KARMA GIRL
By Jennifer Estep
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2007, 2011 by Jennifer Estep
Excerpts from HOT MAMA and JINX
Copyright © 2007, 2008, and 2011 by Jennifer Estep
Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to fictional characters or actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The fictional characters in this story have no relation to any other fictional characters, except those in works by this author.
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KARMA GIRL
by
JENNIFER ESTEP
Book One in the
Bigtime paranormal romance series
Sexy superheroes. Evil ubervillains.
Smart, sassy gals looking for love.
DEDICATION
To my mom. Thanks for taking me to the library all those Saturdays. You’ve given me more than you will ever know.
And to my grandma. Thanks for just being you and for making the best fried chicken and biscuits in the world.
I love you both more than words can say.
PART ONE—BEGINNINGS
Chapter One
My wedding day.
It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. A time of joy and celebration and new beginnings. The day every girl dreams of from the time she’s old enough to play dress-up in her mother’s clothes.
It wasn’t that sort of day at all.
I stalked up and down the narrow hotel room. My hellish high-heeled shoes poked holes in the thick carpet and rubbed hot blisters on my aching feet. My white tulle dress rustled with every step I took.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
I’d had the feeling for weeks now that something just wasn’t quite right between myself and my fiancé, Matt Marion. He’d been distant lately, distracted. We’d been together over two years now, and I loved Matt with all my heart. But his odd behavior was enough to make the most trusting woman suspicious. I’d asked Matt many times if anything was wrong, if he had cold feet and wanted to postpone the wedding, but he’d assured me repeatedly that everything was fine.
Matt had been working lots of overtime at his construction job and had all sorts of unexplained bruises and scratches on his body. He’d blamed his frequent absences and injuries on work, but I couldn’t quite shake this feeling, this cold sense of dread deep down in my stomach. Doubts whispered in my mind. I’d learned long ago to listen to my inner voice. Following my instincts was the reason I’d become the top investigative reporter at the Beginnings Bugle, the town newspaper.
I wasn’t about to ignore my instincts now. I couldn’t get married with this doubt hanging over me. I had to ask Matt one more time what was bothering him.
I slipped out of my hotel room and made my way to the elevator. It had been Matt’s idea to get married at Forever Inn, the most romantic hotel in all of Beginnings, Tennessee. Weddings took place on a daily basis at the four-star hotel, and no one batted an eye when I crowded into the elevator in my billowing dress and sparkling diamond tiara.
I rode up to the next floor and walked to Matt’s room. It was bad luck—bad karma—for the bride and groom to see each other before the wedding, but I had to talk to Matt. My inner voice wouldn’t shut up until I did.
I raised my hand to knock. A low, muffled moan escaped through the thick wooden door. Was Matt hurt? I frowned and put my key, the one I had in case of an emergency, in the lock. The door opened, and I stepped inside.
“Yes, Yes, YES!!!!” a woman screamed out from deeper in the room.
Oh. That’s what that sound was. Someone was having a little afternoon delight. Good for them. I turned to give the enthusiastic couple their privacy when reality hit me.
Why was someone having sex in Matt’s room? He should have been in there, getting ready for his wedding, which was only thirty minutes away. His wedding to me.
I froze. A ball of ice formed in the pit of my stomach. I wasn’t going to like what I was about to see, I just knew it, but I couldn’t stop myself from looking. I tiptoed up to the doorframe, still hidden from view, and peeked into the bedroom.
Karen Crush, my best friend since the fourth grade, was straddling Matt, my oh-so-faithful fiancé. Karen’s pale-blue bridesmaid’s dress bunched around her waist, exposing her lean legs. Matt’s pants pooled around his ankles. A lacy thong sat crumpled beside the bed, along with some other pieces of blue and red fabric.
Karen flipped her black curls over her shoulder and threw her head back in pure bliss. The ecstatic look on Matt’s face told me he was thoroughly enjoying himself as well. The bastard.
My world spun around. I felt as though someone had stabbed me in the chest with a butcher knife. Twice. Hot tears welled up in my eyes and trickled down my face. My knees shook. My legs threatened to buckle. Now, I knew what had been so wrong. Why Matt had been so distant. This one moment, this horrible sight, made it all so clear. So painfully clear. Love, friendship, humanity in general. My faith in those was now gone. Obliterated by the two people I loved most in the world.
Matt and Karen let out more cries of pleasure, oblivious to me. To my pain.
The sounds shattered my heart into a thousand sharp, jagged pieces. Each one cut me like a razor. I wanted to run out the door, to cry my eyes out, to sob and scream until I was hoarse from both. But a flash of bright blue underneath Matt’s unbuttoned shirt caught my eye. I squinted through my cascading tears. It looked like ... spandex.
Spandex?
“Oooh, I love it when you kiss my neck like that.” A giggle escaped from Karen’s perfect, heart-shaped lips.
I loved it when Matt kissed my neck like that too. Anger bubbled up in my chest like a volcano about to explode. I swiped away the rest of my hot tears and straightened my spine. I wasn’t going to run away. Not from the two of them. Not until I had some answers.
Karen ran her hands down Matt’s broad chest. Her long nails zipped along the fabric like scissors. She ripped his shirt open the rest of the way, revealing a blue spandex suit with a giant red M in the middle of it.
My mouth dropped open.
“Oh, baby. You drive me crazy!” Matt yanked Karen’s dress down to her waist, exposing the lingerie-like red bustier she wore beneath. A yellow C stretched across her heaving chest.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. But it was real—I would have known those costumes anywhere. Molten lava flowed through my veins, burning away everything but my all-consuming rage. My bubbling volcano of anger erupted with a scream of epic proportions. “Sonofabitch!”
Matt and Karen froze. Their heads snapped around to the doorway. Matt swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Karen’s eyes widened. For an instant, I wondered what they were more upset about—that someone had caught them cheating or discovered their other precious secret. I didn’t care either way. They’d both betrayed me.
My anger roared back, stronger than before, and I marched into the room. My hands balled into fists. My body rattled with rage. Even my wedding dress twitched with fury.
“Carmen! I … I can explain—”
I threw my hand up, cutting off Matt’s pitiful attempt. “You’re the Machinator?”
Matt sighed. He ran his fingers—the ones that weren’t latched on to my best friend’s exposed ass—through his blond hair. “I didn’t want you to find out this way, Carmen.”
“Oh no? When were you going to tell me you’re Beginnings’ own personal superhero? After we said I do? Maybe on our first anniversary? Or perhaps when our kids were in college? Or maybe right after you told me about sleeping with my best friend. On our wedding day.”
“It’s not his fault, Carmie,” Karen said, her brown eyes big and earnest. “He wanted to tell you. We both did. About everything.”
Carmie? I glared at my former best friend. She still had the nerve to call me that childish nickname even when she had her legs wrapped around my fiancé like he was a race horse and she was a jockey. The bitch. I wanted to rip her limb from limb. After I finished with Matt. “And you’re his archenemy, Crusher? The ubervillain of Beginnings?”
Karen nodded.
I rubbed my fingers over my throbbing temples. It was all too much to take in.
Sure, every town in the world had its own personal superhero, someone who showed up whenever the train ran off the tracks and wouldn’t stop. Or whenever there was a natural disaster that threatened to kill hundreds of people. Or even whenever little Timmy fell down a well and needed rescuing. Naturally, every town also had its own personal ubervillain, someone who wanted to rule supreme.
Beginnings was no different. We had the Machinator, a man who could control mechanical objects with his mind. The town’s ubervillain was Crusher, a woman of unbelievable strength who could break metal bars with her teeth and crush diamonds in her hand. The two were constantly at odds, with Crusher continually coming up with some wild scheme to either (a) take over Beginnings, (b) kill the Machinator, or (c) both. Usually, the Machinator would be put in grave danger before miraculously escaping to foil Crusher’s latest scheme. But Crusher always got away, or soon broke out of whatever high-security, supposedly inescapable ubervillain prison the authorities stuck her in. She’d come back to Beginnings, and the cycle would repeat itself, ad nauseam.
And the whole time, I’d never known the two of them were my fiancé and my best friend.
Never even suspected. Never had the slightest clue.
I’d been such a complete, total fool.
Some reporter I was. All the classic signs had been there. Matt’s many bruises and injuries, his late nights and odd hours. Karen’s long, strange absences from town and uncanny ability to open any jar, despite her petite size. The pieces clicked together in my mind like a jigsaw puzzle. The two of them must have spent hours laughing at my stupidity and nivet and trusting nature. When they weren’t having hot, superhero sex, that is.
My fiancé and best friend sleeping together and hiding their secret identities from me. I didn’t know which betrayal hurt worse. Or which one made me angrier.
“How long has this been going on? I would think given your ... extracurricular activities that sleeping together would be out of the question.” I spat out the words. They left a foul, bitter taste in my mouth.
“Well, it’s actually a funny story.” Matt laughed in a vain effort to lighten the mood.
I crossed my arms over my chest, and his half hearted chuckle died on his lips. Too bad he didn’t follow suit.
“Anyway, we were down at the old abandoned mill a couple of months ago, doing the usual epic battle, you know, explosions and danger and stuff, when Crusher, er, Karen, reached out and grabbed me. All this radioactive waste was leaking everywhere, and it was making us both feel really strange, and we just sort of kissed and ...”
His voice trailed off under my red-hot glare. If I had the ability to shoot lasers out of my eyes, the two of them would have been extra-crispy by now. Too bad I didn’t have my own superpower.
Matt still sat on the bed, Karen straddling him. They made no move to disengage body parts or hide their costumes. I knew at once they were actually relieved I had caught them, not only doing the nasty but exposing their secret identities as well. Relief filled their treacherous eyes, and tension oozed from their pores as if a weight had been lifted off their shoulders. They were happy they’d just ruined my life with their lies and deceit and betrayal. It made me ill.
I took a step back. I had to get away from them. From both of them. My heart couldn’t take any more. I whirled around to dash out of the room.
My high heels snagged on the thick carpet, and I went down in a pile of white tulle. My tiara slipped off my head and rolled across the floor, and my hair tumbled out of its pearl-studded clips. I struggled to stand, and my eyes fell on a bagful of disposable cameras on the floor. They, too, had been Matt’s idea. We would use disposable cameras at the wedding so guests could take their own photos, and we could save the expense of a photographer. Except now they would go to waste.
Or would they? The volcano of anger inside me cooled and congealed into a large, black lump of hate. Matt and Karen had had their fun at my expense. Now, I was going to do something about it. Something to even the score. The pieces of my broken heart twisted in my chest. Something to hurt them like they’d hurt me. Only worse.
I got to my feet, dusted myself off, and stalked over to the camera bag. Something crunched under the toes of my torturous shoes. I looked down. I’d just smashed my cubic zirconium tiara to bits. It, too, was fake, just like everything else in my life.
I snatched a plastic camera out of the bag.
“What are you doing?” Karen asked.
“Just giving the two of you what you so richly deserve.” I squinted at the traitorous, spandex-wearing pair through the viewfinder. “Say cheese.”
#
The next day, the headline in the Beginnings Bugle screamed MACHINATOR UNMASKED! CRUSHER UNCOVERED! IDENTITIES REVEALED! Find out the truth behind town’s superhero, villain. Story and photos by Carmen Cole.
My story described in honest, if painful and humiliating detail, how I had uncovered the pair’s real identities. A photo of Karen and Matt, their spandex suits visible beneath their rumpled clothes, stretched across the front page of the newspaper. When they’d realized I was taking pictures of them, they’d tried to talk me out of it. Fools. They should have saved their breath. I would never listen to a word they said. Never again.
When asking nicely hadn’t worked, Karen had tried to stop me, tried to yank the camera out of my hands and squeeze it to bits. But Matt, being the valiant, noble, oh-so-faithful superhero he was, intervened. As I’d coolly backed out of that hotel room, they were rolling around on the floor, punching and kicking each other. I wasn’t sure if they were fighting or engaged in some sort of kinky, rough form of foreplay. Perhaps it was all the same to the superhero-and-villain set.
Not even stopping to change out of my wedding gown, I’d gone straight to the Bugle and told the editors what I had. It had been one of the most embarrassing, mortifying, downright degrading things I’d ever done, but I squared my shoulders and held my chin up. Page One had been cleared.
I’d spent the rest of the day at the newspaper, digging up all the information I could on Matt and Karen, aka the Machinator and Crusher. Matt’s supposed accidents at work always occurred the day the Machinator engaged in some big battle. Karen’s long absences and sudden arrivals in town coincided perfectly with Crusher’s stints upstate. Dates, times, places, injuries. It was all there. How stupid, how blind I’d been. I was ashamed to call myself a journalist.
When I didn’t show up for the wedding, Matt’s mother called the paper. I told her everything.
She didn’t speak for a moment. “What about the flowers? And all the food? Everything’s already been paid for. I can’t eat a hundred chickens by myself.”
“Didn’t you hear me, Matilda? I just told you that your son is a superhero.”
“Oh, I know that. Who do you think makes his costumes?”
“And did you know about him and Karen too?”
“My boy is special. He gets tons of fan mail. You didn’t think he’d be happy with just one woman, did you?”
I hung up on her. The old bat. She’d never liked me anyway.
An hour later, the local news blared onto the television set. Matt and Karen had made quite a mess at the Forever Inn, and part of the historic building had collapsed. Some things just aren’t made to last forever. Or to withstand a superhero-ubervillain battle. I sent a photographer to get pictures.
A couple of friends called, trying to get me to calm down and give Matt a chance to explain. I told them to have fun eating Matilda’s precious, already-paid-for chicken and went back to work.
The next morning, the Bugle sold out in minutes. The press guys came back in to print an extra ten thousand copies. Phones rang off the hook, as the wire services and national media picked up the story. The Bugle’s stock soared. Management had never been happier. As for Karen and Matt, the two of them vanished once the story broke. No one could find them, or their alter egos.
I collected as many copies of the newspaper as I could and posted them all over my tiny cubicle. Everyone and his brother stopped by my desk to congratulate me on the big scoop. The publisher himself even came out of his office to give me an atta-girl speech. A few of the sports guys cracked jokes about how I’d gotten the story, but a heated look from me sent them scurrying for cover. I was in no mood to be made fun of.
After spending almost twenty-four hours at the newspaper, I went home. I opened the door to my apartment, tossed my keys onto a nearby table, and flipped on the lights. Piles of cardboard boxes greeted me. After our honeymoon in Hawaii, I was supposed to have moved in with Matt, and most of my things had already been packed away.
My thoughts turned to Matt. Where was he? Had he seen the story? Was he sorry he’d lied to me? Or was he with Karen? Picking up where they’d left off?
Had he ever really loved me?
My eyes traced over the boxes. Hearts and other silly cartoon figures wearing lacy veils and diamond rings decorated the cardboard. The jagged pieces of my heart scraped against each other. The wedding, the honeymoon, the happily ever after. All gone. A few tears leaked out of my eyes, but I smacked them away. I’d done my crying on the way to the newspaper. I wouldn’t do any more.
I dug through one of the boxes, found some wrinkled sweats, and walked into the bedroom. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the dresser. My auburn hair stuck out at funny angles. Dark purple circles ringed my eyes. Hurt and anger burned in the blue depths. I looked more than a little crazy. I felt that way too.
To top it off, I still wore my wedding dress, although I’d chucked the unbearable shoes hours ago. I smoothed down the ruined gown. The wear and tear of the day had turned the snow-white fabric a bland beige. The diamond in my engagement ring sparkled in the dim light. I’d been so happy the night Matt had given it to me. So sure of my love for him, and his for me. Now the ring just reminded me of broken promises, shattered dreams, and my own blind stupidity.
I yanked the ring off my finger, marched over to the dresser, and pulled open a door on my jewelry box. I stared at the ring a moment, then stuffed it in the back of the drawer, and shut it. I turned a key, locking it away.
I won’t be fooled again, I vowed. Not by anyone. Never again.
Chapter Two
From that day forward, I was on a mission.
A mission to unmask every single superhero and ubervillain in the entire world. Oh, I wouldn’t get around to all of them, but I was determined to out as many as I could, as fast as I could.
No one would be deceived as I had been. No woman would come home to find her boyfriend slipping into a neon pink codpiece. No man would be puzzled over why his wife had a strange collection of whips and an odd affinity for black leather. No mother would wonder why her son could never be on time for anything. Not if I could help it.
I started out small. After work and on the weekends, I traveled to neighboring towns and cities on my crusades, learning all I could about their respective superheroes and ubervillains. I looked at their Web sites and promotional materials. Read their poorly written autobiographies and rambling manifestos. Even bought a few plastic action figures for research purposes. Naturally, all of the superheroes and ubervillains had colorful names like Killer and Slasher and Halitosis Hal. The only things more flamboyant than their names and personalities were their costumes. The two groups never met a skin-tight, spandex outfit studded with rhinestones they didn’t love.
All the superheroes and villains had strange, sometimes frightening powers, like the ability to move objects with their minds or shoot red-hot flames out of their fingertips. Since the goals of the heroes and villains were at odds, they often engaged in long, lengthy battles that destroyed bridges, overpasses, and municipal buildings. Some of the bigger cities had several superheroes and ubervillains all battling it out for supremacy and leveling skyscrapers right and left. And they all wore masks to hide their true identities and thus avoid paying for the public property they decimated on a weekly basis.
I had plenty of time to spend on my mission. My dad had died in a car crash when I was a kid, while my mom passed away from breast cancer a few years ago. I didn’t have any other family, and Karen had been my only real friend. Everyone else had been Matt’s friend before they were mine. They all drifted away like smoke after my story came out. In a week, I went from the belle of the ball to an outcast. I preferred it that way. There was no one left to lie to me, no one left to hurt me.
I perused police reports, scouted out battle sites, and examined torn bits of masks and costumes. I worked up flowcharts of people kidnapped and saved by villains and heroes. I even recorded powers and weaknesses and costumes and symbols in a color-coded journal. I’d always had a knack for organization and a good memory, and both helped me immeasurably as I sifted through mountains of raw data.
In the end, it was ridiculously easy. There was always someone the superhero saved over and over and over again, whether it was a wanna-be girlfriend or a boyfriend or a kindly widowed aunt. All you had to do was find that special person and see who was closest to them. Then, bada-bing, bada-boom, you found your superhero.
As for the ubervillains, their hunger for money and power tripped them up. Most villains had buckets of cash gotten in less-than-legal ways and were often involved in shady, land development deals.
Accidents involving radioactive materials also raised a big red flag, since radioactive waste was a great way for heroes and villains to get their powers. So were magic rings, bites from rabid or otherwise altered animals, and the old-fashioned, natural, genetic mutation.
I soon learned that I had a knack for uncovering secret identities. All you had to do was dig long enough and hard enough and deep enough, and you’d uncover that one piece of information that would solve the riddle. I’d find a scrap of evidence, something seemingly inconsequential, and everything would fall into place. The dots connected. The picture cleared. I’d always loved puzzles, from crosswords to jumbles to word searches. Uncovering the identities of superheroes and ubervillains was the ultimate human jigsaw puzzle. And I was rapidly becoming a master.
Six months after my botched wedding, I left the Beginnings Bugle for a larger newspaper that wanted me to uncover the identities of the resident superhero and ubervillain. Three months later, the Kilted Scotsman and the Blue Berserker woke to find their faces splattered all over the front page. The public found out what the Scotsman really wore under his kilt, while the Berserker went, well, a little berserk over the whole thing.
A few months later, I went on to another newspaper.
And then another ...
And another ...
And another ...
I left a trail of unmasked superheroes and ubervillains in my wake. Of course, not everyone was happy about my private vendetta, my endless exposs. The superheroes begged me to stop my activities or retract my stories, while the ubervillains tried to bribe or threaten me. But nothing could match the righteous fervor that had awakened in me. Not threats, not money, and especially not tearful pleas.
Nothing satisfied me more than a good unmasking.
#
Three years after my first superhero unmasking, I hit the jackpot.
The editors at The Expos in Bigtime, New York, hired me to uncover the identities of the Fearless Five, a group of superheroes, and their enemies, the Terrible Triad.
The Fearless Five and the Terrible Triad were legends, not just in Bigtime, but throughout the world. They had the strongest powers. They waged the biggest battles. They engaged in the most amazing escapes and the most elaborate schemes. They were the crème de la crème of superheroes and ubervillains.
What made the puzzle so tempting, so intriguing, was the fact that little was known about any of them. Oh, countless stories had chronicled their escapades, but no one had a clue as to their real identities. They would be tough puzzles to solve, but I was up to the task.
After all, I was Carmen Cole, reporter extraordinaire.
The job proved harder than expected. I worked for three months and came up with nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. I started with the superheroes like I always did, because they were easier to unmask. Ubervillains were naturally more conniving and not shy about killing people to keep them quiet. But the Fearless Five had covered their tracks well. I pored over police reports and mocked up flowcharts galore, but nothing linked the heroes to anyone. They were ghosts who showed up, battled evil, and saved the world before bedtime.
Then, one day, I got a break. A kid called in and said he saw a man in a tuxedo transform into Tornado, a member of the Fearless Five. Such tips were not uncommon, and most of the reporters at The Exposé hung up on the crackpot callers. Not me. I visited the kid, who gave me a description of the man in the tux. I had a sketch artist work with the kid, then took the drawing and compared it to the men I thought might be Tornado. I narrowed my list down to three suspects, then dug deeper until I unmasked my superhero.
Tornado was Travis Teague, a wealthy businessman specializing in wind power. How clichéd. But I was sure. I could feel it deep down in the pit of my stomach. A couple of weeks later, I verified my suspicion by capturing Teague turning into Tornado through the use of a hidden camera. My inner voice crowed with pride and victory. I notched another superhero expos on my belt.
Carmen 1, Fearless Five 0.
#
The day the story ran, the entire newsroom gathered around to toast me with champagne and pizza. Even the newspaper’s publisher, Morgana Madison, attended. In a way. She took in the rowdy scene from the windows of her office, which overlooked the newsroom. She was always up there, overseeing her massive media empire, while we slaved away earning her more millions.
I spotted the publisher and raised my glass. Morgana smiled and raised her own glass in response. Superhero exposs were terribly good for the bottom line, and there was nothing Morgana Madison cared about more than that. She was in the newspaper business to make money, and she didn’t hide her ambition.
Normally, I would have waited until I’d uncovered all the heroes’ and villains’ identities and written one big expos about everyone, but my editors insisted we run the story about Travis aka Tornado Teague right away. I went along with the plan. I was, after all, the golden child. I’d uncover the others’ identities soon enough.
Now, I was reaping the rewards of my clever brilliance, and so was everybody else. Everyone except Henry Harris, the newspaper’s technology reporter. He was the only person not joining in the festivities. Instead of drinking, he crouched at his desk near the back of the newsroom and stared at his computer screen. His fingers stabbed the keyboard with rapid strokes. Henry was a bit of an odd duck, with his nose always glued to his computer or buried in some book about the latest, greatest, technological advances. I liked him, though. He was nice, polite, and always helped me unfreeze my computer when it freaked out.
I grabbed an extra glass of champagne, strolled over, and plopped it down on his desk.
Henry blinked like an owl. “Oh thanks, Carmen. I didn’t realize it was time for the toast already. I guess I just lost track of things.”
“No problem, Henry. Come on, join the rest of us. We’ve got free booze and pizza, courtesy of the company.”
“Well, I really should finish this story—”
I pulled Henry out of his chair and into the middle of the newsroom. I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. This was one of the best days of my life, and everybody was going to share in it, whether they liked it or not.
“Speech! Speech!” one of the junior reporters shouted.
“Yeah, Carmen. Tell us why you do the things you do,” someone else asked.
“It’s like … karma,” I said, espousing my unmasking philosophy, which everyone had heard many, many times before. “We all know that villains cheat and steal and lie, but the heroes do it too. They lie to their friends and families. They make excuses and let down those closest to them time after time. That’s bad karma. One day, all that lying is bound to catch up with them. I just make sure it happens sooner rather than later. What goes around comes around. It’s karma.”
“Hear, hear,” Henry said in a quiet voice.
I clinked champagne glasses with Henry and the rest of my drunken colleagues. I’d never felt so exhilarated in my entire life. I was floating, flying, soaring. I was on top of the world. Now that I’d unmasked Tornado, the rest of the Fearless Five would soon follow. After that, I’d tackle the Terrible Triad.
My phone rang, jarring me out of my smug, self-satisfied reverie. “Carmen Cole.”
“Carmen, it’s Chief Newman,” a deep Irish voice rumbled in my ear.
“Hey, Chief. What’s up? Calling to congratulate me?”
I’d spent many hours going through files with Bigtime’s chief of police, and the two of us had developed a good working relationship. The chief also wanted to learn the identities of the Fearless Five and the Terrible Triad. Both groups had destroyed their fair share of Bigtime, and Newman wanted them to foot the bill for the cleanup and repairs. Not to mention all the unpaid parking tickets they’d accumulated with their souped-up supercars and vans.
“Not exactly.” He paused. “I’ve got some bad news, Carmen. It’s about Travis Teague. He’s dead, Carmen. He committed suicide.”
My champagne glass slipped from my fingers. It shattered on the floor.
Chapter Three
Six months later
I swirled champagne around in my cut-crystal glass. Bubbles rose up in the golden liquid, then fizzed out.
Just like my life.
After Travis Teague committed suicide by throwing himself out of his office on the thirtieth floor of Teague Towers, my star hadn’t just fallen, it had been snuffed out like a candle. Unmasking was good for business. Having Tornado, one of the most beloved superheroes in the world, commit suicide because you unmasked him was not. I got numerous death threats, not only from Tornado’s fellow superheroes, but also from the general public. People crossed the street to avoid walking past me. Restaurant waiters refused to serve me. Kids gathered in front of my apartment building and threw rocks whenever I stuck my head outside. People hated me with a passion heretofore reserved only for heretics and lawyers.
I accepted the abuse. I deserved it. My guilt over Tornado’s death knew no bounds. I barely ate. I hardly slept. On the rare occasion I did drift off, nightmares plagued my feverish dreams. All I’d wanted was to tell the truth, to reveal the people behind the masks. But things had gone terribly wrong. Instead, my own bad karma had bitten me on the ass, and Travis Teague had paid the ultimate price for my smug, stupid arrogance.
After his suicide, the only thing I wanted was to hole up in my apartment and never come out again. However, the editors at The Exposé wouldn’t let me slip quietly into the good night. Hell, they wouldn’t even fire me outright. Oh no. The newspaper’s cross-town rival, The Chronicle, would get too much mileage and glee out of that. Instead of axing me, the editors at The Exposé devised a fate worse than death—they reassigned me to the society beat.
I trudged to function after boring function, chatting up old, rich ladies and their spoiled, horse-faced daughters. I learned more about shoes and designer dresses and accessories in the last six months than I had in my entire life. Not to mention plastic surgery, liposuction, and pre-nuptial agreements.
I lived a sort of half-life at the newspaper. I came in, schlepped out to the latest debutante ball or charity function on the schedule, schlepped back, wrote a story, e-mailed it to the society editor, and left. The only one who even acknowledged my presence was Henry Harris and that was only when his nose wasn’t mashed against his computer screen.
Tonight, I was attending the opening of yet another art gallery. I’d been on the scene over an hour and had done all the usual things—chatted with the artist whose work was on display, gotten some quotes from the owner, taken notes about the latest in designer fashion. Now, I sipped flat champagne and tried to find someone who would say something moderately interesting about the opening. Sandra, the other reporter who reluctantly worked the society beat, had come in, gotten a few quotes, and left after ten minutes. Not me. I might not care about who was wearing what, or who was sleeping with whom, but that wasn’t going to stop me from doing the best job possible. I still had a little pride left. It was the only thing I had left.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Sam Sloane, one of the wealthiest men and most eligible bachelors in all of Bigtime.
“Mr. Sloane! Mr. Sloane!” I waved.
Sam Sloane gave me a look that would have frozen ice. He walked right by me, his eyes fixed straight ahead. I sighed. Two months ago, my editor had ordered me to get an exclusive interview with Sloane, the owner of The Chronicle. I couldn’t understand why my editor wanted a story on Sloane, given his legendary business battles with Morgana Madison. The two hated each other with a passion, as did the staffs of their respective newspapers. Reporters and editors at The Chronicle and The Exposé always tried to one up each other, just like Sloane and Morgana with their corporate shenanigans. Morgana barely tolerated Sloane’s name being mentioned in passing on the society page. She’d blow a gasket if we did a whole story on him. Perhaps my editor just wanted to get me fired.
Not that it really mattered. The assignment was impossible. Sloane never talked to anyone with the media, not even the reporters at his own newspaper. His conversation was reserved for the latest supermodel hanging on his arm. Unless I morphed into a six-foot-tall, blond Amazon with a tiny waist, fake boobs, and questionable morals, I wasn’t getting anywhere near Sam Sloane.
Even then, I would have a hard time fighting my way through the throngs of women that flocked around the billionaire. In addition to being richer than a sultan, Sam Sloane had dark good looks and a killer smile. Even I had to admit that a tuxedo never looked better on a man. Sloane was also supposed to be quite the charmer. Or so I’d been told. He’d never done more than stare coldly at me the few times he deigned to acknowledge my presence.
After another hour of flat champagne, moldy Brie, and stale crackers, I left the gallery and took a taxi downtown to the gigantic skyscraper that housed The Exposé. The glass-and-chrome building never failed to take my breath away. With its winking blue lights and glittering facade, it was even more impressive in the dark night. Only The Chronicle’s building, a gleaming skyscraper a few blocks away, rivaled The Exposé’s height and beauty.
I rode the elevator up to the one-hundredth floor, where the reporters and editors worked. I walked the length of the newsroom, or the gauntlet, to the very back wall. I’d once had a desk right in the middle of the newsroom, where the golden girls and boys lorded over their beats like queens and kings. After the Tornado fiasco, I’d been shuffled to the back, along with the other rejects who hung on to their jobs like spinach stuck in your teeth.
I reached my desk, a tiny metal affair on four shaky feet, sank into my uncomfortable chair, and smacked on my computer.
“How’s it going, Carmen?” Henry Harris asked from his own desk a few feet away.
“Fine, Henry. The usual. Another night, another opening, another glass of flat champagne.”
Henry smiled and went back to his computer. He pushed up the sleeves of his plaid sweater vest, adjusted his polka-dot bow tie, and started typing. The faint light emanating from the humming monitor gave his mocha-colored skin a slightly blue tinge. The light also made his glasses gleam and highlighted the smooth planes of his face. Henry was just shy of thirty, but he looked much younger, despite the old-fashioned clothes he always wore.
For the next hour, I tuned out the world, including the giggles and whispers of the golden girls and boys. I wrote a glowing story about the gallery opening, describing the scene in detail and adding in quotes from all the pertinent power players. I threw in some tidbits about the resident fashionistas and their outfits, shoes, and accessories, and sent my story to the society editor. I picked up one of the Rubik’s Cubes that littered my desk and fiddled with it, sliding the rows of colors back and forth. A few minutes later, my computer pinged with a new e-mail from the editor.
Fine. You can leave now.
Ah, short and sweet like always. I gathered up my things and headed toward the elevator.
“Later, Henry.”
He gave me a distracted little wave. His dark eyes never left his computer screen. I often wondered whether Henry ate or if he just subsisted on data bytes alone. I’d put money on the data bytes.
I rode down to the bottom floor, pushed through the heavy revolving doors, and stepped onto the street. It had rained while I’d been inside, and a damp, glossy sheen covered the sidewalk. Heavy clouds blanketed the night sky, and the metallic scent of more impending rain tickled my nose. No taxis cruised by, so I decided to walk home. It wasn’t far.
“Hey, baby! How about a little fun tonight?” a low voice called out from a dark doorway.
“Get lost, creep,” I snapped and kept walking.
My hand slipped into my purse, where I kept my pepper spray. Since Tornado’s suicide and the various death threats that had come my way, I’d started taking self-defense classes. Oh, the superheroes would never make good on their threats to injure me. Their moral compasses wouldn’t allow them to harm normal folks, not even a low-down, good-for-nothing reporter like me. No, it was regular people, the ones who called me nasty names and left dead fish outside my apartment, that I worried about.
Shoes squeaked on the slick sidewalk, and I glanced over my shoulder. Two men dressed in pinstriped suits lumbered along behind me, even though it was after midnight and all the downtown office buildings were closed. This wasn’t terribly unusual, as many Bigtime businessmen worked long, hard hours. But the flat, dead look in their eyes made me walk a little bit faster. Cold dread curled up in my stomach. My fist closed around the pepper spray.
I squinted, trying to make out the numbers on a nearby street sign. The subway was only two blocks away. Cops patrolled the underground tunnels all hours of the night and day, watching for purse snatchers and muggers. It would be safer down there. I picked up my pace. My feet snapped against the concrete like rubber bands. The footsteps behind me quickened, and I lunged out onto the street. A black sedan skidded to a halt in front of me. I jumped back onto the sidewalk.
“Hey!” I smacked the car’s hood with my purse. “Watch where you’re going!”
Something sharp pricked me. I yelped. One of the two men in suits shoved a syringe deeper into my arm. A strange, blue liquid glowed inside the glass tube. I yanked the pepper spray out of my purse and gave the goon a face full of it.
“You bitch!” he screamed and stumbled back.
I whirled around and gave the other goon the same treatment. He, too, cursed and stumbled away. The black sedan sat silent, its occupants enjoying the show. I tugged the empty syringe out of my arm and threw it down. The glass shattered. Blue liquid hissed onto the concrete, and white steam rose up from the strange substance.
My inner voice shrieked with fear. I was in serious trouble. I had to get away from these people, but everything seemed so strange. The world wouldn’t stay still. It kept spinning round and round and round like a carousel. I took a step forward. Two more blocks. I could make it two more blocks.
I took another step forward. Dizziness hit me like a tidal wave. I pitched to the ground, and darkness overcame me.
Chapter Four
I lost all sense of time and space. I was in a car, a car I didn’t want to be in, with some dangerous men. What they wanted with me and where they were taking me, I couldn’t imagine, but I didn’t feel frightened. A blue haze bathed my fear, softening it. Voices and bits of conversation floated in and out of my drugged mind.
“Can’t believe she got you two fools with pepper spray ...”
“Not our fault ...”
“Didn’t know ...”
“Thought she’d go down quicker ...”
I lapsed into unconsciousness once more.
#
Something hard and cold pressed against my cheek, so cold that it burned. I jerked my head up. A million needles stabbed my jumbled brain. The hot pricking traveled from my head down my spine and into my limbs. A groan of pain escaped my numb, cold, chapped lips.
“Well, well. Look who’s awake. Rise and shine, Lois Lane.”
Cold, rough hands hauled me up. The room spun around, and I struggled to focus. I found myself face to face with one of my kidnappers. His beady eyes were bloodshot, and his nose was red and runny. I studied him, memorizing every detail of his flat face, his clothes, his mannerisms. I wanted to give the police an accurate description of my kidnapper, if somehow I got out of this alive.
We were in a small, empty, concrete room with only one door. I thought about distances and angles and running.
“Jimmy!” the man yelled. “We’ve got a live one.”
The second man entered the room and grabbed my arm. I studied him as well. They dragged me outside. The sudden motion made me sick. I took deep breaths and tried not to vomit. Focus, focus! I had to be sharp, be strong. That was the only way I was going to get out of this mess.
I forced my mind away from the stabbing needles and throbbing headache and concentrated on my surroundings. We stood in an enormous factory or plant of some kind. A long, winding assembly line snaked over pipes, under catwalks, and around huge vats. Fog puffed up from the silver canisters. But what caught my attention was the ice—it covered everything, from the concrete floor to the metal pipes high overhead. The temperature hovered around the freezing mark. My ragged breath frosted in the air.
The two men half dragged, half carried me up a flight of stairs. I tried to dig my heels into the ground, but they skidded along the frozen floor like a pair of ice skates.
“I wish Frost had picked another place to do his experiments,” the second man grumbled after slipping on the icy incline.
“Quiet!” the first man hissed. “Or he’ll put the deep freeze on you.”
My own insides froze with fear. I knew who Frost was. The ubervillain was a member of the Terrible Triad, along with Scorpion and Malefica. If my head didn’t feel like a marching band had taken up residence inside, I might have been able to give my two kidnappers the slip. But I was no match for Frost or any other member of the Triad, even on their worst, most inept day. My inner voice let out a small, plaintive wail. This was not going to end well.
The goons dragged me through a dark hallway. We emerged onto a platform overlooking part of the factory. Ice and frost and metal stretched out as far as I could see. The two men stopped. I hung between them like a rag doll.
I cocked my head. A faint sound echoed in the distance. I concentrated. The sound came again, then again. It took me a moment, but I recognized it. The distinctive click-click-clack of high-heel shoes rang out through the factory, getting louder and closer with every step. My doom approached.
Malefica, the leader of the Terrible Triad, strolled into view. Skin-tight, blood-red leather hugged her perfect figure from head to toe. A black leather whip looped around her impossibly thin waist, while a black M strained to cover her impressive chest. A black-and-red mask covered her eyes, while a red cowl hid her hair from sight. A scarlet cape and strappy sandals completed the fashionably evil ensemble.
“Ah. I see our guest has arrived. We’ve been expecting you, haven’t we, boys?”
Frost and Scorpion stepped out of the shadows. I gasped. Frost was a tall, skinny man clad in an ice blue suit. A shock of white-blond hair stood straight up on his head, and his eyes glowed with a vivid, blue flame. With bulging, rippling muscles, very wide shoulders, and a shaved head, Scorpion was the polar opposite of Frost. He wore black from head to toe and looked as solid as cement.
And so I found myself face to face with every superhero’s worst nightmare—the Terrible Triad. I swallowed.
“Leave us,” Malefica barked to the two hired hands.
The men dropped my arms and scurried away like rats. I wobbled and tried to remain upright.
Malefica’s ruby red lips curved into a smile. “Carmen Cole. It’s an honor. I’ve been a fan of your work for some time now.”
My inner voice muttered. Somehow, I managed to speak. “Sorry, I can’t say the same.”
“Aren’t you the feisty one? Pity.”
Malefica backhanded me. The sound cracked like thunder. The woman worked out, that was for sure. I hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. The needles returned, worse than before. My head felt like it was going to explode into a million, pulpy pieces. I bit back a groan of pain. I was nothing, less than nothing, to the Triad. I would likely be dead within the next five minutes, but I vowed not to show weakness in front of them. I would not! My scraps of pride wouldn’t let me.
I stared at the scarlet sandal tapping in front of my aching face and burning brain. It was the only way I could take my mind off the searing pain rippling up and down my body. Plus, I found it odd and somewhat funny how big and clownlike Malefica’s feet were in proportion to the rest of her lithe body.
“Nice sandals,” I croaked. “Bulluci’s fall collection?”
Good eye,” Malefica said. “Now get up. We have things to discuss.”
I slowly, slowly staggered to my feet, held my head in my hands, and tried to keep the world from careening out of control. I wasn’t very successful. Unconcerned, Malefica sashayed away, her shoes click-click-clacking on the iced-over floor. Every footstep made my head ache even more. I limped along behind her. Frost and Scorpion brought up the rear, making me the middle of an ubervillain sandwich. Terrific.
Malefica twisted and turned her way through the factory until we reached an office. I stepped over the threshold and blinked. It was a room fit for a queen. Wingback chairs and an enormous love seat sat on one side of the room, while a huge, canopied bed took up the other section. A mahogany desk piled high with papers crouched next to a tall liquor cabinet. Flames blazed in a marble fireplace, and sinfully thick carpet covered the floor. It was the plushest ubervillain lair money could buy. Despite my fear of imminent, painful death, I made mental notes, not only of the room, but also of the objects in it. Not that the police would believe I’d been kidnapped by ubervillains, but a girl had to try.
“Sit.”
I did as I was told. There was no point in being stubborn. Besides, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand. It was hard to remain upright when your knees shook like leaves in a tornado.
Malefica strolled over to the liquor cabinet. She plucked some crystal glasses and a bottle of amber-colored liquid out of the dark depths.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“No,” I said, even though my throat was as dry as a sandbox.
“Are you sure? It’s Brighton’s Best.”
I recognized the reference from my months on the society beat. That was a fifteen-thousand-dollar bottle of Scotch that Malefica was holding. “No. I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Pity.”
Malefica poured a couple of fingers’ worth of Scotch into a crystal tumbler. Frost and Scorpion settled themselves on the love seat.
My inner voice whispered. Suddenly, I knew that Malefica and her companions weren’t going to kill me. Not tonight. They’d gone to too much trouble to bring me here when they could have just murdered me on the sidewalk. They wanted something from me. More cold dread filled my stomach. But what could it be?
Malefica reclined in the leather chair behind the desk. She took a long pull on her drink then set it aside. Unless I missed my guess, the glass was a Hilustar tumbler. The crystal cups went for five thousand bucks a pop, making them a pricey way to quench your thirst. Then again, it would be terribly gauche to drink fifteen-thousand-dollar Scotch from a plastic cup.
“The reason you’re not dead by now is that my associates and I have a job for you.” Malefica’s voice reminded me of a purring, pleased cat. I hated cats.
My instincts had been right once again. Maybe I would live through this yet. “A job? What sort of job?”
“A very special job, one that only you can do.”
I raised an eyebrow.
Malefica tapped her long, scarlet nails together. “We want you to uncover the identity of Striker, the leader of the Fearless Five.”
Laughter bubbled up inside me like fizzy champagne. I tried to stop it, as it wasn’t very polite or good for your health to guffaw at an ubervillain when she was trying to cow you into doing her bidding. But the cork popped, and it spewed out anyway. I laughed.
And laughed ...
And laughed …
And laughed some more.
Malefica pressed her scarlet lips into a thin, hard line. Her green eyes narrowed.
“I’m sorry. But you’re kidding, right?” I wiped away my tears of hysterical mirth.
“She’s quite serious,” Frost said in a, well, frosty sort of voice.
“You unmasked Tornado. What could be so hard about Striker?” Scorpion growled. He cracked a few of his massive knuckles. The sounds echoed through the room like gunshots. “He’s not really so tough once you beat on him a little.”
I stared at the mountain of a man. “Tornado was sloppy; he made a mistake. Striker doesn’t make mistakes. The guy’s a ghost. I researched him for months and months and found nothing. No habits, no hobbies, no girlfriends or boyfriends, no widowed aunts who need rescuing over and over again. He’s untraceable.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to find a way to track him down,” Malefica said. “Or else.”
I rolled my eyes. Ubervillains. Always so dramatic. My inner voice snickered, and a little bit of my courage returned. “Or else what? You’ll kill me until I’m dead, dead, dead? Sorry, you’ll have to be more creative. I’ve heard that one before.”
Malefica smiled. Chills zipped down my spine.
“Ah. Smart girl. I knew you’d ask. Let’s go for a walk.”
Malefica led the way to a large platform that overlooked another series of huge, metal vats. A bank of computers winked at one end of the room. Four large, glass tubes with wires and electrodes attached to them crouched next to the electronic equipment. Blue and green and red liquid dripped and bubbled and gurgled in beakers on top of a workbench. All sorts of odd-shaped gadgets and doodads and gewgaws covered another table. It was Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory come to life. What the hell was the Triad up to?
Malefica pointed to the vats below us. “See those? Frost has concocted a special sort of ... what did you so scientifically call it?”
“Radioactive, ice-cold goo,” Frost said. “Actually, it’s called freezeterium, a special chemical that produces some rather interesting effects in clinical trials.”
Malefica waved her hand. “You know how your scientific blathering bores me. Let’s move on.”
We walked down a flight of stairs. A row of cages sat on the floor next to the bottom of the vats. Animals stirred at the crunch of our shoes on the icy floor.
“Go ahead,” Malefica said. “Get a good look.”
I crept up to the first cage. A large wolf crouched inside. I edged closer. The creature rose to its feet, and I realized it was twice the size of a normal wolf. It turned around, and I gasped. It was a wolf, and yet not a wolf.
It had probably been a wolf at some time in its life, but the creature was now a thing of nightmares. Long, jagged tusks jutted out from its enormous mouth. Ice blue eyes the size of saucers stared at me. The creature yawned, revealing a long, black tongue and row upon row of razor-sharp teeth, teeth that could rip a man to shreds in an instant. My gaze traveled downward. The creature’s fur was the color of new snow, but huge, ugly, black talons curved out from its paws.
“Keep going,” Malefica ordered.
I swallowed a mouthful of bile. Sweat froze on my forehead. I tiptoed down the row of cages. Nightmare after nightmare greeted me from behind the metal bars.
“What are these things?”
“Wolves, mostly. A few foxes, the odd squirrel or two. The bears all died,” Frost replied in a cold, clinical voice. “The creatures have all been given varying doses of freezeterium, with a variety of outcomes, as you can see.”
At the sound of Frost’s voice, the animals leapt forward. They snarled and clawed at the bars on their cages. I leapt back. The animals’ rage, their absolute hatred for Frost, and their shame at being transformed into such monstrosities hit me like an ice-cold wave. My stomach flipped over.
“See how my pets love me?” he cooed.
“What are you trying to do?” I whispered.
“I’m seeing what effect freezeterium has upon various animals before I begin conducting human trials.”
“Human trials? Why?”
Frost gave me patronizing look. “It’s what I do.”
“Frost fancies himself a scientist. He wants to create his own little army of snow-bunny soldiers,” Malefica explained.
“I am a scientist,” Frost sniffed. “It’s not my fault the academic community refuses to acknowledge my brilliance.”
Malefica put a hand around my shoulder and led me away from the cages. I shuddered at her touch. Her perfume worked its way up my nose and down my throat. It was a sweet, cloying scent that made me want to retch.
The ubervillain steered me back up the stairs to the glass tubes and computers. I’d always known the Triad was the worst of the worst, but the depths of their depravity stunned me. Experimenting on helpless animals, planning to do the same to humans. Hot, sour vomit rose in my throat. Somehow, I forced it down. I would get through this. I would. Then, I would find a way to stop these vile people.
Yeah, right. As if I had a chance against three of the world’s most powerful ubervillains. Right now, I would settle for just getting out of this alive.
“So you see, our proposition is really quite simple,” Malefica purred in a pleased tone. “You will discover Striker’s identity, or else Frost will drop you into the radioactive goo until you come out looking like one of his little pets. Only worse, I imagine. After all, his project is still in the experimental stages.”