Heroine Addiction (27 page)

Sierra needs no further encouragement. She bounds past him into the apartment so fast she nearly leaves a smoke outline of herself behind. Graham frowns after her before asking, “Where you'd pick that up?”

“Found her lying around in someone's lair,” I say. Before Graham can ask for more details, I add, “So when did you get one of those? I didn't even know you were a collector.” 

Graham's gaze goes flinty and dark. “Right after you left town, and before you ask, no, I wasn't filling a fucking void.”

I suppose I should just be grateful Graham doesn't take the opportunity to add that a scrawny four-year-old would never fill any void I left behind anyway. Fat jokes are beneath even him, although that's certainly never halted his liberal dispensing of them in the wrong social situations, like at the hundredth anniversary party of the Aphrodite Assembly's illustrious founding. You've never lived until you've seen my big brother being soundly trounced by an angry group of female superheroes who joined their team specifically so they wouldn't have to take any sexist malarkey from smug imbeciles like Graham.

In a sorry attempt to take the edge off the conversation, I mention the obvious. “He looks like a pint-sized Dad.”

Graham lets loose a derisive snort. “Don't remind me. At least I've managed to train him out of lying through his teeth on a regular basis and he hasn't really had a chance to screw over the rest of his family, so he's one up on the old man.”

“Does he have a name, or is he just a pronoun?”

“Sam,” he says. There's a brief moment of internal debate on his part, a silent argument with himself over whether or not to add whatever bit of information he's clenching tight to his chest, but he finally breaks down and says, “Sam Hadley.”

My eyes widen. “Like Serena Hadley?”

“Exactly like that.”

I whistle a low impressed note. Serena Hadley has more money than God and about as much on her plate. Most heiresses in her situation gain their everyday amusements from spilling drunkenly out of limousines into a pile of paparazzi as they tumble their way to the next trendy bar on their social schedule. Serena's always been a bit too busy engaging in more intellectual pursuits to even pretend she's some pretty simpering idiot. Quite frankly, she's neither simpering nor stupid nor really all that pretty. Serena's constant boredom, innovative weapons designs, and bulldog tenacity led her to petition the Superhero Licensing Board for a special powerless license for those not exactly gifted at birth, by aliens, during an industrial accident, or so on.

When not in costume as Dr. Platinum, Serena is sharp but plain, a clever geek roped with lean muscle but graced with a face like a mud fence slowly disintegrating in a hard rain. She may not win any beauty pageants, but it's never been her main goal in life, that's for damn sure.

And she has a kid. With
Graham
.

I would have thought Serena would have better taste, to be honest.

“Didn't she threaten to castrate you the last time I saw her?”

“She tried,” Graham says, and he fights an internal war over being smug or embarrassed when he adds, “She just got … preoccupied.”

I pull a face. “All right, that's just repugnant.” Really, the last thing I want to picture is my brother having sex, much less doing it with Serena Hadley, of all people, and especially not after having a bombshell like a secret nephew dropped in my lap. “You never told me about him.”

He crosses his arms, his best impression of a petulant child. “Yeah, well, don't go looking for a shoulder to cry on, Vera. I didn't tell Mom and Dad, either.”

My jaw drops. I don't quite want to imagine what my mother might do if she were to discover she's been a grandmother for roughly four years or so. The mental image of a mushroom cloud comes to mind, and that's if I restrain myself to the more realistic outcomes. “They don't know they have a grandson?”

“Why should I tell either one of them a goddamn thing after the mess they made of our family?”

I wish I could be offended or even simply sympathetic of Graham's anger over Dad leaving Mom for Morris, but I just can't dredge up the betrayed rage anymore. It suddenly strikes me, cascading over me in a dull wave, just how tired being around my own family makes me. I reach up to rub at my temples, saying, “What planet are you living on, Graham?”

“I could ask you the same question, you know.”

“I fail to see how I was supposed to know to call and ask if I had a nephew,” I snap back. I regret it almost as soon as I say it, not wanting to start an argument over this where any passing neighbor could decide to listen in. “Look, I can't deal with this right now, and I'm fairly sure you can't either. Did you know Dad and Morris's apartment burned to a crisp yesterday?”

“Good,” Graham says. “One less place for us to share awkward family dinners at.”

“Flashpoint was the one who burned it.”

He frowns. “Why the hell would Arthur toast that place?”

“Because Dad asked him to.”

“Bullshit. Whoever it was who asked him to burn the condo, it wasn't Dad.”

My eyes widen, and he flushes bright red. I don't bother to worry about the source of his rising color, or hide the smile that tugs at my lips as he reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck. “Well, look at you, all paying attention and whatnot. That's new and different for you.”

He shoots me a hard look. “Don't start.”

Something clatters loudly inside the apartment, and Graham glances over his shoulder.

“Look,” I blurt out, before I can get horribly distracted from the reason that I came here today and Graham can get horribly distracted by an upended bowl of oatmeal. “I need your help.” 

Graham frowns. “To do what?” he asks suspiciously.

I cock an eyebrow. He's not that stupid.

A muscle in his jaw flickers. I can almost see the synapses sparking behind his eyes before he grumbles, “Fine. Just let me hustle Sam over to the neighbors.”

I fail to completely suppress my triumphant smile as he ducks back into his apartment, calling out to Sam to put his shoes on.

24.

Fifteen minutes later, after Graham has thrown on his uniform – “We aren't going out for ice cream, Vera,” he snaps at me when I question him on it, then winces at the hopeful looks on the kids' faces – and hustled Sam over to the friendly heavily-pierced artist next door, I take Sierra's hand and latch onto his wrist.

A bit too enthusiastic to get back to her aunt for obvious reasons, Sierra tugs at me with nervous energy as we teleport to the morgue.

It takes her a moment to figure out what I've done, her limbs pinwheeling in a comic flail for a brief moment. But when it strikes her what I've done, Sierra turns to gawk at me with a delighted laugh. It quickly fades, though, replaced by a sickly pout.

“I don't feel so good,” she says. Her free hand clutches her tummy.

I frown as I kneel in front of her. “Sorry,” I say, glancing around for a water fountain. Two teleports in a half-hour is a bit much on anyone. A little time will settle her stomach after that ride, but some water would work better. “I wish I would have thought of this before we stuffed you full of Chinese food, sweetie.” 

She makes a face, her lips pursing in an adorable pout. Graham shoots me a frustrated look over her head, then shakes his head and heads for the office in an aggravated silence.

I rise to my feet once again, taking in the entranceway to the morgue. The Plexiglas partition between Dr. Hale's office and the entranceway has been slid shut, a flimsy gray shade hiding the reception area from view. Elsewhere, something low and slow by Cat Power flits through the air, a song I don't recognize for the longest moment before I finally realize it's a cover of “Satisfaction.” The lead singer's voice rebounds off the cold clinical interior, giving an already eerie office a chilling edge.

“Dr. Hale?” 

If she's here, she doesn't respond when I call her name. Neither does anyone else.

I call her name once again as I approach the door to the morgue hallway with Sierra in hand, hoping that maybe she hadn't heard me the first time. The morgue would never be left alone, and this is about the same time of day that I previously came here. Her niece may have been kidnapped, but I doubt part of her deal with the kidnapper involved time off of work due to mental anguish. If she didn't have a personal day when I arrived the other day, I can't imagine she wouldn't be here now.

Sure enough, when I teleport past the locked door to the main morgue hallway with Sierra and peer into her office, it turns out she definitely showed up for work today.

She's held aloft by Graham's hand around her neck, but still.

I don't even waste time stopping to contemplate what's going on. I just pull the very sisterly maneuver of releasing Sierra's hand, walking up directly behind an entirely too focused Graham, and smacking him on the back of the head.

It's not a hard smack, of course, and it wouldn't do much damage even if it were, but it's enough of a jolt to get him to loosen his grip. Dr. Hale drops to the floor, barely keeping her feet under her. Her eyes narrow at Graham, and for a moment I bless my lucky stars she doesn't have the sort of abilities that could result in my impetuous brother being wished into a cornfield somewhere. Well, at least not as far as I know, anyway.

“What the hell are you doing?” I yell at him.

Graham stands down, but his fists still clench at his sides, wringing invisible necks with barely restrained rage. “I'm just making sure,” he growls, not taking his eyes off Dr. Hale. “If Dad's been bodyswapped with someone, then what's to say she hasn't been either?”

“I can't take you anywhere, can I?”

“Who the hell comes to work when someone in their family is missing?”

“Of course. Because staying home and stressing out is much more relaxing,” I mutter. “Honestly, Graham.”

Dr. Hale shoots me a condescending look that silently informs me that I am not helping, but I don't really have a way of telegraphing that I know better than my brother does what she's suffered through the past week or so.

Graham, on the other hand, is too busy enjoying his current bout of unrestrained anger to imagine other possibilities than the most obvious. I'd be angrier about it bubbling up out of nowhere, but … well, I've met my brother before. “We've been hiding it from the media, but Dad's been gone since the factory incident,” he growls.

My brow furrows. “What do you mean, gone?”

“How many definitions of the word are there?” he snaps. He bites out his words like he's tearing them from a succulent piece of steak. “The man up and disappeared after they carted Nate away like he'd been a smoke outline the whole damn time. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he'd just shown up to get Nate out of the way and gone off to –“

“Aunt Melody?”

As soon as Dr. Hale spots Sierra peering out from behind my legs, her tough demeanor crumples in an instant. I expect her to call the little girl's name but a choked sob is the only sound to emerge from her throat. An instant later, Sierra bolts around my legs with a gleeful cry.

Dr. Hale sweeps Sierra into a fierce hug, swallows her whole with a voracious gulp of starving arms. Graham and I share an uncomfortable look. It's our job to stand there and hover, out of the loop, shifting our weight from one foot to another as Dr. Hale reacquaints herself with her niece, safe and well.

I try not to listen to the soft murmuring reassurances she gives as her hands run over Sierra, searching for hidden injuries. All of the barely hidden tension in her whipcord body bleeds away as Sierra's health becomes more evident, and she wraps her arms around her niece once again.

“Thank you,” she says, her gaze connecting with mine over Sierra's shoulder.

“You're welcome.”

She sniffles at that, finally releasing Sierra as she gets to her feet. “I'd rather not be welcome to it again, if it's all the same to you.”

Understandable, that. I'm sure I wouldn't want my kid to be in a position to need to be welcome to future rescuing, either, if I had one. “That's fair.”

Graham watches the entire affair with unveiled confusion, his brow furrowing as Dr. Hale checks Sierra over once again for her own self-assurance. He doesn't apologize, of course. Heroes never do, and Nobles least of all. What he does is wrap his massive hand around my upper arm and lead me as gently as he can manage out of the way, which clearly means that I end up practically dragged to the corner of the room, my heels skittering across the floor.

“What the hell aren't you telling me, Vera?” he snaps.

Nothing like the truth, I suppose, especially at this point in the whole ridiculous debacle. “John Camden got the little girl to bodyswap him and Dad.”

“And were you ever planning on telling me?”

“It's just a theory,” I hiss.

It's a damn good one, though, as far as I'm concerned. I can't be sure that John Camden swapped bodies with my father, that he took control over Dad's life and turned it back into a hastily constructed white-picket mess. Sierra's been too scared to talk about it, but I don't think I need her to confirm it. What I can be sure of is that whoever is in my father knows the Brigade well enough to fool each and every one of them to believing he really is Everett Noble, that he's managed to maintain his cover for days, and that the John Camden I've seen since my return to the city has been everywhere and nowhere all at once.

It's just a hunch, but then again I aced Correct Hunch Determination Techniques 201 in my sophomore year at Lord and Cape.

“Where did you come up with that pile of garbage?” Graham scoffs.

I shrug. “Possibly because he also got her to swap me with Nate, quite frankly.”

I probably should have mentioned that particular fact about me and Nate earlier, if the grim set of Graham's mouth is any indication. “You got what?”

I wave off his concern, since I highly doubt it's concern so much as frustration that's bothering him. I don't think it's occurred to him that my brief reassignment into Nate's body might have been hazardous to my health in more ways than one, any more than it has that our bodyswap isn't all some complicated example of just how out of the loop he is at any given time. “And besides,” I say, trying to bring the conversation back to the more important issues, “I've been out of touch with everybody for five years now. How do you expect me to know who to trust? Right now we can't even trust our own father. Why should I trust you,
Daddy
?”

Graham grimaces and releases his grip on me when I say that. “I can't make much of an argument against that one,” he mutters.

I can't help but sigh at his reaction. “You know, normal people would point out I should be able to trust my own damn family.”

Dr. Hale lets out a disbelieving laugh at that, drawing our attention. “You don't know a lot of normal people, I'm guessing.”

“She isn't related to many, either.”

All eyes turn to the door to the office, where my mother and father stand.

Mom in her body and Dad in John Camden's, technically, but still.

Looking at him right now may as well be a smack upside the head that I should have noticed. My father and John share a few traits in common. They're both serious and stoic when in public, but Dad allows himself to shed a bit of that regal austerity when no one's pointing a news camera at him, when it's just our family and no one else. John never stands down, or at least he's never done so outside of the lonely confines of his basement apartment in the Rafters.

The hesitant but warm expression on John Camden's face is so jarringly foreign I feel like an obtuse moron for not noticing it sooner.

I may not get along with my parents, but I'm still a daddy's girl. Dad may not have been the sort to dispense hugs and kisses like candy and money, but he never suggested carrot sticks over churros and diverted my mother's attentions when she waved another filmy designer monstrosity in front of me. He covered for me when I skipped out on my fourteenth birthday party to take a breather in the library at Trinity College with a cheap Regency romance and a smuggled banana nut muffin.

It doesn't matter that he's not in the right body.

I'm just suddenly, blindly reminded just how much I
missed
him.

A moment later I'm hugging him tightly, unable to pull away.

“I'm really mad at you,” I say, unnerved by the way he doesn't even smell like pipe smoke and cologne the way he should.

“I'm mad at you, too,” he murmurs.

He says it into my hair before brushing foreign lips across my forehead, but the words sink in just the same.

Mom hovers outside of our little familial conclave, makes herself small and insignificant simply by her pointed silence. When Dad finally releases me from the embrace of scrawny unfamiliar arms, her existence suddenly swims around me like a simmering pool of lava, intense and heated, inflaming my barely established calm.

“Where's John?” I snap, my words bitten off in jagged shards.

She doesn't flinch from my harsh tone of voice, but the slight narrowing of her eyes indicates I've struck a nerve. “Hell if I know,” she snaps back. “One minute he was standing right in front of me and the next he was gone. He's obviously figured out how to unlock at least part of your father's mental toybox.”

“You seriously expect me to believe you?”

Mom stiffens. “You may have been too busy being bouncing around the place to notice, but it's not as simple and clear-cut as you seem to think everything is.”

“You protected him,” I say. There's a difference between just recognizing it in the back of my mind and actually saying it out loud, putting it out there and letting the dealer call the hand what it is.

“Of course I protected him! He was
in
Everett. Hell, he still is. Would you prefer I allow him to traipse around in your father's body with no care for the consequences of his actions?”

“And you didn't try to swap them back?”

“How? I was too close to the situation. John would have seen me coming a mile away. You, on the other hand …” She crosses her arms, a petulant display for someone creeping daintily around fifty years old. “That plastic surgery machine of Morris's comes in handy, that's all I have to say.”

Well, that certainly explains where the extra Morris came from. “That was you?”

“Yes, it was me.” 

“How did you even get access to Morris's plastic surgery machine?”

“Oh, it's not as though anybody was in their apartment to stop me,” she says.

I frown. “Mom, you didn't have to do that.”

“I had to get you to come to the city somehow.”

“It's called a phone,” I say, growing more exasperated with every passing second.

She cocks an eyebrow at that. “Oh, you know what one is? Because you haven't made much use of one for the past five years, have you?”

Oh, not this argument again. “You know, I would have listened to you without the plastic surgery machine. You didn't have to make yourself look like Morris.”

“He's the only one you talk to, isn't he?”

Even Graham groans at the betrayed jealousy threading through her words. It's nothing new for either one of us to deal with, unfortunately.