by Ashia Monet
“You hurt?” asks the girl.
“M-My arm,” Blythe stammers.
Blythe doesn’t see the girl move, but suddenly, she is at Blythe’s side, assessing the state of her injury. The girl’s eyes are a light, pretty amber brown.
“It’s just dislocated,” she says. “This is gonna hurt like a bitch.”
“What’s—” The girl shoves Blythe’s shoulder into place with a pop that feels more like an explosion in her muscles.
“MOTHER OF CHRIST!” Blythe screams.
The girl is already rising to her feet. “We gotta go. C’mon. Get up.”
“Can you give me a minute?!” Blythe winces. “My arm is freaking—”
“Do you wanna save your friend, yes or no?” the girl barks.
She is all speed and efficiency. She’s also a really shitty superhero. Technically, yes, she is correct, but would it kill her to be a little nicer?
As Blythe stumbles to her feet, the girl skates out of the open doorway with the grace and speed of someone who is very used to moving on wheels.
But Blythe can’t follow, not just yet. She hurries around the garage until she finds her hockey stick on the ground beside a car.
Now she’s ready to raise hell.
Blythe jogs outside as she fits the strap over her chest. The girl sits atop a thin, lean motorcycle, her rollerblades replaces with a pair of black Nike’s.
Her eyes glow with magic—but they make Blythe pause. When a magician’s eyes glow from using powerful magic, both of their eyes blaze with color. But only the girl’s left eye pulses orange.
“Get on,” orders the girl. “Quick.”
Something’s not right about this girl’s magic, but Blythe’s not in a position to be choosy. Cordelia is getting farther away with every passing second.
Blythe hops on behind her. Pain rings up Blythe’s arm, but she holds tight to the girl’s waist anyway.
With a rev of the engine, they shoot down the street like a blasting rocket. Blythe’s never been on a motorcycle, and everything from the balance of the ride to the wind slapping her face is novel. Houses shoot past them—they’re moving so fast.
The whole situation is going too fast. Blythe is on a bike with a complete stranger. Getting Cordelia back depends on this girl’s ability to take on the Black Jackets—and her willingness to even help Blythe.
“Who are you?” Blythe asks.
“Don’t worry about it,” the girl answers.
Blythe tries again. “Are you a superhero? Because that’d be really—”
“No,” the girl interrupts.
Well, that makes her mask extremely confusing.
The girl makes a hard right onto a long street lined with lights. Up ahead, three Black Jackets ride on three separate motorcycles, but only the one farthest ahead has Cordelia’s long black hair fluttering after it.
The girl revs the engine. “Don’t let go!” she shouts.
Blythe screams as they burst forward with newfound speed. “WHY WOULD I DO THAT?!”
Their bike falls in-between two Black Jackets. Gunfire echoes; it is too loud and too close. Blythe does not have time to scream because their bike abruptly drops in speed.
They fall behind as the gunfire continues, the two Jackets shooting each other in their unstoppable line of bullets.
The bike to their left wobbles and crashes into the sidewalk. The bike to their right hangs on, but as they make a wide left onto another side street, it skids to the ground.
“Holy shit,” Blythe breathes. This girl knows what she’s doing.
The sound of a growling bike resonates over Blythe’s shoulder. A Black Jacket approaches from behind, his motorcycle quickly gaining speed and closing the space between them. The girl is facing forward. She probably can’t handle this guy—but Blythe can.
Blythe grabs her hockey stick and raises it above her head. The Black Jacket’s eyes are hard on her, his mouth a thin line.
The magic sings to her, power warming down her skin. Blythe slams it down, dragging it across the asphalt.
The street opens up, splitting into two halves, like rippling waves after a passing surfboard. The entire block shakes.
Blythe looks up as the Black Jacket spirals to the ground, collapsing in a heap.
“Damn, girl!” comes the girl’s voice. “Keep that shit up!”
Up ahead are a patch of trees near the edge of a sidewalk. Blythe almost curses aloud when she sees the last remaining Black Jacket, the one carrying Cordelia, racing toward it.
“Not the Tempore,” Blythe whispers.
But of course, the bike shoots right into the trees and disappears.
Before Blythe can think, the girl slams the gas and has them moving at the speed of light, emerging into a world of black sky and uneven ground.
They are hot on the Black Jacket’s trail, watching its headlights bounce off of the trees.
Their wheels bounce over the terrain and the girl grips the handles hard to hold the bike steady.
“Can you drive a motorcycle?” The girl asks.
“No!” Blythe shouts. This girl is not about to abandon her on this bike.
“Then you gon learn today,” says the girl. She is about to abandon Blythe on this bike.
An orange blur shoots up ahead. The seat in front of Blythe is empty. “Fuck!” Blythe yells, scrambling toward the controls.
The bike is tilting. Blythe grips the handles, holding it upright. There’s a small, cylinder of a pedal beside her ankle. Blythe shoves her foot into it and prays that it’s the brakes.
The bike shrieks, the back tires spin, and it comes to a halt.
Blythe waits for her heart to stop racing. That girl just left her to drive a motorcycle on her own.
Blythe has been waffling back and forth on her opinion of this girl for the past five minutes and now she has definitely decided: this girl is the worst superhero. Ever.
Blythe looks up just in time to catch the scene playing out in front of her. And it is, indeed, a scene.
The bike has stopped. Its headlight illuminates the face of the Black Jacket who once drove it but is now collapsed on a bed of leaves.
It’s one of the twins— the girl stands over him, fists balled at her side. He aims the sharp end of a switchblade up at her, but his hand is shaking.
Twin’s eyes are wild beneath his furrowed brow. “Make one move and I’ll—”
Blythe blinks and his hand is empty. The girl has the switchblade at her side.
“Tell me where you were taking her,” she demands.
Twin only tenses his muscles and spits. The girl leans in, bringing the sharp end of his own knife to press against his throat.
“Again,” she growls. “Where the fuck were you taking her?”
This is going too far. “Wait—” Blythe starts, but Twin speaks over her.
“I don’t fucking know everything, I’m not Rocco, I just listen to what he tells me, and he listens to what Walden Oliver tells him,” His face goes pale as the words tumble out of him. “We’re not high on the food chain, man, we just do some of the dirty work. It’s nothing deep. We were delivering the amplifier when we broke it and that girl back there stole a piece. We got Tahira to help us track ‘em down but they got away from her, so we had to step in. Rocco swore these were just some kids, but I knew they weren’t, I knew we shouldn’t’ve messed with ‘em. That’s all I know and it’s all I’m telling you.”
“No, it’s not,” the girl snaps. “Madame Deveraux. Where is she?”
“Not a damn clue. I’ve never heard that name before in my life.”
The girl considers this, her amber eyes taking him in for a silent moment. Then she kicks him in the head so hard, his body drops, limp, into the leaves.
“Oh my God!” Blythe cries.
Who is this girl, this masked vigilante walking the line between criminal and savior—and should Blythe be scared of her?
If Blythe’s shock has phased the girl at all, she doesn’t
show it. Her voice is nonchalant and smooth when she speaks. “I wasn’t actually gonna cut him. I’on like hurting people too bad. I just needed him to be honest—all his gang does is lie.”
The girl closes the switchblade and drops it in her pocket. She looks at Blythe, but she’s speaking to Cordelia too.
“Come with me,” she says. “Let’s talk.”
The girl brings them to a junkyard overflowing with valleys of useless trash. In its center is a circular alcove adorned with a fire pit and faded furniture arranged like a makeshift apartment.
The girl uses this place as a hideout, judging from how easily she lights the flames and drops onto an armchair like it’s her living room.
Blythe and Cordelia share a sofa opposite her. Blythe expects Cordelia to leave a cushion’s space between them, but the girl sits shoulder-to-shoulder with her.
Cordelia stares at the rising embers, her face holding an expression Blythe has never really seen on her.
“I didn’t think you’d actually come for me,” Cordelia says.
It’s an odd statement, but Blythe’s reply is instinctive. “Of course I did. What made you think I wouldn’t?”
Red firelight makes the shadows on Cordelia’s face pitch black. “Because I was a bitch,” she says. “And if the roles were reversed I…don’t think I would have been brave enough to come for you.”
Her honesty feels like a rock in Blythe’s chest. Blythe knows, of course, there are people in the world who won’t return the kindness she gives. She just never thought they’d openly admit it.
Cordelia’s hands are trembling. At least she doesn’t seem proud of this.
“That was both touching and terrible, but it doesn’t explain how you ended up here,” says the girl.
She has her rollerblades on again, and they hang off one armrest while her body slouches against the other. The weight of the girl’s gaze shatters any chance for Blythe and Cordelia to have a private conversation.
“I went to get rid of the shard,” Cordelia answers. She speaks into the fire like she can’t look at them. “Those men approached me and said they would help. I should have been suspicious when they already knew about the shard, but I…went with them. You know the rest of the story.”
“Do you normally trust anybody that pulls up to you?” the girl snorts.
Blythe expects Cordelia to wrinkle her nose. She would never endure such a snide comment. But she doesn’t even blink.
“I used to,” she says. “I won’t. Anymore.”
Her voice is too broken. Too defeated. Blythe’s stomach churns. She leans forward, asking, low, “Did they hurt you?”
“No. When they took the shard they just…took my pride with it. And we only got one of those things back.”
Her words make the shard feel heavy in Blythe’s pocket. Saying “serves you right” would be rude. Saying anything else would be a lie. So, Blythe says nothing at all.
Cordelia looks to the girl. “Who were they?”
The girl tosses the switchblade into the air and catches it. “The Angelus,” she answers. “They’re a magician gang who runs errands for the Trident Republic. They usually sell drugs and claim turf, but I’m guessing Walden Oliver makes use of them ‘cause they know how to go untraced. Apparently, you messed them up. They’ll probably keep coming back until they get what they want.”
The firelight glints off the knife in the girl’s grip. “Where’s the shard?” she asks.
The force of her tone makes Blythe sit up straighter. “I have it,” she says.
“Let me see,” the girl demands without blinking, as if she is used to being obeyed.
Blythe doesn’t move.
Yes, this girl could snatch it out of Blythe’s pocket before Blythe could move an inch, but once she got her hockey stick Blythe could blow her into next fucking year.
“I’d rather not,” Blythe says.
The mask hides most of the girl’s expression, but Blythe can feel her distrust rise. Through the smoke of the flames, her amber eyes narrow at them.
“Alright,” she says. “Who are you two? And why you got that in the first place?”
“You first,” Blythe challenges.
A scoff. “I never made up a name for myself. The news calls me Napoleon.”
Blythe instantly recoils. “That’s the worst superhero name I’ve ever heard.”
“I think it’s ‘cause of the mask.”
“How does your mask relate to a French conqueror?”
“No, like the ice cream jawns. With the three colors.”
“That’s Neapolitan,” Cordelia mutters.
The Masked Hero seems to be considering this. “Well, shit.”
“That is absolutely ridiculous,” Blythe huffs. “Don’t you know you gotta take this stuff seriously? This is what happens when you don’t name yourself. You get stuck with something dumb, like Napoleon. You could have been anything. Instead you got that.”
“I keep telling you I’m not some fucking superhero,” Napoleon snaps. “I don’t do this because I like it, I do it ‘cause it’s dangerous if people know my identity.”
That’s a practical reason, but frankly, Blythe prefers her idea that this girl is a superhero.
“You still coulda tried for a better name than Napoleon,” Blythe murmurs.
Cordelia sits up bolt right. In her eyes is a spark of her usual gusto—but that energy is directed right at the girl.
“We’ve been looking for you all day!” she blurts. “I wouldn’t have known who you were if I hadn’t read your mind, where have you been!?”
The girl seems just as confused as Blythe feels. Then realization blooms on her face.
“Oh shit,” the girl says. “You them kids.”
She slides off her mask, revealing a face strikingly similar to the boy the Guardians met at the Crane’s house, full eyebrows and all.
“Storm Crane,” says the girl. “Guardian of Time.”
Fifteen
“But I’m not coming with y’all,” Storm adds.
Blythe’s not sure who holds more shock on their face: Cordelia or herself.
“What?” Blythe blurts.
“Why not?” Cordelia asks.
Storm shrugs one shoulder like moving the other is too much effort. “The Sages want everyone to run to Frost Glade because three of y’all got sent up to a roof but ain’t shit happen to me. So I’m not going.”
Cordelia wrinkles her nose at Storm’s logic. “Just because something didn’t hurt you in the past doesn’t mean it can’t hurt you in the future.” Blythe couldn’t have said it better herself.
“I can hold my own,” Storm says, unconvinced. “I got shit to do around here anyway. I can’t run off.”
“Shit like Madame Deveraux?” Blythe asks.
Storm goes rigid. Her eyes cut into Blythe with suspicion. “How do you know that name?”
“I heard you say it earlier.”
Storm visibly deflates, turning back to her stolen switchblade as if Blythe has lost all importance to her. But
Blythe isn’t finished. “Why are you looking for her?”
“Reasons that are my business.”
“And you…do that by chasing down the Angelus?”
“Them and other magician gangs and shady folk. Anyone could know something. But I run into the Angelus a lot.”
Well, there’s Blythe’s angle. “Coming with us could give you a better chance of finding her, wherever she is. We’re traveling a ton. It’ll give you an opportunity to search through more places than just Philadelphia. We need to find one last Guardian and then we’re headed to Electric City.”
“I thought y’all were going to Frost Glade,” Storm wrinkles her nose. “Now I’m really not coming. I ain’t going straight into a war zone.”
Blythe curses under her breath. Okay, that backfired.
Storm swings her legs around and stands with alarming speed, snuffing out the fire and starting toward the bright street lights.
> “Wait!” Blythe calls. “Hear me out, I—”
“Naaaaaaaaaah,” Storm says, body swaying on her skates. “I’m bad at listening. Get home safe.”
Blythe jumps to her feet. “Forget about the Sages,” she blurts. “I need you to come.”
Storm rolls to a stop. Her shadow stretches along the empty space between her turned back and Blythe. It is the slightest pause, but it is all Blythe needs.
Storm took on the Angelus single-handed without breaking a sweat—she is, without a doubt, an invaluable asset. But if Blythe doesn’t explain this correctly, if Blythe does not convince her, it is all for nothing, because Storm will not hesitate to leave.
The Guardians couldn’t even find her today; Storm can make sure they’ll never find her again.
Blythe takes a deep breath. “The Trident Republic kidnapped my family right in front of me, and I’m going to Electric City to get them back. If I go there alone, I’ll probably die. So, I’ve been gathering the other Guardians to help me, because without them, I don’t have a chance. And if I don’t have a chance…neither does my family. So if you’re not going to come to save yourself, consider coming to save my family. I need all the help I can get.”
Storm has not blinked once throughout Blythe’s speech. She does not move even now, and her stillness gives Blythe hope.
“Sounds rough,” Storm says. “Hope you find someone.”
This girl is unbelievable.
“You must really think I’m a superhero,” Storm continues. “I do what I do for me. I don’t do favors.”
“But you did tonight,” Blythe argues. Her blood is boiling—for every excuse Storm raises, Blythe has about three points to discredit her. Eventually she has to run out of ways to say no. “You didn’t have to save me and Cordelia, but you did. You still stuck around even when it was obvious we didn’t know anything.”
Storm shakes her head as she turns away. “Alright, whatever, but this conversation is done. I’m not coming. There’s only one thing I want and I know you can’t give it to me.”
“But the Angelus can, right?” The words tumble out of Blythe. “You said it yourself, they’re going to keep coming after us as long as we have this shard. They’ll fall right into your lap if you’re with us, which has to be better than searching for them every night.” Blythe pauses. “At least, that’s what I assume you’re doing. I don’t actually know. I’m just following genre rules with the whole superhero, vigilante thing—”
