Page 82 of Fuse

And flinching when she finally does move, flicking just the tip of one twiggy finger.

And watching, unable to hide my incredulity, as that tiny move rips the golden waves off Angelique’s head and sends them flying down the corridor. With another finger tick, Angie is driven to her knees, the lattice of electricity across her skull transforming into furious purple pulses. She drops her head. Hunches her shoulders. Curls her fingers in, scrabbling so hard at the floor that her nails audibly screech. Everything about her form screams in humiliation and mortification.

“Ahhh, well, look at that,” the bitch purrs. “You are not the only ‘special’ one in the room anymore, amiga.” Then rocks back on one heel, hands hitching to her hips. “But what was it that Sister Anais always said to us? Ah, yes. Everyone is special in God’s eyes.”

Wade bares his teeth. Raises his gun. “Yeah? Well, guess what? The dude down in hell also saves special places for people. I think yours is already engraved and waiting, baby.”

Faline lifts a smooth smile. She still looks like she’s tolerating a fly, only now it’s as if the insect has done a backflip and awaits her approval. “And you are going to be the one to show me the way?” she drawls. “Is that it?”

As she’s getting coy with Wade, a tormented whimper falls out of Angelique—spurring me to stomp forward and align the Glock with the center of the woman’s smirking face. “If he doesn’t, I will.”

But why are we even standing here talking about this? The time for action was practically a minute ago, when this bony harpy and her threadbare soul first appeared in front of us. I came here to rid this world—and the mind and will of the man I love—from her. And here she is, right before me, in all her elegant insolence, wearing the color of all the blood she’s spilled and ruined for so many—and I’ve become an indecisive mess.

But why? How?

Just shoot her.

Just. Shoot. Her.

I resecure the gun in my grip and focus on all its steely might and potent power in my palm…but am helpless to move beyond that. My hands are sweaty and slick. My arms start trembling. My aim wavers. If the Glock’s barrel were a paintbrush, I’d be creating a shallow infinity symbol on the air with the thing.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Wait.

Maybe that’s not the right question.

What the hell is she doing to me?

Oh, God. Is that it?

Why are my heart and spirit—and yes, now even my head—a crashing chaos of remembrance stuffed full of all the hideous acts I can recount the woman being directly or indirectly responsible over the last year but am unable to squeeze just one finger to claim payback for them? Why can’t I exact the vengeance the whole team has dreamed of getting for Mitch and Kane, for Tyce, and yes, even for Dario? Most crucially, the requital for Reece. For the body she ravaged for six months and the soul she scarred forever.

For the mind she’s ruthlessly fighting to control.

For the will she will not be allowed to steal.

I vow it.

But somehow, I’m not able to act on it.

And with a skittish glance, I realize Wade is waging the same struggle with his weapons. He’s held back by the same bizarre, invisible bondage that I am.

Damn it.

He’s wobbling his pistol barrel worse than me. His Bowie topples from his grip, clattering to the floor. One of Faline’s goons sweeps a foot over, kicking the knife hard enough so that it only stops when jabbing into the baseboard.

What is going on?

I stare at my arms, still stiff and flexed in front of me. But they’re not a part of me. My system’s been cleaved in two. My body has rebelled against the demands of my heart.

No. That’s not right, either. My body is ready and able to cooperate here—but it’s not being allowed to. My bones and muscles and synapses have been denied access to their free will.

“Holy. Fuck.” Wade’s hoarse cry brings a flood of comfort but a jolt of anxiety. The good news is, I’m not going totally crazy. The bad news is, I’m not going totally crazy. There is a metaphysical spider web across the entire room, and the three of us are stuck in it, gawking at the treacherous arachnid who created it.

“You sick bitch.” Wade’s seethe brings more of my psychic conflict. On one hand, every note of his fury mirrors my own—but the second he spits it, I yearn to give him a good head smack. Whatever’s going on with Faline—however the hell she’s making all this happen, whether it’s Consortium technological trickery or her own DNA upgrade—now is not the time to be goading the unstable witch. And yet Wade torques his lips, fires up his glare, and stabs on. “You think we’re going to dissolve and slink into submission just because you can Jedi-fuck the air?”

But Wade’s the one answering his own charge—with a strange sound from deep in his windpipe. All right, not a sound. A gurgle. Because he’s choking. Because with just one lift of her hand, Faline’s shutting him up by strangling him.