Heroine Complex (10 page)

I bit back a retort about my “muddled” thoughts and tried to call up a more detailed memory of the statue demons. Maybe my stressed-out brain had imagined the weirdness. Anyway, last night's mess seemed like it had happened forever ago and I had plenty to think about at the moment without fixating on whatever I thought I'd seen.

“It was probably just a fluke,” I said.

“Sometimes a fluke can be the first sign of an important pattern—”

“This is really not important right now,” I said. Not when I had to worry about going out in public as Aveda
without setting anything on fire again. “And if you want to collect more data, then seriously: come with us when the demons attack. Check out the scene, observe them in person, analyze what you see with your own eyes. I mean, if you're going to break the seal on the whole going out in public thing, that seems like it would be way more useful than attending some silly benefit.”

That shut him up, at least for the moment.

“Why did you volunteer anyway? To escort me?” I pressed. “You never escort Aveda.” I sounded vaguely accusatory.

“I'm concerned,” he said.

“That I'll fuck everything up like I did at Whistles?” I said.

“Your power is unpredictable. If I go with you, I can monitor your moods, your reactions. See if we can figure out a trigger.”

“So you want to make me an extra-toasty lab rat. I should've guessed.”

I tamped down on my irritation. Why couldn't he leave well enough alone? We'd already come up with a perfect solution: remove the power from me, put it into an actual superheroine, cut to me fulfilling my long-held dream of being
normal
. I didn't need to spend time delving into the hows and whys and wherefores of the fire power. I needed to get the fire out of me—and into someone who could actually handle it—as soon as possible.

Not that he'd ever understand that. He never seemed to understand anything that didn't involve a nice, neat little column of numbers.

“Why aren't you more interested in finding the exact trigger?” he countered. “‘Crazy bursts of emotion' is maddeningly unspecific.”

I shrugged, causing the tulle to shift in his hands. He pulled it back into place.

“That's the best way I can describe it. Haven't you ever had a feeling you couldn't define? Or articulate?”

He didn't respond, so I barreled on. “It's a certain kind of heightened feeling, like an emotional burst that overwhelms all logic and thought. It takes over to the point where I'm unaware of anything else. I don't really know how else to say it. I just know when it's happening.”

“But we could try to quantify it—”

“Quantify it? You want me to do tests with my feelings?” I snorted. “Now there's a recipe for disaster. Anyway, if Scott's spell works, I won't have to deal with this much longer. So what's the point in trying to ‘quantify' anything?”

“The point is, you could really do something with it if you wanted to. Learn to control it. Act like a naturally curious person who wants to figure out why you are the way you are.”

Wow, really?
My irritation flared. He'd been aware of my fire for less than twenty-four hours, and already he thought he knew better than me. As if I hadn't spent the last three years locking myself down, controlling my impulses, and establishing my safeguards. As if I didn't hear all those terrified screams ringing through the library whenever I allowed my mind to wander during cold, sleepless nights. As if I didn't know myself all too well.

But that was his way, wasn't it? To immediately assume he knew everything about everything without actually experiencing it in real life.

“I know why I'm the way I am,” I snapped. “Demon portal, freak occurrence, maybe you're familiar? I
know
. And I also know I don't want to be this way.”

“But you haven't even tried it,” he said, his voice twisting in frustration. He frowned at me in the mirror. “You've wasted all your energy suppressing it. All of these years, and you've never even—”

“Wasted?!”

I yanked myself free from his grasp and whirled around. He wasn't done with the buttons and the dress hung half open. How dare he judge me from behind
those cold, clinical scientist glasses? He was supposed to be
helping
me. And helping meant contributing to the whole Get the Fire Power Out of Evie ASAP plan, not asking five million irrelevant questions and acting all superior when it came to dealing with my own actions and feelings. When it came to the very real danger I posed to people. My stomach knotted just thinking about it.

“All that ‘wasted' energy means I haven't burned anything down since the library,” I growled. “How has this not penetrated that supposedly gigantic brain of yours? I destroyed an entire building. I could have destroyed people. I don't want something that allows me to do that. I don't.”

I willed my hands to relax at my sides. I would not allow myself to flare up over
him
.

He stared back at me, his eyes unreadable behind those damn glasses. I slid forward, the dress still restricting my every move, and jabbed my index finger into his chest.

“You want a tip on how the fire power works?”

I leaned in closer, giving him a glower that was as good as the ones he usually gave me.

“Don't make me
angry
.”

I turned on my heel and shuffled indignantly out of the room, my half-buttoned dress flapping behind me. I'd like to think I accomplished this with at least a little bit of dignity and a touch of haughty attitude.

Maybe Aveda was rubbing off on me after all.

HOLDING OUT FOR A HEROINE Q&A:
Magnificent Mercedes

Here at the Holding Out for a Heroine blog, we track the latest and greatest in superhero news—and that includes spotlighting those in and around the supes community! Today we welcome Mercedes McClain, aka Magnificent Mercedes.

HOfaH:
Please tell our readers about your power and how you utilize it.

MM:
I have what I like to call a “human GPS” ability, which enables me to track vehicles, determine the best routes between locations, and “see” traffic.

HOfaH:
You can see traffic
in your brain
?!

MM:
That is correct, yes.

HOfaH:
And does that mean you can track anything with a GPS locater on it? Like house arrest monitors and stuff? Because that seems like it would be totally useful in a superheroing career—

MM:
No, just vehicles.

HOfaH:
Oh. Huh. That's—

MM:
Still very exciting, I know. My power is particularly useful in my adopted home city of Los Angeles, where I am able to assist the police in apprehending car thieves and/or individuals who otherwise misuse their right to the automobile. Additionally I've been making inroads as far as clearing up the city's serious gridlock problem.

HOfaH:
And you could totally help the pizza delivery dude find the best way from Santa Monica to the Valley during rush hour, right?

MM:
I
could
, but as a superheroine, you must make difficult decisions regarding what is and is not a worthy use of your power. And pizza delivery falls into the “not” category.

HOfaH:
I disagree, but let's move on! So obviously you're part of the only group in the world that has superpowers: that select number of San Francisco residents who got their abilities eight years ago when the big portal opened up. But not everyone chose to fight crime. In fact, most folks just kept doing whatever they were doing pre-portal. What inspired you to take this on?

MM:
I've always had a finely tuned sense of right and wrong and the desire to put good out into the world. Also most people's powers were . . . how can I put this nicely? Just not all that powerful. Relatively mundane. Only a handful of us saw the potential in what we were given and were therefore able to choose this path. I feel very blessed.

HOfaH:
Blessed! I love that. Hey, have you ever thought of changing your codename to “The Lost Angel” or something? Because you live in Los Angeles and you're “lost” from San Francisco and then “angel” kind of goes with “blessed” . . .

MM:
I wouldn't say I'm “lost” from San Francisco. I wouldn't say that at all.

HOfaH:
Then why didn't you stay? You could've fought demons alongside Aveda Jupiter instead of chasing cars around and stuff!

MM:
I don't do anything “alongside” anyone. Besides, my work is very important—

HOfaH:
So that's why you left? Because Aveda outshone you and you had to go somewhere else to get that kind of attention?

MM:
No, of course not—

HOfaH:
What do you think of her new fire power? Word is, it's finally gonna break her through to huge international fame!

MM:
I very much doubt that.

HOfaH:
Why?

MM:
Well, we don't even know much about this new power yet. It could be temporary. A flash in the pan.

HOfaH:
She's sure making the most of it, though, eh?

MM:
Mmm.

HOfaH:
At the very least, this could definitely increase the world's awareness of supes in general! I mean, most of you are local celebs at best, right?

MM:
 . . .

HOfaH:
Hey, maybe more demon portals will finally open up in locations beyond San Francisco? And then maybe people everywhere could get superpowers, too? That'd be way cool, right?!

MM:
I don't think that would be cool at all.

THE MOMENT
I set foot in the ballroom, I was blinded by glittering light. Thankfully it wasn't portal light. There was nothing supernatural about it, unless you counted what was surely an out-of-this-world price tag.

The League of Social Betterment Through Bettering Oneself was known for their splashy events: bacchanalias of such jaw-dropping excess, even Hugh Hefner would be like, “Hey, maybe take it down a notch.” I found this amusing, since the League was supposedly based around the principle of finding ways to be less wasteful in our everyday lives, their website littered with such statements as: “Go green!”, “Take a bus/bike/unicycle!”, and “Save the red panda!” (Fuck the regular panda, I guess.)

I couldn't recall what this particular benefit was supposed to be benefitting, but every League benefit had a theme, and tonight's shindig—situated in the vast ballroom of one of the Financial District's generically sumptuous hotels—was simply entitled “Space.” (Maybe it was benefitting red pandas . . . in space?)

Strings of twinkly lights sweeping across the ceiling made for a passing imitation of a starry sky, and gargantuan rocket ship sculptures were positioned all over the room. In the far right corner someone had erected a wax model of what appeared to be an alien-esque villain who . . .

Wait.

I squinted at it. With its swooping horns and voluminous robes, it bore a striking resemblance to
The Heroic Trio
's chief bad guy, aka The Evil Master. In the movie he plotted to take over China (not necessarily the world—just China) via an ill-conceived scheme that involved stealing babies. As hokey as he might have been for adult viewers, he scared the shit out of the wide-eyed tween versions of me and Aveda.

I must have been hallucinating. That was simply too obscure a reference for this crew. League members always let it be known that they were way too socially conscious to own anything as vulgar as a television.

I blinked several times, trying to avoid disorientation from the lights, and gripped Nate's arm so I wouldn't topple over in my ridiculous shoes: five-inch, sparkle-encrusted high heels that threatened to snap my ankles off every time I moved. Nate and I hadn't spoken since I'd stalked out on him. I'd found Lucy, who had helped me finish buttoning my dress, and then he'd clomped back to my side at the appointed time. Even though he was a pain in the ass, I was grateful for his oversize solidness as the seizure-inducing lights flashed on and off. I knew he wouldn't let me fall.

“So we're trying to go stealth, here,” I said, attempting to convey confidence I didn't feel.

“You can't do stealth in that getup,” retorted Lucy, casting an approving look at my dress. “Yowza.”

She grinned at me and adjusted her own dress, a 1920s flapper number with a matching headpiece. Probably not your typical bodyguard gear, but she looked wonderful.

“Maybe not so much stealth as sort of under the radar,” I amended. “I can be an under-the-radar guest of honor, right?”

The League ladies dominating the scene were undeniably fancy, but these weren't stock trophy wife types.
These were San Francisco fancy ladies: younger, trendier, more in tune with the latest in fig stuffings and the best oldey timey-looking filters for your camera phone photos.

“Oh my goodness! That dress!” Maisy Kane sang out. She trotted toward me, champagne flute in one hand, phone in the other. Shasta trailed behind her, looking decidedly less peppy.

“You always have the best fashions, Aveda,” exclaimed Maisy. “The steampunk getup last night was to die for. But this little number takes the gosh-dang cake.”

“Where did you get it?” Shasta asked, curving her bright-red-lipsticked mouth into something that was probably supposed to resemble a smile. A suppressed challenge flickered through her eyes: this was a test.

I scoured my brain. Had Aveda come up with a backstory for this dress? She definitely wouldn't want me telling people it had once graced the body of a pack-ratty old lady.

Aveda Jupiter does not shop secondhand.

I stood there blankly, trying to put together a piquant tale of the dress's origin, something befitting a fashionable superheroine.

Shit, shit, shit.
My brain was a big, blank thing, a vast field of nothingness. I couldn't conjure a simple sentence. I was too afraid it would be the
wrong
sentence, which would then be plastered in accusatory all-caps on Maisy's blog. A hummingbird-like buzz of panic thrummed through me and I anticipated the sweat that was about to bloom on my palms.

Less than twenty-four hours had passed, and here I was, on the verge of fucking up our stupid plan. And not because of the whole destructive fire power thing. Because when confronted with the prospect of socializing while wearing an uncomfortable dress and impossible shoes, I apparently couldn't deal.

My eyes darted to Lucy, who was mouthing something at me, but the too-bright lights made my vision blur. My
fingers flexed instinctively against Nate's arm, trying to maintain my grip as my palms started to sweat.

No. No sweat. Stop that.
Stop it.

Maybe I should pretend to pass out. Swoon. Faint. Ugh, no. Aveda would hate that.

Aveda Jupiter does not show weakness. Aveda Jupiter lives a healthy lifestyle, which does not include something so pedestrian as fainting. Aveda Jupiter thinks you are being an idiot right now.

Suddenly a hand covered mine, big and warm and solid. My head jerked up to meet Nate's gaze, his dark eyes boring into me. He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Well? You're not gonna sink us on a fashion question, right?”

“Local designer,” I heard myself blurt out, the words haphazardly stringing themselves together. “Don't recall the name. She's new to the scene and specializes in organic fibers.”

Maisy beamed and even Shasta looked moderately impressed. I guess I passed?

Almost imperceptibly Nate's fingers squeezed mine. Yup. I passed. Sweet relief flooded through me, knocking my anxiety-inducing chest hummingbird on its ass.

“Aveda,” Maisy sang out. “We are so dang thrilled to nab you for our little do. How does one take a night off from superheroing? Do you have a wee sidekick type who fills in for you?”

If only she knew.

“I'm ready to bust out of here and fight demons at any moment,” I improvised. “This dress . . . breaks away. If you know what I'm saying.”

Lucy clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes dancing with merriment. Nate suddenly had to clear his throat.

“Scandalous!” Maisy roared with laughter. “Aveda, babe, you have got to save some of these witty nuggets for our exclusive interview. About your new power. Which you are definitely giving to me, right?”

“Oh, well . . . I . . .”

“I'll have my assistant call your assistant and set a time for us,” Maisy said, bulldozing right over me. “What's the name of yours again? Ava? Eva? Ellie?”

“Evie,” muttered Nate.

“Right.” Maisy snapped her fingers. “The mousy little thing with all the hair. You should do something about that whole . . . situation.” She waved a hand around her head to indicate my unruly curls. “Our assistants are visual representations of our brands, are they not? I can recommend a good blow-out person.”

I bit my lip to keep from giggling. Really, this was all just too weird. I glanced up at Nate, trying to catch his eye to share my amusement. But his eyes were fixed on Maisy, a scowl brewing on his face. I elbowed him in the ribs. Scowly was not a good look for Aveda Jupiter's escort.

“In the meantime you simply must try the gouda-stuffed date,” Maisy said. “It's to die for.”

She plucked a brown blob from a waiter's passing tray and thrust it into my hands. I hesitated, studying it. I was unused to non-Lucky-Charm foodstuffs.

But that sweet relief was still coursing through my veins, making me borderline giddy. And Maisy and Shasta were staring at me again, their eyes wide with expectation. And at this point, I'd leapt so far out of my comfort zone, what was one more thing?

I popped the date in my mouth.

“Wow . . .
wow
. That really is to die for,” I exclaimed, as the bright, earthy flavors exploded on my tongue.

As Maisy might say, hot dang. That was good. That was actually
delicious
.

My relief morphed into something purer, something downright enthusiastic. Huh. Not a feeling I was accustomed to. But as I had to keep reminding myself, I wasn't me. I was Aveda Jupiter. And Aveda Jupiter could totally get enthusiastic about fucking delicious dates,
right? I dropped my hand from Nate's arm and reached for the tray again.

“Yes, have another, have another!” squealed Maisy, clapping her hands. “Have the whole dang tray. Your escort will be happy to hold it for you.”

Maisy snatched the date-laden tray from the waiter and shoved it at Nate. He pinched it between his fingers like it was covered in dead things.

“Listen,
Aveda
,” Lucy said, muffling a giggle. “I'm gonna scope the perimeter. You enjoy those to-die-for dates.”

“Mrph!” I agreed, my mouth full of delicious blobs.

“Make sure you grab one of the VIP gift bags,” Maisy said, linking her arm through mine. “I did up something special for you guests of honor.”

She leaned in and gestured to the wax model on the other side of the room. “There's a mini-replica of that statue over there in each bag. I commissioned them from a local props guy. The other League ladies have no idea it's from this old Hong Kong movie called
The Heroic Trio
.”

“
The Heroic Trio
?” I blurted through my mouthful of dates. “You know
The Heroic Trio
?”

“Of course I do!” she said. “I watch it all the time over at the Yamato Theater.”

“They still play it at the Yamato? I haven't been there in . . . well, it's been ages!”

Actually Aveda went to the Yamato every Friday for the early matinee. She always wore a glamorous “disguise” in the hope that someone would recognize her and tweet some kind of “celebrities: they're just like us!” nonsense. She hadn't told me the Yamato had resurrected
The Heroic Trio
, though.

“Every other Monday night!” said Maisy. “They just don't make movies like that anymore, do they?”

“No!” I agreed, shoveling more dates into my mouth. “They most certainly do not.”

Nate looked at me like I'd sprouted another head. I ignored him. The giddy feeling was surging through me now, emboldened by the intoxicating taste of gouda-stuffed dates. And the fact that I was getting my own replica of The Evil Master.

“That's actually the movie that inspired me to be a superhero,” I said impulsively. “Maybe we could go see it at the Yamato one of these Mondays. We could do the interview then?”

“I'd love to,” she said, squeezing my arm. “And for the photo shoot, we simply must style you as Invisible Girl—a skintight red jumpsuit capped by a gorgeous mane of Michelle Yeoh-esque hair!”

“Want to let the rest of us in on whatever it is you two are whispering about?” Shasta said.

“Nothing important, Shast,” Maisy said, giving me a wink. “Just asking Aveda to divulge all her superheroine secrets. Which she'll never give up, I'm sure.”

“Never!” I agreed, letting loose with a tinkling laugh. On me, that laugh would sound strange. But as rendered in Aveda's voice, it was just right.

“Aveda,” Nate said. “We've been standing in this same spot for a while. Perhaps you'd like to see more of the party?”

I suppressed my eye-roll. Couldn't he see I'd finally just gotten comfortable in my Aveda-esque skin? That this spot was actually working out pretty well? Why did he always have to be so
annoying
?

“I'm fine right here!” I snagged a flute of champagne from a passing tray and used it to wash down my last mouthful of dates.

An all-new feeling blossomed in my stomach, as light and fizzy as the champagne bubbles.

I was Aveda Jupiter. I was not mousy. My hair looked amazing.

Could it be? No. No way.

And yet, as a smile spread slowly over my face, I had to acknowledge that this was actually happening.

For the first time in years, I was enjoying myself.

After a few more champagnes, my bladder screamed bloody murder and it was time to refresh my glamour, so I detached myself from Maisy and Co. and set out for the bathroom. Nate gave me a dark look that indicated he didn't like me flitting off on my own, but honestly: what punk-ass demon was gonna take me down while I peed?

As I teetered down the hall in my high heels, my thoughts wandered back to finding an unexpected
Heroic Trio
kindred spirit in Maisy. I wondered what her opinion was on Thief Catcher's stylish goggles. Or Invisible Girl's inner torment and change of heart. Maybe I could ask during our interview. My champagne-fizzy brain took a surprising amount of delight in the idea and I nearly giggled to myself.