JINX
By Jennifer Estep
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2008, 2011 by Jennifer Estep
Excerpts from KARMA GIRL and HOT MAMA
Copyright © 2007 and 2011 by Jennifer Estep
Smashwords Edition
SMASHWORDS LICENSE STATEMENT
This
ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may
not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to
share this book with another person, please purchase an additional
copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not
purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please
return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of this author.
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.
All rights reserved by the author.
JINX
by
Jennifer Estep
Book Three in the
Bigtime paranormal romance series
Sexy superheroes. Evil ubervillains.
Smart, sassy gals looking for love.
DEDICATION
To my mother and grandmother,
for always taking care of me.
PART ONE—I HATE SUPERHEROES
Chapter One
Dinner with superheroes.
It’s an interesting experience—and one that I rather hate.
The empty wine glass floated past me, sailing along as though carried by a steady, invisible hand. I tried to pretend it wasn’t there. That I didn’t see it. That the glass was as invisible as the force propelling it forward. But that was hard to do since it landed on the table next to me.
I further tried to pretend I didn’t see the crystal carafe beside my elbow rise up, tip itself over, and pour ruby-red sangria into the waiting glass. I even tried to convince myself I didn’t really see the glass float back across the table.
I failed miserably at all three.
The other people gathered round didn’t pay any attention to the floating glass. Didn’t slow their conversation or ignore their food for an instant.
Unfortunately, floating glasses had become a normal sight around the Bulluci household these days—no matter how I wished otherwise.
“Is that really necessary?” I asked, my voice a little snappish. “I would have been happy to pour you some more wine.”
Chief Sean Newman held out his hand, and the glass drifted over to him. “There was no need to bother you, Bella, when I could do it for myself.”
“But you could have just asked,” I persisted. “You didn’t have to use your powers like that.”
“Please,” Fiona Fine cut in, turning her blue eyes to me. “What’s the point of having superpowers if you don’t use them?”
Fiona grabbed the bread basket and waved her hand over the top. A few red-hot sparks shot off the ends of her fingertips, and the delicious smell of warm, cheese bread filled the air.
“Lighten up, Bella,” Fiona continued, putting the entire loaf on one of the dozen plates in front of her. “We all know each other here—alter egos and otherwise. It’s not like there are other people around to catch us in the act.”
No, they weren’t any other people around. No normal people anyway. Just me, Fiona, Chief Newman, my brother, Johnny, and my grandfather, Bobby.
I’d barely touched my whole wheat ravioli, but I put my fork down. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I never was when there were superheroes around.
But Fiona and Chief Newman weren’t just any superheroes. There were plenty of those in Bigtime, New York. No, they were Fiera and Mr. Sage, members of the Fearless Five—the most powerful, elite team of heroes in the city. In addition to being stronger than five people put together, Fiera could also form fireballs with her bare hands, while Mr. Sage had all sorts of psychic powers, including telekinesis, or the ability to move objects with his mind.
And now, they were part of my family.
Fiona had gotten engaged to my brother, Johnny, a couple of months ago after she’d saved him from two ubervillains who were trying to enslave the city. During all the commotion, Fiona had revealed her secret identity as Fiera to my grandfather and me, and got us to help her rescue Johnny. And Chief Newman was Fiona’s father, as well as her teammate.
But they weren’t the only superheroes in the family these days.
The Fearless Five were a package deal. In addition to Fiera and Mr. Sage, we also got Karma Girl, Striker, and Hermit. Or Carmen Cole, Sam Sloane, and Henry Harris. That’s how I thought of them. As nice, regular people who were mostly normal. Never as their alter egos. I tried to pretend those other people didn’t exist.
I tried to pretend a lot of things didn’t exist.
Especially my own supposed superpower.
My grandfather, Bobby Bulluci, clapped his hands together. “Come! Let’s talk of other things.” He turned to Fiona and Johnny. “Are the two of you packed for your trip?”
Johnny had some business to take care of in the overseas divisions of Bulluci Industries, so he and Fiona had decided to make a working vacation out of it. The two were leaving tomorrow on a month-long trip to explore the Mediterranean.
“Of course,” Johnny answered, flashing Fiona a grin. “Although I don’t know how we’re going to get all of Fiona’s clothes onto the plane.”
Fiona reached over and punched my brother. Johnny flexed his bicep, which took on a hard look—like his skin had suddenly morphed into metal. Fiona’s fist smacked into his arm, and she frowned and shook her hand. Even with her great strength, it hurt to punch my brother when he formed his superhard, supertough exoskeleton. It made Johnny immune to just about everything. Kicks, punches, explosions, Fiona’s flare-ups. That was good, since my brother had an annoying tendency to dress up in tacky, formfitting, black leather, zoom around town on his motorcycle, and fight ubervillains.
Instead of an exoskeleton, I’d gotten something far less useful from the mutated family gene pool—luck. As if that was any kind of superpower. Superannoying was more like it.
Fiona sniffed and tossed her blond hair over her shoulder. “I’ve told you a million times you can never have too many clothes, especially when you’re going on vacation. Besides, we’re taking Sam’s private jet. There’ll be more than enough room for my things.”
Johnny gave Fiona another wicked smile. “But, baby, you know I think you look fine in whatever you wear—especially when it’s nothing at all.”
Fiona rolled her eyes. “Please. There’s nothing sexier than a well-dressed woman. Right, Bella?”
“Of course,” I murmured.
Fiona and I knew a few things about well-dressed women, since we both worked as fashion designers. Fiona fronted Fiona Fine Fashions, while I ran the design portion of Bulluci Industries. Fiona and I had completely different styles, and we’d been friendly rivals for years. She created garments that screamed Here I am! Look at me! I’m fabulous! with their bright colors, wild patterns, and mounds of sequins and feathers. I preferred simpler styles, with muted hues, clean lines, and absolutely, positively no sequins. Ever.
Don’t get me wrong. I liked Fiona just fine. Her father too. And I was glad Johnny had found someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
But there was nothing I hated more than superheroes and ubervillains. Dressing up in those silly costumes. Calling themselves absurd names. Plotting and scheming and planning elaborate ways to take over the city and rule the world. It was all so dramatically ridiculous.
C’mon. Who would want to rule the world, really? It’d be nothing but a giant headache, with everyone constantly whining and crying at you. Not to mention all the paperwork and demands on your free time. But the ubervillains always tried to reign supreme, and the superheroes always stopped them. The cycle was endless.
Unfortunately, I had lots of experience with superheroes. Or rather pseudo heroes. All the men in my family masqueraded as Johnny Angel in their youth, riding around Bigtime on a tricked-out motorcycle, getting into trouble, and taking on ubervillains when the mood hit them. Masquerading as Johnny Angel was how my brother had first met Fiona a few months ago.
And how my father, James, had died.
I was happy for Johnny, but I couldn’t help shuddering at the fact he’d added another superhero to the family tree. Five of them. Six, actually, if you counted Lulu Lo, the computer hacker who was engaged to Henry Harris.
Oh, I liked Fiona, Carmen, Sam, Henry, and Chief Newman just fine when they were themselves. It was their nightly habit of turning into Fiera, Karma Girl, Striker, Hermit, and Mr. Sage that had me concerned.
And knowing the Fearless Five’s secret identities was sort of like being in a mob family—once you were in, you were all the way in whether you wanted to be or not. And you couldn’t get out, no matter how hard you tried. Whenever we had any of the heroes over for dinner, all they talked about were their latest epic battles and daring escapes. Or the new equipment Henry Hermit Harris had purchased for their underground lair. Or the current ubervillains populating Bigtime. Or a dozen other superhero-related things that made me grind my teeth. Last week, Fiona had even asked me if I thought her costume needed a redesign. Sheesh.
My power flared up at my dark thoughts. I didn’t know how the other superheroes felt their power, but mine was sort of like standing in a ball of static electricity. My skin hummed. My fingertips itched. And worst of all, my caramel-colored hair frizzed out to alarming proportions. There wasn’t a conditioner on the market that could tame it. Believe me, I’d tried them all. Together. At the same time.
The overall sensation wasn’t uncomfortable so much as it was aggravating. Because the static, the power, the energy, built and built until it had to be discharged. And when it did, well, watch out. More often than not, whatever was around me either exploded, shattered, fell from the sky, or spontaneously combusted. Sometimes all at once. My luck was like some sort of supercharged telekinesis I couldn’t control. Stuff just happened, whether I wanted it to or not. And here’s the really annoying thing about having luck as a superpower—it can be good or bad.
Sometimes, if I thought about something, wanted it to happen, willed it to be, I’d get my heart’s desire. I’d catch the subway a second before the doors closed. Snag the last seat in a crowded movie theater. Find the only dress in my size. I even won five hundred dollars in a sweepstakes as a kid just by staring at my entry form before I sent it in and wishing I could win.
But just as often, my luck turned on me. I’d catch the subway, but rip my jacket on the doors. Get the last seat, but sit down in a puddle of sticky soda. Find the perfect dress, but forget my credit cards. Win the lottery, but lose my ticket.
Luck, the most capricious thing in the world. That was my supposed power. My curse was more like it.
My jinx.
I always felt the static energy around me and did my best to keep it clamped down and under control. But the sudden surge told me that it was time for it to let loose—and for something to happen. I could never tell whether that something would be good or bad, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
I slowly, carefully, calmly pushed my chair back from the table, making sure I was clear of the tablecloth, candles, bread basket, wine glasses, plates, silverware, and anything else I could drag down or knock off or upset in any way. Then, I stood.
With small, thoughtful steps, I backed around the chair until I stood five feet away from the table—and out of range of everyone and everything. Now, nobody else would get caught in the crossfire if something crazy happened, like the chandelier above my head plummeting from the ceiling, despite the ten or so bolts that held it in place.
“Bella? Are you all right?” Chief Newman asked, his eyes flashing a brilliant green. “Is your power bothering you again?”
Chief Newman had offered to work with me, to try to find some way to help me control my power. I’d refused. You couldn’t control luck. I’d long ago given up hope of ever taming it, along with my hair.
The doorbell rang, saving me from an explanation.
“I’ll get it,” I said. “It’s probably more trick-or-treaters.”
It was late October and still several days before Halloween, but little ghosts and ghouls and goblins had already started showing up asking for candy. Or else. Halloween was a two-week-long event in Bigtime that wouldn’t wrap up until the night of the thirty-first. The extended holiday gave everybody, kids and adults alike, a chance to go around town all dressed up, instead of just the heroes and villains.
“What are you giving them?” Fiona asked, her eyes gleaming at the thought of Halloween candy. “Snickers? M&Ms? Chocolate Twinkies?”
The only thing Fiona loved as much as Johnny was food. With her fire-based superpowers and high metabolism, Fiona could eat whatever she wanted to, whenever she wanted to, and never gain a pound. Besides her nighttime gig as a superhero, that was the only other thing I really hated about her. Well, that and her sky-high legs. I was just a couple inches over five feet. And her perfectly smooth blond hair and gorgeous baby blues. My tawny locks resembled a bush more often than not, while my hazel eyes just sort of faded into my bronze face. All right, so I really hated a lot of things about Fiona.
“Hardly. I’m giving them apples, fat-free trail mix, boxes of raisins, and bags of unpopped, butter-free microwave popcorn.” I pointed to the far end of the long table, where I’d put the plastic bowls of goodies.
“What’s the fun in that?” Fiona said.
“Not contributing to the American epidemic of childhood obesity, for one,” I snapped.
Fiona rolled her eyes. “Your house is so going to be covered in toilet paper in the morning.”
Bobby cleared his throat. “Actually, Bella, I took the liberty of buying some candy bars on my way home today. Just in case you ran out of apples.”
“Chocolate? Where?” Fiona demanded.
I put my hands on my hips and glared at my grandfather. There was a devilish twinkle in his green eyes I knew all too well.
“And how many did you eat before you put them away?”
His lips twitched. “Bella, you’ve told me many times I shouldn’t eat candy. I didn’t have a single one.”
Right. And I looked good in a thong.
“Grandfather,” I warned.
Bobby’s heart, cholesterol, and blood pressure weren’t the best in the world, something I was trying to change. With little success. My grandfather still ate like he was twenty-three, instead of seventy-three, despite doctor’s orders and my constant nagging. And don’t even get me started on his other bad habit—motorcycle riding. Bobby had broken his leg two years ago gallivanting around town, and I’d moved back home to take care of and keep an eye on him.
Bobby ignored me. “They’re in the kitchen, Fiona, if you want to hand them out.”
Fiona snapped to her feet. “Count me in.”
Bobby’s eyes sparkled. “Try to leave some for the kids.”
Fiona sniffed and tossed her hair over her shoulder again before disappearing into the kitchen.
I grabbed the bowls of apples, raisins, and popcorn, and carried them to the front door. The static crackled around me like an invisible force field, but it seemed to be holding steady. For the moment. Fiona come out of the kitchen and fell in step beside me, candy bars in hand. She opened the door, and I smiled, ready to greet our visitors.
“Trick or treat!” the kids shouted, holding out plastic orange pumpkins.
There were five of them, of course. Each one dressed like a member of the Fearless Five. A girl clad in reddish-orange spandex was supposed to be Fiera, and one in silver represented Karma Girl. One of the little boys sported an Irish green cape as Mr. Sage, while the other had on black leather and two long swords made out of aluminum foil for Striker. The man with them wore black-and-white goggles, representing Hermit.
Superheroes. More stupid superheroes. What happened to the good old days when kids dressed up as princesses and cowboys and monsters?
My smile faltered, but I held out the bowls. “Who wants some apples?”
Silence. Dead silence. I didn’t even hear crickets chirping in the front yard.
The kids looked at me, then each other, then at the man. No one said anything.
My power surged again. The static discharged.
And the plastic bowls in my hands shattered.
You would have thought I had some explodium in the containers instead of healthy snacks. Raisins and popcorn showered us all, while bits of pulverized apple pelted my thick, curly hair and face. The few apples that survived the explosion intact bounced down the long driveway and out of sight. The pieces of the splintered bowls zipped through the air, embedding themselves in the stone steps like daggers around my feet. In a perfect circle, no less.
I sighed and wiped a bit of apple juice off my nose. I’d long ago grown used to my power—and the embarrassment that went along with it.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, scooping raisins and popcorn into my hands. “I have more inside. Let me get that.”
I’d been prepared for such a disaster. In fact, I always bought five of everything, whether it was candy or jewelry or clothes. Years of bad luck had taught me that my jinxed power would find a way to trash even the safest, sturdiest object. In the last six months, I’d gone through seven purses, dozens of shirts, and more shoes than I cared to admit. And two cars.
“Um, I think we’ll just try the next house,” the man replied, drawing the kids close to him.
Fiona not-so-gently shouldered past me. “Don’t worry. I’ve got some Hershey bars right here. They’re a little melted, but they’re still good.”
“Yeah!”
The kids stepped forward, and Fiona gave them each a chocolate bar. The girl in the Fiera costume got two. Naturally.
Satisfied, the kids headed back down the driveway in search of more Halloween goodies to rot their teeth and drive their sugar levels through the roof.
Fiona smirked. “See? I told you the kids would want candy.”
I sighed again. I should have known better. After all, it was almost Halloween.
And the perfect time of year for my power to play tricks on me.
Chapter Two
After cleaning up my unwanted goodies and picking most of the apples out of my hair, I went back to the dining room, where I said my goodnights to everyone and wished Johnny and Fiona a safe trip.
“Call me when you land, and remember to check in every other day,” I said. “I want to know how you’re doing and what you’ve seen.”
Johnny gave me a tight hug. “Don’t worry, Bella. Nothing’s going to happen. We’ll be fine.”
“Of course, we will,” Fiona added, unwrapping her third candy bar in as many minutes. “No work, no ubervillains, no city to save. Just fun, sun, and food. Lots of food. We’re going to have a fabulous time, and that’s all there is to it. Relax, Bella. I’ll bring Johnny home in one piece. Don’t I always?”
I started to remind her about the incident two weeks ago, when the two of them had run into Yeti Girl, who’d almost removed Johnny’s head from his body. But Grandfather cut me off.
“Of course, you will,” Bobby said, winking at her.
I bit my lip. Everyone thought I was a silly worrywart who saw danger lurking around every corner. Well, it did. You could never be too vigilant or too careful. Not only did you have to worry about superheroes and ubervillains in this city, but there were ordinary things to be cautious of too—muggers, car accidents, paper cuts, carbs. Add all that to my capricious luck, and you had a recipe for disaster.
Chief Newman’s eyes flashed. “Yes, I think you’ll have a wonderful time. And I think I’ll have some more of that delicious sangria.”
The older superhero waved his hand, and his wine glass floated back across the table towards me.
I headed upstairs and went to bed. I’d had enough superheroes—pint-sized and otherwise—for one evening.
#
Early the next morning, I plodded down to the gym in the basement of the Bulluci mansion. I started every day by huffing and puffing on the elliptical trainer for at least thirty minutes. Unlike Fiona, I had to work out like a fiend to stay in reasonably good shape.
In addition to my sun-kissed skin, my mother, Lucia, had also passed down her curvy form to me. While it had looked good on her, I was all hips and thighs. Just staring at food was enough to make me gain three pounds. It didn’t help that I had an unhealthy weakness for carbs—namely mounds of pasta and piles of French fries.
I let myself daydream about a plate of cheese fries from Quicke’s for two whole minutes. Then, I flipped on my favorite James Taylor CD, climbed onto the machine, and went to work. I pushed myself hard, staying on the elliptical trainer for the better part of an hour, until my legs burned and screamed for mercy.
Grandfather and Johnny didn’t understand my need to live healthy. They didn’t know why I worked out so much or tried to get them to eat things that weren’t drenched in oil and butter and salt. I couldn’t control my supposed superpower, but I could control the rest of my body and what I put into it. I had enough things to worry about. My health wasn’t going to be one of them.
I finished my workout with a little yoga and some slow stretches. The static gathered round my body, ready to lash out. My skin hummed with energy, but I ignored the sensation. Sometimes, if I pretended I couldn’t feel the static, I could delay the chaos. For a few minutes.
I headed to the kitchen to grab a quick breakfast. My grandfather had built our villa-style house when he came to the States some fifty years ago, and the kitchen was one of my favorite rooms. White cabinets with angel outlines carved into the wood hovered above a tile counter that ran along one wall. A round, maple-colored table sat in the middle of the open area, underneath a crystal, wing-shaped light fixture. A sliding glass door led out to a stone patio, where you could view the orange, fig, olive, and other trees in the orchard in the backyard. More angels decorated the refrigerator magnets, the fresco on one wall, and even the folded dish towels beside the stainless steel sink.
Grandfather lounged at the table reading the morning editions of The Chronicle and The Exposé, the city’s two major newspapers. The remains of a bagel and some fresh fruit littered a plate in front of him. I looked around, but I didn’t see or smell any telltale signs of steak, bacon, eggs, and hash browns—Bobby’s preferred breakfast of choice.
“Anything exciting going on?” I moved over to one of the refrigerators and poured myself some calcium-fortified, low-calorie, low-sugar orange juice.
The kitchen was one of the biggest rooms in the mansion. It needed to be to house all our appliances. Two of everything crowded in here—stoves, refrigerators, microwaves, coffee pots, juicers, blenders, food processors. Not to mention the drawers full of silverware, plates, and glasses. We needed all the backups, since I had a nasty habit of destroying them. You’d be surprised how easy it is to blow up a microwave or snap the handle off a stainless steel pot.
Plus, the extra refrigerator helped feed Fiona and her enormous appetite. Although, when I zapped one of them, she was more than happy to eat everything inside before it spoiled, including some of the condiments. Fiona had a particular fondness for chocolate-flavored whipped cream, a craving I didn’t really understand. She was always grabbing a can of it and rushing off to find Johnny.
“Not much,” Bobby said, rustling the tall pages. “A pileup on the interstate, a purse snatching downtown, a home invasion. Some guy got beat up pretty badly in that one, but Swifte came along and broke it up. He rushed the guy to the hospital.”
Swifte was another one of Bigtime’s superheroes, famous for his speed, public-relations skills, and shimmering white costume. He zoomed around town fighting evil and getting every bit of press coverage he could. Unlike the Fearless Five, who tried to keep a low profile, Swifte loved the spotlight.
I helped myself to some more orange juice, along with a bowl of apple-cinnamon-flavored oatmeal and a banana.
“I’m going to see Joanne James and the rest of the committee about the museum benefit,” I said between sweet, steaming bites. “It’s our last major planning session, so I probably won’t be home until late. What do you have planned for today? Going to have lunch with your lady friend again?”
Lady friend was Bobby’s term for the woman he’d been seeing for the last month. I didn’t know where he’d met her or even who she was, but Bobby had been spending a lot of time with her. Having lunch and dinner together. Walking through Paradise Park. Going dancing at some of the jazz clubs. He’d even stayed overnight at her place a few times.
My grandmother had died years ago, and Bobby had dated plenty since then. But a smile creased his face and his step pepped up whenever he talked about his lady friend that made me think she might be more than just another casual flirtation.
I was thrilled for Grandfather, but a little concerned I didn’t know who she was. I wanted to make sure Bobby found someone who loved him for him, and not for his money or the Bulluci name. I was also a tiny bit jealous. Johnny had Fiona, and now Bobby had a lady friend. I wanted someone special in my life too.
“No, we’re not having lunch today,” Bobby said. “But I’m sure I’ll find something to do.”
“So when are you going to introduce her?” I asked. “I’m dying to meet the woman who’s captivated you.”
Bobby waggled his finger. “Soon, Bella. Soon. She’s busy with her work right now, but once that’s done, I promise we’ll have her over for dinner, and you can grill her to your heart’s content.”
Just because I’d asked Fiona what her intentions were towards Johnny, I’d gotten a reputation for being overprotective when it came to my brother and grandfather’s love lives. I just wanted to keep them safe from everything, including broken hearts.
“Has Johnny called yet?” I asked, scooping up the last of my oatmeal. “Did they get to the hotel all right?”
“He called this morning before you were up.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Because everything was fine, and they were on their way out to do some sightseeing. Johnny said he’ll call back in a couple of days. You can talk to your brother then.”
Grandfather stuck his nose in the sports section, reading the latest European soccer news. Unlike me, he didn’t feel the need to know where the members of his family were every single hour of the day. Maybe it was his age or all that he’d seen in his seventy-three years, but Bobby had a very casual, relaxed attitude about life. He could always find something to laugh at or smile about, no matter how bad things were. I envied his carefree nature.
Bobby kept reading his papers, so I finished my breakfast and went upstairs. I took a quick shower, then put on a crisp, tailored, white shirt, fitted black pants, and sensible black pumps. Fiona could wear jungle prints and leopard spots and zebra stripes all she wanted, but nothing was classier and more elegant than basic black with a refreshing splash of white.
I rummaged through my jewelry box until I came up with a short, thin silver chain. I fastened it around my neck, and a small pair of diamond-cut angel wings settled into the hollow of my throat.
Given my male relatives’ propensity for morphing into Johnny Angel, we Bullucis have become collectors and connoisseurs of all things angel-related. From furniture to carpets to light fixtures, if it has an angel or cherub or pair of wings on it, we probably have one. Or thirteen.
In my set of rooms alone, angel and wing and halo carvings decorated the headboard on my bed, the coffee table in the sitting room, and the desk where I kept my sketch pads and art supplies. Clouds puffed across the walls and ceiling in the bathroom, and, instead of claw feet, four small angel heads supported my oversized bathtub.
I looked into the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom. My eyes lingered on my necklace. The chain and winged charm had been a present from my father, James, on my sixteenth birthday. I’d started wearing them more often since he’d been murdered. It made me feel closer to him, even though he was gone. I fingered the charm, and my father’s face flashed through my mind.
Sandy hair, dark skin, blue eyes, strong, sure hands. James Bulluci had been a wonderful father. Kind, caring, and never too busy to read me a story or tuck me into bed. After my mother died in a car accident, he’d doubled his efforts to be a good father. He took Johnny and me out at least once a week to spend some quality time together. We’d go to Paradise Park to ride the Ferris wheel, or to the library to listen to tall tales, or even to the art museum to look at all the wonderful paintings and sculptures.
I’d loved my father dearly. Except for one thing—his alter ego, Johnny Angel. A tradition he’d inherited from my grandfather, the original Angel. I’d never understood why the two of them had felt the need to dress up in black leather. They weren’t superheroes. At least, not traditional heroes like the Fearless Five. Neither one had a power. But for years, they’d both ridden around Bigtime on custom-made motorcycles, hanging out with the local biker gangs, and getting into trouble.
And fighting ubervillains.
At least once a week, my father would come home bloody and bruised from some battle. And I’d be waiting to patch him up. I’d help him out of his torn, ripped costume, wipe the blood off his face, assess the damage, and go to work with my needle and thread. I knew as much about cuts and stitches and setting broken bones as any ER doc did. Maybe more, given all the ones I’d treated over the years.
But the wounds weren’t the worst part.
It was the waiting. The wondering. The heavy, crushing fear my father wouldn’t come home. Ever again. That some ubervillain would kill him. Or that he’d get beaten to death in a bar fight. Or the more pedestrian worry that he’d have a motorcycle accident.
Just about every night, I’d sit up with my mother and wait for my father to come home. After she died, I did it by myself. Sometimes, Grandfather and Johnny would wait with me, but most nights, I was alone. They didn’t worry like I did. They always thought my father would come home safe and more or less sound.
Until one night, he didn’t.
Two ubervillains, Siren and Intelligal, had muscled in on territory controlled by some bikers my father was friendly with. They’d asked him to help get rid of the ubervillains. My father confronted them, and Intelligal had launched a couple of explodium missiles at him. He’d tried to outrun the missiles on his motorcycle, but he’d never had a chance. All we’d found of my father had been his watch—without his hand attached.
My brother Johnny had become Angel then, determined to bring my father’s killers to justice. That’s when he’d crossed paths with Fiera and the rest of the Fearless Five. The superheroes had been after Siren and Intelligal as well, and Fiera convinced Johnny to join forces with them. But Johnny had still almost died when the ubervillains kidnapped and held him hostage.
My power pulsed, and my wavy, shoulder-length hair started to frizz, despite the bottle of extra-strength conditioner I’d just used. My luck always got more unstable when I was emotional. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, pulling the air down into the pit of my stomach.
I pushed away my troubled thoughts and fastened a silver watch onto my wrist. At least, I tried to. Bright, blue, static-charged sparks shot out as soon as I touched the metal and sent the watch flying across the room. It landed with a soft thump on the far side of the sofa.
I walked over and picked up the watch, which was embossed with angel wings. Luckily, it hadn’t broken, and I looked at the time. Almost noon. I needed to get going. A chairperson should always be on time for her own called meeting.
Besides, Joanne James would eat me alive if I was late. In her own way, the Bigtime society queen was scarier than even the most feared ubervillain.
#
I grabbed my black leather shoulder bag and headed outside. A beautiful October day greeted me, and I breathed in, enjoying the rich, earthy aroma of the changing seasons. Fall was my favorite time of year. The sun seared my eyes with its brilliance, but the air still felt damp and cool. Puffy clouds zoomed across the sky, pushed on by a steady breeze. The wind stirred the scarlet leaves on the maple trees lining the curving driveway, and a few fluttered down to the burnished brown of the lawn. I made a mental note to make some sketches of the trees before they lost all their magnificent leaves. Everything was showing off a last bit of color before the gray winter took hold, and I wanted to capture the city in all its autumn glory.
Joanne only lived three houses down, but on Lucky Way, the street where we lived, that was more like three miles. So, I got in my car, a nice, safe, reliable Benz, and steered down the driveway and through the iron gate that bordered our property.
I saw Brilliance, the Berkley Brighton estate, two miles before I actually got to it. No trees surrounded Berkley’s mansion to hide it from sight. It would take a whole mountain range to do that. The house sat on a tall rise that afforded the whiskey billionaire a spectacular view of Bigtime Bay from his seventh-story windows. That story was glassed in on all sides, along with the first, third, and fifth floors. The rest of the mansion was constructed of steel and chrome, giving it a very chic, sleek feel. You would never run out of things to do at Brilliance, which featured an Olympic-sized hot tub, three tennis courts, and two helicopter pads. And that was just on the roof.
The Bulluci manor was large, but Berkley’s sprawling, modern-day behemoth made it look like a doll’s house. The only other residence in all of Bigtime that exceeded the size of Brilliance was Sublime, the enormous estate owned by Sam Sloane.
I drove up the mile-long drive and stopped the car at the front door. A tuxedo-clad valet greeted me and whisked away my vehicle to Berkley’s private garage. Another valet scurried to open the front door for me, while still another waited inside to take my black pea coat, brush it, steam it, and hang it in an empty, spotless closet.
Berkley wasn’t into antiques and suits of armor like Sam Sloane was. Instead, his house featured lots of open space with modern, deco-style furniture done mostly in whites, silvers, and grays, with a few black pinstripes. Very minimalist, very modern, very sophisticated. I loved it.
A butler led me to one of the libraries on the second floor. Books and globes and maps galore decorated the room, along with a white-marble fireplace, several tables, and five sets of cream-colored chairs. Gray rugs covered the marble floor, and the heavy black drapes on the windows were open, offering a wonderful view of the dark, dense woods that lined the back of the mansion.
Joanne James waited in the library, with her husband, Berkley, by her side. Joanne was a tall, skinny, almost anorexic-looking woman with black curls that cascaded halfway down her back. Her eyes were a vivid blue, almost violet, and her skin was as smooth and flawless as ivory. Even though it was a bit chilly in the library, Joanne wore a sleeveless, powder-blue suit with square white buttons. A Fiona Fine original, given the amount of leg and cleavage it showed.
Berkley was a short, square, fifty-something man with a mane of blondish hair. He was also the richest person in Bigtime, having turned his family’s secret whiskey recipe into a multi-billion-dollar empire. Brighton’s Best whiskey was legendary for its smooth flavor and hefty price tag.
At the moment, though, Joanne and Berkley didn’t look like the obscenely rich, high-powered couple they were. Berkley leaned over the back of a chair and kissed Joanne’s throat, while his hand caressed her exposed breast. Joanne’s chin was up, her eyes closed, her lips parted. She was thoroughly enjoying her husband’s, um, attention.
Joanne and Berkley had gotten married three months ago during a late-summer ceremony in Paradise Park. They’d pulled out all the stops for the wedding, renting out the whole park for three days. Food. Flowers. Oceans of champagne. Mountains of presents. And that was just for the two thousand invited guests. I could only imagine what Berkley and Joanne had treated each other to in private.
Like Berkley, Joanne had plenty of money of her own. She’d just gotten it a different way. Joanne wasn’t a superhero, but she had a superhero-like nickname—the Black Widow. That’s what Fiona and some of the other society folks called her. Joanne had married and divorced several men over the years, adding to her bank balance every time.
But she truly seemed to care about Berkley, and him about her. It never ceased to amaze me. A pang of loneliness stabbed my heart at the sight of them bonding so, um, vigorously. I hadn’t even been out on a date since before my father was murdered.
But first things first. I had a meeting to attend and a benefit to plan. If I could break up the happy couple.
“Ahem.” I cleared my throat. “Ahem.”
Joanne opened her eyes, but Berkley kept kissing her throat and stroking her chest.
“Oh, hello, Bella,” Joanne said, her voice low and husky. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
I doubted she would have heard a marching band, the way she purred under Berkley’s touch.
“Hello, Joanne,” I replied, staring at the Oriental rug under my pumps instead of at her breasts.
“Hello, Bella.” Berkley straightened, took his hand out of Joanne’s top, and quit kissing her. “It’s so nice to see you again.”
“You too, Berkley.” Normally, I would have shaken his hand. Not today.
“How’s Bobby doing?” Berkley asked, a smile creasing his face. “I haven’t seen him in a few weeks.”
“He’s fine.”
Berkley had been friends with my father and grandfather for years. The three shared a love of motorcycles, and Berkley had convinced my father to build several for him. Berkley had spent many nights in the Bulluci manor, drinking wine and talking about paint jobs and chrome pipes and everything else related to motorcycles. But he was never too busy to speak to me, and he’d brought me all sorts of dolls and stuffed animals and art supplies when I was a kid. I thought of him as an uncle of sorts.
“Well, I’m afraid I have a conference call to sit in on. I’ll leave you girls to your planning,” Berkley said, pressing a kiss to the top of Joanne’s head.
She grabbed his hand. “I’m not sure what time we’ll be done. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll wait up for you. In more ways than one.” Berkley winked at his new bride.
“Just like always?” Joanne asked in a teasing tone.
“Just like always.”
Berkley touched Joanne’s cheek. She put her hand over his and gave it a gentle squeeze. Berkley squeezed back and left the library, whistling a cheery tune.
I sank into a chair on the opposite side of the table from Joanne. I pulled my notes and files out of my shoulder bag, pretending not to notice the other woman buttoning up her blouse. Evidently, Joanne hadn’t felt the need to wear a bra today. I couldn’t help but hope my breasts looked that good when I was her age. Whatever it was. Joanne’s smooth, unlined face made it was hard to tell exactly how old she was, although I would guess she had to be at least forty.
“Sorry if we shocked you, Bella.” Joanne fluffed out her mass of raven-colored curls. “Newlyweds, you know. We just can’t seem to get enough of each other.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “Think nothing of it.”
I didn’t really mind Joanne and Berkley’s open display of affection. After all, it was better than watching superhero-propelled glasses float past me.
Chapter Three
While Joanne applied a fresh coat of lavender lipstick and powdered her nose, the rest of the committee trickled into the library—Grace Caleb, Abby Appleby, and Hannah Harmon.
I greeted each in turn, shaking their hands. “Grace. Abby. Hannah. So glad you could make it.”
Grace Caleb was a seventy-something widow and one of the bastions of Bigtime society. She came from money so old no one could remember how she’d gotten it in the first place. Grace was the sort of genteel lady who grew roses and drank tea and played bridge. She wore a sedate, flowered dress topped off with a knit mauve sweater set with pearls. Grace never went anywhere without a sweater or shawl of some kind.
Where Grace was sweet, pink softness, Hannah Harmon was all bright, hard lines. Her glossy auburn hair, cut in a razor-sharp bob, ended at her chin, highlighting her killer cheekbones. Her thin, red lips slashed across her face, while her brown eyes were slightly pointed, like a cat’s. A heavy gold chain flashed around her neck, contrasting with the coffee color of her silk blouse and skirt. Gold rings set with rubies sparkled on her fingers, and a gold, filigree bracelet encircled her wrist. Hannah came from new money, and she liked showing it off.
Abby Appleby was somewhere in between, although much farther down on the income ladder. Her brown hair was pulled back into a sensible ponytail, and clear gloss covered her lips. She wore olive-colored cargo pants and a white, lacy camisole topped with a green plaid, button-up shirt. A thick, wide watch clamped across her wrist looked like it could tell you what time it was in New Zealand, Thailand, and Madagascar—all at once. My attention went to the bag slung over Abby’s shoulder. It resembled a large suitcase and had more zippers and pockets and hidey holes than a box full of purses.
The three women took seats around the table, murmuring hellos to me and each other.
I took my own chair across from Joanne and flipped through the files I’d brought. “I thought we’d start with a quick recap of what we decided on last time.”
Given my rabid love of art, I’d been elected chairperson of the Friends of the Bigtime Museum of Modern Art a couple months ago. My main duty as madam chairperson was to plan and organize the museum’s annual fall fundraiser. The museum, which relied heavily on public donations, had opened up a new wing and needed money to finish paying for it.
Joanne and Grace were also involved in the Friends group. Joanne, because she was the richest woman in the city and that’s what rich women did, and Grace, because she was one of the best-loved society matrons and actually liked art. They’d both volunteered to help with the benefit.
Abby was the professional event planner in Bigtime. Whether you were having a wedding, a funeral, or a convention, you called Abby to plan it. She’d built her reputation and her business, A+ Events, on her ability to pull off complicated events in a matter of weeks, sometimes days. Abby fronted just about every fund-raising committee in the city, and I’d drafted her for this one, too.
Hannah had also offered her services. The businesswoman had lots of connections and knew how to get things done, which is why I’d been happy to let her help.
The five of us had been meeting for the last two months. The benefit was less than a week away, and it was crunch time.
I scanned my papers. “We agreed to have the Bigtime Bachelors event at Quicke’s, starting two hours before the official benefit at the museum. We’ve sent out invitations to all the eligible bachelors and bachelorettes. Abby, how are we coming on that?”
Abby unzipped a pocket on her enormous bag and pulled out some laminated, color-coded pages, along with an itemized list and three highlighters. “We signed the contract with Quicke’s to supply food and space for the bachelor auction, as well as food and drinks at the museum. Kyle Quicke haggled with me, but I got him down into our price range. Most of the bachelors and bachelorettes we approached have agreed to participate. I’m still tracking down a few stragglers, but we’ll have more than enough people.”
“Good,” I replied. “What else?”
“We also approved my costume-ball idea for the overall theme,” Grace added in her soft voice.
I grimaced. I’d been horrified when Grace brought up the idea of a masquerade ball. More than enough people ran around Bigtime in costumes already. But the others had agreed with Grace, and I’d been outvoted. Joanne, in particular, thought it sounded like marvelous fun, especially since the benefit was scheduled for Halloween night. Evidently, Joanne was tired of dressing up in the finest clothes money could buy, and she wanted to slum in spandex. Designer-made, of course.
“Right. That.” I tried to muster up some semblance of enthusiasm. “Are the invitations done yet?”
Grace nodded, her coifed, silver hair bobbing up and down. “I okayed the final proof a week ago, and they went out in the mail that same afternoon.”
We’d been announcing the date of the benefit for weeks to drum up interest and solicit early donations. But I wanted to make sure all the bigwigs got a personal invitation to attend, as well as a follow-up phone call to confirm their RSVP. Such specialized attention made them more agreeable to parting with some of their cash. You had to suck up a lot to get a whole lot more. That was the way the game was played in Bigtime.
“And the decorations?” I asked.
“We can’t put up much in the museum because of the security and climate-control issues, but I’ve arranged for some greenery and lights,” Grace replied. “They’ll arrive at the museum the day before the benefit.”
“Good.” I turned to Joanne and Hannah, who were handling the most delicate part of the event. “And how are the other donations coming?”
“Fine,” Joanne said. “For the most part.”
Lots of wealthy art lovers and collectors lived in the city, and many had more than a few priceless pieces tucked away in their mansions. My idea had been to get the Bigtime high-society members to donate art from their private collections. The pieces would be housed in the museum’s new wing as part of a special exhibit that would open the night of the benefit. My plan was for the pieces to remain on display through the end of the year, so everyone in Bigtime could come and see them. Public interest alone, along with a small admission fee, should raise over two million, more than enough to pay off the new wing.
“It’s going fine? What does that mean?” I asked. “If it’s the security they’re worried about—”
“It’s not the security,” Joanne said. “We’ve gotten verbal commitments from everyone to donate something.”
“Verbal commitments? That’s all? The benefit’s in six days. Stuff should already be arriving at the museum.”
My hair frizzed, and my fingertips itched with static. My luck always acted up when I was emotional or stressed out. The thought of the benefit being a miserable failure put me on the edge of panic.
“No one wants to commit until they know what everyone else is donating. They all feel the need to outdo each other.” Hannah sniffed.
“But the point of this was to donate different things, quirky, fun things, not the same old Picassos and Rembrandts and Renoirs,” I said. “Our theme is Whimsical Wonders. Who cares how much a statue cost?”
Abby gave me an amused look. “Why, they do, of course. Everything’s a competition in this town. You should know that, Bella, given how you and Fiona go at it.”
I grimaced. Fiona and I didn’t really go at it. We’d never romped around in fountains or pulled out each other’s hair, but we were the top two designers in the city. With our radically different styles, people just assumed we hated each other, especially since Fiona had gotten engaged to Johnny.
“It really doesn’t matter, though,” Joanne said in a proud voice. “Naturally, Berkley will have the most expensive item on display.”
That small item Joanne so casually referred to was the Star Sapphire. Weighing in at a couple hundred carats, the sapphire was one of the most expensive gemstones in the world. Berkley had graciously agreed to put the sapphire on display. After I’d more or less begged him and signed on to design a whole new wardrobe for Joanne. At cost.
I’d do anything to ensure the benefit was a success, even sew until my fingers fell off for Joanne James. It was all going to be worth it in the end. The Star Sapphire was the centerpiece of the Whimsical Wonders exhibit, and we’d used pictures of the enormous stone in all our promotional materials. Ticket sales to see the gem had already exceeded everyone’s loftiest expectations. Even Arthur Anders, the quiet, reserved curator of the museum, salivated about the prospect of it going on display.
Joanne waved her hand. “Don’t worry, Bella. I’ll put the word out Berkley is donating several more items no one can hope to top, and everyone else will fall in line. They always do.”
It was true. Whatever Berkley Brighton did, people hurried to hop on the bandwagon.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Joanne nodded. “Sugar, I’m always sure.”
#
Several hours later, I slumped back in my chair and rubbed my aching head. We’d gone over every possible thing three times. The food. Auction. Bachelors. RSVPs. Decorations. Donated art. I knew the details by heart. I could recite the menu forwards and backwards. Spit out the exact number of cream puffs we’d ordered. Rattle off the names of the bachelors we’d signed up. Remember the exact cost of the potted plants. Conjure up obscure facts about the art exhibit.
And I still felt like I was forgetting something.
We decided to take a break before wrapping up for the evening. One of the cooks brought in a silver tray full of star-shaped cucumber sandwiches, three kinds of cheese, crackers, fresh fruit, and steaming tea.
Grace and Joanne chatted about an event they’d attended last night. Abby shuffled her papers, pens, and files back into the proper slots in her shoulder bag, while Hannah sipped some cinnamon-flavored tea. I desperately wanted something to eat, but I scooted my chair away from the table. I didn’t want my luck to flare up and cause me to upset the whole tray. The way my fingers itched, it was only a matter of time before something bad happened.
“What did you think of Nate Norris’ barbecue, Hannah?” Grace asked, turning her blue eyes to the other woman.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t invited.” Hannah said in a frosty voice.
“Careful, sugar,” Joanne said in a glib tone, her violet eyes sparkling. “The chip on your shoulder’s showing again.”
Hannah’s red lips puckered. Like most women on the society circuit, Hannah was a millionaire in her own right. It was how she’d gotten her money that some people had problems with. Hannah’s specialty was hostile takeovers. She took bankrupt corporations, bought up all the stock to get a controlling interest, made the businesses profitable again, then sold off the pieces for far more than she’d invested in the first place. The whole process resulted in a lot of hurt feelings all the way around.
Of course, there was some other talk about Hannah as well. That she used less-than-legal methods to divide and conquer. Some folks even whispered that she had ties to ubervillains and employed them on occasion to get what she wanted. But nothing had ever been proven. In addition to being a ruthless businesswoman, Hannah had enough money to make just about any problem disappear, including society gossip.
But she couldn’t quite break through the thin pink wall put up by the older matrons, no matter how hard she tried. And Hannah tried. Taking people to lunch, sending them presents and hard-to-get items, throwing lavish parties herself. For some reason, being rich wasn’t enough for Hannah. She wanted to be one of the in-crowd, too.
“That was probably just an oversight on Nate’s part. Next time, dear, I’m sure you’ll get an invitation. It was nothing, really. Just a simple barbecue,” Grace said.
She let out a sympathetic cluck and leaned over to pat the other woman’s hand. But Hannah jerked hers away, almost spilling her tea. Joanne smiled and poured herself a cup of the steaming beverage. Abby kept on shuffling her things, ignoring the drama.
I decided to follow suit and reached for one of the star-shaped sandwiches. Surely, a few carbs wouldn’t hurt. I could pretend the bread was whole-wheat—
My power surged the moment I picked up the soft mound. I immediately dropped the sandwich back onto the silver platter.
Too late.
The feather-light sandwich hit the edge of the platter with the force of an anvil. The dish flew into the air, flipping end over end six—no, seven—times before landing right side up in the exact spot where it had been a moment before. The sandwiches that had been on the platter also rose into the air before stacking themselves neatly back onto the silver surface—one on top of the other until they formed a perfect little pyramid. The final sandwich plunged point first into the others, creating a star shape atop the mound of bread. No chef alive could have created a more perfect display.
Mouths agape, everyone stared at the now-immaculate platter. I sat perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe.
“Well, you certainly don’t see that every day,” Joanne said in a wry tone.
“No,” Hannah replied. “You certainly don’t.”
Hannah put her tea cup down on the platter. She did it gently, with caution, given the weirdness of a moment ago. But that one small act was enough to upset the delicate balance my luck had achieved between platter and bread.
And send the pyramid of sandwiches tumbling into my lap.
Bread and cucumbers and cheese and mayonnaise splattered onto the front of my shirt and dripped off my lap onto the thick rugs below. But that wasn’t the worst part. The cup tipped over too, sending a spray of tea at me. The brown liquid hit my chest before dribbling down my torso, making one enormous, soupy mess.
At least the tea had cooled down. Otherwise, I would have been badly burned. That was the weird thing about my luck. It made bad things happen to me, but they were never terribly serious or life-threatening. Just horribly embarrassing. Like this particular moment.
The other women stared at me. Shocked and disgusted.
“Well,” I said, trying to laugh as I picked a bit of cucumber off my cheek. “I guess I won’t be needing a facial anytime soon. Mayonnaise is supposed to be great for your skin, right?”
Nobody answered me.
Chapter Four
The meeting broke up after that. Grace, Hannah, and Abby said their goodbyes to Joanne and me. I echoed their sentiments from the floor, where I crawled around on my hands and knees picking up soggy pieces of tea-soaked bread.
Joanne lounged in her chair and surveyed the mess. A smile played across her lavender lips. “You certainly know how to clear a room, Bella.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, trying to ignore the slick, greasy feel of mayonnaise on my hands. “I’ll clean it up and pay for the rug. I know it must be expensive.”
Joanne waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been dying to get a new one anyway. Now, I have the perfect excuse. There’s a bathroom down the hall. Go get yourself cleaned up. And try to do something with your hair, will you? It looks all nappy and frizzy. I’ll get one of the housekeepers to take care of this.”
“Are you sure? About the rug, I mean—”