Nightingale (3 page)

She raised her champagne glass, and everyone applauded. Octavia’s speech soon drifted into the land of stock speak, the way these things always did. I tuned most of it out.
 

A few minor crises occurred during the evening, most notably Paul’s father, Peter Potter, getting drunk and trying to wrest the microphone away from Octavia. But I muscled Peter into the bathroom, shoved his head under the sink, and got him sobered up enough to return to the party.
 

At least no superheroes or ubervillains decided to crash the dinner. I worried about that with every event. A villain might decide to hold everyone hostage—or worse, take all of the food and booze with her. The fear was greater now, since a museum benefit I’d recently helped to plan had ended in disaster just that way—not once, but twice—with Berkley Brighton, the richest man in the city, getting killed in the crossfire.

Speaking of rich people, more than a few were in attendance tonight. The O’Hara-Potter engagement and merger were big news, as both families were worth a couple hundred million. Sam Sloane, Devlin Dash, Wesley Weston, Grace Caleb, and dozens of other business tycoons populated the room. The society and other reporters for the newspapers and TV stations had also come out to cover the event, including Carmen Cole with
The Exposé
and Kelly Caleb of the Superhero News Network.
 

I spotted Joanne James in the crowd, talking with Bella Bulluci. Joanne was hard to miss with her mane of black curls, lithe body, and sharp tongue. Bella, meanwhile, was a quiet, curvy, petite woman with frizzy hair. The two couldn’t have been more different, but they’d recently become good friends.

Joanne and Bella had been at the museum benefit the second time ubervillains had struck, and they’d both been kidnapped. Although they’d survived, Joanne’s husband, Berkley, had been killed. I’d planned his funeral a few months ago. It was one of the hardest jobs I’d ever done, mainly because I had only a couple of days to pull together what amounted to a state funeral.
 

But Joanne had seemed pleased with my efforts, enough to hire me to coordinate some of the other events accompanying Berkley’s passing, including all of the dedications and ribbon-cuttings his benefactors were holding. The whiskey mogul had been worth billions, and he’d spread his wealth to dozens of Bigtime charities. Pretty soon, Berkley Brighton’s name would be on just about every building in the city.
 

I waved to Joanne and Bella, trying to catch their attention, but the two women were deep in conversation—one I could hear, despite the ambient noise in the room.
 

“I still can’t believe Jasper is your brother,” Bella said, “and that the two of you don’t speak.”

“Are you on that again?” Joanne snapped. “I told you Jasper and I don’t have the same cozy relationship you have with your brother, Johnny. We never have.”

“I’m just worried about you. That’s what friends do. They worry about each other.”

Joanne rolled her eyes, but she linked her arm through the younger woman’s. “There you go again, being all sugary sweet and concerned and making my teeth hurt. Don’t worry, Bella. I’m fine. Or as fine as I can be with Berkley gone.”

The two women started talking about other things, including Bella’s significant other, Devlin Dash. I waved again, but Joanne and Bella didn’t see me, didn’t even look in my direction, didn’t even know I was alive. Nobody saw me at events. I faded into the background, just like the Invisible Ingénues did. Oh, people knew I was around, but they didn’t actually
look
for me—unless they needed something. In addition to having supersenses, I was an invisible woman—whether I wanted to be or not.

So, I quit listening to Bella and Joanne and went back to work. I stood against the wall, eyes flicking around, ears open wide, using my superpowers to make sure every single thing was still perfect.

By the time we got through the toasts, dinner, and dancing, it was almost midnight. I shifted on my aching feet. I would have loved to leave hours ago, but I always stayed until the bitter end. The one time I’d left a wedding before the reception ended, the maid of honor had tossed champagne on one of the groomsmen just as the waiter served the baked Alaska. One thing had led to another, until the Bigtime Fire Department had to be called out to save what was left of the church. So, I didn’t take any chances now.
 

“Oh, Abby?”

I jumped at the sound of Octavia’s voice. She stood beside me, propping up a very drunk Peter Potter. Superhearing or not, I’d been so preoccupied I hadn’t even heard them approach. Good thing I wasn’t a superhero, and they weren’t ubervillains. I might have been in serious trouble then.

“Yes, Octavia?”

She murmured in my ear. “I’m afraid Peter still isn’t … feeling well. Do you think you could take him someplace and get him to lie down for a while?”

In other words, could I stash the embarrassing relative out of the way so everybody else could keep having a good time. I might call myself a professional event planner, but I was really just a glorified shrink, pharmacist, and babysitter rolled into one.

Before I could respond, Peter’s stomach rumbled. His round face paled, and I could hear his rapid heartbeat and ragged breathing even over the music. All the signs of a man about to be violently sick.

I stepped back, but wasn’t quite quick enough. I doubted even the superhero Swifte would have been with his superspeed. Peter lurched forward, bent over, and puked all over me. The hot, sour stench of booze hit my nose, while warm, squishy things I didn’t want to think about splattered onto my shoes and pants.

Oh, yes. I
definitely
hated engagement parties.

Chapter Three

Thankfully, only a few stragglers saw Peter upchuck all over my shoes. I fished a ginger tablet out of my vest and gave it to the businessman to help his queasy stomach. By the time I put him in a limo home, went to the bathroom, and cleaned myself up, everyone else had left.

I walked back to the dining hall to find it deserted. Thanks to the convention center’s staff and Kyle and his army of workers, the decorations and dirty dishes had already been cleared away. The area had been returned to its usual, empty, pristine shell, just as Kyle had agreed to in the contract. I might not care for his lackadaisical attitude, but Kyle always was efficient.

Because everything had been taken care of, I trudged back to the hidden corridor and made my way to the staff break room. A couple of vending machines hunkered inside the windowless area, flanked by several plastic tables and rows of metal lockers. A man wearing gray, janitor’s coveralls sat at one of the tables, drinking a soda and chain smoking while he flipped through a hunting magazine.
 

“Hey, Colt,” I said, moving to my locker and spinning the combination lock.

“Hey, Abby. How was the party?” Colt Colton asked, taking another drag off his cigarette.

“Not too bad, except for the guy who puked on my shoes.”

Colt leaned over and stared at my black pumps, which weren’t quite so black anymore. “That’s messed up, Abby.”

“Tell me about it.”

He started to reply but his cell phone rang. He flipped it open and started talking.

I threw my puked-upon shoes in the trash. Digging some wool socks and my snow boots out of the locker, I plopped down in one of the chairs and pulled them on. Colt finished his call, crushed out his cigarette, and swallowed the rest of his soda.

“Duty calls.” He folded up the magazine and stuck it in his back pocket. “Later, Abby.”

“Later, Colt.”

The custodian left the break room. The second the door shut behind him, I reached into my locker, pulled out an industrial-sized can of air freshener, and sprayed a liberal amount. Cigarette smoke always aggravated my supersenses. It never failed to make my eyes itch, nose twitch, and skin crawl. Unfortunately, Colt had a two-pack-a-day habit, and the break room always reeked of smoke.

I put the air freshener back into the locker, grabbed my black coat, and shrugged into it. A black toboggan went on my head. I glanced at my watch. Just after one in the morning. I thought about calling Piper Perez, my best friend, to see if she wanted to get a drink, but it was too late to go to The Blues, the karaoke bar we still frequented, despite my unfortunate accident there. So, I buttoned up my coat, pulled on my gloves, wrapped a scarf around my face and neck, and headed out.

The party guests had long deserted the convention center, leaving the long, wide hallways still and silent. Thick, crimson carpet stretched across the floor, while sheer, matching fabric covered the walls. Gold threads arranged in paisley patterns in the fabric shimmered under the low glow of the house lights. More gold glinted on the Renaissance-style paintings, while murky shadows sprawled across the floor and crept up the walls. I made a right and entered the lobby, with its hundred-foot-high ceiling, elegant chandeliers, and gold-leaf crown molding.
 

Eddie Edgars, the college-age guard who manned the front desk, waved at me, then returned to his reading. Even though I was about fifty feet away, I could see the cover. Eddie was engrossed in a comic book by Confidante that chronicled the latest adventures of the Fearless Five, Bigtime’s most powerful and popular superhero team. Each of the members—Striker, Fiera, Mr. Sage, Hermit, and Karma Girl—was featured in a heroic pose on the cover. I waved back to Eddie, pushed through the revolving doors, and stepped outside.
 

A hard spurt of wind slapped me in the face, chilling my cheeks through my scarf. It had snowed while I was inside, and several inches blanketed the street. A cold front had been stalled over Bigtime for a week. Every day, it snowed a little more, adding to what was already on the ground. The forecasters were calling for an actual blizzard tonight.
 

I reached through a slit in my coat and turned on the pocket-sized heater hidden in my vest. The machine clicked on, and warm air rushed across my chest, fighting back the cold. Let Chloe scoff all she wanted. There were advantages to having a vest of many things.
 

I stuck my gloved hands in my pockets, tucked my chin down, and walked on. I’d recently moved to a loft in the city so I could be closer to my office. My building was only a few blocks from the convention center, but the snow made it slow going.

Quiet cloaked the streets, along with the snow. Only an occasional puff of wind whistled at the icy silence. I enjoyed the tranquility after the clang, clatter, and conversation of the party. I’d learned to tune out much of the noise that aggravates my enhanced hearing, but I still ended up with killer headaches after some of my more boisterous events. Tonight, I’d been lucky; I had only a dull ache in my temples.
 

I’d just passed an alley on Thirteenth Street when a strange noise broke the cold quiet. It sounded like a large zipper being drawn down. A soft sound, no louder than a whisper, I wouldn’t have heard it at all if everything else hadn’t been so still.
 

I continued on my way, but when I heard a different noise, like metal scraping together, I stopped and concentrated, trying to find the source of the sounds. They seemed to be coming from deeper in the alley. I stepped inside a shadow at the far end and reached for my stun gun.
 

The alley ran about a hundred feet straight back before curving to the right. A few Dumpsters sat against the brick walls, and shadows pooled around them like blood. I looked—
really
looked—toward the end of the alley where the shadows were the darkest. Most people would have seen nothing but blackness ringed with snow, but I wasn’t most people. Not anymore. My vision was just as good at night as it was during the day.
 

The sound of metal clanged together again. A black zip line uncoiled at the end of the alley, and a figure slid to a stop, his booted feet crunching into the snow-covered ground.

His back was to me as he undid a buckle securing him to the line. He held up something that resembled a gun and pressed a button. The line, which had a silver hook attached to the end, zipped into the gun, like a tape measure being drawn into its case, and he stuck the weapon in a leg holster. He turned then, and I got a look at the noisemaker.
 

He wore a cobalt-blue leather costume that outlined his muscular body. In a darker shade of blue, a fierce-looking bird with outstretched wings spread across his chest. But the most prominent parts of the bird were its talons, which appeared ready to erupt from the costume and slice you with their sharp, curved edges. A harness around the man’s right thigh held a gun topped by what looked like a small crossbow, while the one on his left leg contained the gun with the grappling hook I’d just seen him use. A belt studded with crossbow bolts encircled his lean waist. A cobalt toboggan covered his hair, probably to protect him from the cold, while a wide, blue-tinted, wing-shaped visor wrapped around his face, obscuring most of it from sight.
      

It was Talon, one of Bigtime’s many superheroes. Talon was a bit of a Robin Hood. He frequently robbed the rich to give to charity. At least, he robbed the rich drug dealers and gangsters who populated the city. Unfortunately, there were almost as many of those as there were ubervillains.

Talon also wasn’t your typical hero in one other respect—he didn’t have a superpower. At least, none I knew of. Most of your Bigtime heroes and villains fell into one of two categories. They were either Ps or Gs—powers or gadgets. That was how I thought of them. Superheroes like Fiera, the member of the Fearless Five who could form fireballs with her bare hands, were Ps. Heroes like Talon, who relied on complicated weapons and other gizmos, were Gs. I admired the Gs much more than the Ps. Anyone with a power could be a hero. It took someone with a lot of guts to be a hero without any superpowers.