Nightingale (Bigtime superhero series, Book 4)

by Jennifer Estep

  I glanced over my shoulder toward the deserted street. I should have just kept on walking instead of stopping to investigate some strange noise. Damn superhearing. It always got me in trouble. I could have been at home in bed in my loft right now, instead of out here, freezing my ass off—

  Wait a minute. My loft. I could take Talon to my loft. It was safe and warm and free of ubervillains. Better yet, it was only a few blocks away.

  It was the best plan I could come up with—the only plan. Now, all I had to do was figure out how to get him there. I didn’t think I could carry Talon. At least, not more than a few feet. I looked back toward the end of the alley, hoping Fiera, Wynter, or some other superstrong superhero would just happen along to help me move Talon—or better yet take him off my hands altogether.

  But, of course, it didn’t happen. That was another reason I didn’t pay much attention to superheroes. They were never around when you really needed them. Like during my water-logged bar mitzvah. I’d expected, even hoped, for Cap’n Freebeard and his Saucy Wenches to show up and take everyone off the sinking ship, but the pirate and his psychedelic party barge had been nowhere in sight. We’d had to wait for the coast guard to rescue us.

  So I was on my own—like always.

  That’s why I wear a vest crammed full of emergency supplies. Saving a bleeding superhero from freezing to death wasn’t the sort of emergency I usually handled, but if I could strong-arm Bigtime’s wealthiest citizens into behaving, however badly, I could figure out some way to get Talon to my loft.

  I unbuttoned my coat and patted the pockets on my vest, going through a mental inventory of everything stuffed inside. Nail polish. Tissues. Bobby pins. Hairspray. Breath mints. Garbage bag—

  Garbage bag—that might work.

  I unzipped the appropriate pocket and pulled out a large, black, plastic bag—one of several I carried around in case somebody at one of my events made an enormous mess. They also were good to give to folks like Peter Potter when they’d had a few too many.

  I looked at Talon’s long torso. Good thing it was a heavy-duty, supersized bag, because he wasn’t a small man. I unrolled the bag on the snow next to him and tied two knots in the end. Then, I got down on my knees and pushed and strained and heaved, rolling him onto the bag, face-up.

  During my shoving, a silver flash drive slipped out of a slot on Talon’s belt. I picked it up. The gizmo looked like your typical flash drive—except for the letter T embossed on the glossy surface. I wondered if the T stood for Talon or something else. No writing or labels were stuck on it to tell me what information it contained, but I slipped the drive into my coat pocket. I’d give it back to Talon later, when we were both warm and conscious. I also plucked his grappling hook gun out of the snow, unbuckled him and the gun from the zip line, and slid the weapon back into the holster on his leg.

  The superhero’s shoulder wound had stopped bleeding, probably because he’d been lying in the cold snow for several minutes. Talon’s leather costume looked fairly thick and weatherproof. I hoped it would keep him warm enough until I got him to my loft.

  Once I had Talon more or less arranged on the bag, I brought the edges up and tied it around him. By the time I finished knotting the plastic together, the superhero resembled a mummy swathed in one big, shiny, black bandage.

  Talon didn’t move or stir during the ordeal. I was glad he couldn’t see me like this, grunting, sweating, and flailing in the snow. I wasn’t naturally graceful anyway, not like Piper, but I was being clumsier than usual. My normal awkward self and then some. Not that Talon could see me anyway with the gas Bandit had sprayed him with. Or that he’d ever noticed me before. Few people did.

  Then again, I’d never really been up close and personal with a superhero either. It wasn’t like I was one of the folks in the Slaves for Superhero Sex group. SSS was one of the city’s more infamous organizations, filled with people who did extremely stupid things like handcuff themselves to railroad tracks in hopes of being saved by a hero or even a villain—and showing their gratitude with their bodies afterward. But I couldn’t scoff too much at the group. The members had been smart enough to hire me to plan their Valentine’s Day dance this year.

  Once I had Talon wrapped up, I grabbed the two knots I’d tied at the end of the bag, using them as handles. I turned toward the front of the alley, my back to Talon, took a step forward—and almost yanked my arms off.

  The bag didn’t come with me, didn’t budge an inch. I was lucky the plastic hadn’t ripped. But, this was the plan I’d come up with, so I tried again. Still, the bag didn’t move.

  I tried again. Nothing.

  Finally, I hunkered down, dug my boots into the snow, and surged forward with a fierce growl that would have drowned out Yeti Girl. This time, the bag moved—five whole inches. Well, it was five inches closer to my building.

  “You’re heavy, you know that?” I groused.

  Talon didn’t respond.

  I wiped the freezing sweat off my forehead and tried to quit wheezing. It was times like these when I wished I’d gotten superstrength from my run-in with that overcharged amp. If you’re going to almost get electrocuted to death, you should get something good out of it. But no, I’d wound up with supersenses instead, which were completely useless in this situation.

  But Abby Alexandra Appleby was nothing if not persistent. Somehow, I grunted, heaved, and dragged Talon out of the alley. The snow made it easier, once I got going. If the ground had been bare, I never would have managed it. The bag helped too, sliding along the icy terrain.

  Three minutes later, I reached the end of the alley. I looked up and down the street. Swirls of snow gusted here and there, splattering a fresh coat of the white stuff on whatever was in the way. I cocked my head to one side, listening—really listening. Silence. More fat, fluffy flakes cascaded around me, whipped sideways by a blustery breeze, like I was trapped in a snow globe someone kept shaking.

  Once I got my breath back, I cracked my neck, gripped the bag handles, and plowed down the street. I managed to build up a bit of speed, mainly by ignoring Talon’s body thumping up and down on the snow. I did stop when I lost my footing and banged the superhero into the side of a mailbox, but Talon didn’t wake up, so I figured it hadn’t hurt him too much. Besides, I was saving his life. What were a few bruises compared to that?

  Normally, it would have taken me about five minutes to walk the remaining blocks to my building. Tonight, dragging an unconscious superhero behind me, it took closer to thirty.

  By the time I reached my building, I was a sweaty mess. My toboggan had slid down into my eyes, along with my brown hair, and my scarf hung limp around my neck. My body ached from the strain of hauling Talon around, and my numb, stiff fingers wanted to stay permanently curled around the knots on the bag. Why couldn’t I have run into somebody lighter, like Aira? The thin, petite superhero, who was fond of singing opera while she fought ubervillains, didn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds. Talon tipped the scales at almost twice that much.

  My building didn’t have a doorman, something I was extremely grateful for tonight. If someone had been around, he would have asked a lot of awkward questions, like Why do you have a black bag wrapped around a superhero? Why are you dragging him through the streets late at night? Aren’t you worried about his head flopping around like that?

  I let go of the bag and opened the door with my key. Then, I stuck one foot inside so the door would stay open while I dragged Talon through it. I’d never been fond of brown linoleum, but it was relatively easy to pull the unconscious superhero across the lobby floor.

  Management had renovated the elevator a couple of months ago, so I didn’t have to worry about how I was going to drag the superhero up five flights of stairs. I pulled Talon over to the gray metal doors, punched the Up button, and slumped against the wall, exhausted from my snowy workout.

  The elevator’s doors opened, but no ping! announced its arrival. I’d disabled the box weeks ago. There we
re some noises I just couldn’t stand with my superhearing. Pinging elevators topped the list, along with roaring vacuum cleaners and chirping fax machines.

  I hauled Talon inside and punched 5 for my floor. The elevator creaked and groaned, but slowly it started to rise. Gears churned and ground out ragged whispers, but I couldn’t detect any other noises. I’d moved into the building six months ago for several reasons—including the fact that it was as still as a tomb. Most of the other residents were senior citizens. Nice, quiet senior citizens who didn’t slam their doors or scream at each other and add to my migraines. Plus, the walls were very, very thick. I’d called up the building’s architect and grilled him about that before I signed the deed.

  The elevator door slid back, fronting a short hallway with a door at the end. I tugged Talon out of the elevator, opened the door to my loft, pulled him inside, and flipped on the lights. Then, I closed the door behind me and slumped against it, taking a much-needed breather.

  My loft took up the entire fifth floor, but the space was empty, almost barren, mainly because I wasn’t around enough to fix it up. Boxes full of clothes, books, and dishes lined one wall—the same spot they’d been in for months. The only thing I’d completely unpacked had been my collection of CDs and albums. Music was the one thing I couldn’t live without—and the only loud noise that didn’t automatically give me a headache.

  Speaking of music, I needed some now. I shucked off my dripping boots and shrugged out of my coat. The coppery stench of Talon’s blood on the black fabric made my stomach roil, and I made a mental note to drop the garment off at the dry cleaners.

  I padded over to my stereo system, which took up the better part of one wall. I hit a button on my iPod, and a playlist featuring The Killers blared on. Maybe the pulsing rock beats would get me energized enough to get Talon into the bathroom so I could clean him up.

  The superhero still didn’t wake up, not even when I unwrapped the bag from around him. Talon was surprisingly dry, considering all of the snow I’d dragged him across and through, and he didn’t seem to be any worse for wear from the bumps he’d taken during the trip—except for the wound in his shoulder. A small trickle of blood ran out of it, and the edges had turned purple from the cold. That didn’t look good.

  I plodded over to my desk and retrieved my executive-style chair—complete with rollers. Sweet, sweet rollers. I dug through one of the boxes marked Towels and put some black ones over the chair so the leather wouldn’t get soaked with melting snow and blood. Then, I wrestled Talon up into the chair. From there, it was a breeze to slide him across my hardwood floor into the bathroom. I pumped the reclining lever on the bottom of the chair and tipped Talon over into the bathtub, which was sunk into the tiled floor.

  I wiped the sweat off my face and cracked my neck to relieve some of the tension. I wouldn’t have to work out for a week after this Fiera-like effort. I thought screaming at Kyle sapped my energy. Lugging a superhero around was worse.

  But I wasn’t done with Talon yet. Promise, or no promise, I wasn’t letting him die, which meant figuring out some way to see how injured he really was and warm him up at the same time. I crawled into the oversize bathtub with the unconscious superhero, propped him up into a sitting position, and placed a towel under his head.

  Then I stripped him.

  I started with his boots, yanking off the heavy blue shoes and matching socks, before moving up and unbuckling the silver belt around his waist. The leg harnesses and grappling hook gun came next, minus the hook, since Talon had shot it away in the alley.

  I put the weapon aside and moved on to the crossbow gun. I hefted that weapon in my hands, surprised by how light it was. The metal bow on top was the same cobalt color as the rest of Talon’s costume. A bolt rested in place, the string pulled taut. All you had to do to fire it was pull the trigger mounted on the gun below. I peered at the bolt. The metal shaft led down to a clear, arrow-like tip that seemed to be made of glass. Something blue shimmered inside the bolt, and I jiggled the bow. The material sloshed around like liquid. Maybe Talon has his own version of blinding gas, just like Bandit did.

  I curled my hand around the barrel of the gun, my finger on the trigger. A row of buttons ran along either side of the barrel, just pressing into my hand. Each and every one of the buttons would probably make the weapon do amazing things. I didn’t push any of them, though. I didn’t need to shoot a crossbow bolt through the bathroom wall—or into my foot. I set the weapon down and continued with my superhero stripping.

  I managed to peel Talon’s pants down his legs and almost wished I hadn’t when I realized he’d gone commando. But I needed to get him warm and cleaned up, and I didn’t think he’d appreciate me soaking his costume in water. Next came the shirt—part of which was stuck to Talon’s bloody shoulder. I tugged gently at first, trying to pry the leather off the crusty wound without causing him any more pain, but it wouldn’t come free. In the end, I had to yank the stiff, sticky fabric away from the bullet holes in the front and back of his body. The superhero let out a low groan, but didn’t wake up. Probably for the best.

  I also pulled Talon’s toboggan off his head. I stared at his hair, a rich shade of chestnut shot through with maple highlights. He wore it short in the back and a bit fluffed out on top, or maybe that was because I’d yanked off his winter hat. For some reason, I’d always pictured Talon as more of a Nordic type, with shocking, white-blond locks and icy blue eyes to match.

  I laid the toboggan with the rest of Talon’s clothes just outside the door so they wouldn’t get wet. The boots, pants, and weapons were fine, but the blood-soaked shirt was beyond help, especially with two bullet holes in the left shoulder.

  I turned back to the naked superhero in the tub, my gaze examining his body from head to toe. Yeah, I knew it was wrong, but I leered at him. Only a little. Piper would never forgive me if I didn’t. Believe me, Talon had plenty of assets to admire. Washboard abs, strong, corded arms, good pecs. I’d never believed in love at first sight. But lust? Certainly.

  In addition to the hard body, Talon had plenty of scars; small, slightly puckered holes I took to be old bullet wounds; thin slashes from knives, swords, or other sharp weapons; even a burn mark that looked like a triangle on his right shoulder. Other nicks and scrapes dotted his torso like weird white freckles.

  I traced my fingers over the triangle burn. Then, I laid my palm against his chest, right over his heart. Hot tingles surged up into my arm at the touch, and I sighed with pleasure. With my supersensitive skin, I was almost always cold, no matter how many layers I wore, but Talon radiated heat, even though he sat naked in my chilly porcelain tub. Good. That meant he wasn’t suffering from hypothermia as I’d feared, although I still needed to get him cleaned up.

  I moved my hand, examining the superhero’s old wounds. I had some experience with first aid, having patched up numerous folks at my events. Kids mostly, who’d gotten too enthusiastic about their playing and ended up with bloody knees. But the more I looked at the scars, the more I realized Talon wasn’t just a G-man superhero. He was also a regular guy—one who’d gotten hurt more than once keeping others safe. One who was hurt right now. One who needed my help.

  So, I quit leering. I turned on the tap, wincing as the faucets squeaked, and let the water get warm before stopping up the tub. I also put some Epsom salts into the mix. They always helped me relax after a long day at the office. Maybe they’d help Talon too—and hopefully drown out the lingering stench of blood clinging to his skin.

  Now came the ultimate question—to remove the visor or not?

  I stared at the visor covering Talon’s eyes and most of his face. The cobalt lenses reminded me of a pair of wraparound aviator sunglasses more than anything else, although they were tall and wide. The design matched the bird on his suit, with its outstretched wings and claws. Right now, the visor was the only thing preserving Talon’s anonymity. I’d stripped everything else away.

  Piper wouldn’t have hesitated.
She would have yanked his visor off first thing to see who Talon really was. She would have done it before she even thought about moving him out of the snowy alley. But I wasn’t obsessed with superheroes like Piper was. I didn’t particularly care who was who. I just wanted them to steer clear of my events.

  But Talon had reacted violently to the gas spewed from Bandit’s bullet. He’d clawed off the visor and scooped snow on his face as if his eyes were on fire, and he hadn’t been able to see me afterward. I was betting his eyes were red and swollen—maybe worse. They needed to be cleaned and flushed, just like the wound in his shoulder. I’d rather remove Talon’s visor and learn his secret identity than have him be blinded for life because I’d refused to act.

  So, I reached for the visor—and was rewarded with a violent shock the second my fingers touched the smooth lenses.

  BZZT.

  “Ouch!” I yanked my hand back, shaking it. It shocked me! His damn visor had shocked me!

  That was only the beginning. Tiny panels opened up where the lenses met the frames on either side, and two thin metal bars slid out. Awestruck, I watched as the bars wrapped around Talon’s head and snapped together in the back with an audible click. I leaned back and realized that a small circular device had formed around the two bars, almost like a lock anchoring them together. My fingers crept out to touch it—

  And a voice boomed through the bathroom.

  Unauthorized user alert! Unauthorized user alert!

  I screamed and stumbled back. After a moment, I realized the voice emanated from Talon’s visor—a very mechanized, bossy voice.

  Stop and desist your superhero unmasking immediately! Any further attempts to remove Talon’s visor will result in increasing electrical shocks up to and resulting in death. This is not a joke. Repeat, this is not a joke …

  The voice went on from there, chastising me for trying to remove the visor and encouraging whoever was listening to dial 911 and/or the hot line for the Fearless Five, and ask for the superhero on call. But only if Talon was bleeding copious amounts.