Superheroes Anonymous (13 page)

It looked like I was cut off from everything. At least there wasn't anybody out there to worry about me. Mom and I had run out of things to say to each other before I'd turned fifteen, Dad had never been in the picture, and I had more than enough evidence my coworkers, the ­people I spent the most time around, would barely realize I was gone. Davenport could keep me for years, and the only one who would notice was probably Naomi Gunn whenever the next big anniversary of my not being kidnapped came around.

It was a little depressing to think about.

There was also a printout of a few pages, stuck in the back, on the types of leukemia. Curious, I flipped through, seeking “Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia,” and began to read.

I fell asleep reading what was probably the scariest information of my life.

Even in sleep I was apparently healing, for I woke abruptly in the middle of the night with a growling stomach. I eyed the fridge and decided instead just to bite the bullet. After I choked down another crap-­cake (what would become one of many, I feared) and washed it down with two glasses of water, I stumbled back to the bedroom and collapsed into the bed.

Angélica woke me up this time.

She poked me in the shoulder. Awake before I was even aware of it, I scrambled away from her. I opened my eyes to find myself across my bed and staring into the smiling face of the woman who had beaten me to shreds the day before.

“Ready for another day, kid?” she asked brightly.

I squinted up at her. “You're in my room.”

“That is where I am, yes.”

“Why? Why're you in my room?”

“Because it's time for you to train,” Angélica said, as though it were obvious. She smiled down at me, a happy smile that hid the sadism. Today's ensemble was a blue muscle tee and black stretch pants with a blue stripe over the knees. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Out of bed.”

Automatically, I glanced around for a clock, but the room lacked one, and my cell phone was gone, lost to whatever had happened with Dr. Mobius. Since Davenport Industries didn't seem to believe in posting clocks everywhere, I was once more stuck in a strange, timeless world.

And that wasn't even my biggest problem. I gave Angélica a long look, sizing her up. “How do I know you won't just attack me?”

“You don't, but I could attack you right there. You'll have to take your chances.”

“No thanks,” I said, pulling the pillow back over my head.

It was snatched away a second later. “Two minutes.”

“Or what?”

“You don't get breakfast.”

That was enough to get me moving. I rolled out of bed. Whistling a cheerful tune, she gave me a gleeful wave and left. Two minutes later, freshly changed into workout clothes, I walked into my kitchen to find her scrambling eggs.

My mouth immediately began to water. “Oh, thank god, it's not a crap-­cake.”

“You get real food today, at least for a little while. I don't plan to beat on you until this afternoon.” She grinned over her shoulder at me. “And that'll be fun.”

“I'm buying you a dictionary with the proper definition of ‘fun' in it,” I said. I pulled down plates. “So what's on the agenda for the day, then? If you're not going to spend it beating me to itty-­bitty pieces of Gail?”

At that, Angélica chortled. She had a genuine laugh, I'd noticed the day before. Just like she had a genuine hug. When we'd both finished fighting—­by the end of the day I'd gotten a few hits in as well—­Angélica had grabbed me in a one-­armed hug and declared herself proud of my progress. “We're going to make a hero out of you yet,” had been her words.

Now, standing at my stove, she grinned. “I think I'm going to like you.”

“Does that mean you'll stop beating on me with regularity?”

“Probably just means I'll beat harder.”

“Oh, joy.” I took a seat on the stool since it was obvious I couldn't do anything.

I was wrong there, it turned out. “I brought orange juice with me,” Angélica said without looking at me—­I was beginning to suspect that she had eyes in the back of her head. “And you could make some toast.”

“Aye-­aye, sir,” I said, and hopped off the stool to put bread into the toaster I didn't even know I had. I poured both her and myself tall glasses of orange juice. She set hers aside; I gulped mine down and went for more.

“Water, too,” she said, nodding at the drinking-­water faucet in my sink. “First thing you should do in the mornings is drink a huge glass of water. Rehydrate what you lost in the night.”

“With my metabolism, I should probably drink an entire swimming pool,” I said, but I obediently filled my glass with water and drained that, too.

Angélica smiled. “You know, ­people have to work out for hours and hours to get the kind of body you've got now. Just think of that whenever you're—­”

“Regularly eating amounts that most ­people only attempt at Thanksgiving?”

“Exactly.”

When she'd finished cooking, we sat down together at my island, just as Guy and I had the night before. I wondered if it was going to be a habit for ­people to bring me food. I didn't mind, but it would also get tiring living on the good grace of those around me. I really needed to figure out a better food situation at some point.

“We'll review the log from yesterday,” Angélica said before I could ask about that, “and you can get a good look at your form, and mine. We'll break for lunch, then head back to the training room and get started breaking some of those bad habits of yours.”

Since I imagined breaking those bad habits involved throwing me onto the floor, repeatedly, I slumped. “Goody.”

“We're going to start teaching you training stances and katas. And I may have one of the other trainers come in and teach you some yoga stretches to improve balance and standing strength.”

“I thought the isotope stuff was keeping me as strong as I can get,” I said, pausing between inhaling mouthfuls of scrambled egg.

“It isn't yet,” Angélica said. “It'll be another week before you're at your full potential. Your body has muscle memory, and disciplining that muscle memory is the best thing you can do before you join the fighting ranks.”

“That's an option?”

She eyed me. “For you, a strong one. Kiki told me what happened at the bank.”

I wrinkled my nose at her. “I got my ass kicked?”

“Took on a ­couple of guys with guns.”

“I think I got lucky.”

Angélica waved her fork at me. “And facing down Chelsea?”

“I . . . don't know.” I frowned and scooped up more eggs. “I don't like to see ­people in pain, after all that I went through, getting kidnapped so much and having Blaze—­Guy—­rescue me. Which is also something I'm not sure I want to think about yet, so if you're going to ask, um, please don't.”

“Fair enough,” Angélica said. “But I think you did it because you're hero material.”

I snorted. “Hardly. I'm Hostage Girl. My shtick is getting kidnapped. That's all.”

“No, you're Gail Godwin, Class C. Now what you do is train to be a hero. Are you done with your eggs?”

I forked up the last bit and swallowed quickly, lest Angélica should decide that putting distance between food and me was part of my training. “So where're we going now? Back to the training room?”

“There.” Angélica pointed at my couch. “Might as well be comfortable while I tell you every single thing you're doing wrong. Then, we go to the training room.”

“You know, I had a feeling when I woke up that this was going to be a very painful morning.”

“That's not from waking up, that's from seeing my face.” Angélica slung a friendly arm over my shoulders as she led me to the couch.

“U
M,
A
NGÉLICA?”

“Yes?” She licked her thumb and turned the page.

“I know you said I'm supposed to trust you implicitly.”

“You are.” Another page turned.

“And I do, I guess. But I'll admit I'm confused.”

Now Angélica actually looked up from her magazine. “About what?”

“About this?” I gestured at my feet. “About why I'm standing here. Like this.”

“It's about standing strength. You're relying too much on your upper body—­not surprising, since I imagine the only time you've seen fighting is when it's TV actors going at each other with poor choreographers. Even though you're better than most beginners about using your legs to drive you, we want you in optimal condition. So . . . you get to stand like that.”

“Lucky me.” I looked down at my feet, which were spread wide, toes pointing forward, putting me into a squat. As per Angélica's instructions, my shoulders were back, my sit-­bones (her words, not mine) tucked under. I kept my head up straight.

I felt ridiculous.

“Can't I at least have something to read, too?” I asked, wanting to shift my feet. I knew better; the last time I'd tried, Angélica had risen to her feet specifically to rap my knuckles. I was beginning to suspect that underneath that trainer's body beat the heart of a fussy old schoolmarm.

“If you're busy reading, you're not concentrating on your form,” Angélica said, returning her attention to her reading. “You should be thinking of each muscle in your legs, one at a time. Individually, and how they work together. What they can do for you.”

“Oh, now, when you put it that way . . .” I made a face.

Angélica's watch beeped. “My favorite part,” she said, smiling. “Deep breath. Deep, deep breath.”

Slowly, I drew air into my lungs, copying the hand movements she'd showed me after lunch. They helped me focus though I wasn't going to admit that and prove her point. Not when she got to read magazines while I stood in awkward positions all afternoon.

“And now exhale,” she said, “and sink deeper into your legs.”

I did so, lowering my sit-­bones even closer to the floor than they had been. “If I were a vindictive person,” I said once I'd finished my breathing exercise, “I'd get a dartboard and put your picture on it.”

She smirked and twitched a shoulder but didn't look up from her magazine. “It wouldn't be the first time.”

 

Chapter Thirteen

T
H
ERE WASN'T A
lot to do after Angélica let me go for the night. I had a very restricted list of ­people who could see me, and my suite didn't come with any books or a new cell phone. Davenport apparently believed in keeping new superheroes in an anti-­media bubble away the world. I had no idea what was going on outside of Davenport. Angélica had handed me a big stack of papers that Cooper had given her to pass along to me, but after about ten pages of scientific nonsense, I'd given in and taken a nap on the couch instead. My brain might understand science now, but that didn't mean I found it any less boring.

I woke up from my nap to the sound of light tapping on the door.

“Hey-­hey,” Vicki said when I opened the door. She pulled me into a one-­armed hug. “Guy says you eat a lot, so we brought dinner.”

Jeremy nudged past us, holding a full grocery sack of something that smelled delicious though I hadn't officially invited them in. “Lasagna still your favorite?”

“Always and forever.” I raised my eyebrows, surprised that he remembered.

Vicki sashayed into the room, immediately taking one of the island stools. Since I had the energy and inclination to play hostess, I quickly unloaded the supplies and began dishing it up. “What are you two up to tonight?” I asked.

“Just got off work,” Jeremy said, tugging at the collar of his polo shirt. “Went a few rounds with Striker, for old times' sake. He designed the original simulators, and I've made a few tweaks. He liked them.”

“Wow. Busy day.” I wondered if it was as rough on Jeremy as Guy and I had supposed. After all, he had achieved his lifelong dream of playing video games for a living. There were worse fates to be had. I turned my attention to Vicki, who was idly swinging one leg back and forth. “How about you? How'd the, ah, shoot go?”

“Stupid outfit, dumb expression. The photographer swore up and down I wouldn't look like an idiot, but . . .” Vicki twirled one hand as if to say, ‘What can you do?'

“Can't be as bad as that shoot you did for
Beautiful Woman
last month,” Jeremy said.

“Yuck, please, let's never talk about that ever again,” Vicki said. When she saw my curious look, she sighed. “The photographer had a tulle fetish. And I still had that awful red hair.” She fluffed a hand through it. “Girl, do me a favor. If I decide that I'd like to be a redhead again, send me down to Psych so that they can fix whatever's wrong with me.”

“I can do that,” I said, and slid plates across to them. The model wannabes at my old office had been on a never-­ending list of diets, but Vicki dug into the lasagna with gusto, ignoring the salad. I had to figure it was probably different for supermodels when they moonlighted as superheroes. I fixed up my own plate and took a seat. Angélica had warned me to stay away from alcohol for a little while, so I stuck to water instead of the beers they'd brought with them. Something that I'd thought about before my nap flitted to the top of my mind. “Vicki, I've been wondering . . .”

“Hmm?” She leaned over to break off a piece of the garlic bread.

“You said something a ­couple of nights ago about my being a legend?”

To my surprise, Jeremy snorted into his beer. Vicki nudged him with an elbow. “What about it?” she asked.

“What did you mean?”

“You haven't been down to the Nucleus yet,” Vicki said.

This did not seem like an answer to my question. “The what?” I asked.

“The Nucleus. It's the main office for this place. And there's a chart on the wall.”

“Of what?”

“Of how many times you've been kidnapped and your odds of surviving the next bout with the villains.”

My jaw dropped. “You're kidding.”

Vicki had the grace to at least seem embarrassed. “You've got some pretty long odds going on there.”

“I placed a bet on you,” Jeremy said, tipping the mouth of his beer bottle toward me in a weird toast. “For you to survive, that is. Call it sentiment or something.”

“Or something is right,” I said. “They
bet
on if I would live or die? Is
everybody
in this place secretly an asshole?”

Vicki gestured with her beer bottle. “It's just the way we operate sometimes. A lot of the active heroes have seen so much . . . so much bad stuff, you know? Botched kidnappings, random acts of evil that will make you sick for a month just thinking about them. So we're all a little morbid because it helps us get by.”

That was my life—­my overworked, unimpressive life—­they were betting on, so the sympathy wasn't exactly flowing. One particularly philosophical villain had spent the time we waited for Blaze to loudly debate with himself about the minimal differences between superheroes and supervillains. He'd been attempting to use rat poison to kill off the population of half of Chicago at the time, so I hadn't exactly thought the line of morality was as murky as he had claimed.

Maybe I had been wrong.

“Did Guy ever bet?” I asked.

“Never,” Vicki said. “The first time he saw the chart, he tore it down and kicked Sharkbait's ass.”

“Um,” was all I could say to that. “Wow.”

“Yeah. Sharkbait had it coming.”

“Sharkbait's kind of a dick,” Jeremy said, nodding.

“But since he's Guy, he apologized about the ass-­kicking thing. Eventually.”

“Does he get ribbed a lot? For all the times I get kidnapped?” I asked. “Or I guess you could say ‘got kidnapped.' ” I crossed my fingers.

“Some.” Vicki returned her focus to her lasagna, digging in with renewed gusto. “But everybody gets teased for something down here.”

“Speaking of ‘down here,' ” I said.

“What about it?”

“I mean, it's great that I have ­people looking out for me and making sure I don't die of cancer and all, but what do I do about my apartment? I mean, I can't exactly afford rent there, but I need to go pack everything up so that I have stuff here.”

“If Angélica deigns to give you a day off, I'll take you topside, and you can pack up your apartment. You can put it in storage. Davenport'll cover it.”

A cell phone burst to life with a mambo ringtone, making me jerk and reach for my butter knife. Jeremy noticed and gave me an odd look, but it sailed completely over Vicki's head as she freed her phone from her pocket. Her eyes lit up. “It's Sam!”

And before I could ask who that was, she danced out of my apartment.

Jeremy's look immediately soured. “Great,” he said. “
Now
he calls her.”

“Who's Sam?” I asked.

“You know him better as War Hammer. Your new boyfriend's brother.”

“My new boyfriend?” Oh, I realized. He meant Guy. “We're not dating. And
what
?”

“War Hammer is Sam Bookman.”

“Blaze and War Hammer are brothers?” I asked. Guy had a brother? He'd said it last night, but it hadn't quite sunk in. I was pretty sure Guy had never mentioned him at work, but maybe I simply hadn't noticed. For as little attention as Guy had apparently paid me, I'd given him very little mind.

It made me wonder just what he saw in me.

“You really didn't know,” Jeremy said.

“What?”

“About any of it.” He studied me with narrowed eyes, idly playing with his beer. “You didn't think I was Blaze, but you didn't know
he
was, either. Tell me, how's it feel to be such a genius?”

“I don't know. Let me ask the moron who dumped me while I was in the hospital.”

His shoulders immediately drooped. The hit had apparently struck true, for he ran a hand over his face. “I said I was sorry about that. I tried to avoid it, but it's impossible to keep secrets from you. Especially when you know something's up. You're like a damn dog with a bone.”

“Thank you,” I said in a frosty voice, “for that flattering portrait of me.”

“You know what I mean.” Jeremy scowled. “I felt bad. I still do, actually. It wasn't fair.”

It was nice to have that vindication even though it was months late. And I'd come to realize that even though I might be super-­powered now, I was still in a strange environment and surrounded by a new group of ­people, Guy included. Having a familiar ally in my corner, even if it was Jeremy and his attitude, was more valuable to me than being right or winning a stupid argument. So I shook my head. “You know what? It's in the past. Let's move on. But I have to ask: why are you being such an ass about Guy?”

“I dunno.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the counter. “Maybe it's nice to have something on the ever-­perfect Blaze for once.”

“Fair. Do me a favor, though. If you're going to needle Guy, don't use me as a conduit. I want nothing to do with it.”

“Sorry,” Jeremy said. His lips twitched in the way I remembered they did when he was trying not to smile.

I scooped up my final bite of lasagna and carried my plate to the sink. “So they really have simulators here? Like what pilots use?”

“Better.” Jeremy gave me a nerdy grin. But he didn't, as I'd feared, launch into a long stream of chatter about coding and other undead geek languages. “The interface is just—­we can do so much with it, and it's light-­years ahead of everything, you know? We can implant images and sensations directly into your brain with these headsets, make you feel like you're flying, things like that.”

“You could really make me believe I was flying?”

“With one of those headsets on you, I could make you believe you'd died and come back as a chicken,” Jeremy said. “A purple chicken.”

“There are worse fates.”

“Want to try it out? Not like either of us have anything else to do right now.”

I eyed Vicki's plate, which still had half of her food on it. “What about Vicki?”

“Bet you anything that in about two minutes she comes back in here and tells us she has a hot date.” Jeremy lifted his beer to his lips and eyed the door, which had not yet opened.

In turn, I studied him, my eyes narrowed. “Oh for the love of—­you've got a thing for her, don't you?”

“Shut up!” he said. When I gave him a puzzled look, he mouthed, ‘She's got ears like a cat!'

“Oh.” I lowered my voice. “How long?”

“I can't talk about this. Not with you.” Jeremy gave his beer bottle a broody look. When he saw my steely-­eyed look, he sighed. “Fine. But not here? Away from . . .” He trailed off and jerked a thumb at the door.

My ex. In love with Plain Jane.

Somehow, the thought of Jeremy and Plain Jane together was even weirder than seeing all of those paparazzi photos of him with Vicki Burroughs, supermodel.

“So I'm guessing she has no idea?” I asked.

He mimed zipping his lip and throwing away the key just as the door opened, and Vicki bubbled back into the room. “I'm going to have abandon you,” she said without preamble. “Something came up.”

“I bet it did,” Jeremy said.

I shot him a look, hoping to express that sarcasm wasn't going to win him any favors from the girl he was crushing on. He ignored it.

“Is it okay if I take a rain check?” Vicki asked me, ignoring Jeremy as easily as he ignored me.

“Sure, it's no problem.” I gave her a smile and a little wave. “Go on, enjoy your ‘something.' ”

“Oh trust me,” she said, “I will.”

She sailed out, leaving a cloud of jasmine perfume in her wake.

Jeremy polished off his beer with a final scowl at the door. “Let's go play with the simulators so that I can get my mind off her always being at that dumbass's beck and call. What's
with
you women, anyway? Why do you always go for losers?”

“Do you really want to get into that conversation with
me
?” I asked.

He considered that. “Point taken.”

D
AVENPORT ENJOYED
CONSTANTLY
subverting my expectations. After the futuristic training rooms, with their quiet tech, I expected the simulator rooms to be dark, full of green and purple light, and possibly filled with obstacles. Instead, Jeremy led me into a spacious, well-­lit room with curved walls. There were mats on the floor.

“I know,” he said without looking at me, “you'd think it would be some sci-­fi junk or whatever. Nope, this is it.” He jerked his head at the wall. “Eternity walls. Trust me when I tell you that once I start programming bad guys coming at you, you'll appreciate not smashing your face into a corner.”

“I thought I was here to fly,” I said. I'd had more than my share of bad guys.

“You are,” Jeremy said. “But, you know, if you get bored and want to fight some bad guys . . .”

“And have Angélica tear me to tiny little pieces when she finds out I've wrecked the form she's been teaching me? The woman may be small, but it's like getting gut-­punched by a bear. Nothing but flying tonight.”

“Fine.” Jeremy heaved a giant sigh. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

“All right, then we'll put this on you.” Jeremy held up a headset that he'd gone into a smaller room to retrieve. “Fit that over your ears and cinch it down in the back so that it's snug. I'm going to put these on your forehead. They'll help you get the sensory part of the simulator.” He held up a ­couple of vividly green suction cups.

“Fashionable,” I said dryly.

He grinned. “They do the trick. Besides, I thought you liked green.”

“Ha, ha.” It was the wrong green. Blaze's uniform was a little darker. I stood still as he fixed the suction cups onto my forehead. “So . . . you don't mind it here, do you? Like really mind it?”