I don't even have to ponder that one for long.
A blink and a wish later and I'm standing in the cramped bathroom of the spare bedroom, a hideaway no bigger than a closet which Morris showed me during the grand tour of the apartment, right before Graham started pitching expensive place settings through the wall and housewarming fell by the wayside. “And since we plan on having so very many guests,” Morris said dryly, gifting me with a knowing glance that made me fight the urge to immediately teleport home, “I'm sure we could hide the Hope Diamond and a substantial supply of yellow-cake uranium in the toilet tank and no one would ever find it.”
Sometimes, I wonder if that man is psychic or just always planning ahead out of habit.
I topple the box of tissues from atop the toilet tank and lift the lid, peering inside with thinly veiled disgust. I swear, the things I do for these people. At least it's not at the bottom of the toilet bowl, I suppose, although I don't rate this much higher.
Sure enough, something catches what dim light is available and issues a sparkling greeting from the depths of the murky water. Not bothering to think too hard about what I'm doing, I slam my eyes shut in disgust and plunge my hand into the tank, fumbling blindly until cool metal brushes my fingertips. I snatch up whatever it is, unsurprised when I pull it out to reveal a common house key, a rubber cover encasing the top.
Wonderful. Now if only I knew what door out of the hundreds of millions on the planet it's meant to open. He certainly wouldn't hide a key for any door in the apartment in the well of his toilet tank. So what's left?
A wracking cough shakes through me, brought on by a sudden curtain of smoke sweeping through the spare bedroom. I tuck the key away in my bra – my outfits rarely have pockets, but you can't go anywhere without decent support when you've got a chest like mine – and take a shallow breath of ash-soaked air, readying myself to teleport to safety.
I stop before I go, shaking my head. No, I can't just leave. Not without knowing who's destroying the last vestiges of my father's life with Morris.
I only give myself a split second, just enough to catch a quick glimpse of the perpetrator and hasten my exit before I go up in flames like a bottle rocket. I pop from the bathroom to the stretch of hallway right behind him, a blur of red-orange heat in my mind's eye. If I leap quickly enough, hop in there and out again, I should be able to refrain from lighting up like a Roman candle and be able to identify the guilty party before making a break for it. I've done it before, surviving freezing conditions in a clinging thin wiggle dress, escaping without a scratch from supernovas. It should be nothing.
And it is, a single peek in and out before I teleport home. It should be routine.
Except I know it isn't as soon as I see the familiar red, orange and gold SLB-issued costume on the person.
I reappear in my bedroom at the penthouse with an audible whoosh, an errant fog of smoke trailing after me through the tear in reality I traveled through. I slap at the air to disperse the smoke, focusing on fanning the smell from the air rather than on the firestarter I recognized instantly once I could see him past the whipping smoke and bubbling flames.
Flashpoint.
What in heaven's name is a hero and a Brigade member doing scorching away the last remnants of my father's hidden life?
I rest my hands on my hips and says softly, “Oh, this is not good.”
I find Hazel a few minutes later, tucked in an out-of-the-way corner away from the mingling party guests pointedly ignoring her, paying more attention to one of my mother's more expensive Aztec pieces than to anything else in the room. She jerks her head up before she even looks my way, sniffing at the air with a disgusted look on her face.
As soon as she spots me she takes another sniff and declares, “You smell like a marshmallow roast at summer camp. What the hell happened?”
“Don't ask,” I say. If I tell her I just left a spreading conflagration, I'm just going to get my head ripped off.
Thankfully, she doesn't prod, at least not about that. “Find anything interesting?”
I remove the key from my bodice and pass it over.
She stares at it for a long moment, then frowns. “Is that a no?”
“Hell if I know,” I mutter. “That key could be for anything.”
“It looks like a regular old house key,” Hazel says, picking at the stiff rubber key cover until it starts to flake off in jagged little chunks. She narrows her eyes at the revealed metal, and I peer over her shoulder at the letters and numbers engraved in the bow of the key.
rr4b2
I narrow my eyes in confusion. “Great. What's that supposed to mean?”
The corners of Hazel's lips quirk upward. “You are such a city girl,” she says. “That looks a rural route address. It's for a country road.”
I open my mouth to ask why Morris would have a key for some mysterious place located on a country road, but immediately slam it shut again when the answer dawns on me, dark and ominous. Morris's idea of roughing it involves having to suffer through tea steeped in bags or being forced to compose explosives from manure, so he isn't one to visit the countryside much. In fact, the only time he comes remotely near the countryside is when he visits my cafe.
My random musings about why he would bother to drive all the way out to Tea and Strumpets for espresso and dulce de leche suddenly feel dim in retrospect. Of course he wasn't there just for me. He was there for whatever special secret he'd hidden out in the middle of nowhere.
I hiss out a curse as I snatch the key away from Hazel and tuck it back into my bra. Supervillains usually only hide one thing large enough to warrant keys and addresses. “I swear to all that is holy, I will bring him back specifically to kill him myself,” I mutter.
Hazel makes a face. “Come again?”
I shake my head. I'd rather not spread stories out of school until I'm sure.
“Miss?”
I turn to see one of the cater waiters holding out a tray with a deep purple drink in a hurricane glass. “I was asked to bring you this by a gentleman who wishes to remain nameless,” he says.
Call me crazy, but it looks to me like the same sort of grape smoothies I receive every time I visit the Fairness Brigade.
Frowning, I take the drink from the tray and immediately search for the person who ordered it sent my way. Unsurprisingly, a familiar bald head catches my eye, moving towards the front door.
John Camden?
It's not that John doesn't have a reason to be here. He's worked for the Brigade for decades now, a constant presence. I think I've seen him more than I've seen either one of my grandmothers. He's signed my permission slips for school when Dad was too busy giving entire armies of minions permanent amnesia with the power of his mind. John's a fixture in our lives, and it's a shame that a sarcastic voice in my head feels the need to pipe up that my parents might consider that “fixture” designation in terms of furniture rather than sentimentality.
But I've yet to see anybody at this party without superpowers, a massive bank account, or a job to do, Hazel being the sole exception. John doesn't get invited to these parties. As loyal and reliable as he may be, he stands out just as blatantly as Hazel. However, Hazel is someone's date. John, no matter how close to the family he may be, will always be seen as the help.
My gaze follows John as I absently sip the smoothie out of habit and ignore the annoyed look on Hazel's face. “I'm sorry, am I invisible? You have a date. Why the hell are you getting anonymous drinks from strange men?”
“You realize we're not really dating, right?” I ask.
Hazel just whispers something under her breath my mother would probably not appreciate hearing.
I take another sip of the smoothie, then frown. The underlying bite of something added to the usual flavors suddenly stands out like I've struck a vein of it threaded through the drink.
I'll be damned, the son of a bitch laced my drink with baconyl.
Baconyl is a rare chemical derivative of baconite. It's almost impossible to produce, only generated by two research labs, three superhero teams, and one supervillain, all of whom possess the secret process to make it. Unlike its source mineral, baconyl is practically powerless once it's been diluted into a cold liquid save for one important strength. Whatever the process entails, the resultant additive blocks other people's superhuman abilities from affecting you rather than negatively impacting your own powers. Therefore, it's the one drug that can keep my father out of your mind even if you want him in there, an impenetrable brick wall in your head that no amount of effort on his part has ever been able to break down. Dad keeps that particular information a close-kept secret for obvious reasons, and possession and use of baconyl is highly regulated by everyone from local governments to the international division of the SLB.
There's only six people alive who know that other than my father – my abuela
Noble, Mom, Graham, me, John, and … Morris. Right.
If John's slipping me baconyl, he knows damn well there's something wrong with Dad.
John pauses before reaching the door and suddenly heads for the far hallway. It takes me a moment to realize it's my mother leading him in that direction, her dark brown hair whipping out behind her as she jerks him away from the rest of the party.
“That's not the point, Vera –”
I snatch her sparkling cider from her hand and place both of our drinks on the nearest flat surface, then latch onto Hazel's wrist. “Try to look like you like me,” I say, and haul her down the hallway towards the bedrooms.
I should expect her not to listen, especially to such an insipid instruction like that. I'm hoping she'll act flirty and silly, pretend to be buzzed from champagne, virtually harmless. It's the only distraction I can think of, I'll admit, but I'm not surprised when Hazel doesn't play along. “What? You 're not seriously dragging me off to –“
I spin her around in the middle of the hallway, my arm tucked around her waist, and press her in a corner I remember well. The nook right where the hall turns back towards the living room is shadowed just so you can make out with someone and not be recognized unless someone sneaks right up beside you. I should know. After all, why come out to your parents when they can just stumble onto your sixteen-year-old self during a party tucked away in a dark corner with your hand under the shirt of one of the cater waitresses, right?
As soon as I position her just the right way, concealed in the shadows, just two indistinguishable humanoid shapes moving against one another, something clicks in Hazel's mood. “Oh,” she sighs as I hide my face in the crook of her neck.
From here, she has a clear view of my mom and John at the far end of the hallway, the two of them clearly not paying attention to either one of us. It's easy to ignore us, really. The hallway curves in a blocky U, the only dimly lit part of the penthouse even in the middle of the day. “What are they doing?” I whisper into her hair.
Hazel's head tilts towards mine, cushioned against my curls, close enough for her lowered voice to be heard over the echoing cheers and clapping coming from the balcony. “Arguing, it looks like.”
“Do they see us?”
“Fuck, I hope not,” she murmurs, and I almost pull away. She stiffens before I move, lacing her fingers around my wrist and hastily adds, “No, they don't.” She tucks closer to me for a moment, burrowing her face in the dark veil of my hair, and I find myself distracted by her casual closeness right before she hisses in a breath and blurts, “Okay, I might be losing my mind, but I think your mom just tried to kiss him.”
I rear back out of shock, gaping down the hall in an effort to catch a glimpse of my mother and John Camden.
And that's when all hell breaks loose.
12.
Superheroes develop different reflexes than normal humans do. My father spent hours with me when I was a kid training me to leap without thinking when guns fired or explosions shook the ground anywhere near me. I don't have an active power, something I can expertly wield in a fight like superstrength or incredible speed or telekinesis. I just know how to run.
The explosive device goes off with a distinct crack and whizz, close enough for government work to the sound of a gunshot.
I teleport out of the penthouse and onto the balcony with Hazel in my arms before I know what I'm doing.
“What the sweet holy fuck was that?” she yells, mostly straight in my ear. She almost pushes away from me until she notices just how close we are to the stone railing, at which point she practically climbs over me in a futile attempt to escape. A stream of curses even more venomous than usual pours past her lips. She's never been much of a fan of heights.
Over her shoulder, I can see party guests stumbling out of the sliding glass doors onto the open-air patio, gasping for breath as they emerge from the choking cloud. There's no flames at all that can be seen from where we stand, just billowing gray smoke clogging the exit.
Hazel's blunt nails dig into my arms.
Before I can begin to contemplate just how massive the resulting blowup will be, I teleport her down to the lobby.
“Wait here,” I say, then pop back to the balcony before she can stop me.
Oh, that's going to bite me in the ass later.
When I reappear back on the balcony, just far enough from the smoldering exit not to be obtrusive to the escaping crowd, the penthouse is in a restrained sort of chaos. Ignoring the well-practiced responses to any emergency ingrained in the majority of us by now, we still cling to a naïve expectation that villains and their petty minions will hold off on attacking during social events like weddings and bar mitzvahs. It's stupid to believe so and we all know it, but it doesn't wipe the stunned expressions from the faces of the party guests tripping on their way out to the clear air on the balcony.
Heroes I don't recognize – some too young, others probably having moved to the city after I left – fly the guests to a rooftop across the street, much to the apparent delight of the cheering crowds below. I wonder briefly if they honestly believe this is all just a show, a cheap pantomime by their stalwart protectors for their entertainment. I wouldn't put it past them. When I broke up with Edward in front of the Icarus Theater downtown, a screaming match that even put some of my arguments with Hazel to shame, the gawking crowd applauded when it was over.
I can't see my parents anywhere, a minor shock. They could be inside making sure no one's hurt and left behind, ensuring that the place won't burn to the ground, but a weighted suspicious chill settles on my shoulders just the same.
When Nate emerges from the double doors with Chester's arm slung over his shoulder, I hurry over without thinking, throwing Chester's other arm around my neck.
Nate shoots me a disappointed grimace. “Aw, hell, Vera, don't you have any faith in my ability to do my damn job? Chester here only weighs, what, eighty pounds or so?”
“One hundred and two,” Chester chokes out in between coughs, clearly offended.
Nate's lips twist into a sarcastic smile. “Oh, yeah, that's just beefy right there,” he drawls.
I shift my weight just enough for Chester to slump sideways, his camera swinging my way and banging against my midsection, and teleport over to the other rooftop with him before Nate can start in on me again.
It only takes a second to pass Chester off to someone else and pop back to the penthouse, the time between jumps so swift that Nate barely gets a chance to stop cursing in my wake before I reappear at his side. He starts when I flicker through the tear in space my initial departure left behind, a rough-edged portal only another teleporter could sense, and I get a resigned shake of the head from Nate for my troubles.
“I ain't never going to get used to that again, you know that?”
“Where are my parents?”
“Hell if I know,” he says, dodging to the side to let Whirlpool past so she can fan out the smoke with her powers. “Your mom and dad lit out of here not long after that damn thing went off. Everett tried to blow all of the smoke out of the penthouse with his mind, but no such luck. And Ivy … well, your guess is as good as mine.”
I frown, wondering if anyone else finds Dad's inability to filter out the smoke with his telekinesis or his sudden disappearance all that strange. But by now the balcony's been mostly emptied, only a few stragglers still left behind, all too busy coughing and waiting for a ride to look for Dad. “Dad couldn't draw the smoke out? That's not exactly a complicated feat for him.”
“Give the man a little slack, peaches. It's not like it's not crawling with superhumans up in here. And the place ain't even burning. If I didn't know any better I'd think the caterers were just a little overenthusiastic cooking the hor d'oeuvres.” Nate rubs a few smudges of soot from his face. He looks none the worse for wear and isn't coughing, neither of which is a surprise. He gives the rapidly dissipating smoke a dark look. “I didn't know any better, I'd call it your average everyday smokescreen. You sure your folks didn't just want all of us to clear the hell out a little early before anybody started rummaging through your mama's underwear drawers?”
My answering laugh might come off a bit too hysterical, but hopefully I'm the only who notices. “Right. Like my parents have anything to hide.”
Nate chuckles. “Hell, if anybody didn't need a smokescreen to hold his cards close to his chest, it'd be Everett.”
I nod absently, avoiding his gaze.
My father is the most powerful telepath on the planet, his abilities so powerful my grandmother still claims that he made wordless mental demands while in the womb that were so loud they dropped her to her knees. His autobiography tells of a strained childhood drowning in other people's petty desires and the hateful thoughts they'd never be so crass as to speak out loud. He once told me that until he learned how to dial it back, it was like waking up every morning to a Nazi smothering you with a pillow while shouting bigoted epithets in your ear to the point of deafness.
All I knew of my daddy growing up, of course, was that he was wise and polite, quiet and strong, and that he'd never ever read my mind, not even if he needed to in an emergency. I can't imagine any other man suddenly dropping into Dad's shoes who would behave with such restraint, not without the decades of intense practice Dad has under his belt. It'd probably drive them completely out of their minds, either with power or genuine madness.
The abrupt change in Dad's demeanor comes back to me then, its unwanted alien smugness, and I almost frantically look for something else to focus on. Now's simply not the time to dwell on that. “Did John get out?”
Nate frowns. “Come again?”
“I said –”
“Darling, you're all right!”
Mom comes out of nowhere, pouncing on me like an enthusiastic jungle cat and wrapping her arms around me in a clinging embrace. I stiffen up immediately, unused to this as always, and shoot Nate a pleading look over her shoulder. He manages not to laugh – but only barely – before he wanders off to go check on the lingering party guests.
“I've been looking everywhere for you,” she says, stumbling over her overly loud words. “I flew over to the other rooftop but you weren't there, and then –”
“Mom, I can teleport, for heaven's sake. I think I can get away from something as simple as a little smoke.”
She pulls away, already shaking her head in understanding. Fat glistening tears well in her eyes, and I almost jerk out of her grasp at the odd sight. “Can we talk? Just a moment? I just want to make sure you're in one piece, that's all.” She strokes my cheek, her wedding ring leaving a cool streak across my skin, and adds, “I worry.”
I'm bitter enough to want to snap at her, to bite back that maybe if she were so damn worried about me she might have tried picking up a phone or sending me an email or even just bothered to mention me in any of the People articles she's granted the magazine since I left the city, but somehow I manage to rein myself in. “Yes, of course,” I murmur.
She hugs me again, and for just a moment, I'm duped. Her toned arms slip around my chest like this isn't some weird social construct we just don't do, like we actually are this touchy-feely without the encouragement of cameras and a large crowd. I nearly fall for it.
“Take us to your apartment,” she suddenly growls into my ear, her grip on me tightening to the point of pain. “
Now
.”
I don't even question her whirling mood swings. I just jump.
We land in my living room, a gentle ride considering how winded I'm beginning to get. I stifle my surprise that we don't end up sprawled across my bed in a jumbled mess, and I smooth down my dress as my mother steps away from me. My dress was already a disaster before we left. Now it's almost a lost cause. I'm definitely going to have to apologize profusely to my dry cleaner before she takes care of this. I might even have to bring along wine and a platter of cookies the next time I take my clothes to Betsy's shop just to butter her up.
”You didn't have to squeeze me so tight.” I say.
“I didn't break anything, did I?” Mom crosses her arms and gives her head an imperious toss, sending her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. She gives the apartment a dismissive once-over, sneering derisively at the antique furniture and the ever-present scent of old books. When she speaks, her tone is chilly and distant. “You are not to mention John showing up at the party to your father, do you hear me?”
I can't help but heave a sigh of relief. Now this feels familiar. “Oh, there you are,” I say.
“Don't start with me,” she shoots back. “And it's no wonder you couldn't find me. Not talking to a person for five years can certainly make it difficult to identify them when you run into them again.”
“The phone works both ways, Mom,” I mention, settling down on the couch. Any bit of rest I can get after the day I've had I'll gladly take, even if I have to deal with my mother while I settle into it.
She sniffs. “Knowing full well this is the sort of reception I would get? I'd rather drive nails through my eyes.”
Typical Mom. Everything is more of an elaborate drama in her eyes than it is in anyone else's. “What were you doing at the party with John Camden?”
“I thought you might have seen us,” she says. The way she makes it sound, I must have spent the entire party shadowing her, waiting for her to do something maddening and accusatory.
“Actually, Hazel was the one who saw you.”
She stiffens at that, an odd reaction as far as I see it. If my mother really is having an affair with John Camden, I can't see her being the least bit ashamed by it. “Did she? Do I now have another problem on my hands keeping that scrawny excuse for a future daughter-in-law from racing off to the tabloids with her story? She's not calling them up now, is she? Maybe your relationship is all a lie and she's secretly nailing Chester on the side so they can work together to –“
“Oh, for heaven's sake, Mom, have you become a conspiracy theorist while I've been gone or have you just taken to watching telenovelas with Abuela?”
“You try living a double life and see how you like it,” she snaps.
I'm not even about to touch that one. “Hazel said she thinks she saw you trying to kiss John.”
She almost laughs. “Yeah, well, worked out as well as can be expected,” she mutters.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
Mom freezes, and if I were a betting woman I'd think she wasn't supposed to have admitted that. She chooses instead to go with her instinct, whirling on me and declaring, “Don't you dare tell your father that John was even at that party. He's got too many other things on his plate right now, and he doesn't need you distracting him.”
“You're lying,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. I know her tells well enough by now – the way her fingers tremble and grab at her dress so tightly the fabric audibly tears is a big one. I imagine if I checked with the Brigade I'll find Dad has been ducking his responsibilities, and that no one but my mother knows what he's been doing for at least a couple of days.
“I have enough practice for it, don't I?” she says.
A moment later, she's gone. A stiff breeze rattles the contents of my apartment, shaking the curtains and threatening to knock the books from the shelves in the living room.
“Damn it,” I say, angry as hell that I didn't expect this out of her. It's not like she has to wait for me to take her back to the city. She can speed out and fly back whenever she felt like it. If anyone knows how to get in the last word in an argument, it's my mother.
There's nothing I can do about Mom after she's left, of course, other than settle into a strange sort of relief. The real Ivy Noble is still in there hiding behind the excited smiles and dreamy gazes she's been shooting my father ever since this whole tragedy started. I shouldn't be so comforted that my mother's being an utter bitch to me again, but I suppose it's not my family unless I leave feeling graceless, inferior, and exhausted. On the bright side, I don't have to go anywhere right now, so –