The alley ran about a hundred feet straight back before curving to the right. A few Dumpsters sat against the brick walls, and shadows pooled around them like blood. I looked—really looked—toward the end of the alley where the shadows were the darkest. Most people would have seen nothing but blackness ringed with snow, but I wasn’t most people. Not anymore. My vision was just as good at night as it was during the day.
The sound of metal clanged together again. A black zip line uncoiled at the end of the alley, and a figure slid to a stop, his booted feet crunching into the snow-covered ground.
His back was to me as he undid a buckle securing him to the line. He held up something that resembled a gun and pressed a button. The line, which had a silver hook attached to the end, zipped into the gun, like a tape measure being drawn into its case, and he stuck the weapon in a leg holster. He turned then, and I got a look at the noisemaker.
He wore a cobalt-blue leather costume that outlined his muscular body. In a darker shade of blue, a fierce-looking bird with outstretched wings spread across his chest. But the most prominent parts of the bird were its talons, which appeared ready to erupt from the costume and slice you with their sharp, curved edges. A harness around the man’s right thigh held a gun topped by what looked like a small crossbow, while the one on his left leg contained the gun with the grappling hook I’d just seen him use. A belt studded with crossbow bolts encircled his lean waist. A cobalt toboggan covered his hair, probably to protect him from the cold, while a wide, blue-tinted, wing-shaped visor wrapped around his face, obscuring most of it from sight.
It was Talon, one of Bigtime’s many superheroes. Talon was a bit of a Robin Hood. He frequently robbed the rich to give to charity. At least, he robbed the rich drug dealers and gangsters who populated the city. Unfortunately, there were almost as many of those as there were ubervillains.
Talon also wasn’t your typical hero in one other respect—he didn’t have a superpower. At least, none I knew of. Most of your Bigtime heroes and villains fell into one of two categories. They were either Ps or Gs—powers or gadgets. That was how I thought of them. Superheroes like Fiera, the member of the Fearless Five who could form fireballs with her bare hands, were Ps. Heroes like Talon, who relied on complicated weapons and other gizmos, were Gs. I admired the Gs much more than the Ps. Anyone with a power could be a hero. It took someone with a lot of guts to be a hero without any superpowers.
There was a finesse to Talon’s gizmos, a cool cleverness I appreciated far more than the brute strength some of the other heroes used to fight evil. The crossbow-topped gun on his thigh could do everything from shoot darts to morph into a quarterstaff, and his grappling hook gun had a myriad of functions as well. At least, that was what my friend Piper said. She knew everything there was to know about Bigtime’s superheroes and ubervillains.
Talon slid something small, skinny, and silver into a slot on his belt. I shrugged and turned, ready to get to my warm, cozy loft, when another odd sound caught my ear. It sounded like more zippers—a lot more zippers.
A second later, six men dressed in dark clothes rappelled down into the alley.
“There he is!”
“Get him!”
“Don’t let him get away!”
Talon whirled to face the men as they ganged up on him, but he more than held his own. In addition to being a gadget guru, he was a solid street fighter. The superhero punched, kicked, and took down one man after another. I just stood there and watched, too awestruck to do anything else.
Talon had just dispatched the last man when a gun burped orange fire from the other side of the alley. A bullet pierced Talon’s left shoulder, and he cried out in pain. Clutching his shoulder, he stumbled back. The bullet kept going. It hit the wall behind him and exploded, spewing a black gas in Talon’s face. The superhero screamed, as though the gas burned him. I shrank back against the alley wall.
A figure eased out of the shadows where the bullet had come from. He looked like a bad guy from some old spaghetti western movie. He wore a long black leather duster and cowboy boots, complete with silver tips and jangling silver spurs. Black hair hung loose to his shoulders, while a black-and-white, paisley bandana covered the bottom half of his face. A black ten-gallon hat was pushed low on his forehead. He held a silver revolver, except it was much larger than your typical gun. I knew who he was too—Bandit, one of the city’s ubervillains who was known for his two six-shooters. The handguns fired a variety of unusual projectiles, in addition to bullets. Bandit was a gun for hire, so to speak, an ubervillain who pimped himself out as a mercenary and enforcer to anyone who could pay his price.
Gun drawn, Bandit moved in front of Talon, who slumped against the alley wall, clutching his wounded shoulder. The other men limped to their feet, forming a semicircle around the injured superhero.
“Tycoon wants what you took from him,” Bandit said, drawing out each and every syllable. “Now.”
Tycoon was mixed up in this too? A whole smorgasbord of heroes and villains had come out to play tonight. Tycoon was Bigtime’s most notorious mob boss—and one of the most secretive. He’d never been photographed, and only two or three of his most trusted lieutenants even knew what he looked like or who he really was. More info gleaned from Piper. She paid attention to such things.
Tycoon could have been an ubervillain for all his secrecy. Yet somehow, he managed to run an empire of gambling and prostitution—and never get caught. Lately, the rumor mill and news outlets buzzed about him branching out and dealing in euphoridon, a very dangerous, very addictive radioactive drug with all sorts of nasty side effects.
“Tycoon … can go … to hell,” Talon said. “And you with him.”
Bandit raised his gun and leveled it at Talon’s heart. “Fine. Dead bodies are always easier to search anyway.”
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Talon with a bullet wound in his shoulder—and about to be killed by an ubervillain. I might know a thing or two about handling drunken businessmen, anxious debutantes, and carefree caterers, but this was beyond my area of expertise. By the time I called the police, Talon would be dead, and Bandit would have whatever he was after.
I decided to improvise, something I was pretty good at. Through the slits in my coat, I patted the various pockets of my vest, searching for something useful. I’d once saved the mayor from embarrassment by spray-painting red polka dots all over her white suit after she’d sat down in a puddle of ketchup at a restaurant opening. Surely, I had something that could help save a superhero. Gum, breath mints, tissues, hairspray, more relaxidon pills …
My fingers closed over my cell phone. I whipped it out and turned it around, shielding the screen’s light from the goons in the alley. They probably couldn’t see me anyway, but I didn’t want to take any chances.
I tore off my glove and scrolled through the various ring tones until I came to the one I needed—the police siren. I’d used it before to sober up wasted frat boys and sorority girls at college mixers.
I called up the sound file and pressed Play. Half a dozen sirens erupted from the phone. It didn’t sound like the real deal to my supersensitive ears, but it should be good enough to fool Bandit and his gang of thugs. At least, I hoped it was. Otherwise, there would be one less superhero in Bigtime.
Bandit’s head whipped around to the end of the alley where I stood. I forced myself not to shrink back into the shadows. I didn’t think he could see me, because I wore black from head to toe, but I wasn’t going to draw attention to myself by moving. You never knew what ubervillains would do—or what they were capable of.
“Bandit! Let’s get out of here!” one of the men said. “The cops are coming!”
I cranked up the volume, trying to add to the illusion.
Bandit kept staring in my direction, probably looking for the red and blue flash of the oncoming police cars. A small click rang out above the roar of my cell phone. Somehow, during the commotion, Talon had managed to straighten up—and he now had h
is crossbow gun pointed at Bandit’s back.
The ubervillain looked over his shoulder, then back in my direction. I turned up the volume on the phone as loud as it would go, hoping it would be enough to save Talon.
“This isn’t over, Talon,” Bandit snarled. “Tycoon wants you dead. We’ll be back for what you took.”
Bandit spat on the snow, swiveled on his booted heel, and stomped through the right side of the alley. The other men limped along behind him. Talon held on until they left. Then, he let out a low groan and fell to one knee. Blood dripped from the wound on his shoulder, staining the white powder a harsh crimson.
I waited to be sure Bandit and his men weren’t coming back before I scurried to the end of the alley. “Are you all right?”
Talon paid no attention to me. Instead, he clawed off his visor and scooped handfuls of snow onto his eyes. The superhero had his back to me, so I couldn’t see his face.
“It burns,” he said to no one in particular. “Damn, that burns.”
I assumed he was talking about the gas that had erupted from the bullet Bandit shot him with. My foot snagged on something in the snow, and I grunted and yanked it free. Talon froze. Then, he sprang into action, searching the ground around him. His fingers closed over his visor, and he slipped it on his face before turning toward me.
“Is someone there?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to respond when I realized Talon wasn’t looking in my direction. I was less than six feet away, but his head was pointed off to the right, as if I was standing over there. But there was no way he could have avoided seeing me. Even I wasn’t that invisible.
Unless … he couldn’t see me.
Maybe he couldn’t. The gas must have penetrated his visor, gotten into his eyes, and blinded him. I wondered if the effect was temporary—or permanent.
“Is someone there?” Talon repeated, moving into a low crouch, his hand tightening on his crossbow gun.
I could tell by the sharpness in his voice that he was worried I’d seen him—that I knew who he was. I didn’t know what to do, so I played dumb. I waited a beat, then scuffled around in the snow as if I’d just arrived.
“What happened?” I asked, playing the part of the upstanding citizen.
Talon gestured at the blood trickling down his shoulder. “I got shot.”
I started to open my mouth to respond but thought better of it. From the way I was stating the obvious, you would have thought I was the one who was blind.
“That. Right. Let me call the police.”
He frowned. “They’re almost here, aren’t they?”
I looked down and realized my phone was still on and still blaring out the sound of sirens.
“Oh no,” I said, shutting it off. “That’s just one of my cell phone ring tones. I heard a strange noise and clicked it on. It’s something I do whenever I’m nervous.”
Talon cocked his head to one side as if I was spouting nonsense. Maybe I was. So much had happened in the past few minutes. It was a lot to process.
“But you’re hurt. Let me call the cops for real. They’ll bring an ambulance and take you to the hospital—”
“No!” he said. “No cops, no ambulance, no hospital. I’ll be all right. Just give me a minute.”
“All right? You have a bullet wound in your shoulder. How is that all right?”
The wet, coppery stench of his blood made my stomach twist. That was the bad thing about having supersenses—I heard and felt and smelled bad things that much more. These days, being exposed to even a bit of blood was more than enough to make me light-headed.
Talon reached out and fumbled at my hand, the one holding the phone. His fingers closed around my wrist. Good grief, the man had a strong grip, even though he’d just been shot.
“I can’t just leave you out here,” I said. “You’re bleeding, and it’s snowing again. You’ll get hypothermia in no time.”
His fingers tightened on my wrist. The palm of his hand was rough and cold, his fingers hard and calloused, but a hot tingle traveled up my arm at his touch. A small rush of interest, of attraction, I hadn’t felt in a long time. I wasn’t into superheroes, not like Piper, who could recite obscure facts about every hero and villain in town, but I found myself very curious and very drawn to Talon.
“No. Promise me, you won’t call the police. They can’t protect me. Bandit will come to the hospital and finish the job, and I won’t be able to stop him. Not now. And a lot of innocent people could get hurt if they get in his way.”
“But—” I protested.
“No, no police.”
I drew in a breath and opened my mouth to argue when I caught a whiff of his scent. He smelled like snow mixed with mint—crisp, cold, sharp, clean. A wonderful aroma, even if it was tinged with blood.
I looked up into his face. I couldn’t see his eyes, of course. The blue, wraparound visor hid them from view, but he had a strong, square jaw. Talon wasn’t really handsome, not like Debonair or one of the other suave superheroes, but he had a rugged look that appealed to me.
He was Talon. A superhero. A larger-than-life G-man who went around the city making things right.
And I found myself nodding in total agreement, as if it was a perfectly reasonable plan, instead of the dumbest thing I’d ever heard.
“All right. I won’t call the cops.”
“Good.” Talon smiled. “And let me thank you. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be breathing at the moment. Now, can I ask you to do one more thing for me?”
“Anything,” I asked, mesmerized.
“Help me stand up.”
I scooted closer to him and put my shoulder under his left arm. He was heavier than I expected—much heavier than Peter Potter had been. Then again, Talon was all leather-clad muscle, whereas Peter had been all portly businessman. I made sure my boots were steady beneath me, then rose to my feet. I’m sure there were some women in Bigtime who would have gracefully guided Talon to his feet, who would have been strong and solid, while still maintaining elegance and girly-girl mystique. Not me. I grunted like a noisy tennis player from the effort of hauling the superhero upright.
But I managed it, and we stood there, like lovers in a heated clinch, my face pressed against his chin. A bit of dark stubble scraped against my skin, and I breathed in, enjoying his crisp, cold scent. Talon was a couple of inches over six feet, but seemed larger, stronger in the dark night. I’d never paid much attention to superheroes, but I was definitely intrigued by the man before me. Even if he was bleeding all over my coat. Good thing it was black. At least I couldn’t see the stains easily, even if I could smell them.
Talon slid his arm off my shoulder and took a step back. His boots skidded on the snow a moment before he found his footing.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked, still worried.
Talon’s face was pale, despite the stubble darkening his chin. Beads of cold sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breath puffed out in ragged gasps—all signs of someone about to pass out, superhero or not.
“I’m fine,” he said. “It’s just a flesh wound. Now, I’m sure you want to get in out of the cold. So, it’s time for me to go.”
Talon grabbed at his leg harness, fumbling around until he found his grappling hook gun. Finally pulling it free, he raised it over his head and squeezed the trigger. The hook arced up into the night sky before clanging onto the roof above our heads. Talon clipped himself to the line and gave it a tug to make sure it was anchored on something solid.
“Thanks again for the rescue,” Talon said, looking off to the left instead of at me. “Tonight, you’re my hero.”
Talon started to press a button on the side of the grappling hook gun, but his finger slipped off the gadget. He tried again, with the same result. The third time, he dropped the gun entirely. The superhero teetered from side to side, his legs crumpled, and he pitched forward, face-first into the snow.
I stared at his unconscious form. Snow drifted down from the black
winter sky, covering his cobalt-blue costume one white, crystal flake at a time.
I rubbed my aching head. I had a wounded, unconscious superhero who’d made me promise not to call the police and not take him to the hospital. Bandit and his thugs could come back any second, and the weather was going from bad to worse.
I was used to dealing with crises, but this was a doozy even for me.
What was I going to do now?
Chapter Four
Even though my headache throbbed toward full-blown migraine, I didn’t panic. I never did, not even when the cruise ship I’d rented out for a bar mitzvah capsized in the middle of Bigtime Bay with two hundred people on board. I hadn’t panicked then, with the threat of mass casualties and the end of my career as an event planner staring me in the face, and I wasn’t going to now.
Instead, I thought about things, the snow still falling around me. I looked at my phone. I could call the cops. I should call the cops. They could help the superhero, make sure he got the medical attention he needed. But Talon didn’t want me to. And he’d been right about something. If Bandit came after him while the superhero was in the hospital, he’d be dead—and other people would get caught in the crossfire.
Besides, I’d promised the superhero I wouldn’t. I always kept my promises—even when I had to plan the perfect party in less than a week’s time.
So, no calling the police.
I could hail a cab, but I doubted any were running at this hour, especially with the snow picking up speed. Even if I did find a cab, the driver would just take Talon to the hospital, and the police would get involved there.
So, no hailing a cab.
But I had to do something. I couldn’t leave the superhero in the alley in the cold. Talon would freeze to death—or Bandit would come back and finish him off. I massaged my temples, trying to think of some anonymous place where the superhero would be safe, warm, and hopefully stop bleeding.
The convention center. The public library. Quicke’s. Oodles o’ Stuff. Paradise Park. I ticked off the downtown locations in my head, discarding them all. Every place was either already closed, or there’d be too many people asking too many questions.
Nightingale (Bigtime superhero series, Book 4) Page 3
