The Last Superhero (8 page)

Wave Daphne an 'it's okay,'
lead the way to the office, and feel a shiver go down my spine when
he decides to shut the door behind us.

“
I'd
prefer to leave that open.”

The smug bastard sits in the
same armchair Steven sat in last time he was here, shaking his head.

“
I
prefer this conversation's kept private.”

Sink into my chair and shut
up.

“
The
man that attacked you last month has died.”

My heart sinks to my
stomach.

“
When?”

“
He
passed in his sleep last night.”

“
God...”

“
What
I'm here for, Miss Armstrong, is to see if it were possible for you
to give at least a physical description of the man you said defended
you that night.”

Dammit dammit dammit.

“
I
can't recall, really. I told the officers everything that happened: I
ducked and all of a sudden this person has the guy against the wall.”

He exhales. “Miss
Armstrong, I know what you told the police, however, other concerns
have come up.”

“
Other
concerns?”

He stirs in his seat. “The
injuries on this now-dead man are compatible with having been crushed
against the wall by a force greater than a normal man's.”

FUCK.

He stares at me. I pout.

“
I'm
not getting it.”

Don't shiver! Don't tremble,
you stupid cow!

“
We've
been led to believe that this Good Samaritan you said saved you is
not exactly... human.”

“
What
do you mean? Some alien?”

“
Superhero.
Someone with superhuman abilities,” he shoots, and I hold on to
whatever part of my brain hasn't gone numb for him not to score.

“
Superhero?
Well, that's silly. We all know they don't exist anymore.”

“
Have
you heard of the name Steven Salvatore Waldorf?”

“
I
think yes.” I try to sound confused, I try to sound like that
same man hadn't been sitting in that same chair before him.

I try to sound like my heart
isn't aching for a man I've come to care for too much.

“
Son
of Salvatore Waldorf, nephew of Michelangelo Waldorf.” He takes
a set of pictures from inside his jacket and places them on my desk.

They are old and faded, but
who could forget those faces? Both were so alike.

And if you study them
closely, Steven looks so much like them.

Salvatore had a bulkier
frame though, and, in the picture, was sporting a head full of black
hair that rode down to his shoulders and an equally dark mustache
under his purple mask.

Michelangelo, on the other
hand, was like a negative picture of his brother. Hazel eyes like
Steven's under a white mask, blonde hair, and a pair of enormous
white wings.

He looked exactly like an
angel should.

He was as merciless and
cruel as Satan would.

Salvatore was the hero,
Michelangelo the villain. Brothers by blood, enemies by choice.

“
I've
heard stories, that's all.”

Another picture, a mug shot
of a young Steven, dated somewhere in the ‘60s, wearing his
father's mask. He looked twenty-something, but who knows what age he
really was; superheroes age slower than normal humans.

I take off my glasses, can't
see straight.

No wonder he dislikes
handcuffs.

“
This
man,” the police officer points at Steven's one-dimensional
face, “Steven Waldorf, is very dangerous. Do you know what
powers he has?”

“
Has?
Isn't he dead? Didn't he die?” Dying is a requirement for
death, right?

“
Telekinesis
and projecting fantasies into people's minds in order to manipulate
their thoughts.”

Mind raping, you mean? I
know all about it.

“
He
was, supposedly, found dead twenty-eight years ago. However, the
injuries inflicted to that man the night of the robbery are
compatible with others by Steven Waldorf in the past. No normal human
being can throw someone against a wall and break every single bone in
that person's body like this man.”

There it went again. The
accusing finger poking Steven's mug shot.

“
If
this happens to be the man you saw that night, we need to find him
and put him away, for good.”

Contort my face into a
question and try, for all that's holy, for my voice not to break, not
to give anything away.

“
He
saved me.”

“
By
murdering someone.”

“
Self-defense?”

He cocks an eyebrow.

“
Of
course, I'm not defending him. Murder is murder,” I say.

“
Exactly,”
he replies.

“
I
wish I had seen his face, really, but I didn't. I ducked away from
the robber's knife and then, all of a sudden, the thief's all bloody
against the wall and the other guy had run off.”

Secret Agent Man looks at me
like I'm hiding something. “Okay.” Resigns. “Here's
my card.”

Hide the pictures, slide the
piece of hardened paper to my side.

“
You
remember anything, call me.”

“
I
will.”

Grin. Let yourself out
because I'm not standing from this chair.

Read
the card.
Agent
Kenneth Ross
.

Put it away and let it rot.

“
Everything
okay?” Daphne's concerned eyes welcome me back to the shop.

“
Yeah.
The thief died last night.”

“
Oh
dear.”

“
I'm
not telling on Steven.”

She purses her lips.

“
He's
picking Mom up with me tonight.”

“
Think
she'll recognize him? I mean, he's changed and all, but if you look
real hard, maybe?”

We'd looked up pics of him
on the Internet and most of them were candid shots and he always wore
the purple mask.

Sexy purple mask, I must
add.

“
The
only real things that can give him away are his powers and all he's
gotta do is be careful with when and how he uses them.”

“
And
the nose.”

“
The
nose?”

“
He's
got a big nose.”

“
Oh,
shut up!”

“
I
don't know, G. This smells like trouble.”

I open my mouth, pass my
tongue through my lips, and she's grinning like an idiot.

I'm not laughing at her pun,
no, my lips aren't curving.

“
Get
back to work, you lazy ass.”

She scurries away with a low
giggle.

I go back to shelving books
and get serious, thinking, really thinking.

Because, don't ask me why,
but I'm not giving up on him.

8

I park in front of his house
and turn the car off.

Shiver again at the thought
of that cop.

I'm not telling Steven. No.

Deep breaths.

It's early in the afternoon
and I don't know why I'm doing this, but I need to see him.

And I'm out of cigarettes.

He ain't got a phone so I
can't call him up and say 'hey can I come over?'

So I get out of my car, walk
up to the gate, and search for something like an intercom or even a
bell.

Nope, no such luck.

Gate's locked and the path
to the door is pretty long.

How tall is this wall?

Do I really want to see him
that bad?

Ponder.

Use the padlock, tap it on
the gate a couple of times.

No answer.

I am not shouting his name
and I am not honking either.

I've climbed walls before.
And this one's got some sturdy looking ivy branches.

Grab one, wrap it around
your wrist, pull on it, think it'll hold.

And it does. It will.

Move the fuck over Tarzan,
'cause here goes Jane.

Just like one of those rock
climbing walls people are so amused by, only this surface's flat and
slippery, and I'm not wearing a harness.

Some small scratches on my
hands and I've made it to the top.

Who's awesome, eh? Who's
fucking awesome?

Get off before someone
drives by and sees you straddling the top of the wall like it's a
horse.

Grab some branches and lower
yourself.

Easy. Easy.

They say it's the climb,
man, but going down is nerve-wracking sometimes.

Crack
.

Crap!

There goes the branch and I
yelp and then I'm slipping and then I'm falling on my back.

“
What
the fuck do you think you're doing?!”

Had I shut my eyes?

They're closed anyway and
when I open them, there's a pair of hazel eyes looking down at me
with a face of sheer horror.

His open hand is hovering
above me.

I can't feel the ground
below me.

Until I can, because he's
dropped me gently on the grass.

“
Breaking
and entering?” I take the hand he's offering.

“
Silly
girl. I heard you tapping on the gate.”

Vertical again, I can see
him. His hair's wet and messy, the T-shirt he's wearing covered in
droplets.

Are those pajama bottoms?

“
I'm
sorry.”

“
I
was taking a bath.”

“
I...
This is stupid. I'll come by later.”

“
No,
no, please.” He chuckles. “I was getting ready for a trip
to my favorite bookstore.” A naughty smile, a tilt of the head.

I brush some dirt off my
coat and give a start when he kisses my lips.

“
What
happened to your glasses?”

“
Nothing.”

He shrugs it off. “Come
on in.”

Then waits for me and we
walk together to the front door.

“
Welcome
to Waldorf Manor.”

Dramatic open of the giant
oak doors that seem to have been installed centuries ago – and
they probably were – and enter the fanciest house you've ever
been to.

Whoa
.