Post Mortem
Well…it turned out there were other ways of making your life worthwhile.
His former mistress, Revenge, had revealed herself to be a nasty kind of business.
But Retribution?
That was much better.
Tawny eyes still focused with sharp attention to the text and grainy images scrolling on his computer screen, the man whom some of the world knew simply as "Eyes Only" sat back in his chair and considered the words he'd just finished reading.
Manticore…transgenic experimentation…
And most interestingly…
X5-452.
He turned to the side, slightly, and clicked the replay command on his remote. The six closed-circuit security camera screens that loomed over his desk immediately showed the exact same image.
And there...almost invisible even in the high-powered night vision mode on the cameras, slipping through the inky dark like some sort of feline who had every right to be where she was…
He leaned in closer again, and felt the good side of his mouth etch into its adapted caricature of a smirk, as he paused the recording, and zoomed in on the lithe intruder's sable-coated image. He'd never seen leather so exquisitely form-fitting.
…Let alone had he seen a creature so intoxicatingly untamed.
And so inhumanly beautiful.
She couldn't possibly be mistaken for a normal human. She wasn't a normal human. And yet…no one else had realized the truth about her. They all had to be either stark raving mad, or blind.
Probably both, he thought, with another smirk. People these days…
He let the recording continue playing, watching the captivating siren who had waltzed off with not one, but two of his Chinese imperial vases. Had his father been alive, he would have flipped his lid at the theft. In spite of being his father's son, however…
Well, letting his thief waltz in and make a killing off the priceless things she'd stolen from him was all part of his plan. His thief. He'd started thinking of her as that when he'd first tracked her down. His thief. She just didn't have a single clue of it yet.
Another case of blindness—but one that was almost at its end.
Sometimes…people's inability to see everything was every bit as useful as it was irksome.
In his particular case…it was painful, but necessary.
He'd tried hard to keep his thoughts from straying thousands of miles away from his new, life-consuming work…thousands of miles back to New York City…to the shambles of a penthouse apartment and a chrome-lined room full of bloodstained shadows and mad laughter and acrid chemical fumes…to memories of another life, where friends and family were often as much enemies as they were friends…
He knew he'd never be able to abide the sight of a spider again—much less would he be able to find the willpower in himself to kill one.
Something had brought life back to him that night. Something had forced air gasping back into his lungs, making him choke his way out of unconsciousness. Something had made him think of one thing—
Escape!
Then the next—
Run!
And the next—
Hide!
And finally—
Stay…and help.
He had helped.
Shortly after his flight to Washington state, while he was still holding himself prisoner in his own home—another penthouse apartment, less grand than the last but still a multimillion dollar gilded cage for his exile—the Pulse decimated most of the country. The government retreated into itself, leaving the people to fend off chaos and ruin on their own—which they'd found with every bit as much ease as his cynical mind had predicted. Corruption and crime had taken their bloody toll over the years—and continued to do so even now. The streets were a labyrinth of ill-fortune.
But European investments were a thing of wonder, and he'd kept his money through it all. And after watching for several months as the city he lived in tore itself apart…he'd chosen to do something. After all…no one else was.
His friends would have been proud of him, in spite of everything that had happened. It was…unfortunate, to say the least…that he could never let them know he was alive. For one thing, one very important thing…they'd never understand.
And he'd done enough to their lives.
Now…he was on his own, and he was doing what was right, and for the first time in his life, he felt as though he was something. Someone. Someone strong.
He stood up, wincing slightly as the nerves in his leg—which would never heal from the damage that the explosion did to them—sent a twinge of pain into his system. That was the convenient serendipity about being a hero of sorts, though: you could be the most messed-up figure in the world, and no one had to see you, ever.
No one had to see the real you, at least…
And heck if they'd want to see him now.
He left the computer screens to hibernate, and slipped into the black-and-red upholstered den of his plush apartment. But tonight, instead of sitting down in front of the sixty-inch plasma television screen to watch Dark City yet again…he pushed open the terrace door, and leaned against the doorframe for a moment, staring listlessly out over the city skyline for a long, long moment.
Then he returned inside: to think, and to wait.
He left the door wide open, the gauzy red curtain rippling in the warm summer breeze as a beckoning, almost taunting invitation.
Here, kitty-kitty…