introductions are required.” Busy fingers unbuttoned her glove at the wrist. He tugged on the precious relic. “I’m not interested in you, only this miraculous glove.” “No, don’t!” Her heart sank as she felt the cozy leather slide off her fingers. “It’s mine!” “Not anymore.” Spittle sprayed from his lips.
His sour breath made her gorge rise. “You have no idea how long I’ve been searching for this particular item. My whole life, really.” The glove came away from her fingers, leaving her. He shoved her away and she tumbled to the ground, where she joined the hundreds of other quaking bodies strewn across the meadow. The fog surrounded her, seeping into her bones and invading her lungs. Too weak to get up again, she choked on the fumes. Chills and fever ravaged her prostrate form. She clawed feebly at the ground, trying to get away. The nausea was overpowering. She threw up in her mouth. “Clara Barton’s gloves,” the Fever Man gloated. He stood amidst a field of agonized victims, like a scene out of Dante’s Inferno. He caressed the stolen glove reverently. “You never deserved this. You could never appreciate how much I needed it. It always belonged with me.” The gloves were a perfect match. “They belong together.” He stepped away from the false healer. She didn’t matter anymore. Even before he put it on, he could feel the power of the glove. It called to him like a drug. Fumbling with excitement, barely able to contain himself, he slipped it onto his naked right hand. White kid leather magically stretched to accommodate him. Eager fingers wiggled into the glove. He couldn’t don it fast enough. Finally! For the first time in generations, the gloves were reunited. Worrall stiffened in shock as their power met and merged within him. He stretched out his arms. Silver lightning arced between the matching gloves before blinking out of sight. His bloodshot eyes cleared. Constricting veins receded beneath his skin. A ruddy pink glow tinted his cheeks. Every last trace of fatigue and illness vanished from his body. He had never felt so alive, so powerful. He flexed his fingers. At long last, he held both life and death in his hands. Surging clouds circled above him, heralding his long-delayed apotheosis. An icy wind lifted the corners of his coat.
No longer caught in the crossfire of his duel with the girl, the anonymous masses littering the meadow stopped convulsing. Devastated by their ordeal, they sprawled comatose upon the ground. Their still and silent forms surrounded him like a garden of cadavers. Let them sleep, he thought coldly. They were just getting in my way before. He sneered at the girl on the carpet. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.” “Who are you?” she whimpered, too weak to lift herself. Her bare right hand reached futilely for the stolen glove.
Anguished eyes filled with tears. “What are you going to do with them?” “Whatever I feel like, I suppose.” To be honest, he hadn’t given it much thought. He had always been too intent on finding the glove-and healing himself-to worry much about what came next. But now that he felt the power of both gloves coursing through his veins and sinews, all sorts of intoxicating possibilities flooded his imagination. “I’ve wasted too much of my life being sick and miserable. It’s about time I enjoyed myself and lived life to the fullest.” He held up his hands, admiring the gloves. They fit perfectly, as though custom-made. “These treasures are the key to my success.” “No,” she moaned. “You don’t understand. The glove is a gift. You need to use it to help people, like I did…” “And look where that brought you.” Her pathetic state was an unwelcome reminder of all the hours he’d spent sick in bed, too wretched to go anywhere or do anything. Years of envy and resentment demanded expression and he kicked her in the ribs, punishing her for hoarding his glove for so long. She rolled away from him, clutching her side. Worrall relished her misery. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand. With these gloves, I alone will choose who will live and who will die.” He gazed out over the stricken rabble spilled across the meadow. The sight of so many helpless victims, all lying pitifully at his feet, only fueled his fantasies. His voice rose in exultation. “Heads of state and titans of industry will plead for my favor and fear my wrath. I’ll sicken entire nations if I feel like it, and bestow my blessings only on those who pledge allegiance to me…” “Yeah, right,” a female voice intruded. “Like we’re going to let that happen.”
CHAPTER
22
CENTRAL PARK
Myka faced Worrall across a field of sick and dying people. The grassy meadow resembled a battlefield after the shooting was over. The Civil War had finally come to Central Park, only a century or so late. She advanced carefully to avoid stepping on any of Worrall’s unconscious victims. They moaned and whimpered all around her, dazed and thoroughly out of it. Nobody appeared to be dead yet, but Myka couldn’t be sure of that. There were far too many casualties to check on right away. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen this many innocent bystanders affected by a single artifact at the same time. Maybe that night with Lucrezia Borgia’s comb, or the riot at the prison? But this was no time for a trip down memory lane. Her keen eyes instantly took in the scene. Calvin Worrall, now in possession of both gloves and looking much stronger and spryer than she remembered. Nadia down on the ground, her right hand bare. Her boyfriend out cold several feet away, bleeding from what looked like a nasty head wound. Hundreds of plague victims strewn about the meadow.
The weather freaking out like it was the end of the world. Close enough, she thought. If only I’d gotten here a few minutes earlier!
But maybe there was still a chance to save all these innocent people.
And Pete. “Give me those gloves, Worrall.” She had the human epidemic in the sights of her Tesla. Its glass chamber glowed threateningly.
Its batteries were fully charged. “Both of them.” “You know me?” He was taken aback by her use of his name, but quickly recovered. His patrician tones dripped with sarcasm. “Sorry. Can’t oblige.” He glared at her with undisguised contempt. “I have other plans.” “Tough.” Myka wasn’t taking no for an answer. According to Artie, Worrall had been sick his whole life and perhaps worthy of their pity, but right now she wasn’t feeling particularly sympathetic to his plight. He had already hurt too many people. And the fact that he also appeared to be a smug, pompous son of a bitch only made her trigger finger that much itchier. “Last chance, Calvin. Hand them over before I prescribe a hefty dose of shock treatment.” He clasped his gloved hands together.
Tangential energy crackled between his intertwined digits. He didn’t look worried. “Give me your best shot.” “If you insist.” She squeezed the trigger, unleashing a devastating bolt of electrical kick-ass. The blast should have been enough to knock Worrall flat on his butt, but he merely staggered backward a few steps, like he’d been thunked in the chest by a large swinging pillow. Traceries of purple energy crackled across his body before dissipating harmlessly into the stormy atmosphere. Worrall laughed out loud. “Is that all you’ve got?” He straightened up, shrugging off the blast. “I’ve lived with pain my entire life. You think a little tickle like that is going to stop me?”
It should have been more than a tickle, she thought. Clearly, she had underestimated the effect of bringing the two gloves back together.
Worrall was supercharged now, and more than a little out of his mind.
So what was it going to take to stop him? She tried to reason with him. “Listen to me, Calvin. What you’re doing is dangerous. We have no idea how those gloves might be affecting you. They might even be messing with your mind.” She adopted a concerned tone. “Trust me. I’ve seen it before.” “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” He cracked his knuckles inside the white kid gloves. “This is the answer to my prayers. I’ve never felt better in my life!” “And what about all these innocent people?” She nodded at the comatose civilians while keeping the Tesla aimed at Worrall. The meadow looked like the site of a nerve gas attack. “They look like they’re feeling better now?” “Not my problem,” he said coldly. “I’ve paid my dues. It’s their turn to suffer.” Okay, that cinched it. Unlike Nadia, Calvin Worrall was not a nice person. Myka just wished she had a better idea of how to wipe the smirk from his face. To think that those same gloves had once tended gently to the sick, wounded, and dying. Clara Barton must be rolling over in her grave. “You do not want to mess with the Secret Service,” she warned, switching from good cop to bad cop all on her own. She used the same steely gaze and manner she had once employed to disarm presidential assassins. “Hand over the gloves. That’s an order.” “Your badge doesn’t impress me, Agent.” He snickered. “As your partner found out back in Fairfield.” A cruel grin taunted Myka. He shaded his eyes with one hand and made a show of looking for someone. “So where is he anyway?” “Right behind you, buster!” Pete could barely stand, let alone walk. Sneaking up on Worrall from behind had taken pretty much the last of his willpower. His head was spinning and he could hardly breathe. Every time he coughed, his mouth tasted of blood. Darkness encroached on his field of vision. His gut felt like a ferret was trying to dig its way out of his stomach. His legs
