Seven Wonders (19 page)

  Sam smiled. "For a suit."

  "For a suit," said Lansbury, and for the first time in the last halfhour her smile was real.

  Joe shimmied to the edge of his chair and had his smartphone in his hand already, tapping out notes.

  "This Doctor Ravenholt, he still at the CIT?"

  "
She.
And I believe so," said Lansbury, her face dropping slightly along with her interest; they were starting to move from ballistics and science and into police work and Sam knew Lansbury didn't much care about how that all worked.

  "Well, we can find out," said Joe, his attention returning to his phone.

  Sam frowned. There was something missing from the picture. Something that felt like it was right in front of her, if only she could come at it from a different angle and see what it was.

  And… Sam sucked in a breath. Could it really be so simple… so…
stupid?

  Simple, but not unusual. Back when there had been a world full of superheroes, this kind of thing was actually pretty common. It was like some kind of standard operating procedure for meta-humans, a superheroic in-joke.

  "Joe," said Sam, speaking slowly, running the theory through her head again and again in quick succession, making sure she had it exactly right.

  Joe caught the pause and put his phone down.

  "You thinking something?"

  Sam was indeed. They had a scrap of high-tech fabric developed by a scientist contracted to the US government, now being manufactured possibly in secret for the purpose of making a suit – a
costume
– for someone other than a member of the Seven Wonders. A scrap of fabric that was placed at the scene of a crime carried out, as far as they knew, by the Cowl.

  The Cowl, and his accomplice…

  "This fabric was developed by someone called Doctor
Raven
holt?"

  Lansbury nodded. "Doctor Jean Ravenholt, yes." But Sam was looking at Joe. Joe's eyes flicked to Lansbury then back to Sam. Lansbury's smile was as wide as the ocean and showed a shark-like array of yellowing tombstone teeth.

  Sam blinked.

  "Doctor Ravenholt is Blackbird?"

  Joe sat back in his chair and sighed. Sam looked at Lansbury, who winked.

  Joe had his phone out again and was halfway out of his chair. "Let's get digging, talk to Gillespie. If this is right we've just found a direct link to the Cowl's operation."

  Joe excused himself and was talking into his phone even before he was out of Lansbury's office. Sam sat a moment longer, not looking at anything except the air in the room.

  "Being superpowered must come with a superpowered ego, I suppose."

  Sam blinked. Lansbury's fingers were steepled.

  "To adopt a pseudonym like that, I mean. To base it on your own given name."

  Sam stood. It was time to get to work.

  "Welcome to San Ventura," she said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"Hey, Tony."

  "What?"

  "Make a wish."

  The sound of the gunshot in the apartment was appalling. Tony saw the walls and ceiling spin, Jeannie appearing momentarily upside down before the floor reared up and the back of his head connected with it. He was completely deaf, and his mouth was full of the taste of metal and vinegar.

  He said: "What the fuck?" In fact, he was pretty sure he shouted it, but he could hear nothing after the hardwood hammer-snap of the gunshot but a ringing of infinite depth. He kept his eyes open, and when he was fairly sure the ceiling wasn't going to move anymore, he chanced a look up. He couldn't crane his neck far from his tumbled position against the couch, but could just see Jeannie from the knees up. She was smiling, one hand plucking a plug from her left ear, the other holding a pistol. It was sleek, rectangular, something modern and police-like. Where she had got it from, who knew. Maybe she'd always had it. Fact remained, his girl had just fucking shot him in the chest.

  Huh. The ringing faded, and as he inhaled through his nose, the tang of the gun smoke was actually quite pleasant. He'd never used a gun himself, never been anywhere near a firearm being let off, but it reminded him of fairgrounds and wet grass, when he was a kid. Fireworks and jet fuel; the smell of an airport.

  He uncurled himself, hands at his chest, expecting to find carnage and blood. He didn't feel anything in particular except a slightly deep, dull numbness over his heart, where the bullet had entered. Must have been bad. They say you don't feel it when you die. Soldiers can get their legs blown clean off and die quietly in the arms of a comrade. This was it. His girlfriend had shot him. The end.

  He heard Jeannie's boots on the wooden floor before he looked up and saw her close, leaning down, and still with the fucking smile. The wrong crowd, she was it. He'd met her in a bar, and he knew nothing about her. He didn't even know where she worked or what she did. "Military research"? Damn. Of course she had a gun. She was a fucking soldier. He should have paid more attention.

  "You gonna stay down there forever?" Jeannie's nose almost touched his own. She stood, put the gun on the coffee table, and turned back to him. Her smile turned into a frown, then she stood and walked out of his field of vision. "You wanna eat?" she called from the kitchen. "Maybe we can go down to Sherrod's for some pizza?"

  He was alive. He stood, supporting himself carefully on the sofa arm, only to realize he didn't need supporting. The hands that clutched at his chest were not smothered in blood. He looked down, pulling his T-shirt out with both hands. There was a hole, the edges crisp, about the size of a quarter. Around it, about a hand-span across, the black cotton was shiny and smooth where the discharge and powder from the barrel had burnt it. Having opened the front door to let her in, Jeannie had actually been at point-blank range when she fired. The force of the blast had sent him reeling, but that was it. Loud and hot, the shot had done nothing but put a hole in his shirt. God knew what the neighbors were thinking.

  "Sherrod's?" Jeannie emerged from the kitchen, drinking a glass of water. She reached for her jacket. "Fog coming in from the bay, might be cold out. You should change your shirt."

  "Ah. OK. Um. What the fuck was that?"

  Jeannie's face broke into a wide grin as she brought the glass up to her mouth. She gulped too soon, some water trickling from the side of her mouth.

  "So you're bulletproof." She shrugged. "You said you wanted to know, after the thing at the bank. And we had to find out sooner or later, if you're gonna fight like a real superhero. Now we know. Let's go, I'm hungry."

  Jeannie disappeared through the bedroom door. Tony stood for a moment, slack-jawed. He glanced down at his chest again, and then saw it on the floor – a shiny disc of metal, the black edges crinkled with a thicker coppery nub at the center. He stared at it for a handful of seconds, trying to reconcile the flattened object with the bullet that had left the barrel of Jeannie's gun and hit him square in the chest.

  "Hey."

  Tony looked up, then his vision went black as the T-shirt Jeannie threw enveloped his face.

  "I said I'm hungry." She knocked his shoulder. "Come on!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It was late, but this was a summer in San Ventura and the heat was unlikely to let up, no matter what the hour.

  It was well after midnight when Jeannie and Tony walked out of Sherrod's pizza and into
And Then I Dreamt of Yes
, a stereotypically dark and noisy bar-stroke-club just off Vincent and Abnett, but the place wouldn't reach maximum capacity for a few hours yet. At the moment it was just nicely busy, with no queue to get in and relaxed bouncers happy to let Jeannie by. Perhaps they gave Tony a look, pausing just a little as they checked the quality of his replacement shirt, but seeing as he was attached to a far more attractive, far cooler woman, they waved him through without anything more than a raised eyebrow.

  Why they were there, Tony wasn't sure, as Jeannie knew he didn't like dancing. But he felt happy, exhilarated even, and was willing to give anything a shot. He was invulnerable, and powerful, and now he had nothing to fear. Strangely it had been the little incident at the bank that had done it; the ultimate test, and while he might not have aced it, he'd at least managed a C+. Add to that some hard evidence now that he was bulletproof, and hell, he was a goddamn superman.

  And, you know, San Ventura was actually pretty nice when you didn't have to worry about the Cowl or the thugs pretending to be the Cowl's thugs jumping you from the alleys. Actually, it was more than pretty nice. San Ventura was fucking
awesome
. Downtown was lit and full of people, young and old, almost busier than it was during the peak shopping hours of the day. It might have occurred to him that the hundreds of citizens happily playing in the town after hours were not superpowered, were not invulnerable, were not fearless like he, and none crept along the shadows, watchful for imminent attack. Maybe some part of his brain did notice, but his conscious mind was too busy having a fucking great time to pay it much heed. That kind of bolt-of-lightning resolution was usually best served in the morning, when all was silent and there was nothing to do on a Sunday but sit in the sun and mull over the problem of life and drink tea.

  Tony wasn't sure what he'd ordered, but the barman nodded, the large black onyx ring in his nose swinging as he turned to prepare something. His shirtless back was heavily tattooed with snakes and gargoyles. At the center, between the shoulder blades, a cloaked, hooded figure was shown perched on the lip of a fairy-tale Gothic cathedral. The Cowl? Surely not… but… was that the Seven Wonders etched into the man's skin around the supervillain, like a double-page comic book splash?

  The barkeep turned, and Tony smiled as nonchalantly as possible, pretending to be fascinated by the myriad colored bottles that lined the back of the bar. As the barman selected bottles and glasses it looked vaguely as though Tony had managed to order two gin and tonics and two tequila slammers. As the barman dropped ice into two of the tumblers Tony watched the cubes vibrate in time with the bass that filled the air.

  Jeannie tugged his elbow, and Tony turned, two glasses in hand. Jeannie's eyes lit up in appreciation and she said something he couldn't hear, but she grabbed the shot glass first and chugged it, set it back on the bar, then took the gin glass and sipped it more sedately. Tony followed her lead, the raw tequila flavor mixing with the gin pleasantly. He hadn't tried that particular combination before, but he added it to his list of "not bad at alls".

  Jeannie led him to a booth by the elbow − despite the crowd, most were standing or dancing, leaving plenty of seats. They slid in, sitting opposite each other, the walls of the booth baffling the music well. Jeannie only had to shout at the top of her lungs to be heard now.

  "Not a bad day then?"

  Tony smiled and sipped his drink. "I guess not. Speed, strength. Um, a gunshot to the fucking heart." He absently rubbed his chest, just to make sure − for the millionth time − that there wasn't a gaping bloody hole there. "Not bad at all."

  Jeannie laughed, silently again. She'd taken to the whole superhero thing rather well. In fact she seemed pretty happy about it. As did he. No fear, no limits. Anything was possible. San Ventura would not know what had hit it. As the alcohol worked its magic, Tony's mind idly drifted around the possibilities.

  "So what's left?" Jeannie swirled her straw around the rapidly melting ice in her glass.

  Tony paused, drink halfway to his lips. "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "Oh, you know," said Jeannie, waving one hand around her head. "What have we got? Strength, heat vision, speed, invulnerability, flight. What comes next? Lasers?"

  Tony nearly choked at the thought. He crunched down on an ice cube accidentally, but was pleased to note his molar shattered it without any effort. Did that count as superstrength or had he been able to do that before?

  "Lasers? Are you serious?"

  "Sure! Why not? What's a superhero without laser beams coming out of their eyes?"

  Tony frowned, checking off the Seven Wonders in his head. "Well, if you put it like that… the Greek dude with the beard doesn't. Nor does Sand Cat."

  Jeannie snorted. "Oh, her. 'T
remble in fear or I put da voo-doo on
ya, mon!
'"

  "She's Middle Eastern, isn't she?"

  "Haitian I think."

  "You sure?"

  "How do you think she turns into that big cat? It's voodoo, has to be."

  "Aren't sand cats from Iran or some shit?"

  "Huh." Jeannie took a long gulp, setting the empty glass down afterwards. She crunched on ice for a moment. "What the fuck is a sand cat anyway?"

  Tony considered for a moment before he found Jeannie pulling at his arm. "Worry about it later, flyboy." Jeannie was already standing. "Now to test another superpower: dance."

  Tony felt the adrenaline stab his chest. One hand fingered his Tshirt, just checking that gunshot hadn't appeared on a six-hour delay or anything.

  "You have got to be kidding me."

  "No, come on, it's easy!" Jeannie pulled at his arm.

  "I'm serious. Dancing? What the fuck? I don't dance."

  "Yeah but you're a superhero now, and superheroes dance. I have it on good authority. There was even a hero called Dance Dance Revolution, I'm pretty sure."

  "That's a video game," said Tony, shaking his head and pretending to drink from his empty glass while he raised his other hand. "Uh-uh. Not happening."

  Jeannie stuck her tongue out at him. "Well fuck you, superhero. Come join me when you grow a pair." But she was smiling as she turned, and Tony couldn't help laughing at his own lameness. He was such an ass.

  Jeannie found a spot relatively close to the booth, and did her very best to gyrate seductively for Tony's pleasure. Her come-hither looks frequently collapsed into laughter, which tended to spoil the effect, but Tony enjoyed the show anyway.