To the Fifth Power
Powers Trilogy Book One
Publisher: Entangled Publishing
Number of pages: 120
Cover design by Pamela Sinclair
"A badass superheroine, a sexy smart guy, and the fight of a lifetime"
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, as a result. 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 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.
Fort didn’t argue. Starting with her boots he took her makeshift costume out of his bag. He had most of it in hand when a pair of cream heels rocketed past his ears.
Zola started stripping. Good god. He crossed himself—or did something roughly resembling crossing himself, as a heathen he’d probably fucked the whole gesture up. He dropped the costume. His jaw dropped too. Why wasn't there a jukebox here? The Steve Miller Band's The Joker would take this whole situation from fortuitous to blessed.
Praise Jesus, her skirt came off. More praises, this time for Buddha, because her jacket had already hit the floor. Blessed be her peach-colored bra and panty set and the glory of lace.
Ahh, sweet peaches. He wanted to shake her tree.
Fort gulped in stereo. What? People didn't gulp in stereo. One of the culinary students had walked in on them and her peaches had hypnotized him too.
“Don’t move.” Zola told the kid who looked punk (five piercings and a blue-black pompadour) from the neck up but preppy (plaid jacket and khakis) from the neck down.
Fort didn’t think the kid planned on moving. He knew he didn’t.
She shimmied—mercy—into her body armor, a sort of pearlized, charcoal gray wetsuit. That in place, she looked around.
“Where are my socks?”
He shrugged. What did he know about socks? Bras. Bras he knew well.
“You didn’t bring them?” Her tone shifted to incredulous.
“You’re wearing your bra,” he said.
“My socks, Fort. Why wouldn’t you bring my socks?”
“What am I, your wife? I didn’t know you needed socks.”
She hit him with her blank look. “You’re a sad sidekick,” she said, exasperated.
A harsh shock of emotions bombarded him at the word sidekick. Zola quelled them as fast as they’d come. Her boots went on, followed by an opened faced balaclava—both matched to her body armor—then goggles. Her charity box hoodie went on last.
A weird noise, somewhere between a grunt and Scooby-Doo broke Fort's concentration. The kid. They’d forgotten about him. “Zola Noite is the Purple Porcine! Crazy.”
Zola walked over, took the kid’s face in both hands and asked, “You’ll keep my secret, won’t you? You enjoy breathing, yes?” The kid nodded, held up his mobile phone and said, “Can you strip again? I gotta post it on Facebook.”
Disgusted by her inability to strike fear in the hearts of teenagers, Zola turned on her heel and skulked away. Fort whapped the kid on the back of the head and they grinned at each other like idiots.
“Fucking ridiculously hot,” The kid said. “And scary.”
Fort nodded as he followed Zola out. He wouldn’t argue with that. ★
About the Author:
Shirin Dubbin is often called a “chic geek,” and she likes the sound of it. Especially since she’s a closet wallflower (albeit one with a fabulous alter ego).When not working in graphic design or hosting The Fantastic Forum—a celebration of comics & speculative fiction—she writes stories inspired by the art, literature, international cinema, and anime she grew up with.
In her own storytelling, Shirin spins tales of sci-fi and urban fantasy with romantic edge. The battle between good and evil, humor, and break neck action are ink to her imagination.
Culturally, she’s half American, half British and very southern; right down to the accent and love of grits. Government reports show a residence in DC, but Shirin lives largely on the astral plane and hopes to meet you there.