Heroine Complex (29 page)

She hopped up and trotted over to her spreadsheets. “So are you gonna go for it with Nate? 'Cause you should. Let him buy the bigger bed.”

That heady stew of feelings was still swirling around in my stomach. I wasn't sure of anything and I especially wasn't sure of that.

“I can't believe I just talked to you about all that.” It was an artful dodge of her question, but it was also the truth: for the first time, we'd spoken as something other than enforcer and inmate. I'd acknowledged that she was growing up. And much as I hated to admit it, I was probably going to have to keep doing that.

“I can believe it,” she said. “So. Ready to get started?” She gestured to her spreadsheets and looked at me hopefully, purple-streaked cap of hair listing to the side.

This, I realized, was what I'd miss if the world suddenly weren't there. Her looking at me like that, as if I was actually capable of fighting a demon princess and saving us all.

Maybe I was. In any case, I had to try.

I took a deep breath and felt something resembling strength take root in my veins.

“Okay,” I said, “tell me more about the boy bands.”

I'D LIKE TO
be able to say I took the mature route. That I took Bea's words to heart and untangled my feelings and conveyed them to Nate in a calm, precise, thoroughly grown-up manner.

Instead, I avoided him for two whole days.

I claimed I was busy, I was stressed, I had to spend all my time on the seventy-three “essential vocal warm-ups” Bea had assigned me. And when he looked back at me with a flicker of hurt in those dark eyes, I pretended I didn't notice and walked away.

Yeah, I took pretty much the most immature route available to me.

I didn't avoid all my actual feelings on the matter, though. I allowed my anxiety and uncertainty and fear to flourish, to build and swirl and roil, and then I channeled all of it into practice fireballs. So there was that.

Anyway, my future relationship status seemed like kind of a silly thing to be consumed by when I had more pressing concerns. City-saving, demon princess-busting concerns. We hadn't uncovered any new information about the stone with the mysterious changing number. It had stayed at 1, though, so at least Maisy hadn't gotten her claws into any new humans. Presumably. There was nothing left to do but kick her ass at karaoke.

“Remember: showmanship.” Bea rubbed my
shoulders as she murmured last-minute words of encouragement in my ear, as if I was a championship boxer and she was my cigar-chomping coach. “Maisy has her fanbase, but you're the city's hero, its beloved daughter. San Franciscans feel like you belong to them.”

“Don't I know it,” I muttered, scanning The Gutter.

The place was packed. Bea's social media blasts appeared to have worked their magic, as had Maisy's increasingly contentious blog posts. “Aveda Jupiter clearly needs to be taught a lesson in humility,” she'd noted in one of them. “Rest assured, I have been practicing my karaoke shiznitz like a mofo.”

The usual seniors were in attendance tonight, but Maisy's hipster crowd was also well represented, a tight cluster of girls in cat-eye glasses and dudes wearing little straw hats, all of them ironically drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. I caught a glimpse of Shasta's bangs in the mix. We still didn't know how—or if—she was involved, but Lucy had vowed to keep an eye on her during the proceedings. The hardcore Aveda junkies were crammed into another corner, many of them wearing gigantic T-shirts emblazoned with comic book logos. Giant Dude from the Whistles incident was there, his braying laugh cutting through the crowd noise. The usual tables and chairs had been cleared to the side to create space for a makeshift dance floor.

My plan still had a key flaw I couldn't quite wrap my brain around: Maisy was going to have to fully show her demon side before I could retaliate in any way. Otherwise it'd just look like I was attacking a poor, helpless human. I was going to have to goad her into showing all her supernaturally evil colors. And I didn't know how, exactly, to do that.

To counter Maisy's boy band extravaganza, Bea had put together a slate of sassy lady empowerment themes. The grand finale was an extended version of TLC's “No Scrubs,” a dizzying showstopper that required me to sing all three parts, harmonize with myself, and sort of rap.

My crew was stationed all over the room, being various degrees of helpful. Lucy darted through the bar, checking for signs of demon activity. Nate and Scott stood a few feet away from me: heads bent, locked in conversation. Nate was gesticulating emphatically about something. I wondered if he was talking about me. The ache I didn't want to acknowledge swelled around my heart. I shoved it down hard.

Best to save all my emotions for the show.

“Hey.” Aveda hobbled up next to me on her crutches. Because she had to be glamoured as something, she was glamoured as me. No one cared if Aveda's trouble-making assistant was injured, though I noticed a few of Maisy's fans giving her the stink-eye. The effect was disconcerting as she smiled my smile, then took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “You're gonna do great, okay?”

“Thank you.” I'd ducked into her room more than a few times the past couple days when I'd been avoiding Nate. We'd talked about all manner of inconsequential things and pulled out our old yearbooks and taken a trip down Bad Hair Memory Lane. We'd even watched
The Heroic Trio
a couple times on her iPad. It had been nice.

As Aveda hobbled back to the bar area, another familiar figure approached.

“Hey, Rose!” Bea exclaimed. “We've got a Patsy Cline number queued up just for you.”

“I can't wait,” Rose said, giving her a slight smile. She nodded at me. “Aveda.” Rose was dressed casually tonight. I'd never seen her in jeans before. But they were, of course, perfectly pressed, with a sharp crease running down the center.

“Bea tells me you might need backup tonight?” Rose said.

I frowned. No one outside of Team Aveda knew about our Maisy suspicions. “Backup?”

“In one of our email exchanges, Bea indicated—”

“Um, that we really should have some extra form of
security on-site since this is such a big deal event and all,” Bea said. “Lucy's only one woman.”

“Right.” I nodded at Rose. “Thank you.”

She nodded back then took note of the dimming lights. “Looks like we're about to start,” she said.

The crowd noise faded to a burble as Kevin bounded onstage clutching a gold-sequined mic. “Welcome, welcome, welcome!” he crowed. “And can I just say it is fantastic to see so many karaoke enthusiasts in one place?”

He grinned as the crowd cheered. Tonight, his T-shirt proclaimed HAPANESE, BITCHES.

“We've got quite the battle for you tonight!” he continued, swaggering across the stage. “The city's preeminent lifestyle blogger . . .” He gestured to Maisy, who preened for her following. “ . . . versus our favorite superhero!” He pointed at me and I popped a theatrical “ta-da!” pose. The crowd screamed its approval. (For me? For her? Maybe just for the idea that they were about to witness a nasty catfight as rendered through song.)

I had selected my own superhero getup: a short, sparkly dress, a matching sparkly hair clip, and a pair of strappy heels that laced up my legs. And I'd practiced walking in them, so I was prepared. Maisy, meanwhile, had gone for some kind of ironic eighties athlete statement, and was outfitted in running shorts, a tank top, and thick white knee socks with jaunty red stripes banding their way around her calves. I felt like those stripes were mocking me.

Kevin stopped in the middle of the stage and motioned for the crowd to hush.

“Before we get started,” he said, “I've got a little surprise for these lovely ladies.”

Um, surprise? Oh, no. Nonono. The surprise was supposed to be, when, exactly, Maisy was going to go full demon. I didn't think I could handle any surprises beyond that.

Kevin paused and planted a hand on his hip.

“As Karaoke Master,” Kevin continued, “I decided to spice things up. Who wants to see a battle where the contestants merely alternate full songs, am I right? Boooooooring.”

Oh, no,
I thought.
Not boring at all, Kevin. In fact, that's exactly what I prepared for and I really wish you would do me a fucking solid and abide by the original rules of this contest.
You know, so I can focus on the evil-fighting bit.

“Instead, we're gonna do the songs random roulette style,” he said. “Song stealing is allowed. Whoever owns the entire sequence and makes it her bitch wins.”

Um, what?

I frantically scanned my brain, trying to remember if Lucy had said anything about song roulette. I looked at Bea, hoping she'd have answers. But her eyes were glued to the stage, wide and panicky. Even she didn't know what to make of this.

“A serious wrench in the master plan,” Lucy said, sidling up next to me. “But never fear, darling: I sneaked a peek at the karaoke machine and all the songs are the ones you prepared for. They'll just be smashed into each other in random order. Listen for yours and you should be fine. And don't forget the running punch move I taught you!”

With that, she shoved me toward the stage. I stumbled and felt my wobbly legs carry me forward. Kevin placed a microphone in my sweaty hand.

And then it was just me and Maisy underneath the hot lights, staring out into the sea of faces before us. I could practically feel the malevolence—the sheer satisfaction of her impending victory—rolling off her. I clutched my microphone harder, willing its slippery plastic surface to stay glued to my hand.

What if my fire won't work?

What if I die?

What if everyone else dies?

I was jolted out of my thoughts when the first song blared out of the speakers. It was so loud, it sounded like a random collection of yelps and drumbeats and I was keenly aware of Maisy throwing me a challenging look, as if to say, “Better jump on this shit before I do.” I realized the song was one of mine: “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé. Bea claimed the “oh-oh-ohs” punctuating the chorus made it an easy ham-it-up song, so I rallied, shoving the microphone into my face and singing as loudly as possible.

I vamped my way through the first verse, thrusting my hips all over the place while trying to keep an eye on Maisy for demon signs. She remained surprisingly docile: mic dangling carelessly from her hand, her expression unreadable. Maybe she was waiting for
her
song to throw out all the stops.

As I sang, a gaggle of girls pushed their way to the front, doing a drunk, enthusiastic version of Beyoncé's hand-flippy dance. Hey, crowd participation! Unexpected. And kind of cool. Maybe Bea's tutorial on showmanship was paying off.

“We are over the moon for Jupiter!” one of the girls screamed.

I flipped my hand back at her and kept singing, my gaze roaming the rest of the crowd. I zeroed in on Nate leaning against the bar, trying to suppress a highly amused grin. Emboldened by my dance circle of fangirls, I gave a particularly emphatic hip thrust. Unable to hold back any longer, he laughed. The dance circle let loose with a “WHOOOOOO” and a wave of triumph surged through me.

Then I was unceremoniously shoved to the side.

My knees buckled. I stumbled and nearly wiped out on the floor.

And there was Maisy, stomping a sneakered foot in front of me and bringing her microphone to her lips and giving me the smuggest look of all time ever. Her voice
captured my last series of “oh-oh-ohs” as I focused on staying upright. The crowd went crazy. She'd stolen the song.

Shit. I'd made a crucial mistake. I'd gotten wrapped up in my showmanship and taken my eyes off her.

The Beyoncé song cut out mid-“oh,” only to be replaced by the dulcet opening bars of the classic Backstreet Boys power ballad “I Want It That Way.” Maisy's eyes narrowed in sultry fashion as she switched gears. The crowd went quiet, transfixed by her. She looked around the room, connecting with each of them in turn.

Wow,
I thought.
Maisy is a total master of the stare-fuck. Better than Lucy, even.

I tried to think of how I could provoke her, how I could rattle her and get her to show her true self. But I was distracted.

Because goddammit, her voice was stunning.

It soared over the audience, grabbing hold of notes and spinning them into new shapes, turning the song into a master class of vocal ornamentation.

She bent down on one knee and extended a hand to a cute guy at the edge of the stage sporting a raggedy Green Lantern T-shirt. She was charming
my
demographic. The cute guy ate it up, his eyes going all big as Maisy belted out the chorus, pulling him closer.

So karaoke was the one thing she didn't do ironically.

Meanwhile I was just standing there with my mouth hanging open, hoping her demon side would come out. Which it was showing absolutely no signs of doing.

Maybe we had been wrong. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe I was about to lose this thing in every sense of the word.

I was so screwed.

I mean, even I was into Maisy's masterful rendition of the song. In fact, I was so mesmerized I didn't notice when the “oh-ohs” of my “Single Ladies” chorus blared back into being.

I needed to take the song back. Even if Maisy wasn't the demon we were looking for, I had to keep myself in the game for the sake of Aveda's fanbase. I stepped forward and raised the microphone and spat out the last few words of the chorus. A little off-key, but still loud enough to have an impact. I forced my voice to right itself, to be less shaky. My dance circle of fangirls cheered.

And suddenly Maisy was in front of me again, flinging a hand out. Her hand connected with my microphone. And my microphone smashed into my face. Bright lights exploded behind my eyeballs and pain stabbed through me.

“Oops!” she trilled. “Sorry. I was just so into my expressive hand gestures.”

I instinctively clapped a hand over my face and spun around so my back was to the audience. Hot blood dribbled through my fingertips.
Fuck
.

I stumbled forward. Not sure where I was going, not sure of anything, really, except that blood was pouring through my fingers and splattering down the front of my sparkly dress and the audience sure as hell didn't want to see
that
.

The “oh-oh-ohs” soldiered on, pounding into my head with merciless force. They were loud, proud, and all I could hear. I tripped over something and fell to my knees, the skin of my bare legs scraping against the stage.

Pain. Blood.
I felt like I was falling and falling and falling, a dizzying concerto of “oh-oh-oh” wrapping itself around me like a vice. My breathing was too harsh, too fast, too everything. My face wouldn't stop hurting. And the blood pouring out of my nose was thick and vicious and unstoppable.

Shit, shit, shit.

I was dimly aware of a pair of knee socks sidling up to me, their jaunty red stripes like two streaks of blood.