Heroine Addiction (30 page)

John's still fiddling with the cybernetics in his arm as I dart around the room, latching onto every poor minion I can spot and dumping them into any far-off place that comes to mind – Siberia, the Andes, the Sahara and a dozen other locations they won't be leaving without post-battle retrieval from the SLB. John's mind-controlled army hasn't removed all of the bodies from their rooms yet, even given the span of a few precious minutes. When you splurge on the latest in cyberorganic implants, there's not a lot left over to spend on a loyal fleet of personal assistants, as opposed to a small troop of forced innocents struggling against your still-barely-controllable abilities. Minions working of their own free will would have removed all of the bodies by now in a smooth and orderly fashion.

I reappear from dropping the last of the minions into the Parisian catacombs just in time for John to restart his dampeners. The resulting jolt to my mind as I land just outside the now open door of the crypt leaves me dizzy enough for him to advance on Morris, Graham and me – the first three out of the room – with his other arm pointed towards us.

I'm not sure what firepower he's hiding in there. Considering what's in his right arm, I'm not all that keen to find out what's in his left one.

Morris darts between John and the two of us, bleary-eyed but thrumming with anger.

“I hate to be the cliché,” he says, cold and matter-of-fact, “but if you want to get to the kids, I'm afraid you'll have to go through me.”

Graham flinches at that, grumbling something about not being a kid in an indignant sulky voice that certainly doesn't lend the statement much credence.

Dad and Mom hover behind us, still nauseated and lightheaded from the abrupt back and forth of the dampeners being turned on and off. There's something about seeing my parents weak and helpless – the great Paladin and the mighty Wavelength felled by a crazed butler, of all things – that forces my anger to rise.

John doesn't expect anyone to stalk towards him with fire in their eyes, least of all little old me.

“Surrendering?” he says.

My fist snaps out like it's been held back by rubber bands, reined in and storing energy forever, connecting with his chin harder than I would have thought I could still pull off after years out of the field.

I forgot how much it hurt to do that.

“Not so much,” I say as his head snaps back.

I cradle my sore fist as he regains his bearings, stinging pain shooting through at least one of my knuckles, but the moment he comes back to himself, that's when he backhands me.

Hard.

I wouldn't expect it out of someone with arms like pipe cleaners with the brushing scored off them, but John throws a solid smack when he needs to.

The others roar and stomp behind me like angry stallions, clearly intending to come to my rescue.

I wave them off with a simple curt gesture.

John's smile pulls upward at the corners, bent and crooked and crazed, amused that I should be the one to stand up to him.

“I can do it again,” he warns, his hand raised.

My sole answer is to cock an eyebrow in a silent dare.

One of my college professors once said that you should never poke a tiger with a sharp stick. He was being literal at the time – Dakota North just needed to have her arm reattached after rescuing the vice president from China Doll for the fourth time – but as a metaphor it works quite well. However, John Camden is not now nor will he ever be a tiger. When his paw swipes the air, his claws aren't nearly as dangerous as he thinks they are. I dodge his hand this time, which he expects, but grab onto his wrist with one hand and flip open the latch on his arm to reveal the controls to the dampener I proceed to switch off, which he didn't see coming at all, if the disfiguring rage on his face is any indication.

Morris hauls me out of the way before John can try anything again, and underneath John's mutterings as he fumbles to restart the dampener is the tough encouraging voice of Dr. Hale.

I glance her way to see her whisper something to Sierra, stroke a calming hand over the little girl's cheek and allow her gaze to drift to my brother's encouraging face as he says something that looks vaguely like, “Go ahead, kiddo.”

I see it coming in my mind only a split second before Sierra closes her eyes and makes a wish.

Both John and Graham sink to the floor at the same time, crumpling to the linoleum like statues made of cheap tin foil under the weight of a healthy downpour. Their mutual collapse is so sudden none of us have the time to react, to scramble for John and secure him in time.

All we can do is watch as they fall, and stand out of their way when their discomfort starts to fade.

Graham tenses as soon as his eyes reopen, rage simmering to the surface that's intense even by his vaulted standards. As soon as he looks my way, I back away from him out of reflex. I know my brother, whether he wants me to or not, and for all of his venom you develop a resistance to the bite after twenty years of tasting it on a daily basis. This is something different, a potent psychopathic strain of poison even he would never throw my way, and when it flashes in my direction I know enough to run.

I fumble backwards, latched onto by Morris and Mom and hauled out of the way just in time.

Almost as soon as Graham gets up, turning murderous rage on the man standing at the far end of the hallway, John rises to his feet as well, a wicked smile curling his lips.

“You really don't give me enough credit,” he says, and launches himself at my brother.

It takes a stark fleeting moment for it to sink in that it's actually the other way around, that it's Graham leaping at John.

Another goddamn bodyswap,
I think.

John stands there too long in my brother's body, too disoriented by the sudden shock of changing bodies to move for just a handful of seconds. Going from a modified cybernetic body to a weakened one now powerless from the swap leaves John breathless and trembling. It's just long enough of a distraction for Graham to pounce on him, wearing his body and extending a hand slathered in a thick layer of tentacle slime.

My breath hisses out of my lung as soon as I catch the glint of light off the slime.

Morris commandeered the alien planet of Ferlo for a reason other than its questionable stability. As repugnant and foul as all the tentacles and slimy residue might be, the culture's vast store of technological advances far beyond anything humans could construct must have been more than enough to make Morris salivate with envy.

The problem, of course, was adapting the technology to humans when their durable advanced touchscreens and genetically specific computer systems worked for one important reason – their electrically-charged slime. Even a tiny droplet of the stuff is powerful enough to stun an angry hippopotamus into submission.

Pressed against the highly volatile makeshift dampener secured under John's skin is like sparking a powderkeg even my normally invulnerable brother won't survive.

“Graham!”

I latch onto Mom in a sorry attempt to stop her from throwing herself at the fiery column that used to be her son, sparked to life in a bright explosive moment. Somehow, digging in my heels is enough to hinder her progress. She rears back from the intense heat, throwing her hands over her face in a welcome moment of instinct.

All I can focus on is the stifling heat, contained in size but apocalyptic in intensity, a catastrophe in an invisible tube. It blows itself out in one dizzying cascade of fire, burbling napalm that rains down on the floor and pockmarks the linoleum and then vanishes just as quickly as it appears.

Everything goes deadly silent. Even though the scorched floor still steams ominously, we can all see John is gone.

He's not the only one.

Somebody whimpers. It might be me or Dad or Morris, but I suspect it's Mom and I just can't look. I may not get along with Mom, but something about the slim chance it might be my selfish unsentimental mother sobbing over anything cracks something inside me.

Nothing exists in the cold empty space where my brother stood only a moment ago.

Nothing at all.

26.

An entire week passes before I can drag myself out of the house again.

The first night back home is a nauseating blur. I vaguely recall waking the following morning in the same dress I'd worn to the morgue, curled up on my bed in an uncomfortable ball on top of the comforter. I think I slept. I might have just passed out, wrung dry of emotion with makeup smeared across my face.  

I could swear I cried myself to sleep, but the memory feels like a hopeful lie.

Waking up on that second day, I debate leaving the blissful silence of my apartment for only a few short minutes before unplugging the TV and shutting off my phone. Secreting myself away in the restful cocoon of my apartment sounds like far too appealing an option to give up, at least for the moment. It's either that, or I can get all gussied up and spit-shined, my hair glossy and perfectly coiffed, my favorite tattoo-print halter dress pressed and dry-cleaned and skimming over my hips. I can step out the front door and into the bustling encampment of anxious reporters huddling around my front door, and I can let them assault me with inquiries about Graham's death or, worse yet, appallingly detailed questions about my father's sex life so uncomfortably invasive I'll go hysterically deaf in self-defense.

Since I'm fairly positive I can't handle dealing with a physical disability brought on by curious members of the media badgering me about when I'm going to start calling Morris Daddy, becoming a hermit presents itself as a much more appealing option.

Granted, most hermits don't possess the ability to teleport to Thailand for genuine takeout, but the sentiment stands.

Two days after Graham's death, the Brigade holds a public memorial service in Oktoberfest Park. I only see the pictures later on by accident, the photos scattered carelessly across the Internet like tiny surprising black holes for unsuspecting mourners to tumble into. The shots show a silent sea of citizens dressed in black crowded into three-quarters of a square mile, hanging from trees or perched on playground equipment when elbow room becomes a commodity.

It's a lovely memorial, or so I hear. From what Dixie tells me later on, the President even sends a nice flower arrangement. 

I don't go. Neither do my parents, for that matter, or any other Noble family member. Or Morris, as far as I know. They probably skip out for the same reason I do. Just because I didn't get along with Graham all that well doesn't mean I'm game for turning his memorial into even more of a media circus simply by showing up.

Serena feels the same way, it seems. She shows her face in the crowd, of course, but Sam is nowhere to be seen in the multitude of photos from the ceremony. I don't blame her, really. I'm not sure I'd want to bring a little boy who looks as though he fell out of the Noble family tree and bounced off every branch on the way down to a Noble family memorial laden with eager photographers, either.

Thinking about Sam rubs against a sore spot I didn't know was there, so I try not to. It's hard enough avoiding the memorial coverage, which pokes at that sore spot with a sharp brutal jab. But Sam is Graham, except smaller and presumably less prone to start arguments with me.

Sam is still here, and Graham isn't.

There is a saying the ancient Spartans used to tell their superheroes before they went off to battle:  “Come back wearing your cape, or underneath it.” Graham would have been proud to follow that motto to his grave.

Like it or not, Graham was a better hero than he thought he was. Better than I've ever been, I can't help but think.

I add that to the list of things I try not to dwell on. I use up more tissues that way.

Mom's publicist issues a concise statement the morning of the memorial that excuses the entire family from public displays of our collective grief and commends Graham for his heroism with all of the crisp pride of your average parent commending their child for passing their classes or not getting arrested.
Well, of course he was a good hero
, I think with a pained smile as I read it a week later.
You don't get exultant kudos for doing something you're supposed to do.

The security camera footage from the morgue leaks the day before the memorial, a stop-motion series of painfully clear freeze-frames in black and white of Morris and Dad embracing. Mom's public statement doesn't mention that.    

Once they realize I won't be emerging to drop any more juicy family secrets for them to publish, or to expound on the one currently hogging all the headlines, the reporters gradually begin to dissipate from the area surrounding my building on the fourth day, scurrying off to whichever rock they currently reside underneath. By the fifth day of my self-imposed retreat, the sidewalks are devoid of anyone who doesn't live in town.

It's not much of an improvement.

I waste away most of the week with my first genuine vacation in years. You'd be amazed how utterly the prospect of packing a bag and flying off to some far-off paradise loses some of its appeal when you can go to Germany for chocolate cake for dessert and follow it up with a moonlight stroll along an Australian beach whenever you feel like it. I wander around in my silk pajamas and breeze through every book in my pile of unread novels and never, ever watch television, figuring it's probably best for my sanity.

For the most part, everybody I know leaves me to myself. Nate sends me a funny greeting card about an ugly man who unfortunately put on his thong backwards but - even more unfortunately - couldn't really tell. He doesn't sign it, but I recognize his angular handwriting slashing my address across the face of the envelope.

My parents and Morris have the decency to give me breathing room. I dream one night that they've achieved that wonderful calming silence on their end by Dad and Morris locking my mother in a closet for the week, and only barely convince myself not to call and make sure that's not the case.

Dixie and Tara handle the cafe by themselves, the low bustling hum from below keeping me from having a minor mental breakdown and jetting down there to take over again. I doubt either one of them would be willing to let me in the state they must know I'm in, even though they leave me blissfully to myself. I fall asleep a couple of times in the middle of the afternoon, curled up on my carpet, a paperback in one hand and my head resting on a pillow, lulled into a peaceful nap by the everyday sounds from below that I miss with a bone-deep ache.

On the fifth day, my doorbell rings.

“I brought you milk and bread and a couple of pomegranates because I know you like those and they were on sale,” Hazel says after shoving the bulging paper grocery sack into my arms. “And there's sweet potato chips in there, too. Oh, and I got you fudgsicles, and don't start, okay? I figured you could use some chocolate after the week you've had, so ...” 

Her voice trails off as she scuffs the sidewalk with the heel of her sneaker, kicking at invisible pebbles.

I clutch with an awkward grip at the heavy bag. “You didn't have to.”

She shoots me a meaningful look.

“But thanks,” I quickly add. “I mean, thank you. I just ...” I don't know what else to say. I didn't ask for her to go on a grocery run. I'm definitely running low on supplies, the racks in my fridge almost bare, my cupboards accumulating empty space. I stand there, barefoot and fidgeting. “You got me fudgsicles?”

She scowls, her pale cheeks a darkening pink. “Well, they make me feel better,” she says. “Screw my stupid diet.”

It's true, I remember that much, and it makes me laugh, bright and happy in spite of myself.

Hazel takes the opportunity to look me over for breaks or bandages, for injuries the news reporters might have missed in their obsessive analysis of the events at the morgue. She doesn't have to say as much, not with the determined set of her jaw or the assessing tilt of her head. From behind, I'll bet she looks sullen and introverted, tucking into herself the way she does, angling her hips and shoulders until all anyone will be able to see is the back of some midriff-baring tank top, her tattooed arms, and the untamed bleached scruff of her hair. It's a stark difference looking at her expression full on, the thinly veiled anxiety shadowing her dark blue eyes.

“Hey,” I say, my voice low.

Her gaze jerks up to meet mine.

“Hey, I'm all right. Not a scratch on me. Not even a little one.”

Our smiles emerge from nowhere, small and hesitant, and Hazel nods. “Yeah, okay, guilty as charged,” she admits. “But I still say you need the fudgsicles to boost your mood.”

“I'll take that under advisement.”

She reaches up to give her neck a self-conscious rub before softly tossing a goodbye my way. When she walks off, she's less tense than she usually is, a bounce to her coltish legs that makes her look vaguely like a happy gazelle. My grin widens before I shut the apartment door, spreading against my wishes.

Being girlfriends again might be a mistake we should avoid at all costs, but friends … yes, we should be able to handle being friends. You know, if we don't tear each other to shreds first.

When I finally have enough of filling myself full of questionably healthy snacks and cheap mass-market paperbacks about women who can't decide between jumping the impossibly attractive man in their lives and beating the tar out of fictional monsters, going back to work feels a little less like punishment. I haven't watched television in days, and avoiding the internet is the only way to keep from confronting the inevitable glut of emails from people I'd rather not talk to right now. If I'm going to peek out into the world on my own terms, I plan on starting with the cafe and working my way outward.

I get up bright and early on the seventh day, my hair already washed and ready for styling, my red and white picnic pattern off-the-shoulder dress gently ironed. I don't have to go, of course. The others have been dealing with the cafe just fine on their own. It hasn't exploded, it hasn't crumbled underneath me, it hasn't been attacked by mutant alligators from the sewers or anything, at least as far as I know. I could stay up here forever if Hazel keeps showing up with groceries and I can finally scrounge up the urge to shop on the internet again.

I get ready anyway, taking a half-hour longer than I normally do. I blame the trips I keep making to my apartment windows, scoping out for roving reporters who might be hiding in doorways or dark corners.

When I reach the front door of the cafe at precisely six-thirty, Tara's already there, her dirty blond hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. She gapes at me as I approach, the keys to the front door fumbling in her grasp. Then her sunny smile peeks out. “You lost?”

I stop a few feet away, feigning confusion. “I still work here, right?”

“On occasion,” she jokes. Unlocking the door, she holds it open. “Go on, lazybones. In you go.”

Grinning, I walk past.

Benny arrives soon enough, bleary-eyed and unshaven as always. When he spots me, he says something under his breath I should presumably be glad I can't hear and heads off to hide himself away in the kitchen. Not long after, Dixie arrives, stumbling into the cafe and nearly falling flat on her face when she sees me putting fresh pastries out under the glass cases on the counter.

“Oh, hey,” she blurts out. “You exist. I was starting to think I made you up or something.”

“Ha, ha.”

“I thought it was funny,” Tara calls out from the kitchen.

Benny rumbles something that makes Tara burst into high-pitched giggles.

Some things never change.

It doesn't take me long to get back into the swing of things, if I do say so myself. It helps that the morning is like it always is, a steady stream of customers stopping just long enough for tea or cappuccino before running off to work. I keep my eyes off the local newspapers in the reading rack by the cash register, intent on avoiding the situation just a little bit longer.

The door closes hard around noon, the bell over it jingling a happy greeting, and I turn just in time to come face to face with Morris and my father.

Dad has never been to my cafe. Neither has my mother, at least not as herself. But with my father it hurt more than it should. At least Dad seems to like me. It's a bit depressing when your father's former mortal enemy shows up regularly at your cafe for pie and your own mother can always find something more important to do.

The entire cafe goes silent.

“Aren't you supposed to be in jail?” I say to Morris, unable to completely stifle the teasing tone sneaking into my voice.

He waves a dismissive hand. “Pish tosh.”

“You built a lair.”

He leans close in a futile attempt not to be heard and stage-whispers, “
I
built an isolated office for my new probationary defense contract with the Superhero Licensing Bureau's weaponry division. It's certainly not my fault if someone else uses it for something other than defending the moon against the squid armies of Betelguese.”

I can only stand in silence and try desperately not to allow my jaw to drop. As ludicrous as it is to imagine the SLB contracting with a known supervillain, it also makes an odd sort of sense. Avoiding the grainy photo stills doesn't mean I haven't heard what they contain, haven't caught whispered mockery that dies as I approach. Morris sinking into Dad's trembling embrace, their famous faces tucked into each other's shoulders, wrapped up in one another just long enough for frenetic emotions to bleed away and leave them raw and open to a cheap twenty-year-old security camera.