To the Fifth Power

Only one man could bring her out of retirement...

Three years ago, Zola Noite’s nemesis killed her sidekick and forced her to watch. The guilt drove her to hang up her cape. Zola knows one thing for certain. She will never be a superhero again.

Psychologist Dr. Arturo Fort Forte specializes in super-powered mental health. He’s the only reason Zola can once again call herself sane—although, truth be told, the heat between them is slowly driving her back to mad.

When three mega-villains escape the prison Fort oversees, all Zola’s best laid plans go up in flames. Fort asks her for help, and she can’t turn down the man she’s secretly come to love. As battles ensue and clues add up, the one thing Zola trusts is called into question: Fort’s true agenda and which side he’s on.

Previously released on Entangled’s Ever After imprint – July 2013

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Discover more paranormal romance from Select Otherworld...

Mind Tamer

Temporal Shift

Riding the Odds

From Here to Eternity

Swan Prince

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Shirin Dubbin. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Select is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Alycia Tornetta

Cover design by Pamela Sinclair

ISBN 978-1-62266-180-0

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition July 2013

The Society of Superheroes belongs to Martin Bosworth.

You will always be my ideal Justice—a little Cap, a little Superman, a lot awesome. I miss you, sugah bear.

Chapter One

Twenty-one nights of insomnia only had one cure. All right, she’d confess she didn’t deserve to sleep. Not with a past as low-down as hers. Not even as a retired superhero who’d saved more lives than she had cells in her body. Still, Zola craved a moment’s peace, no matter which sins she had to commit for it. That’s how she ended up at church. Nothing knocked her out quite like a sermon.

Forty-five minutes later she slipped into a pleasant comatose state on the moonlit roof of The Friends of Christ Worship Center, which she’d scaled thirty minutes prior. It’d been wise to hold on to her grappling-hook-augmented boots and gloves after leaving the superhero game.

The slim white capsules of her extenda earbuds proved more useful. Expanding into trumpet shapes within her ear canal, they made eavesdropping on the reverend easy. They also averted the disrespect of interrupting him in the sanctuary when her head inevitably lolled and struck a pew—sometimes hard enough to send a wooden knock echoing. Zola shifted on the gentle curve of the roofline. The scent of doughnuts laid out for after service added a second layer of comfort to her nap. Of course, as with everyone lately, the Good Reverend refused to allow her the rest she craved. His voice boomed through the rooftop, magnified by her earbuds.

"Many religious leaders will tell you superheroes are abominations. Usurpers of the rightful place of the Lord."

He had a habit of putting extra emphasis on his references to God. Lord became lawd and—

"But I’ll tell you, church, what if gawd has sent these heroes to us as warrior angels."

Oh, God. Zola snapped awake.

It’s true their origins and the source of their powers are a mystery, but doesn’t that make them miraculous? Do you hear me? What if the Almighty has sent us archangels and we’ve thrown his blessing back in his face?

The church shouted their encouragement in the form of praise. The reverend chuckled and Zola could envision him mopping his brow with a deep purple handkerchief for dramatic effect. The tenor of his voice grew in vibrato.

Y’all see what the world is like today. And I say pray for superheroes, church. Pray for their strength. Pray they be divinely guided. A pause before he continued, quiet and thoughtful. And ask the Lord God for the Watcher’s return.

And there it was. She switched the earbuds off. Everyone on planes, trains, and in church wanted her back in the superpowered bad-guy-busting business. No one seemed to respect the hell she’d been through or the void she fought daily to climb out of. They only cared that someone be there to catch them when they tumbled out of hundred-story buildings. It didn’t matter to the public what their heroes sacrificed for the greater good as long as they did it with a smile, their capes flying patriotically.

You’re still using church as a sleeping pill?

Who? Zola jerked and fell off the side of the building. Fort casually leaned over the ledge to watch her hang by one gloved hand. Well done, you, he said, nodding.

He acted as though her reflexes had been sewn into her old costume and she’d left them behind like car keys. Zola sniffed and blanked her expression to hide the embarrassment of allowing him to sneak up on her.

Move, she said, beginning to rock side to side until the momentum built into a swing, and the swing propelled her back onto the roof with a high jumper’s arch. Fort stepped back, giving her the maneuvering room she needed. He bowed his head in deference to her silent landing.

He looked great. Always had. She hadn’t forgotten that for a single day since they’d parted.

I take it you need something. Zola dusted her hands on the backs of her thighs and gazed up. Her sight line hit Fort squarely in the chest. She craned her neck higher to catch the half smile curving his lower lip.

He deadpanned. A hero. I’m looking out for a hero to the edge of the night.

Holding and end.

What?

Holding out. End of the night.

Ah. He pushed the dark fall of his hair back and adjusted his glasses. Fort somehow turned the symbol of nerdiness into a visual aphrodisiac—Spanish fly in the form of solid black frames. The man emanated hipster flair without the douchebaggery typical to the type. Zola wondered how many of his patients got well purely to make him happy. She hadn’t, she told herself, but she supposed many did.

What’s he preaching tonight? Fort leaned against the ledge and waited. Other than tensing his arms to support himself, he seemed at ease. Zola knew better. Not only had he come to see her despite the fact she’d made him uncomfortable, he also held his shoulders a little too high and tight. Something had gone wrong.

The Good Reverend thinks superheroes are the new archangels, she answered.

Innovative. Nothing about your return?

What do you need, Fort?

He chuckled. Straightening to lift the strap of his messenger bag from its position across his chest, he let the weight fall to the rooftop. Don’t tell me folks have started praying for your return.

His smile warmed her in ways she didn’t want to deal with. She turned away, giving him her back. Everything about him messed with her mind and she didn’t like it.

The gesture of dismissal didn’t stop him. He left the ledge and walked around to face her. Maybe God is trying to tell you something.

"The Color Purple? Seriously? Are you going to toss quotes at me all night?"

His gaze swept her face. Does it bother you that much or is it me you can’t stand?

It’s not your job to psychoanalyze me, Fort.

Not anymore, he said, but one wonders if you come to church to sleep or because it’s the only place you feel safe.

Zola’s expression turned inscrutable, if the bird-of-prey in her stare could be called that. Fort stilled, wondering if he’d pushed too hard too soon. For his plan to work he needed her to believe any bullshit he decided to shovel. If she pushed back and questioned why he’d sought her out, he’d have a tough time hiding what he needed to while revealing only what he wanted to.

When she spoke, her voice held the quiet rasp he remembered Watcher using on foes who’d needed a diaper change afterward.

Do you want me to harm you?

No. He meant that.

Your wits are no match for mine, Dr. Arturo Forté. Be kind enough to remember this.

I will, he said in complete sincerity—at least in his effort to come out of this scheme unharmed. There were patients at the asylum who could only be calmed by telling them Watcher planned to come by for an inspection. No one knew what she’d whispered to villains when she caught them, but most inmates didn’t want to dance with her a second time. Those who did were certifiably insane. He knew, he’d diagnosed a few and they counted among the deadliest and more subversive mega-villains alive. He wondered where his subversion weighed on the scale. No doubt Zola would stamp his rank on his forehead. If she caught him.

In other circumstances, Fort might’ve feared Zola would crush him if he were a bad guy like his patients. He wasn’t. So his reaction to her brand of intimidation ran a different path. He found her sexier than that curvy Latina actress he liked, in a red bikini serving up fry bread. Damn sexy.

There’s something I’ve been wondering for a while. Her face lost its predatory slant. What nationality are you, Fort?

He lifted his chin and gazed down at her. He knew her well enough to know she’d aimed the question at relaxing him, a setup for easy interrogation. Zola’s almond smooth skin, gently dimpled chin, and the pixie cut to her hair