58.
Karl
Karl heard every word Kat Forrest spoke, and without exception, every one of them boiled his blood, even the “the’s” and “a’s.” He stood in the middle of the crowd, his beard concealed by a long coat that held more than a few explosive packets, and his hair pulled back under a beanie. The sunglasses did the last part of the trick, oddball frames that were designed to make the shape of his face look entirely different.
He listened and he boiled, but the hot fury ran cool enough for him to realize that there were so many cameras, so many opportunities here. There was even a camera crew following Kat Forrest right now, soaking up her every move, her every word. There’d be more cameras at the party itself maybe, and if not, boy, wouldn’t it be fun to let her do another interview, and then right as she delivered one of the bits of gusto, he’d just rip her heart out. He would have done it right now if he hadn’t been shaking in quiet rage as she spoke.
No, there was a little time now. He’d make a circle of the perimeter, watch things unfold, and wait for his chance to pull Kat Forrest in front of the cameras for another interview.
And this one would be her last.
59.
Sienna
Detective Waters didn’t like me, this much was plain by now, but then, I wasn’t giving her a lot to like. I was basically just causing her migraines, after all, breaking into houses, discovering bombs, getting other places bombed, being involved in fatal train wrecks and celebrity party—uhh … catastrophes? Yeah, that’s probably the word for it. Couldn’t blame her for not liking me, but the truth was, I wasn’t causing any of these things. An argument could be made that I was causing them to escalate—I could even agree with that argument, because people with powers tend to cause havoc when they fight—but I wasn’t truly responsible for any of this. It’s not like I was running around threatening people or planting bombs.
My eyes fell on the back of the lone, occupied cop car at the scene, the one with a naked man in the back who was staring at me with a spiteful look in his eyes. Okay, well, I wasn’t planting bombs, at least.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” Detective Waters said, shaking her head. I got the feeling she was mentally counting the years until retirement. It looked like it’d be a while for her.
“I sure hope not,” I said. “I generally try to be the death of criminals, not cops.”
She made that noise again, the one in her throat that hinted at a deep well of exasperation. “Uh huh,” was all she said. “Where are your friends tonight?”
“I don’t really have friends,” I said, giving her an opening that I hoped she would exploit to take a shot. I figured it would give her a little bit of catharsis, and I was sure she sorely needed that as I watched the bomb squad guy stuffed into one of those protective suits waddling his way into the back yard a hundred yards away. They’d evacuated the houses on either side and pulled back the perimeter to give those guys room to work.
“I can’t imagine why,” she grunted, and I could almost feel her tension dissolve a little.
“Maybe it’s the hours,” I said, giving her a commonality we shared. “Tough to keep friends when you’re working eighteen hour days.”
She gave me a sidelong look that turned a little grudging. “Uh huh,” she said again, but lighter. Thank you, Dr. Zollers. “Fine,” she went on. “Where’s your posse? Ms. Forrest? The others?”
“Tucked safely into the hotel,” I said, folding my arms and leaning back into a police cruiser. “Out of harm’s way.”
“You talking about Kat Forrest?” A thin cop was standing a few feet away from us in a patrolman’s uniform, dark hair and pale eyes. “I heard she just showed up at the Luxuriant at some party. Sounds like a real shindig.”
I felt like I’d gotten struck by a bolt of lightning. “No. That’s not possible.” No one could be that stupid, not even Kat.
“Really?” Detective Waters brought her phone up and touched the screen a couple times. “Hmph.” She held it up so I could see it.
KAT FORREST ATTENDS PREMIERE PARTY, HAS BRAVE MESSAGE FOR HER ATTACKER
I wanted to slump right there on the street, to bury my face in my hands, to slam my head in a car door, to drag the naked mugger out of the back of the police cruiser and slap him around for a little while. I did none of these things, however, instead counting silently in my head to ten as I took a deep breath—bad feelings outttttt, good feelings innnnn …
“You gonna be all right?” the patrolman asked.
“Where is this Luxuriant?” I asked, trying to come back to myself. “Also, that’s a dumb name for a hotel.”
“It’s right there,” Waters said, pointing at the LA skyline. Of course it was the one lit up with searchlights. Because this whole town was so tailor-made for Kat and her attention-seeking idiocy. It was a perfect marriage, like Ike and Tina, alcohol and vomiting, meatloaf and my tastebuds.
I shot off into the sky, unable to leave my rage behind on the ground, flying off to save my idiot “friend” from herself.
60.
Kat
“This is so fun, isn’t it?” Flannery asked, breathless, dancing with Scott in the middle of a sea of famous bodies—celestial bodies, really, stars through and through.
“Yes,” Kat said, faking that smile on her face. The cameras were rolling, were catching everything. Scott’s forehead had sweat rolling down it profusely, and she was even breaking into beads a little bit here and there. It was hot in here, wasn’t it? “So fun.”
The music was turned up to eleven. Kat snagged a drink from a waiter who passed by, halting in the middle of the dance floor, her camera crew responsible for a five-foot section of empty floor to her right. The waiter passed right through, conveniently, not looking at the camera but doubtless hoping to get his face noticed. She stopped him, perfectly timed, and handed glasses to Flannery and Scott, flutes of champagne. Probably pretty fine stuff, but she didn’t know names for these sorts of things. Crystal? Was that a kind of champagne? It was bubbly and kind of sweet and she tipped it back in one, not even making a toast. Flannery shouted, “Woo!” and drained her own, beckoning the waiter forward for another. Scott did his with a cringe, like a shot, making a face as it went down. He was such a beer guy; champagne was probably a little too sophisticated for his palate.
“Woo,” Kat said, under her breath. “Yeah.”
“We should mingle,” Flannery said, her shoulders under Scott’s arm. He looked like he was struggling a little bit, like weight had settled on him, or he’d brought baggage. Well, she knew he had brought some baggage; that was how she got him to come, after all.
“Yes, we should,” Kat agreed. Flannery didn’t have to say the rest—this was a place to see and be seen. She took her retreat from the dance floor gracefully. The gown was a real bitch to dance in anyway.
“Is that Kevin Feige?” Flannery asked, looking through the crowd. “I need to introduce myself. I could totally be Captain Marvel.”
“Don’t look too desperate,” Kat said, bringing her champagne flute up to her lips. It exploded in her fingertips, showering her with glass. A little too much strength, and she hadn’t even noticed she was squeezing the glass. A thin trickle of blood streamed out of her thumb, no wider than a paper cut. It oozed once, then stopped.
“Wow,” Flannery said, admiring her finger. She grabbed it and held it up, and Kat held back to urge to slap her hand away. “I bet that constant healing thing could really mess with a good Botox.”
“Ugh, tell me about it,” Kat said, gently pulling her hand back. “It does almost nothing, I swear. Also, that labiaplasty I wanted—”
“Whaaaaaaaat?” Scott butted into the conversation. “A what?”
“Labiaplasty,” Flannery said, rolling her eyes. “Maybe you’ll see one later if you don’t embarrass yourself. They're big nowadays. Makes everything so much more … put together.”
Scott was staring off into space, pondering that one. “Hum
mm.” He shook his head. “Oh, hey, there’s Steven.”
“Steven Clayton?” Kat spun and sure enough, there he was, lurking near the edge of the party, threading his way through the crowd. “Oh! Hey! Steven!” she shouted. He was about twenty feet away, through two thick knots of conversational circles, one of which included execs and a star of a movie that had just topped the box office for eight weeks running. “Steven!” she shouted.
He froze, turning to see who had called his name. When he locked eyes with her, he looked …
Disgusted?
He turned away and headed back along the path he’d been treading before she’d called out to him, toward the elevator. “That’s weird,” she said, watching him go. “That is weird, right?”
“Just ignore him,” Flannery said. “He’s probably gay. That’s why he’s interested in your friend with the touch disorder. No one would expect him to do anything with her.”
“Ohhh,” Kat said, nodding along, a smile breaking across her face. “Yeah, that’s probably it, right?”
“Ouch,” Scott said.
“Oh, whatever,” Flannery said, brushing it off. “Did you hear what she said to the president?”
“No,” Scott said. “Why?”
“I just figured maybe you heard,” Flannery said with a shrug. “She met him right after you did.”
Scott’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t meet the president.”
Flannery made a face, petulant and irritable. “Yeah, okay, whatevs—”
Whatever Flannery had meant to say, she was interrupted by a crack somewhere outside on the balcony, and Kat felt her pulse quicken, looking around. She looked for shots, for gunfire, for the threat, but nothing more than a mild ripple of surprise passed through the crowd. “What was that?” she asked. Everyone’s head was pointed toward the enormous balcony.
“Oh, wow,” Flannery said, her eyes riveted. “Just … wow. Nice entrance.”
“What are you—” Kat caught sight of her just a second later, a flash of movement just outside, motion against the background of the night sky.
Sienna.
“Party’s over, I guess,” Flannery said, more than a little amused.
“No, it’s not,” Kat said, feeling the bitterness roll over her at the sight of her last bodyguard. “No, it damned well is not.”
61.
Sienna
I set down on the balcony outside, scanning the party for Kat. The place was packed, filled with people dressed entirely too nicely for a Sunday night. I suppose it was always Friday out here or something, kind of like how they had summertime all year long.
As soon as I landed, I started forward, figuring I’d find my subject somewhere inside. It was kind of a breezy night; she probably wasn’t hanging out out here. It’d mess up her hair. Mine, on the other hand, was perpetually wrecked. I’d thought about getting a pixie cut, but I just wasn’t ready to embrace that yet.
“Heyyyy,” a guy said, making his way over to me, clearly oblivious to the single-minded purpose with which I was cutting through the crowd. “I know who you are.” He arched his eyebrows at me.
“You and everyone else with one of those idiot boxes,” I said, looking past him. It was tough to see much, though, because I’m so short. “Hey, was the idiot box named after you? It’s all starting to make sense now.”
“Ooh,” he said, grimacing a little. “Okay. You live up to your rep, so I’m just gonna get right to it. I’ve got a proposition for you, something maybe to get your foot in the door in the biz—have you ever thought of having sex on camera before?”
My head snapped around on him, all thought of finding and beating Kat gone in favor of giving this guy two seconds to explain himself before I beat him instead. “You want to film a snuff movie? With me as the star? What is wrong with you?”
“No, no,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’m in the industry—you know, adult movies. Succubi are a big fantasy and—I mean, there are things we can do, tricks we can use, when we’re filming—you know, in post—but there’s stuff we can do on the day to capture usable footage without endangering anyone—”
“‘On the day’?” I picked one phrase out of the shit he was spewing. “On what day? The day I murder someone on camera while filming a sex scene?” I shook my head. Why was I letting myself be drawn into this conversation?
Oh, right. Because letting Wolfe run my life meant killing douches like this instantly.
HEY.
True, Wolfe. You know it, too.
Maybe, he grudgingly conceded. Okay, yes. But it would be so much more fun.
Also true. But new. This was brand new me, embracing change for the better.
“On what day,” the guy said, amused by my question. “You’re new, I forgot.”
“I’m getting older by the second,” I said, “and so is this schtick.” Change isn’t an instant thing, okay? It takes time.
“Hmph,” he said, making a face. “Yeah, you’re not very nice. This is totally why you don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Oh, no, it’s not,” I said, shoving him hard out of the way. He went face-first into a potted plant, shattering it with his cro-magnon skull. “That’s probably why. And as a sidepoint,” I said, lecturing his insensate body, “whatever will I do if I don’t have a man like you around to validate and approve of all my choices?” I held myself back from curb stomping him into the shards of pottery, deciding it might be just a bit too much. “Why, I might have to live my own life. Gasp.” And I left him in the wreckage, with at least a couple hands of scattered applause behind me. Not enough to indicate overwhelming approval, but enough to cool my anger a few notches, at least until I found Kat. Then, I had a feeling, my anger was not going to be cool any longer.
62.
Karl
Karl had wandered around the basement parking garage of the Luxuriant, doing his thing, making his mark. It hadn’t taken too long to set things up the way he’d wanted them, just a few minutes, really, and then he’d decided to wait in the hotel lobby, lingering at the fringes. The paparazzi and the press were outside, and he was in here, just sitting with a copy of the LA Times stretched out in front of his face, the edge bent down so he could watch the elevators for her inevitable arrival.
It certainly didn’t bother him that Sienna Nealon hadn’t shown up yet. Her part in this whole thing wasn’t anywhere close to done yet, after all. His backer had one last hurrah in mind for her before this thing came to its finale, and Karl was waiting for the moment that it did. He felt like killing Kat Forrest was sort of like the warm-up; killing Sienna Nealon, that was going to be the real satisfaction.
Because then he would have cut down two of the most famous metas in the world, the powerful one and the one everyone loved, and his legacy would be complete. He could go out with a bang knowing he’d never be forgotten, in LA or anywhere else.
He glanced to the side and saw a little cooler of orange-peel infused water chilled, with cups waiting for the hotel guests. It was a lovely little touch, one that made him wish he could add a dollop of poison. It wouldn’t matter, of course, but this was the shit he hated. When was the last time someone in a poor neighborhood got orange-peel-infused drinking water? They were lucky if they got clean water at all.
He looked over his newspaper, back at the elevator with renewed fury. It dinged, and he felt a thrill of excitement, peering over it to see who it would spit out.
Then it opened. He locked eyes with the lone occupant within for a split second, and that was all it took.
SHIT.
Steven Clayton saw him, knew him, realized exactly who he was in the instant their eyes met, no beanie, overcoat or sunglasses fooling him. Karl just sat, stunned, for a second longer than he needed to, mind locked as he wondered what the Hollywood pretty boy would do with that knowledge—
Then Steven Clayton pulled a gun from his shoulder holster as smoothly as if he’d practiced it a thousand times, and fired it right at Karl.
Three shots
tore through the paper, the sound of paper ripping lost in the roar of gunshots. The bullets whipped through the spot where Karl was sitting, slapping into the couch behind him.
Karl threw the paper aside and started to get up as Steven Clayton advanced on him, altering his aim just as Karl started to get to his feet. Clayton fired down, and Karl felt something sharp rupture the skin of his right buttock where it had been pressed against the couch only a second earlier, a feeling like fire that caused him to arch his back in pain.
NO.
Karl triggered his power and went entirely insubstantial instantaneously, passing through the floor within a second, disappearing into the darkness below, swearing under his breath and vowing revenge on all these fake heroes.
63.
Sienna
“Oh,” Kat said as I strolled up to her, leaving the usual levels of mayhem and broken people in my wake, “it’s you.” Like she didn’t see me coming or hear the disturbance with the snuff porn film guy out on the balcony.
I bypassed Guy Friday, who lifted an eyebrow, and Butler, who apparently had the sense to stay back. I left the crowd behind and entered the small circle of people around Kat, which included Flannery Steiner and Scott. Scott looked a little flushed, embarrassed and maybe defiant, but not in equal measure. Flannery just looked like she was ready to spectate a cat fight. Or a Kat fight.
“It’s me,” I agreed, keeping my voice neutral with heroic levels of restraint. I wanted cookies for this. All the cookies. And maybe a pie or two for good measure. “Time to go.”
“No, it’s not,” Kat said snootily.
“This party is so happening,” Flannery said, and I couldn’t tell whether she was trying to throw gas on the fire or not. “We just saw Steven Clayton a minute ago. He took one look at Kat and bailed for the elevators with the nastiest look on his face.”
Out of the Box 7 - Sea Change Page 23