"Well now, that a fact?" Tony grabbed Jeannie's rear through the thin sheet, and drew her close to him. She yelped and he felt her quiver involuntarily as their bodies touched. He pulled the sheet that separated their naked bodies away.
Jeannie smiled and laughed as Tony pushed her back to the bed. He reached over and closed the curtain, cutting out the San Ventura night.
Jeannie turned the bedside clock around so the display faced away from the bed. "I'd say we should do it with the lights off, but I don't think we have much choice tonight."
Tony laughed. "I think I love you."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Four-four-seven-four-four.
The Cowl tapped at the numeric keypad. Gloveless and maskless, he was nonetheless clad in his combat suit − it wasn't a costume, its design was purely practical, but hell, if the lowlifes of the city got a fright whenever they saw him, then fine. And by lowlifes, he meant everyone in San Ventura. But it felt good to be wearing it again, now that his arm and ribs had healed. The Black Angel had given him quite a beating and it had taken two days for his body to repair itself. He'd been working all night, and it was nearly dawn.
His fingers flew over the keyboard, transcribing the complex pulses of static-laced code that pumped into his ears. The transmissions were automated and repeated, and once he had been taught the pattern it was easy enough to transcode into something usable. Hell, it was too easy. He could have set up a script on the Lair's computer, but he wanted to do this himself, to check the code as it came in, to analyze the blueprints and instructions as they were assembled, to make sure (of course) that he wasn't being tricked. But he wasn't, and in the end the manual encoding was a real chore.
So he let himself listen and type on autopilot − the computer would check it later − and with the other half of his brain (the half that was easily bored), he scanned three large LCD displays in front of him. Two were tuned to news channels, one local, one national, while the other showed a web browser. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, but he leafed through a few websites of electrical component manufacturers and research institutes. He wasn't changing targets − he and Blackbird had firmed up the final hit list just the other night − but it paid to shop around.
He paused a couple of times as items of interest popped into view, but tabbed on through when he saw they were not suitable. On the news screens above, San Ventura Today Tonight was doing a background filler on the Draconid meteors which made him smile, while the national channel was showing fluff about an amazing new wonder drug that could cure pancreatic cancer. In rats. Fascinating stuff. The Cowl stifled a yawn. Not long until the final transmission was transcribed, then he could run the verification algorithm on it while he grabbed some breakfast. Blackbird was due in half an hour or so, or at least she'd said so when she'd called the previous night.
He paused the incoming data stream, leaving the computer to timeshift the transmission while he cycled back through. Maybe this was why he insisted on doing it manually. He pulled the earbuds from the side of his head and muted the news channels. Rotating a finger around the touch-sensitive panel above the numeric keypad, he ran the transmission back fifteen seconds and replayed. With his left hand, he stretched thumb and forefinger across the main keyboard, calling up a series of shortcuts to display data analysis and recent input.
There it was. A repeated pattern, corresponding to a new section of blueprint. Weeks of half-listening to alien garbage had attuned him to the code, and with a little effort he could translate it, slowly, as he read.
Interesting. This new section, describing some kind of coupling cradle, required a very specific kind of component. And there was only one place in the world where one could come from, and he knew about it only because his girlfriend had invented the damn thing. He rocked the touchpad back and forth a few times, double-checking the message, while he highlighted the visual representation of the signal on the main monitor and started the computer verification. He normally left it to the end, but he had to be sure of this part now.
He kept working until a discreet double bleep announced Blackbird's arrival. Moments later, she was walking along the bridge that linked the outer ring and main doors of the Lair to the towering control area. The Cowl smiled, listening with superpowered hearing to the thick, spongy softness of boots on the tiled floor.
"Another all-nighter at the lab, my dear?"
"Yes, darling. Uh-huh. Whatever." There was a metallic snap and Blackbird's mask landed in the Cowl's lap. "Final transmission?" Her gloved hands found his shoulders, her hot chin resting on the crown of his head.
"You bet. Almost done, but I thought you might like to see this bit." He pointed to the main screen, reverse-tabbing back a couple of sections. Green machine code on a black background, a large block outlined in reverse highlight.
Blackbird pressed down on the back of the Cowl's chair as she folded her arms on its back. The Cowl could hear the saliva in her mouth move as she frowned. He smiled, then turned his hearing down to normal human levels.
Blackbird shook her head slowly, rocking the chair just a little. "No," she said. "I might be a goddamn genius, but I'm not good with the code. You'll have to fill me in on that one."
The Cowl pointed again, leaning in a little so his intention was clearer. He waved a finger along the lines of code in the highlighted section. "We need to steal that."
"And what is 'that'?"
"It's a black light converter."
Blackbird stood up, quickly. Behind him, the Cowl could hear her laugh quietly into her hand.
"Is that so? I think I know where we can find one."
"Oh really?"
"Ya really."
"No way!"
Blackbird playfully tapped the top of the Cowl's head with the flat of her fingers, then pushed at the corner of the chair. The Cowl raised his feet, allowing himself to be swiveled around.
Blackbird reached into her belt with a finger and thumb, extracting a white plastic card featureless except for a black magnetic strip.
"The Clarke Institute of Technology. I has a key, too."
The Cowl feigned surprise. "Whoa!"
"Shall we?"
The Cowl looked back over his shoulder, checking the twenty-fourhour clock on the control board. His eyes flickered over the highlighted code again, and beside the monitor the light on the satellite receiver winked, showing that the transmission was ongoing but being recorded.
"No, it's early," he said, swinging back around. "And we've both had a hard day's night." He stood, planting a kiss on Blackbird's nose. "Let's get breakfast. Wouldn't want to plan a daring heist on an empty stomach now, would we?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Over the next few nights, Tony's magic light hadn't reappeared. But he was waking up with new… skills, each morning.
"Too hot!"
"Oh, sorry… it's just that I…"
"Too friggin' hot!"
Jeannie pogoed around the kitchen, mouth open, tongue out, waving at Tony to keep back. She just managed to keep enough control to drop the cardboard coffee cup into the sink rather than onto the floor. It hit the stainless-steel tub and buckled, lid dislocating and the superheated contents filling the kitchen with mocha-flavored steam.
"Are you OK?" Tony kept his distance, but reached a hand out. Seeing the heat shimmer coming off his knuckles, he stopped, squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, and dropped the temperature of his hand. "Maybe I can cool it…?"
Jeannie stopped hopping and looked at Tony, her expression of halfsurprise, half-fear made ridiculous by her open mouth and exposed tongue. When she spoke it was like her mouth was numb from the dentist.
"Cool id? Are you therious? You jus burd ma face off."
Tony's shoulders rose stiffly in defense, and he decided to stuff his hands in the tight pockets of his jeans. Although he couldn't feel the heat generated by his hands himself, he felt the denim go dry and stiff over his skin.
"You said your coffee was cold
," he offered by way of explanation.
Jeannie laughed, throwing spit at him and dribbling. This made her laugh more, and she gingerly retracted her tongue and wiped her mouth.
"Yeah, well given the choice between cold and lava from the fiery bowels of hell, I'll go with cold next time."
Tony smiled. "Good point." He shrugged. "But practice makes perfect, right?"
Jeannie nodded slowly, the incredulous look spreading over her face again. "Yes, Tony, practice makes perfect. Just try not to practice on your girlfriend in the future."
"Oh, I don't know." Tony got a little closer, hands still in pockets but raised shoulders turned into what he hoped was a cool, rock 'n' roll pose. "You said you liked it a couple of nights ago."
Jeannie laughed as she poured herself a tall glass of water from one of the many bottles Tony had in the fridge. Taking a sip, she slapped Tony's shoulder with the other hand. "Tiger, tiger, burning bright." She walked past Tony and flopped onto the couch, just managing not to spill her drink.
Tony turned and followed, but stopped to lean his back against the breakfast bar with his hands still deeply embedded in his jeans. "Seriously though, I seem to be getting a new power almost every day. I need to be able to control them if only to stop myself killing somebody by accident. Yesterday I got on the bus after work and almost wrenched the rail off the door as I walked on. I managed to convince the driver it must have been loose rivets, but I'd love to know what the bus garage is going to make of my hand print embossed into the steel bar."
Jeannie finished her water, experimentally opening and closing her mouth, moving her burnt tongue around. "Point. So what do we do? Some kind of training?"
Tony nodded and scooted over to the couch. "Yeah, why not?" He sat down and gestured around his apartment. "We can do most of it here. Hot and cold touch for example." He sat back. "The rest, well, we can do one thing at a time outside. Strength, speed, you know."
Jeannie nodded. "You're right," she said. "Control is the key. OK, sounds like a good idea. And who knows, maybe the Seven Wonders have room for one more."
Tony laughed. "Get out. The Seven Wonders would cut me up for experiments. They've got the city sewn up tight."
Jeannie leaned forward, turning on the leatherette to face Tony. "I know how you feel about San Ventura, Tony, and the superteam."
Tony's face darkened, and he shook his head in frustration. "Let's not talk about it. The Cowl is tearing the place up and the Seven Wonders are just playing his game. Won't change. Can't change."
Jeannie tapped Tony's knee. "Can't it? You've got powers. Why don't you do something for the city?"
Tony looked blankly at her, then blinked, then blinked again. "Take out the Cowl?"
"Why not?"
"Why not?" Tony sat up, back straight. "He'll kill me. I'm not a superhero."
Jeannie shook her head and smiled. "Not yet, no." She raised her halffull glass of water to Tony's face. "But practice makes perfect. Let's start."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The city morgue was Jacqueline Chan's domain; Sam never liked it when she had to visit.
Attached to a side of the city's central hospital that was out of public view, the morgue looked like nothing more than a loading bay and a set of concrete stairs leading up to wide double doors. The only people who really knew what the nondescript back entrance was were morgue staff and the police. And of the police, Sam was more familiar with the area than most. Being in the SuperCrime department meant cleaning up after the Cowl, and the Cowl rarely left anyone alive when he was done.
Sure, visiting the place was sometimes part of the job, but the peculiar quietness of the loading bay was still unnerving. The only vehicles that made it around to this part of the hospital were hearses. It was purely psychological, but waiting around outside this part of the medical complex, on a grass square that passed for some weird kind of garden of the dead that nobody ever visited (complete with never-used park bench), made Sam edgy. She was already breathing through her mouth rather than her nose, her subconscious prepping her senses for the chemical stench she knew was waiting inside.
"You never get used to it, do you? I can't imagine what it would be like to work here."
Sam turned at the voice. It was familiar, but she couldn't place it at once without a visual cue. There was no one around, and then realization hit – she hadn't heard it at all, the voice had been inside her head. She looked up as Bluebell gracefully descended on a vertical to land on the grass next to Sam.
"Bluebell, what can I do for you?" Sam tensed immediately; Bluebell was by far the most pleasant of the Seven Wonders to deal with in person, but her habit of intruding on your own thoughts, accidentally (as she usually claimed) or not, was deeply unsettling. Not that their paths had crossed that much: thanks to her psychic powers, Bluebell tended to act mainly behind the scenes. There was no need to get your hands dirty when you could scramble someone's brains from half a mile away. Bluebell made Sam nervous.
Bluebell also made Sam feel… frumpy. It was a brilliant clear morning, and she was at work in a nondescript dark gray suit and white shirt. Smart, certainly, even stylish, but it was nothing next to Bluebell. The superheroine's short blonde hair was perfect, her face applied with just the right amount of make-up to make you think she wasn't wearing any at all. And in the morning light, her skintight blue and white bodysuit almost shone, the pattern of bold lines running vertically up the outside leg and curving in to the waist, then out again over her bust to the shoulder, then down each arm. On the wrong figure it would have looked like some second-rate gym costume worn by a hopeful Olympic gymnast from the Soviet era. On Bluebell, in the bright sunshine, Sam couldn't take her eyes off it.
"Tell me about it." Bluebell smiled a film-star smile. "Appearances are important for us. But it's practical."
Sam paused, mid-thought. Of course, Bluebell was reading every single thought that raced across the front of her cerebral cortex. Her eyebrows dipped in annoyance. She really hated it when Bluebell came to visit.
"Sorry." Bluebell looked away politely. "I'll try not to eavesdrop. I can't turn it off, but I can point it someplace else."
Sam sighed. Bluebell was nice, and maybe she was being too hard on her. Hearing every private thought going on around you whether you liked it or not couldn't have been the easiest of superpowers to come to terms with. "No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. Gray suits seem to go with the job though. I think I need a change of career!"
Sam and the superheroine shared the joke just as a large, black Lincoln pulled into the parking lot designated for morgue staff and police only. The driver, in silhouette through the darkened glass, appeared to lean to look out the passenger window and survey the scene, then flung the driver's door open. Detective Milano's shaved head bobbed over the car roof.
"Ladies," he said with a smile, his voice ridiculously low and husky. He flipped the door closed and swept his sunglasses off in a single cool move. Sam couldn't resist smiling at his efforts.
"Detective Milano, I believe you've met Bluebell before."
Joe strode towards the pair, extending a hand just a little too early for a handshake. "I have indeed, Sam. Bluebell, always a pleasure."
He took Bluebell's hand in his, turned it over, and planted a kiss that raised Sam's eyebrow. Bluebell's smile was as wide and as white as ever. Sam really, really hoped Joe was keeping his thoughts to himself as much as possible.
Bluebell laughed politely. Everything about her body language was posed, affected. It was all an act, the kind that film stars did on a red carpet, but Sam could see how it worked. It made Joe feel good, proud, but also submissive. He'd do anything Bluebell said, but more importantly, his mind was completely unguarded. She could make him do anything she wanted.
"Detectives, I apologize for the unannounced arrival, but I understand you are here to discuss autopsy results on a recent homicide with Dr Jacqueline Chan? If you don't mind, I'd like to attend. It's just routine; we hope to t
ake a more active role in city policing."
Who cooked up that half-baked piece of PR? Sam instantly regretted the thought. Bluebell looked at her, clearly listening in, and nodded.
"I understand completely. But believe me, we are always seeking ways to better support your fine work. I won't intervene, I'll just observe. Shall we?"
Joe gestured for her to lead the way towards the loading dock, the schoolboy grin firmly plastered to his face. He said nothing, waved at Sam to follow, but as she looked at him she caught a glance, nothing more than a flicker in Joe's eyes. She nodded, allowing the corner of her mouth to raise slightly. Joe was deliberately filling his mind with lustful thoughts about Bluebell. It was drowning out everything else in his mind. He was a clever boy.
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