A loud clearing of the throat, which carried so much sarcasm Freddie thought she might just choke on it, filled the cavern. It was stifling, pompous, and reminded her of someone. She was sure of it. But who?
Then the mysterious voice started again, and the breadcrumbs of clues Freddie was following through the supercomputer housed in her little gray cells went poof!
"Furry." Another clap. "United." Yet another of the same, this one with more oomph. "Coalition." Well, shit, more applause, and Freddie was sure she'd get a bighead. Sadly, the most recent was laced with more than a hint of evil, dirty, black magic that bit and stung every inch of her exposed skin. "Agent."
"Okay, so you know me. How about you come out and introduce yourself? We can have some tea, maybe a scone. You like scones? I can take them or leave them, but from the hint of an accent in your voice, I kinda think you might like them."
She knew that voice. Had felt that magic before or, at the very least, something very close to it. Where and when was still a mystery. But why did she feel like it hadn't always been so nasty and filled with hate? Those were the questions her still-foggy brain was having trouble answering.
And if there’s one thing that’s sure to drive me absolutely batty, it’s a question I can’t answer or a puzzle I can’t solve…
"No, I don't think I will," the voice mocked, its nasally, grating, irritating pitch making the hairs on Freddie's arms stand on end and little goosebumps dance the Macarena up and down her spine.
“Who the fuck is this?” It was driving her mad.
“Instead, how about we play a little game of show and tell?”
“And if I don’t want to play?”
"One of two things will happen," the voice mocked. "My… What cutesy little moniker did you come up with for them again?" A tension-filled pause preceded a caustically sarcastic, "Ummmm?"
At which time, Freddie imagined the idiot who was trying to be the world's next supervillain to be tapping his or her—’cause she honestly couldn't tell if the asshole was male or female—finger on his or her chin. "Ah, yes," followed by a snap of said fingers and a dry chuckle that did nothing to calm Freddie's nerves. "Dino super soldiers." Wildly clapping, the voice shouted, "Brava! Brava!" As quickly as it had started, the applause ended, leaving only echoes in its wake as the voice's snide diatribe continued. "Very inventive, although I do admit to expecting way more from you, Dr. Lightfoot. I mean, after following your career from its very beginning, from your very first walk across the very first stage to receive your very first degree, I just… Well, that's what happens when you meet someone so famous in person…"
After a round of mocking tsk's, which had Freddie promising to make the asshole's beatdown take an hour longer than she'd initially planned, the person auditioning for the world's next supervillain sighed. "It's always a disappointment. Anyway, one of my guard, as I like to call them, will flip a switch, and this will happen."
Instantly flooded with enough electricity to keep at least the south end of the Vegas Strip going until dawn on New Year's Eve, Freddie shook and shuddered as current after current of raw power coursed through her veins. Refusing to pass out, her eyes glued to the null spot in the massive shield engulfing the whole underground facility, Freddie thought about Bright. She thought about her friends and about FUC and, most importantly, about Buck Blackthorne.
Nails biting into her palms, her toes curling toward her arches, Freddie knew she would be glowing in the dark for more than a month when the flow of voltage just stopped. Sadly, the jumping and quaking of Freddie’s muscles did not. Neither did the way her jaw clenched, nor the rolling of her eyes to the back of her head.
SLAP!
The bone-shattering swat of a meaty paw across her jaw had Freddie’s eyes flying open and her roar of, “You will fucking die for that, dickhead!” flying out of her mouth before she could stop it.
“Nope, not me, Dr. Lightfoot.” The voice chuckled. “Either you or…”
The whir of a small motor and the sound of metal scraping metal filled the large room as a curtain on the opposite side, one she hadn't realized was there until that very moment, slowly slid open. Her heart ceased to beat. The breath froze in her lungs. Her worst nightmare was staring her in the face, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. Spread-eagle, hanging from silver chains and shackles just like her own, the gorgeous muscles of his arms and legs stretched to their limit, was her mate, the one and only Buck Blackthorne.
“You better not touch a hair on his—”
Slap!
Another blow across the face. This one harder, the sting emanating down both sides of Freddie’s neck into her shoulders and skittering down her spine.
Eyes flying to the dino super soldier standing at her side, she gasped. Seeing pain and fear, genuine regret in the deep, dark depths of his black beady eyes, it was all she could do not to ask what was wrong. Then she remembered the hypodermic needle in the neck, the silver eating away at the skin on her wrists and ankles, and the electricity still making her feel a little twitchy, and Freddie wanted to rip off his arms and beat him with them.
Have to think. Have to think. Have to make sure nothing happens to Buck. Have to make sure Bright is okay. Have to figure out who is doing this and why. Have to use my brain. Can’t be emotional. Have to be practical. This is a problem. And who’s better at solving problems than you, Freddie?
“Fucking nobody,” she mumbled under her breath.
Inhaling deeply, sure what she was about to do was going to earn her, at the very least, another wallop but more than likely more voltage whipping through her body, Freddie exhaled slowly. Snorting with sarcastic snickers, she taunted, "Okay, so I give. What's your supervillain name?"
Not waiting for an answer, needing to force her captive’s hand, sure she could coerce the idiot to make a mistake that she would use to her advantage, Freddie chuckled. “Let me guess, Voltage Vixen?”
When no answer came, Freddie tilted her head to the side, looked up at the ceiling like she was thinking really hard, and hummed, "No, wait, I've got it. Coffee Killing King! That's it, isn't it?"
Pop! Slap! Whap!
The three-for-one hurt like a son of a bitch. Her jaw was on fire and most definitely dislocated—if not broken—from a punch, followed by an open-handed slap, and then one hell of a backhand, but they hadn’t touched Buck. That was what was important. Her hunka-hunka, hot-as-hell honey badger was still unscathed.
One quick inhale and a quick jerk of her jaw, followed by a squishy pop and crack that she refused to examine too closely, and Freddie was able to come back with, "Okay, those were clearly not your favorite. How about you come on out and let me see if you're an evil boy asshole or an evil girl asshole? Then I'll have some better options for you."
Once again, the silence was deafening. Regrettably, there was a glaring difference, something that made Freddie sick to her stomach and her heart try to jump right out of her chest. The big blob of nothingness, the null spot amid all the magic and activity in the underground hive, the asshole who had orchestrated the giant pile of horseshit she presently found her pleasingly plump badonkadonk swimming in—almost literally— was moving toward Buck.