Heroine Complex (3 page)

“Have I ranted that rant before?”

“A few times, love.”

“Mmm.” I closed my eyes and allowed my head to fall back against the wall—then winced when a new series of angry
thwacks
rang out from behind the gym door. “Then I'll spare you.”

It was true, though: full responsibility for Jupiter HQ went to me. I found the Victorian, I scouted it, and I got the small business loan that allowed us to buy it off its former dot-com millionaire owner five seconds after the second (or was it third?) tech bubble burst. The instant I saw its faded pink wallpaper and scratched floors, I knew it was perfect—weird and rickety enough to project proper superhero mystique, but cozy enough that Aveda could call it home. It also had something very few San Francisco living situations do: space.

Enough space for Lucy to knock out a few walls and make the second floor into a makeshift gym. Enough space for Nate Jones—Aveda's physician/demonology expert/annoying non-getter of groceries—to forge a creepy mad scientist lab in the basement. And most importantly, enough space for the small arsenal of
workout equipment, beauty products, and high-end designer shoes that made Aveda . . . well, Aveda.

I heard a series of determined grunts from the gym. That meant Aveda had moved on from the bag to her push-up/pull-up/sit-up routine. I checked my watch again. She must be reaching her final rage level, which meant about seven more minutes.

“Why are you two loitering out here?” A gruff voice boomed down the hall. “We need to debrief regarding today's attack.”

“Or maybe,” I said, frowning at the black-clad figure striding toward us, “
we
need to remember when it's our turn to get groceries, Nate.”

Nate came to a stop, his six-foot-four frame looming over us like an angry tree. He crossed his muscular arms over his broad chest and glowered at me through deceptively mild-mannered-looking wire-rimmed glasses. Given that his face was made up of sharp angles—from the high cheekbones to the too-long nose—his glower tended to be pretty intimidating. Lucy claimed his incongruous combination of brawny physique and uptight, nerdy demeanor made him “weirdly hot in that cute scientist meets broody thug way, if you're into that kind of thing.” Given her own preferences, I knew she wasn't, so I was pretty sure she was just saying that in the hope that I'd suddenly take notice and smash myself on top of him.

Lucy was very invested in my non-sex life. You know, in that she encouraged me to drop the “non” part. Maybe because she thought I needed extracurricular activities that didn't involve Aveda. Or maybe she wanted me to chime in with my own juicy details when she shared her exploits. Honestly? I was happy just to listen.

In any case, I wasn't into the Nate kind of thing either, especially since our working relationship contained so much glowering. I met his dark eyes without flinching.

“And before you make your next not-so-incisive observation: we
are
working,” I said.

“Did you get the stone?” he asked.

“There wasn't one.”

His glower deepened. “There wasn't one, or you didn't bother to look for it?”

“We were a little busy with the demonic cupcake fighting to look for anything. And as you haven't even bothered to notice, our boss is in the middle of a crisis.” I pointed to the gym door. The grunts had intensified. Push-ups/pull-ups/sit-ups were almost done; kettlebells would be next.

He raked a hand through his unruly shock of hair, making it stand on end. “I've told you: those stones are crucial to my research.”

“And I've told
you
: the number one priority for this organization is Aveda. It'd be nice if you expressed some facsimile of concern for her well-being after a big demon battle instead of fixating on your ‘experiments.'” I actually made air quotes around “experiments.” Something about his condescending, know-it-all tone always brought out the contrary three-year-old in me. “And anyway, if we missed a stone, Rose will send it to us.”

“Which will take at least twenty-four hours, which is time that could've been spent studying the specimen—”

“If finding the stones is so important, why don't you join us on the missions? Get your hands dirty.” I gestured to my frosting-spattered jeans. “Actual fieldwork might be better research than, say, locking yourself in the lab and ignoring the rest of us for days on end.”

He stiffened. “And what, exactly, do you know about scientific research? Unless you mean researching Aveda's favorite shade of lipstick.”

“There's definitely a science to that.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I knew he didn't get my jumbled mental bulletin board way of doing things. If something
wasn't written down in an official-looking spreadsheet, he thought it didn't count.

Hmm. Maybe if I scrawled “get the damn groceries” on one of his spreadsheets, he'd consider it a task worthy of his notice.

Anyway, I was only half joking about the lipstick science side of things. My job might not seem important to him, but considering his severe lack of interpersonal skills, I doubted he'd be very good at it.

His glare shifted to the side. “What's this?” He grabbed my hand and pushed my hoodie sleeve up, revealing the welt on the inside of my wrist.

“One of the cupcakes bit me,” I said, pulling away. “No big deal.”

“I have a salve for that,” he said, grabbing my wrist again.

“I don't need a salve.” I yanked my hand away and tugged my sleeve down. “It'll heal on its own.”

“It'll heal faster if you use the salve—”

“Let's get back to worrying about Aveda,” I interrupted. “She's the one who was in the thick of battle and all?”

He frowned, looking like he wanted to say something else. Instead he abruptly switched topics. “Letta Wilcox is in the foyer. She's waiting for you to tell her what the portal means for the future of her bakery.”

“Shit.” I glanced at my watch for the umpteenth time. “I need to be here when Aveda's done. Otherwise her rage cycle will loop back up to the top again. And that'll keep her working out 'til at least three a.m.”

“I can talk to Letta.” Lucy scrambled to her feet, her pixie-ish features taking on an enthusiastic cast.

“Hey.” I hopped up and jutted an arm out, blocking her. “Stick to the script. No trolling for dates.”

Her eyes widened with unconvincing innocence. “I would never . . .”

“Right. You think I haven't noticed the big, flirty eyes whenever we stop by Cake My Day for a communal cookie? Which you then don't eat?”

“She's a redhead,” Lucy said, as if that was a perfectly acceptable defense.

“Can we save this round of slumber party gossip for non-work hours?” Nate said.

“Can you save your man-bitchery for no time ever?” I shot back.

“I will be perfectly professional,” Lucy said. “Remind me: what is ‘the script'?”

I pasted a soothing smile on my face and clasped my hands in front of me, going into my well-rehearsed act.

“So your place of business has been selected by the Otherworld as a demon portal site,” I droned. “Really it's nothing to worry about. I realize your first reaction might be complete and total panic, but I ask you to remember the facts . . .”

I held my hands out in the manner of a children's show host about to impart a Very Important (and Super Calming) Lesson.

“Yes, the very first Otherworld portal—the one from eight years ago—made a total mess of San Francisco and, yes, the demons who came through were of a distinctly humanoid variety and may have been part of an invasion attempt, at least according to our most respected demonology scholars. But those demons died pretty much immediately upon entering our world, and we haven't seen anything like them since. The demons who have come through every subsequent, way-less-crazy portal are very different—not at all humanoid and usually take the form of the first thing they see, albeit with the added bonus of fangs and/or claws. And while they're still totally dangerous, they aren't smart enough to organize any invasion-level plans. Plus Aveda Jupiter always takes 'em down.”

I paused here for another reassuring smile. I sometimes threw in a hand pat at this juncture, but decided Lucy would improvise her own touchy-feelies.

“And?” Nate prompted.

“And . . . sometimes, the demons will bring a distinctive-looking token with them when they slip through: a piece of stone with gibberish scribbled on it.”

“Not gibberish!” Nate protested. “Possible messages from the Otherworld.”

“Gibberish,” I said. “Gibberish that's never given us any actual useful information. If you happen to spot one of these, please collect it and send it to Aveda Jupiter, Inc. so our resident annoying scientist can log it in one of his many spreadsheets.”

“I'm assuming I can switch up the wording a bit,” Lucy murmured.

I studiously avoided Nate's thunderous gaze, winding up to my big finish.

“It is unlikely that your portal will reopen: once the thing closes, it seems to be a done deal. That said, the fact that you played host to a real, live Otherworld portal often means your establishment will become a sought-after tourist attraction, much like that drag bar on Turk that weathered a vicious attack from demonic high heels, so . . . congratulations! Should you have any further problems, feel free to call, email, or tweet us here at Aveda Jupiter, Inc. and we will be happy to perform any necessary acts of superheroism.”

“‘Congratulations'?” muttered Nate. “Really?”

“It's an ironic ‘congratulations,'” I said. “Breaks the ice.”

“That is the most illogical thing I've ever—”

“Because your grasp of human relations is so amazingly—”

“Guys.” Lucy waved her arms, her lacy sleeves flapping like excitable snowflakes. “I got it. I—”

“Eviiiie.”
The wail came from deep within the gym,
the cry of an animal stranded in the desert with no food or water or high-end moisturizer.

That wail was the final stage of The Aveda Jupiter Tantrum.

And that was my cue.

ZITASTROPHE!

Aveda Jupiter Conquers Cupcakes . . . but Falls to Face Volcano!

by Maisy Kane, Bay Bridge Kiss Editrix

Bonjour, 'Friscans! Your pal Maisy was first on the scene today when Aveda Jupiter dispatched the dastardly demons gracing the latest Otherworld portal. The little bastards took on cupcake form this time and I nearly fell into a diabetic coma from the sugar shock of it all! (Kidding! Diabetes is no laughing matter—get yourself tested!) Even though A. Jupes had things well in hand, I must express a smidge of concern for her health. Girl seems to have developed a monster blemish on her face—and at exactly the wrong moment, what with the big ol' party happening tonight!

As my readers may recall, Mayor Mendoza is set to present everyone's fave superheroine with the key to the city—an honor her fans have been clamoring for forever! They're already lined up around the block, eagerly awaiting the ceremony and fan meet-and-greet, wherein A. Jupes will sign autographs and be her usual fabulous self . . . or as fabulous as she can be, considering that crazy-ass zit! (A, honey, call me! I can recommend an ace skin care regimen.) My sources say we'll also be getting appearances from a pair of San Francisco's finest local celebs: Tommy Lemon (Mr. Big Time Movie Star) and Stu Singh (The Gutter's beloved old codger of a piano player). And of course, your pal Maisy will be on the scene to document the most thrilling goings-on and face volcano eruptions! (Kidding! But seriously, A, invest in some decent blush.)

Shasta's Corner! Shasta (Maisy's bestie) here. Don't forget: all organic lace bras are 50 percent off at Pussy Queen this week. Come on down and prepare to get down. (Editrix's Note: Shast, that “joke” is as fresh as a pair of granny panties. Not kidding.)

THIS IS GONNA
be a bitch to clean up.

Yes, fine, I'll admit it: My first thought upon entering the gym was not very assistant-y.

It was a total mess, though. As I'd predicted, two loyal boxing bag soldiers had fallen to Aveda's merciless blows. One was still hanging from the ceiling by its ropes, determined to stay at least sort of upright. Unfortunately a hole had been punched clean through the middle. The other had been knocked free from its moorings and was deflating on the floor in a sad pile of black vinyl.

Weights, jump ropes, and Aveda's fabulous boots were scattered all over the sweaty mats that covered the floor. I allowed myself a mournful look at the boots, which were now smeared with a sticky mix of frosting, blood, and the sand that had once served as the boxing bags' filling. Definitely not salvageable. Not even if I gave them the most meticulous of hand-washings.

Sand had also gotten all over the floor. It crunched under my feet as I made my way over to Aveda. She was sprawled against the far wall, glaring steadily at the bag with the hole in it. As if the sheer power of her glare would somehow make the zit vanish and render her whole and awesome again.

I tried to summon the words to tell her she was still awesome, zit be damned. To remind her of her bravery
and city-saving mojo and the fact that she was strong enough to punch a hole through an entire boxing bag.

But none of that would register until we'd fixed the zit problem. For Aveda Jupiter, anything less than perfection at all times and in all areas was bullshit. And it was my job to fix the bullshit.

“It's . . . still . . . there,” she growled, pointing to the zit. “I have to go to that party tonight. What am I going to do?”

I knelt down next to her and studied the zit, doing my best to hide my dismay. It had grown brighter and more toxic-looking over the past hour, meaning she'd picked at it.

“Okay,” I said, reaching into the depths of my hoodie pocket. “We're gonna full-coverage foundation this bitch.” I pulled out a makeup compact and dangled it in front of her, as if trying to hypnotize a cranky cat with yarn. “This stuff is like magic.”

“Right.” Nate hulked his way into the gym. “And clogs the pores to such a degree that you will continue to develop skin imperfections in the same area for years to come.”

“Stop! Helping!” I sang out, popping the compact open and dabbing makeup on Aveda's cheek. I might be able to get a glamour for her later, a bit of actual magic that would further conceal the blotch and enhance her overall look, but this would have to do for now. Slowly but surely the zit faded underneath a hefty layer of Skin Tone #67 until it was nothing more than a barely visible spot. Aveda's shoulders relaxed, her expression turning peaceful under my ministrations.

Now we were safely into the aftermath of The Aveda Jupiter Tantrum: that moment of serenity before she whiplashed back to imperious mode, conveniently forgetting that an obstacle had dared cross her path in the first place. I felt my own shoulders relax as she leaned
into me like a toddler getting food swabbed from her face.

Naturally, Nate had to interrupt our nice moment.

“What,” he growled, “is that?”

“What?” My eyes swept over Aveda's face. “Do you see another zit?”

“No.” He brushed stray sand out of the way and lowered himself to the floor next to Aveda's feet. “That.”

I turned to where he was gesturing, prepared to roll my eyes at whatever minor source of irritation he'd managed to pinpoint.

Instead my eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets.

Aveda's left ankle was . . . well. It barely looked like an ankle at this point. It had swollen into an angry, mottled sphere that looked ready to rise up, detach itself, and club the rest of her leg to death.

“Did she fall at the bakery?” Nate demanded. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Of course not!” I snapped. “She never falls—wait, did you fall?”

I swiveled back to Aveda. She was holding one of her hands up, trying to use her telekinesis to levitate the compact away from me. Telekinesis was her actual superpower, but it was so weak she could barely do anything with it. We downplayed it in all our press materials and she rarely showed it off in public. Her ass-kicking abilities, as she'd be quick to remind you, came from hard work, intense physical training, and an obsessive willingness to avoid carbs.

The compact twitched between my fingers, but didn't move further. I handed it to her.

“I didn't fall.” She examined her concealed zit in the compact's mirror. “Well. Not at the bakery.”

Her voice was disinterested, as if Nate and I were discussing something unrelated to her. “I might have slipped while I was practicing a jump-kick combination.”

She gestured vaguely at the sand-covered floor.

“But it's no big deal. I just need to rest for a minute.” She shut the compact and met my eyes. Her gaze was regal, fully restored to pre-Tantrum imperiousness.

I remembered what Lucy had said about her muscles being “cooked.” Apparently she had finally pushed them too far.

“But . . . but . . .” I sputtered, gesturing to her ankle. Nate probed the blob with his fingertips. “Aren't you in pain?”

In an instant, the imperiousness turned to steel.

“Aveda Jupiter does not feel pain.”

I couldn't think of a good comeback. Over the years Aveda had trained and honed and sculpted her body into a perfect weapon, impervious to heat and cold and all manner of demon attack. I was convinced she had also figured out how to block her sweat glands, since perspiration never seemed to grace her brow.

That was why something like a zit was so monumental. Her body had found a way to disobey her.

It seemed like she had always been this way, commanding and unbreakable. It was easy to forget that before she was Aveda Jupiter, she was little Annie Chang—that when we first met, we were nothing more than a pair of perfectly average five-year-olds growing up in the East Bay suburbs. We'd initially come together over the fact that we were the only Asian Americans in Mrs. Miller's kindergarten class and our parents sent in food for afternoon snack that the other kids deemed “weird.” In Annie/Aveda's case, it was her mom's handmade soup dumplings, pockets of boiling hot meaty yumminess our classmates rudely shunned for scalding their tiny little mouths. They made fun of Aveda for days, claiming she had tried to “burn their faces off.” A week later my dad took it upon himself to craft spam musubi. Personally I found it to be the perfect comfort
food, the spam-nori-rice combination salty and savory and hearty in a way that spoke directly to my soul.

My classmates did not agree.

No one would touch the musubi on the basis that the spam looked pink and fleshy enough to be “human meat” and also “seaweed, ew.” I could still remember my face getting hot, the start of tears burning behind my eyes, as the rest of the kids started up a chant of
“Hu-man meat! Hu-man meat!”
The spam glistened in the light, all sweaty from sitting out for so long.

And then little Annie/Aveda pushed her way to the front. Her pigtails, usually perfectly symmetrical, were askew and her eyes were lit with something I now recognized as a potent brew of rage and bravado.

“Human meat looks absolutely delicious to me!” she'd screamed.

And then she'd proceeded to gobble down every single freaking spam musubi while the rest of the class watched. She was like a tiny child version of the Tasmanian Devil crossed with Pac-Man. In the midst of her cramming snacks into her mouth, she'd looked over and given me a nod:
This is for you
,
okay? I'm doing this for you. Because I remember what it was like when they made fun of
me
.

All the attention and the whispering from the other kids had transferred over to her, the assembled five-year-olds switching easily from mocking me to regarding her with a mix of shock, fear, and “dang, that girl is
crazy
” awe.

I'd hovered around and rubbed her back when she'd thrown it all up in the bathroom right after. It was the first time she'd saved me. The first time I'd comforted her afterward. It bonded us for life.

We were inseparable after that, which meant we were also together that fateful night so many years later. We'd both just turned eighteen—our birthdays were within a
week of each other, but we always had our joint celebration on hers—and were in the process of getting drunk on cheap wine from Mrs. Chang's secret stash. I'd anticipated passing out on the shag carpet of Aveda/Annie's bedroom mid-tipsy-giggle.

I did
not
anticipate an earthquake that sloshed our crappy wine all over the carpet and opened up that first big portal to the evil alternate dimension known as the Otherworld. Or that said portal would result in a bunch of San Franciscans getting superpowers.

Demonologists later hypothesized that the powers had been somehow transferred to humans from the demon corpses found around the portal wreckage, and while superpowers from badass demons sounded way cool in theory, the vast majority of the powers turned out to be pretty unimpressive. Like barista Dave down at the Sunny Side Café could subtly alter the temperature of a room if he thought about it hard enough, but all that really meant was he never had to pay for air conditioning. Or, you know, local vintage boutique owner Shruti Dhaliwal found she had the ability to grow her hair as long as she wanted on cue—which enhanced her unique signature style, but wasn't exactly world-saving.

The actual number of superpowered San Franciscans was fairly low—less than a thousand—but that didn't stop certain wild-eyed individuals from trying to claim they had suddenly gained powers whenever a new portal opened up. These claims were always disproved, chalked up to wishful thinking or flat-out fabrication. The smaller portals, it seemed, just didn't have the same juice.

Aveda's power was just as weak as the rest, yet where others saw party tricks, she saw an opportunity to finally pursue her true calling: protecting the people of our fair city. She'd been quick to loudly and firmly establish herself as the city's sole hero.

That's right: she'd basically called dibs.

A couple other wannabe heroes tried to challenge her, most notably our old junior-high acquaintance Mercedes McClain, who'd been gifted with a sort of human GPS ability. But Aveda trained harder and longer and was always first on the scene whenever a new portal opened up. Plus she had better outfits. The public loved her immediately.

With protecting San Francisco off the table, others blessed with superpowers took a variety of paths, but none of them involved fighting the supernatural. Mercedes, for instance, relocated to Los Angeles, refashioned herself as Magnificent Mercedes, and used her human GPS ability to foil carjackers and put an end to dangerous high-speed chases. My friend Scott Cameron's power enabled him to access and manipulate bits of Otherworld magic, so he made a decent living selling spell-casting services online—usually to people looking to ensnare their crush of choice with a love token. (I liked to refer to him as “the Sorcerer Supreme” after Marvel Comics' magic-wielding Doctor Strange, which he thought was funny even though he didn't get the reference.)

And as for me . . . well. The less said about me, the better.

“Nathaniel, get me a bandage,” Aveda said, snapping her fingers. “I should start prepping for the party.”

“You're going to need some kind of crutch,” I began.

Nate snatched a towel from the gym's rack, folded it into a neat square, and slid it under Aveda's ankle. “She's not going anywhere,” he said. “This looks like a severe sprain.”

“So it's not broken,” I said.

“It might as well be,” he said, getting to his feet. “I'm going to get my supplies and patch her up and then we'll move her to the ground floor bedroom.”

“No,” Aveda said, her mouth flattening into a thin line. “The party tonight is a must.”

“No parties,” he said. “You have to stay off your feet, and for much longer than tonight. No fighting, no workouts, no nothing.”

“
I
can't do nothing!” she snapped. “I'm a beacon of hope to this city. They depend upon me, and I must maintain a certain image of heroism for them. And they've been anticipating this moment—Aveda Jupiter triumphantly holding that symbolic key aloft—for
months
. Imagine how it will look if I don't show up!”

“Maybe there's a compromise,” I said.

“No.” Nate's tone took on an air of finality. “Aveda needs to take this seriously or risk permanent damage to that ankle. She will sit here and breathe and that's it. Likely for four to six weeks.”

He frowned at me, as if all of this was my fault. “Don't let her move until I get back.”

And with that, he stalked out the door.

“I keep telling him he needs to work on that bedside manner,” I said, attempting to lighten the mood.

Aveda didn't hear me. Her eyes were glued to Nate's retreating back.

“No,” she hissed. “This is not happening.”

I laid a soothing hand on her arm.

“There must be a solution here. Maybe we can Skype you in for the party.”

“No!” She sliced a defiant arm through the air, nearly smacking me in the chest. “I have to be
present
. A face on some shitty little computer screen isn't going to make my fans feel special. They want
me
, Evie. In person, interacting with them.”

She planted her hands on the floor and attempted to push up, her face turning purple from the strain.

“Don't just sit there,” she growled. “Help me!”

“Nate said not to move,” I protested. But I was already allowing her to drape her arm around my neck, was already hauling both of us to our feet as my undeveloped muscles screamed at the weight of her body sagging
against me. She wouldn't stop trying to stand until she saw it was impossible, so I might as well speed up the process.