Wearing the Cape

by Marion G. Harmon

  "Now alderman, I can certainly restrain you, can't I?" I said softly.

  He tried to take back his hand, and of course it didn't budge.

  "But now Judge Halder next to you can do anything he wants, can't he?" I asked before he could get vocally indignant. "If I must restrain you I can't do much should he decide to leave with Mrs. Davis' jewels, now can I?"

  I let go of his hand and smiled up at him.

  "I can stop a tank, alderman, but I can only stop one tank at a time and we faced a mob of more than fifteen hundred mind-controlled rioters with just our powers. The only teammate equipped with the power to safely deal with whole crowds without hurting anyone, did. The rest of us did what we could to protect bystanders until more heroes and Chicago's Finest could arrive.

  "And we are working with the police department to develop effective crowd-control techniques now, although we will never be called on to use them if the metropolitan police can be mobilized first."

  And so it went. Share some chitchat, politely respond to questions or criticism, move on. Mom made a continual round, smoothly breaking up groups that stayed together too long with the need to make introductions elsewhere, keeping us circulating while pursuing her own goals. I don't know how she keeps an eye on everything at once, but I'm pretty sure it involves spies—perhaps among the catering staff. She also kept me clear of the laughing group that formed around the Bees. The Bees and I were good again, but all I needed to do was stand beside them and, costume enhancements or not, people would remark how much I looked like Hope.

  Annabeth winked at me from behind Dane's back on her way to the buffet.

  I sighed. And smiled. I would smile all night.

  One group Mom steered me into surprised me; Volt had decided to attend the Christmas Ball despite being a Chicago transplant to Hollywood who rarely came back. His dark curls and square-jawed profile were recognizable anywhere, even if he'd softened a bit, out of shape since his days as a silver screen superhero. A minor actor before his breakthrough during the Event, he'd leveraged his A-class powers into a brief but very successful Hollywood career before becoming the president of California's new superhuman union and going into politics. He campaigned for increased unionization of superhuman workers, and was probably in town talking to his Chicago counterparts.

  The Sentinels and the city's CAIs had resisted unionization (I'd been surprised to learn we had a purely local and voluntary association instead), and I wondered if Volt took it personally. He rudely ignored us beyond our introductions, which showed lousy political instincts on his part. It certainly didn't help him with the rest of the group—two of Mom's biggest captive philanthropists and Don Christie, best-selling novelist and one of Chicago's favorite sons.

  Don gave me a wink of his own when we left, and I laughed. It was probably an invitation—a complete charmer, he always took rooms and never ended the night alone.

  * * *

  After an hour or so I felt confidant leaving Artemis alone (well, not alone; she'd formed a court of young men enthralled by her dark mystery).

  Atlas offered me a cup of punch.

  "Should we warn them she bites?"

  I accepted with a smile.

  "Would they care?"

  He looked around. "Since you are unsquired at the moment, would you do me the honor?"

  Holding his hand out, he nodded to the dance floor. I laughed and curtseyed, passing my cup to a server.

  One thing Mom does to keep the ball lively is employ a band with the orchestra—this year she snagged the Celtic band Blackmore's Night—and bring in real ballroom dancers to add life to the floor.

  Atlas surprised me with his skills; he tucked his cape around the arm holding my waist so that mine was the only cape billowing out in the spins as we twirled through a Viennese waltz, weaving our way through the other dancers. Eye-level with his chest, I was too small to make a good partner, but we received a lot of attention as we spun around the floor. When the waltz ended with a scattering of applause I let him steer me out onto a balcony, empty because it was freezing cold.

  We felt fine of course; in fact I felt great.

  "I think you've had too much eggnog," Atlas observed, but his blue eyes sparkled and his sharp face softened with a smile.

  "Hardly," I laughed, twirling about the balcony. "Strictly virgin nog. Checking the perimeter, are we?"

  I love the Christmas season. In our house the Christmas tree goes up right after Thanksgiving and stayed up till Epiphany, officially the last day of Christmastide. I'd missed that at the Dome. All the trees and lights and candles, Christmas music from the band and orchestra, and enough fresh pine boughs to make the ballroom smell like an alpine forest, combined to make me giddy.

  Still twirling, I started humming The Twelve Days of Christmas. Atlas caught my wrist and pulled me over to the stone balustrade, on which he sat me.

  "I think you need to stay out here for a few minutes," he said.

  I wiggled. The short skirt didn't completely cover my butt when I sat, and I felt the cold stone through my bottoms even if it didn't affect me.

  "I am not drunk. You think Mom would take the chance with a couple of dozen underage guests? The glasses are coded and the servers threatened with death. I'm just happy."

  "Very happy. I must say you've been amazing in there."

  "I've been helping Mom out at these events since my debut."

  He looked a little wistful.

  "At that age I was doing the rodeo circuit."

  I giggled. "In what world is that fun?"

  "Texas. To each his own, I reckon. Can I ask a personal question?"

  "Of course," I said graciously.

  "We've been associating with your mother's foundation for years, and though I don't go to a lot of these shindigs I don't remember ever seeing you there."

  "Oh." I looked down.

  He leaned on the balustrade beside me, watching the street as the snow fell silently.

  "But tonight a Mrs. Lori—a frightening woman—told me how unusual it was for you not to be here tonight, that you're your mother's number one at this kind of thing."

  He sneaked a sideways look at me and his dimple appeared.

  "Now, normally I have to fight off all the eligible women. At the very least they want to talk, more if I don't have an obvious date, and I have a good memory for faces. So why don't I remember yours?"

  I realized I was sitting on my hands again and put them in my lap, where they played with the hem of my skirt.

  I thought of playing it cool. Not everyone's a fan.

  Instead I gave him the truth.

  "My best friend Shelly was an origin chaser."

  He straightened up. "Was?"

  I looked away. "She died when I was fifteen trying to get her breakthrough. She became one of those statistics—you know, the one they usually list right next to the annual count of teen suicides? Sometimes I wonder how they keep the two separate."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I was kind of touchy about capes for a long time after that. Mom always knew the guest list, and if a supercelebrity was going to be there she let me leave before things started, or I'd manage from the back. The fact she doesn't vet the list anymore is a huge deal for me, but you haven't been around recently. Shame on you."

  He'd already used his I'm sorry on the topic and I didn't want him to repeat it, so I gave a convincing smile. I'm very good at them.

  "So can I ask you something?"

  "Of course," he mimicked me.

  "Where does a cowboy baggage handler turned superhero learn how to dance?"

  "From his ex-wife."

  "What—" Why not? He owed me now. "What happened to the two of you?"

  "Didn't you see it in the tabloids?"

  "I don't usually read the bottoms of birdcages."

  That earned me a laugh.

  "I was young and stupid, a teen heartthrob, married before I could legally drink." He smiled. "Jinny knocked me off my feet. Amazing, beautif
ul, glamorous—she married a superhero and got a working stiff, a cop with a cape. She never complained, and our connection launched her modeling and acting career. I didn't mind when it took her to Hollywood. I did mind when she had an affair. Back home we think you should dance with the one that brung you."

  "Oh."

  He shrugged it aside. "We made it easy for each other—uncontested divorce, no juicy quotes for the press. The tabloid stories of binge-drinking, her serial affairs, all fairy tales; I think we'd realized we didn't fit before she headed to LA."

  "Well, she taught you to dance pretty good before she left."

  "You should see my two-step." His voice got softer and he leaned in.

  "Some other time." Dear God, were we flirting? Maybe I had gotten the wrong eggnog.

  He seemed to realize it too. He stepped back.

  "I think I'll stay out here a few more minutes," I said quickly. "You should go in and pay a little attention to Tracy. I saw Rush chatting up Olivia Sinclair when we slipped away."

  He winced. "We came here to put out brush fires, not start another one. You'll be okay?"

  "You're asking someone who could dance naked at the North Pole?"

  What did I just say?

  His lip twitched. "Now that I'd pay to see. But I'll go." And he went.

  Once he was out of sight I put my hot face in my hands. In the darkness out on the balcony nobody could see out the ballroom windows, and that was a good thing.

  I am in so much trouble.

  I wasn't alone very long before the balcony door opened, and to my surprise Mrs. Lori stepped out.

  "There you are dear," she said. "Your mother has been looking for you. And do cease perching up there; you look like a child."

  I quickly hopped down.

  "Have you been guarding the door?"

  "Why ever would I do that?"

  "Thank you for earlier with the alderman."

  Then my brain caught up with me. "My mother? I don't know—"

  "You really must stay away from the eggnog, dear; your mother puts much too much brandy in the bowl—indeed I suspect she raises the dosage as the night goes on. Few guests drive themselves home, in any case. Do you think I'm stupid?"

  "No!"

  "Then don't insult my intelligence, Hope. I've known you since you were twelve; did you think a mask, a wig, and a little padding would fool me?"

  "I suppose not. I don't think I fooled Terry either. I'm the one who got him his invitation tonight, you know."

  "After reading his column?"

  "Because of his column." I grinned wickedly. "Now that he's inside our charmed circle he'll be nice—well, he wasn't mean to begin with, just snarky—because he'll want to come back next year."

  "You are your mother's child. And how are you, my dear?"

  I sighed. "Apparently I'm young and stupid. Which is to say, I'm in love."

  "Congratulations. Make sure you put a bridle on him—I understand since his divorce he's become quite the stallion."

  "Mrs. Lori!" I covered my mouth and laughed. "Actually I'm not sure I even like him. We're very different. He's... hard."

  "Robert and I fought like cats and dogs over a great many things for forty three years. Let's go inside, dear. These old bones don't take Chicago winters like they used to."

  "Oh! I'm so sorry."

  "Don't be silly dear—I'm the one who came outside." We reentered the ballroom together.

  I stayed away from the eggnog.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Today President Touches Clouds gave a speech in Jerusalem commemorating the victims of the Caliphate War. In her speech she reaffirmed the United State's support for Israeli occupation of the cleared West Bank, while at the same time reminding the NATO countries and Arab nations of their treaty obligations to continue to aid the displaced Palestinians in their absorption by Jordan, Syria, and the other former Caliphate states. The President of Iran released his own statement condemning US-Israeli genocide and imperialism.

  December 18th, the Associated Press

  Men have died, from time to time, and worms have eaten them. But not for love.

  William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

  * * *

  The ancient Greeks considered love a mental illness that led to suicide, homicide, betrayal, war, all sorts of fun. Whom the gods destroy they first make mad. Cupid used a bow and arrow for good reason, and just look at Paris and Helen and the Trojan War if you don't believe me—they didn't have a single love story that ended well. My AP Western Civ teacher loved giving us eye-openers like that to show how differently other people thought about stuff we take for granted, and it always seemed to me that the Greeks knew what they were talking about. To them Cupid would have been one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, if he'd needed a horse.

  At thirteen I made the mistake of confessing my undying love to a classmate. He'd had the bluest eyes and the curliest hair. That was the first time I heard the words you're like my kid sister.

  With the fairness of hindsight, his kid sister had been in my class, but all but one of my subsequent experiences were variations on the theme. The one time a boy, Eric, ever showed a real romantic interest in me it turned out he'd been trying to score big in the senior class' Don Juan game (virgins were worth big points). Megan saved me from that mistake, and Dane beat the shit out of Eric.

  So Cupid would drop me in my tracks every year or two, and I'd agonize between two horrible choices: let the object of my obsession know how I felt and get nicely, awkwardly, or brutally shot down, or keep my mouth shut while I went up in silent flames. In bed and hugging Superpooh, I did a late-night rewind and review of those moments on the balcony. They showed all the signs: lowered voices, opportunistic touching, close proximity, and playful, even sexy banter. And I'd responded, dammit! Why? Alright, nine years wasn't that big a difference, and he was brave, sweet…and a divorced workaholic who threw his room key to the slut-of-the-week! How had I ever imagined he was cute!

  He's no Eric, my heart whispered as I stared at the ceiling. And he wasn't. He wasn’t the perfect hero I’d had a tween-teen crush on, either. The man inside the muscle-suit was someone very different. What I felt was different—probably why Cupid had managed to ambush me. Probably. But I wasn't one of his pretty and easy Atlas Girls either. And at the moment he was my teacher and mentor, and didn't that just set off all sorts off alarm bells. I pictured Atlas and buried my face in Superpooh's cape. I really should have seen it coming this time. I'd exhibited all the symptoms: the awkwardness, the impulsive playfulness, the over-sensitivity.

  So what now?

  As I tossed and hugged my bear in the night I came to the sad conclusion that this could only be another Silent Flames occasion. Cupid had gut-shot me again and as the shock wore off it was starting to hurt like hell, but despite those moments at the ball it wasn't in the cards. Atlas wasn't Eric; he was no seducer of the innocent, but to him I was just a kid and if he found out how I felt I'd have to leave the state. I could live with it, at least until I finished my training. After that... maybe the Hollywood Knights would have me.

  Pooh got a little soaked during the night.

  * * *

  As Samuel Johnson said, the prospect of hanging focuses the mind wonderfully (thank you AP English Lit). In my experience the certainty of hanging focuses my mind wonderfully—on something else. And I had plenty else to focus on. The ball had been a brilliant success; we'd schmoozed well, as Dad would say, and impressed the right people. But the Brothers and Boys still lurked out there, and we intended to do everything we could to change that. For now everything pretty much meant Artemis hunting by the light of the moon, planting bugs, listening in, misting through the night in search of incriminating activity or evidence, while Blackstone did whatever he does to try and get a handle on Psijack. Meanwhile we kept ourselves busy getting ready for the President's arrival.

  * * *

  "Shit!" Rush swore as a freeze-foam can burst all over his hands. T
he stuff set to the consistency of air-permeable rubber in seconds and stuck to any reasonably smooth surface, so he wasn't having fun.

  I laughed and he gave me the finger. Or tried to—it was stuck.

  "Just wait till one pops on you, A." He always called Atlas 'Big A,' though not to his face, and he'd taken to calling me 'A.' At least I wasn't 'Little A.'

  "You're just shaking them up too hard," I said. I gave mine a shake, popped the button on top, and aimed it away from me. It puked in a wide splatter cone on the training room floor, emptying over an impressive area in three seconds.