Super•Villainous

LVI

"Tempest, stop! Please! Ezra-" The last thing I cared about was protecting his identity at that point, "-don't!"

Either not hearing my pleas or not caring about them, he shot past me in the direction of Atticus's fall, a jetstream rustling my hair in his wake

I tried to give chase, to throw myself over every obstacle in my way in hopes of somehow reaching Atticus first, because despite knowing he still retained my healing, and would have it for a matter of days before it would begin to fade, I needed to see his survival for myself. If I didn't confirm with my own eyes what my rational mind already knew, I'd go mad.

Another shake of the earth usurped my balance, and then a small round object ripping through my abdominals from behind completely forced me down to my knees. I caught myself on one hand, only for that hand to suddenly burst aflame. Using the other, I frantically tried to bat the fire out, even as angry red blisters bubbled over my skin. The searing heat threatened to spread along my sleeves, endangering my hair and the rest of my body.

I was seconds away from ripping my shirt off entirely, when I heard, "That's enough," and the flames cut out, leaving the affected area a waxy red. Raw. It felt like I was still burning, even though my eyes told me otherwise.

"So she can actually heal," said a woman, Will--O-Wisp, the mistress of fire. I'd met her twice, atop my sister's school and later at the press conference. "Creepy."

Most people would be horribly scarred for life, but the welts boiled as though in a time lapse, first worse, then better, then gone completely from sight. I tore my attention away from the nauseating view and sprang into a run, dodging a new spray of metal from Ferrus. Compared to the agonizing burn, I'd temporarily overlooked being shot. That, too, healed, spitting a round metal orb from a place caught between two of my lower ribs.

That was the freedom of healing, the true boon of my gift that I rarely considered. I did not fear what they could do to me, not when compared to what they might inflict on others. I would always be fine. I healed. I recovered. I kept pushing forward without true consequence. I-

The ground split around my ankle as I stepped down, drawing me in less like a sinkhole and more like the jaws of a bear trap that threatened to shred me into ribbons at any attempt to break free. I did try. I tried until I saw a shock of white bone peaking out within a mess of red, and I intended to keep trying, when the Constable rounded in front of me, between me and my sole purpose, between me and Atticus. Super guards stuck close to his side. Will-O, Ferrus, and Tectonic, the last of which I was only now understanding had never been a villain in the first place, but rather a Guild plant intended to look like a villain for the sake of the gullible civilians. The same dirty job Atticus once held, meaning they orchestrated the attack on their own Guildhall all those months ago.

With that understanding came anger, so I directed my next words at Tectonic. "You deliberately caved in the prison to kill all the villains before they could escape," I spat. "That's dozens of lives, gone at once."

"Hundreds, actually," he corrected, unabashed. Unlike Tempest and Shade, his mask covered the whole of his face, save for small teardrop carvings for him to see through. "We also take the supervillains caught by the other Guilds across the country. They don't have the infrastructure to hold those animals."

Bile rose in my throat. I knew many of the prisoners hadn't been saints, but others couldn't have deserved the almost certain death inflicted on them. A painful, perhaps drawn out death. Skye's only supposed murder had been a twisted kindness. My grandfather, though already dead, committed no crimes at all and still found himself imprisoned through a complicated web of greed. How many others had similar stories? How many of them were dead?