No ordinary hero (Keepers of justice # 1) (19 page)

Revenge. It’s constantly on my mind.

Dressed in my black uniform and mask, I slip out of my room and take an elevator to the
lobby of the League mansion.

I’m after blood.

X,
my best friend Kale says in my head
.
Don’t do this.

There’s no
hiding anything from him. Not since he became a telepath four months ago.

I try to block him out by thinking of random things, but it’s hard to stop my brain from wandering to that night. It’s all I think about.

I won’t forgive myself or move on. I should be starting to get over it. It was an accident, not my fault. No one blames me, but I blame myself. It’s because of the eyes I’ve got. They’re so sharp they can see through everything and long distances. They are more of a curse than a blessing. Sure I’ve managed to save lives with them, but they’ve also betrayed me.

The elevator doors open. I step out and head for the back exit. Kale’s at the door. “Don’t do this
, please,” he repeats, his eyes pleading.

“I need to.”

I push past him and open the door. He sighs. I don’t need to be a telepath to know what he’s thinking. He’s worried, and I hate to be the cause. But I can’t help this feeling that’s consuming me.

We’re not the same,
Kale and I. Not since our friend Stretch’s murder. He spends most of his time with his girlfriend, Lindsay, while I stay alone in my room, or out hunting the ShadowBlades. They’re my superhero league’s sworn enemy.

They are
also the ones responsible for Stretch’s death.

Kale doesn’t utter another word. I slam the door after me and
barge into the summer heat. It’s three in the afternoon. Practice was scheduled for one PM. Today wasn’t my first absence. School’s out for the summer, but we still have training every day. None of the other kids miss me. Except for Kale. The guy doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get me. He’s got his girl, his parents. He’s doing okay. He’s slowly moving on and is farther along in his recovery than I am. All I do is stare at the ceiling every night, wondering, hoping, blaming. I fight with myself. Replay each detail over and over, and think of the different outcomes of that night had I protected Stretch. Like I should have.

Each time, it ends the same way. And each time, I want to punch myself to death.

I steal a car from the garage and drive out of upstate New York toward Manhattan. I’m not headed anywhere specific, but villains always hang around at this hour. Vlayne, leader of the ShadowBlades, wouldn’t be outside, but her minions must be. I haven’t come across any yet—I’ve only been doing this for a month and a half—but I know I’m going to run into them at some point.

I’m after answers—where she escaped to, what is she planning.
So far I haven’t had any luck.

After driving for a few hours, I enter
Manhattan. Scanning my surroundings, I use my power to look through the non-residential buildings. I catch sight of three people dressed in costumes. They’re in an abandoned building less than a mile away. With my eyes, I see them clearly. A civilian is trapped in there with them. She’s pressed against the wall, her sleeves and pants held in place by daggers. Her lips quiver as terror enters her eyes. Blood drips from her body. The biggest guy is producing the daggers from his fingers while the other two laugh and taunt the woman.

Speeding up toward their location
, I do a quick search for a sign of the ShadowBlade logo tattooed onto their skins. A curved silver blade cutting through the center of a black V. But I don’t see a thing. The guy with the daggers, who looks to be a few years older than me, has skeletons all over his body. But not the logo.

The woman trembles and her mouth opens
with shouts I can’t hear. It makes me drive faster. I reach the location within minutes. As I rush inside, I see the villain ready to throw his next dagger at the woman’s head.

“Hey!” I shout.

All three of them whirl around. The dagger guy smiles evilly and turns back to the civilian, ready to throw his dart. Hell no. I leap on him and knock him to the ground. Punch his face.

The other two jump at me, but I’m too quick and ram my fists into them. They shove me to the floor, and I use my legs to kick. They crash to the ground.

I run to the woman and am about to ask her if she’s okay when I feel a sharp pain in my left shin. I look at it. A dagger is lodged inside. Clenching my teeth, I pull it out. Blood gushes down my leg.

The
dagger guy is up and marching toward me, his face red with anger, his fingers ready to shoot more daggers.
One villain gets to his feet and joins him. The last one is unconscious on the ground. The guy uses his daggers while the other slams his fists to counter me. I feel my eyes swell, my back cut open, more blood pouring down.

Grunting, I hop to the right and left to avoid the daggers. I quickly pick a few up from the ground and, one by one, launch them at the guys, managing to strike them in the legs. They fall to the ground.
I bend down toward the dagger guy. Grip his collar. His mask is nearly off his face. I pull it off and realize I don’t know him. Shaking him, I say, “Are you with the ShadowBlades?”

His eyes and body too weak, all he does is moan. I shake him harder. “
Answer me or I’ll kill you!” Another shake. His eyes open a bit.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He lau
ghs like he’s high and his head thumps to the ground. He’s not dead.

I shift over to the
second and third villains and do the same. They claim to have no clue who Vlayne or the Blades are. I push their collars aside to inspect their necks. No logo.

I stumble
to help the woman, who’s shouting hysterically. I was too preoccupied with interrogating those three that I didn’t realize how badly I’m hurt. I’m pretty sure my ribs are broken, back and left leg are sliced. Blood gushes into my right eye and I can barely see through it.

I don’t make it to the woman.

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Dad is so lame. Actually, his ideas are. Here I am supposed to be enjoying my fifteenth birthday and he’s walking in
every
second with some new way to “spice up the party” when really all I want is for this to be over.

It’s charades now. Dad’s on the floor, pretending to be a dead fish or something. I don’t know. I’m distracted by all the balloons and streamers.

My gaze drifts to my ten guests. I invited the entire freshmen class, but hardly anyone showed up. Two girls I barely know from Spanish are here. They’ve been whispering and giggling the whole time. Guess they had nothing better to do on a Sunday night other than to ridicule me and my party. Then there are twins who I’m sort of friends with, and a guy whose mother forced him to come because she and my dad work together at the public library. My eleven and thirteen year old neighbors somehow got an invitation. My older sister, Meg, escaped half an hour ago to hang out with her boyfriend. Can’t say I really blame her. And of course my best friend Toby is here, guessing my dad is a sea lion. I’m not sure I could survive this thing without him by my side.

I know, Dad’s trying. Single father with no clue how to raise two teenage daughters. And I love him for that. But I would have been fine with dinner at some fancy restaurant. Just me, Dad, Meg, and Toby.

Dad flops on the floor for five more minutes before I finally convince him that it’s late and my guests should head home. He heaves himself up and pats his butt to clean the dirt, prompting new giggles out of Giggly One and Giggly Two.

One by one
, they file out. The only one left is Toby.

“Present time,” I announce.

Dad chuckles. “Now I understand why you were so eager to kick everyone out, Emily.”

I leap to the small table and start opening the packages. DVDs, pretty dangling earrings, a free pass to Six Flags. Money from Dad, which is awesome. The only thing that remains is the present from Toby (Meg claims hers is still in the mail. Sure.)

It’s a small-ish package, wrapped in off-white paper. Giving Toby a look that says, “This better be good,” I tear it off to reveal a video game. “No way.
Triumph
? This doesn’t come out for another two months. How did you get it?”

Toby grins. “I have my sources.”

“Thanks.” I hug him tight. “You got one for yourself, too?”

He scoffs. “As if I’d get you one without getting my own.”

I roll my eyes.

“So,” he says with a crooked smile. “You going to sneak out with your boyfriend to the woods?”

I punch his shoulder. “Shut up.”

Toby likes to tease me about my single status, but I don’t really care that I don’t have a guy. I mean, of course I fantasize what it would be like to have a real boyfriend—and I’m not talking about Danny Lewis, who in fifth grade insisted that kissing on the lips will yield babies—but I’m really relieved I don’t have to go all psycho like some girls at school. Worrying whether they look hot enough, if they’re fun enough, if they’re interesting enough. There’s time to worry about boys later. All I care about is playing video games with Toby. We’re the most badass nightelf couple in
World of Warcraft
.

“Because when you snuck out to the woods after your party, that was the happiest day of your life, right?” I tease back. He’s never come close to having a girlfriend. The poor guy. He really wants one. Not that he’s ever admitted it—I just know.

“Guys don’t care about birthdays like girls do.”

“Come on.” I elbow him. “Your mom threw you the most extravagant party ever.”

He scratches the back of his head. “Whatever.”

He has two older brothers and no sisters, so his mom tends to—how do I put it?—feminize him. It pisses the heck out of him. His parents are thinking of adopting a little girl.

“Aw, cheer up. You’ve had three slices of cake, you won charades, and you gave me the awesomest present a gamer could want.”

He smiles, his cheeks getting a bit red. “Wanna go up to install the game?”

“Hell yeah.”

We race to my room.

“Keep the door open!” Dad calls from the kitchen. I cringe. How many times do I have to tell him that Toby isn’t a boy? Okay, duh he’s a boy, but he’s not a
boy
. He’s just Toby. Best-friend-almost-like-a brother Toby. The worst that could happen with the door closed is me talking him into secretly playing with my dolls like we did as kids.

Toby drags a chair to my computer and sits down while I tear the plastic off the video game case. I sniff it. Nothing beats the smell of a brand new game. I join my best friend at the computer and pop it in.

He tells me about this awesome race they created in
Triumph
. I listen for a few minutes before my mind drifts to something else. Something I try to avoid every year on my birthday. It’s been on my mind since last week and hasn’t left. Like a parasite that’s nestled in my brain and is sucking out all my life force.

The anniversary of Mom’s death.

“You have that look again.”

I blink. “What?”

“The look you always get on your birthday,” he says in a low voice.

Birthdays are meant to be days of celebration, and it’s no different in my house. But we can’t celebrate mine the way we’re supposed to, not really. My mom died giving birth to me. What’s more important—remembering her death, or celebrating my life? After fifteen years, we still don’t know. Dad tends to overcompensate, tries to make my day special because it’s not my fault Mom died. Even though it is.

When I was very young, I didn’t feel the lack of a mom too strongly because I grew up not knowing her, so it’s not like I grasped what I was missing. But in fourth grade, we had a mother/daughter slumber party at a classmate’s house. I was the only one to come with a dad. While all the moms braided their daughters’ hair, painted their nails, and had fun with makeup, my dad fumbled with my hair and spilled nail polish on my pajamas. One of the mothers felt bad and took over. Even though I wanted to have nothing to do with makeup or painting my nails, because Emily doth not dig the girly stuff, I realized I was missing someone very important in my life.

Toby’s green eyes meet mine. They’re overflowing with worry. “Wanna talk about it?”

I slump in my seat, staring at my hands that I’m wringing on my lap. “This game is taking so long to install.”

He studies my face. Opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it. Opens it again. We’ve been friends since kindergarten, but he still doesn’t know how to broach the whole Mom’s death topic. He’s not the only one. It’s kind of a thing in my family. That’s why Meg’s never really around on my birthdays. I’d like to attribute today’s absence to my lame party, but the truth is she ran to escape. I can never escape.

“It’s the updates,” Toby says, his eyes on the screen. “Bugs they had to fix before the game officially releases.”

“Oh. Cool, I guess.”

Toby glances at me. “You’re not okay.”

I shrug. If I say a word, I’ll start to cry. I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling, pretending to look bored and impatient.

I shouldn’t be upset. I never knew her.

Tears prick my eyes. Damn.

I fidget in my chair, kicking my desk’s leg. “Toby, isn’t it getting late?”

He peeks at his watch. “Guess so.” He looks at me, concerned eyes circling my face. “We’ll play tomorrow?”

“Sure.” My voice sounds weak.

“Okay.” He bends forward to give me a hug. “Happy birthday.”

I hold onto him a little longer than necessary, enjoying the comfort and security only a best friend can give. When we finally pull apart, I see the concern in his eyes has quadrupled. I force a smile and say, “Don’t even think about playing
Triumph
when you get home. The next time you enter the world will be with your demon love by your side.”

He grins, his shoulders sagging with a bit of relief. “Okay, okay. I promise.”

“Good.”

Giving me another quick hug, he wishes me a good night and exits my room. As soon as he’s gone, emptiness engulfs me, making me feel lonely and vulnerable. I’m alone in my room a lot, either doing homework or gaming, but now I feel really lonely, like a black cloud swallowed me up.

I stand and head to my closet, get down on my knees and rummage through the bottom drawer. It’s where I keep all my private things. I find the faded, wrinkled, tear-stained, yellow envelope and pluck it out.

Dropping down on my bed, I slowly lift the flap and pull out the single photo inside. Dad gave it to me on my twelfth birthday. I remember how happy I was to finally have a picture of my mom all to myself. The other photos I’ve seen of her are in albums or in the drawers in Dad’s office. Those are the best, the ones he thinks Meg and I don’t know about. We once snuck into his office when we were younger and snooped around until we found them. They were so romantic. Dad and Mom, so in love and full of life, eager for a future together.

Tears splat onto the photo in my hand. It was taken about a month before I was born. Mom looks so happy, and there I am inside her. Sometimes when I study this photo, I want to crawl into it, go back in time and
do
something. I don’t know what. But just something.

My fingers trace Mom. She had blonde hair and blue eyes like me. Dad says I’m the spitting image of her, even in personality. Mom was a tomboy, too, and she wore glasses until she went to college.

Wiping my eyes with my shirtsleeve, I deposit the photo back in the envelope and return it to its place. I head to the bathroom and splash water onto my face. When I lower my hands to cup more, I jump back, splattering water onto the sink and my shirt.

Something is on my skin.

My blood begins to race as I examine my inner arms closely. These shiny, yellow, green, and black markings that look like pumpkin seeds run from my wrist up to my mid-forearm. My toes grow numb and my heart pounds in my ears.

I flip my arms around to check the other side. Nothing. I twist them back to inspect my inner arms. They’re back to normal.

What the hell?

I rub my eyes. I must be hallucinating. I’m exhausted and emotionally drained. Not to mention I didn’t sleep much last night.

I examine my arms one last time and then stare at myself in the mirror. Definitely losing it.

After washing my face a few more times, I take a shower and climb into bed.

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