Villainous Intent (Villainous #1)

Chapter 1

ANNIE

Blood coated my hands and my first thought was how annoying it was going to be to clean it out from under my fingernails.

I don’t know why, but blood just never seemed to want to wash off properly, so that you always had a Lady Macbeth moment when dealing with it.

It took me a second to realize that the warmth seeping through the fabric of my skirt was also blood.

Ducking into the alley was supposed to be the smart move after a stray fireball had vaporized a chunk of building, sending a jagged slab of concrete hurtling toward my head.

I didn’t expect to trip over a couple of corpses and land on my ass in a growing pool of blood.

My palms left dark smears on my jacket as I tried to wipe the blood off as best I could.

The corpses belonged to two young men who were piled together next to a dumpster.

Shrapnel from one of the earlier blasts had shredded them.

One’s chest was laid open, ribs splintered outward from whatever had hit him.

The other was missing the lower half of his jaw.

A sour taste flooded my mouth and I swallowed hard, trying to force the nausea down as my stomach rolled.

Damn it. The Alliance had set up protective barricades five blocks wide for the training fight, designed to keep idiots exactly like these two from becoming pavement paste. All they had to do was stay behind the stupid glowing blue line and they’d live to see tomorrow.

I pulled my tablet from my jacket’s inner pocket. Despite the screen being cracked from my fall, it still looked functional. My fingers left bloody smudges as I tapped into the Alliance oversight channel.

Civilians breached the west barricade. Alleyway between 4th and Elm.

The response pinged back immediately.

Copy, Keeper. Is evac needed?

I looked down at the guy with the missing jaw.

No, I typed back. Send a clean-up crew.

A deafening screech echoed from the street that left my ears ringing.

The ground rumbled violently enough to shake some bricks loose from the wall beside me.

That was probably the result of Surge being thrown through the abandoned sedan I’d run past on the corner.

Surge had already been on the losing end of this match ten minutes ago, blood gushing from his nose and telegraphing every one of his punches.

Another shockwave hit and the air pressure dropped, popping my ears.

I huffed out a breath and shoved the tablet back into my pocket before looking down at the bodies again.

Chroma Bay wasn’t actually a hellscape, provided you weren’t a complete idiot.

The rules for living here were posted everywhere, repeated ad nauseam through every medium available.

When the ClashAlert app chimes, you evacuate the zone.

When the barricades go up, you stay behind them.

You give the Supers a wide berth and let them play at being gods.

It wasn’t that fucking complicated. Even the Supers had strict rules drafted by the Alliance and the League to keep the civilian body count low and the entertainment value high.

It was a symbiotic ecosystem of destruction and entertainment.

Locals and tourists usually respected the boundaries, terrified of the carnage Supers were capable of.

But there was always a handful of idiots like the two at my feet who thought the glowing blue tape was merely a suggestion.

I reached up to adjust the gold emblem pinned to the lapel of my blazer that marked me as Havoc’s personal Keeper. I shouldn’t even be dealing with this low-level street clash, but I liked to lie to myself and everyone around me and say that I needed to keep my boots on the ground on occasion.

Or, in this case, my heels in the gore.

The truth was actually more pathetic. I was here because the Alliance asked, and the word no simply didn’t exist in my vocabulary when they called.

When my childhood was torn apart, the Alliance gave me sanctuary behind thick walls and sealed records. In exchange, I became their ultimate, rule-abiding people pleaser. I couldn’t tell anymore whether the gratitude was real or just the only setting I had left.

Just a quick observation shift, Annie, the dispatcher had chirped over the phone this morning. Nothing you can’t handle.

Right. I stared down at the mangled bodies, trying to fight the exhausting mix of guilt and resentment.

Stepping carefully to avoid the pool of blood, I crept towards the mouth of the alley and poked my head around the corner to check the status of the match.

Surge was on his knees in the middle of the street, electricity sparking weakly from his hands, while Wildfire floated ten feet above him, a living, breathing inferno.

Wildfire hurled a massive fireball. Surge rolled to the left, and the fireball went wide, hurtling straight toward me.

I ducked back into the alley, pressing against the wall.

The fire slammed into the base of the streetlight right next to the alley’s entrance causing the metal to shriek as it melted under the heat and gravity took over.

I vaulted over the jawless guy and threw myself deeper into the alley as the streetlight crashed down exactly where I had just been standing. The impact shattered the pavement, concrete dust and sparks flying out.

Out on the street, the training script had unraveled. Wildfire hovered higher, his flames shifting from a photogenic orange to a lethal blue. Surge struggled to stand, his left arm hanging at an unnatural angle. Bone poked through his scorched suit.

I dug out my tablet to file the emergency termination code before Wildfire ended up killing Surge. This wasn’t even a televised match, just a practice fight using real city terrain. There was no reason for Wildfire to treat it like a full on arena match.

A low, mechanical whine droned from over head as I hit send.

The sound intensified as massive shadows eclipsed the alleyway. I glanced up, squinting. Three heavily armored Alliance oversight cruisers were descending. They didn’t bother with a warning horn as the air pressure spiked, signaling that the power dampening field was now active.

Out on the street, Wildfire’s blue inferno snuffed out and he dropped from the sky, hitting the asphalt with an unceremonious thud. Surge just collapsed. The oversight committee had evidently reached the exact same conclusion I had. Any value to be had from the training exercise had expired.

I looked down at the two dead civilians. Their blood was already congealing, mixing with the concrete dust to form a gruesome sludge. Then I looked past the ruined streetlight to the cratered road filled with crushed cars. Shattered glass glittered everywhere.

By tomorrow, no one would even know a fight happened here.

Chroma Bay’s cleanup crews were a marvel in their own right.

Within twenty-four hours, they would sweep up the debris, pour fresh asphalt, and replace the streetlights.

All the damage would just be another line item in the Alliance’s monthly budget while the destruction was consequence-free for the people causing it.

I spent every second of my life policing my own existence.

I measured every word, filed every report perfectly, and held my breath so I wouldn’t disturb the air around me.

I owed the Alliance my safety, my entire existence and so I had to be perfect for them.

I was trapped in a cage of my own endless gratitude and terror.

But these Supers? They threw fire and reduced city blocks to ash whenever their emotions got too big for their bodies. It was the ultimate indulgence.

I wanted to experience that freedom. Just for a minute, I wanted to stop being the perfect Keeper. I wanted to let go, indulge in the destruction, and finally break something.

Even if that something was myself.

The crunch of steps moving quickly toward me broke me out of my thoughts.

A member of the Alliance oversight squad rounded the corner coming to a halt at the edge of the alley as his eyes flicked from me to the two corpses tangled by the dumpster.

He wore the standard-issue matte black armor of the oversight squad, his visor pushed up to reveal a bored face.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Idiots,” he muttered, shaking his head.

The craving to shatter something evaporated.

My brain seized that ugly urge and shoved it down, locking it behind years of conditioned obedience.

I put on my Keeper persona with my entire body.

My spine snapped straight. I unclenched my jaw and smoothed the tension out of my shoulders until all that was left was Keeper Bishop.

I was Havoc’s Keeper. I did not have violent breakdowns in blood-soaked alleys.

“You injured, Bishop?” the oversight grunt asked as he tapped a stylus against his forearm datapad.

“No. Just covered in collateral spray. These two breached the west barricade.”

“Figures. Clean-up is going to need a hose for this one.” He gestured toward the street with his chin. “Come on. They want to get this zone locked down. Transport is waiting.”

I stepped over the bodies, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead.

The medical team was already hauling Surge onto a stretcher.

His ruined arm hung at a sickening angle, the exposed bone glistening under the flashing blue lights of the cruisers.

Wildfire was being escorted onto one of the waiting aircraft.

I followed the oversight member toward the largest of the three armored aircraft idling in the intersection.

The boarding ramp lowered and the sterile, climate-controlled air that wafted down was a relief after the stench of the street.

The interior of the cruiser was metal and blue LED lighting, completely utilitarian, but compared to the destruction outside, it was fucking luxurious.

I found an empty jump seat and collapsed into it.

The safety harness engaged automatically and the moment the buckle locked, my Keeper mask cracked.

I slumped back against the bulkhead, letting my exhaustion envelop me now that no one was watching.

I laced my fingers together to try to stop the tremor in my hands.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, letting the hum of the engines drown out the residual ringing in my ears from the fight.

I needed to get back to the Tower, to the quiet of the upper levels. I wanted to wash the smell of the fight out of my hair and bury myself in spreadsheets and scheduling. I needed my real work, where the rules actually mattered and the destruction was mostly kept on paper.