Wearing The Cape: Villains Inc. (12 page)

He kicked me on the bounce, skidding me across the lot before I got control. I came back in under a swing that could splatter a normal person into
dis
-jointed bits and red mist. Obsidian-guy might look
 
brittle, but he wasn’t; it was like punching solid rock. His second swing caught me and threw me, stunned, into the apartment building wall.

“Hope, he’s high A-class! You’re stronger, but he’s tougher!”

“You
think
?” I shook my head, ignoring the gunshots above me, and pulled myself out of the wall. Somehow my cap had stayed on, but my sunglasses were in little bits somewhere and my top was getting holy.

Maybe I couldn’t hurt him, but under his messed-up suit Mr. Statue was cut like Mr. Universe, all overdeveloped
 
muscle. I hoped he was as inflexible.

I dusted myself off.
Be confident.
“Give up?”

He looked up at the hole we’d made coming out. There were no more gunshots.

“To a little girl like you?” He sounded like a soft-spoken avalanche.

“Under the
teeniness
I’m Astra. Give up?”

“And bow to the princess?
Naw
. General warrant—I go into the Block I’m not coming out.”

I launched myself again, and this time I jinxed for the swing. When it whistled by I grabbed his shoulder and flipped behind him, dropped, reached around past his pits, pulled up, and
squeezed
. With his huge pecks, there was no way to lock my hands behind his neck, but strong as I was I didn’t have to. The hold forced his arms up, and I wrapped my legs around his waist and took us up as he squirmed.

The street dropped away as he tried to claw at me, but in my hold he could only reach back over his head—and his bulging muscles didn’t let him reach far enough to even touch me. His feet kicked uselessly. He tried to curl up and my arms burned with the strain, but I kept the hold as we climbed.

“Bitch!” he spat, all coolness gone as the ground dropped away.

And then he screamed. A film of inky shadow poured out of the night and wrapped around him like a living thing, freezing wherever it touched. Then it was gone and he hung in my arms.

Holy mother of God!

I wanted to cross myself. When he sagged, changing into a much lighter person, I almost dropped him.

“Hope? Willis says you can come back now.”

“What was
that
?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve been listening through Willis’
earbug
and Mr. Jones did something.”

Shelly patched through the LA Knight’s dispatch to alert the LAPD of the incident. I had no certification in California, but they remembered January and responded professionally. I stuck the bag behind Mr. Jones’ couch and re-tucked my hair so no platinum strands showed. Amazingly Willis had a second pair of shades for me, and I managed to be over the shakes before they arrived. They took a plain-clothed superhero completely in stride.

The LAPD sent a special
paddywagon
, five squad cars, three ambulances, and two heroes from the LA Guardians since the Knights were still out of town. Most heroes in LA are wannabe Hollywood heroes, and the two they sent were no exception. Warrior, an Atlas-type hero in pressed paramilitary fatigues, liked to loom, while Stasis used her blue and white spandex
catsuit
to show off her gym-and-trainer curves. Warrior’s black beret set off his Tom Cruise looks nicely, inspiring unheard comments from Shelly.

As pretty as they were, they got the job done; Blacktop woke up in the wagon wearing hundred-pound titanium body-cuffs, ready for delivery to The Block, California’s main superhuman containment facility. The paramedics offered Orb a ride to the hospital, but with only a torn scalp she declined. The two minions, on the other hand, hadn’t faired so well. The one who’d had her by the hair when I came through the door had a hole in his gun-hand where her orb had morphed into a needle-sharp lance and stabbed him. He’d been lucky; it could have been his eye. Willis had shot the other one, but only, to use Artemis’ favorite phrase “a little bit.” That little bit had been through both knees.

Statements taken, the cavalry departed (Warrior gave me his card on the way out). Mr. Jones tried to close his broken door, then wandered into his kitchen and came out with two fistfuls of Blue Moon beers. I sat on the old, dusty couch, and politely put the bottle he offered me next to the bag on the stained carpet. Willis took a deep draw on his while Orb sipped hers elegantly. She’d restored her hair as much as possible to hide the bandages.

“So,” Mr. Jones said. “Thank you?” His voice rasped from the near-throttling.

“Not yet,” I said. “What did you
do
?” Blacktop had been sloppy-crying when they closed the doors on him. Mr. Jones had only answered the police with questions.

“I gave him fear. It’s called Death’s Shadow, I just had to be able to speak.”

“Death? Fear? You saw the face of
God
and you’re one of the bad guys?”

He looked at me over his bottle. “I didn’t ask for it. And death and fear aren’t evil—they’re part of the world. Necessary. I use
Kurtael’s
energies to balance the Words inside me, to ground me. What are you afraid of?”

I realized my hands were shaking again.
Okay then
.

“Killing somebody,” I said, returning his stare. “Have you ever killed anybody?” I still dreamed about Volt and woke with cold sweats.

He looked away, taking another swig, but Orb tag-teamed for him.

“So what brought you back?” she challenged me.

“Blackstone. He’s going to die because I was
nice
.” I focused on Mr. Jones. “You said you didn’t think you could help, didn’t want to try, and I accepted it because I was raised that way. But you’re the only real possibility I have right now and I’m so not going to bury my friend. So here’s a carrot.” I shoved the bag across the floor with my foot. “Fifty thousand dollars, enough to float you to nirvana for
months
. And the stick’s in there too.”

He opened the bag, pulled out a copy of his police record, and looked at me. Despite my resolve I flushed, but I pushed on.

“The people of California just passed the Watch List bill, and it puts any superhuman with a police record on probation. With your drug and disturbance arrests, all I’ve got to do is pass the word about your enlightenment and you’ll have the LAPD climbing up your
butt
. Try and get your prescriptions filled then.”

Willis took a breath, impressed or ready to fight. Or both.

“And you don’t think I owe you now?” Mr. Jones asked.

“I don’t know you well enough to count on gratitude.”

He nodded. “You’re on somebody’s watch-list yourself. They were here because of you. Wanted to know why you were talking to a PI in LA. And to me. Making someone nervous?”

He kicked the bag back. “We both have sticks.” Orb made a noise, and he put a hand on her knee.

“But I owe somebody something now. You can buy me a ticket to Chicago. Two.”

Willis and I were back on the street five minutes later. The police and the news-wagons were long gone, the neighbors out of sight. Somebody left us a parking ticket.

Superheroes aren’t agents of the law, and most of what they do is in the area of emergency response, but since they are known for making citizens’ arrests, engaging in hot pursuit, and exercising warrants where
superhumans
are involved, the distinction is often lost on the public. Police departments are
very
aware of the distinction, and even the most professional and diplomatic CAI hero will occasionally find himself having to step carefully with the legal authorities.

Blackstone,
Operation and Procedures.

I flew in late enough to count as early, and crept into bed without waking Mom and Dad.
Graymalkin’s
whiskers woke me the next morning, tickling my chin. Stretching, I winced. Gray protested when I put him off the bed and got up, and I wanted to yowl too when I looked in the mirror. A beautiful blue shiner looked back at me. It matched my bruised knuckles; hitting Blacktop had
hurt
.

I considered makeup for two seconds, and sighed. It wouldn’t fool the
parentals
.

Putting my hair in a quick pony-tail, I threw on jeans and a t-shirt and bolted downstairs, headed for the door. No luck. “Hope?” Mom called from the kitchen as I reached the open front door.

“
Gotta
run!” I yelled over my shoulder, then yelped as I ran into Dad. I hadn’t been pushing it, but he
oofed
as I bounced off him. He dropped the paper and grabbed me for balance.

“Dad!”

“Hope!” he mimicked, chuckling, then froze in the act of reaching for the paper. His grip on my elbow tightened and he closed the door, leaving the paper on the porch.

“You should see the other guy?” I quipped desperately.

“I think I should,” he said. And meant it.

“No! He’s in LA, in the Block!”

“I have lots of frequent-flier miles,” he replied. The floorboards creaked as he started to change.

“Darling, don’t embarrass Hope,” Mom said from behind me, putting a stop to that. Rescued!

My family’s big on sports, but Dad had
hated
my playing field hockey. Once I’d gotten kneecapped in the middle of a scrum and the referee had ignored the foul. Dad had carried me off the field, which had been embarrassing enough when I remembered it later, but
then
he’d been all over the ref once my knee was wrapped. It’s not often parents get banned from games.

Dad reversed himself before going full Iron Jack—a good thing since he was dressed for the office and the change would have burst his buttons and blown out his shoes. Still holding my elbow, he turned me about so Mom could see. She touched my cheek,
 
and sighed.

“Shelly said you’d gotten in a fight. Let’s all sit down.”

“Shelly?” Dad said, lost.

“Yes, dear. Shelly’s come home,” Mom said, as easily as if she’d said
Toby’s moving back in.
She steered us back to the kitchen, where her laptop lay open on the table, and sat Dad down in front of it.

“Hi Mr. C!” Shelly said. Priceless.

By the time the conversation came back around to my shiner, Dad had calmed down. I was able to pass off the LA trip as research for Blackstone, and he even nodded approvingly when he heard how the fight went. But the idea of my getting into fights where there was no ready backup didn’t sit well.

Mom stepped in before he could scold me.

“You really must be more careful of your secret identity, dear,” she said. I sighed, nodding; she was right—the only thing Blacktop didn’t know about me now was my name and hair-color. That sidetracked Dad; he still hoped I’d get tired of it and give up the superhero life, become a reservist—a
lot
harder to do if my civilian identity got out.

“No worries, Mrs. C.” Shelly said. “I called in a favor. A friend paid a visit to the Block, and Blacktop remembers her as an older brunette now. And lots chestier.”