Page 31 of Fuse

Lydia huffs. “So what the hell? Has the bitch somehow figured out how to…what…possess him?”

“I don’t think so.” I stare harder at the screen as Kane deflects another pulse from Reece, looking ready to attack again. “Tyce could change his face, but we always knew it was still him underneath. There wasn’t ever anyone else inside there with him.”

“Then why are those words hers and not Kane’s?” Lydia challenges. “As if…she’s controlling everything he’s saying…”

“And doing,” Trixie adds—at the same moment Reece growls a low profanity. It sounds like he’s patched the same details together and arrived at the same conclusion but is likely taking it further. He’s the one facing off against this creature, which also means confronting one central, harrowing question.

If Faline has access to Kane’s body and speech patterns, can she also see inside his brain? All the battle practices he’s been to with Reece? All the strategies he’s honed? His strongest and weakest powers? His favored attack plans?

Does she know all of Team Bolt’s deepest secrets?

Does she know how to get here?

I feel every one of these questions punching into Reece, just by the wobble of his body cam feed. But I also see him breathing composure back in, shoving away the terror in order to focus on his bizarre battle foe.

“So that’s really how you want to take your coffee today, huh?” His voice is consumed by a dreaded ferocity I haven’t heard from him for a month—not since that night in the tunnels beneath Paris, when his father was about to turn Chase, Tyce, and him over to the Consortium via their heartless henchwoman. The same bitch who’s worked her electronic fuckery on Kane. Zapped him into her personal Frankenstein, only with better moves, faster reflexes, and a lot more anger issues.

Certified in full as he casts off two more of Reece’s strongest electric punches.

As he spreads a smile as eerie as Faline’s most gloating mien.

As he says, with her same purring inflection, “There’s never enough cream in the tea, darling.”

Right before he reaches in, aiming his huge hand toward the direction of Reece’s neck…

“Noooooo!” Trixie leaps up as she shrieks it—though not loud enough. I hear every awful octave of Reece’s strained chokes. I feel, even across the fifty miles between us, the ribbons of electrons stretching around his throat and then up around his ears, behind his eyes, across his frontal lobe.

I share his torment as everything on the feed looks like it’s shot from the back of a flipped apple cart, followed by his pained grunt as his knees hit the roof. As I crumple too, my legs the texture of dry twigs as I slump all the way off the couch, my terrified moan takes over my chest, my throat, my heart, and this whole bunker.

But I can’t look away.

I refuse to.

The video feed turns to snow again, leaving us only with the audio of a long growl that, while resonant with Kane’s bass, is all Faline in its gloating ferocity. The sound taunts every corner of my psyche, making me curl into myself, preparing to deal with the agony of a world without Reece Richards in it.

Who the hell am I kidding?

I can’t.

I’m already lost and destroyed and desolate and empty—and hunching over to rasp a plea that mixes with the splash of my tears on the floor.

“Please. Out there. Anywhere. Dear God. Dear anyone or anything who’ll listen. Please. I can’t. I…can’t…”

But the fuzz on the monitor continues, a perfect depiction of the air in my lungs. An electric freeze, endless and unforgiving. I only attempt to breathe because I have to.

A chore I’m suddenly thankful for as soon as the news station feed blips for a second, switching to another view.

Their intrepid camera crew has actually gotten to the roof.

And yes, Reece is still on his knees.

Only now, he’s straddling Kane’s broad chest, his hands on the guy’s thick neck.

“What…on…earth?” I stammer.

“How the hell…” Trixie inserts.

“Triple layer cake,” Lydia declares before hauling me back to my feet with dizzying speed. Thank God she maintains her steady clutch, because my emotions are whirling with equal velocity. And as epic as it feels to burst the piñata of destiny and learn the light of my existence isn’t about to be snuffed, there’s nothing joyous about watching him in a position to take someone else’s life—yes, even if the tables were turned the other direction just a few seconds ago. Kane is someone I know. A person I value.