Heroine Addiction

by Matarese, Jennifer

  “It matters because Morris walked into my cafe at about six o'clock covered in bruises and claiming Dad pummeled him to a bloody pulp.”

  “If only,” Graham says.

  I make a face. “Graham, please.”

  “Please what?”

  “Now is not the time.”

  “Not the time for what? Being grateful somebody might have taken the son of a bitch out?”

  “Yes,” I say, my words as dry as autumn leaves. “Perhaps expressing your joy that there's a dead body in the morgue with Morris's face is not the most intelligent thing to do when standing in the greeting station at Hollyoak Hills accused of his murder.”

  Graham sneers, his arms akimbo, his bulging muscles swallowing the empty space in the cottage. His awful attitude sours the air around us. “Man, if there is one thing I don't miss about talking to you on a regular basis, it's you trying to make me out to be an idiot.”

  “I'm not trying to make you look stupid,” I murmur, my gaze on the notepad as I continue writing down every bit of information that pops into my head. “You do that all by yourself.”

  “Fuck off,” he barks, an angry reflex.

  I cock an eyebrow. “See?”

  Graham makes a dismissive gesture in my direction, cursing under his breath as he stomps around the cottage. He's not always like this, this growling impatient slab who paces with his shoulders rippling like a caged lion. In public he reins it in, prowls through crowds like an overgrown kitten. He's nice to people, polite to the elderly, gentle with small children. He saves his irritation for private moments, for situations he can't control or people he hates or … well, me.

  His narrowed dark eyes shoot me an aggravated glare. “Why can't I be happy that asshole is dead? That bastard broke up our family.”

  It's not a surprise that he won't say Morris's name, at least not when he can insult his lineage instead. Graham's been known to leave the room, the building, and sometimes even the state if he knows Morris is there. And now he's locked away in superhero jail for murdering the man. “First of all,” I say, keeping my voice low and calm, “in case you didn't notice in the middle of all of the unofficial separating, Dad broke up our family. He's the one who fell in love with someone else, he's the one who left Mom. Morris was just the one he brought his luggage to.”

  He makes a face at that, but it's not like it's not the truth. Blame goes where it's due, as far as I'm concerned. I tap my pen on the notepad and add, “And second of all, we don't even know if he is dead. There's a body in the morgue at six at the same time he's walking and talking in my cafe. Something here is not right.”

  Graham sighs heavily, deflating, his rage slowly bleeding away. He sinks onto the couch, dwarfing the wing-backed love seat, his knees scrunched up between his seat and the coffee table. “If you say so,” he says, clearly not meaning it.

  It strikes me then that he's overly emotional considering the fact that Dad's supposedly returned to the fold, that Graham would never be this mercurial when he had a reason to celebrate. “Have you talked to Dad lately?”

  He shakes his head, giving me a look of confusion. “Not more than I have to for work. Why would I?”

  “You haven't talked to Mom either?”

  “Mom and I aren't currently on speaking terms.”

  “Why not?”

  “Hell if I know,” he says with a shrug. “You know Mom. Whatever the hell I did, I'm just lucky she's only not talking to me as opposed to dropping a giant boulder on my head.”

  My smile teases when it emerges. “I think it lacks the element of surprise if she does it to you twice in one lifetime.”

  His expression is muddled, amused but still a bit moody. He shifts from side to side, presumably as squeezed and cumbersome as he normally looks in cramped quarters. My memories of Graham have never been of someone small or child-sized, even if just in comparison to myself. He's always been built like this, a mammoth kid, a colossal teenager. He might have once been tiny and vulnerable, small enough to cradle comfortably in my mother's arms, but I can't picture it. Photos of my parents with my older brother when he was an infant are scarce. They would have needed to be in the same room with him often enough for that.

  “I didn't kill him,” he says, so quiet I can barely hear him.

  I start at that, my immediate thought that perhaps he honestly does believe that I wouldn't be surprised if he did kill Morris. I hate that he would think that, and that I'm not shocked that he would think that. I hate even more that if I didn't have so many questions about Dad and Morris at the moment, I just might consider it.

  “Well, whoever it is you didn't kill, they might not even be Morris,” I try to assure him. I don't bother implying I don't consider him a suspect, at least not in this instance. Lord knows it isn't going to make him feel any better. Distraction might be a better track to take, anyway, so I force a smile and tease, “So how's life in the big house treating you?”

  A tremulous spark flashes in his eyes, something fearful and timid that makes my skin crawl. He opens his mouth to say something, and I brace myself out of instinct, registering his suddenly darting gaze and expecting something I'm not going to enjoy hearing, and then –

  He vanishes, gone in the space between one blink and the next.

  I almost trip over my own feet backing away, Marla replacing him on the couch as though she's been sitting there all along. Her grin widens as I jolt backwards out of shock, not used to other people appearing and reappearing the same way that I do. “Sorry, kid, but your time's up.”

  “But I wasn't finished talking with my brother,” I blurt out.

  It doesn't appeal to her sense of sympathy, apparently. “I noticed,” she says, pushing to her feet with that muffled groan older people always seem to make when they get up. “There's a cab outside waiting to take you to the all-night diner in town so you can wind down a spell before you set sail.”

  “But –”

  “You can find your own way home after that, I'm guessing.” She claps me on the shoulder, her warm expression not faltering when I yank my arm away from her touch. “Pleasure doing business with you, kid.”

  8.

  Thirty minutes later, Nate strides into the Berry Bay Diner, already chuckling as he swaggers towards me.

  I stopped tapping my foot out of gross impatience about ten minutes after being tucked away in a booth with a plate of greasy French fries and a sweating glass of ice-cold lemonade, neither of which I touched. By the time Nate wanders in, his key ring twirling from one finger as he winks at the homeliest waitress in the place, I've had plenty of time to stare at my rapidly cooling meal and wonder exactly what the hell is going on.

  Nate slides into the opposite side of the booth, making an apologetic face when his boots bump against my heels. “All right, I give,” he says, reaching for my plate and fishing out the least grease-soaked and limp fries from the pile. “What the hell are you doing out in Bugzapper, Bumblefuck, USA?”

  “Visiting my brother.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” he drawls.

  I scowl, my arms crossed. “I didn't give you permission to eat my French fries.”

  “You didn't give me permission to drink your lemonade, either,” he says, pulling my glass towards him. The lemonade swishes back and forth, paler than it had been when it first arrived, watered down by now with melted ice cubes.

  On any other day I might just shove the cold food his way and watch as Nate the walking garbage disposal devoured every ice-cold French fry and washed it down with lukewarm lemonade. Knowing Nate, he might even lick the salt off the plate, even if it's just to get a laugh out of me. Of course, he's not currently distracted by the wellspring of personal problems I'm swimming through against my will. I imagine he doesn't even possess half of the insider information that I do about Graham's current predicament. I wouldn't be a Noble if I weren't holding my cards closer to my chest than I'd admit even to one of my best friends.

  My expression must have darke
ned considerably, as Nate's face falls, the French fry in his hand dropping to the plate. “Aw, hell, Vera, don't give me that look. I was just trying to lighten up the mood some.”

  “They arrested my brother for murder, Nate.”

  “So I heard. I do work in high places, or maybe you missed that.”

  “They arrested my brother for murdering Morris Kemp.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that, too. The baconite fry your brain or something?”

  I huff out an aggravated breath, already disinclined to continue my merry stroll across the eggshells of my father's personal life and Morris's role in it. There's only so much sympathy I can show for Morris that won't come off sounding suspicious, especially when it's coming from the daughter of the superhero he toyed with and fought against for decades. I don't even know why I'm connecting any sort of sympathetic feeling with Morris. I just don't enjoy the sinking sensation behind my sternum or my steadily growing migraine.

  Nate jabs a handful of French fries into the congealing dab of ketchup on the plate, happily fed and watered, no matter the cold clammy look of the food. Nate is easy to please like that, and always has been. Buying him off is a breeze if you can locate a genuine steakhouse with fresh sawdust on the floor and no qualms about turning out a slab of beef so rare they might as well just yell “Boo!” at a particularly skittish cow.

  However, when a decent steakhouse is unavailable, a deserted greasy spoon will have to do.

  “Are they sure it's Morris?” I ask.

  Nate pauses in mid-chew to groan around a mouthful of half-masticated potato, realization slowly dawning in those gorgeous bottle-green eyes of his. “Tell me you didn't ask me to bring --”

  “Damn straight I did.”

  He frowns, the expression not sitting well on his perpetually good-humored face. “I told you not to tell me, damn it,” he says, digging absently through the pockets of his jeans with his free hand. He darts a quick glance around the diner, taking in with blatant relief the disinterested waitresses and the unoccupied chef smoking outside the front door. It doesn't stop him from leaning close, though, lowering his voice so he can't be heard even if the waitresses are faking their bored fixation with the level of salt and pepper in the diner's multitude of shakers. “Vera, I ain't got time for this. I've got to be back in the city in an hour for overtime with the Brigade. They're throwing a ticker tape parade tomorrow, you know that? They're so glad to be rid of the Quiz Master, it's like they completely forgot about the damn robots. And the SLB is about ready to have Graham released from the clink just for kicking Morris's ass to the curb whether Graham did it or not.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “A ticker tape parade? How classy.”

  “Yeah, well, leave it to you city folk to celebrate when a supervillain gets bumped off,” he says with a shrug.

  I want to argue that, but instead I drum my nails on my arm as he licks the grease from his fingertips so he can rummage around in the pockets on the other side of his body. Two weeks before I left the city, the Brotherhood of Bravery finally took down Commodore Electro in a tempestuous explosion that took out four city blocks and left behind only a few singed protruding appendages the Commodore wouldn't get much use out of anymore. (Oh, and dozens of innocent humans were left injured or dead, but it's not as if that really mattered, right?) Two days later, the Brotherhood used up a vacation day to go to the memorial service and egg the Commodore's hearse. Superheroes have more limits on their pity than any person with a lick of sense would presumably prefer. I don't know about anyone else, but I considered that one incident enough of a turn-off to add it to the list of reasons I'd suddenly begun to contemplate extremely early retirement.

  “And they're just going to let Graham go?” I ask. “No trial, no investigation, nothing at all?”

  Nate shoots me an odd look as he finally wriggles the item he's looking for out of the pocket of his leather jacket. “Hell, after the grief that son of a bitch put your family through, I'll bet my last dollar they'll handwave it as self-defense even if Kemp was just dumb enough to cut in front of your brother at the damn post office.”

  “Morris never even hurt anyone,” I protest, feeling a bit stupid even as the words tumble from my lips.

  “That's a bullshit argument and you know it, peaches.”

  Sadly, I do.

  The Quiz Master never killed anyone. It's a standout record among the supervillain ranks. He never harmed a hair on anyone's head, kept his hostages well-fed and entertained, and held his stereotypical mutant menagerie on a short leash. As far as supervillain records went, Morris's is almost tame. No matter how the media may portray him, Morris is and was practically a kitten. A kitten who chews on your fingers and needs to be smacked on the nose with a newspaper, but still. It's a large part of the reason Morris eventually received a strict parole for his troubles while other villains waste away in Beddingfield.

  Well, that, and his relative sanity.

  The distinguishing detail that differentiates him from all other loonier villains is his obsessive fixation with anyone with Noble blood – my parents, my brother and me, and sometimes for added kicks the one grandmother I still have left alive. Ask him now, and he'd tell you he enjoys a challenge. I imagine that's not all he enjoyed about sparring with Dad, but just thinking that puts less appealing images in my head than I'd like to dream up.

  I lean forward to rest my folded arms on the table, planning out every word before I say it, silently afraid of what I might let slip. “Look, I know the man could be exceptionally irritating, and that he spent the majority of his adult years committing vast amounts of robbery and property destruction, but he never so much as broke another person's fingernail. In fact, the only two people he ever aimed to bother were my parents –”

  “Yeah, and distracted the piss out of 'em with elaborate plans that never went anywhere, as far as we know. If I didn't know any better, I'd think the bastard just liked screwing with the two of them.”

  Or one of them, at least.

  I roll my eyes, murmuring, “Ain't that the truth.”

  “Come again?”

  I wave a dismissive hand in the air, cutting off the conversation for now. If Nate wants to argue the merits of allowing a suspected murderer to go free simply because he's a superhero … well, I'm not sure I'm up to talking it out right now. Superheroes live by different standards than the average citizen and we both know it.

  Changing tactics, I wriggle in my seat and tilt Nate a wicked grin. “Take me to the morgue,” I say, as sweet as I can be.

  His smile stretches from ear to ear, wild and mischievous, ready to play. “You're the strangest date ever, you know that?”

  I hold out a hand and beckon him with a gesture.

  “Give it here, Nate.”

  He sighs, a poor put-upon sound, but a second later he slaps the item I asked him to boost from the Brigade and bring along with him into my palm. I make a soft triumphant sound as I look it over, so impressed by the newest upgrades I barely hear him when he sprawls in his seat and says, “We can go to a nice candlelit slaughterhouse afterward if you want.”

  I run a fingertip along the sleek supple surface of the DNA pen. They've gotten smaller and lighter since I left the Brigade, probably the elegant work of some bored technopath with artistic delusions. Most technopaths have dreamy ideas like that, useless cravings possessed by talentless hacks who use too much of their brains on phenomenal technical prowess to spare any for creative pursuits. Ubuntu, the technopath the Brigade kept on retainer during my tenure, painted quite possibly the worst portraits of pie I'll ever see. As far as I see it, any piece of artwork that turns me off baked goods is clearly an abomination unto the Lord.

  “This is nicer than the ones we had back when I worked the field,” I say.

  “When you had to walk to the villain's lair barefoot and capeless uphill both ways in the snow?”

  Smirking sarcastically, I snatch the half-full plate from the table and pass it off to one of the waitress
es as she stalks in the direction of the kitchen. “Miss, could you give these to a nice starving child somewhere?”

  Nate whimpers as she carries it off. “Don't let anybody tell you you ain't your mama's daughter, you hear that?”

  Clearly Nate is asking for the sour glare I throw his way.

  Drunken spectators clog the city streets as Nate steers his chocolate brown Cooper through the brightly lit side streets. I slouch down in the passenger seat, cupping one hand as casually as I can manage over the right side of my face to shield myself from view. Beaming fratboys stumble off the sidewalk holding half-empty bottles and slap their free hands in good-natured greeting on Nate's windows. If they get close enough and recognize me, we may never get out of here.

  Being hauled out of the car by enthusiastic drunkards and smacked repeatedly on the shoulders by well-meaning strangers is just about the last thing I need right now, especially since I still won't be able to teleport back home for another half-hour or so.

  “Would you look at this mess?” Nate murmurs, slowing to let a couple of young glowstick-waving punks pass in front of the car.

  I don't dignify that with a response. The parade isn't until tomorrow, but that hasn't stopped the teeming masses from imbibing anything remotely alcoholic within reach and pouring out onto the streets tonight. It doesn't matter that yet another cumbersome destructive force crushed a few buildings and probably took out a few innocent people in the process. The Quiz Master is dead and the world is thrilled, and it suddenly strikes me to wonder where the hell my parents might have gone off to, and whether I even want to know.

  Nate leans forward in the driver's seat and squints. “Is that the Amazon Prince directing traffic?”

  “Seriously?” I squeak, somehow managing to sink even further into the passenger's seat. Speaking of things I don't really need to deal with, yet another foray into one of the more embarrassing moments in my sexual history is high up on the list.

  Nate's whooping guffaws fill the compact space in the car, his head shaking as he howls, “Oh, man, the look on your face ...”