I mean, it's a wacky thought, but she might just be here to eat. Crazy, I know.
When I finally steel myself and stride out into the dining room, ducking around Tara as she gives me an encouraging grin, I see that Hazel's changed seats, shuffling herself from the back of the cafe to the snug couch tucked against the unoccupied left front window. She'd plucked one of the books from the shelves in the back, some coffee-table book on modern art that must have been published way before either one of us was born. She curls up on the couch with her coltish legs folded underneath her, the book cracked wide open and cradled upside down in her lap.
Seeing the upside-down book draws out a slight smile on my face in spite of my reluctance. Hazel likes reading art books like that, saying it makes her reexamine her artistic perspective. According to her, it's how she became such a reliable tattoo artist.
I let myself take a quick glimpse around the room, uneasy about discussing anything with Hazel in front of a live studio audience, even if that particular audience paid a two-dollar cover charge to listen to Mo and Jake play lovelorn folk rock. This town's occupants have always been respectful for the most part. Occasionally a rotten egg would get thrown at the cafe over godless offenses as simple as holding Hazel's hand, a more prevalent annoyance when we first started dating. Almost everyone with a problem over the two of us sharing a chaste kiss moved on once they discovered that taunting a same-sex couple with horrid names didn't always lead to a morbidly amusing display of woe and misery. Anyone who would expect me or Hazel to burst into tears over anything short of a death in the family clearly has never met either one of us.
Now we're simply the ones known around town for breaking up badly, who gripe about one another when we're apart and snipe at each other when we're in the same room. We make for a good freak show, the pair of us.
Hazel lifts her gaze from her upside-down book as I approach. She doesn't smile. “Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
She stares at me.
I'd like to think it's reflex rather than romantic interest or argumentative instigation when I stare back. “What?”
Hazel narrows her eyes. “What?”
“You're staring at me.”
“I do that.”
“Stare at me?”
“As part of waiting for you to take my order? Yes.”
“Oh.” I blink. “Yes, all right, that makes total sense, actually.”
Her hint of a frown peeks out of hiding, tugging downward at the corners of her lips. I consider fumbling out my receipt pad and a pen before it dawns on me that there's not much left on the menu that she can order anyway. “So what will it be?” I ask.
Something in the vicinity of her left eyebrow glitters in the sunlight, so either her eyes are sparkling with mischief or her newest piercing just has diamond chips and a good shine to it. “Well, what's good here?”
Oh, for crying out loud, I think in exasperation. “Hazel, I've got three meals left on the menu that you can feasibly digest without medical attention or a three-hour long lecture on the many ways they psychologically mistreat chickens in Guatemala, so how about you just pick some combo of the three and we'll call it an order?”
“Bravo, my girl,” a familiar voice rumbles.
I must have missed the tiny bell above the door tinkling a tuneless greeting as Morris entered, an astounding error on my part considering just how close to the front door I'm standing. But even though I didn't catch the ring of the bell, the sudden silence as Mo's fingers skitter across her guitar strings and the handful of flabbergasted gasps which follow would have been a wake-up call.
Slow and steady movement out of the corner of my eye alerts me to Hazel rising up from the couch, easing to my side as harmlessly as she can manage. I don't suppose now is an ideal time to point out that I can take care of myself, especially against Morris.
Of course, Morris is not making that easy.
Morris built himself a temporary plastic surgery machine not long before my father captured him and carted him off to Beddingfield Asylum for the twenty-seventh and final time. The turnover rate in Beddingfield is more than a little appalling. For a well-funded mental institution housing the superpowered and supposedly insane, patients flow in and out of Beddingfield's doors like a calm and dependable tide. Hollyoak Hills may be the only jail we can reasonably stay in without any chance of escape, but Beddingfield is where villains are more apt to go. For some reason, “crazy” is more comforting for the general public to accept than “perfectly sane but clearly dangerous.”
That's not to mention the large number of patients who were previously doctors in the asylum or those who become therapists there after their release, whether or not they possess medical degrees. As far as I know, Dad continues to swear that the next comet hurtling through the atmosphere towards the asylum is absolutely not getting lasered to bits by the Brigade if he had any say in the matter.
In any event, the plastic surgery machine – meant for a single four-hour stint as another person and created for the ensuing chaos it would cause – was mostly just for kicks and giggles until Morris and Dad moved in together. Since then, it's been the greatest blessing to Morris's retirement he could have hoped for. He can have a normal life like this, safely venturing out into the world as someone else before going home to be himself with Dad.
Your average supervillain chooses to hide his true face behind a mask of leather or suede, or perhaps to shade over shiny burns or bold scars with carefully placed makeup. Morris, however, has a more refined way to cover up the stretched skin on his cheeks and the ear-to-ear slice which will forever dig through the skin under his jawline. With a flip of a switch on the plastic surgery machine he can veil his multitude of scars with rearranged muscles and smoothed skin for a short while.
But today there are two black eyes, a split lip and what looks like a broken cheekbone to go with all of Morris's previous scars. He looks a very recognizable wreck, and it takes me a moment of looking into his eyes to understand it's not just a physical sort of tragedy.
He takes in the stunned, frightened faces of my customers and the terrified whimpers of small children in complete silence. When he speaks again, it's a weary sort of tired intimidation, one no sane person would challenge.
“Get. Out.”
With his wrecked face on display, everybody recognizes Morris Kemp, the great and supposedly bloodthirsty Quiz Master, destroyer of the Persephone Tower and temporary ruler of the alien planet of Ferlo before he obliterated it.
They listen to his demand without question.
“Oh, they most certainly will not call the police,” Morris snaps derisively a few short minutes later.
I lower the damp dishcloth in my hand, the material stained brown with washed-away blood, and try not to make too childish a face at Morris's declaration. “Did you ever learn anything when you were taking over planets and blowing up buildings? Honestly, Morris.”
“There are exactly two police cars in this town, which presupposes eight police officers at most, if we're stretching,” he says, sounding almost offended that I might doubt him. “I've disabled the services of entire city police stations before. I think I can handle terrifying eight power-mad yokels from Mayberry.”
I resist the urge to point out that this particular town may actually be smaller than Mayberry, if I'm remembering my classic television trivia correctly. Also, we only have four police officers in town, none of whom are the least bit capable of dealing out a speeding ticket without coming off like tremendous self-important jerks. Morris's assessment of the local police force is unfortunately more apt than it should be. “You don't care that they'll come?”
“Vera, come along now.” The condescending way he says my name startles me enough for my hand to pull away out of reflex. “You're registered in the area, of course.”
“Of course,” I say, my voice low.
Enrolling with the county is never mandatory. Forcing those with superpowers to fight the forces o
f evil has always been more to the advantage of supervillains and their flunkies than the general populace. Smaller police forces leave superhero registration a strictly volunteer program for those who move into the area. While I haven't used my powers in five years I still signed up for the local volunteer superhero program the first day I moved into the area. Not that I needed to, of course – the east coast superhero teams cover vast areas under their umbrella of protection – but the obligation is ingrained in me thanks to twenty years of private rescue and recovery lessons and my own glorious family history, such as it is.
The police may come. They might even bash the door down in a sorry attempt to rescue me. The more likely scenario is that the police will hear the story of what's occurring in the toasty warm interior of Tea and Strumpets, confirm we're the only ones left in the building, and calmly assure anyone who worries about my security that Vera Noble can deal with one pesky beat-up supervillain all on her own. I've certainly handled the others who've tried anything in the cafe in the past few years quite nicely even without using my powers or breaking a sweat.
I embrace the loyal faith in my abilities, but it's still a bit disconcerting being left to your own devices at a time like this.
“So,” I say far too brightly, swiping at another fleck of blood on the inside curve of the bridge of his nose, “what exactly did you do to yourself?”
He winces at the press of the cloth against his blackening eye. “I did exactly what you suggested,” he says, shooting me a glance that silently informs me just how wretchedly guilty I should feel about that.
I pause in mid-swipe. “You went to Mom's place?”
“I was waiting for them at the penthouse when they returned from their night out,” he says. He doesn't bother to mention the robots. “You did say Everett was with her and suggest I should go take care of it myself, didn't you?”
Something feels off about his story already, not even taking into account the unsettling way his eyes shift to avoid mine. I tip my head down to try to catch his gaze. His injuries are relatively innocuous. He's upright, he's conscious, he's not suffering from anything more serious than he would have achieved on a busy day of light villainy.
It's a sign. If my mother had been the one to give him those black eyes, they wouldn't just be black eyes. With enough incentive to start a fight with Morris in the first place, Mom would have punched him hard enough to put a fist through his skull. Or to put his skull through a steel-reinforced brick wall.
Somebody with normal to slightly-stronger-than-normal strength did this. Someone who would have been with Mom when Morris searched for her.
“He wouldn't,” I hear myself say.
“Apparently, he would.” Morris sounds like he can't decide whether to be sad or bitter, and just settles for exhaustion instead.
I bolt to my feet, the urge to pace off my anxious energy overwhelming me. Morris watches me with uneasy intrigue, my hands absently wringing as I try to work out how this would even be possible. Even outside of a costume, Everett Noble keeps his cool no matter how dire the situation. His superhuman mental abilities lead him to more intellectual pursuits, to tranquil hobbies and a lack of overreaction. He plays Go and chess and enjoys reading biographies of great superheroes throughout history like Mad Markos or Teddy the Bear. In his everyday life out of the spandex, he's never punched anyone.
My heels clack against the hardwood floor as I pace.
“Dad wouldn't hit you.”
“Your father,” Morris says, “wouldn't even hit me when we were mortal enemies.”
“So why would he hit you now?”
“Perhaps there was a fly on my nose and he wanted to guarantee he killed it?”
I ignore his sarcasm and ask, “What did you say right before he hit you?”
He pretends to sink into deep thought, the wry tilt of his grimace a sign that there's only more aggravation to come in the near future. “I believe the incendiary insult I said to warrant that enjoyable beating was something along the lines of, 'Hello.'”
“Hello?”
“Yes, clearly I was asking for it,” he says dryly, clasping his hands and resting his forearms on his knees.
Sighing, I mutter, “I didn't say that.”
“And I don't believe you meant it, either.”
I pause in the middle of the cafe's reading area, leveling my gaze at Morris, searching for anything flip in his words or expression. There's nothing. He might be sore and bruised, he might be angry and depressed and weary all at once, but he doesn't believe that I'd enjoy seeing him this miserable. I should probably take that as a compliment.
“I apologize for implying as much,” he says with grudging graciousness. He runs his palms over the crisp pressed pleat in his trousers. “I have not exactly had the best of weeks, and so far you've been the only person who's listened to me and not responded to said conversation with violence. Sad as it is, you're currently the closest thing I have to a friend.”
“That,” I tell him, “is the most depressing thing I think you've ever said to me.”
Morris's smile almost breaks my heart. Almost.
“Trust me,” he says. “I've noticed.”
I rest a hip against one of the booths and cross my arms, drumming the fingers of one hand against my skin as I ponder just what this all means. Dad, who's secretly shared a bed with Morris for the past five years, would never break up with him at the end of a fist, no matter how disastrous their breakup might be. Dad didn't get angry, he got quiet. You knew you were in trouble when he wouldn't even speak to you, when you were lucky if he acknowledged your existence at all.
All I can picture is the smug smile stretching across his face as he stood atop the felled robot, how out of character it appeared. It felt like he stole it from someone else to wear, some sort of macabre mask belonging on some happier person's face.
“Robot.”
Morris flinches when I speak, his attention obviously yanked away from whatever guilty memory he might be dwelling on. He shakes his head when he figures out what I mean. “I don't think so. Not unless we're talking about someone with more advanced knowledge of robotics than I have.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Not exactly unlikely. You haven't been allowed to touch anything electronic that's any more complicated than a garage door opener while you've been on probation.”
Morris responds with a brilliant smile that almost forces me to rear back in confusion. “I think I may take your belief that I've been very well-behaved the past few years as a compliment.”
It isn't, but whatever cheers him up right now, I suppose.
“What about clones?”
“I'm not sure,” he says. “I wasn't quite double-checking to make sure his scars were all accounted for at the time.”
I mentally race through the other options, a lengthier list than I'd like to admit. Villains can be creative, and replacing someone with a malleable dupe who'll follow your every order to the letter is easier than it used to be. There's a reason every superhero team genetically tests every member a dozen times over the course of the day. Sometimes paranoia means people really are out to get you and replace you with an evil twin.
“Brainwashing?”
“Oh, anything's possible.”
“Or maybe it could be amnesia?”
Morris sighs, rising to his feet and stretching with a muffled wince. “My dear, if you're already trying to figure out just what is causing Everett's odd behavior, far be it from me to interrupt you. I guess now would be an excellent time for me to leave you to your investigation.”
Investigation? Oh, he can't possibly think … but I can't …
He grins at the play of confused emotions on my face, adjusting his bowler hat on his head in the large mirror on the wall behind my head. “Vera, I imagine it's unsettling to hear this from a reformed villain, but I know you better than you think. I'll bet you've buried yourself in work since returning from the city and have yet to discontinue your SLB registration. And your f
ather upset you as much as he upset me.” A moment later, he gingerly runs his fingertips over one black eye and frowns in morbid amusement. “Well, maybe not quite as much as me.”
I shift my weight uncomfortably from one foot to another. Whatever is wrong with my father, the profuse apologies to Morris when this is all over may never end.
“I think I'll leave you to your miniature Woodstock, then,” Morris says. He turns to leave.
“I'm astounded that you don't plan on helping out,” I blurt out. Morris has never been the sort to let others do his dirty work for him.
Morris pauses in the doorway, not looking back. “I think I'd do more harm than good if I got involved, don't you?”
I picture his black eyes and split lip and squeeze the slightly damp and bloodstained rag in my hand as if to remind myself it's there.
With a subtle touch of his fingers to the brim of his hat, Morris leaves me alone with my thoughts and my coffee pots and my abandoned past catching up to me like a gathering avalanche.
7.
It's only after I make a few phone calls to reassure Dixie and Tara that I'm in one piece and that I've officially closed the cafe for the night, and after I migrate to the relative safety of my apartment, that I finally allow myself to freak right the hell out.
“Oh, for heaven's sake,” I say to the empty space in the apartment, only barely resisting the urge to kick something. I'm wearing open-toed shoes and it would only make my day just that much worse if I crack a toe, too, while I'm at it. I've never been the most reliable under pressure, and this certainly qualifies. Most of the time, I resort to tension breakers, like screaming at the top of my lungs or hitting something. That usually does the trick.
Frustrated, I stomp into my kitchen and I do the first thing which comes to mind, fishing a drinking glass out of the drying rack and throwing it against the far wall. Hard.
It's a good thing I have neither pets nor small children, that's all I've got to say.
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