Heroine Addiction (4 page)

3.

I haven't used my powers in five years.

Have I mentioned that? Because I really,
really
haven't used them at all. Not even a little bit.

My mind swirling, I stumble when I reappear on the steps in front of the gargantuan doors to the Rafters, the headquarters of the Fairness Brigade, which just happens to be my family's part-time team-requirement gig. All superheroes, even the most famous of the lot like my illustrious parents, fulfill a membership in a superhero team as a matter of course. In the city they work in shifts around the clock, like a specially trained group of firefighters who just happen to shoot laser beams out of their eyes or outrun the speed of light. One never knows when the planet might be invaded by marauding aliens or rained upon by enormous meteors. It helps to plan ahead and be prepared.

I press a shaking hand against the door to steady myself, patting at my sweat-dampened forehead with the back of my free hand. I should have practiced before I simply leaped right into the fray. A few short teleports would have been an excellent idea, perhaps a couple of hops from bedroom to kitchen and a handful of skips down to the cafe before I left. Superpowers are just like any other muscle, needing a good stretch and the occasional workout to remain in shape.

I don't suppose I need to mention how lazy I can be if I try.

The Fairness Brigade – which should change its name, honestly; it's always sounded to me like a gang of overly perky people who go around to daycares and teach small children very valuable lessons about sharing – have the best record of any superhero team on the east coast. Usually there's a line of people at the front door waiting with infinite patience to be allowed in to make their case. Today appears to be a slow day. The granite steps, swept clean and scraped free of used gum and cigarette butts, hold only me.

The Rafters is a historical landmark, the illustrious building having existed on this site since not long after Benedict Noble flew the Mayflower across the Atlantic and dropped it rather abruptly on the nearby shoreline. The Pilgrims weren't amused. Somewhere in between topping new heights of intense prudishness as though it were some sort of accomplishment and condemning superheroes as ungodly and possibly venomous as well, they drove the few superheroes who tolerated a trip I can only imagine was rather lacking in cheerful conversation onto this lousy slice of swampland. Led by Benedict Noble, the heroes promptly erected this grand monstrosity with its cavernous ceilings and the open supporting beams that gave the place its name.

It wasn't particularly heroic when they turned away the Pilgrims that first winter and shared the first Thanksgiving with a visiting congregation of Native American heroes. But politeness doesn't always have to be a virtue, at least as far as Benedict Noble saw it.

Or any Noble, for that matter,
I think wryly.

I peer up at the cloudless sky, the midday summer sun brightening the stunning turquoise blue surrounding it. As I watch, someone flies past in the build-up towards an impressive sonic boom, their voluminous cape flapping out behind them in a silent greeting. Trying to identify the hero in question is worthless. The list of heroes I mentally flip through is five years old, lacking updates of new hotshots or recent retirees. I've been out of the game too long.

The door swings open, sending me off-balance and nearly tumbling me into the arms of John Camden, the Brigade's resident social director. He smoothly latches onto me, righting me with a minimum of effort and lightly squeezing my upper arm for reassurance.

“M-miss Noble,” he says, sounding more stunned than he looks. 'Social director' is a more politically respectful term for what John does for the Brigade, or at least that was how my dad explained it to me. Butler or general dogsbody would probably be more apt. Nothing much fazes him anymore, not after thirty years with the Brigade. I would think growing up and continuing to live in the same small tidy apartment in the deepest sub-basement of the place helps. I suppose the more times your apartment floods with mood slime from other dimensions, the more likely you are to let things like that slide right down your back, though I don't imagine it's quite as literal as all that. “I didn't expect to see you today. Did you have an appointment with either of your parents I neglected to note?”

“Oh, no, don't worry about it, John,” I say. “I was just in the neighborhood, and I thought, hey, why not come visit Mom and Dad? They're here, I'm here ...”

I can't talk anymore after that. It's possibly because the sudden exertion involved with a spontaneous use of my powers like that makes my breath catch and heave, but probably because even I can recognize how much unlike myself I sound showing the least bit of excitement to see my parents. The back of my neck flushes with heat, shame and blood pooling under the skin at the nape.

John's stoic expression holds. “Of course, miss. Your parents aren't available at the moment. Would you like to come in and enjoy a grape smoothie? I'm sure I can conjure up a fresh bunch out of the depths of the refrigerator.”

I grin brightly, madly enthusiastic, unable to stop myself. Grape smoothies are my favorite, a fact that John's apparently been storing for an opportune moment for years now. And Lord knows I could use the sugar rush. Leave it to John to make me feel at home when my father's unavailable to do so. “Are you kidding? I'd adore a smoothie right now,” I say, trailing behind him into the cavernous lobby of the Brigade's lodgings.

“Of course, miss.” He closes the door behind him, a minor blessing considering the curious passersby who've paused on the sidewalk to rubberneck. I imagine anything out of the ordinary on the steps of the Fairness Brigade rates as a major soap opera in this neighborhood. Not many criminals possess so few brain cells that they would attempt to sell drugs or rob people across the street from a house routinely staffed by superhumans.

John tips his head to me before walking into the shadowed spot underneath the looping staircase encircling the interior of the lobby. That bottomless hollow under the steps winds back into the cozy kitchen, yet another detail about the building I still recall clearly even though I haven't been back in years. I haven't forgotten the scooping dips of the wall dressings, either, the way the weighted maroon fabric dips in rounded pleats on the curved walls like the descending curtain in a movie theater. When I was little, I firmly believed the curtains would lift up when visitors least expected it, revealing the proud Brigade in all their awe-inspiring glory. Now that I'm grown, I suppose the interior design has that specific purpose, putting those who enter through its doors in their place.

I cross my arms and take a few steps towards the glass case in the center of the lobby, my heels tapping out a deliberate rhythm on the polished marble underfoot.

The sterile airtight case contains a few highlights of the Brigade's illustrious history – Gatekeeper's crushed utility belt, the alien queen Icy Tot froze for all eternity in a compact and impenetrable ball of ice, Jaybird's magical bird whistle. I know every detail of the numerous artifacts gathered in the case, especially the main attraction.

My great-grandfather's green and black costume sneers out at me from behind sealed plastic, preserved in a perfectly unblemished state. I never met Terrence Noble, but he's probably having an apoplectic fit somewhere in the afterlife knowing his great-granddaughter left the business. The lingering stories of his temper make my mother look like a gregarious kitten in comparison.

I'd be an absolute disappointment, but then again that's not exactly a new experience for me.

“You always gotta knock yourself down before you pick yourself back up, don't you?”

I smile at the recognizable drawl before I tip my head back and spot Nathaniel Doe leaning over the banister two stories above, his brown snake-skin ten-gallon hat only staying on with a silent strongly-worded prayer. He's all set to plunge head-first over the edge, I can see it coming, but he pushes back and swings his legs over the banister before that can happen.

It's a small miracle that I don't even flinch as he lands in front of me in a reflexive crouch. His denim-covered knee barely skims the floor, the heels of his boots scuffing black marks across the marble. I long ago trained myself out of reacting to his impetuous stunts, his absurd and needless tests to see just how much his immortal body can handle. Nate has been my father's protg for ten years now, a fresh-faced outsider shipped into the city still dusty with Oklahoma silt. His baby-smooth knuckles still sported blood stains when he first shook my hand.

If I'm going to get a straight answer from anyone in this place, Nate's the one who'll deliver it to me wrapped up in ribbons and served with sweet wine.

“Oh, I feel better now that I've seen your ugly mug,” I say, right before he sweeps me into a bone-crushing hug and spins me around. A few twirls and some embarrassingly high-pitched squeals later, Nate puts me down, and I catch my breath long enough to add, “I definitely look a hell of a lot prettier than you ever will.”

“Yeah, well, I can't argue that.” He sports a jester's smile as he says it, then plucks the well-loved hat off his head and plops it down on my hair, tugging it down until my line of sight is blocked by the brim. “Stop staring at that damn body stocking, peaches. You'll get wrinkles.”

“Some of us like wrinkles, thank you very much.”

“Aw, wrinkles ain't that special.”

I pull the hat off, smirking up at him before yanking the hat back down over his shaved head. “You still haven't grown any wrinkles of your own, have you?”

“You're just lucky I like your pretty ass,” he grumbles, a rough good-natured growl.

Even though I stalked out of this same building five years ago with my head held high and what was left of my costume burning to flaky ashes in the wreckage, Nate and I share a tight relaxed relationship that I've never managed to cultivate with anyone else in the superhuman world. He still calls on occasion, I still email when I have the time. It's a relationship devoid of stress or pressure, which is just the way we like it.

He's certainly easier to talk to than my mother and Graham in at least one respect. Nate, summarily excluded from my father's private life no matter how close they might be as co-workers, isn't privy to enough information to start ranting at any given moment about Morris breaking up our family. I might have to pretend that my parents are still playing happy families when I speak with Nate, but at least it's a laidback sort of make-believe.

He takes my hand and leads me to the cushy midnight blue seats arranged in a neat horseshoe at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for me to sit before taking the spot next to me. Nate sprawls like a sleepy spider monkey, and I roll my eyes before wriggling sideways to give him room.

“There now. Don't that feel better on those dainty little feet of yours than standing around in goddamn heels on marble floors?”

I have to give him that much, at least. “I suppose.”

“Oh, you suppose?” He grins and swats at the air in front of my bangs, infectious laughter bubbling up from his chest when I cover them with one hand and rear away from him. “Well, ain't you still the proper little princess.”

“So I hear,” I say.

“You ain't back here looking for a part-time job, are you? Because if that's the case, I can think of a dozen fast-food places that might make you happier in the long run.”

“Ha, ha, very funny.” I reach out and land a playful punch on his shoulder, knocking him off-balance. Nate slips to his elbows, slumping down against the velvety draperies at our backs, his smile bold and brilliant. “Actually, I was wondering if you've seen Dad around. I figured since I was in the city today I'd check in on him, but he doesn't appear to be at home,” I say. I neglect to add that I haven't even been there yet and know the only person I'll find at Dad's current place of residence will be an curiously unsettled Morris Kemp, the former Quiz Master. And it's not even worth it to pretend I might be here for Mom as well. Nate knows me too well.

“Hell, Vera, he took tonight off. It's date night.”

I've had a lot of practice since my father moved in with Morris in schooling my features into an implacable mask, cultivating the ability to delicately swerve any conversation towards a less uncomfortable arena. I may not be able to win at poker just yet, but I can deftly conceal my discomfort at times like this. It comes in handy with a casual declaration like that, dropped from Nate's lips like a gum wrapper tossed aside on the street.

Right, date night. I'd almost forgotten about date night.

“Your smoothie, Miss.”

John bows at the waist into my line of sight, producing a clear plastic carryout cup filled to its domed lid with whipped dark purple cream. I wonder for a brief moment if the carryout cup is a hint.

“Thank you, John,” I murmur, but he's already gone by then.

I take a few cautious sips from my cup, savoring the rich delicacy that always defines John's culinary concoctions. He knows me so well. It's one of the things I've missed about being here. The thought reminds me of what Nate said about Dad's supposed plans for tonight.

Mom and Dad's separation isn't legal, nor have they ever gotten a divorce. Dad can only alter minds, not paperwork. The fallout if Ivy and Everett Noble were to even have a calm private divorce would be ludicrous. If intrusive reporters got it into their heads to find out why they broke up – and Lord knows they would – our private lives could become completely unbearable.