Superheroes Anonymous (8 page)

“Honestly, dude?” I asked. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

And then I stepped forward and punched him.

I'd always been short and powerless, so I think both of us were absolutely startled when Gary hit the ground, hands over his streaming face. “Sorry!” I said, and leapt over him. I took off running, backward, wincing. That looked like a
lot
of blood. “Um, put some ice on it and take a ­couple aspirin, maybe?”

I'd been through the bank a few times during prior hostage situations, so when Naomi's scream sounded again, I knew it had to be coming from the safe-­deposit box vault. I dug into the carpet, trying to push myself faster, and somehow accidentally launched myself forward. I landed, rolled ahead, and jumped right back to my feet, yelping the whole time.

What the hell was
going on
?

When I reached the vault, I rounded the corner, and it was a toss-­up as to who was more surprised when I tackled Chelsea. Naomi, clutching her arm, stumbled free. Chelsea and I smacked into the wall of safe-­deposit boxes and backed away from each other.

“All right,” she said. “You've got my attention now.”

“Goody,” I said.

“Girl! Girl, look out, she's got—­”

Naomi's shouted warning cut off when Chelsea raised her arm. I'd seen energy villains use their powers before, but usually they wore the garishly bright suits (they really loved blue and purple, for some reason), and they channeled the electricity through prongs or gloves. Chelsea was far more disgusting: a gaping hole opened in the palm of her hand. I gawked as yellow and green sparks poured out, forming a beam that hit me solidly in the chest.

Every molecule of my being seemed to light on fire. Thousands of bees swarmed over me, stinging every inch of my flesh. I dropped to my knees, my teeth gritted, as green and yellow oozed over my vision, blocking the rest of the color from the world. My heart pounded in my ears, but the pain went on, never ending.

I cried out, and Chelsea lowered her arm. Instantly, the bees disappeared, though I breathed through my teeth. Behind Chelsea, Naomi stared, her mouth gaping open.

“You should be dead,” Chelsea said. “Why aren't you screaming?”

“What?” It took everything I had to force the word out.

“I just hit you with enough power to take down an elephant.” Chelsea stepped closer, her eyebrows drawing together. She crouched a little, but I stared at the floor, trying to gather what was left of me back. Physically, my skin looked fine. It wasn't even pink. But inwardly, I knew that at any second, she could lift her arm, and the bee stings would return.

It made me want to shake. I clenched my jaw harder.

I was really,
really
tired of villains.

“Who are you?” Chelsea asked.

“Nobody special.”

“You can withstand enough voltage to kill an army. You're somebody.” Eyes as hazel as mine narrowed fractionally as she continued to study me. “What's your name, again?”

“Gail. What about you? You got a name?”

She sized me up slowly, then nodded once. Maybe I'd earned her respect by withstanding her special brand of bee-­sting torture. “Chelsea.”

It figured she wouldn't give me a last name.

“No handle?” Chelsea asked.

“That would require having superpowers.”

“Pity for you. It means you won't be able to call Davenport and mop up your little mess. I'll just have to kill you.”

“Davenport?” Naomi was still panting and in obvious pain, but she straightened at little. “Davenport
Industries
?”

“Quiet. The grown-­ups are talking. Oh, look.” Chelsea tilted her head at me. “She's thinking about trying to rush me again. How cu—­”

I hit her like a linebacker.

I didn't have a plan. In fact, I hadn't had a plan since I walked into the bank, other than to talk to Naomi and see if she could get down to the bottom of the mystery of Dr. Mobius. But I had the feeling that if I could just stall, some real hero was on the way to save the day. I had to hold her off for that long. So when we landed, I tried to throw a punch like the one that had taken Gary out of commission. She dodged.

She might have been kind of slim and poised, but she had one weapon that wasn't the bee-­sting zapper: fingernails. And she had no qualms about using them.

“Ow!” I said when she clawed my face. I rolled away and glared. “Knock that off. This isn't a catfight—­if you're going to try to kick my ass, at least be dignified about it.”

She simpered at me. “Got you off of me, didn't it?”

“Real funny,” I said, flicking away the blood.

We both climbed warily to our feet and began to circle each other (while in the background, Naomi watched the two of us like we were both incredibly dangerous). I eyed Chelsea's hands, knowing that if—­no, when—­they came back up, I was definitely in for some pain if I couldn't dodge fast enough. Chelsea's annoyance had clearly bumped up to fury. “What are you even doing here if you're not a hero? It isn't your job to stop me. What's one idiot reporter to you?”

“Nothing, really. I just don't like seeing ­people taken hostage.”

Something flickered across Chelsea's eyes at that: some change that I couldn't quite pinpoint or describe. It was fleeting—­there, then gone. But I'd definitely seen it.

She covered by scoffing. “That's it?”

“It's more of a pain in the butt than you'd think.”

“I'm sure.”

“It's—­” I started to say, but something to my left seemed to explode. Drywall flew everywhere, but that wasn't the problem. I was more worried about the fact that while I'd blinked, Chelsea's arm had gone up, and that green hole was opening up again in her palm.

I didn't have time to dodge, so she zapped me again.

This time, I shouted right away. The stinging hit all over, on my eyes, my scalp, in my ears and mouth. It was relentless, an eternity within another eternity within eons of nothing but agony. I curled up, as if making myself smaller could somehow minimize the pain. It didn't. If anything, it increased it. I heard mocking laughter—­that had to be Chelsea—­and my own heartbeat as it thudded into overdrive.

The laughter cut off with a curse, a flash of white, a blur of black. And the pain ended just as abruptly as it had the first time.

But it was already too late. My heartbeat, already racing, didn't slow. Instead, it propelled me away from the warmth of consciousness and into the coldness of that empty nothingness that had grown so familiar.

Right there in my old bank, facing a new foe, I fainted.

 

Chapter Eight

“I
WAS JUST
telling you—­wasn't I telling you? Didn't I say that we were going to see another one soon? The conspiracy theorists aren't wrong. And here she is. Heavy little thing, though, for somebody who looks like a light breeze would blow her over.”

“Your conspiracy theorists are a bunch of crackpots. They're right once out of a dozen times.”

“Once is all I need in this case. Here, Raymond, will you take her? I need to scratch my nose.”

The world tilted, just a little, but not in a terrible way. It was almost comforting, like being wrapped in some sort of cocoon. Except that the moment I opened my eyes, I would realize I was probably somewhere horrible.

Someone, apparently the unseen Raymond, scoffed.

“Need I remind you, Raymond, that I'm heiress to fashion empires galore? I do not juggle rescued victims so that I can scratch this nose, perfect as it is.”

“Victoria Burroughs is heiress to fashion empires.
You,
Vicki, are a Class A. You're strong enough to hold her with one arm and scratch your nose.”

Hold it. I knew that name.

Slowly, awareness leaked into the comfort. I was comfortable because there were arms holding me in the damsel position, very much like Blaze always had whenever he'd rescued me. Right away, I knew it wasn't Blaze—­he smelled different, for one thing.

“Anyway,” Victoria-­or-­Vicki said as I was apparently transferred back to her, “the theorists were right, you skeptic. Unexplained hit-­and-­run usually means there's a baby hero running about, new to his or her powers, and here we have our valiant little bank robbery stopper.”

“She doesn't look like she's been recently hit with a car.”

“It was a minivan, actually,” I said, and I forced my eyes open. The face that greeted me belonged in the magazines—­literally.

Apparently the name “Victoria Burroughs” sounded familiar because it belonged to Victoria Burroughs. The supermodel who had been seen in the tabloids holding hands with my ex-­boyfriend and now the same woman who was carrying me in her arms like I weighed little more than a basket of laundry. She stared back, not accusing but definitely curious. Somehow, she was even more stunning in person than she was in the heavily Photoshopped ads behind the makeup counter at my local pharmacy.

“Uh,” I said. “I'm confused.”

“Oh, good, you're alive.” Victoria Burroughs bent over and set me on the ground.

My head hurt, my body felt like I'd run a marathon without any water, and hunger was an acute ache in my midsection. Victoria remained crouched next to me, but Raymond stayed standing. Pewter-­colored curls extended around his head like a halo, and he wore thick, rectangular-­framed glasses. He had his arms crossed over his chest.

“Where am I?” I asked. We were in some kind of hallway though I had no idea how I'd gotten there. It was brightly lit and lacking in any decoration that might tell me where I was. Everything about it seemed rather clinical, but it didn't
feel
like a hospital. No smell of antiseptic, I realized after a second.

She tilted her head at me, considering something. “What's the last thing you remember?”

“I was in a fight?” I said. Everything inside my head felt like a blur. She hadn't answered my question. “I think it was in a bank?”

“Yeah, you seem to have discovered a new villain. And even more than that, you survived her. She packed a punch. So—­what are your powers?”

I squinted at her. “Aren't you a model? And—­wait, powers? What powers?”

“Modeling's the day job.” A dimple popped up on her left cheek when she smiled. Photographers must have been obsessed with it. “At night, I'm, well, that's complicated to explain.”

Raymond cleared his throat. “They're expecting her in Medical, Vicki.”

“Medical?” I asked.

“Part of what we were getting to in a minute.” Vicki shot the man an annoyed look, but he only shrugged.

Something occurred to me. “Where's Naomi?”

They shot me identical looks of puzzlement, which was really weird. “Who?” Vicki asked.

“Naomi—­she was with me in the bank, Chelsea was after her. Oh, god, is she dead? I just wanted her help; I didn't want her to die.”

“Oh, the reporter. She's fine.” Vicki shrugged. “In the hospital, I think.”

In what universe did “in the hospital” mean fine?

“She needs to go to Medical, Vicki. We're giving her too much information as it is.”

“She's
obviously
not a villain, Raymond.” Vicki cast her eyes to the ceiling, like she was the one sane person in a world full of weirdoes.

“A villain? Me?” My voice squeaked, but part of me wanted to laugh. I was Hostage Girl. I was villain bait, not a villain myself.

Raymond ignored me. “Not our call to make,” he told Vicki.

“Buzzkill. C'mon—­hey, what's your name?”

“Gail,” I said.

“C'mon, Gail.” Vicki pulled me to my feet, and I realized that she must not recognize me. Either Jeremy hadn't mentioned me, or the transformation from Dr. Mobius's Super-­Addicting Juice had really been more drastic than I'd suspected. But it felt entirely surreal.

Not as surreal as the fact that Victoria Burroughs was a supermodel
and
a superhero, though. What the hell?

“Can you walk?” Raymond asked before I could take a step.

I shrugged. Whatever Medical was, maybe they would have food. I was more than willing to walk for that. “Sure.”

“This way.” Raymond jerked his head. I followed him, and Vicki followed me, and it took me a stupidly long time to realize they were flanking me like a set of guards. Since neither Raymond nor Vicki seemed inclined to say anything else, it was a silent trek through the smooth, clean corridors. Every door had a flat white panel, a little longer and wider than my hand, at about chest height right next to it, but no signs. It was unlike any place I'd ever seen. The hair on the back of my neck began to rise. Where the hell had I ended up now?

“Ah, here we go.” Raymond stopped and touched one of the panels. Immediately, the screen lit up.

“Ray Goldstein and Vicki Burroughs,” he said to the panel. “We've got a bogey with us in need of evaluation.”

Words filled the screen:
Identify bogey. Threat?

Raymond shifted slightly to look at me, appraisingly. Behind those boxy glasses, his eyes were centuries older than the rest of him. “Possible,” he said.

The panel beeped once in acknowledgment.

“Only possible?” I said.

Vicki snickered. “Are you a threat or not?”

I opened my mouth to inform her that my track record obviously meant that Gail Godwin was a threat to precisely nobody, but I had a sharp vision of Gary's shock after I'd broken his nose. And the door opened.

It slid open, silently, like a door in any science-­fiction movie. Standing there, filling the space, was one of the most gorgeous humans I'd ever seen. He was tall, and fantastically built if the body beneath the white polo shirt and blue slacks had anything to say about it. His hair was blond, a little shaggy, and his eyes were a gorgeous shade of blue.

Thankfully, I was able to pick up my chin before my tongue rolled out of my mouth.

“Ray, Vicki,” the god in the doorway said, smiling and bumping his sex appeal through the roof. “Good to see a ­couple of Class A's in Medical. We rarely see your type down around here.”

“Can't imagine why.” Vicki stepped into my peripheral vision to purr at the god. “We bought you a present, Cooper.”

Cooper smiled and stuck one hand out at me, ignoring my melting heart (or just not hearing it). “Lemuel Cooper.”

“Gail. I have to ask: Lemuel?” I asked.

He twitched one behemoth of a shoulder. “My parents are old-­fashioned. My sisters are Nancy and Nadine, if that makes you feel any better. Folks generally just call me Cooper.”

Personally, I thought he got the shortest end of the stick of the three of them, but it felt nicer not to say so. Also, I wasn't sure rational speech was possible in front of him and that stunning smile. Give it time. Five years or so sounded about right.

“So you're my possible threat?” Those ice blue eyes swept me up and down, like Raymond's had just a minute before. Unlike Raymond's assessing glance, Cooper's check had my heart thudding. “Don't look like much of a threat. No offense. Little.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” I sighed.

“She took out two thugs and took an energy blast straight on,” Vicki said, and I jolted as she propped an elbow on my shoulder. The smile she gave Cooper was pure flirtation, and I almost hated her for it. “We don't know the villain, and she got away before I could grab her—­”

Wait, what?

“—­but as far as I can tell, it was at least Class B rated energy.”

“Class what?” I asked.

Vicki frowned. “Oh, right, I guess you don't know about the class system yet. A Class B—­”

“Can be explained after you've been checked out,” Cooper said, interrupting her while Ray Goldstein just looked tired. Cooper focused on me. “Two guards and a full hit? And you're standing to tell the tale?”

“Two full hits,” I said before I remembered my motto of never telling captors more than they need to know. Vicki, Raymond, and especially Cooper didn't look like any villain I'd ever faced, but they hadn't mentioned anything about sending me on my way. I paused and decided to downplay it until I knew more. “It hurt. A bit.”

“A bit.” Cooper's gaze was now no longer curiously amused but direct and assessing. “You took a hit—­two hits—­and the only thing you have to say is, ‘It hurt. A bit.' ”

“Claims to have no powers,” Raymond said.

“Hmm.” Cooper crossed his arms, displaying perfect forearms and even more glorious biceps.

From behind him, I heard a voice call out, “All right, Coop. Room's cleared for your possible threat. Bring him in.”

“Her. And you're not going to believe her size.” With a surprising amount of grace for somebody so massive, Cooper abandoned the doorway and gestured to me. “After you, my nameless subject. Are either of you coming in, Vick? Ray?”

“My trainees will be back shortly. I should go.” Raymond aimed a pointed look up at Vicki.

She seemed to get the message. “Not today, Coop, but if she's cleared, I'll come back for her. Later, doll.” She turned to me. “See you when it's over.”

Cooper flexed two fingers in a hybrid between “peace” and “bye,” and turned to me. “All right. C'mon in. Time to begin the torture.”

I immediately took a step back. Ray and Vicki had gone one way, but if I went the other, maybe there was an exit—­

“Whoa,” Cooper said. “That was a joke. We don't torture ­people at Davenport.”

“D-­Davenport?”

Cooper made a noise in the back of his throat and nudged me forward.

Warily, I stepped inside. The room was a bright, stunning white, lit by white lamps. Everything gleamed with chrome: the three desks, the white polo shirts on the men and women behind them, expensive silver equipment with odd gadgets and gizmos on platforms around the room. An eye chart like the ones they make you stand in front of with a spoon over your eye was hung on one wall, over a scale. Silver and white clipboards were piled on desks and hung from hooks on the purely white walls.

On the main wall across from the door, dominating the entire wall, was a sign with the letters “DI.”

DI? Oh. Davenport Industries. I'd been carried by a supermodel who was somehow a superhero into a medical branch of Davenport Industries. Except Davenport Industries didn't have medical branches. They pretty much invested in real estate, electronics, mining, the stock market. They didn't have private hospitals like the one I'd just entered.

So what the hell was going on?

“Welcome to Medical.” Cooper steered me forward, between two of the desks and into a hallway. “We've got the room all ready for you.”

“What are you going to do to me?” I asked.

“Figure out how somebody who claims to be a Class D can withstand energy blasts.”

There was that class thing again. We stopped by a nondescript door down the hall. “Well, it's kind of a long story.”

“It usually is. You're lucky to have escaped with your life. Now”—­and Cooper tapped the panel—­“let's find out why you did.”

H
E LEFT ME
alone in a testing room after running my handprint on a screen. The door clicked shut after he left, with the same sort of finality I'd experienced while staying in Dr. Mobius's “care.” With him, however, I'd had some idea of my standing—­I was a hostage, a bargaining chip, and possibly collateral if all of that didn't work.

The room wasn't large—­enough space for a bare white desk and a medical cot. No eye charts in here, I noted as I sat on the cot. I had no idea who these ­people were. Since when did Davenport Industries have facilities like this? I figured we were underground, as I'd yet to see a window. But underground where? And why was Victoria Burroughs suddenly a superhero, and I didn't know about it?

And if she was a superhero, why had she needed rescuing by Blaze, anyway?

The questions—­and my ever-­present hunger—­threatened to drive me mad before the Davenport ­people came back for me. It wasn't Cooper, but a woman closer to my size and height, her eyes as hazel as my own. That didn't reassure me in the slightest. For some reason, she felt more dangerous though I couldn't fathom why. I rose to my feet, wary now.

“Hi. I'm Kiki. How are you doing?”

Kiki? And Lemuel Cooper? What was up with the names in this place?

“Um, I'm okay. But . . . where am I? And what is this place?”