Heroine Addiction (23 page)

I barely speak loud enough to be heard over the moans and groans of the thinning mass of the undead, but trust in Hazel to hear me no matter how riotous the background may be. “I don't want to know, do I?”

I don't answer. I'm too preoccupied praying that what I'm about to try doesn't end too badly.

It's simple, really, the idea that pops into my head. It boils down to me and me alone, dodging errant zombies still grasping at anyone who comes close, moving as deftly as I can manage until I'm near enough to my reanimated body to say, “Hey, gorgeous.”

It turns towards me, recognizing the coaxing tone if not the actual content of my statement.

I tilt my head to bare my neck, and throw my arms wide open.

Hazel screams my name but I silence her with a simple hand gesture, just before I feel the sharp insistent sting of undead teeth tearing into my flesh. I wonder how this works, if my zombie self tears me to shreds and not a damn thing happens, if every bite it rips from my flesh fills almost instantly with another fresh strip of newly regenerated skin and muscle.

It doesn't even take that long.

One bite, one taste of Nate's blood, and the zombie crumples like the dead weight that it is. I catch it in my arms before it can sag all the way to the ground. In an instant healthy color washes over the skin, chilled flesh warming under my fingertips. There's a low choked noise, and maybe it comes from my throat and maybe it comes from Nate's, but there's breath in him yet and that's all that matters.

There's breath in him yet, goddamn it.

I very nearly burst into tears, but suddenly I can imagine what Nate's very vocal protest would be against doing something so silly and worthless, at least as long as I'm going to be residing in his body when I do it.
Aw, hell, Vera. Save the waterworks for your own pretty face.

By the time Hazel sinks to her knees beside me, threading her fingers through my body's limp dark hair, I can't stop laughing.

Soon enough, Hazel joins in. “She's breathing.”

The pronoun might be incorrect, but it can't be helped.

Hazel smooths the tangled hair away from Nate's current face as I take a quick look around the main drag. Zombies have never been an effective weapon in any way, shape or form. They lack speed and intelligence and are expendable as hell. Even the ones aping a good drunken stumble along Main Street in search of brains don't really matter, at least not to anyone who doesn't live here.

But a few of the bodies are fresh. Very fresh. I could swear I spot the teenage girl who died three months ago in a motorcycle accident, grabbing futilely at passersby who recognize her and immediately rear away from taking her down.

I stare down at my wrist. It's not my wrist, not really, but …

But I could save them. I could bring them all back. 

I'm halfway to my feet when Hazel pleads, “Vera, don't.” 

My gaze drops to her face, unsurprised to see the warning look in Hazel's eyes. I can't imagine she'd want me to coat myself in brains and throw myself to the zombies, as it were. But for a brief moment I know exactly what she's thinking. Underneath all of the usual concern for my continued existence is the worry that I can't save them all, and even if I can, what then? I'm a hero, born and bred. I'm built strong and tempered in battle. I've had the same SLB-approved therapist on speed-dial since before I could talk.

I can handle coming back from the dead. Your average human might not be so agreeable to the situation.

Hazel tucks a hand under Nate's neck as though she actually believes she can lug around my larger body. “Come on, let's get her somewhere safe and warm before she melts in the rain,” she says.

It's only when she mentions it that I realize it's been raining since sometime during Nate's feast upon my neck. I was a bit too preoccupied to notice at the time.

I take the body from her and cradle it in my arms, catching Hazel's eyes as I joke, “She's not that sweet.”

She grins. “You'd be surprised,” she says, and props the shovel up on her shoulder as she leads me over to the car again.

21.

“She's going to wake up eventually, right?”

A swift glance in the rear-view reveals that Hazel's given up on her seat belt and leaned forward to wipe the dried blood from my body's face with a spit-dampened napkin. It isn't the most hygienic method, but beggars and choosers, I suppose.

“
He.
He's going to wake up eventually,” I clarify, daring another look at the body in the passenger seat before fixing my eyes on the blessedly empty country road. I hadn't been sure piling into the Cooper would work out, but Hazel being as scrawny as she is means she could fold herself into the cramped back seat. Hell, I imagine she could fold herself into the glove compartment with enough incentive. It still didn't eliminate the distinctive feeling of riding in a clown car, but we'd take what we could get. Small blessings are all we're allowed at the moment, it seems, since Nate has yet to come back to life again.

“At least I hope he wakes up,” I add.

I'm not sure I'll be able to live with myself if it doesn't work and I'm trapped in Nate's body for the rest of my new unnaturally extended lifespan, for more than a few reasons. I fidget in my seat again, still more than a little uncomfortable over those body parts which I'm not used to maneuvering just yet and with which I don't really plan on getting comfortable.

As per usual, Hazel practically reads my mind. “You aren't the only one,” she says with a mocking sniff. “No offense, but if you end up getting stuck in that body, I'm never making out with you again.”

I can't resist shooting her a teasing smile. “Are you saying there's a chance we might make out again if I do get back into my own body?”

“Now's not the time to press your luck,” she warns. She peers out the window as I swerve around a zombie casually ambling across the secluded country road, her brow furrowing in concern. “You sure this is a good idea?”

“Not even a little bit,” I say.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens until my knuckles go white. Five years I've lived in this area, and it's only in the last few days that I've learned there's another superhuman and a hidden villain's lair within a ten-minute drive of my apartment. As idiotic as it makes me feel for not registering either one of those facts before I practically tripped over them, I refuse to believe there's more of those in the general vicinity. Fool me three times and I may have to sign myself up for an MRI to verify I still have a functioning brain.

Speaking of Morris's lair, I turn onto the road leading to it with far more speed than I intend, scattering pebbles in my wake as the car skids and bumps its way from pavement to packed dirt. The zombies thin out as we approach, searching out far more populated areas in an effort to satiate their hunger, so the area is deserted when I pull the car to a rough stop in front of the trailer.

Hazel stares at the dilapidated mobile home for a long time, then back at me with disbelief in her clear hazel eyes. “So you may be wrong about this whole secret-lair zombie-raising theory, right? Because if you just went through your whole superhero career resting your decisions on hunches, it's no wonder you quit.”

“That's not why I quit,” I say, unable to tear my gaze away from the trailer. A rickety rabbit-eared antenna that wasn't there before sticks up at a cock-eyed angle from the roof, a completely innocuous decoration if not for the eerie blue lights flickering at the end of each frail metal prong. I may not know how it works, but I don't need to be able to take apart a transmission to recognize a Buick, either.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.

“Besides,” I add, “you know of any other retired supervillains who built secret lairs out here? Because if so, I have no problem going to investigate them next.”

Hazel frowns. “I kinda don't like you right now.”

I'm unable to resist sticking my tongue out at her. I'm having that sort of a day.

A groan sounds from the passenger seat, and both of us perk up as my body shifts with an audible moan of discomfort. I let out a breath I didn't even realize I'd been holding. I may not be in my own body right now, but it's moving and breathing and heaven knows that's a damn sight better than its condition only a few short hours ago.

I reach over and cup his cheek with one hand. “Nate?”

He swats away my arm with one limp wave. “All right, fine, I –“ He coughs hard, then says, “I believe you,” in a raspy voice.

It takes me a moment to understand what he's getting at. When it finally occurs to me that he believes me about my father being bodyswapped with someone else, I only refrain from smacking him on the arm due to the fact that I'd only be hurting myself, and quite literally at that. “Why, gee, thanks for that,” I drawl.

He cackles, that sly playful laugh of his. In my voice it comes out husky and mischievous, and for some reason I find myself glancing back at Hazel just in time to see her screwing up her mouth into an awkward grimace and forcing herself to look anywhere but at the front seat.

When I turn back to Nate, I catch him taking a good old-fashioned gander at his chest. Which used to be my chest. “Well, would you look at those?” he says, clearly more awed with my breasts when he's lugging them around than when I'm the one sporting them.

“I can, and do, and you won't, or I'll relocate your testicles.” 

“Knock yourself out, peaches. What with my line of work, you'd be amazed how often I grow spares.”

I grimace, unable to resist squirming in the driver's seat at the reminder. “Didn't you get enough time to admire those when we switched?”

“Hell, whoever the son of a bitch was who killed me, he yanked me away from you, konked me on the head, and dumped my sorry dead ass somewhere before I could even register I was missing one pair and gaining another. I was a little busy having a cerebral hemorrhage to pay much attention to your chest, peaches.”

It's not exactly a story I want to hear, particularly with Nate's brand of down-home crassness. I can't help but fidget in my seat every time I catch sight of my chest and remember what we swapped.

Nate frowns. “What?”

“Nothing.” 

I shift my weight again in a sorry attempt to get comfortable, and Nate yelps out a laugh when he figures out why I can't seem to sit still. “It ain't gonna get any more comfortable, Vera. Hell, just because I'm admiring these puppies don't mean I'm particularly enjoying the back pain that comes with 'em.”

“I hate this conversation more than words can say,” Hazel says, and punches the back of my seat a couple of times as a wordless signal for me to get out of the car.

The three of us get out of the Cooper with far fewer acrobatics and balloon animals than I was afraid we'd have to deal with when we arrived. Hazel scrambles out of the cramped back seat as soon as I yank the driver's seat forward, bursting out of the narrow space like the contents of a shaken soda bottle. Nate hauls himself out of the passenger side with all of the grace and dignity of a newborn giraffe. Pairing an unsteady gait with a new center of gravity, high heels, and a vastly different weight distribution leaves him swaying like a sailboat on choppy waters.

“Nate?” 

My voice is low, but it's quiet out here, and his name carries.

In a rare show of politeness, Hazel pointedly takes a few steps away down the dirt road, turns away and fakes an exaggerated stretch. Nate says nothing, just rests his folded arms on the roof of the car and waits for me to speak.

I don't think I need to tell you just how strange it is to see yourself from outside of your own body – not in photos, not in a mirror, but standing not two feet away from you. You don't look like you imagine from what you see in photos and the mirror. The makeup's worn away and the dark curls have lost their luster, but underneath it all is me. My arms curve with too much body fat. My lips and nose are a bit too big, and the effect without makeup applied just so to lessen it gives my face a vague impression of having been assembled from all the wrong parts in all the wrong sizes. Age hasn't faded the long thin scar on my right cheek, or the notch in my left ear from having an earring ripped out during hardcore interrogation techniques by the Devil's Duo five months before I quit.

I smile. I can't help it, really.

I wish I could feel worse about it when Nate studies me just as intensely and his expression sags with resignation, but I just can't.

“I peeked in your wallet,” I blurt out.

“Aw, hell, Vera –“

“I needed cab fare! For heaven's sake, Nate, you didn't actually think that would be avoidable under the circumstances, did you?”

“The Brigade's got a car service,” he snaps, pushing away from the car and shutting the door.

“I just didn't want to avoid telling you.”

“Anything else you've been avoiding telling me?”

Well, there is that one thing,
I think, with a quick glance over at the mobile home.

Instead of saying precisely that, I murmur, “Nothing that's my secret to tell.”

Something suspicious and curious flickers in his eyes before he closes off and lets slip the same familiar laidback ease I recognize even when it's on an entirely different face than I'm used to. Adjusting the dress clinging to his new curves, Nate sniffs and goes a bit green at the lingering scent of dead flesh. For a moment, I'm terrified he's about to start spewing vomit all over the place and not stop. Holding my own hair back for a solid round of praying to the porcelain god is not an experience I'd like to suffer through.

Nate walks past the car to sidle up beside me in front of it. “You weren't bringing me here to have a taxidermist stuff me, were you?”

“It's Morris's secret lair,” I sigh.

Both Nate and Hazel, who's taken up a spot on the other side of me, flash me the same dazed look. I've already told Hazel on the way here, of course, but not with the sort of bold bald-faced statement I just blurted out without warning.

“This one of those secrets that ain't yours to tell?” Nate drawls.

“Can we argue about this later? Because as long as you're in my body, you're the only one who's programmed into Morris's genetic security protocols and can get anywhere near the front door.”

“I don't even want to know, do I?” 

I shake my head without looking his way. I slip the key I'd retrieved from my apartment before we left town from my pocket and hold it up for him to take.

Sighing, Nate swipes the key from my grasp, removes the heels he's still wearing, and takes a few cautious steps across the packed dirt of the worn country road. He pauses at the edge of the lawn with his toes barely touching the recently shorn grass. His arms hang down at his sides as his gaze locks on the grimy exterior, his limp hair tumbling over his rounded shoulders and his lips still stained with the blood he gnawed out of my currently unmarred neck.

It takes me a moment to catch the tremble in his fingers, the washed-out color of his skin. I try to remember if I've ever caught Nate being afraid of anything and draw a blank.

“You sure this is safe?”

His voice –
my
voice – is strangely deeper than I thought it was, the words rich like fine wine even as they shake and hitch. I step up beside him, tempted to take his hand to calm his quickly fraying nerves. “Fairly sure,” I say.

“Fairly ain't going to cut it, Vera.”

“Yes,” I blurt out, startled by the ice that threads through his bitten-off words. “Yes, I'm sure.”

The AI must have allowed Dad's body past the barriers and security protocols even though Dad wasn't actually taking up residence at the time, presumably because Morris wouldn't take a chance of truly harming Dad no matter what the consequences. It let me pass once without a genuine problem. If it can't tell Dad is not completely Dad, I doubt it will able to differentiate normal everyday me with Nate wearing a Vera suit grimy with things I'd rather not identify.

“I can't teleport,” he says, still not moving.

“You don't need to.”

His voice breaks a little when he says, “I can't heal, either.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Hazel mutters behind me.

I resist the urge to warn her away from speaking right now, knowing full well that will only make things worse. Instead, I lean close to Nate and whisper in my best Nate-drawl, “Peaches, nobody said you had to be fearless.”

The laughter bursts out of him, deep and rough, unexpected but amused. He shoots me a sideways glance while the corners of his lips tug slowly upward. After a moment he tosses his limp hair and slides his hands over the substantial curves of his hips.

He's ready, or as ready as he's going to be.

Nate places one unsteady foot on the grass, ignoring the ever-present hiss emanating from the depths of the lawn and the muffled whirr of readying blades from somewhere underneath us. The recognizable throb of Morris's security system shakes the air around us in an invisible tsunami of sorts. It rolls over all three of us before rebounding back to Nate and swirling around him like a draining whirlpool.

A moment later, he steps onto the grass with both feet.

I tense up as soon as he does. I wonder just how intelligent Morris's security system is, if it will suspect anything if Nate doesn't teleport his way onto the front porch like I would.
These are the choices
, I think wryly,
let Nate walk across the lawn and possibly be sliced like an Easter ham, or let him attempt to teleport and hope I can locate him again if he accidentally ends up on some faraway island with no name from which I can't retrieve him.