8
I stared at the swirls in the ceiling above the bed. Noon sunlight peeked through the closed curtains and warmed my bedroom. I should have been up hours ago, hard at work on my superhero jigsaw puzzle. Instead, I lay in bed, replaying the events of the past night over and over again in my head.
I couldn’t get Striker out of my mind.
I had been face-to-face with one of the most powerful, revered superheroes in the world. Striker munched on burglars at breakfast, snacked on evildoers over lunch, and ate ubervillains for dinner. Oh, the irony. A few months ago, the encounter would have been a dream come true, a chance to confront one of the mysterious, masked crusaders up close and personal. Now, the whole affair left a sour, bitter taste in my mouth.
Superheroes and ubervillains had always been abstract thoughts to me, puzzles to be solved. I’d never considered them to be people too, with thoughts and feelings and emotions. I had been too angry and hurt and self-righteous to do that. Matt and Karen had ignored my feelings, so I’d steamrolled over everyone else’s.
Seeing Striker made that impossible. The hurt in his piercing gray eyes when I mentioned Tornado had hit me like a sledgehammer. His pain, his anguish at the loss of his friend. You could almost drown in the intensity of it. The feeling increased my own guilt tenfold.
And yet, despite his anger, there was something about Striker that had made me want to go to him, to brush his black hair off his face, and tell him everything was going to be okay. I wanted to comfort him in some small way. Yearned to. The depth of the feeling surprised me, shook me to the core. But acting on this strange feeling, of course, had been—and would always be—out of the question.
I sighed. Tornado was gone. There was nothing I could do about that, other than struggle to live with my own guilt and shame.
I could, however, do something to help Striker and the rest of the Fearless Five. I threw back the covers.
Time to go to work.
I padded into the living room and ripped open the trash bag on the coffee table. For the next few hours, I sorted through and organized all the information on the Terrible Triad, as well as the papers Striker had disturbed during his nocturnal visit. Every so often, I stopped and glanced at the windows. Striker’s presence lingered in my apartment, an invisible ghost haunting me. Where was he? What he was doing? Would he ever come through my window again?
After mooning for the better part of five minutes, I focused my attention on the task at hand. As far as the Terrible Triad was concerned, there wasn’t much to go on. Little had been written about the group except for the usual articles about how evil they were, their epic battles with the Fearless Five, and so on and so forth. Those same professors with way too much time on their hands had written another set of journal articles about the ubervillains’ costumes and what the colors said about each one’s inner child.
Frost had penned several papers in some less-than-reputable scientific journals about his various experiments involving animals. I skimmed through one of the stories. Most of the information dealt with radioactive isotopes, the effects different chemical compounds and doses produced, and other things far beyond my understanding. I flipped to the next page, which contained before-and-after pictures of Frost’s handiwork. More mutated animals. I gagged and threw the story aside.
The intellectual media paid little attention to Scorpion, but he regularly appeared in a variety of mainstream wrestling and other sporting magazines. Most of the stories dealt with his tendency to crash professional wrestling and other strongman fights. Scorpion had a habit of leaping into the ring and taking on all the competitors at the same time. He always won, leaving a trail of broken bones and mangled bodies in his wake.
I moved on to Malefica. The ubervillain never wrote anything herself, and she never did anything to get herself mentioned in the media, other than try to take over the city every few weeks. She was a ghost, just like Striker.
However, one fashion magazine had devoted an entire spread to Malefica’s sense of style. Evidently, the editors found her bloodred leather ensemble to be terribly sophisticated and the height of haute couture among the superhero-ubervillain set. The photos showed how Malefica’s ensemble had changed. Ten years ago, diamonds, rubies, and gold thread had adorned her costume, which the editors thought was rather cartoonish and over the top. Since then, Malefica had developed a classier, more understated style with her sleek, jewel-free cat suit, cape, and thigh-high boots. I wondered what the fashion editors would think of the Bulluci sandals she sported now. They would probably approve.
By the time I reviewed the material, I had a headache the size of Texas. I squinted at the small print just to get the words to focus. I rubbed my aching temples. Either I was concussed from all the falls I’d taken, or my eyesight was going the way everything did as you aged—south. Great, something else to worry about. Going blind at the ripe old age of twenty-eight. On the bright side, if my vision worsened, I wouldn’t be able to see myself when Frost turned me into the Abominable Snowwoman.
The thought didn’t cheer me up.
After reviewing papers for a couple of hours and getting nowhere, I took a break to go do another necessary evil.
Shopping.
I needed to replace the little black dress and shoes that Frost and his two goons had ruined the night they’d kidnapped me. I’d put it off as long as I could. Shopping wasn’t my favorite activity. Not even close. Perhaps I’d enjoy it more if I actually had some money to spend on all the pretties I saw. Most journalists get rather pitiful salaries, and I’d decided long ago I’d rather eat on a regular basis than wear the latest designs by the likes of Fiona Fine and Bella Bulluci.
I slapped on some makeup, combed out my tangled hair, and headed to Oodles o’ Stuff, the biggest department store in all of Bigtime. You could find anything you wanted in the massive building, from shoes to clothes to makeup to consumer electronics. I headed for the subbasements, where all the sale items were kept.
On the way down the escalator, I spotted not one, not two, but three superheroes. Gentleman George tried on some silk ties and ascots on level three, the Toastmaster showed off his new line of kitchen gizmos on level two, and reformed ubervillain Shrieker signed copies of her tell-all memoir, Both Sides Now, on level one.
Superheroes loved Oodles. The store gave them discounts on everything, and in return, the superheroes tried to keep their building-leveling battles away from the historic structure. Also, it didn’t hurt to have the heroes mingle with the other customers. It made the muggers and shoplifters think twice.
I reached the second subbasement and shoved my way through the maddening crowd. Regular folks also loved Oodles, especially the subbasements, which had the best bargains around. It was the only place where you could get a slightly imperfect Fiona Fine original for under a hundred bucks. If, of course, you wanted to look like an abstract painting. With feathers.
I grabbed the first black dress that fit and was seventy-five percent off, picked up some high heels that weren’t too monstrous, and got the heck outta Dodge. With my shopping complete for the next two months, I went home to change.
That night, I suffered through another boring society soiree, the annual fundraiser for the Bigtime Symphony Orchestra, held at the spacious and lavish Bigtime Convention Center and Orchestra Hall. Naturally, the fundraising committee had chosen a musical theme for the event. Plastic music notes, paper pianos, and cardboard violins dangled from the ceiling, while members of the orchestra played classics by the likes of Mozart and Bach.
All the usual suspects attended. Sam Sloane and his supermodel of the week. Fiona Fine wearing her latest sequin-covered monstrosity. Even Morgana Madison came out for the event.
I tapped my finger against my champagne glass. This was supposed to have been my night off, but Sandra had called in sick. Instead of working on uncovering Striker’s identity, I’d been called in to cover another bit of society fluff. I’d done my interviews and taken notes in record time. All I needed was a quote from the orchestra’s conductor, and I could go write my story. I wandered through the orchestra pit, where the bar had been set up, waiting for the conductor to finish schmoozing with his rich patrons before I pounced on him.
“I didn’t realize they let just anyone into these things,” Fiona sniffed. The tall blond elbowed me out of the way and ordered a double gin and tonic.
“Hello, Miss Fine,” I said in a sweet, sugary tone that would rot teeth. “It’s good to see you again too. Tell me, did you make your dress yourself, or did it come out of a paint-by-numbers catalog?”
Fiona’s pink lips pressed together. Too bad her face didn’t crack from the strain. I glared at the haughty fashion designer, daring her to make a scene. I wasn’t afraid of these people, and I wouldn’t be cowed by them. Not anymore. I didn’t even care if I kept my lousy job on the society beat. Let the editors at The Exposé fire me for offending Fiona Fine. The threat of being dumped into a vat of radioactive goo made my other trials and tribulations pale in comparison.
“Carmen, what a pleasant surprise,” Chief Newman’s deep brogue cut in.
Fiona gave the police chief a heated look, grabbed her drink, and flounced away. The chief appeared at my elbow. He had traded in his usual subdued suit and tie for a brand-new tuxedo. He looked quite distinguished, and many of the wealthy widows eyed him like hungry vultures flying over a piece of fresh meat.
“Hello, Chief. Good to see you.”
Newman lowered his voice. “Listen, I know it’s a lousy time to talk business, but I want you to come down to the station tomorrow and take a look at a couple of bodies we found out by the marina.”
“Bodies? Why?”
“They might be your two kidnappers. They match your description.”
“How did they die?” I asked.
“They froze to death in one of the big fish freezers down by the docks.”
For a moment, my vision fuzzed over. I shook my head, and the world returned to normal. Still, I couldn’t stop the chill slithering up my spine.
“They probably got drunk and wandered into the freezer by accident. We found several beer cans at the scene. The coroner says their blood alcohol levels were off the charts.”
I knew better. Frost’s icy handprints covered this one. My inner voice chattered. He’d murdered his two henchmen. The question was, why? Had they stepped out of line? Or were Frost and the rest of the Triad trying to send me a message?
“Are you ready for me, Miss Cole?” The conductor, a thin man with a receding hairline, interrupted our conversation.
I felt stiff, frozen inside. Every movement was an effort. “Sure thing, Mr. Muzicale. I’ll see you tomorrow, Chief.”
“Just come by when you get a chance. I’ll be in all day.” The chief strolled away. Matronly, marriage-minded society types trailed after him like sharks drawn to blood in the water. I focused my attention on the balding conductor and plastered a big, fake smile on my face.
“Tell me, Mr. Muzicale. What does the Bigtime Symphony Orchestra have on tap for patrons this season?”
Two hours later, I put the finishing touches on my story and sent it to the society editor. After getting the usual response, I walked over to Henry’s desk. He wore his typical sweater vest, khakis, and bow tie. Henry had skipped right over his youth. He wasn’t even thirty yet, but he already dressed like an old man.
His nose hovered next to the flickering computer monitor. His fingers danced over the keyboard in a rapid, staccato rhythm.
“Henry? Henry?”
No response. I put a hand on his shoulder. A static shock sparked and cracked between us.
“Yikes!” Henry jumped a foot out of his chair. “You scared me!”
“Sorry for the interruption.” I shook my tingling hand. “I was wondering if you had compiled that list for me.”
Henry blinked. “Sure. I’ve got it here somewhere. Let me check.”
He dug through a tall stack of papers. Minutes ticked by. I frowned. Even though his desk was Chaos Central, Henry could usually find a pin in less than a second. What was up with him?
Ten minutes later, Henry yanked a thick binder out from under a pile of half-empty, take-out Chinese cartons on the back of his desk. I wrinkled my nose. The paper containers reeked of two-week-old General’s Chicken.
“Here you go. All the info on the fifty wealthiest citizens of Bigtime.”
“Thanks, Henry.” I stuffed the binder into my purse. “By the way, did someone named Lulu call you?”
Henry pushed his glasses up his nose. “Yes, yes, she did.”
“And what did you think of her?”
“She seemed like a very nice woman.”
I arched an eyebrow. “A nice woman? A nice woman you might take to dinner if you could tear yourself away from your computer long enough?”
Henry fiddled with his glasses again. “Um, well, you see . . .”
“Never mind, Henry. I’ll let you two work it out. I just wanted to make sure she’d called you and got the ball rolling.”
Henry and Lulu had made contact. My inner voice whispered with satisfaction. The rest would take care of itself. Who knew? Maybe Lulu could introduce Henry to Bella Bulluci’s men’s collection and get rid of those horrid polka-dot bow ties. Or at least get him to stop wearing stripes with them.
I told Henry good night and made my way through the gauntlet to the elevator. I rode down to the ground floor, brushed past the doorman, and hurried out onto the sidewalk.
“Hey, baby. Where you off to? Why don’t you come over here and sit on Daddy’s lap?” my familiar harasser cooed from his stoop.
“Get a life, loser,” I snapped and kept walking.
After two blocks, I stopped. A faint scuffle sounded behind me. I turned, but there was no one on the deserted street. I didn’t even see any headlights coming in my direction.No people, no cars, nothing. A shiver slid up my spine. I eased a hand down into my purse and grabbed my pepper spray. I continued on, quickening my strides.
The uneasy feeling continued for several more blocks. My inner voice murmured, and I knew who was, well, stalking me.
“Oh come out,” I snapped. “I really hate playing hide-and-seek, especially with superheroes. You’re all so much better at it than I am. It’s so not fair.”
I scanned the long, dark shadows. I squinted hard, but saw nothing unusual, just walls and parked cars and expired meters. “Well, are you going to show yourself or not?”
A couple of college-age kids with backpacks slung over their shoulders plodded down the steps of the Bigtime Public Library. They heard the tail end of my conversation with my invisible friend, because they gave me a wide berth and giggled as they passed. They probably thought I was some drugged-out hooker talking to myself. They disappeared around the corner. More laughter floated on the air.
I tapped my shoe on the pavement. It had been a long day, and I was exhausted. I didn’t want to play any games tonight. “Hello? Is anyone out there? Striker?”
He didn’t appear. After a long, tense moment, I let out a breath. If Striker wanted to follow me home, so be it. I couldn’t stop him. If he was even out there to start with. Maybe I was just imagining things due to my odd, intense desire to see the sexy superhero again.
I turned around to continue my trek home. Striker stood in front of me.
I shrieked and stumbled back. My heel caught in a crack in the sidewalk. My arms windmilled. My body tilted backward. I closed my eyes, bracing for the inevitable, painful impact.
It never came. I opened my eyes. Striker had caught me. The superhero loomed over me. His arms supported my back, and he held me like we were ballroom dancers frozen in an elegant dip. His hot breath brushed against my cheek as soft as a butterfly’s kiss on my feverish skin. He smelled of musk and the cool night, and his leather costume felt smooth and supple under my grasping fingers. Striker’s firm, hard thigh lodged between my legs. He shifted his weight, rubbing my thighs ever so slightly. My breasts tightened at the sensual contact, and a warm sensation flooded my veins. I couldn’t breathe. Striker’s eyes widened. Hot, electric blue sparks flared to life in their silvery depths. A current snapped and hummed between us. For a mad, mad moment, I thought Striker might lean in and kiss me, capture my lips with his. I parted my own. I wanted him to. Oh, how I wanted him to. Every molecule of my overheated body screamed at him to do it.
Striker pulled me upright. His hands slid down my back, scorching my skin through my jacket and the thin silk of my dress. He held on to me a moment longer than necessary, then dropped his hands. My head felt light and airy as a cloud. I didn’t know if I was dizzy from the abrupt change in elevation or from the feel of Striker’s strong arms around me. Maybe both.
“Don’t do that,” I snapped, trying to hide my hormonal flare-up. “Do you want to give me a heart attack?”
Striker shrugged. “Sorry. You said to come out. I was just waiting for the kids to go by. How did you know I was following you?”
“It was quiet. Too quiet,” I said in a deep, serious voice.
Striker folded his arms over his chest.
“It was a dark and stormy night?” I tried again.
He looked up. The moon glittered like a giant opal in the sky.
“I just knew, okay?”
Curiosity filled Striker’s eyes, but I didn’t feel like explaining myself. He had his secrets, I would keep mine. Including the fact I was desperately, dangerously attracted to him.
“So are you going to walk me home or what?” I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets. “It’s rather cold. I’d really hate to get frostbite and rob Malefica and Frost of their chance to turn me into a monster.”
Striker gestured at the deserted street. I began to walk, and the superhero fell in step beside me, sliding from shadow to shadow like the creature of the night he was. A block went by, then another, then another. I wasn’t sure what to say to him, given the way our last conversation had gone. It hadn’t been a smashing success.
“So, how was your day?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“How was your day? Bust any more drug runners? Apprehend any thieves? Have any building-leveling fights with ubervillains?”
“Why do you ask?” Suspicion colored Striker’s deep voice.
I closed my eyes a moment, letting his rich tone wash over me. Even his voice was sexy. “I’m just making conversation. That’s what people do, you know. There’s no ulterior motive. I promise.”
“Well, I got up this morning, went to work—” He stopped.
“Went to work and what?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Well, what did you do after work?”
“I can’t tell you that either.”
“Well, what did you have for lunch?” I snapped. “Surely that’s not top secret superhero information.”
“Steak with mashed potatoes and a side salad,” Striker replied. “And a piece of chocolate cheesecake for dessert.”
I gave up on conversation after that. I was too jealous of the cheesecake to continue.
We strolled along. I looked at Striker. His silvery eyes glowed like a cat’s in the twilight, and his hair glistened under the fluorescent streetlights. My gaze traced over his lean, muscled form. His black leather suit clung to his body like a second skin. The man certainly filled it out well. My eyes dipped lower. In all sorts of places. My cheeks flushed. Despite the chill in the air, I felt very warm.
Focus, Carmen, focus. I pulled my thoughts back to the matter at hand. Striker knew what I was up to. So why had he sought me out? He should have been busy burying all traces of his real identity from my prying eyes. Instead, he walked me home like we were a couple of teenagers out on a date. Maybe he’d mistaken me for a little old lady who needed help crossing the street. I bit back a laugh. Not likely.
Several minutes later, we arrived at my apartment building, and I still hadn’t come up with any answers to my burning questions. Or a way to cool this sudden sexual fire inside me.
“Well, here we are,” I said. “Home, sweet home. Thanks for the company.”
“You know, you really shouldn’t walk on the streets at night by yourself,” Striker said. “It’s not very safe, especially now that Malefica has targeted you.”
“Yeah, well. It’s cheaper than taking a cab all the time. Some of us have to live within our means.”
“Why do you say that?”
I eyed Striker’s supple leather suit and the two swords that peeked up over his shoulder. “Your getup there probably costs more than everything I own put together. It’s obvious you’re not a poor man, Striker. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re just another bored billionaire who does this for kicks in his spare time. Right? Tell me, are you hooked on the adrenaline rush or just a slave to the noble idea of making the world a better place?”
Striker’s eyes darkened to a stormy gray. He didn’t reply. Ah, so I’d hit the nail on the head. Perhaps Henry’s list would be more useful than I thought.
I fished my keys out of my battered purse. “Did you want something else? It’s been a long day, and I’d like to go inside and get some sleep.”
“The reason I followed you tonight was to offer you protection,” Striker muttered.
My mouth dropped open. “Protection?”
“Yes. We can protect you from Malefica and the rest of the Triad until we figure a way out of this mess.”
All I could do was just stare at him. Then, reality kicked in. “How could you protect me? Put me up in a safe house somewhere with round-the-clock guards?” I shook my head. “Sorry, I’ve read that story before. Everything would be fine for a while. But one day, your guard would be down, and Malefica would come for me. Besides, I can’t go into hiding and keep my job. Like I said before, I’m not independently wealthy. Protection isn’t really an option for me.”
Still, the offer touched me. Despite everything I’d done to them, the Fearless Five was still willing to help me. Perhaps there was a reason they called them superheroes after all. I stared down at the sidewalk. “I appreciate the offer. I really do. And I want to thank you for it. I know it must have been a difficult decision, given my history with Tornado.”
Silence greeted me. I looked up. I whirled round and round, but Striker had disappeared into the night. There was no sign of the sexy superhero.
How the hell did he do that?