebel’s room. It’s not here at all.

“Crap,” I say as I fall back into the bed. “I forgot to grab my bag.”

This is all Riley’s fault. If he hadn’t started droning on about security systems and surveillance equipment—while wearing a freaking
cape
—I wouldn’t have been in such a rush to get out of the lab.

“Get some sleep,” Rebel tells me, crawling in the other side of her king-size bed and pulling out her tablet. “You can go back for it tomorrow.”

I don’t even argue. Instead, I close my eyes and fall into a restless, dream-filled sleep.

I’m not sure how long I’m out before the sound of an incoming text wakes me up. I’m starting to grope for my phone when I hear Rebel tapping out an answer. Seconds later, she throws back the covers and climbs stealthily out of bed, so stealthily that I simply watch her instead of saying something, like I normally would.

She walks to the French doors that lead out onto her veranda and pushes one open. Then, after flicking on the exterior light, she steps outside and softly closes the door behind her. I wait a minute, two, for her to come back in, but when she doesn’t, I climb out of bed too. Through the glass, I can see her silhouette walking toward a small copse of trees at the back of her yard.

A tall guy steps out of the shadows and Rebel runs into his arms. They kiss for long, drawn-out seconds, and I can’t do much more than stand there in openmouthed shock.
Rebel
has
a
boyfriend!
Rebel has a boyfriend that she hasn’t told me anything about. It doesn’t make any sense.

We tell each other everything. We always have. Every crush, every first date, every kiss. Rebel can list every guy I’ve ever liked, all the way back to kindergarten. And I can do the same for her. She knows about my
immunity
shots
. We trust each other with our deepest secrets. Or at least I thought we did.