Superhero in Disguise (Adventures of Lewis and Clarke) (2 page)

Lexie had been great about not pressing her to talk, but the swirl of emotions in their apartment—that is,
Lexie’s
apartment—was cloying. Or maybe it was just the swirl of Tori’s own emotions. In any case, she wanted to get away. She needed to be able to think someplace where no one could “hear” her thoughts.

“Before you go,” Lexie said, and pulled a box out of Red Riding Hood’s basket. She handed it to Tori.

Tori blinked at her in surprise, feeling Lexie’s delight before she even got the box open. Inside was a keychain with a tiny silver house on the end. She gasped with pleasure and plucked it from the box, dangling it up close for a better look. Everything that makes up sisterly love coalesced into a warm cloud around them as Tori hugged Lexie tight.

“Congratulations,” Lexie whispered. “You’re going to do great.” Her voice cracked at the end.

“Lex,” Tori began. If Lexie cried, she’d cry, too.

“Go on now,” Lexie pushed her away. “I know it’s only a few blocks, but call me when you get home.”

Tori smiled. Home. She had her own place to live, and that was exciting. But home is wherever you’re loved, that she knew. She squeezed her sister’s hand. Sometimes blessings were so obvious. “See you tomorrow.”

As she walked home, Tori fished her house key out of her purse and put it on her new key ring. She held it up in the mostly dark and watched it swing. She
wouldn’t
be nervous. This was an exciting time. Nothing to be afraid of. Living alone only meant no bathroom schedule and eating whatever you wanted.

She tucked the key into her purse and stumbled a bit. Darn, she’d forgotten to change back into her own shoes. She’d been so eager to leave before the two of them burst into girlish sobs. Oh well. It wasn’t that far.

Two ghosts and a ghoul passed her on the sidewalk. A miniature princess dressed in pink satin and lace flashed her a toothless smile. Tori wondered why so many children were still out trick-or-treating, and without their parents. Or their coats. The autumn night had gotten quite cold.

Teen boys dressed as the Angel of Death and the Devil leered at her cleavage as they sauntered by.Tori grimaced and pulled her lightweight jacket closer.
Teenagers
.

As she fumbled with the buttons, the Devil stole her purse.

Honestly, she should have seen it coming. The teenage boys in their hand-me-down, seen-better-days Halloween costumes exuded rebellion like it was cheap cologne. Tori stared for a second in surprise.

Tall and gangly in a red mask and black cape, the Devil took off at a dead run. Losing what little cash she had wasn’t what made Tori mad. It was losing the keys to her brand-new home—and the key ring with the little silver house on it! Her first housewarming gift!

Without another thought, she gave a shout and took off after the thief. As soon as Tori began to run, she saw how
this
would end. The girl always picked last in gym class, the one who quit the track team after one day (she’d tripped over the hurdles setting them up), the girl whose greatest aerobic activity was bathing an active toddler—that girl was now running down a broken sidewalk in four-inch heels and the world’s tiniest Pirate Wench costume.

A flash of red cape turned the corner ahead. So few streetlights worked in this neighborhood, the kids would get away for the simple lack of her being able to see them. Her chest tightened. She needed to
do
something.

“Drop my purse, you jerk!” she screamed with all her breath, which, granted, wasn’t a lot at that point.

The tiny pirate’s bodice wasn’t made for sprinting, and the material lost its hold on her right breast. A swift downward glance showed an expanse of pearly whiteness bobbing up and down
and
a tree root growing up through the sidewalk. She reached up to cover her boobs at the same time that her left foot missed its jump over the tree root.

The four-inch heel went flying. Her ankle twisted under her. Tori flailed for balance with her left arm and fell, hitting the sidewalk hard. Her left leg made contact from hip to knee, shredding both skin and fishnet stockings. Both palms skidded across the concrete. Tori felt the sharp sting of skin peeling away and gasped. She landed with a thump on her left hip and bottom, the tulle petticoat under her tiny pirate’s skirt flying up.

For a stunned moment, she remained in that undignified heap. Her mind created a mini-movie of what she must’ve looked like. A quick embarrassed laugh burst from her throat. She winced as she peeled her hands away from the sidewalk. This one needed to be entered in the Falling Hall of Fame. Then, realizing her skirt was no longer covering her lacy underwear, she slammed it down over her thighs, grimacing at the sting in her palms. No need to give the staring trick-or-treaters more of a show than necessary.

She looked toward the street corner where the Devil had disappeared. “Happy Halloween,” she muttered.

JOE Clarke suppressed the temptation to whistle while he worked. He loved his job as a superhero, even with the long hours and the often negative press, but it didn’t seem like work on Halloween. He got to dress up as anything he wanted and wander the streets looking for bad guys. Or more accurately, teenagers behaving badly.

Maybe the city’s real villains were at home handing out candy with their villain-in-training children; Joe didn’t know. But most of Double Bay’s superheroes spent these couple of nights patrolling their neighborhoods against the only immediate threat—tomorrow’s citizenry.

Devil’s Night, the night before Halloween, had become a free-for-all over the years. Kids had gotten it in their heads that they could do anything they wanted this one night of the year so long as they called it a prank. Even good kids succumbed to peer pressure to become petty vandals.

At one point, things had gotten so bad that chucking eggs at cars had escalated into setting the vehicles on fire. A city-wide crackdown a decade ago had brought the situation under control. Now most of the complaints were about smashed jack-o’-lanterns, stolen decorations, trees and shrubs wrapped in toilet paper, and thrown eggs and rotten vegetables.

Last night, Joe had arrived too late to keep a house from being toilet-papered—a very quiet job that he didn’t hear until he was right on top of it. But he’d managed to keep a few cars from getting egged. Of course, most of the eggs had dropped on the sidewalk when he’d scared the crap out of the kids. But better there than on a car’s paint job.

This year, Joe dressed as Zorro. The black costume concealed his presence and allowed him to stop more vandalism-in-progress than he’d managed last year. Fewer smashed pumpkins and stolen decorations, less graffiti. Renting the Captain America costume last year, complete with hoodie-mask and metal shield, rated high on his geek meter, but it hadn’t put the fear of God into many vandals. Zorro apparently scared them more, no doubt due to the fact that his sword looked real. Joe really liked the sword.

A flock of teenage girls rushed down a driveway and turned toward Joe. Their titters upon seeing him turned to giggling cries when Joe swept off his hat and bowed as he passed. He chuckled softly.

Dry leaves crunched under his feet as he walked the dark streets. The warm scent of woodsmoke curled into the brisk night air. An occasional gust of wind coming off the bay signaled colder weather on the way. Joe almost hoped it would snow soon. He’d bought a new John Deere Snowthrower last spring at an end-of-season clearance sale, and he could hardly wait to try it out.

A woman’s scream tore through the night.

Joe swiveled toward the sound and sprinted down the street. He analyzed the night as he ran. The woman didn’t sound in pain, or even scared, and she hadn’t screamed again. She sounded angry. Possibly a thief then, something relatively nonviolent. He hoped so. Violence against women and children unmasked darker sentiments in Joe’s heart that he didn’t like to acknowledge. He scanned the empty yards. The leafless branches of the trees made it easier to see, like looking through the bare arms of motionless skeletons. Nothing.

Running feet. He crossed the street to intercept the potential hoodlum. His costumed cape flew behind him. Hoodlums, plural. Two teenagers ran toward him.

“Stop!”

Joe’s command caused them to stumble over each other as they changed direction. They hopped a short fence and ran through a dark yard. A dog barked and another picked up the call. One of the teens threw something behind a parked car as he ran.

Protect her
.

Joe hopped the fence and paused. He blinked and shook his head.

Protect her
.

The feeling overwhelmed Joe’s senses like a voice that was more than audible. Team protocol called for him to nab the boys, call the police, and find whatever had been stolen, in that order. He was sure the woman’s scream was more of a yell, that she wasn’t hurt, but his intellect couldn’t overcome the command surging through his mind.
Protect her
.

He took a moment to search near the parked car and saw something fuzzy on a thin chain. The nearest streetlight was broken, so he couldn’t see well. Perhaps a woman’s purse? He’d never seen anything quite like it. Tucking the chain around his belt, he hustled down the street, looking for the woman who’d been mugged.

Turning a corner, he saw someone sprawled on the sidewalk. His heart raced. As he got closer, though, his steps slowed as alarm warmed into red-blooded admiration. A blonde pirate sat in a tumble of lace, one beautiful breast in her hand.

LEXIE’S comment about Tori forcing her school friends to play skidded through Tori’s mind. What were the chances that she’d forced the mugger to drop her purse? Probably not very great. She shook her head. Lexie was exaggerating to make a point. Sure, Tori was unnaturally good at convincing people to do things, but that didn’t mean she could
force
them to do what she said.

She carefully brushed the dirt from her fingers, not letting her palms touch, and began to put herself back into her costume. Trickier than it would seem using just her fingertips. She pulled away the bodice with her right hand, then used her left to tuck her breast back inside. But the stiff lace trim pulled at a piece of raw skin and made Tori’s eyes water. She snatched her hand back. Sure enough, the lace now glistened with blood.

“Cra-ap!” she muttered. Thoughts of Bactine and Fudgsicles entered Tori’s mind. Dixie had always been great about fixing life’s little scrapes. Her funny little saying—“Nothing broken, no one maimed”—a smile and a hug, followed with a Fudgsicle or a homemade treat; that would forever be how Tori judged life’s small injuries.

It was the big things Dixie couldn’t handle.

Still trying to adjust herself properly, Tori used both hands to push and prod. It shouldn’t take this much work for a B cup, but her bloody hands were half useless. She heard a soft swish of fabric on fabric, then darkness blotted out the streetlight.

Tori looked up in alarm.

Zorro towered over her. From her vantage point on the sidewalk, he looked enormous. Dressed all in black, he had tall gleaming boots, snug breeches, a billowy shirt under a flowing cape, and the perfect Zorro hat complete with a long black feather.
Gorgeous.
Tori craned her neck. He was at least as tall as her dad, and Danny stood at six feet in his socks.