Villains Inc. (Wearing the Cape)

by Marion G. Harmon

  “Hope?”

  “This lawn tastes terrible.”

  She actually laughed. “I’m going to roll you over now.”

  I hissed. Too much pain makes you want to not move, not breathe, not think. If you don’t, the pain can’t find you. I opened my eyes to find her resetting her earbug, and reached up to wrap my hand around hers.

  “Don’t,” I managed.

  “Don’t? We’re getting you home right now.”

  “No, we’re not.” I held my breath, sat up carefully, and managed not to pass out. “You’re going home right now. Dispatch can’t track you while you’re mist. That keeps you off the radar till morning.”

  “But—” She shut up and I watched her think it through. I helped her.

  “My first meeting with Mr. Early is in the official record, suitably edited. We can’t leave a murder scene, can’t make tonight not happen, but me being here isn’t—isn’t so bad for us. Somebody has to tell the story to the police, but you can’t be here. This has to look like what it was, a meeting, or it’s over. Help me up.”

  “ No. God, Hope.”

  “I’ll be fine, Jacky.” I forced a smile; desperation can make an actor out of anybody. “And you get the wonderful job of explaining it all to Blackstone. My part is easy; I only have to talk to Berrien County’s finest. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “Sirens?”

  I nodded, standing up on my own now that the world had decided to hold still.

  “I’ll be fine,” I repeated, and she gave up. “Don’t move,” she said, and disappeared to reform on the balcony and duck inside. In moments she was back to take the cell and Bluetooth from me.

  “I reconnected the phones. You’ll have to explain the security—”

  “S’okay. Go.”

  “If you—”

  “Go.”

  She swirled into mist, fading from sight. If she caught a good wind, she’d be home long before sunrise. The sirens drew closer, the flashing lights illuminating the property’s bordering trees, and I crushed my earbug before dropping it in the grass and limping over to a pool chair, back to not thinking. Getting arrested was so going to suck.

  Episode Four: Endgames

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Repeat after me: a superhero is not a vigilante, a superhero is not a private investigator, a superhero is not a freelance do-gooder with a self-issued license to…to do good!

  Astra (Repeated with variations many, many times.)

  * * *

  Sheriff Deitz put me in the office cell, the one that shared the room with the desks and filing cabinets, and left me in the custody of Deputy Sweet. Deputy Angel Sweet. Really. She stayed to watch me and answer calls while he rejoined the state troopers at the crime scene; he had jurisdiction, but they had the manpower. I couldn’t complain about the cell—with bars on two sides and the door open, I wasn’t sinking under claustrophobic flashbacks of the Dark Anarchist’s private cell block.

  Which meant instead of wigging out, I could wallow in my own stupidity.

  Because tonight had been the worst idea in the history of ever, and it had been all mine. By the time the sheriff and deputy had made their way around to the back of the Grand Beach property, conveniently lit by automatic outside lights, I’d been ready to confess to anything just so they’d keep me in Michigan and I wouldn’t have to face Blackstone again. Except then he’d cross the lake just to testify at my trial.

  Of course they arrested me. Politely detained me for questioning, really; with a body upstairs, a hole in the wall, and the study desk floating in the cracked pool, they hadn’t had a lot of choice. At least I’d had the presence of mind to make a coherent statement, and Sheriff Deitz never asked if my meeting had begun with trespassing, and so far nobody had asked if Artemis had been within a hundred miles of any of this.

  And now that I’d calmed down, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be charged with anything. They’d taken my gloves and trace from my hands for forensics before driving me to the Grand Beach Sheriff’s Office (it was pretty obvious how Mr. Early had died, and Sheriff Deitz wanted to be able to solidly confirm I wasn’t the one who’d twisted his head around). So now I had to face Blackstone and tell the parentals that their beloved daughter, who’d never even gotten a speeding ticket, had spent a night in jail. Looking at the clean white ceiling, I reminded myself that Canada was close.

  “How are you feeling?” Deputy Sweet asked from her desk. When they’d come around the side of the house she’d been carrying the biggest civilian weapon I’d ever seen—a tri-barreled thing she probably used to hunt dinosaurs—and she wasn’t happy to be babysitting now. She wore a crisp deputy’s uniform, complete with tie and forest-ranger hat, but the way she moved screamed special-ops and she’d been ready to shoot.

  Sheriff Deitz, on the other hand, had simply introduced himself and asked if I could tell him what had happened, like interviewing beat-up superheroes on Grand Beach lawns was something he did every day. Is Grand Beach more exciting than I thought?

  I blinked and realized I’d spaced her question.

  “I’m fine,” I said half-honestly. My ribs stabbed with each breath but I wasn’t coughing blood anymore, which meant my healing power was handling it (I’d swear it was working faster each time I took a beating). They’d offered me a chair in the office, but I’d taken the cell cot instead. I was beginning to wonder if it was my fate to always take it in the ribs. Fate lacked imagination.

  “Are you going to tell me I should see the other guy?” she asked, arching a narrow eyebrow when I didn’t go on.

  “Nope,” I sighed. “He won this one. We’re oh-for-two now.” And I was so going to fix that, assuming I didn’t fly to Canada.

  “The house has a news helicopter over it now,” she said, eyes on her desk computer. “Good shot of the backyard.” She chuckled when I groaned and covered my eyes. They’d given me my one phone-call (I took the coward’s option, calling Dispatch instead of Blackstone), and I was sure somebody was on their way. Just in time to run into all the newsies.

  To my complete horror, the front door opened and Blackstone stepped into the railed-off visitor’s area, trailed by New Tom.

  Unless you avoid the circus completely, duh. Shelly wasn’t here anymore and she could still get sarcastic at me.

  “Deputy Sweet, I assume?” His eyes twinkled as he removed his top hat with a small flourish.

  “Who wants to know?” She stood and came around her desk, not giving an inch. Blackstone blinked, then smiled with great charm.

  “Blackstone the Magician, my dear. Not, of course, Blackstone the Great, or his son Harry Blackstone Jr. I am merely a devoted disciple of their art, allowed to do by gift what they accomplished by diligent craft.”

  “Okaaay… Astra?”

  I’d managed to sit up with only a small, silent squeak. “Yes, Angel. That’s my boss.”

  Five minutes later I’d been bundled out of the station and into the back of one of our town cars. How did they get here so quickly? Deputy Sweet elicited my promise to return to answer any further questions should Sheriff Deitz think it necessary, and closed the car door on me with a smile. She seemed glad to be rid of me; I obviously hadn’t impressed her, and I meant more paperwork.

  The car door closed the dividing window dropped, showing me how they’d gotten here: they’d flown. Lei Zi watched me in the rearview mirror while New Tom started the car and pulled out of the small parking lot. He took us down a side street, and once out of sight of the main road I felt the wheels leave the ground as she floated us away on a cloud of supporting electrostatic fields.

  Blackstone’s smile disappeared.

  “Artemis reported your injuries and Dr. Beth is waiting for you,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. It was all I could do to keep my voice from cracking.

  “There’s time for that later. What did you learn tonight?”

  “No names.” I dropped my head back. “Mr. Early sa
id that not all of their villains had gone over to Hecate’s side, and they’re bringing in outside help. Then he died, and I can tell you what Villain-X looks like. What are we going to do?”

  Blackstone stroked the silver head of his cane.

  “You are going to give Fisher the same description I imagine you gave Sheriff Dietz. And then once Dr. Beth checks you out, you’re out of the field until further notice.”

  “But—”

  “Go home, Hope.” He sighed.

  “I am reminded,” he said, “of a young lady who decided to help a mysterious and possibly mercenary vigilante thwart an assassination attempt in the middle of a convention full of superheroes.”

  “Tonight was my idea.”

  “Amazing. Artemis has claimed credit also—and, yes, she called me the minute she left you, before she set out across the lake. Vulcan sent the drone to meet her.”

  I sat upright and gasped. “She’s lying,” I said when I recovered my breath. “I mean—”

  “I know, and I believe you. If she had thought of it, she would have kept it to herself and gone solo. Fortunately she called me on my private line; there is no official record of her admission.” He frowned wearily.

  “Hope, I gave you a pass on your California adventure, but tonight… Let us leave aside the question of your entry to Mr. Early’s property. You are not a private citizen; you are a state actor, as much as any police officer or city inspector. This means the City of Chicago is responsible for actions you undertake as Astra, and by going to Grand Beach in costume you engaged in official investigative activities far outside our jurisdiction. From our phone conversation, Sheriff Dietz seems a reasonable man and I don’t think he’ll be filing a complaint But he could.”

  I wanted to disappear. I knew that, and the relationship between the Sentinels and the City of Chicago was fragile enough already. The last thing I’d wanted to do tonight was add to Blackstone’s worries.

  Watching me, he nodded.

  “Good enough, then. Write your after-action report as soon as Dr. Beth is finished. I realize Artemis wasn’t there, but perhaps she can help you recall some details. It’s been a long night. Then go home. You need to rest, regardless, and you’ll be on leave until the review board has a chance to read your report and you have a chance to heal.”

  * * *

  Dr. Beth was not happy with me, and this time he wrapped my abused ribs in carbon-fiber bandages to give them some support—and apparently to keep me from breathing deeply enough to do anything, since the improvised “medical corset” made me light-headed at the slightest effort. His orders were “Don’t run, don’t lift, above all don’t fight.” I couldn’t have agreed more; once he released me and I’d dictated a report, alone, I made a call to Rush’s voice mail and one to Vulcan’s and then let New Tom drive me home in my car. Managing to sneak in quietly, I crawled into bed and dropped into slumberland the instant my head hit the pillow, the pain far away.

  Cherry blossoms fell like snow to float on the breeze, and burning hounds howled around the base of the hill. The white fox sitting beside me panted for breath.

  “They can’t pass the tori,” he said, watching them mill in front of a freestanding gate of red-painted wood columns.

  I strung the wildflowers in my lap into twists of white rope and watched the hounds mill about below. Their howls sounded frantic, painful, as they looked every which way but up at us. It made me sad.

  “They can’t see me here, either.” The fox yawned. “So she drives them and kills them.” It put its front paws on my knee and stretched up till its whiskers tickled my chin. “Scratch behind my ears. Now.”

  I woke up to find Graymalkin sitting on my chest and nosing my chin, and realized it was Sunday, one week since my trip to Los Angeles.

  What was all that about? Scratching Gray’s ears, I called her a pretty kitty while she purred. It was so not my kind of random dream—not like the last one, which had so obviously been my subconscious mind knocking on my forebrain and saying Hello, Kitsune equals Japanese fox equals Yoshi the not-manager, hello?

  When I failed to have any eureka! moments, I got up. Over breakfast, I broke the news of last night’s adventure to the parentals and found them worryingly unconcerned. As in, completely. Instead, Mom thwarted my attempt to mope around waiting for Rush and Vulcan to call by practically throwing me into “that nice spring dress” and dragging me off with them to mass at St. Chris. Afterward, I lit a candle for Mr. Early while they conspicuously lingered to talk to friends. Giving it a moment’s thought, I added one for Charming, then another for Nemesis and two more for the bystanders he killed and the ones from the Dome. And as always, candles for Atlas and Ajax and Nimbus. Father Kreiski gave me a funny look as he passed, and he had a point; my votive offerings were getting kind of large. I knew way too many dead people.

  Work on that, please? I asked the Holy Mother. I didn’t want to know any more.

  When I turned to go I bumped into Jacky and Father Nolan. A little healthy pink had appeared in her cheeks since she’d gotten a pulse and come out in the daylight, but she still looked like an evil Snow White. The red dress didn’t help.

  What happened to Def-1? I was benched, procedurally and medically, but she should have been on station just in case.

  She read my mind. “Almost useless during the day, remember?” she said quietly. “Wait while I talk to the nice priest?” I nodded and they disappeared. Nobody’s eyes followed them out; I had to find out just how much of her ‘influence’ she could really use when the sun was up. Was she sending out Don’t Look At Me vibes?

  I let the parentals know I’d wait for Jacky (they weren’t surprised, so, aha), found a quiet pew, and tried to relax. So naturally both Vulcan and Rush called in minutes of each other, making me jump both times—I hate the vibrate setting. Vulcan gave me the thumbs-up on Shelly, and promised to have my own special request done by the time I’d healed; when I offered to come in for measuring, he reminded me Andrew had my stats down to the micron. Rush called to thank me for finding a place for Jamal, bug me for not telling him about Master Li, and let me know my requested addition to his combat-pack was an easy add—at least once he fixed the rack on his cycle for it.

  Jacky finally came back and took me to lunch at Trattoria’s, the new Italian-Greek restaurant in the Harrison Arts District. She ordered the Greek pizza with house cheese while I stuck with grilled salmon in lemon sauce with basil (yum!). Tucking into my entre and looking at the framed paintings of sun-drenched Mediterranean villas that covered the walls, I finally started to relax; we were just two girls, out for a Sunday lunch.

  Until she told me we were lesbian lovers.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  There are three of Me: me when I’m Astra, me with the mask off, and the me the newsies insist lives a much more exiting life.

  Terry Reinhold, quoting Astra in “This is a job for…”

  * * *

  Some revelations should not be made over lunch.

  Jacky started innocently enough, confessing complicity with Mom and Dad; I’d guessed right—she’d called them before sunrise to let them know what went down and that I was fine but ordered to take it easy. She had arranged to meet me after mass. Then she hit me with it.

  “Terry called last night,” she said after downing a bite of pizza with an expression of absolute bliss.

  “Terry Reinhold? The journalist?”

  “There are other Terry’s?” She carefully tucked a long string of cheese away. After doing my interview last year, Terry had become the go-to newsy for Sentinels interviews; he’d done Jacky, and then Lei Zi, Seven, and Riptide as they’d each joined the team. I felt a gathering sense of doom.

  “Did he want to know about last night?” Questions about talking to known mobsters—dead known mobsters—would be, well, awkward.

  “Actually, no.” Jacky didn’t smile, but her eyes were dancing.

  “Well that’s something, I guess,” I said cautiously. Mayb
e the Sentinels’ could avoid all the blowback from our wild adventure.

  “He got a call from a friend who works for The Daily Metropolis, you know the one?”

  Did I; it was the Chicago-based tabloid that devoted most of its page space to the doings, real and imagined, of the city’s hundred-plus capes; only the Hollywood heroes got as much attention as we did. It was the rag that had screamed the loudest over my supposed underage status, and over the whole Atlas-Astra thing because of it.

  “Well, his Daily Met friend sent him some pictures and asked for his opinion. When we bailed out of the car in the 7-11 parking lot Saturday, someone got some shots of us.” Jacky was working really hard on not grinning. Doom doom doom, but I couldn’t see it.