The Last Superhero (53 page)

And I think he's waiting for
me to make a move.

I think they are all waiting
for me to make a move.

And I, quite frankly, don't
have the faintest idea what to do.

57

I'm still wondering where
Dad is, all the while looking down at Salvatore Jr. still doubled
over his knee.

Is this how this ends? Is
this when and where I kill him?

Counting heads, there are
people who haven't gotten their personalized nightmares yet.

Although, do we really want
to go on with this?

Who knows how long we've
been in this nightmare already and there it is, the switching of the
lights and the pulsing in my leg.

I don't think we've got much
time.

Someone from the group takes
a step forward and gets a push from Salvatore Jr., which he delivers
without even looking up.

Look back and Wyatt's being
helped to his feet.

So I kneel beside him,
lowering myself to spy into his face and the eyes that meet me are
hazel, almost transparent due to the moisture they're covered with.

Before turning black again.
And he scrambles to his feet, a hand outstretched, raised, as if to
stop me from coming too close.

I stand. Still. Not knowing
what to do or say because it's like he's fighting an inner battle he
knows he won't be able to win.

A battle he knows he won't
be able to keep on with.

I step forward.

“
Don't,” he
grunts.

A hand on his belt. I've
seen this before.

The blade that glints in his
hand that is in no way aimed at me but could be.

Another step forward and he
winces, yet he doesn't try to escape.

A rustling on the forest
side makes me glance.

So does he.

Even when there's nothing to
see.

Must've been the wind.

Or is it the tension that's
building ever so slowly between us?

The wind picks up, blowing
leaves towards us, around us. Ruffling the forest landscape, making
that sound again.

And in the moment he lowers
his guard to check on whatever it is that’s coming, I'm able to
conjure a samurai sword.

Hold it in front of you and
the moment he sees it, he knows.

Changes his stance and the
fight's on.

Raise my sword and have
everyone join in.

Spells are cast.

Arrows fly through the air.

Bullets are shot.

All deflected with swift
movements of his hands as he walks backwards, away from us.

Someone throws a smoke bomb
at Salvatore Jr., then another joins it.

And we're enveloped in a
thick fog.

Try to feel your way around.

Feel something whoosh by.

Stay quiet.

Movement.

Can't see shit, dammit.

Until that moment when the
mist starts to spin around me, around us. Faster and faster. Higher
and higher.

A whirlwind being lifted by
the man with the arms extended by his sides.

Dissipating and, with it,
everyone else.

But me.

“
This is between you
and me. No one else.”

Blood trickles from the
knife in his hand.

Someone's hurt.

Yet there's no time to
ponder that.

Bring my sword above my
head.

Sidestep and we're both in
the dance.

What does the music require?

“
This is not how it
has to be,” I say.

Take a swing that you
clearly wanted to miss.

He shoots off energy blasts
that hit the ground near me.

“
It is exactly how it
has to be,” he quips.

Hold the sword to your side
while his grip closes on the knife.

“
I don't want to kill
you,” I confess.

He throws the knife and I
freeze, see, feel its soft caress as it flies oh so close to my face.

Run to him, sword up in the
air.

He slides to the side and
here I am swinging, swishing, while he's dodging, careening.

He falls on his back but
rolls away before I stick my sword in the soil.

Laborious breath. Is he
getting tired?

Steps back and almost trips.

Sweat on his face. Skin a
paler color.

Needs to take a pause.

While that pulsing in my leg
is starting to turn into downright pain.

Pull the sword from the
ground and feel the urge, the surge. Adrenaline pumped through my
veins and a war cry escapes.

And I'm gathering momentum
and I'm leaping forward and I'm pouncing with my sword held above.

See him raise his hands in
surrender, but you're already high in the air and the force gravity
enforces on you pushes you down and your sword slices his chest from
the shoulder to the waist.

Fall, roll away.

Watch his knees give out
under him.

Discard the bloody sword,
find purchase on the dirt, make your way to him.

To his body laying on the
floor and the black eyes that look at you with all that anger pent up
inside.

Trembling.

The smell of blood
overwhelms me, the pulsing and the pain in my leg rising
exponentially.

Kneel beside him, and when I
stretch out a hand, he doesn't move.

When the tip of my fingers
makes contact with his mask and it burns, he only hisses.

Curl a hand around his neck,
bend down into a kiss, and the sparks don't leave me waiting.

He can do nothing else but
reciprocate it, forced at first, then giving in.

His mask cracks, crumbling
as my hands travel over the sides of his face, letting the flames and
the fire and the heat engulf him.

Letting it be.

'Cause it's a fire that only
divests him of what appears to be an outer skin that once it peels
off, bit by bit, reveals the Steven with the amorous hazel eyes and
that smile.

Flames gone, we breathe in
unison, in relief.

A breath that only lasts for
a moment.

A breath that fades as a
sudden weakness takes us over, the one that takes away my ability to
stay upright.

Hit the ground on my side,
next to him.

Gasp for air with him.

Feel his hand searching for
mine, entwining our fingers together over his wounded chest.

Taste of blood in my mouth.

Feel his other arm pulling
me closer.

Like all those times we
cuddled in bed.

Only now, this might as well
be our deathbed.

Push up, set my gaze on his
because, if this is the end, then we're in this together.

Sting of tears in my eyes.

Feel movement at our feet
and peek and it's Diana with little Steven and Dad as the lion,
watching over us.

But it's not them who come
forward.

The boy, the one we know now
is our own.

Kneeling beside our dying
bodies.

Glancing at us, setting his
hands over our joined ones.

A grin under the eyes that
he clearly inherited from his father.

Says, “Think it away.”

And the pain that shoots
through our bodies makes us scream as our backs arch in pain.

58

“
We're losing her!”
voices shout. So far away.

“
Let her puke the
blood out. Hold her, for fuck's sake!”

Arms and hands and coldness
around me, inside me.

“
Giana, baby, hold on.
It's going to be okay.”

Okay.

It's going to be okay.

Will it, though? Will it be
okay?

Nobody knows, no one can
tell.

Nobody knows if it'll all be
okay.

The spasm. It takes over.

“
There you go. Puke it
all out.”

Knock me out again.

Let me see those bright orbs
of hazel again that say, “We're going to be okay.”

And believe it.

Because we're going to be
okay.

Wake up to a weird taste in
my mouth and a head that weighs at least a couple of tons.

“
Giana, baby.”
The voice. That voice.

“
I'm okay.”

And as the words come out of
my mouth they feel like a chant I might as well have been singing in
my mind all this time.

I'm okay.

Everything's okay.

Let my eyes adjust to the
light and recognize the room.

Simon and Clarice's guest
room.

“
Are
you
okay?”

His beard parts for a smile,
“I am. Let me help you up.”

He helps me sit, his smile
never leaving me.

“
Is he okay?” I
ask. I dread.

But the smile's still there.

“
He is.” Stare
straight into my eyes. Sincere. “You did it.” The beard
tickles as he kisses my forehead.

“
What about the rest?
Daph, Wyatt, Frances-”

“
Everyone's okay.”

Okay.

Everyone's okay.

A sharp pain in my leg and
I'm reminded of what happened outside the nightmare.

“
How long have I been
out?”

“
Not even a day.”

“
I need to see him,”
I say and hope I don't sound like a bad daughter or something.

“
Let me help you to
the bathroom first.” Winks.

I must look like a
not-so-hot mess.

Fact that is quickly
corroborated by a look in the mirror and yikes. Wash it off at least.

Cold water. So much
toothpaste it burns. Brush that frizz and those flyaways. All the
while not putting any weight on the leg that's starting to really
hurt.

Happens when you're waking
up from a nightmare.

Curious eyes travel down,
but the wound's covered and I'm not tampering with that.

Back in the room, Dad
explains things and it's clear they had a lot to deal with while I
was blissfully passed out.

“
Everyone's been taken
care of,” he says, his voice suddenly solemn. “Would you
like to see your mother?”

And the question sounds so
heavy it drops like a bomb on the pit of my stomach.

Because I know that face and
that tone and that way his eyes are explaining what he isn't saying.

“
Please.”

He helps me up and out of
the room and down the hallway towards the room that's been Mom's for
a month and there's Simon, leaning on the wall across the door.