Distress over Mom’s money allowed me a few seconds of philosophy. I’d begged and groveled for her bankcard in a moment of desperation over the cost of art supplies.
My brains decorating the pavement would be a tragically poetic way of leaving this world. I thought of Peter and the first official date we would never have. What about that empty chair in the dining room? I could imagine Mom still laying the place settings down as though I were still around—possibly doing so for the rest of her life, crying her eyes out every time. I thought of Liz and all her cheesy-ass teen idol posters on her bedroom wall—the ones whose toothy grins I’d colored with a blue crayon when I was ten years old. Actually, I never regretted doing that, and even with death staring me in the face, I still didn’t feel inclined to feel bad about it. Of course, there was Dad and all those three-second conversations we’d had. I wondered how he’d fill up those odd blocks of time from then until the day he’d die. Oh, jeez. Maybe in my next life, karma would be, you know, a helluva lot nicer to me.
“Hold your fire!”
“Yeah, that’s right! Put your guns down!” My kidnapper laughed.
The cops held back, and I was stuffed inside the fanciest getaway car I’d ever seen. Plush carpeting, AC, piped-in classical music, a group of men in tuxedos and silk masks. Never mind the fact they all aimed their revolvers at me. I never realized how well bad guys lived.
“Don’t try anything funny, kid,” one man barked.
“That’s cool. I don’t mind being quiet,” I stammered.
I was lying on the floor, wondering if I was going to get sick, but the limo was one exceptionally smooth ride, and motion sickness never came. If it did come, I’d seriously aim at their hoity-toity shoes.
A moment of tense silence followed, but when they realized I wasn’t about to give them any grief, they all relaxed and lost themselves in some bizarre cocktail party. There was this panel of buttons just above the seats, and with just a push, one of them activated some kind of built-in wet bar that rose up from the floor. A rectangular panel shuddered and then slid open, revealing a darkish hole.
“Move it, kid! You’re in the way!” one of the men snarled, and I quickly scooted off and scrunched myself against the back of the driver’s seat, staring at the thing that slowly rose up from some secret compartment under the floor.
What a contraption that was, too. It was like something from a James Bond movie, all compact and covered in plush carpeting, with drinks tucked away inside the mini-cabinet with the glasses. I wondered how the logistics worked, but given my state, my brain refused to function past ten actively-firing synapses. Synapses was the only word I’d remembered from a TV documentary about the human brain, thank you. I looked back at the panel of buttons while the drinks were being prepared, itching to push every single one of them in hopes of discovering their dirty, kinky secrets. I could feel my fingers twitch in anticipation.
“Martini time! In-and-out, gentlemen—good for Benny, I guess. In-jail-and-out.” The group exploded in obnoxious laughter, complete with snorts.
I was even offered a drink despite my age while my kidnappers all fell into quiet conversation. With guns still aimed at me, I couldn’t refuse. Another push of the button, and the wet bar vanished back into the floor.
I tried to strain my ears in hopes of picking up words that could be used as clues while sipping away. The hum of their voices as well as the soft music in the background made it hard to catch anything, and the martini certainly wasn’t helping. Half the time, my mind would wrap itself around my situation.
So what was going to happen to me now? How did hostage situations work, anyway? Would I be delivered to their leader? Would I be tied up or caged up in his hideout, my defenses mechanically chipped away by daily seductions in the form of candlelight dinners, soft music, and poetry until I willingly submitted to my captor’s lust?
Whoa, what the hell was in that martini?
On the other hand, would I simply be done in, my miserable body tossed into some roadside bush or ditch or buried in a shallow grave? Given my luck as of late, I was inclined to put money—my mom’s money, if I had it—on the second option.
Then the limo shuddered as though it were riding through an earthquake. It began to sway in all directions, sending everyone rolling off their seats and over each other. Martini glasses flew all over the place, drenching suits, carpeting, and one helpless high school kid. As though happening in slow motion, I watched as bodies tumbled and bounced off each other, the floor, and the car doors. Guns scattered, and I was sure one of them was going to go off accidentally, with the barrel pointing right between my eyes. I could only pinch my eyes shut from the sight, praying and choking as I got pummeled in all kinds of ways. When the dust and the martini cleared, I was buried under a bunch of masked and tipsy men.
And, no, it was nowhere near a turn-on. Are you kidding me?
“What the hell? We’re flying!” someone roared.
I struggled to sneak a peek from where I was pinned, gasping for air. One of them had dragged himself to a window, rolled it down, and was now looking out. I saw nothing but sky outside.
“Great,” another said, sighing. “It’s Magnifiman again. I told you clowns not to use the limo! We might as well paint a bull’s eye on our foreheads!”
“What did you expect us to use, moron? Damn mopeds? This is the only transport we have!”
“Well, we do have an image to maintain,” someone piped up. He sounded pretty blasé about the whole thing. Obviously he’d been there and had done that. Somehow I wasn’t surprised. “You can’t just ride any car if you work for the Trill.”
I really had to hand it to The Devil’s Trill. He certainly had class. In a bizarre sort of way, I expected I was supposed to feel all privileged being kidnapped by a group of bourgeois hoodlums.
“He’s taking us to the police station!” the lookout said.
“The roof again?”
“Yeah, where else?”
“God, I hate when he does that.”
“Bad luck for you, Benny, for getting picked up twice now.”
Well, there was one of those fugitives from the jailbreak, at least. Had I been in the mood, I’d have asked, “How many cops does it take to break the Trill’s goons out of jail?”
The limo continued to sway and roll us around for several more moments before I felt it descend. We’d reached the rooftop of the Vintage City Police Station, and Magnifiman was safely depositing us to, apparently, a reserved spot for the Trill’s thugs. I imagined a gaggle of armed police officers forming a ring around the spot as the vehicle was lowered. Maybe Bambi Bailey was already there, camera and microphone poised.
The limo settled with a rough jolt. The door was torn from its hinges, and two by two, flailing masked men were yanked out until only I was left, wheezing and sore. Magnifiman’s figure filled the doorway. Even as only a shadowy form, he looked so humpable. Then he leaned inside with an arm outstretched.
“Are you all right?” he asked in that familiar silky purr.
“I guess so.”
“Here. Let me help you out.”
I let him. Gladly. He pulled me out of the battered vehicle and into the damp, gray air, his eyes appraising me with obvious curiosity this time. It was questioning, with an eyebrow rising in a high arch. That martini was something else. Whatever it was those douchesnozzles had mixed into the drink, it certainly left me with all kinds of epicly pleasurable ideas. I thought his eyes lingered a touch too long. In fact, I was convinced he let his gaze wander up and down my body, and I wasn’t even the beefcake type.
Vanity stoked in spite of my bruised state, I raked my fingers through my hair in a bit of a slutty come-on, vaguely noting the angry voices of both police officers and lowlifes as the Trill’s henchmen were handcuffed and led away.
“Thanks,” I said, exhaustion finally setting in. “I thought I was done for.”
“You’ve been pretty lucky.”
Lord, the irony. �
��Am I the only repeat victim in this city?” I asked.
“Just about, yes. Listen, did these men say anything about the Trill and his next plan?”
“No, nothing that I could understand. They were quiet when they talked. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t realize it was possible, but I’d somehow completely forgotten how gorgeous he was. My heart raced, my skin prickled, and my gaze instantly fell on his much-admired Adam’s apple. I bit my tongue.
All those early fantasies involving Magnifiman and the thousand and one ways I could be rescued, arrested, or punished flared alive.
“No, don’t be sorry. You’re unharmed, and that’s what matters.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s really cool how you got us.”
He suddenly fell silent and regarded me, unblinking.
His gaze darkened. His brows furrowed. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, bringing his face closer to mine. My eyes widened. Was this the moment? A rescue, an unmistakable attraction, a brief shaking off of inhibitions? Superheroes were only human, weren’t they? I held my breath, relaxed my jaw, and parted my lips a little.
Never mind that tiny screaming voice in the back of my head that was going “Peter, hello! Hello! ”
He stopped a mere two inches away, and he sniffed.
His scowl deepened. “You’re underage, and you’ve been drinking,” he growled. I felt the blood drain away from me.
“It was an in-and-out martini!” I protested. Hello, Freud. “I only had a couple of sips!”
“Only a couple?”
“Well—they were long sips, sure, but I only did it twice, I swear!”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Oh, come on—you screwed around when you were my age, didn’t you? Hell, everyone does it!”
He pulled away. I was looking once more at a marble statue: beautiful, perfect, but painfully repressed. I wondered if he threw himself into his calling with all the single-minded determination and rage of a total nutcase. In fact, I wanted to ask him if he was Catholic.
“Young man—”
“Eric.”
“Young man, I’m taking you back home, but I want you to promise me that you’ll stop acting like a child with all this rebellious underage drinking nonsense. Keep a clear head, keep to the straight and narrow, or you’ll end up like one of those thugs we just took in.”
Ouch.
Ouch.
He took me home. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the method of transportation, and no one should entertain any romantic ideas about that—yes, despite the first Superman movie and that cheesy-schmoopy flying-date-with-Lois-Lane bit. He soared above the city, his thick arms outstretched, and I clung behind him, my arms like steel bands around his neck while I fought the urge to look down. Being kept from plummeting to earth and going splat on asphalt by nothing more than one man was a pretty shitty thought. Maybe it would have been better had he held me against his front, but I had a feeling he needed his arms for navigation. They were like a pair of meaty joysticks, but that was just my addled brain doing its best in avoiding all kinds of horny references.
And, yep, pressing my body against his granite-like back was a very, very embarrassing situation for me, and I prayed he didn’t feel anything funny coming from my jeans.
The air was cold. The fog smelled like chemicals and rot, and the threat of rain grew stronger with every minute. Flying over Vintage City was as charming as a stroll through a landfill. I think I coughed all the way home.
I gave him directions the way I would to a cab driver.
We presently set foot at my doorstep, and Magnifiman even rang the doorbell while I slithered down his back, shivering and swallowing and grimacing at all those toxins I was sure I’d inhaled en route. Liz opened the door and then nearly fell back with a tight little shriek.
“I believe this young man—”
“It’s Eric, damn it,” I croaked.
“—is yours, Miss.”
Liz just gaped at him, all bug-eyed and looking like a carp out of water, while I staggered across the threshold. I turned around in time to see Magnifiman nod sharply, step back, and take off with that familiar whoosh, while Liz continued to stand there and do her suffocating carp impression, completely immobilized.
“Yeah, whatever.” I sighed as I shuffled in the direction of the stairs. In my room, I saw that Peter had called and left a message.
“Call me,” he said. “I’m worried.” Uncanny timing, as always.
Chapter 15
My family being too freaked out over my adventures, I was made to swear not to tell anyone. So I told Althea and Peter during lunch. One was a good friend and the other my boyfriend. It wasn’t as though I was telling just anybody.
By and large, they were stunned but took the news well enough once they were assured I was fine.
Well—Althea did, anyway.
“You should’ve called me after Magnifiman took you home,” she said later that day. “I could’ve gotten your mom’s bankcard back.”
“Oh, you could’ve, could you?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I can.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. How’re you going to do that? Are you saying that you’re just like Magnifiman, all tricked out with bizarre powers?”
Althea shrugged without taking her eyes off her Geometry homework—we were in the library then. Her hand flew—almost literally—over her notebook, and diagrams, numbers, equations, and all kinds of boring formulas appeared in a neat configuration, following a line from the top of the paper to the bottom. No erasures, no scratch marks, no detour arrows pointing this way and that. Everything that came out was perfect. She didn’t even stop for a second as she sorted through the problems in her head, and it was always creepy watching her work. One would think she had a computer for a brain. God, if Mom were to find out about Althea’s talent, she’d be bugging Mrs. Horace for recipes to use for my daily nutrition.
“I just know how to get those stuck cards out of ATM machines,” she replied, punctuating that with a big, loud yawn.
“Christ, if you can solve these Geometry problems like that, I wouldn’t be surprised if you can communicate with an ATM machine just by staring at it.”
“Sure! It’s pretty easy, actually.”
I laughed, crossing my arms on the table and resting my chin on them as I watched her. “You’re a hardcore wonder girl. I’d marry you if I weren’t gay.”
She spared me a glance and snorted. “Nice try, Eric, but I’m not doing your homework for you.”
“You suck.”
“Listen, Peter’s going to kick my ass if he finds out that I’ve been coddling you. I’ll help you out here and there, sure, but I’m not going to hold your hand all the way through. You’re smart enough, Eric. Figure things out yourself.”
Peter? Oh, great. Now he was my academic conscience?
I tried to talk to him about that afterward, when we were alone, but our conversations kept getting hampered by a string of cross-examinations from him. I told him nothing about my momentary lapse in judgment when I was rescued from the Trill’s clutches, but he must have sensed what I was desperately trying to hide from him. I guess my inability to look him straight in the eye when I told him my adventures pretty much gave me away. I felt like crap, of course, and his being hell-bent on finding out details did nothing but dig the knife in deeper and then twist it around.
“So what did you and Magnifiman talk about after he got you out of the car?” was one question. “How come you didn’t call your parents or your sister to pick you up from the police station?” was another. That one was closely followed by, “Why’d you let Magnifiman take you home?” Then there was, “Did he fly you home?” which was immediately tagged with, “Why didn’t you say no?” The cherry on top was, “So what else happened between the two of you, huh?”
“I’m still a virgin, I’ve no idea what it feels like kissing him, and above all, my body parts are all intact and functioning normally, which is the
most important issue here, isn’t it? There!” I said, throwing my hands up.
“Don’t cop an attitude, Eric. What do you expect from me? You want me to roll over and play dead while you get kidnapped or hypnotized or dragged inside some junky, abandoned building?”
“No, but you could at least treat me like I’ve got half a brain in my head. I really hate it when you ride my ass like this. If you think you’ve accomplished something with all your nagging, the answer’s yes. You’ve managed to make me feel stupid.”
That did it. He backed down, red-faced, and mumbled an apology. I could tell, though, he was still bothered by the whole thing. Maybe some stupid jealousy ate away at him, and he looked like he had a hell of a time coping with it—I wasn’t sure. Regardless, the situation was getting out of hand, and I didn’t know what to do.
“You don’t understand. This is all really crazy, and I’m trying my best,” he said in a voice that just dripped with fatigue. He wasn’t even acting. I could tell he hadn’t been getting enough rest lately. His complexion was almost translucent, and shadows were beginning to form under his eyes. I think he might have lost a teeny bit of weight, but I couldn’t be sure since he hid under two or three layers of clothes. Regardless of what we happened to be doing, I could still sense some bubbling tension in him—like he was on the alert—watchful and cautious.
It was my turn to back down after a moment observing him.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” I said, drooping, and I pulled him close and held him tightly. “I’m sorry. I know you’re worried about me. It isn’t fair to just brush your concerns aside like they’re nothing.”
He nodded against my shoulder but kept quiet. From the way he held me, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was forcing himself into silence—that maybe he’d just come this close to saying something he probably shouldn’t.
“Is something wrong?” I prodded though I dreaded what might come out.
“Things are getting so damn complicated.”
Rise of Heroes Page 9
