by J. Kenner
She’d gone her whole life without mooning over guys. They weren’t part of her agenda, her plan. So how had this one man so completely and totally infiltrated her thoughts? It wasn’t fair. She was going to be twenty-five in a few days. She needed to be worrying about her council affidavit, about what she was going to tell her mother . . . about what she was going to do with the rest of her life. But was she worrying, considering, planning, anything-ing? Nope. Not at all. Instead she was acting like a mortal teenager with a high-school crush.
She sighed. This newfound obsession with Buster Taylor was incredibly distracting, to say the least.
With massive effort, she lassoed her thoughts and shoved them to the far corner of her brain. She had decisions to make, and so long as the cafeteria remained distraction-free, this was the perfect time to make them.
First, her council application. For over a month, the massive packet had gathered dust on her kitchen table. She’d finally sucked it up and sent in the main forms, but so far she hadn’t worked up the nerve to submit the Affidavit of Mortal Disclosure. Considering how Tessa had reacted to her husband’s revelations about his superpowers years ago, Zoe wasn’t real keen on telling her mother the same thing.
But she had to tell her soon. The one thing Zoe had wanted for as long as she could remember was to be on the council, to work with her father and Hale. She reached into her tote bag and pulled out her wallet, sliding out her insurance card to peek at the photo she’d hidden underneath—her and Daddy after the first mission she’d been allowed to go on. Hale had gone, too. But since he’d turned invisible, he hadn’t made it into the picture.
The mission hadn’t been any big deal—just some reconnaissance work so the mortal police would find some missing children—but after, on the steps of Olympus, she’d felt proud, special. Like she belonged.
But that had been years ago. Since she was a halfling, if she wanted that feeling ever again, she had to formally apply for council admission. And that meant telling Tessa that—
“Kyle Martin eats worms!”
Zoe blinked, doubting the truth of the statement, but curious about the speaker. He was easy enough to find. Joey Tannin, the sixth-grade bully, was standing on a table, hurling Jell-O at poor Kyle, who probably didn’t eat worms, but looked like he’d gladly swallow one or two if it would get him away from the bigger kid.
“Leave me alone!” Kyle howled, throwing his arms over his head to ward off bits of gelatin and marshmallows.
“Joey!” Zoe stood up and headed toward the fray, armed with her best don’t-mess-with-the-lunch-monitor scowl. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Joey turned, his foot landing in a clump of Jell-O before shooting out from under him. Jell-O went flying, along with a half-eaten slice of pizza, a pint of milk, and something that looked like a cookie but smelled like chicken.
Joey yelped. Zoe lunged.
His arms windmilled. Zoe focused, ready to perform some kid-saving levitation.
But nothing happened. Nothing good, anyway.
As Joey started to fall, tumbling off the table in a flurry of arms, legs, and Jell-O, Zoe started to panic. Her newfound telekinetic powers apparently weren’t putting in overtime.
But she wouldn’t give up that easily. In the last few milliseconds before Joey and the Jell-O went splat, Zoe lurched forward, aiming every smidgen of concentration right at the boy. She only needed a little bit—just a tiny levitation. Just enough to break his fall, but not enough to be noticed.
Focus . . .
She leaned forward.
Focus . . .
Just a little more. And then . . .
Ker-thunk!
Both she and Joey hit the ground. Zoe because she tripped; Joey because her levitation skills sucked.
Sally Simmons, who taught kindergarten, rushed to help Joey, who was glaring daggers at Kyle. Across the cafeteria, Mrs. Wilson, the gym teacher, crossed her arms over her chest, stared down her nose at Zoe, and shook her head.
Zoe blinked back tears. Hopping Hera. Why did she have to be such a klutz? All she’d had to do was levitate Joey—just for a second—and she couldn’t even manage to stand on her own two feet long enough to do that.
And now she was sprawled out on the cafeteria floor, bits of lunch stuck to her, while all the other teachers stared at her as if she were a loon.
It was absurd to think the council would want her. Even if she did work up the courage to tell Tessa, she wasn’t exactly a prime candidate. For one thing, she was an incompetent klutz. Hadn’t her little stunt just now proved that? Her senses were wacky, her aim was sporadic, and she couldn’t levitate worth a damn.
Besides, as a halfling, she already had one huge black mark against her. And considering the 487-page application, it was pretty clear the council wasn’t into affirmative halfling action. They’d never approve her membership, not in a million years.
She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, letting her gaze drift over the other teachers, who very pointedly had not rushed to help her. She might as well face the truth: her dream of joining the council—of belonging—was just that, a dream.
If she knew what was good for her, she’d forget all about it. She’d rush home, rip the affidavit to shreds, formally withdraw her application, and put herself up for mortalization.
That was what she should do. Tessa would never be the wiser and, considering they’d erase her memory, neither would Zoe.
Sighing, she stood up. In front of her, teachers rushed to clean up Joey and Kyle and calm the other students. Zoe just stood stock-still, watching the hullabaloo.
Darn it, she wanted to belong. Wanted to be part of the council. Wanted to be like her dad and Hale.
And she certainly didn’t want to forget her family—divided and offbeat though it was.
No, the affidavit wasn’t going anywhere. Not without her signature, and certainly not in pieces.
4
South Hollywood Elementary was actually in the heart of Hollywood, right between a bail bondsman and the new Tripoli Tower. The folks who lived nearby had raised havoc when developers had proposed the tower—apparently looming buildings ruined the neighborhood’s atmosphere more than did loitering criminals—but Zoe loved it. She’d fallen into the habit of hanging out on the roof after school, enjoying the afternoon and listening to the buzz of conversation thirty stories below. Not eavesdropping exactly, just letting the flow of words swim around in her head.
That was how she’d met first met Deena. She’d been eating Oreos—the insides, anyway—when the volunteer art teacher suddenly appeared, a devious grin matching her out-of-control mass of blonde curls.
“I’m Deena,” she’d said, stripping off her shirt to reveal a bikini top. “I’ve seen you around.”
And then she’d plunked herself down next to Zoe, hiked her gauzy skirt up so her legs would get some sun, and grabbed a handful of cookies. “That bat who teaches gym said you were an odd bird, so I figured we’d hit it off,” she added, then shoved an entire Oreo into her mouth.
For about two seconds, Zoe had considered leaving and finding a new tall building. But she’d always wanted a friend—a real one—and this Deena person seemed pretty open-minded.
So she had taken a risk; she’d stayed, and they’d fallen into a pattern. Zoe brought the cookies, Deena brought the beer, and every Friday they’d meet on the roof of the Tripoli Tower to compare their weeks. By the end of a year, two things had happened: Zoe finally had her first close friend, albeit one who didn’t know all her secrets. And—despite liberal application of superstrong sunblock—she’d developed her very first sunburn. All of which made her feel that much closer to normal.
On this Friday before spring break, Zoe was already camped out on one of the patio lounge chairs they’d stowed when Deena arrived, schlepping a cooler, a tote bag, and binoculars.
Binoculars? Zoe sat up, tilting her head until her sunglasses slid down her sweat-slicked nose. She shoved them back into place
and peered at her friend. “What’s up with those?”
“My new project,” Deena said, tossing Zoe a light beer.
“Ah,” said Zoe, dread brewing somewhere near her stomach. Deena sat on the edge of the lounge chair, her back to Zoe, and began rummaging around in her bag.
“And exactly what is your new project?” Zoe asked Deena’s back.
“You, of course.”
Uh-oh. “Could you be a little more specific?”
“Sure,” Deena said, turning around to face her. “Zoe Smith—school librarian, recluse, probable virgin, and perpetual single gal—is my new project.”
Zoe rolled her eyes. “Thanks so much for clearing that up. But I’m still a teensy bit fuzzy on the ‘project’ part.”
“Oh, that,” said Deena, making a great show of sliding a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses onto her face. “It involves a guy.”
Major uh-oh. “Look, Deen, I like being alone.”
Deena crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you actually telling me that you never fantasize about meeting Mr. Right?”
Zoe swallowed, remembering some particularly vivid fantasies about one very fantasizable man. “Fantasy and reality aren’t the same thing. I’m happy being single.”
“You just think you are because you haven’t met the right guy.” She brushed a loose curl off her forehead. “And you never will if you don’t get out there and circulate.”
“No, really. I don’t want to do the dating thing.” The response was not exactly true. Lately, she’d begun thinking that dating would be great. So would sex, for that matter. In theory.
But in reality, they would be very, very, very bad things. The whole concept of making love was rather terrifying. Instinctively, Zoe crossed her legs, wondering just how wild the wild thing would be for someone with her particular traits.
Besides, even if she could get a handle on her senses, dating a mortal was out of the question. She needed to keep reminding herself of that. In addition to the supersense thing—and on top of the whole “I’m not like other girls” speech—there was still her little problem with Hale.
Throughout her high school and college years, whenever a mortal boy had so much as looked at her, Hale had made it absolutely clear that he intended to make sure she kept her virtue intact. It was bad enough for a mortal girl to have a big brother playing watchdog. Zoe had to put up with a huge brother who—when he threatened to pound a boy into a pile of mush—could really follow through. And the fact that he could turn invisible at will put a whole different spin on having someone looking over her shoulder.
Which was why it was just as well she hadn’t found Buster Taylor, despite having spent two full nights looking for him on the Internet.
“Trust me, Zo.” A bright smile flashed across Deena’s face as her eyes widened. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. A really cute guy subleased some office space from Hoop a few months back. Maybe I could set you up with him. He used to be a cop,” she added mischievously. “He’s sweet in a ‘me Tarzan, you Jane’ sort of way.”
Zoe had no idea what Deena was talking about, and her confusion must have shown, because Deena went on.
“I’ve met him once. I was painting Hoop’s office—to surprise him, you know?—and this new guy wouldn’t even let me move a file cabinet. Had to drop everything he was doing to come help me.” She grinned. “Guess chivalry isn’t dead, huh?”
“I’m not going out with your boyfriend’s friends.” She aimed a stern look at Deena. “It’s just not happening.”
Deena shrugged. “Have it your way.” She held up the binoculars. “We’ll just have to find some fresh fish.”
“No, no, no.” Zoe shook her head, trying to emphasize the point. “I don’t want to date fish. I don’t want to date men. I’m perfectly happy.”
Deena shot her a “yeah, right” look. “You spend your days cavorting with kids. You need some adult interaction.”
Zoe gestured between the two of them. “We’re interacting.” “Stimulating conversation.”
“We’re conversing.”
“Sex.”
Oh. Well. She couldn’t really argue with that. “I’m really not ready for a commitment right now. I have a lot of issues.” There. That was a highly plausible, millennium-gal kind of thing to say.
“Issues? You’re about the least issuey person I know.”
Zoe grimaced, mentally awarding herself a Best Actress Oscar.
“You sound like an eighties self-help book. And who’s talking commitment, anyway? You just need to get out there. I mean, look at you. Except for your really stinky taste in clothes and that braid you wear, you’re like some Greek goddess. If you’d just get out once in a while, you’d probably have your own fan club.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Zoe asked, purposefully ignoring the Greek goddess comment.
Deena raked her eyes over Zoe, scoping her out from the top of her discount-store jumper all the way down to her formerly white Keds. “Boring. And shapeless. You’ve got no sex appeal going at all.”
“I’m a librarian in an elementary school. I don’t think a red Lycra tube dress is appropriate.”
“I’m not suggesting a tube dress,” Deena said, although the glint in her eye suggested otherwise. “And you’re changing the subject. We’re trying to figure out how to get you a guy.”
“No, we’re not. We’re talking about—”
“What?”
Zoe threw up her hands. “I have no idea.” That was the trouble with Deena. She set Zoe reeling even more than did jalapeno peppers.
“Well, there you go.” With a little nod, Deena opened the binoculars case. She pulled out the glasses, went to the ledge at the side of the building, and focused on the street below.
Zoe tried to ignore her, but failed miserably. “What are you doing?”
“Scoping out potential men.”
Hopping Hades. Zoe rolled her eyes skyward and thought of Oreos. She needed Oreo insides, and she needed them now. Comfort food. The itty-bitty flecks of cookie that stuck to the creamy goodness were as close to chocolate as she could come and not get knocked completely off-kilter. And she really needed some comfort now.
Leaning her head back, she cracked open an Oreo and dragged her teeth across the filling, enjoying the way the sugar tickled her tongue like a million tiny feathers, and letting Deena’s comments—“Now there’s a guy worthy of you!” . . . “This one’s a loser.” . . . “Uh-oh, check out the biker dude!”—swirl around her.
Deena was just starting to rattle off the attributes of a denim-clad cowboy—“Maybe he’s a Texas oil man.”—when Zoe heard the scream. Loud, high-pitched, and utterly desperate, it accosted Zoe’s eardrums, rattled around in her head, and set her muscles twitching.
She bounded to her feet, dashed to the edge of the roof, then looked over. Focusing her superkeen eyesight, she saw, deep in the shadows on the far end of the side street, a grimy man with a beard and a jagged scar on his cheek. He gripped a woman around the waist and was tearing her purse from her shoulder. He shifted his victim, and Zoe caught a brief glimpse of vivid green eyes.
Mordichai? But that didn’t make any sense at all.
Sense or not, Mordi pressed the barrel of a gun against the woman’s throat with such force that Zoe could hear her sharp intake of breath.
Now or never.
Hurriedly she yanked her midnight blue training cloak out of her pack and swung it around her shoulders. She’d never once bested Mordichai—for that matter, she’d never once flown from more than six stories—but she could do this. She had to.
With a gulp, she slipped the fitted hood on, then did a nearly perfect swan dive into the mildly polluted Los Angeles air.
She was trying to steer the cloak when she saw the little boy. He’d run to escape and was now standing stock-still in the middle of the street. A Porsche veered sharply, horn blaring, barely missing the child as Zoe tried to urge the cloak to move her faster.
“Well, ther
e’s nobody interesting on the Boulevard,” she heard Deena say from somewhere above her. “I’m gonna scope out the side street.” A pause, then, “Oh, my God!”
Zoe somehow knew the binoculars were now aimed right at her, and she wondered if she’d lost her best—and only—friend. No time to think about that right now, though. She had a little boy to save.
A muddled cacophony attacked her ears: the whoosh of air past her head, screams from below, the blare of a car horn, Deena’s feet pounding on the gravel, the slam of a door as Deena headed into the stairwell. She tried to focus, to sort it all out, and still to keep her goal in mind. On the street below, maybe-Mordi was pawing at the woman’s throat, and Zoe heard the snap of metal as the chain of the woman’s necklace broke.
The stoplight at the end of the street changed color, and a flood of cars started moving toward the child.
Approaching the ground, Zoe tried to remember the basics from Propulsion Cloak Training 101, but she must have over-compensated. Instead of gliding to a halt, she was now turning somersaults in the air.
Okay, everything is going to be fine. No need to panic. If she could just keep from tossing her Oreos, everything would be just dandy.
With supreme effort, she managed to slow herself and twist so she’d—hopefully—land on her feet. She aimed for somewhere between the kid and the oncoming traffic.
She missed her target, instead careening headfirst into maybe-Mordi’s gut, knocking the man down and freeing the child’s mother. His loot spilled onto the sidewalk, and he grappled for the money and jewelry as Zoe half flew, half ran for the kid. Still zooming, she scooped the shell-shocked boy up just as the car roared by, leaping backward with the kid squirming and squealing in her arms.
Not the most elegant rescue in the history of the world, but who cared? She’d done it! She’d set out to save the woman and her little boy, and she’d actually done it!
“Davy!” With a delighted cry, the woman held out her arms, tears streaming down her face.
Considering how many eyes were now watching her, Zoe wished she could come to a stop with even a smidgen of grace. Hardly. Instead her feet skimmed the ground, her legs frantically pumping to keep her upright and failing miserably. She and the child ended up in a heap right in front of the boy’s mother—just in time to see maybe-Mordi running off down the sidewalk with the woman’s purse tucked under his arm.