Unleashing the Storm Page 33

  Mainly, because they pulled at his libido, an unfortunate and common side effect for any elementalist. Mother Nature had a way of getting back at humans who could manipulate her world, and her nasty punishment for Stryker was a hard-on whenever someone used elemental powers around him—or when the planet rocked out an earthquake.

  It was a constant—ranging from mild to highly uncomfortable—reminder that he had no control over Mother Nature at all, because even though he got advance notice, it came only mere seconds before the destruction, leaving no time to actually help any victims in the path of the oncoming natural disaster.

  Most of the time, his sense of guilt was immense. More than once he’d gone to the ACRO scientists and psychics to seek a way to refine his abilities into an earlier warning system, but to no avail.

  You can’t beat yourself up over this, Dev would tell him, but Stryker would anyway.

  Over the years, Stryker had watched men and women filter into ACRO—most dragged in, kicking and screaming until they could get their powers under control. He’d been there, done that with the control thing, and by the time he’d hit the all-too-volatile teen years, complete with raging hormones and plenty of testosterone, he’d gotten it. He knew, for the most part, how to keep his temper in check and, more important, the reasoning behind the why.

  The next years found him learning to temper his … temper, so he could use his power to help, not hurt. Because that’s what ACRO agents did—they helped to save the world, thanks to their blend of extraordinary gifts.

  Some could control the weather. Others could communicate with animals, some with ghosts, and there was a small army of men—excedosapiens—who had superstrength or -speed.

  ACRO was a pretty cool organization that assisted the government in saving the world from evil—and from Itor Corp, its most dangerous enemy to date.

  Dangerous not just because of its self-serving, take-over-the-world goals, but because of the operatives it employed. Operatives like Stryker’s current target. Phoebe was the fiery bitch and her alter identity was the icy one; from what little information ACRO had been able to gather, it seemed that the icy personality was the more vulnerable of the two.

  Stryker had seen that firsthand, would wake nightly from the same recurrent nightmare that played out as it had in real life in the jungle, with the icy personality pleading with him for her life—but he refused to let his resolve down.

  He would kill her as soon as he got the chance, because his nightmares about the smell of burning flesh, and Akbar’s screams of pain, were just as vivid.

  “Can I get you another espresso?” The young waitress, dark and curvy, was asking, before peering into his eyes. “I’m sorry, signor, I don’t mean to stare, but your eyes—they look like … a kaleidoscope.”

  He nodded, had heard that before. His eyes were different, just like he was, crystal clear with a hint of blue and green, but the rest of him was classic all-American—blond, lean, and tall. “I’m all set here.”

  He stood to leave, ignoring the woman’s continuing gaze, and that’s when he felt it. A chill passed through the air, as if someone had poured ice down his back. But when he raised his head, he noted he wasn’t the only one feeling the effects.

  Spring had just hit and Rome was brimming with tourists. Although March in Italy was always iffy weather-wise, Stryker knew this sudden chill had nothing at all to do with Mother Nature.

  And still, his body responded as if a major earthquake was about to happen. A pull that got him up and moving fast, hands jammed in his pockets to hide his sudden arousal.

  He did not want to get closer to that bitch—not like this, had not thought through the fact that her powers could be a major turn-on to him. Mainly because he hadn’t been affected at all the first time they’d met. He didn’t know if it was because of the horror of watching Akbar die, but this was an unfortunate development neither he nor his trainers had considered.

  Shit.

  He hated her—did not want to need sex because of her. He cursed her as he walked against the icy wind, taking in the icicles hanging off storefronts and the hoarfrost coating windows. He knew he was close.

  His gaze strayed upward, and he caught sight of a woman on a balcony, a blond woman who waved her arms wildly and was apparently having a rather animated conversation with … herself.

  It was the ice lady, and although he much preferred her to the one who shot fire, he had to stop both of them. ASAP.

  Quickly but covertly, he stashed all but one of his weapons and let himself into the secured building—illegally, of course—and headed up the stairs to the third floor.

  Her icy door knocker gave her apartment away, if the film of frost on her door hadn’t.

  He drank the potion ACRO scientists had given him, the one that would render him immune to both of Phoebe’s powers, albeit for only a few minutes, but it did nothing to stop his arousal. If anything, the salty liquid seemed to heighten his sexual needs.

  He cracked his fingers. He could control himself for a few minutes. That would be more than enough time.

  Melanie Milan knew she’d just done something incredibly stupid, but at the moment, she was far too pissed off to care. She was so pissed, in fact, that if her apartment—or, more accurately, Phoebe’s apartment—were any higher than the third floor, she’d take a swan dive from the balcony just to teach her sister a lesson. A nice, long hospital stay would go a long way toward making Phoebe miserable.

  All around her, the air had gone still. The mild March weather had taken a temporary vacation thanks to her temper tantrum, and on the streets below, in probably a three-block radius, it was winter again, complete with frost and ice. Shivering, but from fury, not the cold, Melanie went back inside the apartment, which had also gone chilly, because her fit of anger had started in the kitchen, where she’d found her pet goldfish impaled on the tines of a fork.

  The fish was Phoebe’s handiwork, a punishment for something Melanie wasn’t even aware of yet. And now, because she’d just drained the battery on their special powers, Phoebe would devise another way to torture her.

  She was so tired of this.

  Cursing up a storm, she trudged to the bathroom where, sure enough, there was a note taped to the mirror—one of three methods of communication she used with Phoebe.

  You stupid, lazy cow. You know I hate to find dishes in the sink. How many times do I have to tell you to make sure the kitchen is clean? And do the fucking laundry today. I want my favorite jeans to be clean and pressed.

  Melanie’s hands shook as she ripped the note in half and tossed it into the garbage. She was sick of being Phoebe’s slave, sick of being abused, and sick of the face that stared back at her in the mirror. It wasn’t hers. The long, blond hair was Phoebe’s—Mel would prefer a chin-length cut. The ice blue, bloodshot eyes that spoke of late nights and drugs that left Melanie exhausted and hungover were Phoebe’s doing. Worst of all, the swollen lips that had probably done some wicked things to God only knew how many men and women were all Phoebe’s.

  Phoebe liked sex, drugs, and violence, often all at the same time, and it was always Melanie who paid the price when she woke up in the body Phoebe had used hard.

  At least this morning Melanie had awakened in their own bed instead of some stranger’s. That was always a plus.

  Melanie tightened the sash on her robe, though even that wasn’t hers, was it? Almost everything in the apartment, from the furniture to the clothes to the food, was Phoebe’s. Every time Melanie bought something for herself, Phoebe destroyed it. Melanie’s only possessions consisted of a few paperbacks and college textbooks in the nightstand drawer, and her mother’s gold ring in the wall safe that Phoebe had promised not to break into.

  Mel also had a few files on the computer—her college courses. It was stupid, she knew, but she wanted desperately to do something for herself, even if that something was an art degree she’d never use. Obviously, when she had possession of the body she and Phoebe shared f
or only around ten hours a day, the degree was going to take forever to earn, and at some point would require Phoebe’s cooperation.

  How Melanie was going to manage that was the question of the century. Especially when all they did now was fight and see who could hurt who the most. Mel had no idea how she was going to pay Phoebe back for killing her fish … though as she eyed a pair of scissors on the counter, she wondered how her sister would like really short hair …

  The buzzing of a cellphone reminded her that she needed to get her butt in gear. The ringtone belonged to Itor’s big boss, Alek.

  Who was also their father. Not that he behaved like one. And why should he? He was nothing but a sperm donor who had jerked off into a cup so his semen could be used to fertilize an egg in a petri dish. Melanie had no idea how he treated Phoebe, but she knew very well how he treated her. The son of a bitch despised her, acted like she was a traitor, even though she had nothing to do with Itor, didn’t know anyone inside the operation, and, really, didn’t even know what the agency’s entire purpose was. Phoebe had kept everything a mystery, and only by piecing together tiny chunks of information over the years had Melanie learned what little she did know.

  Such as the fact that Phoebe was some sort of superagent, and Itor employed a lot of people like her.

  Like Melanie, whose gift of ice was the opposite of Phoebe’s fiery touch. But since Mel had refused to use her ability to hurt people—even after being tortured—Itor considered her useless.

  Assholes.

  Melanie might be useless, but she wasn’t helpless. Eight months ago, she’d encountered Itor’s enemies—and what was that saying, the enemy of my enemy is my friend?

  Since then, Mel had spent every spare moment trying to find the people she’d seen in the jungle, had questioned Phoebe about them, had scoured her memories raw in an effort to glean any information about the group of individuals who might be able to help lift her out of this hellish existence. So far, she had very little to go on, but she wasn’t giving up.

  The cellphone rang again, and Mel hurried to the bedroom. The text message was in code, as usual, so she had no freaking clue what it said. If it had been important, there would have been nothing on the screen but an exclamation point—which meant that Melanie had best retreat into the darkness of her mind and force Phoebe out.

  Thank God that wasn’t the case this time. She’d just drained their abilities, and she needed to charge. Quickly. Before Phoebe took over and discovered that she couldn’t use her gift.

  The problem was that charging up meant finding a man, and not only was Melanie not practiced in that particular skill, but she wasn’t allowed to leave the building. Phoebe had made some very dangerous enemies a couple of weeks ago when an arms deal went bad, and apparently the small but deadly organization was hunting her.

  A knock at the door made her jump, which was silly. The building was owned by Itor, was supersecure, and when she glanced at the clock, she realized it was time for the mail, and she was expecting a new textbook.

  Smiling, she opened the door … and froze. The person on the other side wasn’t an Itor guard delivering packages.

  It was the very man she’d been looking for. The man who, eight months ago, had watched his buddy go up in flames, thanks to Phoebe. The man who had promised to kill her the next time they met.

  She might have wanted to find him, but not like this, and a scream welled in her throat even as she tried to slam the door shut. But he was fast, and he moved inside with the speed of a striking snake, pinning her to the wall with his big body while fisting her hair in one hand and pressing the tip of a knife into the soft spot beneath her chin with the other. He kicked the door closed, and now she was completely, utterly helpless.

  “So, Phoebe,” he said in a smooth, calm voice that was far more frightening than if he’d yelled. “Wish I could say it was nice seeing you again. You should know that if you try to use your fire or ice, you’ll end up with a blade in your brain. Got it?”

  Oh, God. Wanting to find this man or the people he worked for was a huge mistake. Now she wanted to retreat, to let Phoebe out to handle this. Even without her gift, Phoebe was lethal—Mel had seen videos of her sister fighting like some sort of martial arts master. This was the kind of thing Phoebe lived for.

  But she would be beyond pissed that Mel had drained the battery, and the last time that had happened … Mel shuddered.

  No, somehow, she had to handle this herself.

  “Well?” He pressed the knife, which had to be of a nonmetal construction to pass through the building’s metal detectors, into her skin a little harder. “Are we clear on this?”

  “Yes,” she rasped. “Please … I’m not … I’m not Phoebe.”

  His eyes, hypnotic, swirling with sparks of anger, narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “M-Melanie. Phoebe is—” She swallowed drily, hoping he’d buy what was sort of a lie. “Phoebe is my twin sister. She’s not here. She’s at the market. She’ll be home soon.”

  He smiled, his full lips peeling back from straight, white teeth, and wow, if he wasn’t the scariest man she’d ever seen—outside of her father anyway—she’d have been seriously attracted to him. “See, the thing is, I know she’s not at the market. I know she’s you.”

  “We’re identical twins—”

  “You’re the same person. Split personality.” He tugged on her hair as he moved in even closer, so the entire hard length of his body was pressed against hers. He was bigger, stronger, and if that was the point he was trying to make, he’d succeeded. “So if you aren’t Phoebe, why don’t you tell me who you are at the moment.”

  Oh, crap. Very few people knew what she was, even inside Itor. Granted, this guy was wrong, but he was on the right track. This wasn’t a case of multiple personality syndrome. Broken down into the most simple of concepts, this was a case of one egg splitting into two and then being shoved together again in a lab. Melanie and Phoebe really were two very different people fighting for control of the same body.

  And unfortunately, Phoebe was a lot stronger, and had been for years.

  “I told you, I’m Melanie,” she insisted. “Who are you?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I remember some.” She jerked her head to the side in a futile attempt to break his hold. “But I’d remember a lot better if you took away the knife.”

  “Nice try,” he said.

  “You can’t expect me to chat while I’m worried about bleeding out.”

  One corner of his mouth tipped up in amusement, which pissed her off, because bleeding out wasn’t on her list of funny topics. “And you can’t expect me to hand over the advantage so you can freeze me to death.”

  He shifted, and … good God, did he actually have an erection? She squirmed, and yes, there was a definite hard bulge in the front of his pants that was pressing into her belly. How nice that the thought of killing her turned him on.

  “I can’t freeze you to death.” She glared at him. “I’m out of power. Used it all up a little while ago, and it takes several hours to recharge.” Took sex to recharge too, but he didn’t need to know that.

  One blond eyebrow cocked up. “Now, why don’t I believe you?”

  She exhaled slowly and tried to keep her temper in check. “Dunno. Maybe because you’re an asshole?” So much for the temper.

  He snorted. “Like I haven’t heard that before.”

  “No doubt you have.” She swallowed, winced at the bite of the blade in her skin. “Look, if I could turn you into an ice cube, I’d have done it by now, knife or no knife. So tell me who you are, and let me go.”

  There was a long, tense silence, and then he backed off, but he stood a few feet away, coiled like a spring, and she had the feeling he was ready to put her down if she so much as flinched.

  “Name’s Stryker. And I’m guessing you remember me.”

  “You tried to kill me in some godforsaken jungle. You think I’d forget that?” She raised her
chin and met his unnerving gaze head-on. “Are you here to finish the job?”

  He considered her question for a long time, which did nothing for her nerves. Finally, he moved toward her. Stalking her.

  A fresh jolt of fear spiked through her as she retreated. His prowling gait backed her all the way into the kitchen, where she bumped up against the counter.

  “Am I here to kill you?” he asked softly, in a voice that filled her with dread. “Honestly? Yes.”

  A ball of terror dropped into the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even move as he inched closer. He could have been a little less honest.

  “But I’d really rather kill fire-bitch, so get her for me.”

  Okay. Yes, she needed to get Phoebe. This was so beyond Melanie’s ability to handle. Concentrating, she called out to Phoebe in her mind. No response, as expected. For the first couple of hours after Melanie woke up, Phoebe was often next to impossible to summon.

  Please, Phoebe, wake up! Still nothing. Dammit!

  “Well?” Stryker’s voice was gravelly with impatience, and Melanie began to sweat.

  “I can’t reach her.”

  “Too bad for you, then.” The hand holding the wicked-looking knife came up, level with her heart, only a foot away. “Did you enjoy it?” he growled. “Did you like seeing my friend burn?”

  Hurt and murder swirled in Stryker’s eyes, and she knew her life could very well end in about five seconds.

  “I’m sorry … I didn’t do it … it was horrible.” Stinging tears welled up, but they didn’t drown out the visions of that man dying the way he had.

  “You’re sorry.” He bared his teeth and stepped closer, pressing the tip of the knife into her breastbone. “Well, your sorry means jack shit.”

  She couldn’t help it. She trembled so hard that the blade vibrated, punctured the fabric of her robe, and bit into her skin. His raw curse blistered the air, and he jerked the knife away.