by Karen Diem
When Zita finished reading, she swore. “You’re right. We got played. Hard.”
Wyn tapped a video of a report on the heists and closed her eyes. She gnawed her lip, and a tiny line appeared between her brows. “While we were in Brazil, Zeus and his accomplices were quite busy, but it seems like a pointless collection of objects. Six motorboats? A lab’s worth of scientific equipment? The entire contents of an electrical supply warehouse? Somehow, they also found time to break out a hundred convicts from that maximum-security prison as well.”
Zita scrubbed a hand over her short hair. “The prison is close to the taqueria where I ran into them in Jessup. We encountered them at two of these other spots.”
Andy rubbed his forehead. “The office building I saw them at housed the lab they robbed.” He stared into space for a moment. “It’s possible they haven’t finished whatever they’re doing. While you were gone, Vaudeville said their contract ended Thursday or whenever Tiffany and Pretorius declared it.”
Wyn nodded. “Tiffany mentioned something about Thursday as well. I’ll text Jerome and let him know so he can work on it, too. It’s Monday, so we have until Thursday to discover their goals.”
Exhaling, Zita rubbed her forehead, her joy over a successful mission fading and leaving only weariness behind. “I’m wiped, and it’s past my bedtime. Let’s pick up our stuff and head out. We’ll figure it out after some rest.”
***
Back in Andy’s apartment, Zita set down her bag and stack of containers and flopped on the overstuffed sofa. Her mind spun in circles deciding what to do: sleep, bathe, or clean her travel gear. Andy pulled away from her as soon as they had arrived, and he tossed his backpack on the floor. While he hadn’t hit any of the furniture, the pack had split open and spilled things all over. Cupcake appeared out of nowhere and was exploring the items now, purring.
Normally, cleaning up the mess would have been Zita’s first instinct, but pondering Zeus’ crime spree warred with weariness. I don’t think I’m going to come up with anything that we haven’t already considered, at least not without some sleep.
Muttering from her roommate broke into her contemplation.
I need to do something about him. Well, being blunt didn’t work, so I’ll try Wyn’s way. If this keeps up, I’ll be working just to afford fancy treats for my friends. After collecting all the containers that still had food in them, Zita trooped upstairs to the kitchen. A few minutes later, she returned to the basement with two bowls heaped high with the ice cream she had stashed there earlier. She set one in front of Andy and dug through her duffel bag. “You’re upset. So, in case I haven’t been clear, I’m being supportive right now. I’m all willing to listen and nod my head and say noncommittal stuff. We can watch this romantic comedy, and you can laugh it out.” After finding the DVD, she put it next to him. Maybe he won’t notice if I doze off during it.
Andy glanced at the food, the bag he’d started to unpack while she was upstairs, then the movie. “You do know that not everyone… Wing Chun? This is a kung fu movie. It’s not even in English, Zita.”
“It has subtitles. If you’d prefer a tragic love story to cry it out instead, I also brought King Boxer. You might remember it as The Five Fingers of Death.” She found the box and waved it at him.
His tone dry, Andy said, “I’m certain I don’t recognize it, and I’m a little frightened by a love story using either name. Pass.”
“I can translate that one for you, but it’s old-school kung fu, so you don’t need the dialogue. Pick one and start talking. I’m ready to be agreeable and not offer advice. See? Not offering any practical tips right now,” she said, cramming a massive bite of triple chocolate something cheap ice cream into her mouth.
Andy made a choking sound. “You do realize I’m a guy, and we don’t do the ice cream and nodding and movie thing. Why are you? Did Wyn put you up to this?”
Zita stared at him, the treat chilling her. “I wanted to help you. She suggested the techniques she’s had me using on her might work better than telling you to man up.”
He kicked his water bottle, sending it flying across the room, where it knocked over the desk lamp. “She needs to let me be, and so do you. I love you, Z, but you have to stop talking to yourself and listen to others. Treat them like individuals based on that instead of whatever’s backflipping around in your head.”
Her cold fingers tightened, squeezing so much the smooth, slippery bowl almost slid from her hands. When she replied, her voice sounded far away. “I wanted to help.”
“I know. You always do. Even if I needed it, you couldn’t do anything. You’re lucky enough to not have to worry about breaking the world, so why don’t you go back to wasting your powers and leave me alone?”
She blinked. “What are you talking about?”
His voice was tight. “Most of your life is exactly as it was before, if you substitute shapeshifting and teleporting for obsessive exercise and extreme sports.”
“I’m not hurting nobody. What do you expect me to do? Go loco like Tiffany and Garm and try to rule the world, crushing all the unempowered under my sneakers? Not cool. Cutting out family and friends is even more uncool.” Zita exhaled, trying to catch her breath and remembering his description of her activities. “And I am not obsessive. I’m dedicated.”
His chin jutting toward her, he lifted his head. “We should go do superhero things! Or at least I should.”
Her arms flew wide with exasperation. “What did we just do in Brazil? Before that, what about Sobek and New York? Your life isn’t wrecked, mano, unless you want it to be.”
Andy stared at the avocado green carpet. “We’ve been reacting to things that fell in our paths. Since I’ve got nothing else left, I should do more to help others.”
She picked up the dirty clothes that had spilled from his bag and tossed them into his laundry basket, hoping he’d catch the hint. “Is this about farting around on rooftops being cranky again? I’m not a cop or military person trained to handle soldiers and criminals. I’m an athlete and a tax preparer. You’re a physicist. Mano, if your response to getting a new baseball bat is to wander the streets searching for someone to beat down, you got serious issues and better go see a shrink. I mean, sure, if a killer breaks into your house, hit them with it, but it’s not meant for fighting.”
Either scowling at her—or at the amount of wash he had to do—Andy’s voice held a sharp tone. “We didn’t get new equipment. We got superpowers. I’m invulnerable, or almost so, and super strong. Plus, I turn into a psycho bird willing to eat a person!”
“That was a dinosaur, and Wyn said they’re just animals,” she reminded him.
“I didn’t know that at the time!” His face was tragic.
Zita ran a hand over her head. “Maybe Wingspan-you knew. Wyn mentioned you’re magic in that form.”
Andy refused to be comforted. “Doubtful. How is any of that comparable to baseball gear, anyway? I mean, your powers are better suited to playing, but there has to be more to our abilities than just selfish amusement.”
Hurt laced her, and she flexed her shoulders. “I don’t just play. Sure, I don’t go hunting for trouble like you seem to think I should, but I’ve been trying to help people when I can.”
“The best way you can do that is by leaving them alone,” Andy shot back. His face fell, and he winced. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day, and I want to sleep and forget about that video, eating that dinosaur, and everything else for a while. Goodnight, Zita.” He disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. The lock clicked.
Zita slumped before she forced herself to stand up straight. “You know that lock won’t keep Cupcake or me away, right? Fine, goodnight, I’m tired of the drama anyway,” she told his door, her voice louder than necessary as she swore at herself mentally. Esta de la chingada. I screwed that up, big time. Why do I even try? I’m making things worse. No wonder Quentin was avoiding me. He’s proba
bly afraid I’ll try to help him too, and we’ll get into another fight. It’s a sad day when tight-ass Miguel is the brother I’m getting along with best.
Hinges creaked, and she turned, but Andy merely gathered the cat up and stalked back into his room. The door snicked shut behind them.
Appetite gone, she set the lamp upright and got rid of the ice cream. When she returned to the basement, she moved the backpack and became a large, fluffy black cat. At least in animal form, I don’t mind not bathing first as much. Leaping lithely onto his overstuffed sofa, a decrepit brown monstrosity with a faded orange, purple, and cream plaid pattern, she curled up on the pillow. When she caught herself kneading, she admonished herself for being careless. Animal instincts can be sneaky, though they’re not as calculating or cannibalistic as Andy seems to think. She wrapped her tail around herself and let possibilities swirl in her brain, hoping for the right one. Her eyes may have sunk lower and perhaps even closed in the dark room.
***
The tinny sound of music broke the silence a few hours later, jolting Zita, still a cat, awake. For a moment, she was grateful. It was frustrating enough to not know how to stop Zeus and his team without some dream-walking metahuman nagging her about it in her sleep. Though hadn’t dream auntie said something about checking on my family? That was new. She glanced at the clock. Hours to go before dawn. They’ll all be tucked up safe in their beds. Or in Quentin’s case, in someone else’s bed.
She surveyed the area through slitted eyes, seeking the source of the noise. Andy’s room. Her tail whipped against the sofa. Did I oversleep? Was that an alarm? He’s like a brother, so he could be who dream auntie meant.
A groan echoed from behind his door, and the song cut off during a verse asking who had let the dogs out. Andy shuffled in a minute later, wrapped in his worn black bathrobe, and plunked himself into the chair in front of his computer.
Zita arched her back and enjoyed the sensual pleasure of a full-body feline stretch before she dealt with whatever had awakened her friend. She changed to her usual human form.
His eyes bleary, Andy stared at the glowing monitor, his shoulders slumped. Despite his indolent stance, his hands flew over the keys once he had logged on, and another window opened.
Even if his poor posture dismayed her, Zita was in awe of his speed. Look at him using all his fingers like a crazy typing genius. She flexed her wrists as if that would grant her the ability to do the same on her laptop. “Why are you up?” Please don’t say you need to play a game. These middle-of-the-night marathons are killing me.
“I have a raid,” he said, grinding her hopes underfoot ruthlessly. “Since I don’t have a job, I’ve got time. My ex-girlfriend kept our original guild in our breakup, so now I have to earn brownie points with the new team. They have a mission due to start in fifteen minutes, but they’re not organized, so it’ll be at least twenty before they get their acts together enough to go out.” His hands danced, and another screen came up.
Email, then more video games. Lucky me. I hope I can sleep through this one. She fluffed her pillow with little enthusiasm, returned to her cat shape, and circled several times until she found the right spot. Her eyes closed, and she sought rest, only to open them again a few minutes later when Andy growled to himself.
His voice was higher pitched than usual. “Noticed you’re falling behind on the site. Hope you aren’t ill. Anticipating reading the latest soon.” He dropped to his usual register and continued to grouse. “Listen, you passive-aggressive jerk, if I want to take time off, I will. Perhaps I don’t want to jump on the first paper available…” His words trailed off into indistinct cranky muttering and additional key presses.
After resuming her natural form, Zita said, “Are you talking to me? Because nobody’s ever accused me of being passive-aggressive in my life. Aggressive, yes, though people usually follow that up with something irritating that makes it clear I’m cute instead of intimidating.” She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and yawned.
Andy squeaked like a twelve-year-old girl, jerking back from his screen and almost falling off his chair. Next to an open email window, a costume shop site and another website displayed, with a stick figure man scribbling equations upside down at the end of a banner reading “Farnswaggle Fysics!”
She squinted. Why is he so jumpy? It’s not like I caught him drooling over porn. “Did you spell Fysics wrong?”
“No, it’s a joke about the physicist this site is dedicated to keeping up with. Even someone like you knows who Farnswaggle is, right?” He wheeled his chair closer to the computer.
Zita cocked her head to the side, her eyebrows raising. “Someone like me? You mean an awesomely fun person? Farmwiggles is the guy you like with the guesses about the source of our powers.”
Andy sighed. “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”
Because the past week has taught me that you talk to yourself and sometimes shout whenever you get annoyed with your games, and I can’t snooze through that. Zita shook her head in frustration and rose to her feet. “Pues, I’ll run home, shower, do a load of wash, then come back and crash later.” She hefted her gear and clothes. “Plus, I want to put my camping stuff away where it belongs.”
Andy raised his eyebrows, though he did not seem upset at the idea. “Thought you had to avoid your apartment.”
She brushed the short hair on the top of her head with a palm. “Nobody’s going to be sitting around my empty apartment on the off-chance I’ll come home. It’s been closed up for weeks.” Opening her eyes, she checked the clock on his computer. “At this obscene hour, no less. We’ve just spent the better part of the week marinating in each other’s company, plus Wyn, Jerome, and the mercenaries. I think we can both do with some quality alone time. Órale, my workout clothes have to be washed before they throw themselves off a bridge without me. Besides, I need a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.”
He grunted and turned to his keyboard. “Fine. My raid is starting. I’ll be here if you need me.”
Zita scooped up her duffel and gear. “Por supuesto, you’ll be here. You don’t leave the basement anymore of your own free will unless someone’s life is at stake.” She teleported home.
Chapter Twenty-One
Zita reappeared in her bedroom. The sight of the soothing green walls, rainforest mural, and her mink-soft purple bedspread should have soothed her, but her disquiet only grew after the first second. She tensed, shouldering the bag she had been about to drop. The door hung partially open, and the air lacked the stagnancy of an apartment that had shut up for weeks. Everything else seemed untouched: the corners of her bed were still perfect, no scent but hers lingered on the pillows, and her knife remained in its hiding place behind the headboard.
Something clunked in the living room, and she heard a man’s laugh, a little wild, a lot familiar. When the same voice murmured again, she couldn’t make out the words but recognized who had invaded her space.
Quentin! He’s supposed to be safe at Mamá’s! Zita padded to the window and peeked out. Glimpsing the stairs, she teleported there and stomped up to her floor, anger growing with each step. Why is he here? If Sobek had caught him here, I wouldn’t have been around to protect him. As she leaned her bag against the wall, she absently tried the doorknob. To her surprise, it turned under her hand, but a deadbolt stopped it from opening.
Zita stared at the blue door, rage mounting as she fumbled for her keys. Quentin didn’t even throw all the bolts. Did he bring home a one-night stand and get too busy dropping his pants to even lock it all the way? He’s always after me to secure all four deadbolts, and he can’t be bothered to close them himself? After a moment, she realized she was growling and squashed it. She unlocked the door and pushed it open.
“¿Qué pedo, Quent—” she began, cutting herself off as she saw what awaited inside.
Sobek, a.k.a. Tracy Jones, the sadist who had held her brother captive in August, smiled at her so widely the pointed edges of his teeth were visible. “Well
, this is convenient. Hello, sweet thing.”
Zita stared. Quentin stood with his back to the balcony doors, his Kimber Warrior in his grasp. At this distance, she couldn’t see if he’d already thumbed the safety off on the gun or not, but she hoped so given that three burly armed men surrounded him. Another man guarded Sobek, who lounged close to the door.
“Run, Zita!” her brother shouted, eyes wild and wide.
Before she could react, the thug by Sobek took a step closer and tried to backhand her. Light flared on the switchblade in his other hand as he moved.
Without thinking, she blocked the slap, pain radiating up her arm from the force of the blow. Zita hit his hand to knock it away from her face, reversed direction to strike underhand at the nerves in his knife arm, and spun back into the hall.
Recovering from her hits, he followed and stabbed at her.
A gun boomed twice from inside.
Dios, please protect my brother. She shoved the massive bag between herself and the switchblade, so it was buried in her supplies. Caramba. I hope he didn’t hit anything expensive.
The guy fell back a step when she pushed the heavy duffel at him.
Another gunshot roared from inside.
Zita threw her bag (and his embedded weapon) aside. The duffel slammed into the metal railing by the stairs. She spun into a diagonal handstand, kicking his collarbone with both feet in a meia lua de compasso dupla. Something crunched and gave under her hit.
The thug fell backward, hitting his head on the wall. He slid to the ground.
Zita flipped to her feet and slipped into a cautious ginga, darting close enough to deliver a quick kick to his side. Por favor, Dios, let my brother be okay in there.
He moaned and curled up but made no motion to rise.
“Quentin, I’m coming to help!” she shouted, bounding over him and moving toward her apartment. She stopped dead when the doorway filled with a tall, stocky form.
Sobek waggled his Colt M1911 at her, his shooting stance relaxed, as if choked exclamations and meaty thuds weren’t drifting out behind him. “Ah, now, we can’t have that. Stand still, my pretty little pet.”