The darkness swimming in his eyes had to be a trick of the light.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, smiling at her own foolishness. When he said nothing, she talked, to fill the space between them. Surely, she wasn’t babbling out of nerves. “Didn’t like lying in bed in the dark.”
He smiled at her—that had to be a smile and not a leer. “Why, sweetheart, you should know by now there’s nothing to be afraid of. There’s nothing in the dark that isn’t already there in the light.”
She smiled at him in turn, pretending she didn’t hear the lie in his words.
Pretending she wasn’t afraid of the man she loved.
CHAPTER 43
NIGHT
It’s fascinating to watch the difference in Night and Blackout. The one thrives while the other deteriorates. Why does the Shadow spare one and condemn the other? Genetics? Statistics? Luck?
—From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #22
After the reporters turned away and the ambulance and police finally left, Night grabbed Blackout by his shoulder and spun him around. Though his brother in Shadow was smaller and slighter than he was, Night found it difficult to make Blackout move, as if the Shadow had given the smaller man additional strength.
“What was that?” Night hissed.
Blackout stared at him, his eyes hooded. “A press conference detailing how we defeated Calendar Man.” He laughed suddenly, the sound high-pitched and girlish. “I loathe, I loathe, I loathe my little Calendar Man,” he sang off-key, “every day, every day, of the year!”
Night darted a look behind them—no, none of the others had heard. Growling, he shoved Blackout into the alley between buildings. “Shut it! You want them to think you’re on junk?”
Blackout brayed laughter, spittle flying.
“For Christo’s sake, man, quit it!”
That made Blackout bend over, helpless with mirth, slapping his thighs as he guffawed.
Night gnashed his teeth, wondering how long to let this go. Blackout’s mental stability had declined steadily over the past few years. Small things at first—memory loss, mood swings. But lately, Blackout had increased bouts of rage and was prone to wild bursts of laughter at inopportune times. And whispering, as if talking to himself.
Night, of course, knew better. If Blackout had merely been talking to himself, Night wouldn’t be concerned. Schizophrenia could be managed.
But this wasn’t schizophrenia.
Night had said nothing about Blackout’s increasing instability. As long as his power brother could still handle the Shadow, there was nothing to discuss. Anything that he needed to do to keep his ability under control was acceptable … to a point.
Standing there, listening to Blackout’s hiccuping giggles, Night wondered if that point had finally come.
He’d glimpsed Angelica this morning, when he’d come by to pick up Blackout for patrol. The woman was clever with her makeup, but she’d missed a spot beneath her eye. Night had stared at that purplish-green smudge, and he saw then just how red the eye itself was, how swollen the lid appeared, even with its cosmetic camouflage. She’d noticed his reaction and tittered stupidly, covering the eye lightly with shaking fingers. Allergic reaction, she’d said, her lips trembling as they held a smile.
Yes, her eye would be allergic to Blackout’s fist, no doubt.
Night had seen the naked desperation in her gaze—how she was silently begging him to hold his tongue. Whether that was out of love or fear of Blackout, Night couldn’t guess.
He might have said something to her then, or even to Blackout—Night frowned on domestic violence, as did Corp-Co—but that was when the little girl ran into the living room and attacked Night with a bear hug.
“Nigh!” she cried happily, squeezing. “Hi, Nigh!” The rhyme sent her on a fit of giggles, as it always did. It had been her pet name for him ever since she was two.
He’d smiled—he had no patience for babies, who tended to be loud, and smelly, and overall quite unpleasant, but he had to admit a certain fondness for the little Shadow—and he’d allowed himself to be distracted by the child’s glee and her attempts to make Shadow puppets. By the time he remembered Angelica’s black eye, he and his partner were already out the door, Blackout raving in his excitement to try a new Shadow technique. The two had talked shop during most of their patrol. And over the course of the day, Night had forgotten about Angelica.
But now he remembered the raw pain he’d seen etched on Angelica’s face. Snarling, he punched Blackout in the jaw.
The other man’s head rocked back, and even after Night followed through on the punch and drew back his fist, Blackout remained with his head twisted to the side, his jaw already swelling. He slowly rubbed the side of his mouth, laughing softly.
“You broke Calendar Man’s back,” Night said, his voice a dangerous growl. “Last week, you used Shadow to almost crush Succuba to death.”
“Grenades and horseshoes,” Blackout said, lips pulled into a parody of a grin.
“You’re just as bad as the criminals are.”
“And I suppose you just gave me a love tap?”
“I’m trying to knock some sense into you!” Night realized he was shouting. Lowering his voice, he said, “Get it together, George. You can’t go around crippling the bad guys.”
“Less likely to face a repeat performance if you hobble them.”
“And more likely to get yourself hauled off to Therapy for evaluation.” He looked deep into Blackout’s eyes and saw the Shadow staring back at him. “Bursts of violence are one thing, but you’ve taken it to an unacceptable level. It stops now, George.”
Blackout chuckled softly. “Isn’t that the pot calling the Shadow black?”
“It stops now,” Night said again. “And keep your hands off your wife.”
“Hey now,” Blackout said, affronted. “We’re thinking of Shadowling Number Two. Hard to do that if I don’t touch her.”
“Keep it up, and she’ll be sponsored by the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence.”
Blackout froze, his grin looking like a trapped scream.
When Night spoke again, his voice was colder than the Shadow he controlled. “And if I even suspect you’re hurting the little one, I’ll forget you’re a friend.”
Shadows swam in Blackout’s eyes, seeped out of his pores, crawled over his flesh. Then the man drew in a shuddering breath, and the Shadows sank back into his body.
“Oh Christo,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sometimes I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“You’re a hero,” Night said, clamping a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “You can remember that.”
“I can,” Blackout said, sounding unconvinced but nodding all the same. “I can.”
“You have to.”
“Rick,” Blackout pleaded, “please don’t say anything.”
Night made a sound that could have been agreement, or could have meant he’d think about it.
The two men returned to Squadron HQ, and they both pretended everything was fine. And then Night made the mistake that would change everything forever: He didn’t report Blackout’s behavior.
And for the next week, everything was fine.
CHAPTER 44
VIXEN
It’s odd hearing my name on television. They call me a genius, on a par with the greatest in history. When they’re not calling for my death, for trying to play God.
—Matthew Icarus, diary entry dated 1994
Vixen! One more please!”
The flashes kept going off, but Lester’s Runner Yuriko stepped in, spreading her arms. “Sorry, folks. Superheroes need rest too.”
The press grumbled but retreated from the steps of the HQ. As soon as they were through the door, Les let his smile drop.
Valerie massaged her neck. “Tank Girl is aptly named. She was ten tons of fun.”
Les grunted but didn’t say anything as they walked through the silent hallway. It was Sunday afternoon, an
d Callie was out with Reggie, Valerie’s Runner, catching a movie.
“Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“You always laugh at my jokes.”
“Just tired,” Les said, rubbing his temples. “Tired, worn-out, and fucking sore.”
“I’ll get a heat pack,” Yuriko said instantly, darting off for Medical.
“Honey.” Valerie stopped Les with a tug. “I know it’s not that.” Her husband had been moody and distant for weeks. Even Callie had stopped trying to get him to play their usual game of Space Invader, wherein Les put a box over his head and pretended to be an evil robot, or to be the voice for her boy dolls while she played with her dollhouse.
“It’s nothing.”
“Just tell me, please?” She put a finger under Lester’s chin. “If we don’t talk, we’re just another … well. Supercouple.”
“What were you going to say?”
Valerie blinked and chewed on her lip, looking away from her husband’s sharp gaze.
Les shifted away from her, his posture sagging. “You were going to say something else.”
Another Blackout and Angelica.
“I wasn’t,” she lied. What her friend—former friend, she guessed, since Angelica hadn’t spoken to her since the Luncheon Incident—did in her marriage wasn’t any of Valerie’s business.
Angelica was no fool. She was a strong, competent hero.
Who lets her husband use her for a punching bag when he so much as stubs his toe?
“I’m worried about them too.” Lester wrapped his arms around her, squeezed her.
Valerie started, then returned his embrace. “Are you okay, Les?”
“I am,” he said against her hair. “But the team isn’t. He’s going to hurt someone, Valentine.”
Valerie pulled back and regarded her husband. Her tall, beautiful husband, with his wicked gaze and smile that could render her speechless. He was the opposite of Blackout in every way—loving, a good listener, a good father. A hero. But there were shadows under his eyes and new lines around his mouth. After years of living together, Valerie knew the signs. “It’s more than that.”
“What? No. Don’t be daft. I’m just worried about George and Holly.”
“No,” Valerie insisted. “You’ve barely been sleeping. You get up in the night and pace, your head isn’t in the game in the field. Not that I blame you. We have to be so careful now because of that family suing Blackout …”
“He did break their father and husband’s back,” Les muttered. “Valerie, I just … I couldn’t stand it if we became like that. Little puppets, with little strings, controlled by little men who know nothing about what it takes to do this job.”
Valerie leaned up and kissed him on his cheek. There was stubble there—the Hero of New Chicago had even been forgetting to shave for the vids. “We will never be like them,” she whispered.
“How do you know?” Les said glumly. “Our lives aren’t our own, Valentine. They’re just not.”
“I know because you’re a good man, Lester Bradford,” Valerie said, meeting his eyes, “and George Greene is not. You could never hurt me and Callie, Les. No matter what Corp did to you. It’s just not in your blood.”
“But it’s in Blackout’s.” He sighed. “He’s changed, Val. You didn’t really know him before. He used to be a good man. A great hero.”
“I’m sorry I never knew him. But this isn’t about him, Les. It’s about Holly and Joan.” Valerie bit her lip. “Do you think he’s going to hurt them?”
A long pause before he said, “I do.”
She curled her fists inside her gloves. “Then tomorrow, when the administrative offices are open, we do what needs to be done.”
Les nodded, and there was a steel in his eyes that Valerie had never seen. Gone was the laughing, smiling Luster. The man staring back at her was hard, tempered with sorrow.
But Valerie wasn’t afraid of those eyes. They were still her husband’s.
And she felt a similar hardness growing around her own gaze and around her heart.
For Holly’s own good, they’d have to turn in the man she loved.
CHAPTER 45
ANGELICA
I could have pulled Angelica and the girl out at any time. I could have pushed through the paperwork for Blackout’s Therapy. I could have done either of those things, and others. All I did was watch. And record.
—From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #186
The last afternoon the family was together started out so well. George had been more loving and tender than he’d been in years, even talking seriously about their trying for another baby, something Holly desperately wanted. And now he was playing Bad Guys with Joannie, pretending to be the wolfish Big Bad and running around on all fours, laughing as he chased the giggling girl around the living room.
Holly was humming as she dolloped out more cookie-dough batter onto the baking sheet. She’d already made two batches, the cookies on cooling racks now, their smell filling the kitchen and making their apartment truly feel like a home. She’d even pretended not to notice when Joannie snuck a cookie. Smiling to herself, Holly shook her head. It was a good thing her little girl would be trained to be a hero; she had no natural ability to be a thief.
Yes, it was good.
Holly mopped her brow and eyeballed the remaining batter. Not enough for another batch after this; she’d just have to make it all fit. She rearranged the blobs of dough on the tray.
Joannie came charging through the kitchen, shrieking laughter.
“Stop running in socks,” Holly called out as her girl disappeared around the corner.
Her husband came barreling through a moment later. He paused to plant a kiss on her cheek, then let out a pretend bellow and galloped after Joannie, whose shrieks of delight reached deafening levels. A moment later, the girl tore through the kitchen again, sliding before she rounded the corner.
Holly sighed. One of these days, her daughter would listen to her. Maybe.
She opened the oven, calling out, “No running, oven open!”
Joannie peeked her head in, and Holly felt the girl’s gaze on her back as she loaded in the last tray of cookies. She glanced over her shoulder and caught Joannie sneaking another cookie. Holly arched an eyebrow in the classic Mommy Look, and the girl had the decency to look embarrassed.
“No more,” Holly said, wagging a finger.
“Sorry, Mama.”
“Our little girl was sneaking cookies?”
George’s voice startled Holly; she hadn’t heard him approach. She flashed him a quick smile, was about to remark on Joan’s poor sneaking skills when she saw the hint of Shadow in his eyes.
“It’s fine, sweetheart,” she said, smiling to show that it really was all right. “She knows the rules. She knows she’s not supposed to have any more. Right, Joannie?”
But their daughter had already charged away, still intent on playing Bad Guys. “Come find me, Papa!”
“It’s fine,” she said again with a laugh. “Our Joan is a good girl.”
“She is,” George said, smiling proudly. Then he called out, “Here I come, Joannie!” And he ran out of the kitchen.
Holly started thinking about what to make for dinner. Sure, she could have the Runners fetch stuff, but she enjoyed doing the domestic thing. And George preferred it. Maybe something fun, like tacos … She looked at the comlink on the wall, right next to the bright red Panic Button there for emergencies. Maybe she’d call in Mexican after all. Why make a mess and clean it up when it could all be done for them?
She saw Joannie return, stealing glances at the cookies on the racks. Holly smiled, shaking her head. Really, her child had a hopeless sweet tooth.
Joannie’s hand darted out, snatched another cookie.
“Joan.”
That was George, standing behind Holly. No, not George—that was Blackout’s voice, low and filled with menace. Holly whirled, saw her husban
d standing in the kitchen doorway, black rivers swimming over his arms, in his eyes. His voice silky and dark, he said, “You broke the rules, Joannie.”
“Sweetheart,” Holly said, “really. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. How’s she ever going to be a good Squadron soldier if she breaks the rules? Good girls don’t break the rules, Joannie!”
Behind Holly, her daughter let out a frightened sob.
“George,” Holly snapped. “Stop it. You’re scaring her.”
“She should be scared. She broke the rules. Crumbs all over the floor!”
Holly smiled, a tentative thing filled with fear, and she reached out to her husband even as she reached inside of herself and pushed Light into him, soothing him, calming him.
He grinned—a hungry, ugly grin that froze her heart.
“Oh, Holly,” he said. “You really do care, don’t you? They made you perfect, didn’t they? My perfect … little … wife.”
Oh Jehovah, he sounds insane.
“Yes,” Blackout said softly, almost thoughtfully. “They gave me exactly what the doctor ordered.” He laughed, and the sound was filled with madness.
Holly whispered, “George?”
“Come here, Holly. Give me a hug.”
And then the Shadow reached for her.
She didn’t cry out, not at first. The black bands chilled her as they wrapped around her body, sucking out her warmth. Her breath frosted and her lips cracked, and still she smiled, showing George that she loved him, that she knew he’d never hurt her, not really. Not on purpose.
And then the Shadow squeezed.
Surprise was the first thing that registered as her ribs cracked. And then, as the snakelike black bands tightened even more, the pain hit.
Holly panicked, lashing out with her power and her body. Neither made a difference.
Blackout giggled.
“Joan,” Holly choked out, blood spilling from her mouth, “emergency!”
She heard her little girl cry, thought she heard Joannie run.
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