Page 176 of Victorious

He didn’t look back, didn’t slow down, not until the main road came into sight, the smoking car, the armored van, and there, between them—

Victor.

Vindication rang through Eli like a bell. Because he’d been right. He’d listened, and heard, the voice inside his chest as sharp as the righteousness he used to feel when he put EOs down.

Victor, standing right there, twenty yards away, pale and tall in his black coat, three years older than he’d been the last time they crossed paths. The night Eli died. Three years older, and yet, healthier than Eli had ever seen him, which felt like a slap in the face. That his world hadn’t stopped when Eli’s had.

And he wasn’t alone.

There was Mitchell Turner, hulking at his side, and a woman Eli didn’t recognize—but he didn’t care about them.

All he cared about was Victor.

Victor, who in that moment glanced over toward the tree line, as if sensing Eli’s presence. The weight of his gaze.

He turned, and looked right in his direction, no right at him, and Eli waited, hungry for the look of shock to spread across his narrow face, for those blue eyes to widen in surprise.

Was crestfallen when they didn’t.

Victor saw him. And did nothing.

He should have lunged forward into motion.

Instead, he only tipped his head to one side and looked at Eli—looked through Eli—like he wasn’t even there.

But Eli was. And he would show him.

He didn’t have a gun, but that was fine.

He would use his hands.

He started forward, out of the tree line, made it one step, two, before a small object sailed past him. It rolled beneath the transport van, fetching up against the woman’s shoe, and Eli had just enough time to realize what it was before a hand grabbed him by the collar and forced him down.

And the grenade went off.

XXVIIINOW. THEN.

WHEN June looked down and saw the metal object roll up against her shoe, her first thought was Which of the agents did I fail to kill?

Her second thought was Fuck.

Luckily, she had fast reflexes, and just enough time to punt the grenade into the side of the transport van and shove Mitch back before it blew.

Now she was on the pavement, staring up at sky, which might have been peaceful if not for the blood dripping from her nose and ears, coating the back of her borrowed throat. Her head was ringing and she couldn’t hear, the eardrums obviously blown by the force of the explosion. She rolled over, swapping out the damaged body for a new one, and the sound came rushing back.

All things considered, it could have been worse.

Of course, it could have been better, too.

A hand broke into her line of sight.

Mitch, already on his feet, offering to help her up.

She stood, unassisted, but he kept staring at her, like she’d made some kind of noble sacrifice, when the simple truth was, she’d protected Mitch because he mattered—not to her, but to Sydney. Besides, it had only cost her one of the bodies in her closet. Even if it had been one she was quite fond of.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, dusting her new shell off.

“Like what?”