Karma Girl

  “It was cold.” I, on the other hand, squeaked like a mouse caught in a trap. “You forgot to shut the window.”

  “I see.”

  More silence.

  “So, what do you want?”

  Striker blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “What do you want? I assume there was a reason you broke into my apartment. Or is it something you do for kicks?”

  “You want me to tell you the reason I’m here?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Aren’t superheroes supposed to be honest, forthright, and have outstanding morals? Isn’t that part of the job description, along with helping little old ladies cross the street?”

  Striker hesitated, as if he didn’t know what to say. “Shut up,” he growled.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Not you.” He pointed to his ear. “One of my colleagues is listening in on our conversation. He’s laughing at your last statement. Evidently, he doesn’t think I’m very forthright.”

  “Oh.” I wondered which one of the Fearless Five was tuning in to our chat. Probably Hermit, given the fact that Striker had some sort of listening gizmo in his ear.

  The silence gathered around us once more. Striker stared at me with his piercing gray eyes. The dark current snapped and hummed around him like a live wire. The man oozed danger and sensuality. Every part of my body tingled and tightened in response, and in anticipation of something I couldn’t quite identify.

  I dropped my eyes from his face. My gaze landed on his fantastic chest and slid down his rippling stomach to his… I snapped my head back up. My cheeks flamed.

  “Look, I’ve had a really long day, and I’m tired. I would like nothing more than to take a shower and go to bed, plus my arm is starting to cramp from holding this gun. So, why don’t you just tell me what you want? Who knows? I just might give it to you. You can be on your merry way, and I can get some sleep.”

  “Why don’t you put the gun down first, and then we’ll talk.”

  I chewed my lip. “Might as well. I imagine you could take it away from me before I could blink if you wanted to.”

  Suddenly, Striker moved. He sprang at me like a panther leaping upon a plump little bird. I blinked once before he pulled the gun out of my hand. I didn’t even feel him do it. For a moment, he stood there in front of me, so close that his breath kissed my face, so close that I could see the flecks of electric blue in his hypnotic eyes. My heart slammed against my rib cage.

  “I did just take your gun away. Quite easily. But hold on to it if it makes you feel better.”

  He stepped back and tossed the weapon to me. Somehow, I managed to catch it.

  “Well, there’s no reason to get all cocky about it,” I muttered, trying to hide my intense reaction to him.

  I stumbled forward on shaky feet and put the gun on the coffee table. I sank down into the groove on the sofa, kicked off my sneakers, and propped my feet up on the trash bag. I tried to look tougher, stronger, and calmer than I felt.

  Striker leaned against the entertainment center. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Papers.”

  “What sort of papers?”

  My eyes flicked over the table. “The sort of papers you’ve been going through, judging by the mess you’ve made. You could have just copied all of them off my computer. I have digital versions too.”

  “More papers on me?” A hard edge crept into his voice. It cut me like a razor.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what sort of papers, exactly?”

  “Papers on the Terrible Triad. Malefica, Frost, Scorpion, their various escapades.”

  Striker cocked his head to one side, listening to whatever his comrade said. “My friend says you’re telling the truth. That all you’ve been doing all night is downloading articles and making copies at the library. Why are you gathering information on the Triad? Given our…previous meeting, I thought I was the one you were after.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Striker jerked his head at the table. “Those papers tell me otherwise. You’ve gathered quite a bit of information on me, and I saw you on top of that roof last night. I assume you weren’t there to buy drugs. Are you trying to uncover my identity? Planning to expose me to the world?”

  I hesitated. “Not exactly.”

  “Then what are you doing, exactly?”

  “I don’t have to tell you that.”

  Striker’s hands curled into fists. His gray eyes bored into mine. They glowed with barely suppressed anger.

  I shivered under the intense scrutiny. I didn’t think Striker would hurt me. The superhero code of ethics wouldn’t allow him to. Then again, I hadn’t thought Tornado would commit suicide either. Or that Matt would cheat on me. I wasn’t the best judge of character when it came to superheroes.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I mumbled.

  “Try me.”

  I weighed the pros and cons. Oh, what the hell? I’d probably never get another opportunity to talk face-to-face with Striker. I might as well lay my puzzle pieces on the table.

  I rolled up my T-shirt. Two bruises colored my arms in angry purple and garish green. “Your good friend Malefica paid me a visit a few nights ago. Or rather, she made me pay her one. Two goons kidnapped me and drugged me. When I woke up, I was in some kind of factory. Malefica was there with Frost and Scorpion.”

  Striker’s eyes bored into me like hot laser beams. My temperature shot up about ten degrees. “I’m listening.”

  “Frost had some animals that he’d done experiments on. They were...they were...” I took a deep breath to steady my shaky nerves. The memory of those poor creatures made me sick. I could still feel their pain and horror. “He had changed them, into monsters. Malefica told me that unless I discovered your identity in a month’s time and gave it to her, she would turn me over to Frost and let him do the same thing to me.”

  “I see.”

  Silence.

  “But I have a plan,” I continued.

  “A plan?”

  “Yes. I’ve been gathering information on you in hopes of uncovering your true identity.”

  “And what happens if you do? How does that help you, other than keep you out of Frost’s grasp? Or perhaps get you back in the good graces of the editors at The Exposé?” Striker’s voice could have frozen boiling lava.

  “Simple.” I picked up a wayward Rubik’s Cube and fiddled with it. “I use you to lead me to Malefica. I uncover her real identity and give it to you. You and the rest of the Fearless Five go after her, while I slip off into the sunset. You apprehend your greatest enemy, I don’t get turned into a yeti, and we all go home happy, except for Malefica and her boys, who will hopefully get twenty-to-life in a secure facility for insane ubervillains.”

  “I see. Why not just concentrate on Malefica? Why drag me into it?” His voice was quiet and calm, but I could hear the anger in it. Striker didn’t approve of my master plan.

  “Because I need you to lead me to Malefica. That’s how it works. The superheroes always lead me to the ubervillains, not the other way around.” I slid a row of colors into place. My hands trembled, and I hoped Striker didn’t notice how much he affected me.

  “What makes you think I have anything to do with Malefica?”

  I looked up at him. “Karma.”

  “Karma?”

  “Karma.” I got up off the sofa and paced around. I couldn’t sit still. Not when he stared at me like that. “Good and evil always balance each other out. Superheroes and ubervillains are always connected in some way. They’re like magnets, always attracting and repelling each other. It’s fascinating. Malefica is somewhere in your life. She might be a friend, a girlfriend, a business partner, maybe even your wife. You just don’t know it or refuse to see it.”

  Striker paused. His eyes turned inward, mentally sorting through every person in his life, trying to figure out who might fit the mold.

  “Come up with any suspects? Anybody sneak off in the middle of an importan
t business meeting? Any girlfriends fail to show up for dates? Any so-called friends have odd, unexplainable injuries?”

  “No,” he growled.

  “Too bad.”

  I finished my Rubik’s Cube and put it on the bookshelf.

  “So, I’ve told you my plans. How about taking off that mask?” I asked in a bright, cheery voice to hide my nervousness. “I’m sure you’d be much more comfortable without it. I’ve always wondered how you people breathe through those things. They look terribly thick. And I really don’t see how you move around in those leather suits either. Or is yours some sort of special spandex?”

  Striker crossed his arms over his chest and gave me a cold look that would have made Frost icy with envy.

  I shrugged. “It never hurts to ask. And it would make my job a lot easier.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Look, I don’t want to expose you. I’m not going to reveal your identity to anyone. I promise. I’m through with that. For good.”

  Striker’s eyes slammed into mine. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because of what happened to Tornado.”

  The words just popped out. A muscle in Striker’s clenched jaw twitched. His eyes grew dark and stormy as a thundercloud. I shrank back against the bookcase. I didn’t need my inner voice to tell me I’d just stepped way over the line.

  Still, there was something I had wanted to say for a long time, something I needed to say, whether he believed me or not. I turned my back to the superhero, unable to meet his damning, angry gaze. “I’m sorry. I truly, truly am. I never meant for that to happen. If I’d had any idea Tornado would react that way, I never would have written the story. I hope you can accept my apology and sympathy for your loss.”

  The silence deafened me. I turned. The apartment was empty.

  Striker had left the building.

  Chapter Eight

  I stared at the swirls in the ceiling above the bed. Noon sunlight peeked through the closed curtains and warmed my bedroom. I should have been up hours ago, hard at work on my superhero jigsaw puzzle. Instead, I lay in bed, replaying the events of the past night over and over again in my head.

  I couldn’t get Striker out of my mind.

  I had been face-to-face with one of the most powerful, revered superheroes in the world. Striker munched on burglars at breakfast, snacked on evildoers over lunch, and ate ubervillains for dinner. Oh, the irony. A few months ago, the encounter would have been a dream come true, a chance to confront one of the mysterious, masked crusaders up close and personal. Now, the whole affair left a sour, bitter taste in my mouth.

  Superheroes and ubervillains had always been abstract thoughts to me, puzzles to be solved. I’d never considered them to be people too, with thoughts and feelings and emotions. I had been too angry and hurt and self-righteous to do that. Matt and Karen had ignored my feelings, so I’d steamrolled over everyone else’s.

  Seeing Striker made that impossible. The hurt in his piercing gray eyes when I mentioned Tornado had hit me like a sledgehammer. His pain, his anguish at the loss of his friend. You could almost drown in the intensity of it. The feeling increased my own guilt tenfold.

  And yet, despite his anger, there was something about Striker that had made me want to go to him, to brush his black hair off his face, and tell him everything was going to be okay. I wanted to comfort him in some small way. Yearned to. The depth of the feeling surprised me, shook me to the core. But acting on this strange feeling, of course, had been—and would always be—out of the question.

  I sighed. Tornado was gone. There was nothing I could do about that, other than struggle to live with my own guilt and shame.

  I could, however, do something to help Striker and the rest of the Fearless Five. I threw back the covers.

  Time to go to work.

  *

  I padded into the living room and ripped open the trash bag on the coffee table. For the next few hours, I sorted through and organized all the information on the Terrible Triad, as well as the papers Striker had disturbed during his nocturnal visit. Every so often, I stopped and glanced at the windows. Striker’s presence lingered in my apartment, an invisible ghost haunting me. Where was he? What he was doing? Would he ever come through my window again?

  After mooning for the better part of five minutes, I focused my attention on the task at hand. As far as the Terrible Triad was concerned, there wasn’t much to go on. Little had been written about the group except for the usual articles about how evil they were, their epic battles with the Fearless Five, and so on and so forth. Those same professors with way too much time on their hands had written another set of journal articles about the ubervillains’ costumes and what the colors said about each one’s inner child.

  Frost had penned several papers in some less-than-reputable scientific journals about his various experiments involving animals. I skimmed through one of the stories. Most of the information dealt with radioactive isotopes, the effects different chemical compounds and doses produced, and other things far beyond my understanding. I flipped to the next page, which contained before-and-after pictures of Frost’s handiwork. More mutated animals. I gagged and threw the story aside.

  The intellectual media paid little attention to Scorpion, but he regularly appeared in a variety of mainstream wrestling and other sporting magazines. Most of the stories dealt with his tendency to crash professional wrestling and other strongman fights. Scorpion had a habit of leaping into the ring and taking on all the competitors at the same time. He always won, leaving a trail of broken bones and mangled bodies in his wake.

  I moved on to Malefica. The ubervillain never wrote anything herself, and she never did anything to get herself mentioned in the media, other than try to take over the city every few weeks. She was a ghost, like Striker.

  However, one fashion magazine had devoted an entire spread to Malefica’s sense of style. Evidently, the editors found her blood-red leather ensemble to be terribly sophisticated and the height of haute couture among the superhero-ubervillain set. The photos showed how Malefica’s ensemble had changed. Ten years ago, diamonds, rubies, and gold thread had adorned her costume, which the editors thought was rather cartoonish and over the top. Since then, Malefica had developed a classier, more understated style with her sleek, jewel-free catsuit, cape, and thigh-high boots. I wondered what the fashion editors would think of the Bulluci sandals she sported now. They would probably approve.

  By the time I’d reviewed the material, I had a headache the size of Texas. I squinted at the small print just to get the words to focus. I rubbed my aching temples. Either I was concussed from all the falls I’d taken or my eyesight was going the way everything did as you aged—south. Great, something else to worry about. Going blind at the ripe old age of twenty-eight. On the bright side, if my vision worsened, I wouldn’t be able to see myself when Frost turned me into the Abominable Snowwoman.

  The thought didn’t cheer me up.

  *

  After reviewing papers for a couple of hours and getting nowhere, I took a break to go do another necessary evil.

  Shopping.

  I needed to replace the little black dress and shoes that Frost and his two goons had ruined the night they’d kidnapped me. I’d put it off as long as I could. Shopping wasn’t my favorite activity. Not even close. Perhaps I’d enjoy it more if I actually had some money to spend on all the pretties I saw. Most journalists get rather pitiful salaries, and I’d decided long ago I’d rather eat on a regular basis than wear the latest designs by the likes of Fiona Fine and Bella Bulluci.

  I slapped on some makeup, combed out my tangled hair, and headed to Oodles o’ Stuff, the biggest department store in all of Bigtime. You could find anything you wanted in the massive building from shoes to clothes to makeup to consumer electronics. I headed for the subbasements, where the sale items were kept.

  On the way down the escalator, I spotted not one, not two, but three superheroes. Gentleman George tried on some
silk ties and ascots on level three, the Toastmaster showed off his new line of kitchen gizmos on level two, and reformed ubervillain Shrieker signed copies of her tell-all memoir on level one.

  Superheroes loved Oodles. The store gave them discounts on everything, and in return, the superheroes tried to keep their building-leveling battles away from the historic structure. Also, it didn’t hurt to have the heroes mingle with the other customers. Not to mention that it made the muggers and shoplifters think twice.

  I reached the second subbasement and shoved my way through the maddening crowd. Regular folks also loved Oodles, especially the subbasements, which had the best bargains around. It was the only place where you could get a slightly imperfect Fiona Fine original for under a hundred bucks. If, of course, you wanted to look like an abstract painting. With sequins.

  I grabbed the first black dress that fit and was seventy-five percent off, picked up some high heels that weren’t too monstrous, and got the heck outta Dodge. With my shopping complete for the next two months, I went home to change.

  That night, I suffered through another boring society soiree, the annual fundraiser for the Bigtime Symphony Orchestra, held at the spacious and lavish Bigtime Convention Center and Orchestra Hall. Naturally, the fundraising committee had chosen a musical theme for the event. Plastic music notes, paper pianos, and cardboard violins dangled from the ceiling while members of the orchestra played classics by the likes of Mozart and Bach.

  All of the usual suspects attended. Sam Sloane and his supermodel of the week. Fiona Fine wearing her latest feather-covered creation. Even Morgana Madison came out for the event.

  I tapped my finger against my champagne glass. This was supposed to have been my night off, but Sandra had called in sick. Instead of working on uncovering Striker’s identity, I’d been called in to cover another bit of society fluff. I’d done my interviews and taken notes in record time. All I needed was a quote from the orchestra’s conductor, and I could go write my story. I wandered through the orchestra pit, where the bar had been set up, waiting for the conductor to finish schmoozing with his rich patrons before I pounced on him.