Heroine Addiction (8 page)

I embrace the loyal faith in my abilities, but it's still a bit disconcerting being left to your own devices at a time like this.

“So,” I say far too brightly, swiping at another fleck of blood on the inside curve of the bridge of his nose, “what exactly did you do to yourself?”

He winces at the press of the cloth against his blackening eye. “I did exactly what you suggested,” he says, shooting me a glance that silently informs me just how wretchedly guilty I should feel about that.

I pause in mid-swipe. “You went to Mom's place?”

“I was waiting for them at the penthouse when they returned from their night out,” he says. He doesn't bother to mention the robots. “You did say Everett was with her and suggest I should go take care of it myself, didn't you?”

Something feels off about his story already, not even taking into account the unsettling way his eyes shift to avoid mine. I tip my head down to try to catch his gaze. His injuries are relatively innocuous. He's upright, he's conscious, he's not suffering from anything more serious than he would have achieved on a busy day of light villainy.

It's a sign. If my mother had been the one to give him those black eyes, they wouldn't just be black eyes. With enough incentive to start a fight with Morris in the first place, Mom would have punched him hard enough to put a fist through his skull. Or to put his skull through a steel-reinforced brick wall.

Somebody with normal to slightly-stronger-than-normal strength did this. Someone who would have been with Mom when Morris searched for her.

“He wouldn't,” I hear myself say.

“Apparently, he would.” Morris sounds like he can't decide whether to be sad or bitter, and just settles for exhaustion instead.

I bolt to my feet, the urge to pace off my anxious energy overwhelming me. Morris watches me with uneasy intrigue, my hands absently wringing as I try to work out how this would even be possible. Even outside of a costume, Everett Noble keeps his cool no matter how dire the situation. His superhuman mental abilities lead him to more intellectual pursuits, to tranquil hobbies and a lack of overreaction. He plays Go and chess and enjoys reading biographies of great superheroes throughout history like Mad Markos or Teddy the Bear. In his everyday life out of the spandex, he's never punched anyone.

My heels clack against the hardwood floor as I pace.

“Dad wouldn't hit you.”

“Your father,” Morris says, “wouldn't even hit me when we were mortal enemies.”

“So why would he hit you now?”

“Perhaps there was a fly on my nose and he wanted to guarantee he killed it?”

I ignore his sarcasm and ask, “What did you say right before he hit you?”

He pretends to sink into deep thought, the wry tilt of his grimace a sign that there's only more aggravation to come in the near future. “I believe the incendiary insult I said to warrant that enjoyable beating was something along the lines of, 'Hello.'”

“Hello?”

“Yes, clearly I was asking for it,” he says dryly, clasping his hands and resting his forearms on his knees.

Sighing, I mutter, “I didn't say that.”

“And I don't believe you meant it, either.”

I pause in the middle of the cafe's reading area, leveling my gaze at Morris, searching for anything flip in his words or expression. There's nothing. He might be sore and bruised, he might be angry and depressed and weary all at once, but he doesn't believe that I'd enjoy seeing him this miserable. I should probably take that as a compliment.

“I apologize for implying as much,” he says with grudging graciousness. He runs his palms over the crisp pressed pleat in his trousers. “I have not exactly had the best of weeks, and so far you've been the only person who's listened to me and not responded to said conversation with violence. Sad as it is, you're currently the closest thing I have to a friend.”

“That,” I tell him, “is the most depressing thing I think you've ever said to me.”

Morris's smile almost breaks my heart. Almost.

“Trust me,” he says. “I've noticed.”

I rest a hip against one of the booths and cross my arms, drumming the fingers of one hand against my skin as I ponder just what this all means. Dad, who's secretly shared a bed with Morris for the past five years, would never break up with him at the end of a fist, no matter how disastrous their breakup might be. Dad didn't get angry, he got quiet. You knew you were in trouble when he wouldn't even speak to you, when you were lucky if he acknowledged your existence at all.

All I can picture is the smug smile stretching across his face as he stood atop the felled robot, how out of character it appeared. It felt like he stole it from someone else to wear, some sort of macabre mask belonging on some happier person's face.

“Robot.”

Morris flinches when I speak, his attention obviously yanked away from whatever guilty memory he might be dwelling on. He shakes his head when he figures out what I mean. “I don't think so. Not unless we're talking about someone with more advanced knowledge of robotics than I have.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Not exactly unlikely. You haven't been allowed to touch anything electronic that's any more complicated than a garage door opener while you've been on probation.”

Morris responds with a brilliant smile that almost forces me to rear back in confusion. “I think I may take your belief that I've been very well-behaved the past few years as a compliment.”

It isn't, but whatever cheers him up right now, I suppose.

“What about clones?”

“I'm not sure,” he says. “I wasn't quite double-checking to make sure his scars were all accounted for at the time.”

I mentally race through the other options, a lengthier list than I'd like to admit. Villains can be creative, and replacing someone with a malleable dupe who'll follow your every order to the letter is easier than it used to be. There's a reason every superhero team genetically tests every member a dozen times over the course of the day. Sometimes paranoia means people really are out to get you and replace you with an evil twin.

“Brainwashing?”

“Oh, anything's possible.”

“Or maybe it could be amnesia?”

Morris sighs, rising to his feet and stretching with a muffled wince. “My dear, if you're already trying to figure out just what is causing Everett's odd behavior, far be it from me to interrupt you. I guess now would be an excellent time for me to leave you to your investigation.”

Investigation? Oh, he can't possibly think … but I can't …

He grins at the play of confused emotions on my face, adjusting his bowler hat on his head in the large mirror on the wall behind my head. “Vera, I imagine it's unsettling to hear this from a reformed villain, but I know you better than you think. I'll bet you've buried yourself in work since returning from the city and have yet to discontinue your SLB registration. And your father upset you as much as he upset me.” A moment later, he gingerly runs his fingertips over one black eye and frowns in morbid amusement. “Well, maybe not quite as much as me.”

I shift my weight uncomfortably from one foot to another. Whatever is wrong with my father, the profuse apologies to Morris when this is all over may never end.

“I think I'll leave you to your miniature Woodstock, then,” Morris says. He turns to leave.

“I'm astounded that you don't plan on helping out,” I blurt out. Morris has never been the sort to let others do his dirty work for him.

Morris pauses in the doorway, not looking back. “I think I'd do more harm than good if I got involved, don't you?”

I picture his black eyes and split lip and squeeze the slightly damp and bloodstained rag in my hand as if to remind myself it's there.

With a subtle touch of his fingers to the brim of his hat, Morris leaves me alone with my thoughts and my coffee pots and my abandoned past catching up to me like a gathering avalanche.

7.

It's only after I make a few phone calls to reassure Dixie and Tara that I'm in one piece and that I've officially closed the cafe for the night, and after I migrate to the relative safety of my apartment, that I finally allow myself to freak right the hell out.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” I say to the empty space in the apartment, only barely resisting the urge to kick something. I'm wearing open-toed shoes and it would only make my day just that much worse if I crack a toe, too, while I'm at it. I've never been the most reliable under pressure, and this certainly qualifies. Most of the time, I resort to tension breakers, like screaming at the top of my lungs or hitting something. That usually does the trick.

Frustrated, I stomp into my kitchen and I do the first thing which comes to mind, fishing a drinking glass out of the drying rack and throwing it against the far wall. Hard.

It's a good thing I have neither pets nor small children, that's all I've got to say.

Sweeping up the shattered remains of the glass from my kitchen floor is the usual wind-down after the cathartic explosion, giving me some time to shake off my restlessness. I'm used to this sort of reaction to tragic news or stressful situations. Breaking up with Hazel left my entire china set in ruins, along with the inexpensive set I hastily purchased at Wal-Mart to replace it. That set of dishes didn't survive the return visit from Hazel the next day, a destructive response to her futile attempt to either apologize to me or receive an apology from me. I've never been quite sure which, but I suppose a few trashed plates are less of a hassle than a broken fist and a hole in my wall.

I feel infinitely better as soon as I dump the jagged pieces of glass into my garbage can and shut the lid. The way I see it, I'm allowed the occasional dip into my mother's tantrum-throwing gene pool, as long as I get out and dry off before I have nothing left off with which to eat.

Now, of course, it's time to grow up and get back to the business of freelance superhuman private investigation.

A half-hour later, I'm starting to seriously ponder why I ever agreed to do this.

The constant low murmur from the television is the only sound in the apartment, unless you count the intermittent scratches of my pen across the brown shipping paper I've taped to my living room wall to allow me a central place to collect my thoughts. I'll freely admit to stealing the shipping paper idea from Troy, who mentioned it once in passing to Dixie. He told her he worked visually, needing to sketch out places or print out pictures to truly bring the characters in his mind to life. For some reason, the idea stuck with me.

I've tuned the television to one of the 24-hour news networks, the one most likely to feature even the most insignificant story about my dad and least likely to call him a Satan-worshiping terrorist anchor baby when they talk about him. My laptop sits open on the coffee table. I've been regularly refreshing the official website of the Fairness Brigade in one tab and the “Superhumans” section of my favored news site in another. I've been out of the loop for far too long. I can already tell. I don't even recognize half of the names who are listed on TMZ as attending this movie premiere or saving that burning orphanage.

According to the TV news, this morning a trio of younger superheroes rescued a group of terrified schoolchildren from the mutant tentacled narwhal who routinely attacks the East Coast around this time of the year. I'm positive just from looking at the three costumed boys beaming gleefully for the national news cameras that I have milk in my refrigerator that came into existence before they did.

“I feel old,” I grumble at the boys on TV.

I don't think the pout I make over that realization really helps me feel any younger.

Another thing that doesn't exactly improve my mood is the current list of possibilities I've compiled as to who or what might have commandeered my father's body and personal life. It feels incomplete, but that could just be because five years away from active superheroism doesn't lend one to up-to-date information on the latest infiltration techniques.

WHO IS DAD?

1
.
Robot/android/cyborg

2
.
Clone/evil twin

3
.
Brainwashed

4
.
Time travel/replaced with younger version

5
.
Drugs/alcohol/allergic reaction to nerve gas

6
.
Alternate universe version

7
.
Shapeshifter

8
.
He's the same Everett Noble he's always been.

The last one unnerves me, mostly because it's not outside of the realm of possibility for Dad to have simply changed his mind. He is human, after all, superpowers be damned. He's certainly allowed to decide that the secret life he's been living for the past few years has been both a lie and a hassle, and that he's neither in love with Morris nor willing to fake it for the sake of the status quo. After all, the only person who'd be hurt by his decision would be Morris, and if he did fall out of love with Morris, who would care or even know to give a damn at all?

It's a horrible, cruel option to consider. Something about the potential of my father treating Morris with such callous disregard makes my stomach swim queasily. And I don't even
like
Morris.

I rest my bottom on the arm of the couch, tapping my pen against my lips as I study the carefully organized notes I've scrawled on the shipping paper over the past hour or so. I do better when I can almost literally connect the dots. I've checked off the numerous reasons for why my father could be behaving the way he is. I've written down every suspect who could possibly desire to replace Everett Noble regardless of motive or lack thereof – Morris, my family, the Brigade – and the only person I've been able to eliminate is myself.

I suppose I could take it as a good sign that I've accomplished that much, even if it's something so painfully obvious as establishing that at least I'm not the culprit in question.

“I'm awful at this, aren't I?” I say to my empty apartment. “That's why I quit. Because this is way too difficult for any sane person to do by themselves.”

I glare at the wall and think forlornly that perhaps I need to break another glass.

One trip to the kitchen and two destroyed coffee mugs later, I make my way back into the living room just in time to see my brother's distinctive costume of red, black and gold dart across my television screen, a shot from a news story labeled “Superhero Arrested?” in scrolling text.

I can't get to the remote to raise the volume fast enough.

“– was taken into custody only an hour ago, according to numerous reports from sources close to the Superhero Licensing Bureau. Fortress surrendered willingly to the proper authorities, but no reason for his arrest have been released as of yet. We will update with more information as it becomes available. However, as of right now, all we know is that Fortress, the son of supercouple Paladin and Wavelength, has been taken into custody by police on unnamed charges. Since Fortress cannot be held in normal prison cells, authorities plan to transport him to –“

I switch off the television and wince due to the migraine I feel creeping up on me.

“Well, this day just keeps getting better and better,” I say, mentally counting how many more dishes I can afford to lose.

Superhumans under arrest suffer their enforced captivity at Hollyoak Hills.

Hollyoak Hills dwells in a far less romantic or hilly setting than the rather random name implies, an open-air complex carved out of a jagged cliff face littered with the pitted glittery-green remains of a baconite meteor storm thousands of years ago. The prison itself resembles a misplaced Thai beach resort more than it does a maximum-security jail. A polished teak frame has been set into the rough stone as oddly natural as if it had grown out of it like a lost weed. The jarring facade sports expansive glassless window frames treated with filmy cream-colored curtains that whip in the unwieldy winds that toss and tumble through the narrow canyon. It could be the elegant featured setting for some yogurt advertisement, if only there were an unnaturally thin model posing in one of the visually stunning entranceways.

At least, that's what I see. The unspoken rule about Hollyoak Hills is that no one talks about Hollyoak Hills unless you're staying in it, and even that's debatable. It's certainly not a rule anyone wants to test.

For your average human lacking in superhuman abilities, Hollyoak would be impossible to escape. There are no stairs that reach it from the tangled brambles on the cliff's edge high above or from the rushing river below, no way to climb down on ropes or chains that the highly reactive chips of baconite won't inevitably melt or fray. No one really knows where baconite comes from, or at least they hadn't discovered its origins before I left the business. What is known is that baconite has a mind of its own, behaves defensively, and doesn't particularly tolerate anyone with superpowers anywhere near it.

Come to visit Hollyoak Hills, and you'd better plan not to make use of your abilities for a good long while.

Stay there for too long, and don't count on them ever returning at full capacity.

I've never been to Hollyoak Hills before, not even when my maternal grandmother found herself thrown in jail for a mortifying bout of contempt of court. Mom offered to take me, but somehow the possibility of being unable to escape a claustrophobic room where my seventy-year-old abuela refused to stop shouting at her captors in Spanish or to change out of her skintight costume wasn't any more appealing to my ten-year-old self than it is now. I've experienced the dizzying, almost euphoric effects of baconite before, though, so the wrenching sensation which yanks at my balance as I land in the greeting station on the opposite cliff is not a new feeling, just one I loathe dealing with.

“Oh, hell,” a smoke-roughened voice says, my vision clouded from the stress of the jump. Gentle hands steer me towards a wooden stool. “There's a reason we recommend teleporters take the bus, kid.”

I give my temples an absent rub while taking in deep breaths through my nose and out past my lips. “I know, I know,” I murmur. It's one of the many reasons I avoid Hollyoak Hills. I can already feel the yaw and sway of my powers as they ebb low enough to make me dizzy. The depleted maw inside me yawns and falls asleep, effectively announcing its temporary shutdown. I'm not going anywhere for a while.

“Here, take this.”  As my sight clears, an older woman with a wide mouth and tired eyes wraps my hands around a steaming cup of what looks like heated milk. A taste test informs me it's not milk, it's hot white chocolate, one of my favorites. I'm not about to question how she knows that.

“Thank you. You didn't have to –”

“You ain't been here before, have you?”

The incorrect grammar grates, but I politely ignore it. Too used to it thanks to Nate, I suppose.

She claps me on the shoulder, her hand too big and roughened by hard work. “No worries,” she says. It's only then that my ear picks up the slight pull in her voice, an old drawl peeking out from behind her words every so often. “Drink up and get a little sugar in you. It'll steady you some.”

I nod, sipping absently at my hot chocolate as I take in my surroundings. I aimed for the compact greeting station across the ravine from Hollyoak Hills. The aim of the greeting station, as far as I understand it, is to give the captive heroes a place to meet with their families or legal council, a deceptively cozy place mocked up as a toasty English cottage. The casual comfort of the place is a lie. The building is a miniature fortress, almost as difficult to leave as the jail itself on the other side of the ravine. I won't escape until the jail's guards allow me to leave, and I'm not even a prisoner.

No one knows why or how. That's precisely the point.

The older woman settles into the seat opposite me, resting her folded hands on her denim-clad knees. Wrinkles bracket her eyes and mouth, smile lines and worry lines, a lived-in face in all the best ways. “Your brother's coming,” she says.

“Oh,” I say. “I didn't know you knew who I was.”

She just grins, a slow lazy pull of muscles.

Telepaths are like this. They don't shock easily, and they know when to keep silent. Most of them can't shut their powers off, can't flip them off like a light switch like other superhumans can. The ones who maintain their grip on sanity turn out like this, with an even keel and a serene air.
Dad's like this
, I remember, and thinking it tightens my jaw and forces my gaze to the chintzy porcelain ducks lining the mantel of the stone fireplace.

“I'm Marla, by the way,” she says. “In case you're curious.”

It strikes me that I haven't introduced myself yet, either, and wonder if it would be rude to just let her –

“No worries, kid. I already know who you are.”

I scowl, although there's no real menace to it. “Now,
that's
rude.”

“Not the worst thing I could have looked up.”  Her smile doesn't fade.