by Sarah Kuhn
And then I was trying to sing a high G-sharp, too. I pushed it from my throat, bright and wild and . . . utterly, wretchedly, thoroughly off-key.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Celine whirl toward me in shock.
Then there was a blinding flash of light and my microphone flew out of my hand and smacked me in the face.
“Ow!” I screeched, my hand flying to my now-bloody nose. I heard my name being shouted by several different people at various levels of panic, but I was hyperfocused on finding the thing that had just tried to attack me.
A loud SMACK reverberated through the bar and my eyes went to the scratched-up wood of the stage, where the mic had landed amidst all Kevin’s music note confetti. It was still attached to the cord, which was slithering out of the way like a speedy little snake.
“Shruti!” I heard Evie yell. “See if you can grab on to it with your hair. Maybe if you hold it in place, I can incinerate that shit!”
The mic leapt off the ground just as Shruti’s long, dark locks shot out, wrapping themselves around the cord. The cord fought back, wriggling around wildly, the mic smacking Shruti’s hair out of its way.
Then, once again, the mic launched itself directly at my face.
This time I was ready, swinging my hand out to grab it by the base. I wrapped my fingers around the mic, making my grip firm, unyielding. “Persistent little bugger,” I snarled.
I was about to raise my hand over my head and bring the mic smashing down against the stage, when I got another fun surprise: the mic sprouted fangs. Tiny, snappy ones—but still sharp enough to disembowel me. It looked like a mini Little Shop of Horrors situation.
It snapped at me, its fangs making revolting clickclickclick sounds.
I tightened my grip and held it away from my face. It changed its aim, swiveling downward to sink those vicious fangs into my wrist.
“Ow!” I spat out. But I still refused to let go, even as the tiny mic-demon started making mincemeat of my poor wrist—then gleefully moved on to various parts of my hand.
“Luce!” Evie yelled. “Let go of it, I don’t want to burn you!”
“Not a chance, darling,” I hissed through gritted teeth, as the thing continued to peck at my skin. “If I let go, it’s free to fling its monstrous self all over the place and I will simply . . . not . . . allow that!”
And with that I raised the mic over my head and brought it down onto the stage with a decisive SMASH.
It shattered into a million pieces, bits of mic shrapnel flying everywhere.
I wobbled and fell back on my ass with a thump, still clutching a broken piece of the mic in my bloody hand. But the mic cord had gone slack, all signs of demon-ness vanishing.
“Lucy!” I wasn’t sure who shouted my name: Evie and Rose were both rushing toward me, their faces concerned. “Are you okay?” Evie exclaimed, kneeling down next to me and grabbing my hand. I touched my face. My nose, at least, had stopped bleeding.
“Those cuts look mostly surface,” Rose said, peering over Evie’s shoulder and nodding at my bloody hand and wrist. “But you should have Nate examine them and patch her up, to make sure there’s no infection.”
I glanced at her and couldn’t help but feel a pang of hurt. Her stoic face was especially stoic, studying my hand as if it was a specimen in a lab. I mean, it was true, I wasn’t seriously hurt and it wasn’t like I was unfamiliar with blood, but . . . maybe she could show a smidgen of concern? Wasn’t that what friends were supposed to do?
“Where’s Celine?” I said, looking around. Everyone else appeared to have vanished. “And Kevin and the photographer? Shruti?”
“We herded Kevin and the photographer into the kitchen,” Evie said, nodding in that direction. “Celine . . . disappeared. I think she bolted. And Shruti—”
“I went to get you a towel from behind the bar,” Shruti said, bustling up and thrusting a pristine piece of terrycloth at me.
“Thanks,” I said, wrapping the towel around my hand and wrist. “Oh, no . . .” I glanced down at the sequined jumpsuit I was wearing and saw splotches of blood dotting the hip. “I’ll get this cleaned, of course.”
My mind was whirling and I couldn’t keep anything straight. Celine had disappeared?
“It’s all right, that kind of thing adds to the character of a piece,” Shruti said with a wink. “How many jumpsuits can say they’ve been in an epic demon battle?”
“This jumpsuit will have some tales to tell for sure,” Evie said with a wry smile. “Shruti, can you go check on Kevin and the photographer?”
“On it,” she said, darting for the kitchen.
“We should probably gather all the pieces of the mic and the cord and take them back to HQ with us,” Evie said, gnawing on her lower lip. “But as with the other mic, it seems to have gone . . . non-demon-y.”
“So that part’s the same, but what was different about the attack this time?” Rose said.
“Well, the microphone had fangs, for one thing,” I said, rubbing my towel-wrapped hand. “It looked a bit like our cupcake friends of yore.”
“And instead of targeting Celine, it went directly for you,” Evie said.
“Indeed.” I shuddered. “Which kind of scratches our theory about an evil force hell-bent on revenge against Celine.”
“Or does it?” Rose murmured, almost to herself.
“What do you mean?” Evie asked, turning to her.
Rose hesitated, studying my bloody, towel-wrapped hand. “Well. This was a classic set-up for training modules at the Academy. If someone’s really set on revenge and they’ve thought through their whole plan, they’ll vary up the attacks, so the target isn’t clear. Sometimes, to throw the investigation off, they’ll even attack . . .” She hesitated again, her eyes going to the floor. “ . . . themselves.”
Evie’s brow crinkled. “So you’re saying Celine is the one behind everything? Like she attacked herself a couple times to send us down the wrong path, then attacked Lucy?”
“No,” I said, a dull sort of dread settling in my gut as I realized what Rose was getting at. “She means it’s me, Evie. I’m the evil mastermind behind all this demon business.”
“What?!” Evie exploded. She shook her head. “No. No way. Rose, how can you even suggest—”
“I didn’t,” Rose said, holding up her hands, her usually composed face pinching with frustration. “I was thinking out loud and you asked—”
“But it’s the conclusion you came to,” I said, my voice flat. I picked at a piece of the towel stained with teeny splatters of blood. “It’s what you believe.”
“Not necessarily,” she said. “I’m trying to utilize the tactics I usually go to in an investigation. Celine is your natural rival. She pops up and suddenly there’s someone who might be better at this thing you’re so good at. It’s practical, logical—”
“Ah, yes, logic.” I scrambled to my feet, anger fizzing through my entire system, the towel falling from my bloody hand.
“Luce!” Evie protested. “Your hand . . .”
I faced off against Rose, hands on my hips. “What kind of logic leads you to believe that your friend who just had her entire hand filleted by a murderous microphone is some kind of evil demonic mastermind?!”
I expected her to capitulate, apologize, but anger flashed through her normally calm eyes and she glared right back at me. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it’s the same logic you’ve been using. You know, the kind that makes you avoid me all day, try to match me up with someone who I clearly don’t want to be with, all while denying that we have any connection and acting like our kiss never even happened?!” Her voice cracked on the last word.
“Um,” Evie said, holding up an index finger, “I think maybe we’ve drifted outside the original parameters of this discussion—”
“That’s different,” I spat at
Rose, ignoring Evie’s peacemaking efforts. “What you’re describing is all . . .” I waved a hand around. “Minutiae. Small stuff. Of no consequence. Whereas you thinking I’m some kind of supervillain—”
“And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Rose snapped, interrupting me. I took a step back, shocked. “Nothing matters, does it, Lucy? It’s all just, what would you say? A lark. A bit of fun. No need to take anything seriously, ever, because that might mean you actually have to care about someone.”
“Of course I care about people!” I said, tears pricking my eyes. “I care about you, Rose—”
“No, you don’t,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “Because if you cared about me at all, you wouldn’t treat me this way. You’d be honest with me. You’d stop trying to run away from . . . from . . .” Now her eyes were filling with tears. Which I really couldn’t bear.
“That’s not fair!” My voice went hoarse and tears started to spill down my cheeks. “Do you really think I’m capable of attacking people? And so viciously?” I took a step closer to her, holding her gaze. “Don’t you know me better than that?”
She stared at me for a long time, an unreadable stew of emotions passing over her face. Then, in an instant, all the fight went out of her. Her shoulders slumped and she ran an exhausted hand over her eyes.
“No, Lucy,” she said, her voice very soft. Somehow, that was worse than her yelling at me. “That’s the problem. You won’t let me know you.”
With that, she turned and shuffled off, looking utterly deflated. I just stood there, vaguely aware of the fact that my hand was bleeding all over the place. I’d probably stained Shruti’s jumpsuit beyond repair—it was having way more adventures than it had ever bargained for.
I felt something soft brush against me and turned to see Evie wrapping my hand in the towel again. I’d forgotten she was there.
“Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s go home.”
Text Messages Between Lucy Valdez and Rose Rorick, One Month Before I Was Accused Of Supervillainy By The Love Of My Life
LV: Rose!! You will never guess what happened today! Evie and I are pretty sure we caught Scott—you know, Aveda’s boyfriend—looking at engagement rings. Of course I offered him my most expert advice, but he’s still trying to act like that’s not what he was doing!
LV: Rose? Are you there?
RR: Hey, Luce. Sorry, I’m not really up to talking right now.
LV: Oh, darling—what’s wrong?
RR: I . . . it was a long day. Never-ending.
LV: What can I do? Would you like me to come over, bring some of Mama’s herbal remedies? Or I could call you on the actual phone, sing a little song. Or! We could go down to The Gutter for some good old-fashioned liquid therapy. They have these new gin fizz cocktails that are simply to die for!
RR: No, that’s okay. I think I just want to go to bed. My team had to do all these scans, it was exhausting, and it didn’t really go anywhere. Felt like we had nothing to show for all that work at the end.
LV: I’m so sorry, that sounds dreadful!
RR: I felt bad for my team. They were so defeated, you know? And the truth was, I felt the same way. But I couldn’t show it. I had to be strong, for them.
LV: You are a true leader.
RR: Can I tell you something?
LV: Can’t you always?
RR: Some days I kind of . . . hate being a leader. I mean, I love the actual work. But the image I have to present of being totally in control at all times, it’s so much pressure, and especially being, like . . .
LV: A WOC role model? A Strong Black Woman?
RR: All of it. I’m proud of what I do, but . . .
LV: But sometimes it’s a lot, and you are only human. It often feels like, as women of color in such prominent positions, we cannot seem human or even just a teeny bit vulnerable, does it not? We must be absolutely perfect. I understand—as a fellow WOC role model and Badass Latina.
RR: Tell me more about your day, Badass Latina.
LV: Hmm, other than the Scott drama? I visited my mama. Listened while she talked through her latest lovely attempts at fiction. Sang her some of her favorite Ana Gabriel. Then fight training with Evie and Aveda—Evie’s much improved. But I suppose anything would be “improved,” considering where she started from. Oh, and Bea—you know, Evie’s younger sister? Of course you do, she’s always writing those deathly dull science reports for you.
RR: Those reports are actually quite entertaining. Bea definitely gives them a certain flair.
LV: She asked me for dating advice! She accidentally double-booked herself.
RR: Can’t she just reschedule one of them?
LV: That’s the thing, darling, she was somehow already on both dates when she texted me! Scowly young man in one location, morose young lady in another. Her racing back and forth!
RR: So what did you tell her?
LV: That they both sounded deathly dull and she should not waste a minute more on either of them.
RR: Ha. I am actually LOL-ing right now. But I can easily imagine the same thing happening to you. Was Young Lucy Valdez the dating hellraiser she is today?
LV: Goodness, how scandalous you make it sound! I suppose I’ve always enjoyed all the fun that comes with lots of dating. But honestly, it was less out of a desire to be a “hellraiser,” and more that . . . there was never much time for anything more serious, what with Mama needing my help maintaining the household and such.
RR: So no serious girlfriends?
LV: I did a have a bit of a thing with a fellow bouncer at my job right out of high school—Antoinette.
RR: You worked with a bouncer named Antoinette?
LV: It takes all kinds, darling. Antoinette and I had a lot of fun. Until we didn’t.
RR: I suppose that’s all I’m going to get of that story?
LV: You know me all too well.
RR: Uh-huh. So anyway, it sounds like you spent your whole day . . . taking care of other people.
LV: Hey, what did I say! Badass Latina, right here.
RR: It seems like a lot of the time, you throw yourself into other people’s lives, trying to take care of them and manage all their feelings, so you don’t have to think too hard about your own.
LV: Oh my, what is with this out of nowhere psychoanalysis??
RR: Sorry. I’m tired, I have no filter. I’m just saying: maybe someone needs to take care of you.
LV: I take care of myself, darling.
RR: Well, if you ever can’t: I’ve got you.
LV: I’ve got you back.
Chapter Eight
Even the British murder shows weren’t helping this time. This was one predicament Scott and Bailey couldn’t get me out of. Sorry, girls: I cocked everything up, and I’m not even sure how.
Nate had patched my cuts—nothing serious, but he went in extra with the antibiotic ointment, blathering on about decreasing the chance of infection as he bandaged my hand and wrist. I’d eaten something for dinner—I couldn’t remember what exactly. And now I was lying on my bed in my ridiculous Victorian nightgown, desperately wondering if there was anything that could possibly get me out of this mope. I couldn’t think of a single item on my list that would begin to touch the iceberg-sized bad mood I’d found myself entrenched in. It had started to rain, sheets of water pounding against the window, which only exacerbated my general malaise.
I figured I’d try the British murder show cure again and was about to fire up a marathon, when I heard a soft knock on the door. It creaked open before I could respond, revealing Evie and Aveda on the other side.
“Hi,” Evie said, as they shuffled in. “I know you’re probably going to say you want to be alone, but, um . . .”
She awkwardly brandished a little white box, an absolutely delectab
le smell emanating from its cardboard folds.
“Are those alcapurrias?” I said, my eyes going wide.
“They are,” Evie said happily. She and Aveda moved to settle next to me on the bed, and she popped the box open, revealing the delicious pouches of plantain dough, fried to perfection. My mouth watered.
I lifted one from the box and gazed at it reverently—but only for a millisecond before cramming the entire thing into my mouth. It exploded with the flavor of savory, spicy ground beef. “Mmmmm,” I breathed, closing my eyes and letting the taste and texture transport me back to childhood, listening to Ana Gabriel and eating these with my mother. “How did you know?” I said to Evie, but my mouth was still full so it sounded more like, “Moweewooooah?”
“We might have kind of, sort of, called your mom,” Evie said, her eyes sliding to Aveda.
“What she means is, I called your mom,” Aveda said, giving me one of her imperious looks. “Evie would never be so intrusive.”
“Only Mama knows these are my favorites,” I murmured. “I used to pair them with petit fours—well, Mama told me they were petit fours, but I think it was actually a mini sheet-cake from the discount grocery store cut into pieces. A very mixed-up meal, culture-wise.”
“Mixed race feels,” Evie said, giving me a nod of recognition.
“And that’s why we also brought you this,” Aveda said, presenting me with another little white box. Which of course contained my mom’s bootleg version of grocery store sheet-cake petit fours.
“Oh my,” I said, scarcely able to believe it. I plucked one free and devoured it in two bites. “Thank you,” I said when I’d finally managed to chew and swallow. “I . . .” My eyes filled with tears and I hastily brushed them away. “Does this mean you don’t think I’m a supervillain?”
