It had been a fortnight since the words first started appearing, and his household was a quarter of its size. He hadn't had sex in what felt like forever, and every time he turned his back on his girls he caught whispers. Some of them concerned, some of them mocking, but still, there was no trace of scorn in their emotions. He had ordered them to be silent, to no avail. Sometimes, he even heard the whispers when he was alone.

And if only he knew why. Some of his girls were smart, resourceful, he had put them to work, contacted his moles and sleeper agents, but all they had come back with were the same old stories. Cherie and Jean-Paul. Even he was dead now, fighting Behemoth like a fool. There were no Montreal capes who could be doing this, and evidence suggested if someone had triggered near him, he would have known.

He had a few parahumans abroad, but without being able to reach them with his powers, he couldn't call on them for anything unusual like this. They were programmed to keep track of his files, watch for any news about his children, cause trouble if anyone got too close to attacking him. He had heard nothing through them; whoever this was, they were working alone. But he couldn't leave the property with nobody left who could defend it.

Of his powered children, only Anita remained. That gave him some small satisfaction. She wouldn't disobey him lightly, after last time. The girl was all but useless, though. She'd failed to find out what was happening, and she'd failed to stop anyone escaping. Somehow, she'd even been absent when Nicholas was murdered, and she'd let Juliette escape afterwards.

Was it Sunbeam, come back to murder the boys who had tried to abduct her?

But where were the others? If he had Guillaume or Cherie, he could have found out. Anita was useless; she couldn't tell people apart effectively.

Useless. Futile.

"Impotent."

He jumped. The whisper had been right in his ear. He turned, lashed out with fear at everyone he could sense nearby, but there was only a soft giggle from the girls on the sofa, though all of them were cowering and crying.

"I'm coming soon."

"Who are you?" he shouted, lashing out but not making contact with anything.

There was a pause as Imp considered her options. What would scare – or better still annoy – him the most?

"It's Jean-Paul, dad."

"Bullshit," he snarled, moving back towards the girls and gathering them around him as shields. "The whole fucking world saw you die."

"Oh, you saw that? Well you see, it turns out when I die, people who I'm controlling...well. It's more fun if I show you. Let's see, who here have I hijacked...?"

Heartbreaker didn't reply, but his eyes flicked to Marianna, clutching one of the other girls in their circle. Imp's grin was audible in her voice. "Ah, that's right..."

Marianna froze as Imp grabbed her, locking her arms to her sides. Her eyes widened in fear, but years under Heartbreaker made her unresisting. She stayed like that for a long moment, crying absently, as Heartbreaker watched without intervening.

If it's Jean-Paul, that's how he's getting them out. He's walking them away. The girls can't kill themselves if he's controlling them. It would explain why he murdered Guillaume, who was immune to him. But how is he here?

Another mocking laugh. Marianna's breathing stuttered and she began to choke, before her eyes rolled back and she collapsed to the floor.

"Check on her!" he snapped, and they knelt by her side, turning her into the recovery position and confirming she was still breathing.

"I'm going easy on you," came another whisper.

Imp was already halfway across the room by the time he was trying to retaliate. He looked ridiculous, wearing nothing but a robe, furious, and blindly waving his arms around. She took video and sent it to Tattletale. A kind of thank you present for her help.

He only managed the violent rage for a couple of minutes before Anita took care of it. Heartbreaker visibly deflated, scowled, but crawled into bed.

Imp perched next to him and waited. She idled the time away on her phone, collating messages from the various kids scattered about Montreal. They were raising seven kinds of hell but they were doing it separate from each other, with the promise that if any of them killed anyone, she'd leave them behind. She couldn't do much more.

Eventually, she noticed his breathing starting to even out. The girls had all filed out, none of them daring to cuddle up to him after his mood. The ones who lingered were easily steered away with gentle pushing, confused but compliant. Once they were all out, Imp locked all of the doors, hid the keys under the bed, doused the lights and opened her bag.

It was two nights before the first of his reinforcements were due to arrive.

Just me and you tonight, old perv.

She waited until she saw the eye flickers of deep dreaming sleep, then let off a party popper next to his ear. He jolted awake, half-rising and looking about in that telltale half-seeing way thinkers did. Finding nothing, he gradually eased back asleep.

Bang! She gathered up the confetti before he could see. This time he actually got up, swearing to himself, and fumbled about the room, but she stayed out of his way easily.

This was the weird thing, really. She hated waiting, she hated sitting still, all of this patient, subtle power play nonsense her brother had found so useful. She didn't want to give off the right impression, she wanted to earn it. But when she was doing that, like now? She could almost reach a kind of patience.

On the sixth time, about four AM, he threw a tantrum and went for the lights. When he did, he saw what she'd been doing in the dark.