These Boots Were Made for Stomping (3 page)

Lydia looked around dubiously. “We’re in my apartment.”

“Yup,” Amy said. “Because, as luck would have it, your clothes don’t suck.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“Honestly. Come here,” Amy said, and Lydia dutifully followed her to the closet, where Amy began pulling out the jeans, shirts
and jackets that Lydia collected during her thrift, floor sample, and bargain-shopping excursions. Yes, she might still be
on the low rung of the salary ladder (with no way to climb it, if Mr. Stout kept ignoring her) but at least she looked cute
down there at the bottom.

“This,” Amy said, holding up a pair of black hip-hugger jeans, a low-cut pink shirt with a baby blue lace camisole underneath,
and a silver chain-link belt. “Absolutely darling.”

“Can’t do it,” Lydia said, asserting herself just for practice. “No shoes. I haven’t got anything in my closet that I like
with jeans. Especially not with black jeans.”

“I said penultimate, didn’t I?” Amy reminded her. “You’ve hit on the final step. Footwear. The perfect shoe. And not only
the perfect shoe,” she added, leading Lydia into her living room and parking her in front of her computer. “But shoes that
can make your dreams come true.”

“Been nipping into my Kahlua stash?” Lydia asked.

“I’m serious,” Amy said. She leaned over and put her fingers on the keyboard, then typed, www.hiheelia.com. Immediately a
colorful, funky Web page came up, filled with images of shoes, a lot of nice-sounding language and the ultimate promise that
a purchase from the site would “get a girl exactly what she needs and wants.”

“Um, okaaaaaaay,” Lydia said. “And you want me to what?”

“I want you to order shoes,” Amy said. “That’s all. Just shoes.”

“But what about all this stuff about a magical journey?” she asked, waving her hand vaguely at the Web page. “And your heart’s
desire?”

“That
is
your heart’s desire, isn’t it?” Amy asked. “To be bolder? More confident?”

“Well, yeah. But I thought maybe I’d take a night class or something. Purchasing footwear from some supposed goddess named
Shoestra wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. How did you find the site, anyway?”

“In the bathroom.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s true,” Amy said, defensively. “Or at least that’s where the woman found me.”

“What woman?”

“I was at lunch with some of the girls from work, and we were talking about babies and stuff, and I was going into one of
my pity-fests since I couldn’t get pregnant. And there was this fabulous-looking woman at the next table over, and I had the
feeling she’d been listening to our whole conversation. It was freaky.”

“And so, what? She threatened to kill you?”

“Sort of.”

“
Amy.
Tell. Now.”

Amy lifted an imperious eyebrow, making it clear that she was telling the story her way or not at all. “I went to the restroom,
and I was sitting there and someone knocked on the stall wall, and then this hand came under. I thought they needed toilet
paper, you know? But I looked down, and they were handing
me
toilet paper.”

“Um, why?”

“That’s what I wondered, and good thing I didn’t just use it, right? Because there was a note scribbled on it. And it had
the web address and some flowery language about achieving your heart’s desire.”

“And you
believed
it?”

“No,” Amy said. “Actually, I flushed it. But, well, the note ended with an instruction to pass the site address on to someone
else who might need it. And the more I thought about it, the more I thought it sounded sincere, and so—”

“And so you thought you’d sucker
me
into the potty site. Great.”

Amy frowned, looking thoroughly dejected. “I thought you would have trusted me a little bit more. You’re the one always wanting
to believe in the supernatural.”

“It’s superheroes, not the supernatural. And of course I trust you,” Lydia said. “But . . . oh. Did you imply—”

Amy shrugged. “After I left the restaurant I decided I was curious. So I logged on.” Another shrug. “Shoestra might have had
a little something to do with Chendra’s arrival.”

Lydia’s eyes opened wide. She’d never once expected practical, no-nonsense Amy would have put her faith in something as dicey
as the Web site of some so-called goddess. A
shoe
goddess of all things!

Still, there was no denying little Chendra. The tiny tot made her presence known every time Lydia came to visit. And wasn’t
there something to be said for pop psychology? If you believed something, then couldn’t you subconsciously make it come true?

Could she believe?

Mentally, she rolled her eyes. No way, no how. But she
could
order a pair of shoes to make her friend happy.

Maybe she could find a pair of shoes on the site that completed her cute new outfit. That was about all she could hope for,
really, because she knew damn good and well that no shoe would give her the backbone to stand up to Mr. Stout.
That,
frankly, would require a whole lot more than magic. That would require a whole new Lydia.

And things like that . . . Well, things like that simply didn’t happen to ordinary girls from Brooklyn.

CHAPTER THREE

“Let me guess,” Nikko said. “You’re sending me back to Colorado. Kicking me off the Council. Making me Outcast.”

Zephron, the Protectors’ white-haired High Elder, smiled indulgently. “Perhaps we can keep that eventuality at bay for a bit
longer, eh?”

Nikko slumped in his chair. “It was too much to hope for,” he said, drawing a chuckle from the older man.

“Do you truly wish to remain on probation? You do not want to prove yourself and earn back your full Protector rank?”

“Considering I took a flying leap from the Empire State Building in full view of half of Manhattan, I’m thinking that’s not
a realistic possibility.”

“That was an unfortunate circumstance. Certainly we have all appeared to mortals in moments of dire need.”

“Have we?”

Zephron shrugged off the question. “Fortunately, the MLO team assigned to the incident has concocted a wonderful cover story.
Something involving a circus and an IMAX film, I believe.”

“Still a moot point,” Nikko said. “Only way I’m getting off probation is to bring down Rex, and I’m beginning to think that’s
not possible. The man’s slippery. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was an Outcast, not a mortal.”

“He’s mortal,” Zephron confirmed, his piercing gaze aimed right at Nikko’s face. “But I’m sorry to tell you that you’re not
too far from the mark.”

“What are you—Oh.” Nikko pondered the suggestion, running through all the ramifications and not liking how they added up.
Not liking it at all. “You’re saying he has help? From an Outcast?”

“Not an Outcast,” Zephron said, his expression infinitely sad. “From someone within the Council.”

“Mother of Zeus!” Nikko said, rising to his feet. “Who? I swear I’ll nail the bastard to the wall.”

Zephron chuckled, indicating with his hand that Nikko should sit down again. “Your loyalty is to be commended,” he said. “Especially
considering you’ve made it no secret that you aren’t exactly a Council cheerleader these days.”

Nikko shrugged. The truth was, he loved his Colorado retreat. But lately he’d missed the action, the sense of being involved
in something big. Something important.

And, yes, there was another factor working on him, too, pushing him to abandon his reclusiveness, to make amends for past
mistakes and fight his way back into action: as much as he hated to admit it, he was lonely. He missed his Protector friends.
And he damn sure missed Protector women. Sure, there were girls in Colorado, but he’d found none he could really talk to.
Not that he’d had a great dating record among his own kind, but at least they shared a common ground.

If anything, the one thing hanging out alone in his beautiful Colorado retreat had taught him, it was that the place was significantly
less beautiful without someone to share it with.

All interesting ruminations, he supposed, but hardly of concern to Zephron at the moment. Nikko took a breath and met the
elder’s eyes. “I’m a Protector, plain and simple,” he finally said. “It was my decision that got me in trouble, and it’s going
to be my hard work that gets me out of it.
If
I can get out of it. If Ruthless has inside help—”

“The help has been located, apprehended, and appropriately punished,” Zephron said, his expression hard. “Of that, I assure
you.”

“Good,” Nikko said.

“I agree,” Zephon replied. “But it is good in more ways than one,” he said, tossing Nikko a significant look.

Nikko caught it with a grin. “You have information,” he said.

“Two pieces of intelligence, actually. Used properly, both should serve you well. Act recklessly, however, and the window
of opportunity will not only slam shut, it will be painted and nailed closed.”

“Got it,” Nikko said, feeling more than a little chastened.

Zephron laughed. “I would give the same speech to anyone. Perhaps you are too touchy about your current situation, and that
touchiness is your Achilles’ heel? Achilles is, I believe, an ancestor?”

“Very far removed,” Nikko said. More directly, Nikko was descended from Nike, the goddess of victory, though lately he’d felt
less than victorious on all counts. If Zephron had an “in,” Nikko was all over it.

“The difficulty lies in locating Ruthless’s lair,” Zephron reiterated. “As you know, we have stumbled at every turn, which
drove our frustration level exceptionally high, especially prior to learning that he obtained the assistance of one of our
own.”

“Yeah,” Nikko agreed. “That burns.”

“Indeed. At any rate, the information we now have sheds light on the problem. His lair, you see, is mobile. More, he has devised
a system whereby he never travels directly there. Instead, he disintegrates, then that disembodied form reintegrates at the
current location. Tracking him, you see, often ends in nothing more than a wild-goose chase.”

“That one I was beginning to learn the hard way,” Nikko admitted.

His recent failure had been the direct result of a faulty invisibility module coupled with Ruthless’s stolen escape tactic
and a mole who had revealed to Ruthless that he was being watched. All in all, a losing situation. Nikko had known it at the
time, of course, but he’d decided to take the risk. Who knew when he’d get another solid lead on Ruthless’s whereabouts? It
just hadn’t ended well.

“I screwed up, and I know it. And I’m glad to hear there’s a bit of good news hidden somewhere in this mess. Anytime you want
to share it, you feel free.”

“Patience,” Zephron said, his eyes twinkling as he held up a finger. “It is our belief that Ruthless is becoming desperate
to locate the final component of the shrinking device he is constructing. So desperate, in fact, that he will soon be resorting
to drastic measures.”

“Such as?”

“Such as threatening to kill a Protector if his terms aren’t meant.”

“Cold.”

“Indeed,” Zephron said. “Though not entirely unexpected. There is a reason, after all, that he is the bad guy and we are not.”

“Fair enough,” Nikko remarked, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet up on Zephron’s desk. The corner of the Elder’s
mouth turned down, but he didn’t say anything. Nikko hid a grin. Years ago, he’d been among Zephron’s favorites. Nice to know
some things hadn’t changed.

“It occurs to me,” the Elder continued, “that we can use this desperation to our advantage by handing him a Protector. A victim
whom he can use as a bargaining chip—or, at least, a victim that he believes can be used as such. Someone he will take back
to his lair, seemingly conquered. And once there—”

“He can storm the castle and take the place down from the inside,” Nikko finished.

“That is the idea,” Zephron said. “We can equip you with a tracking device that is undetectable prior to activation. We will
set the device so that the process of reintegration activates it. Once you are in the lair, the signal will be transmitted,
and we can be there almost instantaneously.”

“Great plan unless he kills me in transit,” Nikko said.

“We shall hope that doesn’t happen.”

“Yeah,” Nikko said. “We shall.”

“You are in agreement, then?”

Nikko nodded. “It’s the best lead so far. But how do I get captured if I can’t get close to him?”

“Simple,” Zephron said with a smile. “You will be in the right place at the right time. And, of course, you’re going to have
to lose a fight. Can you do that?”

“It’ll be tough,” Nikko said, deadpan. “But I think I can manage.”

On Tuesday, Lydia talked herself out of wearing the new outfit Amy had put together for her. The shoes were supposed to arrive
at her office on Wednesday morning by priority shipment, and so she held off, wanting to wow the folks on the fifth floor
with her keen fashion sense. Or, rather,
Amy’s
keen fashion sense.

At ten of six, though, Lydia was wishing she’d tried the outfit after all. For that matter, she was wishing she had the shoes.
Forget the goddess factor, at that point she would have been happy with a placebo effect. Anything to help her stand up to
Darla and her cronies, all of whom had heard that she’d been given a second chance by Mr. Stout.

“Poor Lydia,” Darla had said. “Maybe next time you’ll get your work in on time. And don’t forget about the eight a.m. meeting
tomorrow. After turning in your work late, I can’t see Mr. Stout keeping you on if you blow off a meeting, too.” She pressed
her fingertips to her lips and made kiss-kiss noises. “Just trying to be helpful, Lydia,” she added, her white teeth gleaming
like wet sugar.

Bitch.

But Lydia had only stood there, seething, knowing damn well that she’d turned her work in early, but too chicken to tell Darla
to take a flying leap. More than that,
she’d
actually arranged the details for tomorrow’s meeting, so it was hardly likely she’d miss it. But Darla couldn’t miss an opportunity
to stick in the knife and turn.

“You’re a wimp,” Lydia told herself as she marched down the crowded city sidewalk to catch the train to her tiny apartment.
One of a thousand girls trying to make it in Gotham, Metropolis, the Big Bad City.

And then—in case she thought the day couldn’t get any worse—she stumbled on a subway grate and the heel on her ancient black
pump snapped. She fell forward, skinning her knee and eliciting the kind of curse words that she always swore to her mother
she didn’t know.

Naturally, she hadn’t thought to shove a pair of flip-flops into her tote bag, and so she had to stumble home on one good
shoe, her face burning as construction workers, commuters, and other pedestrians turned to watch her, a few snickering about
her predicament. Since that got old quickly, she took a shortcut down an alley, where a few scary guys in leather jackets,
pants and lots of tattoos ogled her, making colorful (though completely unappealing) suggestions as to ways they could entertain
her sexually.
Ick
. And rather unnerving, too.

She hurried on, head down, as the shouted comments got bolder and more graphic. She clenched her fists, wishing she had the
courage to stand up to them, but knowing she’d be stupid to do so even if she were ballsy enough. Those guys were scum, and
they wouldn’t exactly back off if she decided to stick up for herself. More than likely, they’d decide to make her their girlfriend.
All of them. In turn.

She swallowed, then hurried faster, her hand in her purse so that maybe—just maybe—they’d think she was armed and leave her
alone.

By the time she hobbled off the train a few blocks from her apartment, Lydia was more or less wishing she’d taken the easy
way out and crawled under a rock. She climbed the stairs of the front stoop of her converted brownstone apartment, then slipped
the key in the front door. She checked her mail—nothing—then hurried up three flights of stairs to her apartment. There was
a box sitting in front of her door, and she looked at it curiously. She wasn’t expecting anything except the shoes, and they
weren’t scheduled to arrive at her office until the next morning. Plus, all packages were supposed to be left downstairs.

The package was indeed about the size of a shoebox, and relatively light. She shook it, then checked out the wrapping. No
clues there. The thing was wrapped in brown paper and twine, like an old-fashioned parcel. And although there was a return
address, it only listed a PO box in Queens.

Weird.

Still, a present was a present, and Lydia wasn’t about to turn away this one. Especially not on a day when she could use a
pick-me-up. She took the box into her apartment, peeled off the wrapping, and found an honest-to-goodness shoebox, albeit
one covered in shiny gold foil. Taped to the outside was a notecard, and Lydia opened that first.

We thought you could

use this early . . .

With love,

all of us at Hiheelia

Okaaaaay
.

That was a little bizarre, because how on earth could they change their courier service like that? Then again, Lydia thought,
maybe the policy was to ship early with this little note simply so gullible buyers would believe in all that magical hocus-pocus
stuff. Pretty handy PR tool, when you got right down to it.

Still, she wasn’t inclined to look a gift shoe in the mouth. Especially not a shoe as fabulous as the one she’d picked out
online last night.

Carefully, she opened the box, then peered beneath the gold foil inside. Probably an optical illusion from the way the light
hit the wrapping, but when she first glanced into the box, it almost seemed as if the shoes glowed.

Get a grip, Lydia.

She was beginning to sound like Amy. And as much as she loved her best friend, Lydia really, really,
really
didn’t believe that nonsense about a magical Web site that delivered magical shoes that brought you your heart’s desire.

A nice idea, but she lived in the real world, thank you very much. And in the real world, shoes kept your feet protected,
looked hot, and cost a fortune. And that was pretty much that.

At the moment, it was the looking-hot aspect that interested Lydia the most, and she pulled the top the rest of the way off
the box and gasped in excitement as she saw the soft, supple black leather of the ankle-high lace-up boots she’d picked out
last night.

Lydia picked the left one out of the box where it was nestled in tissue paper, the smooth leather cool to her fingers. She
kicked off her hideous pumps and slipped the boot on, feeling the way the arch cupped her foot and the leather hugged the
shape of her toes.

It laced up the side, the golden cablelike thread hooking through silver eyelets. She laced the left, then slipped on the
right and repeated the procedure. Amy might have her quirks, but she was most definitely a good friend, because while these
shoes might not make Lydia want to go out and kick serious butt, they really did make her feel . . . well . . .
special.

She stood up and walked around the apartment, surprised at how comfortable they were, considering the two-inch heels. She
did a few little pirouettes, laughed like a loon, then headed to the couch, where she kicked back and watched the Tuesday-night
lineup. Maybe not the most exciting night of her life, but at least she was being boring in really cool shoes.