Page 163 of Victorious

“Forget your keys?” he asked, strolling into the lot.

The men looked up, their bodies twisting toward him. He could have taken hold of them right then and there, but for once, there was no ticking clock, no need for urgency.

Victor had the time.

“Get lost,” said the first, cracking his knuckles.

“Walk away,” said the second, reaching for something in his waistband.

Victor raised his hands so they could see that both were empty. The universal sign for not a threat. Then he dropped one, and held the other out, not in a gesture for help, or submission, but finger and thumb extended into a gun.

He aimed at the first man, and smiled, and said, “Bang.”

The man buckled with a roar, clutching his chest as if he’d been shot—surely it felt that way—was shocked when he found no bullet wound. There was no time to savor his surprise.

The second man drew his weapon, swung the barrel up toward Victor. He flicked his fingers and the gun changed course, the hand around it veering, as if it no longer belonged to the man, which for the moment, it didn’t.

Victor twitched his hand and ten feet away, the gun went off, the shot cracking through the night, followed by a roar of pain as the bullet hit the wielder in the leg.

The third man stumbled back in shock, while the fourth bellowed and charged forward with a crowbar. Victor reached for both of them, but the third was too quick, vanishing between the cars, out of sight, and out of range.

The fourth he caught.

He splayed his fingers, and the man froze, the crowbar crashing to the ground as Victor forced his hands open, his arms wide. He pinned the man like a butterfly against the air, limbs out and head held up. The man trembled, fought. His eyes bulged, his nose began to bleed.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” said Victor, circling the man. “I’m a little out of practice.”

The man’s lips began to move. Victor listened. Then frowned. He wouldn’t have minded if the man had simply begged. But he did something worse. Something that set Victor’s teeth on edge. He prayed.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven,” he murmured, pleading with some invisible god instead of the man right in front of him. The one literally holding his life in his hands.

Behind Victor’s eyes, he saw Eli, in a bathtub full of ice, lips turning blue as they moved in silent prayer. Never credit where credit was due, he thought, as he flexed his fingers, and turned the dial up.

The man began to whimper, then moan, but Victor locked his jaw against the scream that welled up as he wielded the scalpel of his power, as he made the small bones in the man’s hands think they were breaking, made the muscles between his ribs think that they were tearing, as he turned the dial up, and up, and—

Pain shot through Victor’s chest.

A sudden, vicious spike that made him stumble, lose his grip. The man collapsed to his hands and knees, sobbing in relief, as Victor’s hand went to his heart, where the all too familiar ache was taking root.

No, he thought, willing his heart to steady, willing the pain to retreat.

Too late, he registered the footsteps coming up behind him. Victor turned in time to see the third thief surging toward him, in time to see the knife flashing in his hand, almost in time to dodge it. The metal slashed along his ribs, bright but shallow, grazing skin before Victor flung his power out in all directions, took hold of all four bodies, and blew their fuses out.

They fell, unconscious, to the concrete, and a hand vised around Victor’s heart, and squeezed. He gasped, sinking to one knee.

Not again, he thought. And then, Not yet.

According to Dani, he should have had hours.

He dug the inhaler from his pocket but didn’t bring it to his mouth. He wasn’t ready to let go of his power, to plunge back into the void that Haverty’s compound brought, even if it meant a reprieve from pain. Not yet.

Slowly, Victor rose, bracing himself against the nearest car as he waited for the pain to worsen, for the ache to turn jagged in his chest.

But it didn’t.

Seconds passed, and as they did, the invisible hand loosened its grip, and the agony dulled to an ache, leaving Victor feeling like glass shot through with cracks. Only once the pain withdrew did he have room to register the heat blooming in his side.

He touched the path the knife had made.