“They took your mother because . . . I kidnapped his wife years before.”
Olivera retaliated? “Why did you? For money?”
He nodded, then winced with pain. The rumors of Papai’s criminal background had been true. “The woman fought me . . . I didn’t mean . . . the gun went off. Bullet in her spine.”
The breath whooshed from my lungs. I’d thought Bento had selected Mamãe out of a thousand wealthy women in the city. I’d never been able to wrap my mind around the randomness—as if my mother had been betrayed by chance, as if her life had ended when her luck had run out.
But she’d been targeted. “Why would you let me hunt them? Without telling me?”
“I wanted to, so many times. But I didn’t want you to hate me. The lie took on a life of its own.”
This revelation stunned me as much as anything else I’d seen tonight. “I believed they’d taken her because they were greedy pigs!” And so I had gutted Bento’s sons like pigs. After I’d tortured them.
“No. Revenge.”
The Oliveras never would have stopped. Because of my father. Fury surged inside me. “You started this—because you were greedy. My mother is dead because of you! Her parents are dead because of you!”
“And I will go to hell for my sins.” Almost to himself, he said, “Parted from her forever.”
I still would have gone after the Oliveras, but I wouldn’t have toyed with them. That family had only been avenging a loved one.
As I had been. Their crime was the same as mine. “I wanted to punish the one responsible for her death.” My fists clenched. “Why should I not kill you?”
He murmured, “Think that will happen all on its own, daughter.”
Another quake. This one was louder and more intense than the previous ones—and it was mounting.
“Leave me,” Papai ordered. “Get to the safe room!”
The ground shook so hard, I tottered on my feet. I turned toward the exit, but the door wouldn’t open. The frame was skewed, wedging the door shut.
Stone cracked; metal groaned. I swallowed, gazing up the stairwell. The stairs swayed. Because the building was swaying.
It shifted side to side, more and more violently, until suddenly it wobbled and . . . dropped.
Oh, meu Deus, the entire fucking thing was coming down!
A cloud of dust and debris exploded downward like an avalanche. I hunched, covering my head.
Full dark.
As the rubble settled, stones knocked against each other. A stray crack! sounded. The air was thick with dust, my lungs filled with it.
“Papai?” I coughed and pulled my shirt over my face, breathing through the fabric. “Papai, answer me.”
Nothing. I fished my phone out of my pocket and clicked on the flashlight. I gaped at what I saw.
Rubble had piled up all around me—even above me—a perfect cocoon.
Except for the sole rock that had breached it.
The one that had bashed in my father’s head.
Somehow I was . . . untouched.
The Fury (XI)
Spite, She Who Harrows
“Blood will tell. Blood will run. But the tears of the damned always taste sweet.”
A.k.a.: Justice
Powers: Acid spitting and flight. Superhuman senses, strength, and healing. Infrared vision. Her fireproof wings can blend into surroundings, camouflaging her.
Special Skills: Concealment.
Weapons: Razor-sharp claws that tip her wings and a scourging whip.
Tableau: A blindfolded, winged demoness, holding a steel-studded whip in her upraised right hand and weighing scales in her lowered left hand.
Icon: Navy-blue scales.
Unique Arcana Characteristics: Her eyes are yellow instead of white, with green keyhole pupils. She has long retractable claws and batlike wings. Prior to striking an enemy, her wings will vibrate, the sharp claws tapping each other to make a rattling sound.
Before Flash: Daughter of Egyptian museum curators, in the States for a long-term exhibit.
Suburb of Chicago, Illinois
Day 0
Look at the lights! The newscasters had talked about these right before the channels all cut out.
Lines of purples and pinks and greens rolled like waves in the night sky. So beautiful I could cry.
I heard others on my street oohing and aahing. Most were American hipsters; all of them behaved as if I didn’t exist. Nothing new.
My parents did as well.
But tonight I didn’t ridicule my neighbors as usual—because I actually had something in common with them.
We were all basking in these lights.
No one had told me I might see the aurora borealis this time of year. I could stare at it forever. I adjusted my thick glasses and wondered if my parents were watching from their ritzy uptown patron party.
As usual, I was babysitting my little sister, Febe. I thought of her solemn brown eyes, plump cheeks, and eight-year-old lisp, and considered heading back to our rented house to get her. She was in the basement playing video games, would never see the sky on her own.
She was the only one in the world I loved, the only one who didn’t view my usual expression as sneering or vindictive. She had never called me the nickname that somehow followed me from country to country: Spiteful.
I exhaled. Still staring over my shoulder, I headed toward the house. But when I had to walk under a tree, I couldn’t bring myself to lose my view of the lights—
Pain flared, shooting across my upper back. What was that?
Ignore it! All I wanted to do was look at the sky. . . . Another jolt ripped through me. My legs gave way, my knees hitting the sidewalk.
I managed to cry, “H-help me!” to my closest neighbors, but they were captivated by the lights.