Nightingale

  “Spill it,” she demanded.

  “What?” I asked, trying to play innocent.

  “Spill it. You’re all depressed and moody. I could hear it in your voice over the phone this morning. Tell me what’s bothering you, Abby.”

  I never could hide anything from Piper. Besides, I needed somebody to talk to about what had happened—and to tell me how crazy I was for wanting to see Talon again.

  “Well, you know the O’Hara party on Saturday night?”

  Piper nodded.

  “Something strange happened after that …”

  I told Piper everything from finding Talon in the alley to dragging him back to my apartment to having sex with him, then drugging him and taking him to the convention center. She listened intently through it all, making mental notes in her head. Piper had a mind like a supercomputer—she never forgot anything, especially when it came to superheroes and ubervillains.

  “So you saved Talon, took him back to your place, and had your way with him?” Piper asked. “Sweet!”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it having my way with him.”

  “Well, at least you got some action. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen a naked man?”

  Piper’s eyes drifted to the front of the restaurant. I didn’t have to turn around to know she was staring at Kyle. Her dark gaze flicked to the poster above our heads.

  “And with Talon. He’s one of the coolest heroes in the city.”

  “I thought you worshipped at the altar of Swifte,” I teased. “And the Fearless Five.”

  She waved her hand. “The Fearless Five are so passé. So over. Swifte too. Edgy independent operators like Talon are all the rage these days.”

  Piper was obsessed with superheroes, mainly because she kept getting rescued by them. She always seemed to be in the wrong place at the right time. If a building caught on fire, Piper would be stuck in the penthouse. If an elevator suddenly lost power, Piper would be trapped inside. She’d been almost mugged, almost flattened by a runaway subway train, and almost run over by more speeding cars than I cared to remember.

  She’d been saved by everyone from Aria to Granny Cane to Wynter, and she had the autograph collection to prove it. Piper kept track of all the heroes and villains in the city, and she probably knew more about the superfolks than they did themselves. Sometimes I thought she ought to quit her job as the chief financial officer of Fiona Fine Fashions and go to work as a reporter for SNN. Piper could give Kelly Caleb a run for her money.

  “So who is he?” Piper asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You had an unconscious superhero in your apartment, a naked, unconscious superhero, and you didn’t look to see who he really was?” Her voice rose with every word, ending in a near screech.

  I winced. “Keep your voice down. You know loud noises give me headaches.”

  “Sorry,” she muttered. “But I have to say, I’m very disappointed in you, Abby.”

  “Well, don’t be. I couldn’t have found out who Talon was even if I wanted to.”

  I told her about the electro-shock visor and the metal bars that had shot out of it when I’d tried to take it off.

  “Oh, yeah,” Piper said. “Talon upgraded to a new visor about three months ago. I didn’t know it had those sorts of capabilities, though.”

  Her chocolate eyes gleamed, and I could tell she was making more mental notes, probably for the hero-villain encyclopedia she was writing. Piper was such a fangirl she’d decided to pen the ultimate guide to Bigtime’s superheroes and ubervillains, including all of their battles, rivalries, and costume changes over the years.

  Ray brought our food, and we spent the next few minutes eating. My salad was wonderful the way Quicke’s food always was. Fresh, creamy dressing. Crisp vegetables. Chicken seasoned with tangy lemon pepper. But I didn’t have an appetite; instead I pushed the greens back and forth on my plate.

  “Do you think you’re going to see Talon again?” Piper asked, tearing into a roll and slathering it with honey-cinnamon butter.

  I shook my head. “No. He doesn’t know who I am, and I don’t know who he is. It’s not like we swapped numbers or anything.”

  “But you sort of know who he is,” she said. “You have seen him naked.”

  “I know, but I’m not sure I’d recognize him. I was a little freaked out by the whole thing.”

  “If you ever see him again, I think you’ll know him. Especially with those supersenses you’ve got now.” A wistful note crept into her voice.

  Piper had been with me the night I’d received my supersenses. Her only regret was I’d gotten them and she hadn’t. She’d always wanted to be a superhero, dreamed of becoming one ever since we were kids, but this time, I’d been in the wrong place at the right time instead of her.

  We were at The Blues karaoke bar. I’d been doing my best impersonation of a diva, while Piper flirted with the bartender and sipped gin and tonics. I’d just finished my number when one of the amps beside the stage produced a screaming fit of static. I’d gone over to help Stanley Solomon, the bar’s sound guy, fix it and started fiddling with some of the knobs.

  Unfortunately, a giggly sorority girl chose that exact moment to spill her amaretto sour on the amp. The police said there must have been a frayed wire or something in the amp. Whatever it was, my hand was attached to it when it decided to pump out a couple thousand volts of juice. All I remembered was waking up in the hospital the next day screaming for someone to turn the volume down on their radio, only to discover it was the heart monitor beeping out my pulse.

  Everything bothered me after that. The slightest noise. The softest touch. The faintest bit of sunlight. The migraines, oh, the migraines. Piper finally figured out what was wrong with me, after she’d gone to the Bigtime Public Library and checked out and read the few books on superpowers she didn’t already own. Piper’s theory was that the jolt I’d received had opened some closed part of my mind, giving me the ability to see, hear, taste, touch, and smell a thousand times better.

  “Well, now that we’ve properly dissected your strange and curious love life, I need a huge, huge favor,” Piper said. “Will you help me?”

  “Sure,” I said, pushing away my half-eaten salad. “What is it?”

  “It’s in my purse. Or rather, he is.”

  “He?”

  Piper nodded. She leaned over and opened her bag. A ball of sandy fur nestled in a white blanket in the bottom. Fur?

  I leaned over to get a better look, and a small whine greeted my ears. The ball of fur lifted up its head and stared at me with two, liquid brown eyes.

  “A puppy? Where did you get a puppy?”

  “I found him wandering the streets right before the blizzard hit,” Piper said, grinning. “He’s the cutest thing, but you know I can’t keep him because of my allergies. I can’t even wear faux fur without sneezing for two hours afterwards …”

  Piper’s voice trailed off, and she gave me a pointed, hopeful look.

  “Oh no,” I said. “Don’t even think about it. No way. I can’t keep him. I can’t have a puppy around. I’m not home enough to take care of one.”

  She beamed at me. “But that’s the beauty of this little guy. He’s small enough right now to fit in a purse. Surely, you can hang him on your vest somewhere.”

  I looked down at the squirming ball of fur. “Hang him on my vest? He’s not a water bottle, Piper.”

  “Listen, it’s just for a few days until I can find him a good home. I just can’t bear the thought of taking him to the pound. Please, Abby. Please?”

  Piper looked at me with her big brown eyes—eyes very similar to the puppy’s.

  “All right.” I sighed, knowing I was beaten. “But only for a few days. And you’re buying the dog food. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  She reached down and petted the squirming ball of fur—and sneezed all over him. The puppy didn’t seem to mind though, wiggling closer to h
er.

  “Here.” Piper shoved her purse at me. “Pick him up. Let him get used to you before we leave.”

  I put the bag on my lap. The movement excited the puppy, who stood up and put his paws on the side of Piper’s purse. Sandy brown fur covered his back, but his belly was pure white fluff. His big, triangular ears pointed up over his head and were rather large in proportion to the rest of him, like rabbit ears on an old TV.

  “What kind of dog is he?” I shoved my finger into the purse so he could sniff it.

  “A Welsh Pembroke corgi.” Piper blew into another tissue. “They’re supposed to be very intelligent.”

  The puppy certainly seemed smart. He was already trying to find some way to get out of Piper’s purse, but his paws kept sliding off the slick fabric. I put my hand on him, and he calmed down. He nestled into the blanket, put his head on his paws, and went back to sleep.

  “So does this furball have a name?” I asked, wondering how much this was going to complicate my life.

  “No,” Piper said. “I’ve just been calling him dog and boy. Why don’t you name him? You’re the one who’s going to be taking care of him.”

  My eyes drifted back to the poster of Talon on the wall. That name was already taken, but another good one came to mind, one that made me think of the superhero.

  “Rascal,” I said. “Let’s call him Rascal.”

  Chapter Ten

  The waiter returned with our check. It was Piper’s turn to pay, and I let her, particularly because she’d foisted Rascal on me. The waiter brought me Chloe’s sandwich and pie, stuffed in a white bag bearing Quicke’s logo—a winged, Hermes-like foot. Then, he went back into the kitchen to retrieve a large cardboard box for Piper. The waiter grunted as he set it down on the table.

  I stared into the box, which contained dozens of containers of soups, salads, sandwiches, fries, drinks, and desserts. “Fiona must really be hungry today.”

  Piper shrugged. “She’s always hungry. How that woman eats the way she does without blowing up like a blimp, I’ll never understand.”

  Fiona had an appetite that would put a horse to shame—and a body a supermodel would envy. Blond hair. Long legs. Big boobs. A disproportionately small waist. She was a live, walking, talking doll.

  Anytime Piper came to Quicke’s for lunch, she took something back for Fiona—usually about half the menu. Today, Piper ordered enough lunch for ten people, but I knew Fiona would eat every single bite—and that Piper would be lucky if the enormous meal kept the fashion designer satisfied until dinner.

  “You still think she has an eating disorder?” I asked.

  “There’s got to be something wrong with her,” Piper replied, opening a container of creamy potato salad. “Now get Rascal out of my purse before you leave.”

  I grunted, reached inside, and grabbed the puppy. He barked with happiness at being out of the bag. A few of Quicke’s other patrons shot me disapproving looks for having a dog inside the restaurant, but none of the staff batted an eye. Fiona—and by extension Piper—spent too much money in here for them to treat Piper like anything but a queen, even if she wasn’t dating Kyle anymore. Piper could strip down, dance naked on the tabletops, and smash out every window in the joint, and they wouldn’t lift a finger to stop her.

  “All right, dog,” I muttered, holding the squirming puppy with one hand. “Let’s see how I can carry you back to the office without dumping you in the snow.”

  Piper was right—Rascal was small enough to fit inside a pocket on my vest, the big one I usually stashed my water bottle in. That compartment lies to the left side of my chest, which meant I could zip my coat up most of the way, and Rascal could stick his head out the front and breathe.

  “Okay, guys, I need to get back to work before Fiona eats the furniture,” Piper said. “Call me later, and let me know how he is, okay?”

  “Sure, sure,” I grumbled.

  Piper gave Rascal a final pat, sneezed, grabbed the box of food, and headed outside.

  “Well, I guess it’s just you and me now, dog,” I said, staring down at the furball.

  Rascal licked the bottom of my chin with his wet, rough, stinky tongue. Ugh.

  #

  I’d walked about a block when I realized Rascal was going to be more trouble than all of my clients put together. The puppy barked at every single car and person we passed, his squeaky yip-yaps rattling inside my skull. He wiggled so much I finally put him on the ground. Rascal tried to hop over the snow without actually touching it. Evidently, the cold, wet sensation didn’t feel too good against his tiny paws. After half a block, the corgi stopped, plopped down on his butt, and stared up at me, his brown eyes expectant.

  “Come on.” I walked a few feet ahead of him. “Let’s go, dog. I have florists to badger.”

  Rascal barked. It might have been my imagination, but I thought there was a rather defiant tone to the sound.

  “Come on. Come here, dog,” I said, trying to get him to follow me.

  That was what dogs were supposed to do, right? I didn’t really know, since I’d never had one before. I’d never really had any sort of pet—or never one that lasted very long. The goldfish my mom bought me for my seventh birthday went belly-up the first time I changed the water in their bowl. The hamster she purchased for my eighth birthday ate his way through his plastic cage and got locked in a closet we rarely used. I found Scruffy two weeks later, toes up. The turtle I got the next year made it a month before I took him outside to play and let him wander into the path of an oncoming minivan, and Shelly got shellacked. After that, I didn’t get any more animals as gifts, but my mom did make a generous donation to the Bigtime Humane Society in my name every year.

  I plowed a few feet ahead, but Rascal didn’t move. Instead, he whined, so pitifully that an elderly couple walking down the street stopped to stare at us.

  “I think he wants you to pick him up,” the old woman said.

  I opened my mouth to tell the lady I knew that already when I caught a glimpse of her face underneath her rose-colored hat. White hair, blue eyes, pink cheeks—Grace Caleb, one of the bastions of Bigtime society. More importantly, one of my clients. We’d worked together planning the doomed benefit for the Bigtime Museum of Modern Art.

  “Oh, Grace, I didn’t recognize you.” I turned to the man standing beside her. “Or you either, Bobby.”

  Bobby was Bobby Bulluci, another bastion of Bigtime society and the grandfather of fashion designer Bella Bulluci and her brother, Johnny.

  “That’s all right, Abby,” Bobby replied. His face was red and ruddy from the cold. “It’s obvious you have other things on your mind. Like this little guy.”

  Bobby leaned down and held his gloved hand out to Rascal. The puppy sniffed it suspiciously for about half a second before he decided Bobby was friend material. Bobby responded by scratching Rascal’s pointy ears. The puppy grunted with pleasure, his tiny tail sending up sprays of snow.

  “I didn’t know you had a dog, Abby,” Grace said.

  “He’s not really mine. I’m just babysitting until I can find him a good home.” I smiled at them. “What do you say? Would you like him? He’s a very sweet dog.”

  Lying was another skill I’d perfected as an event planner. I’d had the puppy about ten minutes, but sweet wasn’t the word I’d use to describe him. Rascal had proven himself to be stubborn, difficult, and demanding.

  “Unfortunately not,” Bobby said, straightening. “We’re a bit busy to bring a dog into the house right now.”

  Grace nodded her head in agreement. “We’re tied up almost every night.”

  “Literally,” Bobby added.

  They both chuckled, amused by some private joke.

  Busy? Tied up? What did the two of them do at night besides attend society soirees? Go out on the town and fight evil? Jeez. It wasn’t like they were Granny Cane and Grandpa Pain, the two seventy-something superheroes who suckered bad guys into mugging them before kicking their asses all the way to the po
lice station. Grace and Bobby could have just told me no. They didn’t have to make up some lame excuse about being too busy.

  “We’d love to stay and chat, but we have a lunch date with Bella and Devlin,” Grace said, referring to her grandson, Devlin Dash.

  “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

  Bobby held out his arm, which Grace took, and the two of them walked on. Rascal watched them go. When he realized they weren’t taking him with them, his head swiveled back around to me—and he whined again.

  “Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll carry you, you little con artist.”

  I picked up the dog and stuffed him back inside my vest. He wiggled closer to me, his scent filling my nose—an aroma my supernose particularly loathed.

  “Now, you’re wet. And you know what wet dogs do? They smell bad. Really bad. Especially to me.”

  Rascal just barked and licked my chin again. Ugh.

  #

  By the time I got back to the office, it was after two. The elevator whispered open, and I walked over to Chloe’s desk and dropped her food bag on top of it. She looked up from her monitor.

  “Thanks, Abby—a puppy!” Chloe yelled, catching sight of Rascal. “You have a puppy!”

  I winced. First Piper, then the dog, now Chloe. Didn’t anyone in Bigtime know how to modulate their voice? I plucked Rascal out of my vest and handed him to her. Chloe hugged the puppy to her chest, and he barked with happiness.

  “When did you get a dog?” she asked, stroking his sandy fur. “I didn’t think you liked dogs.”

  “About twenty minutes ago.”

  Chloe gave me a sideways glance. From the tone in her voice, you’d think I was a serial killer who mutilated small animals in my basement. I didn’t hate animals—just the messes they made. I loathed planning any event that involved them. They were worse to work with than kids. Give kids enough sugar, and you could keep them happy, but animals were a wholly unpredictable lot. I still hadn’t recovered from having a llama spit in my hair during Pistol Pete’s Petting Zoo at Paradise Park last summer.