Belle Fury: Manhatten Ten Book 3 Read online

  Dedication

  Thanks to my biggest helpers: Aileen, Rebecca and Amy.

  Additional thanks to my former college roommates; they are adorable slackers who don’t read my books and will never realize how much material I’ve “borrowed” from their antics. Love you, guys!

  Chapter One

  Belle

  One of the girls in the corps de ballet eyed me as I shoved the last hunk of Devil Dog into my mouth, careful not to sprinkle chocolaty bits on my tutu. I licked my fingers and lifted an eyebrow. The girl sashayed away, joining a ring of dancers who whispered in my direction.

  They were debutantes and East Side princesses, but I was playing Giselle, and I’d had a Devil Dog before every performance since my starring role in the Savannah Dance Cats production of Grandma Got Run Over by A Reindeer. Maybe I didn’t have a pedigree, but I’d worked harder than anyone.

  And shouldn’t they all be used to me by now? I’d clawed my way to principal dancer years ago, but this was the role I’d dreamed of since I shoved myself into my first leotard.

  No one was gonna put me off my snack cakes.

  The ritual chocolate calmed some of the nerves. Anticipation hummed from the crowd in the auditorium and in the dancers’ nervous stretches.

  I closed my eyes and lifted en pointe, confident with the power in my legs. I’d sweated even more buckets than I’d cried to get here. It was my night.

  “You ready, Belle?” Aaron strutted over in his tights and stage makeup, with a nervous-excited grin, like a guy in one of those male-enhancement commercials. It was his biggest principal role yet.

  “As I’ll ever be. You?” My fingertips shook a little, but at least I looked composed.

  Aaron pulled his leg back into a deep stretch. Sweat already beaded through his thick foundation. “Will be when the curtain goes up.”

  “Your boyfriend’s waving.” One of the stage assistants gestured for Aaron, pulling a long-stemmed rose from behind his back. Aaron leapt past me and dove into a pre-performance kiss.

  I kind of wanted to yak. It had been eight months since Daniel dumped me for a dancer of the more exotic variety, and eligible straight men were rarer than solos in professional ballet. The single ones dated incestuously through the company.

  So not for me.

  A bouquet of consolation carnations would’ve been a nice gesture from my family, but I’d be holding my breath ’til I was blue. They still hadn’t forgiven me for leaving home. Or maybe they had. We hadn’t spoken much in the last six years, so it was hard to tell. Either way, Giselle’s prop bouquet was the only one I’d get that mattered.

  My career was everything.

  “Position, Belle!” A stagehand passed me my silk flowers, and I took my place at the center of the stage.

  I took a deep breath. This moment made up for everything I’d sacrificed.

  It was like every performance before, and yet so much more as it hit me in bursts of sounds and images. The boom of applause as the curtain lifted and the blinding spotlight.

  My body moved, and I was driving, but disconnected. The faces in the front row blurred as I leapt and twirled, harder, faster and with more grace than I’d ever had before. I was dancing on air, drawing the audience into Giselle’s innocent happiness with every bit of artistry I had.

  The first act was almost over before I reconnected with reality. It was time for Giselle’s descent into madness.

  The motions echoed deep in my soul. I’d never danced so well, but I wanted to do better. This performance had to be remembered forever.

  When the stage started to shake, I thought it was my imagination.

  I threw my arms and body, feeling Giselle’s agony in my soul. The passion poured out my extended fingertips.

  The corps girls screamed.

  A whole row of them sprawled on the floor, their tutus tangled over their heads. It happened sometimes. One fell and took the others with her. But not on a professional stage. Not on my opening night.

  My anger flashed. Don’t look at them. I spun across the center of the stage, willing the audience’s gaze back to me in the spotlight.

  As I twirled, the energy in my kick was palpable. Through the performance haze, I glimpsed my pointe slipper, arched with movement. Compressed air, or energy—something that didn’t belong—swirled from my toe to my ankle.

  This isn’t right. I completed the twirl, and this time, the power flew out of me. Mirroring my spin, the force ricocheted into the set. Wood and metal cracked. The curtain rod snapped and dancers screamed as they tried to dodge velvet and showering splinters.

  I whirled to the audience. My movement sent another wave to the lower balcony, and as the theater rumbled, a woman who’d been leaning with her opera glasses stumbled over the rail. A man caught her ankles, but her echoing scream sparked a full-scale panic. The audience stampeded. The crew fought to free trapped dancers.

  At the center of the stage, I stood still.

  I’d clearly danced into a nightmare. It couldn’t be reality.

  Wisps of energy twirled around my fingertips. I shifted, easing my hands into first position. The simple movement built the power. Waves of it undulated until sweat ran down my back. It was like holding a tiny sun and all that energy had to go somewhere.

  “Belle! What’s wrong with you?” Only Aaron dared to come close, his costume ripped at the sleeve.

  “I can’t hold it.” As more of the power built, it would have to be released. But what was it? And why? I needed to do something, but all I could do was stand numb. The waves wobbled as my hands shook.

  “Stop it.” Aaron reached for my arm. “Everyone’s—”

  His fingertips touched my shoulder. I flinched. My hands lost position and a ball of energy shot off the stage.

  The power tore through wooden planking and into the orchestra pit. A piano flipped, cellos flew, and when silence reigned again, obliterated sheet music floated down like snow.

  “St-stay there.” Aaron backed away, his voice shaking. “Don’t move.”

  I stared at my hands in horror. The waves of air quieted when I didn’t stir, but the damage spoke louder than I could ignore. The performance was ruined.

  Giselle was ruined.

  Maybe I was ruined.

  Could the other dancers hate me as much as I hated myself?

  I turned to face them as slowly as I could, fearing any buildup of momentum. My stomach dropped at the looks on the other dancers’ faces. This wasn’t hatred or jealousy—I knew those well. Their wide eyes were locked on me in terror.

  Little loops of energy hovered around my fingertips. It looked like cheesy movie CG, but the hollow dread in my stomach said it was actually real. Last time I’d checked I wasn’t telekinetic, magical or super-powered.

  So how am I doing this? Irradiated Devil Dogs?

  Whatever I’d done, I’d managed to destroy everything that mattered to me.

  A camera flash exploded behind me. Photographic evidence didn’t matter when the opening night performance was being filmed. My fireworks hadn’t damaged the mounted cameras, so everyone would see what I’d done.

  And would ever let me onto a stage again?

  It was worse than being hated or feared. If I couldn’t dance, who was I?

  I ran.

  Dancers dove out of my way as I crashed backstage. My footsteps were more like an elephant’s than a ballerina’s, crunching into wood and concrete wherever they fell, the force cracking the floor. I jammed my pointe shoes into a pair of warm-up boots, but I couldn’t be bothered with a coat. As I dashed out the stage door, I tried to figure out where I was going.

  I should’ve stayed like Aaron told me, waiting to be handcuffe
d. It was the Metropolitan Opera House, for Christ sakes. Someone was gonna take me to jail for that.

  What was I now? And what was I supposed to do?

  The craving hit me hard, fast and totally inappropriate.

  Fried chicken.

  My Devil Dogs aside, I hadn’t indulged in junk food in a decade. Salads and protein shakes built a better ballerina. If I was going to hell for what I’d done, I wanted one last taste of home.

  The sidewalk shook underneath me, and I wasn’t near the subway. As I dashed for the market, havoc trailed behind me.

  A bike rack flipped, pedestrians tumbled and traffic lights burst. I slowed.

  I can’t keep doing this.

  No one else needed to get hurt. A brisk walk cracked the cement, but I could live with that.

  Luckily for everyone, the market around the corner stocked my favorite Southern comfort foods. As soon I stepped through the automatic doors, the glass at the front of the store shattered. People ducked and screeched. The surveillance cameras rotated my way.

  None of this was making my rap sheet any better.

  A case of ready-to-eat foods stood closest to the door. I brushed away the glass and pulled out a tub of rotisserie chicken. It would have to do.

  The floral section hadn’t broken to pieces, so I took a seat on the floor next to a bucket of bouquets. Guess I got my flowers after all.

  As I picked apart the chicken with my fingers, I noticed the tears on my cheeks in a numb kind of way. I probably shouldn’t have a breakdown until I got back to my apartment.

  Or was I already having one?

  Red Ruin

  The phone rang. Again.

  I contemplated zapping it, but Angel opened the door before I could work up a charge. “You going to answer that, Ruin?”

  “No.” Papers choked my desk, my e-mail flashed with incoming messages and there’d probably be another emergency meeting before anyone could leave the office for the night. I was a superhero, not some damned corporate monkey.

  Disapproval glinted in Angel’s eyes. “It’s probably Tank.”

  “If it’s not, I get to go home.”

  “Deal.”

  As soon as she said it, I knew I was wasting my time. “Hello?”

  “Ruin.” Tank moved straight to business. “Need you to get uptown.”

  Tiny sparks of red lightning crackled around my fingertips, but I tamped down my irritation. “What now?”

  “You okay?”

  The only good thing about Tank’s hiatus to Vegas was that he couldn’t read my mind over the phone. I was glad he’d found the super lady of his dreams and all, but he needed to get his ass back to New York. Vice-leader, or whatever I was, I was not cut out for this paperwork shit. Tank was the brains.

  Before my lightning fried the phone, I pulled it back. “I’m fine.”

  “Good. You’re on pickup duty.”

  “Details?” At least it would get me the hell out of this office.

  “Ballerina woke up some serious powers onstage about an hour ago. Go online and search Belle Fury. The Feds will send you the address where she’s holed up.”

  “Super ballerina, huh?” I opened up my browser.

  “Be easy on this. She’ll be spooked.”

  “Will do.”

  I hung up and got to searching. It didn’t take long. Her name was Belle Fabian, but the press had already dubbed her Belle Fury. The video made it easy to see why.

  The girl had ripped apart the Metropolitan Opera House. I leaned closer to the screen, but the resolution wasn’t good enough to tell exactly what went down. Blurs of energy whirled from her arms and legs when she moved and everything around her crashed.

  The press had linked to her article on Wikipedia. Great journalism there, but I clicked anyway. Belle was a legend. No one was debating whether she was the greatest dancer of her generation. People were asking whether she was the best dancer in history.

  It was pretty damn impressive, but her life was on a 180 now that she had powers.

  Angel popped her head back into the office. The dark circles under her eyes were the only sign I’d ever seen that her super-brain was struggling. “The info from the FBI is in your inbox.”

  “Thanks. You doing okay?”

  “It’s so much harder without Tank.” Angel sighed. “I wish he’d get back.”

  “You and me both.” Maybe Angel wanted him back for less platonic reasons, but he’d abandoned us both when he decided to stay in Vegas for Jenny.

  “I’ll handle things while you’re out.” Angel whirled away.

  Ignoring the million other unread e-mails, I clicked on the red-flagged one from our FBI contact. The NYPD had a perimeter around the local market where Belle was hiding out. They’d attached the live surveillance feed.

  In puffy boots and a tutu, she gnawed at a chicken bone while she perused the chip aisle. Everyone else had cleared out with good reason. Packages exploded as she walked past, and a faint haze of artificial cheese dust hung in the air.

  It was official. She’d snapped.

  “Hey, Ru.” Thunder knocked on the doorframe. “Need a wingman?”

  “You want in on the ballerina pickup?” I grabbed my jacket and a set of keys. “She got powers and turned crazy on the same day.”

  Thunder scrolled through his phone on the way to the elevator. “This ruins my image of the poor girl.”

  “You know her?”

  “Everyone knows her.” Thunder lifted a hand to his forehead. None of us could ever tell if he was faking the flamboyance, and that was how he wanted it. “Damn. I’m soon to be the envy of the entire gay community and I’m not even wearing a tux.”

  “Dude.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re wearing so many brands they should pay you royalties.”

  “They do.” Thunder grinned and straightened his blazer’s lapels.

  “What’s the girl’s story?” We stepped out of the elevator and into the parking garage.

  “She’s a genius, but crazy driven. Bleeds ambition. If she can’t dance anymore…”

  “We’re going to have a diva with a death wish on our hands.”

  “Nah.” Thunder picked a set of keys from the rack. “She’ll probably just want to kill us for bringing the bad news.”

  “Even better.” Instead of sharing a ride with Thunder, I headed for the row of motorcycles. We needed to get to Belle fast and diffuse things before her powers got out of control. With Friday night traffic, it would take forever by car. “I’ll go first and check things out. Back me up?”

  “Race you.” Thunder patted the hood of his Maserati.

  “Good luck with that.” I went for the fastest racing bike we had, and nothing about my baby was street legal. Nobody enforced the little things for superheroes.

  “But, Ruin? Don’t fry the living legend.”

  “I can handle one little ballerina.” I gunned the bike out of the building.

  Chapter Two

  Belle

  The responsible thing would be to surrender. I owed it to the few hundred people I’d just freaked out, and probably to the public in general, but when I peeked out of the market, a lot of guns came out of holsters.

  “Please stay inside, ma’am.” A policeman’s voice crackled over his megaphone. “We’re sending someone in.”

  I retreated to the bakery and licked the frosting off a few cupcakes before a wave of nausea ended my binge. Who were they going to send? A SWAT team? Or maybe a bomb robot?

  I kept waiting for whatever this was to stop, but every time I twitched, something got destroyed. Whatever the power was, it had to be temporary, and if I were patient enough, it would disappear as quickly as it showed up to ruin everything.

  Any minute now.

  “Hello?”

  I jumped at the voice. I’d known it was coming, but my landing shook the building.

  Expecting to see a team of big, burly men in Kevlar, I peered past a bushel of baguettes. Just one guy.

  I craned my
neck and…sweet Jesus.

  He wore a leather jacket that fit like sin. Tanned, but not a Guido. Dark, styled hair, but not douchey. Like an actual person instead of the cover model-stereotype he should’ve been.

  Someone was obviously using pheromones to take me down easy. Good thing I was covered in chicken drippings, frosting and powdered cheese. I always did know how to impress a man.

  “Belle?” He stepped into the store.

  “Unfortunately.” This was so not my shining moment. I should never have run. “In the bakery section.” And it was too late to hide all of the cupcakes I’d licked.

  He approached with his hands open, like I was some startled animal. He couldn’t be a cop in those civilian clothes, but he had to be someone important. He was tailored in that understated money kind of way, and I got the vague sense I’d seen him somewhere before. A billboard?

  “My name’s Ryan Lamborne.” He stepped forward again, all sincerity. “Most people know me as Red Ruin. I’m with the Manhattan Ten.”

  Didn’t they sell upscale real estate? Or… “Wait. That superhero group?”

  “That one.” He leaned against one of the bread racks. “We’d like to help you deal with what happened earlier.”

  With what happened?

  “You mean the part where I destroyed a landmark and blew the performance of my life?” It was Giselle for Christ’s sake. And who knew how many other dancers I’d taken down? It wasn’t enough to ruin my own career. I had to shatter a few other people’s lives while I was at it.

  No one would hire me again. Might as well become a stripper, or a call girl, or a sample pusher at the Food Lion.

  “I know you’re upset,” Ryan, or Red Ruin, said. What kind of name was that? “You had no reason to think you’d develop powers, especially so la—”

  Powers? “Not possible.” Obviously, the market hadn’t destroyed itself, but this was a temporary thing. Maybe a curse from the dance gods.

  “Why not?” He moved closer and held out his hand. Rings of red lightning jolted around his fingertips. “My power’s electrical.”

  The color was the purest scarlet. “Can I touch it?”

  “Go ahead.”

  I brushed a fingertip against Ryan’s hand. It was warm and tingly, but more like a first kiss than an electric shock.