by Alex Gabriel
So, anyway, Suze was a little pissed off right now, and Pat would have to be extra nice and friendly for a while. But Pat figured she’d get over this soon. Fact was, Pat had been doing a pretty awesome night managing job, forged references notwithstanding. He’d been a total champ on the mousse au chocolat emergency, for one thing. He was the king of pioppini pizza. And he got along great with security, no lie.
“… And now, Mr. West, you have risked the principal’s health, happiness, property and privacy, not to mention severely undercutting the quality of service we strive for. Where did you even find this person? Where are his references? How can we be certain he isn’t going to cause problems for the principal?”
Pat needed a moment to catch on to the fact that Suze had wrapped up her dramatic monologue of the many ways in which Pat failed at life, the universe and everything, and that she now expected an actual response from him.
“Oh, uh,” he said, buying another moment to think. “Hey, no, he’s not gonna cause any trouble. I know the guy, right? Truth is it was just instinct, calling him. One of my previous employers, you know… booked this guy a lot, and he was always totally professional and trouble-free. So there’s your reference. Plus he was available on short notice, and —”
“He is not even Mr. Andersen’s type.” Maybe Pat should just have agreed that she was totally right and he was totally wrong, because now Suze was biting off her syllables like she was trying to spit them at Patrick as offensive weapons.
Oh well, too late now, right? In for a penny, in for a pound.
“I don’t know about that.” Pat tried a grin, but dropped it quickly at the foreboding tightening of Suze’s mouth. “Come on, the guys you usually get for him are so like peas in a pod it’s sad. The man needed to branch out a little. Even tall, dark and handsome gets old sometime.” Not that Pat would know. He wouldn’t mind a chance to find out, actually. Those underwear models had been plenty hot.
Not that Pat wasn’t plenty hot himself, of course. In his own, slightly more unconventional way.
“Mr. West.” If you added in the sub-arctic temperature of her tone, Suze’s words should have frozen in the air and launched themselves at Patrick like little daggers of ice. “The principal’s preferences and habits are paramount to our work. I am beginning to doubt that you understand the first thing about this business! A serving heart —”
Not the serving heart speech again! Seriously, who on earth wanted one of those things anyway?
“Has Mr. Andersen complained?” It just slipped out — but it wasn’t a bad question, and it derailed Suze before she could properly get started with her serving heart rant.
Suze made a face as though she had very subtly bitten into a lemon, and considered it unsuitable for a person such as herself who was possessed of a proper serving heart to let on.
Rather too late, Pat found that he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Scratch that… if Nicholas had been complaining, then Pat most definitely did not want to know. Not that it really mattered, of course, but dude. For one thing, bad-mouthing Pat’s performance in the sack would be just about the most epic fail possible, proving once and for all that Andersen had neither game nor style and — by the West Sister Dating Rules — ought to be banned from ever getting any, with anyone, ever again. For another and probably more relevant thing, considering it might be argued that dating rules did not apply to sex with prostitutes… well.
Pat wasn’t vain, and he certainly didn’t think he was some kind of sex god. But for him, the encounter with Nicholas had been amazing; easily the best sex of Pat’s life, not that that was saying all that much. It would take a lot of the fun out of it in retrospect if Nicholas thought Pat had sucked. Sucked in the bad way, that was. That he hadn’t sucked in any other way was — for the record — totally Nicholas’s own damn fault.
Pat couldn’t really imagine Nicholas would complain about him, given how tight Nicholas’s hands had been on his hips as he pounded into him, how ragged his breathing… how greedy his touch when he’d run his hands over Pat’s body.
Pat cleared his throat uncomfortably, shifting. He probably shouldn’t be thinking about that right now. It was distracting.
“Mr. Andersen,” said Suze into the cold silence, “is a gentleman.”
Yeah, right. A gentleman who regularly engaged hookers because he had so little game he would actually come out with a line like “suck my dick, you little slut” without spontaneously combusting from sheer embarrassment. A gentleman who had apparently remarked about one of the model clones that he was surprised the guy’s mental capacity allowed him to breathe and walk at the same time (the quote was appended to the poor man’s file with a note of ‘Mr. Andersen requires that his companions be both personable and intelligent’, and he had never been engaged for Nicholas again).
But Pat managed to keep his mouth shut this time, so bully for him. At least he managed to keep it shut on the topic of Mr. Andersen’s gentleman-like qualities, or lack thereof. “Yeah, sure, but also, I’m pretty sure he had no complaints. I mean, that’s what the — uh, the companion said. That Mr. Andersen seemed — you know, happy. Satisfied.”
Wow, Pat was usually more erudite than that. It was even possible he might be blushing a little bit. It was really uncomfortable talking about sex with Nicholas when Suze of all people was glaring at him like that. She was like an incarnation of all the stern, disapproving and scarily competent grandmothers in the world rolled up into one.
“Which of your previous employers was the one to engage this companion?”
Fortunately, Pat had been expecting this question, and so breezily waved a hand. “Can’t say. That would be violating their trust and all. Like, I’m not gonna run around telling stories about Mr. Andersen either, if I ever change to another principal. Same thing, don’t you know.”
Looked like she did know. Also, Pat seemed to have said something right at last. Suze nodded in grudging acceptance, and the coiled tension in her frame unspooled the tiniest bit. “Very well, Mr. West. Fortunately for everyone, this untried companion does seem to have conducted himself with a modicum of professionalism, so we do not have the catastrophe of a principal unhappy with the service on our hands. However, this is a very big mark against you, and will be going into your permanent personnel file. One more mistake, however small, and you’re out. I run a smooth, professional household, Mr. West. I cannot and will not tolerate incompetence, sloppiness or the wanton flaunting of protocol. Am I clear?”
“Crystal, House Manager.” Pat schooled his face into his best puppy dog version of repentance.
He caught another barrage of nasty looks and sniffs from Suze, but before long she left and Pat was alone with the AI, his books and his growing €linore obsession.
It was a good night for studying.
Andersen called for a fancy seafood dish and a bottle of wine at half-past ass-o’clock in the morning. The seafood dish was already cooked and waiting in stasis, pre-plated and piping hot, not to mention artistically adorned with loops of drizzled sauce, a spray of what looked like sea foam, and a lopsided saucer of something baked and crunchy that reminded Pat of one of those hats ladies wore to horse races. The sommelier had specified a selection of wines that went with this dish, and Pat simply went with the first suggestion on the list. Andersen hadn’t voiced any preferences, and as far as Pat was concerned, wine came in two versions — white and red.
Normally Pat would have poked at the baked hat thing a little out of sheer curiosity, but tonight he was the soul of virtue and restrained himself. He even made an earnestly stern and serving-hearty face as he somberly arranged the food under a silver serving hood. Then he giggled a little at the silliness of it, but by that time the food and wine were already on their way to the principal, so it totally didn’t count.
Chapter Three
Stay in touch with family and friends.
In Pat’s experience, all sisters were telepathic to some degree. All sisters were also nosy and
always up in Pat’s business, or eager to get there if they weren’t already. But when Pat met up with Zenobia on Saturday, she didn’t let on that anything was out of the ordinary.
Instead, she dragged him through a dizzying sequence of clothing shops until he bought a cool band shirt and a baseball hat in self-defense. He then rallied slightly and dragged her into the record store to pick up his pre-ordered copy of BadMadRad’s new limited edition album. And then he was so weakened by delight at finally having Mad Bad and Dangerous to Ho in his hot little hands that Zen unilaterally declared the shopping part of the day over (even though Pat hadn’t found new sneakers yet), sat him down in her favorite café, and launched into the long, complicated and completely implausible tale of her best friend’s dating debacles.
Pat took this to mean that sisterly telepathy wasn’t infallible, and also that Hell was hedging her bets, content to keep her knowledge of Pat’s financial shenanigans exclusive for the moment. A bit ominous, yes, but totally worth it. Pat had transferred the companionship money to his regular account and had already bought a bunch of stuff, but was still flush with cash to an unprecedented degree.
Zen was just getting to the good part — evidently Delilah’s latest loser boyfriend had gotten together with two of his predecessors to form a band called ‘Lilah’s Lovers’ (where did Lilah find these asshats? Pat would have to send her a strongly worded text message) — when the lights flickered, and then went out altogether. Zen and Pat had a moment to look at each other in puzzlement before the scent of burning began to filter in from the market square outside, accompanied by distant crashes and muffled explosions.
Distant… but growing closer.
The closest explosion yet rattled the glass in the windows. For an instant, the ground trembled beneath everyone’s chairs, shivering like a frightened animal. Conversation in the café fell silent for a long moment, picking up again in a decidedly more quiet and somewhat worried pitch.
“Oh bother,” Zen said, rolling her eyes. A moment later, she was grinning at Pat, smoothing her hair back from her face as she leaned close. “Okay, I’m calling it. Two to one says it’s The Shark.”
What? No way. “He wouldn’t do anything here. It’s right downtown — there’s not even a swimming pool. What would be the point?”
Zen’s grin broadened into a smirk. Maybe she knew something Pat didn’t? “Whatever, Patrick. Go on now, place your bets, time’s a-wasting.”
“Insider knowledge doesn’t count, you cheater. If you know any —”
“It’s a villain attack,” said the pink woman, coming out from behind the cake counter to address her customers with a practiced smile. Earlier, Pat had been trying really hard not to stare at this lady. It was amazing and kind of awesome — she was entirely pink, from her neon-bright outfit to her rosy facial color and her rose-tinged platinum hair, which was bound up with a pink bow. “Please remain calm while the situation is resolved. I must ask that you remain inside for the duration of the villain event, as the city council recommends. To make up for the inconvenience, we’ll be serving our special villain cookies.”
Outside in the market square, the stall owners were hurriedly packing up their veggies and fruit (always the most endangered wares in challenger attacks). Shoppers were hurrying past at a markedly faster pace than before, all heading in the same direction — away from the increasingly loud noises of destruction.
“Patpat,” Zen prodded. “ If they come into sight before you place your bet, you lose by default.”
When Pat strained his ears, he thought he could hear a screech floating above the annoyed shouting of the vegetable salespeople and the distant crumbling of brick and concrete.
“Bitterfly,” he said quickly. High-pitched screeching was generally frowned upon among challengers, but Bitterfly just could not kick the habit. Sure, it was also one of her weapons, but useful or no, it made her sound like a tool. It was hard to take someone seriously when they were screeching like a kindergartener throwing a tantrum. “And as for who’s going to come rushing in to save the day — Star Knight, Captain Cool and Ariadne.”
Zen snorted. “What, three hoagies, are you crazy? And Star Knight? Please, like he’d get out of bed for Sharky this far from the ocean. No, I’m going with… Silver Paladin, because he’s a chronic meddler who’ll roll out for a pickpocket, and… yeah, okay, Cap Cool. Couldn’t keep him away from a photo op with a military grade force field.”
Most other guests were collecting their cups, coats and cake to relocate to the back of the café, away from the windows opening on the market square. Some left altogether, screw the city council and their recommendation. A handful of curious thrill seekers were pulling up chairs right by the windows, and two women had even stepped outside, brandishing camera phones.
A waitress came by with a small plate. The promised villain cookies turned out to be buttery shortbread cut into evocative shapes — Pat was pretty sure the one Zen was biting into was a large cat’s head, no doubt intended to stand for Jaguar.
“By the way, Patpat.” Zen patted some Jaguar crumbs from her face in a thoroughly unladylike fashion. “Dad called this morning. I’m supposed to tell you all that he had a great flight, and will be heading out to the skinning cavern right away. He’s hired some jungle guides, so he’ll be perfectly safe. He’s going to hike to a village with phone reception at least once a week to call us. He thinks it won’t be long before he and Mom will be ready to come back.”
Pat hmmmed noncommittally. His own villain cookie looked like an irregularly shaped W, or maybe an M. He had no idea which challenger it was supposed to represent, but popped it into his mouth anyway, demonstratively chewing to show that he totally couldn’t speak.
He’d be glad to see his mom again. She’d been gone for over a year this time, and he’d missed her a lot, like he always did. It was only that he was pretty damn busy, what with working and studying and swimming and all. He couldn’t afford to take several months off the way she was going to expect him to. He had his own life to live. He couldn’t just drop everything whenever his mother decided she wanted to take over the world.
Zen fixed him with a disturbingly perceptive gaze, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she simply gathered her shopping bags and counted out the money for her coffee and cake. “Anyway, Patpat, I’ll be on my way. No time to waste waiting around for the Corny Corps to get their heroing on when we’re going to see it all on the news, anyway. I intend to collect my winnings in the form of pasta, so you’d better brush up on your carbonara skills.”
Like it was really going to be The Shark, right smack in the middle of the city, during shopping hours? Patrick gave Zen a suitably disgusted look, but in the way of sisters, she was immune. She just grinned and tossed him a kiss before slipping out the door.
“Oh, I get it. Cassiopeia!” That’s who his villain cookie had been. Cool — Cassie was pretty rad. Last time she’d tried to take over the world, the Hero Corps had had to call in every single one of their reserve members, even the really embarrassing ones, like that dude who shot laser beams from his crotch like a total creeper. “Awesome.”
Pat turned to share a triumphant grin with the café at large, and caught one of the other guests staring after Zen. He glared at the dude until the offender cleared his throat and looked down, pretending to be entirely absorbed in his newspaper.
Whoever was causing the commotion outside was coming closer; they were probably heading for City Hall. Pat had better get a move on himself. But before he did, he stole a second to fire off a quick text to Delilah, because seriously, that shit was not okay. WTF? Dump that loser’s ass, you are like 1000x cooler than him. I’ll come over and loom over him a little if you want, just say the word. (I loom like a pro, FYI.)
Then, Pat legged it in the opposite direction of City Hall. He had a date with Maurat and her Principles of Urban Architecture, which was at this very moment waiting for him at the book store, glossy and full of promise.
He
might have been a little lost in anticipation, possibly even wearing a silly grin. He definitely wasn’t paying as much attention to his surroundings as he should have been, particularly since a challenger attack was in progress. But nothing was ever perfect in this world, which in this particular instance meant that one moment, Pat was peacefully dreaming of streets and parks and municipal planning — and the next, a wide swathe of cobblestones to his left was blasted several meters into the air amid a choking cloud of dust, and a pair of high-gloss black boots slammed down right in front of him.
“Tremble, mortals!” boomed Doctor Destiny. Her cape billowed and snapped impressively, almost hitting Pat in the face. He staggered back a few steps and fell on his ass in the middle of the cloud of dust, tripped up by the cobblestones, which had settled back down in a road hazard kind of way.
Meanwhile, Doctor Destiny swept out an arm, a blinding arc of energy sizzling from her fingertips to slam into the really ugly statue of some old dude that stood off to the far side of the square. “Tremble as you face your ultimate Destiny! Bow down before your mistress, for I come to rule over you!”
The statue of the old dude bowed down obediently by crumbling into rubble and collapsing into a heap. Pat vaguely felt like he should have known who he had been. On the other hand, not like it mattered anymore.
Unlike the statue, a bunch of people in the vicinity entirely failed to bow down. Instead, they screamed and scattered, flinging their shopping about randomly. The obligatory apple cart immediately overturned to add to the chaos.
For an instant, Doctor Destiny’s form was outlined in crackling electricity, emphasizing her dramatic pose. She’d flung her head back photogenically, long hair whipping wildly about her masked face, and cut a super imposing figure. One of her hands was outstretched as though reaching for something, gloved fingers bent into claws; her body was twisted lithely in that boneless athletic way that ensured a good picture from nearly every angle. Her cape flared out behind her, so intensely black that it seemed like a slice of starless night cutting into the autumn afternoon. The gleaming silver infinity symbol on her chest was the sole splash of color relieving the light-eating black of her costume.