“Are you really only afraid that I’ll get hurt? Or is there something else you’d like to talk about?”
He leaned against the shed door and closed his eyes. “Do you know how often Patrick called me a ‘child’ or ‘stupid kid’? He’d make fun of me for being short, or for playing with civilian kids.” His fist clenched. “I’m nearly eighteen. I’ve risked my life for this city. I’ve stared down the barrel of a shotgun. I’ve had to take criminal lives to save innocent ones. I…I….”
“You’re an amazing superhero. One of the best. I’m so honored to serve with you. You’re no more of a child than I am.”
“But I’m the youngest.” He jabbed his thumb at his chest. “And if this stupid kid can figure out how to walk out the door, then so can they.”
His assessment of the situation didn’t seem quite fair to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on the reason. I didn’t want to risk another glowing-eye incident, though, so I nodded once and laid back down.
After several heavy breaths, Marco stretched out on his bed, snoring less than two minutes later.
Sleep eluded me. I flipped onto my side and drew squiggles in the fine layer of dirt on the floor, trying desperately to ignore the heartache Ember’s message had kindled.
What was happening at base camp? Poisonous fantasies of my friends being killed seeped into my mind, causing every muscle in my body to tense, ready to spring into action. An owl hooted above the shed, making me jump.
I needed air.
Taking care not to disturb Marco, I got up and opened the shed door, purposely leaving my boots behind so if he woke, he’d know I hadn’t gone off to fight.
I wandered to the edge of the thicket, where I could see the city stretch out for miles, the lights like an ocean of orange and white fireflies that fuzzed around the edges because of the Georgia humidity that rolled in from the Atlantic.
Somewhere out there in the ocean of lights, Ember and Reid were locked in a never-ending battle against the one person who should’ve been their greatest protector. I understood the final telepathic image forced through the connection, Marco’s deft undoing of his knitting: Patrick was unraveling, falling apart at the seams and growing more dangerous by the hour.
My heart ached for my friends, and though I hated to admit it, for Patrick. He’d lost the respect of his team. A significant part of me wanted to throw down my knives and beg for forgiveness, but an equally significant part of me recoiled at the thought.
Why, though?
My parents had warned me before I was released into public service that Patrick had a reputation for a “lack of patience,” even before he’d been given leadership of Saint Catherine’s team. When I first met him, I thought he’d be firm, but fair, maybe like Elder St. James.
One month later, I’d abandoned any ideas that Patrick was like Marco’s uncle. A reporter for the Saint Catherine Times-Mirror had pulled me aside after a fight to ask a few questions about life on the team. Patrick had interrupted and said I wasn’t authorized to speak to the press, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me away. At first I thought he was protecting me from a threat I didn’t yet understand and felt a twinge of gratitude and relief that I had such a proactive, vigilant leader.
Later, while I was curled up in my bed and sobbing over one of the worst beatings I’d ever received, I tried to reconcile Patrick’s behavior to at least one of the twenty-nine heroic principles, the four traits, or any of the hundreds of lessons on superheroism I knew by heart. I couldn’t then, and months later I still couldn’t. Every time Patrick laid a hand on me, something in my heart punched back. This was, of course, why he punished me.
The cycle would’ve killed me, and the Elders would’ve reprimanded Patrick for being too heavy-handed, or too impatient, or something else just as inane. He would’ve been temporarily removed from his position, but before long they would’ve placed him exactly where an elder’s son was destined to be: in charge of vulnerable people who weren’t allowed to fight back.
Unbraiding my hair, I leaned against a large oak and gazed up at the sky.
When I was a small girl I’d come to understand that I could always see just a few more stars than the other children. I could distinguish between more hues in the brilliant fall leaf displays, and the blue-green-gold shimmer on a starling’s wing was more impressive to me. My powers gave me a view of the world which few others could share. Now that I thought about it, perhaps it was this slight separation from my peers that was the source of my rebellion. If I were being honest with myself, I had to admit that my propensity for defying authority went back years.
Now, here at the dark edge of Saint Catherine, I felt once more that I was glimpsing something few others from the superhero camps could see, but this time I didn’t know what it was. I scanned the southern horizon, where heavy clouds were rolling in, slowly obscuring the stars. Lightning flashed within, illuminating silvery patches for fractions of a second, as if someone were firing a gun inside. Low rumbles of thunder followed each flash.
I stood there for a long time, wondering if the stillness was the beginning of peace, or the calm before the storm.
21
The night’s downpour blew itself out by daybreak.
The brilliant azure sky was dotted with fat, puffy white clouds that drifted south to north. The leftover damp from the storm gave a fine shine to green leaves, making them sparkle like emeralds. From inside an air-conditioned building, the day must have looked exquisite.
Marco and I started doing yard work for Mr. and Mrs. Hull at eight o’clock in the morning, and we were not impressed with the weather.
By early afternoon it was one hundred degrees, and the humidity was so high that it felt like stepping into my old bathroom after I’d run the shower for ten minutes.
Sweat slid down my back and into my eyes while I weeded Mrs. Hull’s expansive rock garden. Even Marco, the natural sun-lover, took frequent breaks from mowing the lawn to step into the shade of a tall boxelder tree.
I joined him there during his third break and gave him a fresh water bottle, courtesy of Mrs. Hull.
He chugged half of it and dumped the rest over his head, sighing with exaggerated pleasure. “Was it this hot during the summers back home?” He took off his shirt and mopped his face with it.
“Yes,” I said as I redid my ponytail to get as much hair off my neck as possible. “But we had more trees to stand under, and if it got really bad we could always jump into the creek.”
He grinned and punched my arm. “Hey, remember that one stupidly hot day when I’d absorbed so much heat that when I tried to burn some off, I accidentally set the woods on fire?”
I burst out laughing. “I think everyone remembers that. Elder St. James ran around yelling, ‘Put it out! Put it out!’ and you were like, ‘Why is everyone looking at me?’”
Mrs. Hull must have heard our laughing, because she opened her screen door and called out to us. “Dears, if you get too hot to work, you can come inside. I’ve got lunch on the table. Take off your shoes, please.”
Marco whooped and tugged his shirt back on. Together we dashed up the brick steps and went into the cool, dark little house.
Marco and I sat down at the round wooden table, taking in the feast before us. Mrs. Hull had made thick sandwiches, each one stuffed with sliced meats, bacon, lettuce, tomatoes, and potato chips. They were held together by toothpicks that had colorful transparent paper on their tips, a detail so pointlessly cute that I loved it.
I grabbed the sandwich with a blue toothpick. Marco grabbed two sandwiches, though I guessed he cared more about the size than the colors of the toothpick ends. To Marco’s complete delight, Mrs. Hull produced a large pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and poured us tall glasses. She set down a plate of chocolate chip cookies in the middle of the table.
After Mrs. Hull “blessed” the food—I made a mental note to investigate how this worked and why some civilians didn’t do it—we started eating with gusto.
> While I chewed, Mrs. Hull chatted amiably with us about her children and grandchildren. She complained that they didn’t visit her as often as she would’ve liked, and I got the feeling Marco and I were a substitute of sorts. Mrs. Hull was the first elderly woman to show any kind of affection towards me. I had never known my grandparents.
When Mrs. Hull paused to refill Marco’s glass, I pointed to a sandwich. “Ma’am, would you like me to bring Mr. Hull his lunch?”
“No thank you, sweetheart. Carl’s medication takes away his appetite.” She continued her story and I mused about how to get her to call me ‘sweetheart’ again. Halfway through lunch I stopped eating to wipe my sweaty face with my sleeve. Mrs. Hull pursed her lips. “Young lady, why are you wearing boy’s clothes?”
I froze mid-chew. I wore Marco’s clothes when we did odd jobs, as I only had two outfits at the shed. I was unaware of any civilian taboo against wearing nondescript opposite sex clothes in this context, but still my heart raced. Would she kick us out? Make us pay back the money we’d given her? Tell Patrick?
Jill, you’re panicking. Think.
I smiled as prettily as possible. “I borrowed my cousin’s clothes today because my work clothes are dirty.”
She hmmed and went back to tell us about her son’s exciting job in the Army. I smiled along with her story, my heart slowly returning to its normal pace.
“Mary, turn on the news!” Mr. Hull yelled from the living room, causing Marco to choke on his lemonade.
I handed Mrs. Hull the remote to the little kitchen television and she clicked to the twenty-four-hour news network. A picture of emergency vehicles filled the screen.
“—stand-off has stretched into its third hour. Residents have reported to us that the suspect has a history of violent behavior. Police have tried to reach the suspect through a negotiator, but so far all attempts have been unsuccessful.”
A picture of two pretty young children, a boy and a girl, in the arms of a smiling woman appeared in the corner of the screen.
The reporter appeared to be listening to a message from an earpiece. “We’ve just received official confirmation that the suspect’s name is David Greene, and the hostages are his wife Irene and their children Joshua, four, and Victoria, six.”
My eyes narrowed. I had opinions about adults who preyed on children.
“Oh my word,” Mrs. Hull said, covering her mouth. “How horrible. Their father must be insane. Imagine, holding your own family hostage like that.” She got up from the table and joined Mr. Hull the living room.
Marco’s middle finger tapped out a light rhythm on the table. To the casual onlooker, it was a twitch. To me, it was a message: W-H-A-T-I-S-P-L-A-N
I considered our options. On the one hand, the police were on the scene already. If they required superhero assistance, they’d call the official city team, which we weren’t part of anymore. I doubted they’d call for the team, though; superheroes were usually only called in by the police when there was suspicion, or proof, of Super activity. As fatal as a hostage situation could be, the police were trained to handle it.
On the other hand, I’d seen hostage situations go wrong, and any man who would hold his own family at gunpoint could not be negotiated with. What if the police were out of their depth?
My finger tapped out a reply: W-E-F-I-G-H-T.
He nodded, and I drummed out a little plan. While Marco bussed our dishes, I pretended to receive a text from “my mother.” I walked to the doorway of the living room and frowned.
“Mrs. Hull, I’m so sorry, but my mother’s car ran out of gas on the side of the interstate. We need to bring her a container of gas right away. We’ll come back as soon as we can to finish up.”
Mrs. Hull nodded without looking away from the television. “Of course, dear. Take your time. Carl and I aren’t going anywhere. Drive carefully and make sure to wear your seatbelts.”
We promised we would, and hurried out of the house. Once we were on the sidewalk, we sprinted back to the shed, not caring about the heat. We grabbed our masks and the police scanner from under the pile of dirty clothes. I tuned in to the Saint Catherine Police Department’s channel and listened for the codes. The reporter had given the street name, Maple Boulevard, in the broadcast, but we didn’t know the current situation.
Marco and I listened carefully to the scratchy voices.
“…movement from suspect…all units ten-zero.”
10-0 meant “use caution.” They were still in the standoff.
“Ten-four, CP.”
“Movement from suspect.”
I held my breath.
“Confirm….”
The scanner’s speaker gave out a weak scratching sound and then faded into nothing. The batteries had died.
“Oh, that’s promising,” Marco muttered.
I sheathed my favorite knife. “Let’s go.”
Technically, I wasn’t supposed to use my knives for anything less than a kill, but sometimes my hand slipped and evil people who threatened small children found themselves less a few fingers. Maybe my hand would slip today.
Marco and I were only ten blocks from the run-down street where Mr. Greene and his family lived. We hurried through the tired, crumbling neighborhoods of Northside, on the lookout for police cars.
After a few blocks of running, the streets lined with squat houses with trucks perched on cinderblocks in the front yards turned into vaguely quaint streets with row upon row of townhouses and no front yards.
When we turned onto Maple Boulevard, I realized immediately that approaching the home wouldn’t be easy. Two dozen police cars were parked up and down the road, all facing the ordinary row house I’d seen on the news half an hour earlier.
I beckoned Marco to follow me to the next street over, Oak Terrace, where the houses’ backyards bordered the backyards of those on Maple. Every yard was fenced—perfect for what I was planning.
In one quick motion I jumped over the fence gate of the house opposite the Greene home and pulled my mask on. Marco followed me over the fence and did the same. We sprinted to the back of the yard and huddled behind a woodpile while I peeked through the slats of the fence into the Greene’s backyard. As I thought, there were a dozen heavily-armed police officers.
I was in the middle of formulating a distraction when a man’s voice bellowed from the house behind us. “Just what do you two think you’re doing?”
A middle-aged man with a bat ran out at us, cussing about thugs and trespassing. I held up my hand to stay Marco, knowing exactly what was about to happen. Sure enough, the man caught sight of our masks and froze, then lowered his bat to the ground.
“Oh…oh, it’s y’all guys.” He backed up, groping blindly for the handle to his door.
I held a finger to my lips and he nodded once. He mouthed something to me: thank you.
I smiled and turned back to look through the fence. None of the officers had paid any attention to the yelling man in another yard. Peering through the slats again, I tried to pick the best course of action.
The sun went behind a cloud for a brief moment, but it was enough to give me an idea. I held up my hand and communicated the plan using modified sign language.
It was simple: Marco would absorb the light in the backyard for a few seconds, allowing us time to break into the house. The police would be too busy trying to figure out where the sun went to see us. Sudden darkness wouldn’t stop us; superheroes owned the night.
I held up three fingers. Marco sat on his haunches, ready to spring.
Three…
Two…
One…
In a fifth of a second almost all the light in the backyard disappeared. The officers, too well-trained to yell in alarm, whispered frantically and adjusted their helmets while we scaled the fence and ran along the edge to the door, where Marco deftly melted the pane of glass next to the lock.
I reached in through the new red-rimmed hole and unlocked the deadbolt, slipping inside with no fuss, and then
hastily closed the curtains on the window. Marco released the light and the backyard lit up. The whole plan had taken no more than five seconds.
I didn’t let our success excite me—we were now in a dangerous position. An armed maniac was somewhere in the house with three civilians. I didn’t know where they were, what weapons Mr. Greene had, or what kind of training he possessed. For all I knew, he’d killed everyone already and was waiting for police to storm his house so he could go out in a blaze of glory.
Marco and I scanned the kitchen to get a better idea of the layout of the downstairs. The kitchen itself was gorgeous, by far the most luxurious kitchen I’d ever seen. Copper pots and pans hung from a bar on the ceiling above the stove, and matching utensils were in a vase next to the range. Ceramic jars labeled FLOUR, SALT, and SUGAR were lined up according to size on the counter.
I wished my mother could see the lovely cooking space. She made dinners over a campfire with a pot that had no handle.
Focus, idiot. Principle twenty-three, self-control. Principle ten, attentiveness.
Squaring my shoulders, I regrouped my thoughts and searched the kitchen for anything out of place, anything to indicate what sort of ordeal we could expect. The whole kitchen smelled lightly of roses, my favorite scent, and lemon cleaner. Photos of the Greene family papered the refrigerator, their beaming faces belying the ugly truth elsewhere in the house.
Marco tapped my shoulder and pointed to the honey-colored table on the other side of the island. In the center was a knocked-over crystal vase. Pink and white roses, plus the water they’d been in, were scattered all over the table. The discordant image stood out like a bruise. The hostage situation had probably followed a fight in the kitchen.
I searched for a clue as to why Mr. Greene would snap. My gaze fell on the fruit bowl on the island that had several pieces of torn up mail. I wasn’t sure, but I thought they might be financial documents of some kind.
Battlecry Page 14