by Liana Brooks
The warm, stale air of the terminal was almost comforting. Still, she shivered. Nightmares were the bane of her existence. First her mother’s memories of the time she was kidnapped and mind-raped in Colorado, and now her sister’s memories of the man she couldn’t save. She’d unlocked those, stolen them in unguarded moments, and they’d become part of her even though they weren’t her experiences. A midnight swim in Lake Michigan just couldn’t compete. So she tucked the fear out of the way, and moved forward. A super villain’s work was never done.
Chapter Two
Dear Dad,
I need a new watch for Christmas. Waterproof. Possibly with a miniaturized Agree-With-Me ray attached. You know, for the days when I run into trouble. I also need new boots. Mine got wet.
Your daughter who is glad she took swimming lessons,
Delilah
The Spirit of Chicago leaned his head against a cold brick wall and stared out over the dark harbor. That had gone as badly as he could have imagined anything going. Delilah Samson. What a gal.
In the city’s complex world of politics, crime, and money, he’d had her pegged as a lady on the lowest rung. He knew her, of course; Subrosa Securities was a big name in private safety and Delilah Samson the beautiful treat they trotted out like a show pony for all their affluent clients. She’d even run point a few times, hovering near various Subrosa clients at charity balls and holiday mixers with a slightly detached expression, while the men tripped over themselves to get her attention. Gorgeous. That’s all anyone ever remembered. Delilah Samson hadn’t been born, she’d been carved from alabaster. Her eyes were luminous topaz, deep, dark, and radiant. Her dark chocolate hair fell in waves to her hips, begging men and women alike to imagine her lying in their beds with a sated smile.
Or maybe that was just him.
He’d known she was involved with that idiot Ivan as well, if involved meant they sometimes traded cool glances at the dry cleaners. He was willing to strangle Ivan for that alone, stealing her time and favor—and then tonight. The one night he’d felt reasonably certain Miss Samson would be safe, she wasn’t. His plans for the evening had gone to hell in a burning hand basket when the little radar he’d illegally pinned on Ivan’s car met with the one on Boris Lugchevka’s car. Boris was a thug with a list of petty convictions stretching back to his childhood in the late nineties. Ivan was the brains, maybe even a major player in the criminal underworld, it was hard to say. He had no arrest record. No proof he’d ever done anything wrong. But he was always on the fringe of criminal activity, and if Ivan didn’t commit crimes, he certainly wouldn’t hesitate to egg Boris on.
The Spirit had arrived at the dock in time to see Delilah fall into the water. Searching the dark lake with nothing but hope and the faint impressions left by shadows was not the way to conduct a rescue operation in the dead of winter. He’d thought he’d lost her.
That was why he’d made so many mistakes. Bringing her to the nearest yacht seemed safe enough. She’d looked so helpless, dark eyes huge and filled with fear, her long hair tangled by the lake water, so he’d stayed to offer help. A normal woman would have been too shaken to do anything but thank him. Not Delilah. No, she noticed he picked up a towel. She’d identified him. She was evaluating him.
A beautiful, brainy woman.
She was going to be the death of him.
He sighed and ran his hands through his short hair as his physical body reformed around him. For thirteen years he’d kept his secret safe. Everyone, from The Company superheroes to the local media, accepted the fact that The Spirit of Chicago was a ghost. After all, why not? When the evening news was filled with accounts of a man who could turn into an eight-foot giant with bark for skin, a ghost seemed downright normal.
When he’d first approached The Company, a seemingly typical reckless and angry teenager, he’d been wary. He’d been scared of what they might do with him if they knew his name. So he’d lied. The United States government’s clandestine superhero control unit didn’t know his real name or what he looked like. They were content believing he was a ghost, an incorporeal man without the ability to touch, pick up, or manipulate anything. He watched people. Sometimes he frightened people. But really he was an informer, a Company spy.
And because he’d picked up a towel, Delilah Samson knew more about him than anyone in thirteen years.
The real question was: What else did she know? Could she guess from his voice who he was? Would she guess? And, if she guessed, what then? Blackmail? Vows of secrecy? A kiss to thank him next time they met wearing their business faces?
His heart raced, half agony, half hope. Maybe he could find a way to tell her without losing the life he’d so carefully cultivated since escaping the hell of his childhood. Integrate her. Convince her to ally with him and keep Chicago safe.
Wishful thinking, he admitted as he walked into his apartment and locked the door. They’d barely exchanged half a dozen civil words with each other and he was ready to name the date, the kids, and the hypothetical dog.
Tossing his watch on the kitchen counter, The Spirit of Chicago stalked back to what he liked to call The Lair: his apartment’s spare bedroom retrofitted with bulletproof glass, heavy curtains to keep out prying eyes, and an entire wall devoted to visualizing the dynamics of Chicago’s power players.
Mayor Marco Arámbula occupied one pyramid of power. Chief of Police Brian Wyte owned his own pyramid too; he’d gained ground in the last year and the next election was looking like it might be a run-off between Arámbula and Wyte. The crime syndicates were smaller blobs formed under a big question mark. Ten years ago the individual gangs still had power—some, at any rate. The police force whittled that away and into the power vacuum a new player crept. The gangs and the Outfit had become mere feeder streams to the one big boss.
There was no name to go with the question mark. Not yet. But he’d have it soon enough. He needed the name before the criminal element in Chicago became too organized and efficient to break without going to war.
The Spirit of Chicago traced a finger down the pyramid of power under Wyte. Subrosa Securities worked in happy harmony with the police force, so he’d put Delilah Samson right down at the bottom with the other peons. Only—his finger paused—she wasn’t there. Huh.
He checked his desk drawer and after a quick search found a magnet, purple for a reason he couldn’t fathom, with a black and white image of her face glued on it. Hesitating only for a moment, he placed Delilah on the third tier under Chief Wyte. She wouldn’t report directly to him, but her boss had to know.
Subrosa had a good deal if she really had superpowers. They could offer her protection from The Company and other less pleasant groups that might want to take advantage of someone with super mutations, and she had free license to use her skills. He grabbed a scanner and read the barcode under her picture.
He turned his computer on to read the cross-referenced files. Let’s see... Delilah Samson, age twenty-six, height five ten, born in 2007, hired by Subrosa Securities in the spring of 2029 at age twenty-four. He scrolled down and stared at a blank page.
Nothing.
Delilah Samson sprang into being five years ago? He doubted that. Logic said she had a family somewhere, a history, school records... People left tracks.
He pulled up the Subrosa Securities website first, scrolling through their list of employees all for hire as discreet service or to set up your next security system. How embarrassing. As if security guards were some kind of accessory you picked to match your shoes in the morning.
Three pages in, he hit the end of the Bodyguards For Hire and still hadn’t found Miss Samson. He checked the personnel listings for secretaries, hostesses, and other office minions. Not a trace of his delinquent Delilah.
Grumbling in frustration, he pulled up the president’s information. Wilford Andrews, a bespectacled and impossibly fit man with gray hair and dark skin stared sternly back. Andrews was the regional president and head of Midwestern operations (U
SA) for Subrosa. And there, under the title ‘Vice President’, was Delilah Samson, resplendent in a blood-red jacket and skirt. She should have looked like a bellhop, but instead her flat stare seemed to oscillate between a come-hither invitation and the cold warning that she would not hesitate to put a bullet in your head.
He loosened his collar and opened up Andrew’s file. Yale graduate, law school, served in the army JAG for twenty years before retiring to the civil sector and joining Subrosa fifteen years ago. Delilah? Nothing. No background, no schools listed, no experience.
No super villain alive had such a weak cover story. Most the ones he’d met had not just one backstory, but several alter egos with the paperwork to prove who they were. And super villains didn’t play the role of neighborhood vigilante. That was strictly a Good Guy thing.
So, what? She was FBI maybe? CIA? Some other black-ops government group who needed a plant and thought no one would check her cover story? Homeland Security might try to pull something like that. Or the DoD. Although they could have at least made some effort to make sure her history passed a cursory inspection.
Unless she wasn’t meant to pass inspection. Maybe she was bait.
His head started to hurt. Would it kill people to just tell him the truth? A little up front honesty was all he wanted. “Hi, my name’s Delilah and I was trained by assassin monks in Antarctica to fight the hordes of rabid polar bears descending from Canada.”
Or not. He shut off the computer as an email popped up on his work account. That could wait until morning. Right now he needed to wash the reminder of Lake Michigan—and Delilah Samson—off his skin.
Chapter Three
Dear Daddy,
Yes, I have every intention of visiting the Splendor of Gems display at the museum when it comes to town. There’s an event there tonight, coincidentally. Or not: I suspect it’s because of this fact that you emailed me while you should have been lecturing the freshman of the University of Texas about the dangers of uncontrolled experiments.
I’ll ignore the news headlines about the rocket your students made last week if you ignore my social life, or lack thereof. Deal?
Busiest,
Delilah
“You look better,” Travys said as he walked into Delilah’s office carrying a shoebox and kicked the door shut behind him. “And you don’t smell like sewage.”
“I told you, I fell in the lake.”
Her intern looked skeptical and slightly thuggish in his Chicago Bull’s leather jacket.
“We need to get you a trench coat.”
Travys pursed his lips and shook his head rapidly. “Chicago Gangster is not a good fashion on boys from the hood.”
“Neither does a leather sports jacket that looks like you stole it during a fan frenzy.”
“I like it.” He stroked the sleeve and pouted. “The red brings out my eyes. Gem tones always do.”
She paused then raised an eyebrow at his mocking tone. “When did I say that?”
“When you had to go to the fall harvest ball thing in a red dress like some overpriced assassin.”
Delilah leaned back. “Oh, right, the Dior gown. I looked amazing.”
“Yes,” Travys agreed with a very masculine smile, at odds with his still-boyish face.
She wagged a finger at him. “None of that. Baby brothers are supposed to play with LEGOs and cars, not ogle girls.”
“I’m not formally adopted,” Travys protested.
“Don’t argue semantics with an expert, kid. As far as the Powers That Be are concerned, you’re my baby brother and I shall treat you as such. No girl will ever be good enough. Your room will never be clean enough. And I will question your personal style on a thrice weekly basis.”
“Thrice?” His eyebrows rose. “Thrice? Really? Thrice?”
Delilah shrugged. “It’s the appropriate word.”
“Yeah. I bet. You know, my English professor at the college is single. Want me to find out if he’s available for New Year’s Eve?” Travys gave her a grin that bordered on a leer. “Maybe you could ‘thrice’ each other a bit.”
She picked up the hot chocolate on her desk. “You see this? My aim is amazing.” She gave him a warning look and sipped the cocoa. “So, what’s in the box?”
“Uh-uh,” Travys said with a shake of his head. “Tell me why you weren’t out with Alan ‘Mister Amazing’ Adale last night. The date was on your calendar.”
“I skipped it to play footsie with some hoodlums. What’s in the box?”
“What’s wrong with Adale?” Travys persisted. “Is he a skanky-manwhore? Does he have a disease?”
In town for less than twenty-four hours and already he was scrutinizing her social life. “Did my sister write this script for you? Because for a second there, I could have sworn you were Angela.”
Travys rolled his eyes.
She exhaled, setting her mug down. “He’s too good to be true. I dated a boy like him in high school. Halfway through our second date I slipped a little. I wanted him to tell me why he liked me and since I was sixteen and could make him be honest... he was.”
“How bad was it?”
Delilah tightened her grip on the mug. “He asked me out because I was almost as hot as my sister, and he heard I was easy.” She shrugged as if it didn’t matter anymore. “I don’t need a repeat experience.”
Travys eyed her thoughtfully. “What if Adale actually likes you?”
Delilah laughed. “What if Neptune is made of green cheese?” She shook her head. “Men are not attracted to me for my personality. They think short skirts mean I’m open to the idea of a one-night stand. Forgive me for being a little gun-shy. Now, what’s in the box?”
“Some of my mom’s stuff. A couple of bills from after she left, a note from my grandma, an invite to the school’s parent night.” He pushed the shoebox across her desk until it bumped into a pile of papers.
“How’d your dad take your visit home?”
“He’s not my dad,” Travys said as he sat down. “He’s a loser. A dick that stood up for me once in his entire life.” He glared out her window for a minute, then shrugged. “He’s back in jail. He got caught with some dime bags. Stupid. I mean... dime bags? He makes trash look classy.”
Delilah didn’t contradict him. Chris Freeman was the kind of man parents prayed their child would never meet: charismatic, abusive, and self-centered as a spinning top. His motivation lasted right up until he had cash to burn, and then he was gone. Travy’s mom had kept them from living in the street by working double shifts at a hair salon and sometimes picking up temp work at the call center for New York’s cab companies. She’d been missing since spring of 2032, when Chris had gotten out of jail and Travys had tried to commit suicide.
Angela, Delilah’s older sister, had saved Travys’ life and taken a bullet to her arm for the trouble. But Travys was a bright kid; he’d finished school and graduated with a GPA that earned him a full ride scholarship to the University of Chicago.
“What are you doing with the house?”
He twitched a shoulder. “Nothing. I’m not sure who even owns it, so I just cleared out my stuff and Mom’s. Chris can make the payments if he wants to keep it.” He scuffed his foot on the ground. “She’s not coming back.”
“Who? Your mom? No, I think at this point it’s safe to say she isn’t planning to return to New York.” Delilah lifted the lid of the box and placed the contents in front of her.
“She’s dead,” Travys said with absolute certainty in his voice.
Delilah looked up at him questioningly. “What makes you say that?”
“Same thing that told me Wiley Johnson wasn’t going to make it through high school alive. Every time I saw him, I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t picture him in the cap and gown, you know? He was the nicest guy, super smart, funny, everybody liked him. And then some drunk hit him walking home from school. Three in the afternoon. Bright light. Crosswalk. The driver ran over him like he was a speed bump.
“It’s the same thing now. I can’t picture my mom coming back to me. I’m never going to see her again. Never.” His voice caught, the edge of a sob peeking out.
“I’m sorry.”
His eyes narrowed. “Did you know?”
“I guessed.” She sighed. “Travys, your mom is a wonderful person. I have utmost respect for her, but she’s also the perfect victim: alone, scared, vulnerable… Female,” she added. “She was on the run, and no one knew where she was. Isolation makes a person an easy target. The fewer people who know where they are, the fewer people will notice them missing.”
He frowned, lips trembling as he bit back more tears. After a minute he said, “Do you think—do you think she wanted to come back? She didn’t, like, make herself stay gone?”
Delilah tried to catch his eye, but Travys was staring resolutely at the wall behind her. “You filled out your mother’s personality profile yourself, and your grandma verified it. She didn’t have the mentality to be a suicide. If she was going to do something like that, she would have done it years earlier. No.” Delilah shook her head. “I think she ran home to Atlanta to get help, planned on coming back for you, and something unexpected happened. Right now, all we have is conjecture. Who knows? Chris going to jail could be the best thing to happen. If she’s out there, she might finally feel safe enough to try to contact you again.”
“She’s dead,” Travys said flatly. “I know it.”
“In that case, we’ll find the person who killed her and make them pay.” Delilah shifted into his field of vision and waited until he made eye contact. “You’re family, Travys. We will make them pay.”
There was a knock at the door and her boss walked in. Wil looked between them. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Travys misfiled a client folder,” Delilah said with a dismissive wave. “Typical new-intern troubles. I’m telling you, we should have a boot camp for them. Make Margo in the front office run them through alphabetizing and stapling practice before we unleash them to touch my files. It would save me so much trouble.”
