In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition

by Michael A. Stackpole

  It was perfect.

  And so I forgot myself.

  I kissed her.

  It was the first kiss all over again, every bit of it.

  That surprise at how natural it feels. That thrill as your lips touch, as you perceive your partner’s warmth. The way your arms encircle her, pulling her close. The pleasure and danger of that first intimacy. Overture or finale, you don’t know.

  I pulled back, waiting for the slap.

  She looked at me openly, surprised and something else.

  “Is that the best you can do?”

  I shook my head. “I can do better.”

  She smiled and slipped again into my arms. “Let me be the judge of that.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’d actually thought I’d never see the Scarlet Fox again. After we’d met in the museum, I kept looking for her. It wasn’t as bad as stalking, but I did keep my ears open for any jobs that sounded like her modus operandi and my eyes on treasures that might interest her. I lurked, hopeful, but stopped shy of setting a trap.

  That would have been pathetic.

  I figured I was kidding myself. Not in the area of possible romance–there’d been a spark there, that was for certain. No, the fact was I’d never catch her. Nighthaunt hadn’t, and where he failed it wasn’t likely I was going to succeed.

  I busied myself with a handful of civilian jobs, and then patrols at night. Days spent sorting tax receipts demanded action as an antidote. Most of the time I found it in busting up heists or stopping rapes and assaults. I liked taking down drug dealers because they always had stacks of money laying around and never complained loudly when a couple packets went missing.

  On nights when I couldn’t find action, I used to go out dancing. Not Emerald Room dancing, just club dancing. I’d find a place that offered a free lesson with cover. Mostly swing and salsa, with a scattering of other things. Everyone gathers in a big circle, we learn a few steps and change partners. If you pay attention, you learn a few names. If you come back, you recognize regulars, but mostly you just have fun. A couple hours dancing can be a great workout and given a choice of skinning knuckles on some goon’s face or spinning a woman into a dip, I’ll take the latter.

  Plus it was good, anonymous fun. The trouble with being a vigilante is that you anger some people. They’d love to take it out on your friends. The only sure way to prevent that is to remain vigilant and without friends. That does tend to cut into social interaction, however. Dancing became an easy way to maintain superficial but seemingly meaningful contact with others.

  I recognized Selene immediately. It was in a club lesson–Balboa. I pulled her tight to me, chest to chest, our faces all but cheek to cheek. My right arm closed around her. She moved through an inside spin. I caught her deftly, her weight against my arm, our feet moving in unison. Then she sped away again and back in. Tantalizing and teasing, daring and taunting.

  She’d recognized me, too, but before either of us said anything, it was time to rotate partners. She went away and I didn’t even remember if she’d given me a name. Heck, I was so surprised I barely remembered what name I was giving others that evening. I went through a dozen more partners before the lesson ended. I looked for her, but the lights went down and people flooded the floor.

  Then the tap on my shoulder. “Dance?”

  I nodded and led her to the floor. We found a corner. We confirmed what we’d already knew. We were good together, and it wasn’t just because we were practiced at dancing. We were on the same wavelength, which meant all the songs were painfully brief, and the time spent dancing with others was agonizingly long.

  Even when we weren’t dancing, when we were draining bottles of water and wiping off sweat, we didn’t need to speak. We watched each other, both wary and trusting. We were in a bubble, hyperaware of the others around us, and yet not threatened by them. We knew each other’s secret, which united us even while it made us potential enemies.

  I broke the silence. “Sanctuary. Deal?”

  Selene smiled. “As in the medieval idea of a Church being inviolate?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Deal.” She offered me her hand, and we shook.

  “I’d like to see you again.” I held a hand up. “The Chronicle, personals section. Just add a block north and east. If you show, you show.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “Place an ad and I’ll subtract a block.”

  We danced once more, then another man asked her to dance. I didn’t see her again that night. I had a moment of sleeplessness after placing the ad, thinking she might not show up, and might not write her own ad. Then I remembered we’d agreed to sanctuary, so even if she didn’t show, I knew I would be seeing her again.

  She did show. I’d specified the northeast corner of 36th and Kirby, so she met me at 37th and Kane, right there on the edge of the Park. We wandered through it, chatting until it became dark–disabling two muggers who mistook us for easy pickings–then caught a bite at a club right before joining the lesson.

  It was salsa and it was wonderful. Balboa and swing are energetic and fun dances, but there’s nothing like Latin dances for heat and sensuality. Salsa is Tango Lite–easier to pick up, but no less hot. Spinning Selene into a hammerlock, controlling her movement for a step or two, then spinning her out was to tame an elemental and then free it again. It was playing with fire, but fire that liked being played with.

  Before she vanished that night, she gave me a note. It was a puzzle, but I’d had experience working out cryptic messages. Once deciphered it provided clues about where we would meet again, and how I should dress. And for our next encounter, I worked out a puzzle for her–setting a tone for our relationship.

  For five months we danced–in clubs and through the jungle of getting closer. Every night we were different people. Sometimes it was just names, sometimes it was whole roles. I once had an entire restaurant singing Happy Birthday for my wife. She got me back another time by having me buy a round at a bar to celebrate my graduation from Law School.

  And then there were nights when it was just the two of us, anonymous, going to the theatre or eating wings before hitting a ball game. Names and other things weren’t important. We had the luxury of knowing who each other truly was. So few couples ever managed that.

  Selene took the first step in making things permanent. I decoded a note that specified an apartment and a time. I was to bring wine. I arrived and entered a modest but respectable building. She was on the third floor and looked a little harried as she answered the door, her hands in oven mitts. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, then ran to the small kitchen, tossing a “make yourself at home,” over her shoulder.

  She had to know what I’d be seeing. Family photographs. All her books–not unexpectedly a vast majority were art related–and the diplomas with her real name. Art on the walls, reproductions of Picassos and others, interspersed with water-color studies of her own.

  The apartment, it was her. It wasn’t a set, as my apartments were. This was where she lived, and she’d let me in. She had opened a door.

  I turned as she pulled a lasagna out of the oven and set it on the table. “Sanctuary?”

  She looked at me curiously, then smiled. “Thank you.”

  We opened the wine and enjoyed dinner. She told me about her day. She was Selene Kole, assistant Director of Acquisitions at the Frederick Haste Museum of Art. She offered stories about co-workers and their travails. I reciprocated with a couple anecdotes about tax clients, even though I’d long since stopped temping for the accountant.

  I don’t really think she thought we’d end up in bed that night. Or, perhaps, she was open to it, but thought it might happen upon our return from dancing. If she let me walk her home. If she invited me up.

  If she kissed me.

  So it was like that again when we departed the Emerald Room, leaving the Mayor behind, and went to the Regent on Eisner. We held each other all the way up in the elevator and then, even before
we stepped beyond the foyer, she pressed me back against the door and kissed me. Urgent and warm, her body tight against mine, sucking breath from my mouth, crushing it from my chest. I held her and kissed her back, the tip of my tongue flicking against her lips. They parted and our kiss deepened.

  Then I broke it. I grabbed a handful of hair at the back of her head and tugged, bringing her chin up. “Selene, it’s been a very long time...”

  “The past is dead. New memories.”

  She took my hand and led me deeper into the dark room. Nimble fingers removed my tie and unbuttoned my shirt. My jacket flew off, pushed away as we kissed again, and my shirt followed it. I unzipped her gown. It disappeared in a whisper of silk. Shoes bounced into the darkness and the rest of our clothes trailed from doorway to bed.

  There are those religious sects who maintain that dancing is just having sex standing up. That’s because they really don’t know how to have sex lying down. Cool sheets contrasted with Selene’s soft, warm skin. Fingers danced, lips kissed, teeth grazed and tongues feasted. Her hair lashed me, a velvet curtain that caressed, leaving my skin tingling and chill in its wake.

  Selene had ever been a masterful lover, but not because of a perfected technique or the introduction of some new trick. As we were one on the dance floor, so we became in bed. She read me, knew what I wanted and needed. She forced me to lay back, then she touched me and kissed. She stroked scars, layering good touches over bad, smothering evil memories and took no offense as my body twitched and resisted out of reflex.

  Gentle and insistent, playful and demanding, she directed me wordlessly. Memories flooded back for both of us, heralded by sighs and moans. She rose above me and slid me into her, beginning a sensual rocking rhythm which started slow, but built. It built gradually, rising and falling, undulating with her body, with my hips, the two of us moving together tightly. Lust warred with tenderness and ultimately fused with it. Her fingers slipped into mine, our grips tightened, and our bodies exploded at the same moment.

  Then she lay on my chest and I held her as she held me, our bodies sweaty, chests heaving, each of us giggling, boneless and exhausted. I kissed her head and she kissed my chest. Then, gradually, she slipped onto her side and I nestled her there beneath my right arm.

  A knee rose across my thighs. Protective. Possessive. And she slept.

  By rights I should have as well, but other memories held sleep at bay. I wanted to banish them, but I was tired enough that I didn’t have that much control. Our lovemaking had opened doors that had been closed for two decades.

  Their opening allowed other memories to crawl up from the abyss.

  Not counting the Emerald Ballroom or Hall, the last time I’d seen Greg Greylan had been in Austria. I’d met Redhawk before and we’d worked together a couple of times. I’d never known who he was. Some gossips working the hero beat had tried to cast us as rivals but, as storylines go, it was a non-starter. He was Nighthaunt’s heir-apparent and I was a small-time independent who’d been tapped by C4 to hold capes and cowls while the bigs nailed serious supervillains.

  I met Greg on the flight to Europe. They’d given him the seat next to me in business class. He tried to come off as a sophisticated traveler, but he was a bit too ‘gosh, golly’ to pull that off. He didn’t say anything Redhawk would have said, but his delivery ran close a couple of times. I started to wonder.

  We chatted and I’d have probably thought nothing more about him, save that he showed up in the hotel bar after our arrival. He was out of place there, and had only one reason to have showed up.

  Like me, he was following instructions.

  An ABC government agency had offered me a mission. They promised, in return, to help me with a few problems. Tax problems. Since none of my identities was ever going to get a tax refund, I never bothered to file tax forms. They’d get that cleared up and promised a hefty, tax-free bonus. They’d even let me keep the frequent-flier miles to Europe. I was in.

  When Greg showed up at the bar I called him over to my table. Took me about ten minutes to determine he was Redhawk. I also figured he’d not identified me. Since we were clearly on the same assignment, and since our contact hadn’t spoken with us yet, I suggested we get dinner. He agreed and we found a nice place nearby. We got a good dinner and lingered over it. Then the restaurant turned its bar into a disco, so I suggested we check it out. Greg really didn’t want to, but he liked having a friend, so he went along.

  Typical disco: loud, dark when some strobe wasn’t blinding you, and full of folks who wanted to fly their individual freak flags. Greg spent most of his time goggling bar-hugging eyecandy while I checked out the women on the dance floor. One was pretty good–she was working hard to back-lead a drunk through some swing steps. I wandered over, asked her to dance, and put her through a bunch of moves that coaxed a smile onto her face.

  Her English was much better than my German. She had two friends who joined us. The redhead and the blonde draped themselves over Greg, who alternately looked as if he’d died and gone to Heaven, or feared he was going straight to Hell. I spent most of my time dancing with Lise. The last I saw Greg, he was wandering away with a woman under each arm, ready to have a life-changing experience.

  Which is about the time Lise brought me a bottle of water.

  I drank.

  And got my own life-changing experience.

  At some point I felt safe enough to fall asleep, waking only as Selene slid onto my chest and kissed me. She smiled against my lips.

  I returned that smile.

  “You were restless.”

  I slipped my arms around her waist and held her tight. “Memories. Gone now.”

  “You can tell me.”

  “I know. Not worth bothering with, really. Not any more.” I kissed her quickly. “So, what are we going to tell Victoria?”

  “What we?”

  I hesitated. “She’ll have to know. Wouldn’t it be best if we told her together?”

  Selene laughed. “Nope. That’s a discussion she should have with her father.”

  “Like I need a baptism of fire…”

  She caressed my cheek lightly. “Part of your life. It has to be done. But don’t worry.” She kissed my chin. “If you survive, I have all sorts of medicinal kisses to take away any hurt.”

  Chapter Twenty

  While the prospect of medicinal kisses did have its allure, I really wasn’t looking forward to speaking with Victoria. Our last conversation had hardly been pleasant. I’d promised I’d not go away again. I figured, and I’m sure she did as well, that we’d work our way up from there. We’d do a couple of things together–low key, non-threatening things,or go through the motions, anyway.

  She’d learn I wasn’t a monster.

  I’d develop thick skin.

  Win-win.

  I had the feeling that telling her that her mother and I had slept together would be as welcome as a diagnosis of Ebola. Perhaps less so. It was one thing to promise I’d not go away, and yet another to be establishing a bigger presence in her life.

  My natural inclination was born of my Y-chromosome. I wanted to wait and see if this all came up in normal conversation. Of course, Victoria and I weren’t going to be having normal conversations for a long time anyway. Any conversation centered on my sex life wasn’t going to be comfortable, moving it outside the normal range.

  Waiting wasn’t going to help anything.

  I called her. I admit being happy that I had to leave voice mail. I didn’t just lay everything out in the message, but just said we needed to talk, and soon, today if possible. I tried to keep it light, as if nothing was wrong, but she wasn’t going to buy that for a second.

  Especially when she took note of the fact that her mother hadn’t made it home last night.

  I waited for her call by studying hero ratings and how the whole system worked via the uTiliPod. I hated the ratings, but Castigan’s livelihood depended on mastering them. As a hero’s fortunes rose, so would the price of h
is memorabilia. Like all merchants, I wanted to buy low and sell high. Not only did I have to spot comers, I had to pick out heroes who were going to be dropping off.

  There were a lot of factors that went into figuring a hero’s value. For example, I studied a graph of Blue Ninja’s ratings. He was fairly consistent for a featherweight. The only weird thing was that his ratings usually dipped in the first part of December and the middle of May, then spiked during January and remained higher during the summer–save for a four week period spanning July and August.

  That suggested that Blue Ninja might be a teacher or college student who stopped patrolling while dealing with exams. He made up for it during breaks, but when he did a summer school stint, his ratings suffered again. The time to push his memorabilia would be post holidays, or at the start of the summer.

  Another pattern looked promising. If a hero got injured, he’d be out of action for a time. Buying directly from him while he recuperated would help him monetarily, and I’d benefit as he worked hard to get his ratings back up. If the injury was chronic, however, he’d never rise to the top again, so his goods would be worthless.

  But Puma had showed that this wasn’t always the case. Price followed demand, and the media manufactured demand. Graviton could have returned and stopped a planet-killing meteor from slamming into the Earth, yet without media coverage, who would know?

  If there’s a war and the media ignores it, does anybody die?

  Puma’s death had prompted a lot of Murdoching of old video, as well as reruns of the drama and the production of a new one. Puma memorabilia was rare. Prices had already spiked with his funeral. I expected they would peak again when the new series came on line.

  So the system could be hacked. New content sold exclusively to a news outlet could spark interest. Properly managed, a flurry of publicity could drive up a hero’s worth. If people demanded video of that hero, the channels would provide it. The hero, then, would have more opportunities to fight better villains, increasing his rating simply because his bids would be worth more revenue.