Control
Rosie flipped off the TV. It would not distract her tonight.
Sapphire wouldn't allow it.
Work had kept Rosie occupied most of the day -- no one there knew about her and Miguel, so there were no reminders, no well-intentioned words, no sympathetic hush. When news of Sapphire's rampage finally spilled from the guys in the shop into the office, Rosie's strained disinterest hardly registered.
But alone in her apartment, there were only so many dishes to wash, so much laundry to fold, so much studying to do before the silence got the best of her. Music didn't help -- hers was the kind of mood where every song reminded her of Miguel -- and as for the TV, well, every commercial break promised an update on the Sapphire Situation.
I shouldn't have cancelled cable.
TV wasn't good for her anyway. The only thing on at 10 o'clock anymore was crime drama. Too bleak, and yet still too whitewashed compared to what she'd seen. Been through.
Going through.
No, not going through. Miguel's... well, what happened to him sucked all right, but it wasn't like he meant anything specific to her. It wasn't like she hadn't known it could happen. It wasn't like he'd been emotionally available. It wasn't like he hadn't been a bastard most of the time.
It wasn't like she loved him.
And anyway, it wasn't like it was Angela's fault. Not exactly.
Still, Rosie didn't need to have everything right there in her face.
Too bad Fate wasn't asking.
At first it sounded like a bomb, or an earthquake.
Rosie's first rational thought, though, considered another possibility.
I didn't think the Russian Mafiya owned this building.
Rosie found the wry cynicism too close to the truth -- a peek out the window revealed a tangle of naked limbs on her balcony. Limbs punctuated by large blue gemstones on hands and feet.
"What the..."
Rosie yanked the sliding glass door aside, ignoring the way it jumped its track again.
Is she...? No, she's moving.
Angela Barrett, better known as Sapphire, shook her head as if to clear cobwebs. She started to get up, but then seemed to think better of it.
As well she should have, from the way she looked. Skin sheened with sweat and smudged with soot. Skirt ripped, hanging from one hip by a small knot. Top tattered. Hair greasy and wild.
Gaze both deliberate and hollow.
Every inch of her trembling.
Rosie knew why.
"Jesus," Rosie said, less shocked than dismayed. "You look like shit."
Angela looked no better in the light of the apartment. It was hard to believe this quivering heap on Rosie's couch was responsible for awesome acts of targeted mayhem.
But Rosie believed.
She'd seen the transformation that morning, the way Angela shrugged off her exhaustion, the way she mounted determination like a steed, the way she literally became weightless and willful. Miguel's practical cynicism couldn't account for this. This wasn't just wire work and misdirection and eyewitness hyperbole. This wasn't technology, at least no technology Rosie could imagine. And this definitely wasn't mere chemical enhancement. Rosie knew firsthand what Glitter could do. Sapphire was something else.
And that scared her.
Even more now that she could see what it was doing to the girl.
Clearly, being Sapphire had its price. And clearly, Angela could ill afford to keep paying it.
What drove her? Guilt? Justice? Vengeance? Pain? Did Angela even know?
What made a person throw herself into the abyss?
Rosie's shoulders sagged with a sigh. "Why?"
Angela stirred; she seemed to understand the potential reach of the question. Why was she given such great power? Why did she become a vigilante? Why was she waging war against the Russian Mafiya? Why did she come *here*?
But Rosie's question wasn't just for Angela. "Why didn't I leave you out there on the balcony?"
Never mind that everyone was looking for Sapphire, including a Russian Mafiya that had no compunction about killing those in its way.
No, just seeing Angela like this was a threat.
Because in this shivering girl before her, Rosie saw herself.
Some three and a half years ago, this was how Rosie had looked. How Miguel had found her. Dirty, naked, and trembling. Lost in addiction and exploitation. Used up.
The Miguel found her. Freed her. Got her into rehab. Got her *through* rehab. Got her a job.
Their relationship since then was simply complicated, not even a relationship so much as an arrangement. Neither one of them were comfortable getting too close -- Miguel to maintain his sense of tetherless invulnerability, and Rosie to protect herself against... well, against this. But now that Miguel was gone, Rosie was afraid her independent strength was just an illusion. She'd convinced herself she didn't need Miguel, but... she knew if she ever slipped, he would catch her. Had that been her only strength? And had Rosie been strong for herself, or for Miguel?
Could she be strong without him?
Did she have a reason to be?
Rosie struggled to keep herself convinced that Miguel had just been a moment of her past that she'd indulged too long. Miguel was hardly a knight in shining armor. He wasn't a crooked cop, exactly, but he bent and even broke the rules to his own advantage. Catching criminals may have had noble outcome but for Miguel was hardly done out of nobility. Justice served him, not the other way around. The world seemed to exist to measure Miguel, and he did not see himself coming up short. He kept Rosie at a distance not to protect her but to prove he didn't need her. Or maybe there wasn't anything closer to get to know -- maybe there was no love to be had except of himself.
But something in her heart wasn't buying it. And that made it hurt. Made her feel vulnerable. Made her feel like she was at the edge of her own abyss.
Angela wasn't just a window to Rosie's past, but maybe to her future as well.
Rosie blinked. Angela was sitting up. Looking at her. Whispering, "Are you okay?"
Rosie's reply was snide, almost nasty. "I should be asking you that question."
"I'll be fine." That was debatable. "I just need a little help."
"With what? Your little war? You think I care? You're guilty and you think revenge is the answer. And you think I'll help you? Revenge is what the Mafiya was after. It's just a pissing contest." Rosie stopped herself. Going off on a rant was just getting more involved. She needed to close doors, not open them. "And I'm not going to help you destroy yourself."
"It's not about that anymore." Anymore -- was that an admission? "Becky is alive."
Becky. The other girl, the one who'd picked up where Angela'd left off. The one Miguel had been trying to rescue when he'd been killed. Why wouldn't the Russians have killed her too?
Rosie was about to call Bullshit, but... even if Becky wasn't already dead... "Tell Lewis. Let the police handle it. That's their job."
"They won't do anything, not without something solid. Lewis said Miguel cried wolf too many times." Angela sighed. "So it's up to me."
"Even if she was alive, what do you think you can do? What do you think *I* can do?"
"I know where they're holding her. I can get her out. If you saw what I've already done today, you know they can't stop me."
"Maybe not, but looking at you, I wonder how long you can keep it up."
"That's why I need your help. I need you to... I need you to give me a shot of Glitter."
Rosie felt her chest tighten. Didn't this girl know what she was asking? "I can't." Rosie took a deep breath. "I won't." Her stare turned hard. "Look. I don't know what you expected coming here, but I'm not Miguel's wife, and you're not his partner. This space between us? It's empty. There is no bond, no code, no obligation. Last night, I helped you because Miguel needed me to. Now he's dead. And I'm done."
"He died trying to save Becky."
Rosie's reply was bitter, and tragic, and cautionary. "It wasn't just Becky he was trying to save."
"I know," Angela began. "But-"
"And it wasn't just himself he was risking," Rosie interrupted. "You don't know how hard it is for me just to look at you. And then you ask me to prep you a dose and stick a needle in you and watch it change you. I can't do that. Not now."
"They're going to sell her," Angela said abruptly. "That's why she's alive. In an hour she'll be gone."
Rosie felt like she'd been shot through the heart. The wound was personal. She remembered being sixteen, her boyfriend shot dead over a drug deal gone bad, the killer grabbing her like inherited property. Doping her up. Using her. Keeping her. Two years of hell, memories she dared only skirt even now. She might still be in that hell if Miguel hadn't saved her.
Angela wasn't waiting for a response; she stood up, bracing herself against the arm of the couch. "I'm sorry I came here," she said, an afterthought, but honest.
"Angela, wait." Rosie reached out, grabbing Angela's elbow. "I'll do it."
Rosie feared her demons. But like Angela, she was free to embrace them or fight them.
The demons Becky faced would not ask permission to consume her.
Rosie pointed to the kitchen table. "Have a seat. I'll be right back."
"Where are you going?"
"Next door. Bishop has a kit."
Angela's voice betrayed sudden panic. "Is it safe?" No doubt a lifetime of anti-drug education about sharing needles motivated the question.
"I should hope so," Rosie answered from the doorway, "he's a third-year intern at Valley General."
Rosie pounded on Bishop's door. She knew he was home; she'd heard his bedsprings bouncing a half-hour ago. Probably that cute EMT again...
"What?"
"I need to borrow your stash. Your lighter and a needle too."
"Wha... Look, I don't have a stash. And I can't help you do that to yourself."
"It's not for me, it's for a friend."
"Whatever. I took an oath-"
"Don't give me any of that hypocritical oath bullshit. I've watched you shoot Glitter into your foot before you go to work." She stopped short of threatening to report him. But he wasn't stupid.
"Keep your voice down," he whispered. "I'll be right back."
Angela looked like she was trying to be casual about it, her arm resting on the table, palm up. But Rosie knew from the inky blood stains running down the front of Angela's blouse that asking for the needle was a move of desperation. Rosie almost called it off -- a flash memory of a brute holding her perforated arm assaulted her -- but if Sapphire was Becky's only chance to avoid a similar torture...
Rosie sat down to Angela's left. Bishop's kit was in a small flat case, decorative, almost glorifying. Rosie tried not to think of the irony and got to work.
Her hands remembered exactly what to do, long-ignored skill asserting itself as if she'd never stopped practicing. In the beginning, they'd had to force the heroin on her, but it wasn't long before she was begging for it, and not long after that she was doing it to herself. The ease with which the rhythm returned was more than a little frightening.
Tapping out the sparkly powder into the spoon.
Flicking the lighter. Moving the flame.
"Thank you," Angela said, barely a whisper.
"Don't. I'm only doing this to you so nobody does it to her. Nobody else should have to go through that."
Nobody *else*. Rosie wondered how much Angela knew. If Miguel had told her anything.
She pushed Angela's arm flat. "Try to relax."
"Wait." Angela clawed clumsily at her wristbands.
"I'm not putting it there."
"I know. I just..." Angela trailed off. Rosie understood. The costume symbolized Sapphire. It was Angela who needed the Glitter, Angela who felt weak. "I'll be more comfortable," Angela said at last.
"Okay." The Glitter began melting, bubbling. Angela's tremors practically shook the whole table. She thought maybe she shouldn't say anything. But then she thought maybe talking would distract Angela. Maybe it would distract them both.
"I might have to strap your arm down."
Angela began taking deep breaths, obviously searching for some semblance of physical calm. "I know; I'm doing the best I can."
Cotton ball. "I know." Drawing. "So how long does it last?"
"Used to be several hours. Today wasn't even an hour -- when I could even take it."
Finding the vein. "Well, be careful. This'll be stronger, but it might not last any longer." Grip tightened. "Be still."
"I'm trying."
Stick. Squeeze.
Rosie felt dread and relief in equal measure.
The needle withdrew. "There."
Rosie watched the change in Angela's face.
Rush. Calm.
Confidence.
Power.
Angela slipped the wristbands back on; she stood up, finding her shoes. The tremors were already gone. Eyes closed, head tilted back. Rosie watched in awe as the young heroine rose up, body becoming weightless. The impossible act was no less amazing the second time.
Rosie couldn't help but feel a little jealous. And a little intimidated.
"What's it feel like?" she asked. "Being Sapphire."
There was a regal tragedy to Angela's voice. Sapphire's voice.
"Like maybe the weight of the world on your shoulders won't crush you." The heroine stepped out onto the balcony, looking skyward. "But it doesn't last."
The clouds had turned thick and menacing, swallowing the city's meager light; the air smelled of impending rain.
Sapphire was tempted to push up through the clouds, to see beyond the storm, but that would be reckless. She didn't know how long her sapphires would last. Or her Glitter.
Instead she hovered just below them, ignoring the heavy moisture dewing her clothes, her thoughts focused on a long concrete island in the middle of a smooth asphalt lake below.
Great Oak Mall. Closed for as long as Angela could remember, the place was like a hole punched out of the southern suburbs, an empty castle kept hidden behind a high plywood wall, the perimeter etched by floodlights but the center pure darkness. They were supposed to build houses here in the Eighties, but there was some big thing about toxic waste and who should pay to clean it up, and then the owners went bankrupt, and then environmentalists said it was a habitat for endangered species, and in the meantime it had sat unused and unchanged for so long that most people just forgot about it.
It was a strange place to make a deal. Surrounded by quiet suburbs with mazelike streets and only a few exits -- this was nothing like the kind of place she'd expect, a harbor pier or an old warehouse. Then again, neither was Bolsillo Cielo Park.
She didn't see any vehicles parked anywhere. But there were big roll-up doors next to the loading docks near either end, so maybe they were already inside. Or maybe she was too early. Or maybe Dino was wrong.
Maybe there was no deal. Maybe it was just a trap.
Sapphire smiled. That would be like mice trying to trap a mountain lion.
The superheroine extended her arms straight out to her sides, palms up. Spine arched, face skyward, eyes closed, leaning back, back... letting gravity take her.
Racing the rain to earth.
Sapphire focused inward, eyes still closed, feeling her heartbeats, counting them.
Three. Four. Five. Six.
Not yet.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
Now.
Head tucked, legs kicked, flipping slowly backwards until her feet were again beneath her, only then opening her eyes.
Slowing, as the concrete island loomed below, fine-tuning her descent, aiming for the skylight at one end.
It would not be a subtle entrance.
Sapphire flexed an instant before impact; a wave of invisible force spread beneath her, pressing down mightily against glass and steel, shattering them, blasting them to the dusty floor below.
The superheroine descended into the black...
...only to find a pair of flashlight beams frantically criss-crossing the floor, and then rising to meet her.
One hand shielded her eyes; the other cocked back and then threw forward, knocking dark one pinpoint of light with a muffled thud.
The other beam wobbled and then fell; a radio crackled; a man shouted something into it. Sapphire launched herself at the sound, drawing up short, landing on the edge of the second-story railing, her gemstones carving a sphere of eerie blue out of the darkness. The flashlight beam bounced up, pointing over her shoulder; next to its origin, the shadows of a sharp-edged face drawn taut with surprise, the whites of his eyes reflecting the heroine's supernatural aura.
Sapphire held still, tiptoes balanced impossibly on the round metal rail, looking over the man before her -- close-fitting long-sleeved shirt, baggy pants, boots; flashlight on one side of his head, earpiece and boom mic sprouted from the other; pistol harness around his torso, weighted with gun and ammo.
He remained frozen until his earpiece began to chatter. Eyes blinked, brow furrowed into seriousness. He said something she didn't understand.
Sapphire became aware of movement to either side, more bobbing lights, and the sound of boots.
The man before her took a step back. His hand rose, plucking his weapon, raising it.
"Freeze," he said. It sounded like 'Fleas.'
Sapphire rose up slowly, watching his eyes, waiting for them to dart downward and register the fact that she was standing on thin air.
"Freeze!" he repeated, forceful. She couldn't see his eyes anymore -- his flashlight in her face overcame the glow of her sapphires on his at this distance -- but she knew from that unwavering beam of light that his eyes remained fixed on hers, even when the men to the sides stopped advancing, even when she'd risen well over a foot, even when she drifted slightly backward, hovering over empty space.
Very slowly, her hands rose away from her sides, elbows bending, shoulders shifting back.
Very slowly, her hips turned, one leg angling back, toe pointing...
...every move gentle, deliberate...
...like the drawing of a bow.
Waiting. Luring. Lulling.
Flashlight flinched.
Sapphire struck.
Streaking forward, she didn't move toward him so much as appear right in front of him. Her palms merely twitched toward him, and he shot backwards, ass-first, slapping like a ragdoll against a concrete support column some ten yards distant.
She closed the distance in an eyeblink, her hand pressed against his neck before gravity could claim him, pushing his head against the column, waiting for him to gather his legs beneath him before she began to lift, feeling him stretch, up to tiptoe, and finally dangle inches off the floor.
The others now moved toward her, stealth forsaken for speed, handheld spotlights dancing so wildly as to strobe. Sapphire rose, hovering on one foot, never releasing the grip on her prisoner, glancing over her left shoulder. Her other leg rose, cocked, toe pointed, and swept a brutal 180-degree arc, striking down her attackers like distant dominos.
Now she released her captive, untwisting her torso to settle on both feet with her back turned to him. She heard him crumple to his knees. Before he could gather himself, she spun herself with a quick flick of her wrists to face him again. One toe gently found his chin and ungently pinned him back against the column. His hands grabbed for her outstretched leg, but she swatted them back with dismissive backhands.
Sapphire leaned into the man, letting him feel her weight replace her forcefield. Then she let her foot fall, sliding down his torso to settle in his crotch. He yelped, but his hands stopped short of trying to push her away.
The others were getting up; one of them shouted something, probably at her, and another one reiterated. She raised her hands as she glanced to either side; she had a couple of seconds.
She leaned into her captive again. "Where is she?"
The pain made him gurgle and spit and cough.
The shouting was just a few feet away; her peripheral vision raised alarm. Sapphire took a half-step back, squaring up her stance. Her elbows bent, and then she shoved her hands sharply out and back; four men were again repelled, landing hard, limbs flailing.
"Where!" Sapphire screamed.
The kneeling man raised an arm, the motion both cautious and pained. A finger extended, pointing past Sapphire. "At the other end," he wheezed.
Sapphire launched herself up and forward, extending her left leg, her foot finding impossible purchase a few inches above the man's head; leg bent, hips turned, a human spring compressing herself for launch. Then strong muscles flexed beneath smooth skin, and sapphires amplified the thrust a hundredfold. The surface of the column cracked and splintered and powdered under the pressure, and Sapphire shot like an arrow into the dark void of the concrete cavern.
Jittery specs of light ahead served as sights; the superheroine aimed herself between and above them, keeping her arc shallow. Her sapphires glowed enough to see pedestrian walkways pass beneath her, glimmers of glass storefronts, shadows of temporary plywood walls and concrete ceiling at the edges of darkness.
But something jumped out of the void ahead, wrapping around her neck, her arm; she tumbled through the air, as more of the things found hand, leg, shin, back, an angry swarm of serpentine something weighing her down, spinning the room, dodging and pulling against her panicked force-blasts.
Kicking, screaming, falling, crashing . . .
Dust clouded air and choked breath; the grounded girl coughed, spasming her struggles. Her own sapphires illuminated her attacker -- nothing more than a cargo net, a web of thick canvas straps sparse enough to ring and wrap and fold and slip past any specific sapphire thrust.
She felt a tugging, and saw crisscrossing light beyond her own; they were already on her. She tried to hit them with force-blasts, but the layers of canvas web restricted her movement. Panic threatened, but she beat it back.
They can't hurt me. I'm stronger than this.
Think.
Sapphire stopped trying to wriggle free; instead, she tucked her limbs in close, feeling the web slacken around her. Her hands found a strap and slowly pushed it taut, then with a hard Snap! it broke. She felt one slide along her lower leg; she twisted until she got her foot on it, then Kick! it too flopped loose.
This was taking too long. There were now at least three men tugging at the periphery of the net, trying to tighten it around her, trying to spread her out.
But now she had her hands and feet beneath her. She focused and *pushed*, launching herself into the air, yanking the imprisoning net up with her, hauling her would-be captors off their feet. The uneven load pulled her to one side, skewing her trajectory, but as she relaxed, she felt her canvas bindings slacken just enough. Sapphire found her neutral position; imagining hands and feet as four points of an encompassing sphere, she closed her eyes, and *flexed*...
...shredding canvas, splintering plywood, shattering glass, cracking concrete. Sapphire's sphere of shock moved through the building with an ominous rumble like the stirring of an ancient god.
The bejeweled warrior settled to the floor, disdainfully slipping free of the net's tattered remains. Her chest rose and fell with deep, powerful breaths; fists clenched tight with contemptuous anger.
It *was* a trap. And Sapphire broke it.
Slap! Slap! Slap!
Echoes off the hard concrete and tile magnified and diffused the shots; it almost sounded like the building itself was cracking all around.
Bullets whizzing by were clearer; the prickly sparks off her chest and arms, clearer still.
Sapphire rose slowly, waiting out the first salvos; surely they would see their shots had no effect on her; surely it was just panic fire.
No, more organized than that. Initial handgun shots were replaced by automatic rifles -- quick bursts, all from the same direction. And... retreating.
Maybe they were trying to discourage her from pursuing them.
Fine. It wasn't them she was interested in anyway.
Sapphire looked up; just ahead was another skylight. Legs flexed, and she shot straight for it; instinct forced an arm up to shield her face as she smashed through.
But the heroine was hardly retreating. She was just taking the high road.
Her flightpath curved back down, targeting the last skylight at the far end of the mall.
If Becky was here, Sapphire would find her.
And if not, there would be hell to pay.
Sapphire speared through the center pane, juking back and hovering above the second floor walkways to get her bearings. Skylight glass tinkled to the floor below. Followed by the first drops of rain.
She'd flanked most of the men; dancing lights tossed her shadow over a triangular plaza, with a walled-off department store entrance angled to the left, and a food court to the right. Below the food court, light spilled out from a corridor; at the entrace was a... subway sign?
Footsteps. Second floor, in front of the department store. No, no one there.
*In* the department store?
Sapphire swooped up to the walkway for a closer look. The entrance was walled off with sheet rock, but there were seams, like a door cut out of it, but without any handle or knob to open it. Light leaked through the seams. There were muffled voices, men's voices, angry voices.
And then a girl's scream.
Sapphire lowered a shoulder and hammered through the wall, disintegrating much of the sheet rock into a fine powder -- so much that she got a breath full of it. The heroine coughed, gasping; this only made it worse. Feeling panic, she kicked back, shooting back through the hole she'd created to the open mall walkway and clearer air.
Her next breath was clearer, but her lungs still burned. She coughed more vigorously, trying to force the vile chalk out more quickly; Becky needed her...
The heroine straightened up, striding confidently toward the jagged hole and the light beyond. The dust was already clearing. She took a deep breath before entering, ready for anything...
...except for the world to go liquid.
Edges softened, lights glowed; the man-shape in front of her started to run to her right, but after two steps his body shifted, oozed, and poured itself out a pulsing void in the light around her.
Everything seemed to Glisten.
Glisten. Stronger than she'd ever felt, holding her still, turning air into gelatin, light into pleasure.
No. Not now. Escape. Back. Away.
Sapphire lifted, floating, swimming slowly through bubbling embracing darkness, turning, looking, eyelids falling and not wanting to lift again.
Something tugged at her foot; a happy bench wanted her to stay; it took her shoe.
She was on the floor now. Something blue and pretty flickered over there. Her shoe. She needed it. She couldn't swim without it. Arms stretched, slithered, touched the pretty blue, caressed it.
Stop. This was bad. She couldn't stay here. There were men coming here, and they didn't like her...
But there was a girl here too. The girl needed help to be happy again. The monsters were pushing the girl away. It was up to Sapphire to push the monsters, the Moroshkin.
Ow. She couldn't move anymore. They were holding her, making her swim toward the light, toward Moroshkin. She had to break free. This wasn't right. She wasn't swimming, it only felt that way. It was Glisten. Glisten was doing this. But she hadn't had any Glisten... only Glitter, and her sapphires, and the moisture in the clouds, and the bullets, and the dust in the air...
The dust. In her lungs. Glistening.
Her hands were stuck behind her. Handcuffs. She'd felt handcuffs before, with that man who'd liked her pictures, the one who'd given her a shot of Glisten. It would be hard to fight back with handcuffs on. She had to get them off. She had to... move...
Lights, bright. Bedroom? No, office. Carpet, shimmering like a pond, irridescent blues and greens. Something wrong with her foot; she'd lost a shoe. Hard to stand. No flying.
Someone laughed. Nasty laugh. Familiar laugh.
Moroshkin.
Her lip curled. She hated Moroshkin. He had a pet, a killer. Crisco. She hated Crisco.
They wanted to hurt her. She didn't want that. Not even if it Glistened.
Moroshkin stood in front of her. Towered over her. Laughing through the liquid. Sapphire squeezed her mind; she had to find reality, she had to surface.
Moroshkin slapped her; her limp body crumpled to the carpet.
A flash of blue marked her landing; her cheek burned.
Konstantin Moroshkin was shouting and hopping around the room.
"Ow! Fuck! My hand!"
Someone else spoke. Crisco. "Haven't you ever slapped a woman before?"
"Shut up!"
Someone hoisted her to her feet by her left arm; it hurt. Her hands rubbed against each other.
Her hands.
She turned her hands around, slowly, painfully, palms facing each other.
I can do this.
Eyes closed, picturing it. Hands pushed apart.
Cuffs popped.
"Oh, shit!"
Everyone seemed to move so fast; so did she, but her limbs moved on faith -- she couldn't seem to keep up with them. The man next to her flew away, crashing through a nearby wall; then she saw her hand aimed at him.
A half-step forward revealed shaky balance. She wasn't sure whether Moroshkin was charging her or fleeing, but somehow her hand was in front of her, propelling him through chairs and across a table. She shoved, and he seemed to disappear, leaving a man-shaped hole in the wall.
Sapphire stepped forward. Someone grabbed at her; she half-spun, a wild backhand connecting with her attacker somehow.
It took a moment to find the hole again, the one she'd used Moroshkin to make. She tiptoed through, bracing her stance with a hand on the wall.
Moroshkin lay on the floor before her, shaking his head clear. Things were slowing down. Glisten wasn't holding, or she was burning through it, or the Glitter was fighting it. Her sapphires embraced her with reassuring warmth. The heroine planted her bare foot against Moroshkin's pelvis and leaned in.
"Where is she?" Sapphire spat.
Moroshkin squirmed out from under her foot, crabbing backwards. Sapphire took a step, winding up her shoed foot, giving the mob boss an invisible kick; he slumped to the floor, limbs slack. She heard him gasping for breath.
A voice came from behind her. "Let him go."
She ignored it. She was in charge here. Their Glisten trick had almost stopped her, but she still had enough of her wits to know they were out of moves. She stepped forward again, between Moroshkin's splayed legs, turning sideways, pointing one hand down, pressing sapphire force down against his chest. She turned her head to size up her new opponent.
Average-looking man, white, probably Russian. Vaguely familiar. She'd seen him somewhere, probably when she'd been with Dino...
"Where's Becky?" she snarled.
"Here," he answered calmly. Why wasn't he afraid?
Sapphire raised her other hand, palm facing him. "Release her."
His eyes narrowed. "No."
Sapphire shoved her hand at him.
And felt her knees buckle. Her whole body shuddered with a stab of sapphire energy.
No. She didn't know him because of Dino.
This was the man who'd stopped her last night.
Last night. She hadn't been weak. It hadn't been Glitter giving out.
It was him.
He was a Hunter.
Sapphire's eyes suddenly snapped open wide, sobering fear drawing brain cells taut.
He smiled. And stepped forward.
She thrust at him again; this time the feeling was so intense the room spun; she collapsed onto a chair, then rolled/fell off it, flopping on her back to the hard floor. Hands behind her, reflex had her try to push herself to her feet, but again the sapphire energy folded in on itself and flowed through her nervous system like electric ecstasy.
Sapphire rolled over, chest heaving in panic, arms and legs pistoning beneath her, crawling, trying to get up, stumbling, catching a careening doorjamb.
"Wait." It was Moroshkin's voice. "Let me finish this."
Sapphire's hand found the doorknob, but she couldn't open it. She nearly gave the door a shove, but her hand froze in mid-air; she feared what the stones might do to her.
A meaty hand grabbed the back of her top and yanked her toward the middle of the room; she stumbled and fell, face hitting carpet. Before she could move she felt the same hand in her hair, hoisting her up, then bending her over, throwing her toward a wall. She tripped, crashing hip and shoulder, bouncing away, falling, but caught from behind; her wing-sleeves went taut, tugging briefly at the collar around her neck and yanking her wrists up behind her, gravity arching her limp torso, until the fabric gave way and she thumped to the floor. She felt her wrists pulled up off the carpet, flopping weakly as her tormentor yanked hard once, twice, and on the third time ripped her wristbands away.
As her arms sagged to her sides, she felt the sapphire energy dim.
She had to get away. She had but one gemstone left. Adrenaline forced rubbery arms to lift her again, forced leaden legs to push her ahead, away from the monster behind her. But a hand clamped her ankle, halting her escape; she tried to kick, to use the last of her power, but again it turned against her, sending a final shuddering wave of helpless nirvana through her; she felt her shoe fall.
Her mind drowning in panic, she thrust her limbs spastically, half-falling, half-crawling. She felt herself lurched up, her top drawing tight against her, bouncing her once before splitting open and dropping her.
No. She was being stripped. She had to get away. Anywhere but here. Before they took everything.
Again she was lifted, this time lower; her skirt let go.
A cruel shove to the hip spilled her, rolled her onto her back. Moroshkin leaned down, sneering, predatory hatred burning in his eyes. "Time to abdicate your throne, Princess." He ripped the tiara from her hair. His big hand blotted the lights above before swooping down and smashing against her chin, snapping her head to one side, and knocking her out cold.
The room is cold. She tries to move; her whole body hurts. Something chafes her wrists and ankles. She hears voices -- Crisco, and one she's never heard before.
She feels sluggish, weak. Fluid. Glistening. The voices get nearer, but they're muffled and sticky.
"My God... if she's damaged..."
"Nothing that won't heal. She's a handful, but keep her on Gliss and you'll be fine."
"Kato has your money."
"Good. She's all yours, Doug."
She feels herself rolled over; she looks up, blinking, but the light blurs and she sees only a dark blob leaning over her.
The blob speaks.
"Sweet dreams, Sapphire."