by Dunne, Lexie
“Gail, it’s Kiki. Her full name is Kiki Davenport.”
I stared for a long moment. And when that didn’t filter through the membrane of shock, I stared longer. “Kiki?” I said. “Kiki as in my doctor, Kiki? That Kiki?”
“Yes.”
I reeled back in my chair, pointing. “I saw her! In the prison waiting room, when Jeremy came to see me. I saw her, and it completely slipped my mind! She must have been there to see Rita. Is she in trouble somehow?”
Both Guy and Vicki looked troubled. “I don’t know,” Guy said. “We can find out. After we get Naomi and track down Chelsea.”
That didn’t sit right with me, I realized. Sure, I didn’t want to go along with Rita’s crazy plan, whatever the hell it was, but Kiki was a friend. She made me wary because she had telepathic abilities, and I’d never had a good experience with any of those, but she’d seemed like good people.
But Kiki’s grandmother and her father both had Villain Syndrome.
Which explained the looks on Guy’s and Vicki’s faces right now. “You think Kiki and Rita are working together,” I said. “Like, what, they’re using me?”
“It’s a concern. I can do more research.” Guy put his fingertips together for a second before resting both hands flat against the table. He looked at Vicki. “Aren’t you going to be late for your shift?”
“Good point.” She stood up and peeled out of Guy’s uniform, stripping down to her panties and bra. Modesty was not a necessity for her. It made sense, since she’d shown up on billboards in Times Square wearing even less. “I left the blueprints for the checkpoint on the counter. I’d move fast if I were you.”
“We’ll come up with something,” Guy said, putting his hand over his eyes and shaking his head.
“Please don’t let me know while you’re in there.” Vicki reached into her bag and retrieved a length of black cloth. She tossed her Plain Jane mask on the table and pulled her uniform on up to the waist, pausing to tie her hair back. “I really don’t want to pretend fight you.”
“Uh, sure,” I said, though I really didn’t remember agreeing to break Naomi out. But hey, I’d done crazier things in the past forty-eight hours, really. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks. See you afterward.” She pulled the rest of her uniform on, tugged the mask over her face, and headed for the window.
We both watched her go for a second, and Guy turned to me with a rueful look. “She’s kind of a whirlwind,” he said.
“That’s the Vicki we know and love,” I said. “So I guess I’m busting Naomi out of prison. What the hell, it’s not like I had other plans for the day. Two prison breaks in twenty-four hours? That’s basically a party in my world.”
“And that’s the Gail we know and love.” Guy gave me another smile and ducked his head to finish his breakfast.
CHAPTER TEN
After Vicki left, Guy caught me up on everything vital I had missed in prison, which was not that much. “I mean, you’re important,” he said, as we carried the dishes to the sink. Mercifully, the food had cut away the edges of my headache, bringing it down to a dull roar. But I still felt a little weak as I helped with the dishes. “The problem is that Davenport has so much going on . . .”
“The world should drop everything for me, though,” I said, attempting a feeble joke.
He smiled. “If I had my way, they would. I don’t get it. I don’t understand why they’re targeting you, or even who’s doing it.”
“Or why I randomly got busted out of prison and had my own protection squad inside.”
“I’m glad you had that even if I don’t understand why.”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” I finally gave in to the need and leaned over, resting my forehead against his shoulder since my hands were covered in dishwater. I heard his sigh as he relaxed. “Everything sucks, but I’m glad you’re here.”
“You’re where the party is, don’t you know that?” He didn’t quite manage to infuse the necessary humor in his voice. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you, Gail.”
“And you, too. I know Angélica meant a lot to you.”
“It happens.” Guy’s voice was rough. He turned to finish scrubbing the pan, which bent a little under his fingers. I lifted my head and grabbed the towel to dry my hands. “It’s the choice we all make. We know what can happen. And Angélica, I think . . . she would make that choice again.”
That didn’t help much. A life had been cut short to save mine, and it was the life of somebody I’d admired and respected.
I swallowed. “I think you’re right. But how are you handling it? Are you okay?”
“I should be asking you that.” Guy bent the pan back into its regular shape, holding it up to the light to inspect it. “You’re going through a much rougher time than I am.”
“I’m scared. And I’m mad. Vicki’s right. We have to get to Naomi. I think she might know how to clear my name, and, even more, she might know why Chelsea is after you and Sam.” After all, she’d been the one Chelsea had hired to research Sam’s and Guy’s powers. But that didn’t mean she belonged in custody any more than I did.
“So we focus on the mission,” Guy said, setting the pan down and drying his hands.
“Until all of this is sorted out. But I think we can take a minute.” I reached up and grabbed his shirt collar, tugging him down to my level. After Jeremy, I’d given myself the rule of no more tall men for this very reason, but that hardly seemed to matter now. Guy stumbled a tiny bit. I kissed him before he could get his balance or try to pull back.
It wasn’t a problem, though. After a second, his arms came around me, and he kissed me back, a lot more slowly. He pulled back first. “Gail,” was all he said.
I tilted my head to consider him. “Are you going to turn this red every time I kiss you? Because I have to admit, it’s really cute.”
He scowled. “It’s more than a distinct possibility. At least one of us should enjoy that.”
“Aww.” I kissed him again, quickly, and stepped back. The headache was almost completely gone now, mercifully, which made things seem a little clearer. “But you’re right, there’s not much time. We’ve got to get Naomi out.”
“Any ideas on how to do that?”
“I’m not nearly as good at busting people out of prison as Raze and Rita,” I said, frowning. I smiled a little. “The one time you need a supervillain, there’s not one around to be found, huh?”
“Darn,” Guy said, snapping his fingers.
“Yeah, it’s a—wait.” The idea hit, making me stop midstep and midsentence. Guy, leaning against the counter with his arms across his chest, raised both eyebrows at me as I slowly swiveled to face him. “I think I may have an idea. Can you cause a distraction?”
“What kind of distraction?”
“I need you to be Bl—no, not Blaze. Blaze and Hostage Girl shouldn’t be in the same city.”
“Hostage Girl?” Guy’s eyebrows went up farther.
“Shut up, you know what I mean. I don’t have a hero name yet, and that’s what they know me by.” I waved that off. “War Hammer. I need War Hammer to be real obvious, saving the day. Can you do that? Go fight crime for a while?”
“Of course. What are you going to do?”
I winced. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t know?”
His chin lowered. “Because you love it so much when we do that to you.”
He had a point. “Okay, you’re right. No more keeping anybody in the dark. It’s just that if I’m going to break into this space, I need to officially think like a villain, you know?”
“Can you do that?”
“No, but I know where to find people that do.”
If there was ever was a supervillain bar in Chicago, of course it was in Wicker Park.
Of course.
I stared at the little
dive bar, partly in frustration, partly in complete understanding. I’d been in this neighborhood a few times—a surprising number of villains kept their little hidey-holes among the clustered apartments, next to the college students and the elderly population. So a supervillain bar located there? Yeah, it made sense.
The little steering wheel you’d find on a pirate ship being mounted above the door? That made less sense—until I stepped inside and realized that Mind the Boom was a pun. Sure, supervillains liked explosives. But apparently they liked their alcohol served in the ambiance of a ship’s hold, with fishing nets and styrofoam fish and crabs all over the walls. The floor was composed of driftwood planks, the ancient wooden stools had seen better centuries, and the bartender wore an eye patch. Whether that was an evil thing or a nautical one, I couldn’t be sure.
I adjusted the collar of my leather jacket and tried to look like I meant to cause people harm. It’s difficult to look like a badass when you’re barely five feet tall, but I’d been around enough supervillains that a screw you presence was easy to cultivate.
The bartender looked over and frowned. “I haven’t seen you in here before,” she said.
“I’m new to the evil game.” I looked at the line of liquors behind her and tried to think of the most evil drink I knew. “I’ll have an Irish car bomb, pl—” I broke off. Supervillains probably didn’t order drinks politely.
She eyed me up and down. Guy had found me an all-black outfit and the leather jacket (I kind of hoped to keep that; it was seriously nice, even though it was swelteringly hot, being July), but I didn’t really have any blast rays or anything to recommend me like Raze would have. “What’s your beat?”
“My beat? Like, my archnemesis?”
“Sure, either or. I like to get to know the newcomers.”
Sorry, Raze, I thought. “Razor X is still in prison. Her beat’s open, and I’m eyeing it pretty hard, you know?”
The bartender gave me a strange look. Okay, maybe I needed to stop talking like the mob boss in a forties detective flick. “It’s a work in progress,” I said, watching her build the Guinness. I glanced over my shoulder, making sure nobody else had come in. Something in the corner caught my eye.
“You like that?” the bartender asked. “It’s our wall of fame.”
It wasn’t until I was right up next to the wall that I really understood what I was seeing. Polaroids had been pinned to the board with brightly colored thumbtacks. Every single one of the Polaroids showed a different grinning villain, some shooting finger guns, others holding up real guns of varying types. Selfies, I realized, which would have been fine if it weren’t for one glaringly obvious fact: I was in every one of those pictures. Unconscious, but there.
Belatedly, I saw the text above the pictures: HOSTAGE GIRL WALL OF FAME.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked.
“Nope.” The bartender smiled and lifted her eye patch when I turned back to her. A bionic eye blinked red. “Aha. I thought it was you. What brings the illustrious Hostage Girl to my humble establishment? Switching sides?”
I remembered that I was supposed to be evil now. “Yes,” I said. I might as well tell the truth, so: “Just broke out of Detmer.”
“Really?” She finished pouring the Guinness and set it on the bar in front of my stool. “Hard-core.”
“Thank you.” I sat down and tried not to sulk, “And now I’m looking to hire somebody. I need a supervillain of . . . certain skills.”
“What kind? We get all types here.” She poured the Bailey’s and Jameson into a shot glass and pushed both glasses to me.
I stared at the alcohol with a dawning realization that a) I had not had any alcohol since the Mobium, since Angélica had forbidden me from drinking and, b) I had expressly ordered a drink that required chugging. Chugging something that probably wouldn’t react well to the isotope taking over most of my body. Right before I was hoping to break into a secure Davenport facility, a plan that would no doubt require all of my mental faculties and some delicacy besides.
“Drink up, me hearty,” the bartender said.
Sorry, Angélica, I thought, and I dropped the shot in and chugged.
The alcohol hit the back of my throat. It didn’t burn, thankfully, but I could outright feel the effect as I drank. One thing was obvious right away: the Mobium did not approve. It didn’t like me poisoning my body in any way. But I swallowed the last of my drink and banged the glass down on the bar. “Tasty.”
“Another?”
“I’ll hold off. I’m looking for somebody that specializes in extraction or infiltration. Preferably both, but I can work with either.”
“What’s the pay?”
I named a figure. Guy had given me that much in cash. I knew better than to actually carry it into the bar with me, so I’d hidden it in Sam’s car, which I had borrowed from the motor pool under Sam’s hideout.
“You’ll get some takers,” my bartender said, not blinking either her regular or her bionic eye at the sum I’d named. “Speaking of which, here’s one right now.”
I ducked my head as the ship’s bell over the door jangled. The newcomer let out a long, drawn-out breath. “You would not believe it, Sal,” she said, heels clicking on the driftwood planks. “Angus is asking me to learn this thing called PowerPoint, and it’s ridiculous. I don’t even know what’s going on half the time. This is the worst.”
I recognized that voice.
“Like, why do I have to learn it, anyway? I mean, in two weeks it’s not going to matter. These are going to go back to a person who does real work. So awful.”
Shocked, I lifted my head.
The newcomer, who was halfway to the bar, stopped in her tracks. “Girl?” she asked.
“I’m going to need another drink after all,” I said to the bartender before I turned fully to look at the newcomer. “Care to tell me how long you’ve been a villain, Portia?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I’d known Portia McPeak for over three years. We’d worked together at Mirror Reality, Inc., which managed several of the top magazines in the company. Or I should say: I worked there, and Portia, like many of my other coworkers, had sat around looking pretty in hopes of luring our boss Angus into giving them a modeling contract instead. Portia fit the mold pretty well. She was svelte and blonde and wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of those forties detective movies I had accidentally started imitating.
She was also vain and shallow and not once, not once had she ever seen fit to mention she wasn’t just a regular Class D human. Never had she even so much as hinted that she would ever have a reason to visit a place like Mind the Boom, but here she was right in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, closing the distance between us. “I thought you were on, like, the longest vacation ever. Are you done finding yourself now? And what are you wearing? That jacket is seriously cute, but it’s, like, July.”
“I could ask you the same,” I said, and a confused line appeared between Portia’s eyebrows. It was pretty much the only line on her face thanks to a rigorous schedule of Botox and cleanses. “Not about the jacket—I mean the bar. What brings you to a supervillain bar, Portia? Have you secretly had powers this whole time? Wait, are you a supervillain?”
“Not a villain, per se.” Portia sighed like she was the most-put-upon person in the world. “But heroing feels like too much work. And I like this place. These are my people.”
“Your—your people?” My jaw was about to swing in the breeze. “You do have powers, then?”
“Duh. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” She rolled her eyes. “Sal, can I get my usual? A little harder on the sauce. I get the feeling I’m about to have a headache.”
“Got it.” Sal fetched the bourbon to start preparing her drink.
I, meanwhile, tried to wrap my brain around the fact that one of my cowor
kers—the only one who had bothered to reach out to me after I’d vanished off the face of the earth due to the Mobium, depressingly enough—had somehow hidden superpowers from me. The entire time, I’d thought she was simply dumb.
Guess it served me right for believing what they said about blondes.
“What kind of powers do you have?” I asked.
“They’re not important.”
“Oh, no, I think they’re very important,” I said. I rested my chin on my hand and stared. “Please. Enlighten me.”
“It’s a little ironic, if you think about it,” Portia said. I hadn’t even been aware that she knew what that word even meant. “But I turn invisible.”
“Come again?” I asked.
Portia sighed and vanished, making me scramble off the stool. I looked around for her before my brain informed me that I could hear her breathing, so she must still be right in front of me. I’d never come across a villain who could disappear that neatly or that completely. With most invisibility powers, there was at least a tiny outline in the air, like a piece of hair floating atop water. But even my enhanced eyes couldn’t pick up a thing.
“See?” Portia asked.
“No, I don’t,” I said. “Which is the point. Wait, why is that ironic?”
Portia reappeared to give me an aggravated look. “Because I want to be a model, duh! I want to be seen! Look at me. These powers do me absolutely no good. It’s the worst.”
“No good? I mean, you can turn invisible! Think of everything you could do!”
Portia yawned. “Everything I could do? Have you seen me? I’m gorgeous, Girl. That should be celebrated.”
Before I could make any arguments, my brain pointed out that it really was a good thing Portia was so vain. With invisibility powers that strong, she had the ability to walk into any bank vault and simply help herself to the goods within. With a little finesse, she could be the richest woman in the world, and yet . . .
“Yes, you’re very pretty,” I said, turning back to face the bar again. An idea struck. “Wait! You turn invisible!”