by Sarah Kuhn
Sarah Kuhn
Unsung Heroine
A Heroine Complex Novella
DAW BOOKS, INC.
WWW.DAWBOOKS.COM
Also by Sarah Kuhn
HEROINE COMPLEX
HEROINE WORSHIP
HEROINE’S JOURNEY
Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Kuhn.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Jason Chan.
Cover design by Katie Anderson.
Edited by Katie Hoffman.
Published by DAW Books, Inc.
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
The uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.
ISBN: 978-0-7564-1573-0
Ebook ISBN: 9780756415730
First Publication, July 2019
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
Version_1
For Javier Grillo-Marxuach, who’s always had faith of the heart.
Contents
Title Page
Also by Sarah Kuhn
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Lucy’s story is the definitely the thing I’ve been asked for the most in the Heroine-verse, and it was an absolute joy to write. So thank you to all the readers who requested it! This novella is a bridge between the first Heroine Complex trilogy and the second, and I’m honored that all of you are continuing with me and the girls on this epic quest.
Thanks, as always, to all my badass superhero teams: the Girl Gang, the Shamers, the Ripped Bodice writing crew, NOFXGVN, Heroine Club, the Cluster, and the incredible Asian American arts community of LA. I love you.
Thank you to my agent, Diana Fox, and my editors, Betsy Wollheim and Katie Hoffman—I appreciate your love for these characters very much. Thank you to Alexis Nixon for all that publicity magic, to Josh Starr for keeping the ship running, and to everyone at DAW, Fox Literary, and Penguin Random House for all the care you put into these books.
Thank you to Tom Wong for helping me break this book and shepherd it through its many stages. We truly do share a creative brain sometimes (and a karaoke brain), and I am forever grateful.
Thank you to Jenn Fujikawa, Rebekah Weatherspoon, Jenny Yang, Christine Dinh, Mel Caylo, Bea Koch, Leah Koch, Andrea Letamendi, Amber Benson, Seanan McGuire, Amy Ratcliffe, Christy Black, Javier Grillo-Marxuach, Erik Patterson, Liza Palmer, Nick Brandt, Keiko Agena, Will Choi, Julia Cho, Elizabeth Ho, and Naomi Ko—you all fed this book in some way, and it means so much.
Thank you to Jason Chan for always making these covers so beautiful—Lucy is absolutely perfect.
And thank you, as always, to Jeff Chen—for everything.
Prologue
Present Day
In retrospect, the nunchucks were a mistake.
Yes, of course they’d seemed like a fabulous idea at the time. My vocal prowess is matched only by my sheer athleticism, and the thought of incorporating fight moves into my karaoke performance had sounded like a win-win situation.
What I hadn’t taken into account was the fact that my current work schedule meant rehearsal time was basically nonexistent. My job as the fight trainer/weapons expert/occasional bodyguard/whatever-else-they-might-need to San Francisco’s premier superheroine team is an all-consuming vocation, and I do love it.
Except when the all-consuming nature of said vocation means I almost take some innocent person’s head off with a deadly weapon.
“Should’ve practiced that part a wee bit more,” I murmured to myself as I swung my nunchucks around with a mighty whoosh, nearly connecting with the noggin of piano player extraordinaire Stu Singh.
“Lucy!” he hissed at me. “Watch out.”
I shot him an apologetic look and danced my way to the other end of the ancient, scratched-up wooden stage of local karaoke hole The Gutter, throwing myself into every movement with as much gusto as I could muster. I deployed my brightest smile, twirled in time with the music, and tightened my grip on the mic currently clutched in my nunchucks-free hand. Sweat bloomed on my palm, and I did my best to ignore it—or to at least trick the audience into thinking I was only feeling joy. Certainly nothing unpleasant or sweaty.
Yes, everything is just fine, darlings! The absolute tops! I’m only trying to hold on to my pride, my karaoke queen title, and . . . er, do something else potentially life-altering while swinging face-crushing implements of doom at various parts of my physique. Truly a smashing Friday night, don’t you think?
I’d chosen a universal classic as my final song in the annual Superstars of The Gutter Karaoke Championship: Rihanna’s “Umbrella.” I’d thought the thumping chorus and sinewy slow jam of the bass line would make a wonderful pairing with the nunchucks. If I chose something with a faster beat, I’d reasoned, I’d definitely be in danger of smacking myself in the face. But the slow jamminess was actually not working in my favor. It made my nunchuck swings difficult to time without concentrating, which took my attention away from all the singing and emoting I was supposed to be doing.
I probably would’ve figured that out if I’d practiced more.
But the show must go on, as it always does. And so I took a deep breath and looked inward, finding that spark of genuine pure joy I always felt when I was performing. I reminded myself to really feel the song, to dig deep and find the emotional connection, to be unafraid to show those very real emotions to the audience.
To sing with truth.
I belted out those last few “ella-ella-ellas” with all my might, swinging my nunchucks over my head like a flag of surrender, praying they wouldn’t slip out of my sweaty grasp and crash directly into Stu’s poor head.
As those final, triumphant notes poured out of me, the audience lit up, screaming and cheering—and I lit up with them. I found the spark, I felt those last notes deep in my gut, my heart, my soul. And I made them feel it, too. This is what it’s like when all the elements of a show-stopping karaoke performance come together, forging that incandescent, indescribable connection between singer and audience.
I was humming with so much pleasure, I even deployed my final secret weapon, the one my friend Evie used to tease me about incessantly when we were both still swingin’ single ladies.
Oh, yes. I used the stare-fuck.
The stare-fuck (a term coine
d by Evie, because she likes to act like she’s the most delicate of flowers but actually has a mouth like a sailor) involves me homing in on one person in the crowd, locking eyes, and singing directly to them. I used to do recon before my performances, trying to find the cutest girl in the room. The one who would be the lucky recipient of my gaze, the one who I’d usually end up going home with for a night of no-strings fun.
But now . . . now there is only one cutest girl in the room, and my stare-fuck is reserved for her. I beamed it out at her and tried to shove down the flutter of nerves in my chest.
Yes, you may have crushed that performance, but you still have to do that other possibly life-altering thing tonight . . .
I pushed the thought aside and held my final note for a few seconds longer and then—very carefully—lowered both my nunchucks and my mic to my sides, giving a slight bow. I thanked the goddess RiRi as I returned the mic to its stand and bounded off the stage, setting my weapons on a nearby table. Then I threw myself into the arms of the woman who’s owned my stare-fuck for the last four years: Rose Rorick. Buttoned-up police sergeant, head of the San Francisco Police Department’s Demon Unit, and secret possessor of the world’s most marshmallow-soft heart.
“That was great, babe,” she murmured in my ear.
I smiled against the crisp cotton of her shirt—always pressed to perfection and carrying her soft, sweet scent of vanilla and citrus. She’d been experimenting recently with wearing sharp prints rather than the simple, unvarnished white she usually favored. Tonight’s shirt was a lovely navy blue pinstripe, every stripe neatly aligned.
I find Rose’s dedication to precision in all things mind-blowingly hot.
“Really, love?” I said, pulling back and meeting her beautiful brown eyes. “Because I feel that if I’d just practiced more—”
“Lucy.” She gave me that slight grin that always made me heart beat faster—because for her, it’s the equivalent of the most beaming of smiles. She used to hardly smile at all, but those sweet little grins have become much more common over the years, and I’d like to think I’ve had something to do with that. “You know it was great. The crowd loves you. No one else got even close to that reaction.”
That’s another reason I love Rose. She never lets me get away with any bullshit.
“And by the way . . .” She slid an arm around my waist and drew me close again, her lips brushing my ear. A delicious shiver ran up my spine. “You look beautiful.”
I flushed, smoothing the full skirt of my dress. I’d gone with an adorable vintage number from my friend Shruti’s shop: black, sleeveless, fit-and-flare, delicate lace accents at the neckline. Shruti, fashion genius, had noted the black would look dramatic and stark onstage, bringing out the golden undertones of my honey brown skin. And the deceptive simplicity of the cut allowed me to accessorize with flair, adding dangly gold earrings, a patent leather belt with a bow, and patent heels. I’d swept my shiny light brown hair into a high ponytail, figuring I could swing it around along with my nunchucks. And I’d finished the look with my favorite accessory of all time, my trusty weapons garter—a ring of lace that held a neat row of emergency blades, barely hidden by the dress’s just-above-the-knee length.
Just because I wasn’t technically on the job didn’t mean I couldn’t be prepared.
“Evie and company are over by the bar,” Rose said, her fingertips wandering absently to the back of my neck. “You want to go join them?”
“No,” I breathed out slowly. I faced her, taking her in. The tall, broad frame, accentuated by so much lean muscle. The dark brown skin that was always so incredibly soft under my fingertips. Cheekbones that could cut glass. And those full, gorgeous lips that were capable of so much truly intense—
Oh, dear. Now I was letting myself get distracted. I had to focus on what I needed to do tonight, besides win yet another karaoke championship. Another flutter of nerves ran through me, and I shook it off.
“Let’s not join them just yet, love,” I said, nodding toward my friends. “Let’s just be the two of us for a moment.”
She gave me that slight grin again and took my hand in hers, then glanced down at our intertwined fingers and cocked an eyebrow.
“Your palm’s sweaty,” she said, her voice going into Rose Rorick, Police Investigator mode. “Luce, what’s up? Are you nervous?”
“Oh, maybe just a skosh, darling,” I said, trying to play it off with a brilliant smile.
Rose frowned. “You can be real with me. You know that. I’ve got you, remember?”
Blast. Was I really about to ruin this?
“All right,” I said softly, disentangling our fingers. “You’re right. There is something wrong. And there’s something we desperately need to discuss.”
Chapter One
Four Years Earlier
“How many more of these, um, ‘performances’ do we have to sit through?” Evie Tanaka cocked an inquiring eyebrow at me and took a long swig of her beer.
“I heard the little quotey marks around ‘performances,’ love,” I said, arching an eyebrow right back at her. “Are you implying that some of the karaoke offerings here at The Gutter . . .” I swept my arm out expansively, encompassing the patchy red velvet tablecloths and dingy lighting of our favorite borderline seedy drinking hole/karaoke bar. “ . . . are less than superstar quality?”
“I’m implying that you’re clearly the best, as you demonstrated with tonight’s performance,” Evie said. “So why are we continuing this charade of watching other people wail their way through the classics when we could be crowning you our queen and going home?” She nudged me under the table with her foot as the overly earnest guy onstage tried to hit the punishing high note near the end of “Unchained Melody.” His attempt was so loud and dreadful, the mini chandelier above the stage—something Kevin, the owner of The Gutter, had added recently to up the “class factor”—seemed to vibrate in agony.
I winced, and Stu Singh, The Gutter’s grizzled half-demon piano player, winced along with me. Goodness knows how many utterly wretched performances Stu had been subjected to over the years, but somehow he always kept on playing, every arpeggio run and key change note-perfect. I admired him a great deal for that.
“Ah.” I waved a hand at Evie—and took a moment to admire how my sparkly nail polish caught the light. As if I was wearing a mini chandelier on each fingertip. “I’m sensing you want to get home as fast as superhumanly possible so you can engage in a world-class shag-a-thon with your hot new husband.”
“Well . . . yes,” Evie said. Her cheeks flushed, making her freckles stand out. “But mostly I want to see you get your due. And to . . . not have to listen to this anymore.” She winced again as Earnest Unchained Melody Guy added unnecessary (and off-key) vocal flourishes to the end of the song.
“Really, Evelyn. I never took you for such an absolute snob. Karaoke is all about letting your true spirit out, allowing the joy to overtake you, and having enough panache to give the crowd a good show. Skill is not as important a factor.”
“A convenient attitude for someone as skilled as you to have,” Evie said with a grin.
“Anyway,” I said, “you’ve got one more night of these thrilling musical wonders. I face the other top finalist in tomorrow’s round.”
“I hope you get someone at least mildly competent this time,” she said, rolling her eyes and running a hand through her tangle of dark brown curls. Evie’s hair always looked equal parts cute and messy—which kind of summed her up in general. “Let’s talk about something else. What’s going on with Rose?” She took another swig of beer and inclined her head to the other side of the room, where our favorite officer of the law was sharing after-work drinks with some of her Demon Unit colleagues.
As if on cue, Rose turned in our direction, her eyes locking with mine. She raised her beer bottle at me, and I gave her a nod and smile. A friendly smile. That was
all about friendship. And nothing else. Even though she didn’t smile back, I sensed the warmth percolating in her gaze. Rose pretty much never smiled, but I’d learned how to watch her big brown eyes to get an idea of what she was feeling. Just one of the four thousand or so facts I’d memorized about her. All very friendly facts.
“Sounds more like a question for her, darling,” I said to Evie, suddenly extremely interested in my sparkly chandelier nails. “Why don’t you go ask?”
“You know what I mean, Luce.” She kicked me again. “What’s going on between you guys? Have you made any moves yet?” She bobbled her shoulders around, as if trying to approximate “moves.”
“Mmm,” I said, stalling for time as I took a delicate sip of my fizzy elderflower gin cocktail. I glanced back at the stage. Kevin, his usual put-out demeanor on full display, was introducing the last contestant in tonight’s round of the championship, a dark-haired beauty I didn’t recognize.
Hmm. That was odd. I knew pretty much everyone on the local karaoke circuit, but I’d never seen her before. I’d surely remember. She was very tall (something I tend to notice because I am very short), her impossibly long legs accentuated by the flowing lines of her chic black jumpsuit. Her makeup was dramatic, highlighted by a perfect smoky eye aesthetic and flawless application of highlighter that made her light brown skin glitter under the lights. And her features were angular and striking, most notably her swooping nose, which bisected her face like a graceful exclamation point.
She was drop-dead gorgeous, and usually I’d take note, perk up, and start concocting a plan to woo her. But now . . . I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm. My eyes involuntarily slid back to Rose, and I shook my head, ordering my libido to get itself under control—or to at least aim itself at the right person.
“She’s mixed, right?” Evie whispered, nodding at the woman onstage. “My Hapa Radar is totally going off.”
