Wearing the Cape 4: Small Town Heroes Read online

  Not that I’d ever met that kid, which was the problem; now the boy was a freaking wall, tougher than the one we rested against. After half a year, I didn’t know Grendel much better than I did from his Hillwood file. I didn’t know Brian at all.

  “What are you thinking about?” the wall asked.

  Huh? I blinked, realized I’d been staring at him. At least I didn’t blush. Smooth, Hope, reeeeal smooth.

  “You did good,” he said. Rumbled, really. “Down in Cairo.”

  “You think?” I let my head fall back against the wall. “I let Boomer completely blindside me. Atlas would so have called me on it. One of the first things he taught me was not to step into a hot superhuman fight, even if it’s just verbal. ‘If you get that close, you should be swinging first.’”

  “Mmm.” Just the rumble, no words. Like the world’s biggest lion. “What was he like?”

  “Really?” I drew my legs up, clasped my hands around my knees. “Amazing. Hard. Not— Not perfect, but…what he had to be, I guess.” Almost a year and a half after the Whittier Base Attack I could actually think about him and smile, but Grendel’s question surprised me anyway. Most everyone I knew didn’t ask me about Atlas. “You didn’t do so bad, yourself. How are you doing? After everything?”

  Grendel shrugged. He hadn’t done bad; in fact he’d done the best of anybody in last night’s disaster. His first shot—knocking Boomer through the wall right after me for me to finish—had gotten the most potentially destructive opponent away from the civilians. Then he’d grappled Slamazon and taken her outside, too. Grendel had come off better than anyone else; Tsuris wasn’t going to score any points with the IA investigators—his wind attack on Spinner had been effective, but there in the church rec room it had almost sucked in Ozma, Rush, and the civilians.

  No, Grendel had been great. But then he’d been eaten. Doctor Beth had cleared him, but who wouldn’t be seriously bugged by being swallowed whole by a rainbow-colored flying lizard?

  I watched him out of the corner of my eye. Half the time his psychomorphic body was as good as a mood ring—bulking up, shrinking, claws and fangs growing depending on how easygoing or aggressive he felt at any moment—but he practically defined stoic. And recently he’d been getting a handle on the unthinking changes, too, so those visual cues were starting to go away.

  So I still didn’t have any idea what went on in his head, and that was the problem. I was strong, Watchman was strong, and people thought we were pretty awesome; Shell thought Grendel was awesome with a side of awesome sauce, and had the numbers to prove it. Morphing into his strongest configuration he was already the strongest Ajax-type known, and he was getting stronger. According to the future-file he was never going to see it had taken three US supersoldier squads to take him down in the end—and the after-action report had concluded that the only reason they’d won was he let them.

  Go into a berserk rage and slaughter a village full of innocent civilians along with the bad guys, and you might not be as motivated to fight back as you could be.

  But that was a future that hopefully would never happen. Here and now he just gave me a shrug. A huge and yes, awesome shrug, but that was it. Sigh. Moving on, then.

  “So.” I kept my gaze innocent. “Going out today?”

  There was an upside to being “out of the field”; after inventory and packing we were all set to enjoy some R&R and Ozma’s Anonymity Specs let Grendel go out with the rest of us without causing a panic or fan-frenzy. I thought I’d seen everything until I watched Grendel swallow three monster burgers in the middle of a crowd of students at the Artist’s Café. Nobody noticed the looming gray beast in the room because he was wearing glasses.

  Magic is weird.

  Now he actually grinned. “Navy Pier’s arcade has a Dance Dance Revolution machine that can take me, and I’m two up on Crash so it’s on.” The rat was laughing before he finished, toothy grin widening as my brain shut down at the mental image.

  “That’s…good…” Don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh. I dissolved into helpless giggles.

  * * *

  “So, did you get him to talk about his feeeeelings?” Shell mocked me.

  “No.” Out of my armor, I started stripping again. My day could involve a lot of changes.

  Shell sat on my bed and watched as I chose civies for the night, a sea green party dress. Above the knee but flowy, it had been Julie Approved—part of her inspiration-collection and her campaign to create a Look for me that fit with the level of fashion the Bees intended to work with when they launched their first boutique.

  The one real upside to being grounded now was Shell and I weren’t going to miss Annabeth’s wedding-date celebration, which was great because I’d gotten us reservations at Fancies before the flooding began. Shell was already dressed to go out, in a black party dress that matched her hair. All dressed up, her Shell-shell looked older than I did, which hardly seemed fair.

  “Told you so. He’s a guy. You’re a gurrrrl. He could be completely weirded out from starring in his own production of Jonah and the Whale, St. George and the Dragon, whatever, and he’s not going to tell you about it.” She dropped her voice as far as it would naturally go. “Hey, man, it’s cool. I’m just going to go crush Jamal on Dance Dance Revolution. Because I can.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “Think he’ll talk to Jamal?”

  “Probably. In the two word sentences boys use to communicate. Wear the silver pumps.”

  I snagged them, started working on makeup. We had time, and Julie had been specific about what the night required. “Anything on the water tower search?”

  Shell groaned theatrically. “No,” she mirrored me. “And I even went international and into the Big Book of Contingent Prophecy.”

  That was not what I expected to hear, and I stopped, tube of lipstick in my hand. “Really? That’s—” That wasn’t right. The dream had seemed so real. And what possible use was an allegorical water tower? But everything had a picture somewhere in the interconnected world of the internet cloud, and if I’d seen a real place Shell should have been able to find it. And it was important; remembering it brought back that cold sense of certain doom. I stared at my lipstick.

  “Shell? Could you search for this?” Reaching up, I drew an outline of the six-pointed star I remembered on the vanity mirror, a less exact squiggle of the eagle in the middle. No… I grabbed a wipe, rubbing out the eagle and drawing it bigger, overlapping with the star’s edges. Shell sat up and scowled at it for a moment, then filled it in virtually using our neural link. She added a ring around it with words, and a familiar symbol defaced the mirror.

  “It’s the US Marshals symbol,” she said needlessly.

  I stared at the star, thought of the dream. She’d nailed it; I’d forgotten about the ring until now, hadn’t tried to read the words in my dream. Justice, Integrity, Service.

  Finishing my face on autopilot (years of Mom’s foundation meetings made it easy), I thought hard. This was going to involve government. How?

  “Call Blackstone?” Shell guessed when I didn’t say anything.

  “No… Call Jacky. We’ve got time. Secure me?” New Orleans was in our time zone and it wasn’t sunset yet there, either, but she liked to be awake and outside for it. I grabbed my cell, punched Jacky’s icon. Shell gave me two thumbs up as it rang—the line was secure as only a twenty-second century cyber ghost could make it.

  It rang twice. “Hi, Sunshine.” Just hearing her voice, deep, confident, take-no-prisoners, made me feel better.

  “Hey, you. Can I take advantage of my favorite fiend of the night?”

  “Tell me.” Keeping it light hadn’t fooled her, and her voice tightened. I told her about Kitsune and the dream. She was quiet after I described the Marshals symbol.

  “Jacky?”

  “Give me a moment.”

  Shell rolled her eyes. “Well, this is reassuring. Not”

  “Hush.”

  “What?�
�

  “Not you.”

  “Have Shell send me the details and don’t talk to anybody. I’m flying up tonight.” She hung up, leaving me staring at my cell.

  “Okay, I’m freaked now,” Shell quipped. “Sent and done, so let’s go—we’re going to be late.”

  * * *

  Shell and I found New Tom waiting for us when we came out the Dome’s “back door.”

  “Ladies,” he greeted us, tapping his chauffer’s hat. New Tom’s black suit hid body armor and at least two guns that I knew of, but his passengers weren’t always as tough as me or Shell. Holding the passenger door of one of the team’s tinted-window town cars for us, he climbed into the driver’s seat once we were settled.

  “You can relax, ladies,” he assured us as we settled and he got us moving. “Traffic is clear, and certain sources assure me that there is zero chance of paparazzi tailing us tonight.” That let me breathe easier, but I suddenly wished I’d thought to borrow a pair of Anonymity Specs, anyway. Professional paparazzi might not be the only problem.

  Dane and Annabeth had officially set a date for next spring, and tonight was supposed to be both a girlfriends’ celebration and the meeting when Julie handed us all our responsibilities. Annabeth’s mom was long-divorced from her dad and not in the picture, and Annabeth changed her own mind as often as she changed everything else but Dane so she’d thankfully surrendered to Julie’s usurpation.

  And it all might not be as private as we wanted.

  Of all the complications I’d dreaded from being outed as Astra last year, having fans put my friends’ lives under a microscope hadn’t been one of them. Facebook pages, Twitter accounts, the fact that every phone was a camera, meant that anyone could know almost as much about you as your closest friends—and be loudly judgy about it.

  It wasn’t all one-sided and the Bees were using the exposure to develop an amazing platform from which to launch their fashion business once they graduated. But complete strangers now knew Megan was gay and got to comment on it. Not that she’d kept it in the closet, but she didn’t exactly fly her gay flag or join the campus clubs or demonstrations—she voted Republican, although that might be from a desire to shock. And so she got criticized for not being proud enough or showing solidarity.

  Ugh, and so bizarre.

  And even Dane and Annabeth got unfair criticism; they were marrying too young, making Big Decisions before they were even old enough to drink. Did it matter that they’d been Danabeth for nearly five years, Dane had a promising soccer career, and neither of them was hurting for money to start a family with? No. Annabeth even got grief for never having dated anyone else, for announcing she wanted babies and soon, for planning to change cities if Dane didn’t get picked up by our local Chicago Fire.

  Double Ugh.

  All of that was a big reason for choosing Fancies; special occasion aside, the establishment catered to a lot of rich and celebrity patrons so we could count on privacy.

  New Tom pulled us up under Fancies’ front canopy and a valet attendant opened our door. The Bees waited for us in the lobby, just as glittering as Shell and me, and we stopped for hugs all around. They embraced Shell with the same enthusiasm (they already knew about her new look), but I frowned. Julie was always determined that Megan’s current romantic partner be included in our circle, but I didn’t see Clare anywhere.

  I looked at Julie. She hovered behind Megan but wasn’t giving off any Megan’s fragile right now so don’t ask vibes, so I relaxed.

  Since Julie, Annabeth, and Megan lived in Palevsky Commons, we mostly hung out in the Pizza Cellar or Calvert House or one of the just-off-campus coffee shops or burger joints, but all of us came from money and were “poor college students” only in theory. Still, Fancies was upscale even for us; our hostess seated us in one of the smaller dining rooms, and since we were underage, the sommelier recommended a variety of spring and sparkling waters with fruit slices for each course.

  And there were a lot of courses. Fancies boasted a tasting menu, which meant a parade of dishes; my favorites were a chilled crab starter with roe and fragrant herbs, a cold milk soup with scallops and nasturtium, Wagyu beef ribeye with mustard seeds, the basil waffle fancy bread, and a dessert of rich custard garnished with coconut. There were lots of others, some very strange (can you say molecular gastronomy?). Some were definitely an acquired taste, like the oyster with huckleberries and lavender or broth garnished with edible flowers. And of course there were desserts, desserts, desserts.

  All through the courses, Julie kept up a running monologue of wedding notes and plans, happily seconded by an Annabeth who only really cared about her wedding dress—provide Dane and the dress of her dreams and she’d be happy to be married by an Elvis in Las Vegas.

  But it was off. Julie wasn’t as intense about her plans as she should have been. She kept looking at Megan, and Annabeth kept watching me. Shell didn’t pick up on anything, but she hadn’t had my three school years with the Bees. What is going on?

  I finally put my fork down and asked just that.

  “Guys?”

  Julie dropped her spoon, looking caught. “Um. What?” Annabeth sighed, giving Megan a look that practically shouted Tell her. I tried not to panic.

  Megan sipped her soup. “Julie and I are together now. We picked tonight to tell you.” They shifted, obviously clasping hands under the table, while I opened and closed my mouth. My fingers tingled and my face felt cold.

  Megan and Julie were together. Megan and Julie were together and they hadn’t told me. They were staring at me, I wanted to cry, and it was the most selfish reaction in the world. I almost blurted How long? but my social brain ruthlessly crushed it. But Julie’s straight! didn’t make it to my mouth either. When my inner editor gave up I did the only thing I could think of; I stood up, dashed around the table, and hugged them. As long as I was holding onto them, my inability to form a coherent sentence wouldn’t be taken horribly horribly wrong.

  Julie cried, Megan laughed, Annabeth just smiled, happily misty, and we were good. My brain finally unlocked enough for me to manage a clichéd “How wonderful!” And I meant it, really. The rest of party went much more smoothly; obviously the wedding-date celebration had been an excuse in case Julie and Megan got cold feet—it had been a case of Annabeth’s riding them to “Tell Hope!” I managed to make all the right noises while feeling completely detached. The perfect cap on the night came as we were leaving, when a bottom-feeding paparazzi jumped out of the bushes and snapped shots of us outside, shouting questions about why I was partying when people’s homes were underwater.

  New Tom almost shot him before he realized he wasn’t a threat. Annabeth punched him and then burst into tears. I was so numb I didn’t even think of asking Shell to wipe his camera’s memory.

  * * *

  Back at the Dome, Shell made herself scarce and I changed into workout clothes. Aches from my sparring match with Brian still lingered, but I had to punch something hard—and maybe scream where it could be mistaken for power-punching.

  Screaming and punching is therapeutic, but it narrows your situational awareness; I didn’t hear Jacky until she said my name. My final scream wasn’t a power-punch.

  “Sweet—! Jacky, are you trying to kill me?”

  “What, no ‘great to see you’?” She stood there in full Artemis costume, hood back and black mask dangling from her hand.

  “How did you— You got a ride, didn’t you?”

  “Argonaut. That Jamaican boy knows how to fly and owes me a favor or two. I didn’t want my trip showing up on the DSA’s radar yet.”

  So she’d recruited New Orleans’ resident Atlas-type to give her a lift. I nodded, shaking out my stinging fists.

  She cocked an eyebrow. “No questions? Okay then, mind telling me what’s got your panties in a twist? It can’t be what Shell thinks it is.”

  I grabbed my towel and wiped my forehead. “And what does Shell think it is?”

  “Shell thinks you’
re upset that Julie has discovered Megan is the love of her life—which makes no sense to her, either.”

  “No.” I threw the towel at the wall. “If I’ve never had a problem with Megan’s orientation, why would I have one with Julie? None of the Bees are Catholic, even if Julie’s mom did make her go to catechism class. I’m upset because I didn’t know. I missed it! And they weren’t sure I’d be happy for them. Dammit!” I wiped my eyes. Maybe they weren’t any more sure of my feelings than Shell. Well, they would be.

  Jacky nodded like she followed all that. “Right. More information?”

  “Julie was Megan’s first crush, way back in middle-school. But Julie was straight, right? She picked out a boyfriend each year, just one, even if he didn’t last till spring. I’m pretty sure she traded in her ‘V’ senior year.”

  But she hadn’t had any college boyfriends. Um.

  “And?”

  I blinked and refocused. “Megan didn’t have any romantic partners till our first year at U of C. She cycled through a bunch of them, then, but this year it’s just been Clare. I actually managed to meet Clare a couple of times, but she dropped out of the picture over winter break, at least that’s what Annabeth said.”

  “So, you’re upset because you didn’t know Julie was bi?”

  “No. Yes. Nobody knew in high school, not even Julie.” I laughed, not happily. “Megan—”

  Had it been rooming together that did it? Or seeing Megan have a serious girlfriend for the first time? I scrubbed my face. Julie had the most solid sense of self-identity of anyone I knew—going from I’m straight, to I’m in love with my BF, must have been terrifying, and I was being horribly selfish making it about me.

  Taking a deep breath, I let it out with a sigh.

  “They might have needed me, they might— We were supposed to be roomies, and I was here. I’m upset because they didn’t share, and I’m upset because I’m upset, and I’m upset because I can’t change it. I can’t be there, and that won’t change any time soon. Damn it!”