Heroine Complex (Book 4): Haunted Heroine

by Kuhn, Sarah

  Aveda struck a “ta-da!” pose next to me.

  “Goddammit,” Bea growled. “That means I’m ‘and Peggy.’”

  “You said it, Tiny Terror,” Aveda said affectionately.

  “Anyway,” Bea said, rolling her eyes. “I’m actually calling for business reasons. You asked Nate to compile the research on all the supposed hauntings and ghost stories at Morgan—”

  “Yes,” I said, frowning. “I thought he was going to give me that report when he came out here later today. Why is he asking you to do that? Not that I don’t want to hear from you, Bea, I just thought you were busy with your own research.”

  Nate and I hadn’t talked much since I’d left HQ . . . god, was that yesterday? It felt like eons ago. Aveda and I had briefed everyone on Team Tanaka/Jupiter about the mission, and I sensed that Nate wasn’t super happy I was staying at Morgan past the weekend. He’d said he wanted to come out and see me before the mission kicked into high gear—I assumed so he could fuss over my blood pressure again.

  Bea hesitated, her gaze sliding to the side. “I am busy with my own stuff,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “But I still like to know what’s going on with you guys. And Nate was tied up with some other research, so he asked me to assist.”

  “What other research?” I pressed. “We don’t have any outstanding supernatural incidents, so what’s he so busy with?”

  “I don’t know,” Bea said, shrugging as she met my eyes. “Maybe you should ask him? Ooh! Or don’t ask him, maybe he’s working on some kind of awesome surprise party for you! I wonder if there’s still time to order a custom balloon arrangement. Or one of those multi-tier cake samplers Letta’s been experimenting with at her bakery! Oh my god, Evie!” She leaned in close to the screen, her eyes sparking with excitement. “You have to have a cake sampler!”

  “I don’t think that’s the case,” I said. “Planning a party is the antithesis of everything Nate is.”

  “Then maybe it’s another kind of surprise!” Bea exclaimed, jabbing the air with an index finger. “Ooh. Maybe it’s, like . . . a sexy one.” She waggled her eyebrows.

  “I know it’s not that—not at the moment,” I muttered.

  Bea cocked her head to the side, frowning. “You know, Big Sis, that man loves you more than anything—”

  “I know,” I said, trying to keep the weariness out of my voice. “We’re just having some . . . issues. Anyway. Not important.” I forced myself to paste on a big grin. My customary rictus smile these days. “Anything interesting in the research?”

  “Interesting, yes. Useful . . . mmm.” Bea frowned as she picked up an iPad and started swiping through. “I took notes that I’m sending over to you, along with all the relevant documentation. The long and short of it is basically what Provost Glennon told you guys: hauntings and ghost shit have been reported at Morgan since it opened, but it’s only recently that people have gotten hurt. The ghosts usually appear in humanoid form—albeit . . .” She smiled a little and made air-quotes with her fingers. “. . . ‘ghostly’ humanoid form. Hollowed-out pits for eyes, gaping mouths, kind of a blue-white glowing sheen all over. An aura.”

  “So basically what Evie encountered in the theater classroom,” Aveda said.

  “Right.” Bea nodded. “Although not all of them are like that—it’s a mixed bag of haunting type things. That ghost you saw in the theater was probably Madeleine Morgan, daughter of the school founders—”

  “Ah, yes, I remember,” I said, snapping my fingers. “She had a huge fight with them after failing out of school, right?”

  “And took off for who knows where or was possibly murdered,” Bea said, pointing a finger at me. “You got it.”

  “Wow, that’s dark,” Aveda muttered.

  “Here’s what’s interesting,” Bea said. “Prior to these recent incidents, where there’s been minor injuries and damage, the Morgan ghosts didn’t interact with anyone. It was what ghost-hunting circles call ‘passive hauntings’—”

  “Ghost-hunting circles?” Aveda shook her head. “Those are a thing? How bizarre to have entire organizations set up for a supernatural evil that doesn’t exist while demons are running around wreaking havoc. I mean, not too much havoc. Since Evie and I always catch them.”

  “I don’t think these are so much ‘organizations’ as, like, discussion groups,” Bea said. “Like a book club, only to talk about semi-resurrected dead people. Y’all should actually look into that on campus—there are rumors about an official ghost-hunting type society at Morgan. Some of the research I dredged up involves their documentation, which is of course supposed to be super secret—as is the society itself.”

  “Of course,” Aveda said.

  “Are we sure ghosts don’t exist, though?” I said. “I mean, it’s not that much of a stretch to imagine, considering all the stuff we’ve dealt with ever since that first demon portal opened up.”

  “The ghosts, as described, don’t seem that similar to any of the demons we’ve encountered over the years,” Bea said with a shrug. “That said, it’s not out of the question to go with the theory that they’re somehow related to the energy from the Pussy Queen portal—has Rose’s team finished their scan yet?”

  “Their initial findings are inconclusive,” Aveda said. “Although I think it was also harder to take the scans since Provost Glennon wants them to be so discreet. I’m surprised we managed to talk her into involving the police at all. I’m sure Nate will want to do further analyses.”

  “Maybe that’s what he’s working on,” Bea said. “I mean, in addition to Evie’s big surprise.”

  “Maybe. In any case, we’ll incorporate that data when we get it,” I said, picking up the thread. “In the meantime, it sounds like the logical next step is to try to talk to the students who were involved in the reported incidents—which Aveda and I can do when we start classes tomorrow. But remember . . .” I gave Aveda a meaningful look. “We’re undercover. We can’t just go up to these kids and start asking questions, we need to use finesse.”

  “I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” Aveda said, giving me a haughty look. “Finesse is one of my not-so-secret superpowers, and—why are you both laughing?”

  “Sorry,” Bea said, suppressing her giggles. “I mean, first of all, I don’t think someone with the nickname ‘Hurricane Annie’ can claim finesse as a special skill. But also, Aveda, I’m just imagining you trying to employ finesse while acting like you know anything about Biology or its related science-y topics.”

  “Excuse you,” Aveda said, crossing her arms over her chest. “But I’m totally going to Biology these students until they don’t know anything except cells and organisms and, uh . . . other important Biology things!”

  “Oh god,” I muttered. “We are so screwed.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  AFTER WE HUNG up with Bea, Aveda went out to get more school supplies (which I was pretty sure were unnecessary, but she was having so much fun shopping for them I didn’t have the heart to say so) and I settled in for my seventh nap of the day. That first trimester exhaustion was no joke. It came out of nowhere and I was absolutely powerless to ignore it. My new superpower was the ability to fall asleep in five seconds flat.

  Usually that was the case, anyway. Right now, my mind was still whirling, making it hard for me to settle in for a restful slumber.

  Being back here on campus was stirring up all kinds of weird feelings. Every sight, sound, and smell immediately called up a whole slew of emotions so vivid, I felt like I’d found a really fucked-up time machine.

  It wasn’t all déjà vu, however. I’d barely set foot in Mara Dash during my time here, so I had no real memories attached to the place. The old building was one of the dorms built into a hill, and as such, it had one of the oddest structures I’d ever seen—there were little offshoot halls, hidden-away clusters of dorm rooms, and weird Gothic a
rchitectural flourishes stuffed into every nook and cranny. The rusty casement windows always creaked when you opened them, the winding staircases seemed like they might collapse if you trod on them too hard, and the creepy atmosphere made you feel as if a lady with flowing hair and a gauzy white nightgown should be running down every cobwebby hall, toting a single melting candle.

  But I still felt an odd familiarity, like maybe I should have lived here back in the day. It was more like reverse déjà vu—the sense that I was living a life that hadn’t actually happened, experiencing the road I had decided not to take.

  That ever-present air of eucalyptus wafting in through our dorm room window was currently giving me a sense of actual déjà vu, however. It transported me back to the first day I’d set foot on campus—how I’d looked up at the scraps of morning light glittering through the tree canopy and felt that brisk sliver of cold snap that always seems to float just underneath the warmth of the East Bay sun.

  I’d closed my eyes and breathed deeply, letting the soft honey-pine scent wash over me. I was on my way to really making something of myself, to being able to take care of Bea and ensure she’d have some semblance of a normal existence. And I was also on my way to controlling my fire power, getting a little better at suppressing it every day. Maybe I could even have a borderline normal existence at some point. The idea had sent an eager little shiver up my spine and long-dormant hope fizzled through my heart. In spite of everything, I’d made it. I was here. Maybe everything would be okay.

  I wished I could go back to that hopeful girl and warn her that very soon, things were not going to be okay and would actually be the total opposite for quite some time. I know hearing from Wet Blanket Evie would’ve been a real downer, but maybe it would have saved her some pain.

  She probably still would’ve gotten with Richard, though.

  I grimaced, remembering that I’d have to see him again tomorrow. There was no way I was getting “sucked into his disgusting web” as Bea had said, but I’d probably have to put some effort into hiding my full-body revulsion.

  I still remembered the time I’d tried to argue with him about wanting to write a comprehensive paper on the importance of The Heroic Trio in modern cinema—how it built certain concepts that others copied later, how it was a revolutionary work for Asian Americans unused to seeing faces like theirs at the center of a story.

  Or at least it was for me.

  We’d had this conversation right after we’d had sex and were sprawled together on his bed. Richard lived in faculty housing, a cluster of quaint cottages tucked away in the very back of campus—an area where some of the agricultural students grew wild stalks of vegetables and weedy-looking masses of plants. His place was small, but he’d tried to make it comfortable, and enjoyed festooning his bedroom with things he considered “opulent.” Thus his bed contained at least a dozen pillows of different sizes, most of them done up in heavy gold-stitched brocade, and his bedspread was the most ridiculously plush velvet the color of red wine.

  I’ll admit, I’d been impressed at the time. Diving into that bed was like diving into a luxurious velvet cloud—my own scratchy sheets, which I’d gotten on clearance at Target, could not hope to compare to such fancy excess. I’d briefly wondered how he could afford such things, but had eventually figured out he came from a rich San Francisco society family, the Carmichaels—a factoid he tried to downplay at every turn. He even went so far as to go by his mother’s maiden name, Covington, which he liked to say was a feminist reclaiming. But really, it was so he could brag about being a “self-made man.”

  Anyway, Richard was not super into my paper idea, and challenged me on it.

  “I don’t know, Evelyn,” he’d said, his sandy hair falling over his forehead as he propped himself on one elbow, studying me. “I’d say the truly intriguing meat of the Heroic Trio discourse is the ways in which its fans project things onto the text that are not, in fact, present in the actual text.”

  I flipped onto my side, pulling the velvet comforter more tightly around me.

  “Such as?”

  “The so-called empowering portrayals of Asian woman,” he said with a laconic shrug. “The portrayals in the movie are fine, nothing special. They’d be considered unremarkable to much of the intended Chinese audience, who are accustomed to seeing Asian female action stars performing a variety of difficult tasks.”

  “But that’s what I’m saying. It means something extra to so many of us in the diaspora who aren’t accustomed to that,” I countered. “It really changed things for both me and Aveda. I mean, it’s what made Aveda realize she could be a superhero—because she saw someone who looked like her doing just that.”

  “And that’s a projection, that’s what I’m saying,” Richard said, smiling indulgently as he reached over to muss my hair. “It’s not in the text.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not important,” I argued. “As viewers, our relationship to that text is important too, isn’t it?”

  “But why address that in such a mediocre film?” Richard sniffed. “If you want to write about transcendent moments in Hong Kong action cinema, that’s one thing. But if all you want to do is pen a fan account about how seeing a movie when you were younger made you feel good, well. I don’t think I can approve that. The movie might be fun, but it’s not exactly earth-shattering. And I want you to write about something earth-shattering.”

  “Seeing three Asian women kick ass and exist as the actual main characters in something is earth-shattering,” I said—but my voice had gone all meek, unsure. Mouse Evie.

  “Mmm.” Richard leaned in closer, his eyes searching my face. “I just want you to be great, Evelyn. I know you have that potential. I know it, darling.”

  Then he’d kissed me and things had heated up and . . . well. More sex that ended with him saying he was “too tired” to go down on me, that I really needed to work on responding to him in a more “passionate and adventurous way” during the act, and that I should be careful about being “so loud” since he didn’t want to disturb his fellow faculty neighbors.

  I did not say that 1) those last two points seemed contradictory and 2) I wasn’t even being that loud since he hadn’t bothered to give me an orgasm. No, I’d just smiled and said, “Noted.” Then I’d rolled over and tried to fall asleep for a bit while my handsome office stranger fantasy raged through my mind.

  The next day in one of the graduate seminar classes I was taking, he gassed on for nearly the entire hour about how sometimes we have to examine how our personal attachments to stories may be more superficial than we’re willing to admit. I’d taken notes, trying to listen. I didn’t necessarily want to be great—I liked blending into the background a little too much for that. But maybe I could be better. Make something of myself, like I was trying so hard to do.

  That notion was interrupted by Richard saying something that pissed me all the way off.

  “And so, class,” he said, jabbing a dry erase marker in the air, “I want you all to write a paper about your own wish fulfillment, about something in a piece of cinema that was important to you personally and why. And then analyze whether, decoupled from that . . . the film is actually any good or not.”

  My brain had screamed what, but my mouth couldn’t get the word out. My head whipped up to look at him with indignation. He’d taken my idea and twisted it into something awful. Something that downplayed the ways stories can be powerful. Not taking into account that dubbing something a “good” film is always subjective anyway, depending on who’s watching.

  He’d just smiled and winked, mouthing “thank you” across the room.

  Mouse Evie told me to tamp down the rage that exploded in my chest, thick and toxic and threatening to overwhelm every cell of my being. Mouse Evie reminded me that I might start a full-on fire if I kept going with the rage—and that Richard’s premise was probably way better than mine anyway since he was
an accomplished academic, and I should be thankful he’d found any of what I said worthwhile.

  But, ooh, that rage. It was the first time in a good long while that anger had throbbed through me like that, refusing to be ignored. It had taken everything in my being to hold it in. To bury it deep.

  In the end, I hadn’t written about The Heroic Trio. I’d wanted to write with passion and vigor about why something meant so much to me, but I kept imagining Richard reading it. Smiling indulgently. Shaking his head at silly Evie and her pedestrian taste, getting all excited because she’d found superficial meaning in what he’d deemed a mediocre piece of cinema.

  I shuddered, that humiliation from so long ago coursing through me now. Why was it that that type of embarrassment, being made to feel like you were small, lingered?

  The way it rose up again now . . . it was just as potent as it had been the first time.

  So yeah, if we were going to maintain this ruse, I was really going to have to corral my feelings about Richard in the classroom.

  I tried to shove his smug face from my mind and focus on falling asleep.

  Ahhh . . . just smell that eucalyptus again, that lovely breeze coming in through the window. Hmm. I should probably close that window before Nate gets here, he’ll worry about me catching a cold and nag me about it . . .

  As if on cue, my phone buzzed. I grabbed it off the nightstand and scrutinized the screen. Nate had texted me, letting me know he was “bringing the doctor with him” and he wanted to “pick up where we left off.”

  My brows drew together. “Where we left off”? As in me throwing myself at him in front of our house? Him—just for a moment—responding and pulling me close and kissing me. . . oh. Oh!