Page 42 of Victorious

“But—”

“If it’s any consolation,” Xavi chimed in. “You make the same excuses every time.”

Confusion flickered across the chemist’s face. “I—I what?”

Victor sighed, shooting Xavi a look that said not helpful before addressing the chemist.

“What matters, Mr. Fontaine, is that you can do this. And you will…” He hadn’t said or hadn’t needed to. The gun hanging from his fingers said enough.

Things had gone smoothly for a while after that.

Until the chemist pocketed the ampule.

It was fascinating, the way the human mind defaulted toward the same solutions. The first time Mr. Fontaine had attempted to stow a vital component of the formula, Victor admired the man’s quick thinking. This time, as the chemist pantomimed looking around, as he began to form the excuse that a key ingredient was missing, Victor was less amused.

“Mr. Fontaine,” he said evenly, “for your health, and mine, I would encourage you to put that back, and finish the compound.”

Now the chemist was loading the vials into the centrifuge.

Xavi had his earbuds in, head bobbing to music.

Victor, meanwhile, had whittled an article on the merits and methods of nesting—complete with a dozen ways to make your personal space as cozy as possible this winter, as well as a list of creative ideas for how to amuse yourself indoors—down to six words:

An article about how we look for ways to are and all and when you find this is more test tes trapped this is more unnecessary ndoors remember there’s plenty of fun to be had inside if you know how to look and this article will lay out just a few of the many ideas so that we can not only survive the winter but thrive by resting and amusing ourselves. And then the rest of this line doesn’t matter what we

Victor drew the marker through the remaining lines, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. The erratic tempo of his pulse.

His last dose had worn off more than two hours ago, his senses flaring as the drug’s efficacy failed.

Two hours—that’s how long he’d been whole. It used to be four, but as he suspected, the window was narrowing, and with it, the time during which he had access to his power.

At this rate, he had months, maybe a year, before the window disappeared entirely, and left him powerless, and permanently dependent on the compound just to stay alive.

“What’s the point?”

Victor didn’t look up at the sound of the voice. It didn’t belong to Xavi or the chemist. No. It was a voice that burrowed under his skin. Eli.

He closed his eyes, trying to block it out. And yet, it wasn’t in his head. Not exactly. Victor was leaning up against a set of shelves. It sounded like Eli was right there, on the other side. “All this work, just to trade a fast death for a slow one.”

“It’s done,” said the chemist, clearing his throat.

Victor looked up to see the man drawing the vials from the centrifuge, their contents now that striking shade of blue. The chemist carried the tray as if the compound were combustible—which it wasn’t—and toxic—which it was. Though not to him.

Victor set the magazine down and approached, lifting a vial and holding it to the light.

He didn’t tell the chemist to test the formula. He didn’t need to. He’d already seen the man make it. Twice. He slotted the vial into the device, and brought it to his mouth, forcing himself to inhale. The drug hit his lungs, and within moments, his pulse slowed, and his senses dulled, his power cut off like a switch, leaving him in the dark.

He looked up to find the chemist studying his face, a crease between his brows.

“We’ve … we’ve met before.” His voice tilted at the end, caught between a statement and a question.

“No,” said Victor smoothly. “We haven’t. But thank you for your assistance, Mr. Fontaine.”

With that, he snapped his fingers and Xavi looked up, tugging out an earbud. “All set?” He hopped down from the counter and approached the chemist. The man tried to back away, arms up, clearly expecting violence, but the kid only held out a palm, as if to shake. Confused by the gesture, but clearly relieved by the lack of weapon, he took the kid’s hand.

Victor had seen Xavi’s power in action three times, but it still unnerved him.

There was no ripple of energy, no burst of light, but as Xavi’s fingers tensed around the chemist’s hand, the man’s limbs went stiff, and his face went blank. If Victor were standing closer, he’d be able to see the last hours play across the chemist’s eyes like a movie in reverse, images rolling backward across the glossy surface as his mind rewound itself. Seconds, minutes, hours erased from memory.