Dad tilts his head until he snags my attention and says, "You know, you could call more often."
"I'm physically capable of it, yes."
Luckily, he doesn't take that as good old Vera poking at a bull with a pointy stick, trying to start an argument I know I won't win. It's probably just my subconscious at work instead, testing the waters, and his soft expression signals he's letting it slide.
I move closer, giving the people milling around us a casual glance to confirm they're all paying attention to their own damn business. When I'm sure of it, I force a harmless smile, speaking so softly I'm afraid he might not hear me. "To be honest, I'm here on behalf of Morris. According to him, you've been missing for three days."
Dad's expression, warm and rich like freshly baked brownies, doesn't falter. But I spot a flinty edge to the look in his dark brown eyes.
"Don't worry, sweetie," he says. "I'll take care of Morris, all right?"
I feel like I'm missing something. Instinct tells me that this isn't Dad speaking in euphemistic code to cover up a future bout of make-up sex I'd much rather not think about.
Mom rushes up to his side, her giddy laughter almost maniacal at this point. Her eyes glitter like polished onyx as she seizes his hand and tucks herself into his side. "You ready for another go, Everett?"
"You better believe it," he declares, and there's that alien smile that forces me to restrain a cringe. He gives me an odd look, a confusing too-smug mask that clears away like an unpleasant scent on a lucky breeze. "Don't be a stranger, Vera."
He's already walking away when I say, "I won't." It's more out of polite reflex than a desire to see him again.
In a moment I'm by myself, a deserted island among the partying revelers. Nate's off somewhere charming brilliant giggling fits out of the sweet but shy girls the other men in Swing made the mistake of ignoring. My parents continue to twist their way through a note-perfect dance routine straight out of a Fred Astaire movie.
And then there's me, settled neatly within the narrow limits of the dress code, all of the songs and all of the dance steps memorized long ago, and I don't want to be here.
The decision strikes me with a jolt. Before I recognize my own movements I've opened my cell phone and brought up the correct screen to issue a text message to Morris.
Dad's with Mom, I type. You'd better talk to him yourself.
I flip the phone shut after sending the short message, then stalk towards the bathrooms with my head held high. Nobody needs me here, not really. Quite frankly I've only been here in the city a few short hours and they've already exhausted me.
Time to take my ball and go the hell home, I think.
This is not my world. Not anymore.
Unfortunately, something loud and sudden and explosive tells me this world doesn't want to give me up anytime soon.
5.
The entire building shudders, threatening vibrations grasping the foundation and forcing small but ominous quakes through the frame. A chorus of terrified screams rise from the dance floor, carrying down the hallway, only lowering in volume when my father's commanding voice orders them to cease.
My gaze darts from one end of the hallway to the other, searching for witnesses who aren't there. I bite my bottom lip as the club shakes ominously once again, and I silently debate my options.
I could just leave, of course. I have no obligation to save anyone. I haven't in a long time.
The building trembles once, twice, three times in succession.
This time, a framed painting tumbles off the wall, slamming to the floor not far from my feet with an audible crack.
The trembling continues, evenly repetitive.
My face twists in annoyance. I know what unnaturally large footsteps feel like.
If someone up there is trying to pass me a hint when it comes to my immediate future in the rescue industry, they're lousy when it comes to subtlety.
Avoiding the frantic crowd rushing towards the side exits, I teleport out of the building, appearing across the street from the dazzling entrance to Swing, hoping to spot whatever enormous creature or evil machine is stomping its way through the city.
Instead, I'm just in time to witness the entire facade of the building shudder and slide downward in a loose flow of disintegrating bricks and melting steel, shoved downward by something large and bulky and unseen from above. It rolled toward the ground in a smooth wave like the security gate on a city storefront at closing. The tumbling cascade of debris sends me popping out of the way, leaping until I'm a few dozen feet farther away just short of the falling wreckage.
A flicker of movement from the alley running alongside the club draws my attention to Nate, who waves a steady flow of terrified dancers in period attire towards the parking lot at the rear of the alley. The facade itself continues its perilous avalanche, peeling downward like one long strip from a banana. I dart a quick glance in Nate's direction, just in time to catch him shooting me a worried frown before ducking into the alleyway after the scurrying clubgoers.
I don't even bother to worry about my parents. Hell, I had that trained out of me before I could walk. If they're still in the building, they'll get out on their own just fine without my help.
I leap three blocks away, figuring that it's far enough for safety's sake but close enough to estimate my next move. It goes to show how rusty I am that my guess is a bit off. I land on a tidy rooftop with a small garden and a quaint little patio just in time to see a huge spidery robot's gangly leg slam down on the other side of the roof from me. It pierces though the roof's surface, an entire collection of cheap patio furniture tumbling into the ragged hole it leaves behind when it jerks back out again. I barely keep my feet through the whole encounter, teleporting to the observation deck of the Mr. Perfect Memorial Tower while still out of balance, nearly tripping over my own two feet when I land.
I'm clearly safer here on the other side of the city than I was only a moment ago, but the observation deck is not quite as empty as I thought it would be. Lookouts from a few superhero teams keep a steady eye on the crisscrossing multitude of superhumans flying out of nowhere in organized squadrons to encircle the robots in a concerted effort to subdue them. I don't recognize most of the young heroes giving tense updates to their superiors through their communication devices of choice, but the Magician is a familiar face, a new Brotherhood of Bravery patch on his costume. He spots me and waves a bit too enthusiastically considering the circumstances.
I force an awkward smile and wave back.
What are you doing later? he mouths.
I try not to cringe. If there's one thing Jerry's always possessed when it comes to his futile attempts to ask me out, even after five years away, it's impeccable timing.
Flashing him an apologetic look, I teleport away again.
This time, I land on the deck of my parents' penthouse, far enough away from the action to avoid both the gathering heroes and the devastating amount of damage the robots continue to inflict even as a growing flock of flying heroes swarm around them. I grasp the railing and squint to try and spot my parents among –
My mother. Try to spot my mother.
It'll be far easier to spot Mom than my dad from this height. Mom has superhuman speed and flight at her disposal. She can be in her brilliant yellow costume before Dad even walks out of Swing's ruined shell.
My grip on the railing tightens as I search for the familiar bright lemony spot against the dimming blue sky.
From up here, it's easy to spot the three huge robots as one of them sinks to the streets below, its legs collapsing underneath as if snapped in two by some invisible force. A moment later, another one goes down, riddled with heroes who've landed on its surface like hungry fruit flies and set to pounding holes through the thick metal skin.
That leaves one robot left, and a city full of heroes to take it down.
I leap without thinking, landing on Three Wishes Boulevard in the middle of a street unsurprisingly devoid of drivers given t
he current forecast of giant spider robots attacking the city. Traffic tends to congest in a hurry when the meteorologist calls for three inches of snow in this city, but citizens are more than a little numb to supervillain attacks by now. People around here know the location of their nearest shelter better than they do their Social Security numbers.
My gaze catches on a teenage girl leaning over the side of one building's roof, frantically screaming for help as the final robot angrily stomps through the street in a sorry attempt to shake off its attackers. Two floors down from her, a huge jagged cut through the building's facade starts to crumble around the edges, silently warning it's about to disintegrate.
I tense, ready to jump.
The deteriorating wall beats me to the punch.
In an instant, the girl plummets, her terrified screams tearing through the air.
I teleport before I can think about it too much.
If I spared a second to contemplate exactly what in the hell I planned to attempt, a stronger part of my brain might have pushed forward to point out that my powers are still rusty from years of disuse. While it was on the subject, I assume it would have also helpfully supplied the difficulty level of catching someone in midair and landing without splattering one or both of us into an abstract pattern on the pavement.
I probably would have ignored it and pulled the same idiotic maneuver I currently attempted anyway.
When I materialize behind her with my arms around her waist, her screams intensify and the struggling begins. They warn you about this in Standard Rescue Techniques 103, how most people – when confronted with a strange person appearing out of thin air to grab them as they drop from a great height – will try to wriggle out of your grasp out of reflex.
I latch on tighter, and it finally sinks in to her not to fight me just as I leap again.
The problem is that the saying about objects in motion staying in motion is just as accurate when you're popping from one place to another in the blink of an eye. If we're falling at a hundred miles an hour, reappearing on the sidewalk isn't going to alter that. It's a quick and easy way to shatter every bone in your body just standing still.
It's hard to explain and doesn't make a lot of sense, but then again neither does having superpowers in the first place.
I shift gears when we rematerialize, and suddenly we fly upward rather than downward.
Teleporters orient themselves to the world differently than your average person, low-level mental abilities helping us avoid teleporting into the ground or inanimate objects or people, landing us upright and on the Earth's surface. With enough practice, any teleporter can tweak their landings.
I don't think I have to tell you I had a hell of a lot of a practice growing up.
As soon as the girl in my arms realizes we're rising rather than dropping, a shrill scream pierces the air, and she struggles once again.
“Give it a minute, would you?” I snap.
Apparently it's exactly the tone she needs to hear. She shuts up immediately, trembling in my arms.
Sooner rather than later, thank God, the pull of the gravity and the speed of our reversed freefall even out, and for a brief flickering instance we hover in midair. I let my senses snatch at that moment like a lifeline, hauling us in. A split second later we pop out of the air and reappear on the exact spot on the sidewalk where she would have crumpled in a broken heap if not for me.
The girl shoves me away and bolts as soon as we land.
Can't say as I blame her, considering we land right there in the shadow of the struggling robot. It's clearly a valuable lesson that I need to work on my aim.
Heroes pummel the robot from all angles, tugging it towards the ground with ropes and wires and telekinesis, steering it in my direction. It moves forward at once, pushed just so like some poor high school kid shoved hard by bullies and stumbling until he lands flat on his face.
It's about to land flat on its face, all right.
Right on top of me.
I close my eyes, scrunching them shut, and my body instinctively teleports backwards until it's outside the danger zone, skipping backwards in pops and jags until the robot slows to a stop just inches from my feet.
With the last robot destroyed, citizens watching the chaos throughout the city erupt in joyful cries. An off-key cacophony of resounding cheers rise up from the city streets, the relieved shouts of triumphant heroes and thrilled civilians carrying through the air.
I cough at the gritty residue still floating in the air from the robot's astounding crash, the road below my feet officially a lost cause torn to shreds by the massive angular legs. I'm tempted to rub at my eyes but know better, blinking rapidly to clear them for lack of water to rinse them out with. Applauding pedestrians loudly thank the heroes convening upon the metallic corpses littering the streets, yelling out words of gratitude even as firemen and police officers extricate victims from the broken buildings the robots thoroughly trashed in their wake.
The cheers rise in volume, and I wonder why for a moment before my vision clears the rest of the way and I take a good look at the heroes perched on the defeated machine in front of me.
My father stares at me from the top of the robot's rounded dome, his arm around my beaming mother, his smile triumphant, his eyes cold and calculating.
Well, I'll be damned, I think, the son of a bitch even took time out to change into his costume.
It's a brutal and tacky reminder of just why I gave up this life in the first place. Sighing heavily, I cross my arms and teleport back home, leaving my parents and Morris to their irritating private soap opera.
6.
Saturday night is open mic night. Tea and Strumpets is open until eleven on open mic night, and from six to eleven every amateur singer-songwriter in the county shows up to perform. It's usually not the questionable disaster it sounds like it could be. Mo and Jake – two seventeen-year-old prodigies from the local high school – have had firm possession over the six-o'clock slot for the past six months by the sly cheat of each signing up for a solo hour and then having the other one play back-up. I've never been able to call them on it, not with how good they play.
The thing about open mic night is that … well, I thought teleporting home would calm my battered nerves and soak me in the relaxing and familiar hustle and bustle of a normal busy Saturday night.
I was wrong.
“I could tell her to leave.”
“You most certainly will not eject her from this cafe,” I hiss to Dixie, placing the top slice of toasted pretzel bread onto a hot roast beef and pepper sandwich a little harder than I intended. Both of us grimace at the jagged hole my fingertips tear into the bread, and I toss it aside and reach for another slice before Dixie can say anything. “I can't have her kicked out of here when she's doing absolutely nothing wrong.”
“Why not?”
“Because then I'm the bad guy, aren't I?”
“Weren't you already the bad guy when you broke up with her and kicked her out of your apartment?”
I will not fire a good waitress on open mic night, I will not fire a good waitress on open mic night … “Dixie, Hazel is my problem and I will deal with her. Which I won't right now, because she's not being a problem.” I shove the plate holding the sandwich and a dewy glass of lemonade at her. “Now go serve Jody Casey her dinner.”
Dixie drops a completely unladylike sneer before sauntering off to deliver the special to one of our loyal regulars. Thankfully, Hazel is not one of our loyal regulars, or at least she's not one anymore. She's vegan, which limits her choices considerably even before you take in her food allergies. Her shopping list can fit onto a business card.
Forcefully humming along with the guitar players currently strumming away up front, I swipe at a few wayward crumbs on the metal table in the back where I've been preparing the meals Benny doesn't have to bake, grill, or saut. Tara teased me about making a swift retreat into the kitchen as soon as I spotted Hazel in the cozy reading area in the back of t
he cafe, but I prefer to think of it as assessing the situation, prioritizing the troubled waters ahead of me, and deciding that the customers need their soups and sandwiches far more than I need to get into a public argument in front of forty curious and hungry onlookers.
Hazel and I broke up after a fight that started over nothing. A lost section of the morning newspaper, maybe. Spoiled milk, it might have been. I've never been quite clear on why we began to shout at one another one moment and ended the fight two hours later with me threatening to dump her, all right, in Argentina, and I'd leave her there and let her find her own way home, too. We screeched back and forth like angry parrots, she caught her things as I pitched them out the bedroom window at her. Just like that I was living alone again, and we remain prickly around one another to this day.
“Get out of my kitchen.”
I dart a surprised glance in Benny's direction. “Come again?”
“Get out of my kitchen,” he drawls, his words slow and condescending. It feels like he's talking to an obnoxious child crawling around underfoot, except it's just me, little old misbehaving me. I squirm as he advances on me with a cheese-stained spatula. “I'm not babysitting my boss. That's not in my job description.”
“It's not babysitting,” I say.
Benny grumbles out a peeved growl roughened by too many devoted years of cigar smoking. “Says you. I know how these things go. She sits out there waiting to you to come out and you wait in here for her to leave.” He shuffles back to the oven, shambling along like a sleepy rhino. “Ain't got time to deal with grown women behaving like yellow-bellied toddlers.”
I smooth my damp hands over the wrinkled material of the chili-pepper-patterned apron I tied around my waist upon stashing myself in the kitchen. I'm not afraid of Hazel. I'm not. I've faced down oversized mutated lizards the size of skyscrapers, so I think I should be able to handle an uncomfortable encounter with my ex-girlfriend. I don't even know why she's here yet. It could just be for something innocuous, maybe just to say hello.
Heroine Addiction Page 5
