 
Joyce Greenfield

Almost Heroes

Copyright ©Joyce Greenfield 2018

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction.

All characters, events, and places in this publication are fictional and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

# Chapter 1

"What are you going to do if it doesn't work out, Santana? You've worked really hard to get to this point—I'm not denying that—but one in a hundred is terrible odds."

"You keep treating this like it's a lottery, Mom. This is a _competition._ My odds are way better than one in a hundred. I'm a good artist."

"Again, not denying it." She sighed, pulled the car into an open parking space close to the school. Then she turned to face me directly. "What I'm asking is if—God forbid—the judges pick someone else for the scholarship, have you thought about a plan b?"

"No. That's how confident I am. I'm going to win it, and any time I spent on something else would be wasted."

Based on the sour look that filled her face, that didn't go over well. "Santana, be realistic. Don't you think that out of the ninety-nine other finalists, at least a few of them have a shot at beating you?"

"Maybe. But they're not going to. I know it, Mom. In my soul, I know it. I have the scholarship in the bag." I sighed. "What?"

She waved her hand in an annoying 'I'm not even going to try arguing with you' sort of way. "It's your life. But as your mother, I can't understand the decision you're making. You're at a place right now where you have thousands of options. The whole world is open to you, and you're closing doors left and right."

"That's the whole point of growing up!" I took a breath, checked my rising tone. "Look, every other student at school is going through the exact same thing. Yes the world is open to me, but I can't be everything. I can't be a scientist _and_ an engineer _and_ a doctor. I have to pick, and for me art is really the only thing that I want to do."

"That's fine. But if that fizzles out you need to have a back-up plan. Remember how your sister wanted to be a singer when she was your age? I swear, we had this exact same argument—well, almost the same—but eventually she agreed to pick something more practical. Now look at her."

"Yeah, who wouldn't want to be like Kelsey?" I rolled my eyes. "Long hours, almost no pay, hundreds of thousands of dollars of student loan debt... Phew, I think I know what my back-up plan is going to be now."

I knew that was one of my mom's buttons, and sure enough it made her face flush with color. "Once she finishes her internship, she'll be able to pay all of that down in a heartbeat."

" _If_ she finishes her internship. I mean—"

Mom cut me off. "Don't try to make this about Kelsey. The point is, she picked a back-up plan that's working for her and that's what you should do."

"Okay. How about gardening?"

"Be serious."

"I _am_ serious. Gardening sounds like a lot of fun. Tilling the fields, hiring other people to do the labor so I can pay them under the table... Yup, that's my back-up plan right there."

"Santana." Her breath came out in a loud huff. "You know that if you actually had a rational plan involving gardening—or art, for that matter—your father and I would both stand behind you. But we need to know that whatever you choose will be enough to support yourself. We don't want to see you out on the streets."

"Don't worry, I won't be. Because I'm going to get the scholarship." I could tell we were both getting tired of the conversation, so I lifted up my bag and started to get out of the car.

My mom's hand on my wrist let me know she wasn't tired of the conversation. At least, not enough to let me leave. "What about something simple, like business? You could go to state college and get a four year degree. If you still wanted to paint when you graduated, you could even leverage it to help you sell your work."

"If I say I'll major in business, will you let me go?"

Her eyes lit up like the end of a fireworks show. "How can you be so nonchalant about this! This is your future!"

"No, it's _your_ future. My future is getting the scholarship, graduating, and becoming a famous artist."

Her voice got really low. "I'm sorry, Santana. I just have this vision of you five years from now, burnt out and tired from trying to chase a career that didn't work out. Art is a great hobby, but the thing about hobbies is that hardly anyone can turn them into a real living."

"What happened to the mom who told me I could be anything I wanted when I grew up?"

"She's right here. I still believe you can be whatever you want. But I also want to make sure you're taken care of. All I want is what's best for you."

"I want what's best for me too. I guess we just disagree about what that is." I tried to leave again, but her hand was still there. "Okay, what do I have to say to get you to let me leave?"

"Say you'll at least consider other options. You still have a couple months before they announce the winners, right? Promise that by then you'll have some idea of what you would want to do if the art thing doesn't work out."

"Okay, I'll think about it." Not that it was a huge concern. I'd seen the entries by my so-called competition; they weren't anything worth worrying about.

Our eyes met. I could tell she was sizing me up, trying to detect whether I meant what I'd said. "Maybe I'll set up an appointment with the counseling office. They should have some tests you can take."

"Please don't. The only kinds of kids who actually use the career counseling at our school are the super preps and teen moms. So, unless you want me getting knocked up..." I tried smiling, but she didn't match the expression.

"Sometimes I wish you and your father could be a little more serious. This is important—for you as much as us—and you need to treat it that way. Please?"

"I don't know what else you want me to say. I promised I'd think about what I wanted to do other than art. And if you want me to take a stupid test I guess I can." Even though it wouldn't tell me anything worth knowing. My friend Benjamin had taken the same test last year and it had told him he should be a plumber.

She pursed her lips. "Maybe it's not something you need to say as much as something I need to hear. I want to believe that this conversation has helped you understand how important it is to plan for your future now instead of waiting until it's too late."

"Well, you're out of luck then. You know I've never been the type to plan." I chuckled a bit, but she ignored the attempted joke.

She looked away from me, through the front windshield. "When you were really young you used to stare at your feet when you ran. So many times I tried to get you to keep your head up and look where you were going, but you didn't. Not until you smacked right into a tree branch. You remember?"

"I remember you telling me about it."

"All I hope is that this scholarship doesn't end up being another life lesson for you."

"It won't be. I'm not three anymore." I moved to get out of the car again, and this time she relaxed her wrist to let me out.

# Chapter 2

"I don't know, S. College always seemed like a sucker's play to me." My friend Brit pursed her lips. "If you know what you want to do and you're good at it, that should be all that matters."

Benjamin leaned forward, groaning as he pulled away from the tree he'd been glued to for several minutes. "I agree with Brit. You should pursue your happiness instead of caving into what the box thinkers tell you to do."

"Yeah, but I'd rather not end up on the streets." I exhaled slowly. "It's just that I feel so directionless when I think of anything else. It would be cool to have a nice, easy job that would make me a millionaire, but I don't see that happening."

Benjamin chuckled. "You want to be a millionaire, I want to be a millionaire... Hell, I bet that squirrel would want to be a millionaire if he knew how many nuts he could buy with it. Or you know, had any concept of money."

I followed his eyes to a brown squirrel that had wandered dangerously close to our section of the woods. He was so close that I could've snared him in half a second. "Do you think anyone's ever tried to train squirrels to steal money? They would probably be pretty good at it."

"Right." Another chuckle from Benjamin. "Really great business idea there. All we need is a bunch of nuts and an army of squirrels to train."

"Ooh, that could be fun!" Brit clapped her hands together. "We'll train them in secret and make them prey on our enemies. First their lunch money starts disappearing, then their car keys, and then their house gets burned down in a mysterious accident."

Benjamin and I shared a meaningful look. He shrugged as if to say 'she's your friend, not mine _.'_ I coughed into a hand. "Where did arson come into this, Brit?"

She secured a lock of blonde hair behind an ear. "Toward the end. I was thinking of all the things we could train squirrels to do and... well, if we can teach them to steal money maybe we can teach them to light matches, right? And from there it's only a small jump to burning our enemies' houses down."

"Of course. Now that you explain it, that really seems like the most logical train of thought." I shook my head. "Oh well. So are you guys heading home soon, or do you wanna stay here for a bit?"

"Stay here for a bit," Brit said. "I'm really feeling that last one."

"Me too. But I don't wanna miss dinner." Benjamin grinned conspiratorially. "For some reason I can't explain, I'm feeling really hungry now."

"Well, it's a mystery to me. You should really go to a doctor, have them check it out."

"Right, S. That would be brilliant. Heck, if I told my parents what my symptoms are they could probably figure it out on their own."

"It was a joke, genius. And weren't you leaving, anyway?"

He took a step toward the street. "Correct, miss. Well, it's been a pleasure hanging out with both of you. See you tomorrow for our regularly scheduled appointment." With that, he turned and left us on our own.

Brit sighed. "Mmph."

"Mmph?"

"Mmph." She nodded.

"Okay, Brit. You've gotta give me more to go on than 'mmph.'"

"I dunno. I was trying to think of something to say, but I couldn't do it. I already told you everything about my day and you already told me everything about yours, and that's usually all we talk about. So... mmph."

I rolled my eyes. "How about arsonist squirrels?"

"Hey, don't knock it. I think that's actually a pretty good idea. The perfect murder weapon. Everyone's looking for fingerprints or teeth or whatever, but there's nothing to be found except for a burnt-up squirrel."

"Hold up, now we're murdering people and burning squirrels alive?" If I hadn't known Brit well enough to tell she was kidding, I might have thought she was a sociopath.

"I'm not saying we're killing anyone. All I'm saying is that—hypothetically—if we had anyone who absolutely needed to be killed, death by fire squirrels would be a good way to do it."

"But why does the squirrel have to get burned too? Why couldn't he climb a tree to get away or something?"

"In case he talks." She laughed, and after a moment I joined her, even though I wasn't sure why. "What I mean is that someone might see him lighting fires on his own, and if they did they might figure out how we did it. The first rule of murder is that you leave no traces, so that squirrel's gotta go."

"Oh no! That's a seriously twisted murder plot, even for you." I frowned. "Is it bad that I'm totally skating over the people in this situation? Like I was sort of okay with it until you said the squirrel would die too."

"It's probably because you know the squirrel's innocent." She paused, her brow wrinkling. "Now that I think about it, I _am_ kind of hungry. Do you think Benjamin's parents would mind if I came over to his house?"

"Probably not. We could go over together, and then if they turn us away we can at least find a fast food place." I started in the direction Benjamin had gone, going slowly to give myself time to recall the route to his house. It wasn't far; past the trail behind our school and through a couple thickets if we wanted to take a shortcut. Otherwise we had to go all the way around and loop back, which sounded like an awful lot of work.

Brit walked alongside me, taking a single step for every two of mine. I tried to pick up the pace, but every time I did she kept up.

"It's not fair," I finally said.

"What's not fair?"

"You've got those long legs. Sometimes I feel like you're my older sister or my mother or something."

She grimaced. "That's not very nice."

"Sorry. I wasn't trying to be mean. Just saying I wish I was as tall as you."

"Whoa, serious déjà vu. I swear, I've had this conversation with so many different people. Next I say that it's not all it's cracked up to be, then you sort of shrug and say 'but still, it would be nice.' And then the conversation gets quiet for a few seconds while I think about something to say to change the subject. So... Killer squirrels?"

"Killer squirrels," I agreed. "Whoa. Do you see that cat over there?"

"Which cat?"

"The one in the tree." I pointed to a crabapple tree a dozen feet ahead. Somehow a poor orange tabby had found its way up to the topmost branches. I was sure I could see it shivering even from the ground. "Do you think we should call the fire department or something?"

"Nah. No point. Don't cats always land on their feet anyway?"

"Yeah, but if he falls from that height it would hurt even if he lands on his feet." After a moment's thought, I decided it really wasn't worth bothering the fire department. I could probably climb up and get him myself.

I let my backpack fall and twisted my hair up into a messy ponytail. Brit raised an eyebrow at me. "Are you planning on catching it or something?"

"I'm gonna go up there. It's not that far." I took a step forward and grabbed onto a stump that was a little bit lower than my waist.

"'Not that far.' Famous last words, S. If you fall, can I have your kidneys?"

As busy as I was with getting on top of the stump, it took me a few seconds to answer. "Why do you want my kidneys? Yours are perfectly good." I got my feet up and reached for a higher branch. It looked fairly sturdy, bending only the tiniest bit when I put my weight on it.

"Hey, you never know when extra kidneys could come in handy. I'll put 'em on ice, maybe auction them to the highest bidder."

I paused, my arms wrapped around the branch in a bear hug while I dangled. "You're seriously twisted. Do you know that?"

"Meh. I was only kidding. Of course I'd be all broken up if you died."

I shook my head and focused on the climb. I had to lift up my legs to gain a hold of the branch, and from there it took a considerable amount of time and shifting until I was lying on top of it. The cat meowed, no doubt worried at how much the tree was shaking with every motion.

Sweat beaded on my forehead as I got my legs under me and moved to the next branch. It bent noticeably under my weight, to the point where I started expecting to hear a crack at any moment. The good news was that I'd almost reached the cat; I could see an obvious path that would take me to him. One more step to a weaker branch, then another to a branch so thin that I didn't dare to put both feet on it.

"Come here, kitty." I stretched out with both hands, leaning as far forward as I felt like I could without losing my balance. The tabby stared at me, blinking every few seconds as if all of a sudden he couldn't care less about being saved. I glanced down, and immediately pulled tight to the tree. From the ground it hadn't looked like much of a climb—fifteen feet at most—but from where I was there was no question that falling would be painful.

I looked back at the cat. "Listen to me, you little shit. I'm risking my life to save you, so the least you can do is make it easy. Come on. That's it." The whole time I kept my voice nice and happy. Always happy, like I wanted nothing more than to love him and keep him safe. It must have been the right way to go, because he got up and took a step in my direction. Then another.

When I could convince myself to pull away from the tree and reach for him again, I was happy to find that he was well within my grasp. I pulled him off his branch, but the moment it became clear what I was doing he fought me with every tool he had. Claws dug into my chest, sharp teeth bit into my forearm. I recoiled, pulling him closer in the hopes that it would convince him to calm down.

Needless to say, it didn't. He hissed loudly, kicking out with his hind legs and catching my t-shirt. I could hear the fabric ripping.

Or what I thought was fabric ripping. A moment later, the branch my back leg was on gave way and we were falling. A horrible crack filled my ears and an unbearable wave of pain shot up my spine. I wasn't even aware of the rest of the fall; next thing I knew I was on the ground as my body sent all sorts of alarms through my mind. My knees ached, my head was throbbing, and my back pounded like it had been broken in two. My elbows seared where the bark had torn them, my chest burned from all the cat's scratching, and above all my back...

"Well," Brit said in a perfectly cheerful voice. "We know you're not a cat." She gestured to the orange tabby, who had settled down to calmly lick himself. "How are you feeling?"

"Terrible. Everything hurts."

She frowned. "Yeah, that looked like a pretty bad fall. Guess next time we'll have to call the firefighters."

"Next time I'll let him stay in the tree." I rolled onto my back, finally feeling as if it might be okay. The shooting, all-consuming pain had given way to a dull throb, although when I moved it got worse instead of better. "Whoever's cat this is, they'd better give me a reward."

A moment later the nearby bushes rustled, and out popped the form of a pale boy, tall as a pond reed with half the substance. He sauntered over to us. "Congratulations! You passed the test!"

"What test?" I asked.

The boy gestured to the orange tabby. "My cat. I put him up in the tree to see if someone would rescue him. And you did! You passed the test!"

My eyes narrowed. "The moment I can stand up without getting sick, I'm going to strangle you."

"Strangle me? Why? I'm trying to offer you a job. I want you to be my sidekick. No interview necessary, forty dollars an hour. You get your own costume, a personalized training regimen, and you get to help save this town from the darkness pressing in on it. How great is that?"

Brit snorted. "Wait, a sidekick? Like a Batman and Robin type sidekick?"

"Yes, that would be the most famous one. So what do you say?" He stared at me, a cautious smile forming on his lips.

"You're crazy," I said. "How does saving a cat and falling out of a tree have anything to do with being your sidekick?"

"It's a morality test. See? Because you were willing to risk yourself for Gato, I know you'll be willing to go the extra mile for anything _I_ need you to do. It was a clever idea, if I do say so myself."

"Look, I don't want to be your sidekick. There's no way you'd be offering that much money if it was legit. So go away."

"Legit?" His brow wrinkled like he was honestly confused. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"Maybe. If you have that much money to blow, why don't you hire someone else? Like a martial arts expert or something?"

"Because I'm not looking for a martial arts expert. I'm looking for a protégé I can train in all things relating to heroism."

"You do realize that for forty dollars an hour you could hire someone who already knows all about heroism, right? Heck, you could hire someone with a degree in..."I trailed off, unsure what kind of degree would give someone a good knowledge of heroism.

His look of consternation deepened. "You're not doing a very good job of selling yourself here. It sounds almost like you're telling me I should hire someone else."

"That's exactly what I'm telling you."

"But you passed the morality test." He looked back to his cat. "Why don't you want the job? I tried to make the fairest offer I could."

"Because you're obviously crazy," Brit said. "And besides, we have our squirrel idea to bring in money."

The boy perked up. "Squirrel idea? What squirrel idea?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Of course I would. That's why I asked." He frowned, shook his head. "Anyway, I'm ready to consider your application when you're ready to hand it in."

He started to turn, but I reached out to stop him; since I was lying on the ground my hand didn't come anywhere close, but he turned back all the same. "Wait, I've decided I really want to apply. But first, I think it's only fair that you give me a reward for passing your morality test and saving your cat. Say... three hundred dollars."

He thought about it for a moment. Then, "Okay. I'll bring it to you as soon as I can get to a bank to withdraw it from my account." He turned again, striding away purposefully. His cat got up after a few seconds to follow.

Brit raised an eyebrow at me. "I can't believe you're humoring him."

"What? There can't be any harm in it. Worst case scenario, he doesn't pay me. And if he does then at least I'll get something out of saving his stupid cat."

"But would you actually work for him? If he pays you, I mean?"

"I don't know. Maybe. At least it would solve the whole starving artist issue."

"Right. But there's no telling what you would have to do to earn that money. Like falling out of a tree." She dipped her head meaningfully.

"Hey, he wasn't the one who called dibs on my kidneys."

"I was only kidding. Everyone knows the liver is the real money organ."

# Chapter 3

"Santana!" My mom's call broke my focus from the doodle I'd been working on. I could smell barbecue in my room, and sure enough a moment later she added, "Dinner's ready!"

I set my pen down and pushed away from my fold-out desk. The wood chair groaned as I got up. A second later I pushed my door open, snaking out into the front hall.

The kitchen/dining room combo was only a dozen feet away. Dad was already seated at the table, a white napkin folded into his shirt. He saw me and grinned. "Your mom says you came home and went right to your room to study. I told her she had to be talking about a different daughter."

"Very funny, Dad. I'll have you know that I study all the time. Just not necessarily the subjects _they_ want me to." I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes as the hickory smell of the ribs hit me full on.

"What kind of subjects do you study, then?" Dad asked.

"Horticulture. Botany. The great outdoors." I giggled at my parents' expressions. "Lately I've been doing more than twenty experiments a day."

Mom pursed her lips. "You're starting to worry me."

"Worry you? Why would you be worried? They say it's a growing field."

Dad chuckled. "I see what you did there. Very punny."

"Tyler! We're not condoning this!" Mom looked between us, as if she wasn't sure who most deserved to be on the receiving end of her disapproving expression.

"Relax, Mom. It's not like I'm failing any classes. I swear, Mr. Stein only gave me a C because I made his star quarterback look bad. Who would have known he couldn't handle a girl tackling him?"

"I think it had more to do with the fact that it was supposed to be _touch_ football." Despite what he'd said, I could see a smile tugging at my dad's lips. "But I'm sure it was a good tackle."

"Of course. I learned from the best. Lead with the shoulder, arms close, make sure you hit the center of their mass. So... we're having ribs for dinner?"

Mom was still glancing between us, but at the mention of ribs she seemed to relax. "Yes we are. They took me a long time to make, so be gentle."

"I'm sure they'll be good," Dad said. "Miss Masterchef over here trying to be humble. 'Oh, don't be too critical of my hickory-glazed baby back ribs.' They'll be fantastic no matter how much fake humility you sprinkle over them."

Her face flushed with a mixture of what I assumed was a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. "You can't say things like that or I'll get a big head. Now sit down, honey."

I did like she asked, taking my customary seat at the table. Mom set a plate of ribs with baby corn and candied carrots in front of Dad, then brought two more over for herself and me. She took a seat at the table and we rushed through a memorized prayer.

"So," Dad said once we'd finished, "How do you think the Seahawks are gonna do next week?"

"Terrible. Gibson is missing half of his passes and their field goal kicker's been awful lately. My money's on the Patriots."

"Remember Santana, a good quarterback isn't everything." He dipped his chin meaningfully.

"It is when he's _that_ good. Besides, they have a lot of other amazing players on their team." He looked like he was getting ready to argue, but I held up a hand to stop him. "Look, I'm not saying the Seahawks are definitely going to lose. I'm just saying that none of their players are on my fantasy team for the week."

"Fair enough. Fair enough."

Mom looked up from her plate. "Did you ever run into that boy who stranded his poor cat in the tree?"

"Not yet. I keep hoping I'll see him at school, but he hasn't been around. Who knows? Maybe he doesn't even go there."

"Oh, I'm sure he goes there, honey."

"Maybe. Maybe not. If he's crazy enough to strand his cat in a tree and hire a sidekick, I don't know if I'd put it past him to hang out around a high school that wasn't even his."

"Hmm." She frowned. "Perhaps it's good you haven't seen him around, then. No point in messing with someone who's totally broken from reality." A moment after she'd finished, our doorbell rang.

The wood floor creaked as I pushed my chair away from the table. I crossed over to the door and pulled it open.

The pale boy from a couple weeks ago was standing there, a triumphant smile glued on his face. "It's you! Great! I already tried four different houses."

"It's me," I said, raising an eyebrow at him. "What do you want?"

"Oh, right! I wanted to introduce myself. Damien Deveraux at your service." When I didn't react, he held out a cream-colored envelope. "I also wanted to give you this. Your prize for passing the morality test."

I took the envelope from him, opened it just enough to see several twenty dollar bills peeking out, and had to fight the urge to whistle. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome! So listen, I've been thinking about my budget for a sidekick, and I'm happy to inform you that I'll be able to pay you _fifty_ dollars an hour." The grin reappeared, as if he was sure the change was what he needed to make me say yes.

I glanced down at the envelope, then back to him. Down to the envelope, back to him. Down, back. At fifty bucks an hour I'd be making more than either of my parents, although I doubted it would be a forty hour a week gig.

He continued on. "How fast can you run a mile? Do you play any sports? When you do cartwheels, do your hands touch the ground for more than a second?"

"Uhm..."

"If they do then you obviously aren't going into the cartwheel with enough speed. Here, I can show you." He started to turn toward the front yard, as if he was going to give an example then and there.

"It's okay. I believe you."

He huffed out a loud breath. "You can be judgmental if you want. Being a hero—or being a sidekick—isn't always about saving cats in trees and helping old ladies cross the street. A lot of the time it's about preparing for all the weird situations you get into. Last month I was chasing three trespassers through a garden and got tripped up by a wire on the ground. If I'd known how to do a cartwheel it wouldn't have even slowed me down. So I learned how to do a cartwheel."

"Oh. Good for you."

"Thank you. So do you play any sports?"

"Not really."

He frowned, as if he was finally starting to reconsider whether he wanted me as his sidekick. "Are you committed to ridding the city of evil, at least?"

"I mean, I guess so. I'm not sure what evil you're talking about."

"The deeply troubled souls who prey on the weak, of course."

"Oh, right. Those guys. We call them Tyler and Jerry." I looked back to wink at my dad, but apparently he hadn't caught what I'd said.

When I turned back to Damien I nearly jumped. He'd gotten in close—so close that I could smell what he'd had for dinner—and in a whisper he said, "No, not Tyler and Jerry. Ribaldi's minions. They're everywhere, and it seems like no matter what I do I can't stop them."

I took a step away from him. "That sucks, dude. Maybe you should ask them nicely."

"That wouldn't help. The only way to stop them is to keep fighting the good fight. I need reinforcements, and I'm hoping you can be one of them."

"Hmm." The longer we talked the more convinced I was that he was out of his mind. But my eyes went back to the envelope he'd given me. If he was out of his mind, at least he was rich and out of his mind. "What would I have to do to be your sidekick?"

"All the normal stuff. Train with me, patrol the neighborhood, fight alongside me whenever we encounter evil-doers."

"Okay. Let me think about it."

"Oh, absolutely. Take as much time as you need. And when you're ready, remember: I accept applications and resumes on ivory white card stock. My address is in the envelope. Nothing flimsy or garish, please." With a nod to himself, he turned and skipped away.

I let the door close slowly. After a second, I turned back to face my parents, who were staring at me from the kitchen. "So... I guess he came through on the reward."

Mom gasped. "How much did you ask for, exactly? I thought you said it was so much he wouldn't possibly pay it."

"Three hundred dollars." I flipped through the money, counting as I answered her. Sure enough, it was all there. "I guess I should have gone higher. It was honestly the first number that popped into my head."

"Don't worry about that," Dad said. "You named a decent price. If you'd gone and asked for more that wouldn't have been fair. In fact, I'm not even sure three hundred dollars is fair..."

"It doesn't even cover the X-ray bill, Tyler. If you ask me, he should have to pay a lot more for deliberately putting our daughter's life in danger."

"Pfff, 'in danger.' She climbed a tree, she got roughed up. That's what kids do."

I nodded along. "Actually, I think I've just found my plan b."

"What?" Mom asked, giving me a look that threatened unimaginable punishment if I didn't explain to her satisfaction.

"In case I don't get the scholarship. He offered me fifty bucks an hour to be his sidekick. I can support myself _and_ be an artist. Doesn't that sound great?"

"I really hope you're kidding, Santana."

"Nope. I've been thinking about my options, and this is the only thing besides art that I could be passionate about." Not that I was actually passionate about it at all. My intention was to needle my mom for even suggesting I might not win the scholarship. And also to stop all discussion about plan b's or c's or d's.

Unfortunately, it didn't go the way I'd intended. Mom's chair scraped back as she got to her feet. "This isn't a joke, Santana. You need to seriously start planning for your future."

"I have. Being a sidekick sounds like a great time to me."

Her eyes narrowed. "If I didn't believe you were only saying that to annoy me, I'd march you into the career counselor's office first thing tomorrow."

"Then maybe you should. Maybe you should have them give me a test that will tell me what I should be when I grow up. Just don't be surprised when the only result is 'superhero's sidekick.'"

"I... I..." She stared at me in silence for several seconds, apparently lost for words. Finally she said, "I can't have this argument with you again. If you don't want to come up with a reasonable back-up plan, be my guest. But don't expect us to support you after high school."

My dad jumped in. "Don't be ridiculous. We'll support her no matter what." Turning to me, "We'll support you no matter what. If you want to be a crazy kid's sidekick, be the best crazy kid's sidekick you can be."

# Chapter 4

"Looks a little bit fancy." Dad glanced at me with a smile. "I'm assuming it would be poor form to balance spoons on my nose here?"

I snorted. "You can do whatever you want. It's a dinner for me, after all." I tried to keep a joking tone. His comment reminded me to be a little bit more aware of my surroundings; for the first time since we'd sat down I noticed the engraved wood columns of the ballroom, the white tablecloths with a single red stripe running down the middle.

My eyes landed on a girl with bright blue hair seated at the very front. Out of everyone else in the finals, she was the one I would have pegged as a good runner-up. Her piece was a classy, nearly perfect depiction of a pastoral scene. Very Monet.

My painting wasn't Monet. It wasn't Rembrandt or Van Gogh. It was mine, and only mine. I fell back in the padded chair. "That's interesting."

"What's interesting, honey?" My mom asked.

"Oh, nothing. I saw one of the girls I thought did really well near the front."

She raised an eyebrow. "What do you think that means?"

"I don't know. Maybe that's the runner-up table or something. It makes sense; they want the winner to get a few seconds in the spotlight when they come up to accept the award." Despite what I'd said, I felt a little bit of my confidence eroding. Especially when another girl leaned forward, bringing her face into the light.

She was another good one. I looked around, sighing to pretend that it was due to boredom. No one at my table had made much of an impression. There was a boy whose piece played some weird games with light and color. That was his father beside him, I guessed. An empty seat, and then another girl I didn't even remember meeting. Maybe she was the one who had been sick the day of the final gallery event, so her mother had to present for her.

A man in a blue button-up shirt and a bowtie came up to our table. He gave each of us a salad from the tray he was holding without a word; it was interesting to watch as he balanced it in one hand and set the salads with the other, never letting the tray wobble.

"Whoa! Food appearing in front of us! It's like magic!" Dad couldn't help joking. When no one laughed he studied the smallest spoon in front of him, as if seriously considering whether balancing it on his nose was a good idea.

I grabbed a fork and poked at my salad, studying it as I tried to work through the logic of seating the winner and her family so far away from the obvious runners-up. It seemed to me like the easiest solution would be to have everyone at the same table. First the winner stands up, then they sit down and the second and third place students stand. Everyone at the table's a winner, so no one would have to deal with any awkward resentment.

As it was, I wasn't looking forward to being announced as the winner. Well, who was I kidding? I was _definitely_ still looking forward to it, but maybe a little less.

"You haven't even touched your food, Santana," Mom whispered. "I thought you liked salads."

"Oh, I do. This is just a performance art piece I'm working on. It's called 'girl in thought.'" I stopped playing with the lettuce and kale and took a bite. It didn't have as much dressing as I usually liked, but it was still pretty good.

A new man stopped at our table. He was dressed in a full suit and his beard was a thick garden of undergrowth that curled and twisted to a stop a few inches above his chest. "I just wanted to stop by and say hello," he said. "My name's William Prague. I'm the organizer for the Samuels-Leads scholarship. There are some very talented artists here. You all must be so proud." As he said it, his eyes landed on me.

"We are," my mom said, touching my shoulder.

"They are," I agreed. "Although you didn't have to go to all this trouble for little old me. I would have taken the scholarship if you wanted to hand it to me at an Ihop."

"What?" His brow wrinkled, but after a moment he shook himself and recovered. "Yes, well... we didn't want anyone to feel like they worked so hard for nothing. We throw this dinner to honor _all_ finalists, winners or not."

I wasn't sure what to say to that. So I settled for, "Well, it's not like I'm gonna turn down good food. If only I were old enough to drink wine in public, I'm sure I'd enjoy that too."

"Santana!" Mom's face was nearly beat red. "I'm sorry, she's only kidding. We don't let her drink wine at home. Or at all. Really, no one should drink wine before they're old enough to do it responsibly."

William coughed into a hand. "Some of the most responsible wine drinkers I know live in France, and they started drinking well before the age of seventeen. But that's neither here nor there. Thank you for your entries, all of you. And best of luck." He swept off toward the rectangular table at the front. I couldn't help noticing that he only stopped for more than a second at one other table: the one with the blue-haired girl.

The waiter with a bowtie reappeared, taking our salads—even those that weren't finished yet—and refilling everyone's water. He also spoke for the first time, to take drink orders and ask whether we wanted steak, chicken, or fish for our main course.

"You're really confident you're gonna win, aren't you?" the boy at my table asked once the waiter had left.

"Yeah, of course. I won the competition at my school a year ago, then the district competition, and I tied for first in the regionals." My eyes jumped over to the blue-haired girl I'd split first place with. _What if it happened again, and they sat us at different tables so it would come as more of a shock?_

The boy didn't look impressed. "Everyone here won at their school, though. And if they didn't get the top three at districts and regionals, they wouldn't have become finalists. I don't know, I guess I just can't see how you can be so confident when we're around such talented artists."

"Because I know I'm the best." That seemed to settle the discussion. He shook his head and focused on the head table.

William was standing up, tapping his wineglass for attention. When the room finally quieted he spoke into a microphone. "Thank you for coming, everyone. I sincerely hope you're enjoying your food so far. We'll announce the winners after the main course. Until then, parents please remember: there's a two drink limit on the bar. If you want more you'll have to bribe a server." That got a weak laugh from the crowd. "But seriously, we want everyone to be safe and have a good time. Congratulations to all of our finalists, and please enjoy your meal." He sat back down.

Dad leaned in. "If there's a two drink limit, does that mean pitchers or glasses?"

"It obviously means glasses, Tyler." Mom sighed. "But if you want more I'll give you mine. I was planning on being the designated driver anyway."

"Thank you kindly, miss. Now I can get down to the real reason for tonight: getting black-out drunk and doing things I'll regret."

"I thought it was honoring me and the other artists," I said.

"Yeah yeah, that too. But let's be honest; my master plan is about to come to fruition. Seven years of art classes, buying canvas, paint, charcoal, everything else... Filling our house to the brim with works-in-progress. It all comes down to tonight, when I get to drink mediocre alcohol for free and make a fool of myself." He cackled like a Disney villain.

I rolled my eyes. "Okay, Dad. Glad to hear I was only a pawn in your scheme."

"No, you weren't a pawn. You were a queen, and we're about to win the game. Checkmate."

It worried me to notice how strange his humor was getting. It was like he was using it as a distraction.

As if he didn't think I was going to win. I swallowed hard, telling myself that wasn't true. Mom could talk about her plan B.S. all she wanted, but Dad was always in my corner. From the moment I'd been born he'd believed in me, supported me.

I breathed out deeply, letting my attention drift to the conversation of the others at the table. Next thing I knew the waiter was setting a steak down in front of me. It looked like an advertisement, with a clump of mashed potatoes on one side and four perfect asparaguses on the other.

I cut into the middle of the steak, grimacing when I saw how much pink there was. I'd had a lot of steaks in my life—so I knew what medium well looked like—and mine was almost rare. _Can I complain about my dinner when it was free?_ I wondered. In the end, I decided I shouldn't. It may not have been exactly how I wanted it, but it wasn't like it was inedible.

A little fatty, a little under-seasoned, but definitely not inedible. I finished it in about a minute flat, only slowing down once I reached the last few bites. They tasted like they'd gotten all of the seasoning meant for the rest of the steak; salt and spices crunched between my teeth until I decided to give up on them and focus on the mashed potatoes.

They were... well, the charitable way to say it would be that they could have used a little more love. I was used to mashed potatoes that were almost whipped, but these still had fairly sizeable lumps. I left them alone after a couple bites and chewed on the asparagus, slowly working my way through each spear.

I'd made it to the last one when William stood up, tapping his glass again. "Are we all ready?" Several shouts of 'Yes!' answered him. "Good. Before we get started, I'd like to reiterate that all of our entries this year were fantastic. Those who don't win shouldn't feel that it's any reflection upon them as artists; you all have the fundamentals down, and I would be happy to have any one of you at our college. Unfortunately, we only have a limited number of full-ride scholarships, and with that being said..."

He looked down at the waist-high table in front of him, where there were several envelopes laid out in order.

"Let's start with our runners-up, shall we?" he asked, not looking up. "Everyone who made it into the top twenty, but wasn't in the final four will receive a five thousand dollar scholarship."

He lifted up an envelope, holding it out enticingly. "This first envelope is for Joseph Raleigh." An outburst from a table close to ours, then a short boy walked up to collect his envelope and William leaned down to grab the next.

"Georgia Smith!" he called, moving onto the next envelope the second he'd handed off the first.

"Dominika Louis!"

"Michael Stefan!"

"Evelyn Nguyen!"

It seemed like the whole room gasped in unison, either to cheer or groan when the next name called wasn't theirs. "Piper Oriol!"

"Eliot Al-Hashim!"

"Oof, this name is a doosie. Thankfully I met her in person and got a chance to clarify the pronunciation. Jamila Kopecky!"

He grabbed another envelope, a thin smile forming on his lips. "Another doosie. Just kidding. Sarah Stone!"

So far, no one in the sea of names belonged to my table. And no one belonged to the blue-haired girl's table either. I could feel my jaw tightening as William called out several more names. There was an Annie, a Gale, a Robert. I stopped listening for a bit, figuring my parents would grab me if my name was called.

Which it wouldn't be. Because I was going to win.

"And that's our last runner-up," William finally said. "The next two spots each win a partial scholarship, equal to a quarter of their tuition for their first four years. Get ready ladies and gentlemen, we're getting into the big winners here. First up, Jessica Pluck!"

A scream from the blue-haired girl's table. The girl I'd seen talking with the blue-haired girl shot to her feet and practically sprinted over to the table.

"Here you go. Yes yes, please take it. Your entry was very good." William's attention turned back to the rest of us. "Phew, that was a strong response. Thought she was going to run me over for a second there. Remember kids, this isn't bingo; no one else will be able to claim your prize if they get up here before you."

He paused for a quick laugh from the audience before continuing. "Let's move on to our third place winner. Timothy Everstein!"

Someone else from the blue-haired girl's table—this one a young-looking boy—calmly came up to accept his prize. _I want to be like that when I win,_ I thought. _Cool, collected. No big deal, I just won a prize that's gonna put me through college._

William was talking again. "Now, as some of you may have noticed, we had a final four this year. And the reason for that is... well, we had something of an interesting situation. Our fantastic judges were deadlocked about who to select as the winner. So this year we have two. That's right, a tie for first place!"

I could practically feel the tension thicken, like everyone in the ballroom was leaning forward in their chairs and holding their breaths ever so slightly. I grabbed the arms of my chair in preparation to stand.

"The first winner is Brittany Colfax!" Blue-haired girl gave a whoop and climbed to her feet. "And the second is San...!"

Why was everyone at my table gasping? No big deal. I maybe—might have—shot to my feet as he read the rest of the name:

"...dra Clarke!"

Sandra Clarke. Not Santana Harris. I could tell everyone was wondering who Sandra was; me or the final girl seated at the front table.

In my mind, I felt like I only had one option. I took a deep breath and turned toward the bathroom as if it had all been planned.

_I didn't win. I didn't even get in the top twenty._ The undercooked steak roiled in my stomach. The asparaguses speared me and the mashed potatoes congealed. I shoved the bathroom door open and leaned against the sink.

The next few moments seemed to reveal themselves in fast forward, like I was the one who was drunk. I was staring at my tear-streaked face in the mirror, trying to gather up the courage to remain presentable for my parents. I was walking past the same tables I had on my way to the bathroom, noticing a gaunt man's eyes follow me. I was sitting down, and my parents were telling me everything would be okay.

Then we had dessert, and it was all over.

# Chapter 5

"Santana, wait. We need to talk."

I raised an eyebrow at my parents, sitting at the dinner table like they'd planned some sort of cliché intervention. "What do we need to talk about?"

"Your plan b." Mom pushed out my usual chair a bit, as if to tell me to sit down.

"Plan b?" My jaw tightened as I ground my teeth. "Okay. What's my plan b?"

"What do you want it to be? It's not like we're forcing you to do something you don't want to. All we want is for you to choose something a little more practical."

"Practical than what?" I already knew the answer, but I wanted to hear her say it.

"Than your art. Oh, don't look at us like that. You knew this was coming. Your dad and I talked about it, and we can't rationalize paying for an art major."

"So what are you saying?" It felt like she'd punched me in the gut, even though I _had_ been warned.

She shook her head. "I think that, as your parents, we have a right to let you know when the path you want to take is ill-advised. And we have a right—an obligation—to step in and correct that path. So I guess what I'm saying is that we can't support you following this dream."

I gripped the back of the chair she'd offered. I still hadn't taken a seat, but I didn't feel like I could sit still anyway. "Alright." I couldn't help noticing how distant my own voice sounded. "What are my options? Major in Business? Or Medicine, like Kelsey?"

"Like I said, you can do whatever you want as long as it's practical. You could go into Law, or Geology, or Mathematics."

"When have I ever been interested in any of those?" My brow knitted. "The only thing I've ever been even kind of interested in is art. The rest of it is a bunch of boring crap that I have to wade through to get to the rest of life."

"Welcome to being an ad—" Mom started, but Dad cut her off with a look.

Their eyes met and he sighed. Then, turning to me, "What about this? If you don't want to major in anything other than art, maybe you can try out some jobs before you graduate. If you find something you like that would allow you to support yourself, great. Otherwise, you could still enroll in community college before you get out of high school."

"You want to see her waiting tables, Tyler?"

"Why not? I started out as a busboy. Not everyone is prepared to plan out their entire life during high school, honey. And some people do just fine without degrees. The majority of us, in fact."

As grateful as I was to him for the compromise, bussing tables didn't seem much better. I looked at Mom, waiting for a reaction.

She pursed her lips. "Fair enough. You don't have to go to college if you really don't want to. But I agree that you should get a job. It'll help you no matter what you choose. It's past time you got some work experience, anyway."

"Wait, what?" I gripped the chair harder without meaning to. "So I have to get a job even if I decide to pick a major?" No one I knew liked their job. High school jobs were torture, designed to wring as much value as possible out of child labor before automation made us all worthless.

"Oh, calm down. This is a good idea, Santana. You'll get some experience, save up a little money..." A cautious smile came to Mom's face. "Maybe you could even find a position in botany."

"I think you have to be twenty-one..." I trailed off. "Oh, you mean actual botany. Sure."

"Sounds like we're all on the same page." She fell back into her chair, as if that really settled everything. "We'll put the college discussion on hold, and you'll get a job doing whatever it is that interests you."

"Can it be any job I want?"

Dad shrugged. "I don't see why not. The whole point is figuring out your options out there. If you can get a decent job that uses your experience with art, I say go for it."

"Wait a second," Mom said. "The whole point—at least in my mind—is figuring out what she can do _besides_ art. I think she needs to find a job doing something else in order to really make an informed decision." Even though she hadn't argued the point about needing a degree, I had a feeling the ruling from my mom was an attempt to make my time so painful at whatever job I found that I would have to go to college to get away from it.

"I think she should be allowed to pick the job. She'll be spending the rest of the year there, after all."

"Absolutely," Mom said. "She can choose whatever she wants, as long as it isn't in art."

"What do you have against art!" The outburst from my usually calm dad threw me off completely. "It's what she loves, and she's rather good at it in case you haven't noticed!"

"I don't have anything against it. And you _are_ very good at it, honey. But being good at something doesn't mean you can make a living at it."

"Tell me this isn't about your gymnastics run again," Dad said.

"No. This is about being practical. It's fine to have your head in the clouds, but you need to keep your feet on the ground. Let her get a degree and a good job, and then she can do art on the side until and unless she becomes successful. But in the meantime she'll be able to pay for her own food and her own place. And for things like paint and canvases, which—as you know—aren't exactly cheap."

"Or she could reuse the old ones. My issue is that..." Dad paused, apparently struggling to find the right words. "What if she falls just a little bit short? What if she becomes an even better artist than she is now, but not quite good enough? And the only difference was that extra time she spent at a job when she should have been learning and practicing?"

"Then she'll have a good life supported by a well-paying job. And a family that loves her." Mom ran her fingers through the ends of her brown hair. "But let me ask you the same question in reverse. What if it's not enough no matter how much time and energy she gives? What if she ends up being another one of those painters that doesn't become famous until after she dies?"

I expected Dad to have a similar retort to the one she'd given, and he didn't disappoint. "Then she'll have a good life full of adventure and passion. And when she dies she won't be full of regret." He looked at Mom. "And she'll still have a family that loves her."

"She won't be full of regret if she works a non-art job for a year, either. Tyler, we lose our say in what she does when she turns eighteen. After that point, we can't force her to do anything."

"Hmm. Okay." He turned to me. "You'll be free to pick your own path after high school, then. I think that's our compromise."

I glanced at Mom, who nodded slowly. They both seemed to think they'd reached a perfect solution, but my chest tightened like it was caught in a vice. "I don't want a job, and I don't want a degree," I whispered.

"Then what _do_ you want?" She asked. "It has to be one or the other. Because at some point you have to be able to support yourself."

"I don't know, okay? I don't know what I want, and it scares the crap out of me. I only know what I don't want, and it's just about everything. I don't like art because it's the best thing in the world and I couldn't live without it. I like art because it makes me feel like I have some sense of direction. Because I dislike it a little less than everything else. When I'm painting, I don't feel lost. And that's all I know."

She exhaled slowly. "In that case, I feel sorry for you. There's nothing I can say to help. Do you want me to set up a meeting with a therapist or something?"

"No, I don't... don't want that." Like the night of the scholarship ceremony, it seemed as if life was moving on permanent fast forward. I saw the expression of both parents with crisp clarity: my dad's furrowed brow, my mom's sympathetic grimace. I felt the buttery wood grain against my palms, and then I didn't. The front door handle twisted under my hand, opening up to the pitch dark night.

I didn't run. At least, I don't think so. I think I walked very slowly and deliberately. Down to the end of the street. A car passed. I turned at some point, and more cars passed.

_This must be what an existential crisis feels like,_ I thought. We'd read a book about it in English last year—well, the rest of the class had read a book on it—and I remembered making fun of Kerouac for his inability to handle what amounted to white collar problems.

Problems like what to do after high school. Like what to do with his entire life. I realized I had a name for the vice closing in on me: choice. I had so many choices, and I didn't want any of them. I wanted to be happy and have an easy life.

I wanted to be happy. And that was where the issue came in. I didn't know whether I would be happier on Mom's rational road or on Dad's wish-on-a-shooting star road. It was a textbook existential crisis.

A bitter laugh escaped me. _I could always be that crazy boy's sidekick._ It felt like a giant 'screw you' to the universe. Just thinking about it made me happier. The movie of my life seemed to slow back down to normal speed; I stopped walking and looked up at the nearest street sign.

_Simpson St._ and _Garrety Ln._ I laughed again. I was lost. Quite literally.

# Chapter 6

Once I got home—with a little help from my phone—I made an excuse to my parents about having gone for a jog to clear my head and sat down at my computer to write a resume. But it was hard to figure out what to put in there. Did Damien want to know about the karate class I took when I was nine? Maybe he'd be more interested in my GPA. How official did he want to be with it?

Part of me wanted to write 'Hey dude, I'm the only one crazy enough to apply for this job. So hire me.' And in fact, that exact phrase sat blinking on my screen for about half an hour while I waited for something better to pop into mind.

Nothing came, so I went to sleep. I asked my friends for ideas the next day, but they didn't have any either. Eventually Brit told me that she knew a manager at Millennial Gothic who could help. Not with writing a resume, but with getting a job. Folding clothes for minimum wage didn't seem like a great deal, but both of my friends seemed to think it was preferable to putting myself at Damien's whim.

Brit drove me over after school about a week later. She parked right outside the store to give me a few final pointers. "Remember, he doesn't like being pandered to. If he asks you any hard questions, tell him the truth. He hired one girl because he asked what she would do in a zombie apocalypse and she told him that she'd probably live stream it."

"Did he seriously ask about the zombie apocalypse?"

"Yeah. It's a stocking position. They just need to make sure you aren't weird or crazy."

"And they do that by asking about a zombie apocalypse?"

She nodded. "When you think about it, it's kind of a brilliant plan. If someone explains how they'd try to survive, you're golden. If someone goes into intense detail about the squirrel traps they'd set up to get food, you probably don't want them."

"What's with you and the squirrels?" I laid a hand on her arm, feigning sympathy. "Brit, tell me how they hurt you."

She shrugged my hand off. "Oh, whatever. Go take your stupid interview. I'll come back in like half an hour."

"Okay, thank you." I checked the zipper of my purse to make sure it wasn't caught on the torn fabric of her passenger seat before climbing out and slowly heading for the store entrance.

Outside the store it was the middle of the day. Inside, it was as dark as a cave. The light stretched about an inch past the windows, where it met hefty sets of blackout curtains and was promptly filtered out.

A middle-aged man in black denim pants with a chain threaded from the back pocket to the front looked up from a row of belts he was arranging. "Hello, and welcome to Millennial Gothic. How can I help you?"

"Hi. My name's Santana Harris. I'm supposed to have an interview with Zeke at three thirty?"

"Oh, Santana! Nice to meet you." He stepped around the belt display and held out a hand.

"Nice to meet you too." I shook his hand, trying to maintain a sure grip without squeezing too hard. "So how do you know Brit?"

"Prior life. I met her back when I was a fencing coach."

"Oh, cool." I felt my phone buzz with a text, but it wasn't exactly a good time to check it. "Do you wanna do the interview now?"

He chuckled. "I'd say the interview's already started. But if you want to be official about it... Here, let's go over to my office." He led the way to an area with denim pants in all different sizes and colors. Two racks about ten feet apart ran opposite the wall, leaving us closed in on three sides.

Zeke turned back to face me. "First question. Do you have any work experience?"

"Uhm... nope." I could feel my phone buzz again, but I ignored it. "I did some charity work on Christmases when I was younger, but I haven't done anything recently."

"Okay. No worries. A lot of our new employees come to us without much of a work history." He frowned, as if trying to think of his next question. "You're in high school, right?"

"Yup."

"How would you describe yourself as a student?"

I was about to tell him I was a great student, but then I remembered Brit's advice about telling the truth. "I'd say I'm about average. To be honest, most of my classes are pretty boring."

"Hmm. Which classes do you think are boring?"

"Math, History, English... The only ones I really like are PE and Art."

He pressed his lips together. "Cool, cool. What do you like about them?"

Another buzz from my phone. I couldn't help glancing at it, but at least I didn't check the text. It seemed like someone really needed to get ahold of me. I looked back at the manager and realized I hadn't even thought about an answer to his question. "What do I like about them? What do I like about them? Uhm, I don't really know. It's just that they're fun and not boring."

"'Fun and not boring,'" he repeated. "Alright. So I haven't seen you in the store before. Would you say you have a good grasp of what we sell here?"

"Yeah. You sell clothes for emos and goth kids, right?"

I swear, his face went _pale_. It was like I'd kicked his cat. "We sell clothing and accessories for hip, trendy teens no matter what clique they happen to be in." Another buzz. This time he was the one to glance at my phone. "Someone's popular. Do you need to take that?"

"No. Sorry, I didn't realize it would be so disruptive."

"Well, it probably wouldn't be if it didn't keep going off." He took a deep breath. "Last question. If there was a zombie apocalypse today, what would your weapon of choice be?"

I gasped in excitement. Finally, a question I could knock out of the park. "Killer squirrels, of course. I'd get like fifty dollars' worth of nuts and train them to light fires, and then I'd trap the zombies in a house and send the squirrels in. No risk for me, and we could get rid of all them at once."

"The killer squirrels or the zombies?"

"Sorry?"

"When you said 'get rid of them, did you mean the killer squirrels or the...' Oh, it doesn't matter." He gritted his teeth as my phone started buzzing rhythmically, like someone was calling. "Thank you for your time, Santana. I'm going to leave you alone so you can handle whatever is obviously so urgent. You'll hear from us in a few days."

The way he said it left no question about whether he'd be calling with good news. If he called at all. I muttered a quick thank you for taking the time to interview me and headed outside, answering my phone without bothering to check who it was. "What is it?" I shouted angrily, at about the same time as my mom asked, "Where are you?"

"I've been interviewing for a job like you told me to! Only I probably didn't get it, because _someone_ kept texting me and calling me!"

There was silence on the other end for several seconds. I could practically feel my mom struggling to hold back an angry reply. Finally, "Santana..." Her voice was quiet. She sighed so loudly I could hear it. "Santana, we just got a call from a hospital in Enoch. Kelsey was in an accident."

My heart dropped. "What do you mean? What kind of accident?"

"A car accident. They didn't tell me much yet, but they said they'll need to operate."

"On what?"

"I don't know!" Anguish colored her voice. "Your father and I are flying over there as soon as possible and we think you should too. We all need to be there for her."

"Yeah, of course." I was surprised that not going was even an option. There was no possible scenario in which I wouldn't want to make sure Kelsey was okay. "I'll get home as soon as I can."

"Okay. We'll start packing for you."

"Thanks."

"Love you." She added, almost hesitantly.

"Love you too, Mom." I hung up the phone, and immediately felt a wave of emotions fall on me. There were too many to even try to unravel; fear, sadness, anger, guilt. Somehow I managed to convince myself that I was to blame, as if it all could have been prevented if I'd answered my phone sooner.

Brit pulled up a few minutes later. I fell into her passenger seat.

"So?" she prompted. "How did it go?"

"What? Oh, the interview. I think it went terribly. But—"

"That's okay, we can stop for ice cream. My treat." She smiled, as if that would solve everything.

"But—"

"Awh, you look so down about it. It's fine, S. There are more crummy store stocking jobs out there."

"But—"

"At least it was good ex—"

"But I just got a call and my sister's in the hospital and we're gonna have to fly out to make sure she's okay, and I'm really way more worried about that than how I did in some stupid interview!" The words came rushing out all at once, as if the times she'd interrupted me had made them all pile up.

She paused. "Oh. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." I exhaled slowly. "It's weird; I have this dull sadness in my chest, but I don't feel like crying. I should be crying, right?"

"I don't know. I guess so."

I stared out the window, trying to work up a sob. I felt like the worst sister in the world. Kelsey was in danger, about to be operated on, and I couldn't even work up a single tear. I punched the button to turn on Brit's radio and listened to the music as she drove me home.

# Chapter 7

#

"Santana? What are you still doing here?"

"Visiting hours aren't over for a bit longer, right?"

"I'm not sure. I guess someone will come tell you soon if you need to go." Kelsey managed a weak smile, although it turned into a grimace at the last second. "So why are you here?"

"Because I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Yup. I'm great."

"I know that's what you said to Mom and Dad. But I mean..." I looked at her wrist. The one with seven pins in it. "How are you really?"

She sucked air in through her teeth. "I hate this. It wasn't like I was doing anything stupid. It wasn't like I was driving drunk or out late or paying attention to my phone instead of the road. I was literally just driving to work."

I squeezed her good hand. "I'm sorry. I know you worked so hard to get where you are. And now you'll just have to work harder."

"No, you don't understand. It's not a matter of how hard I work. I know the pins look bad, but..." She shook her head. "The odds of getting through the nerve damage are non-existent. We're talking multiple surgeries, weeks of rehab, years of re-training myself how to suture and clamp... And even then—even if I put in all the time and do everything right—I'd give about one in a hundred odds for me being able to become a surgeon."

The tears that had been absent before started gathering in my eyes. I looked down at her hand. "You still have a degree, though. Right? So you could do something else."

"Yeah, I could be a psychiatrist. Glorified drug dealer." She sighed. "I wouldn't need my hand to be a singer, though. Mom would love that. Worst of both worlds. All of the debt, none of the benefit."

I couldn't help laughing. Just a little bit. "That would be great. You can try to make it as a singer, and I'll drop out of school to be a starving artist."

"There you go. Then if something like this happened we wouldn't be all broken up about it, because we didn't do _anything_ right."

"Well, I think we'd still be a little broken up about it."

"Maybe, but it would be less." She looked away from me. "My first year of med school we had sixteen hour days. Sometimes longer. I'd sit in one class for four hours, take fifteen minutes for lunch, and then go to a different class for four more hours. Then I came home and did homework or studied. Every day. For a year." Her eyes glazed over. "Why did I do that?"

"Because you wanted to be a good doctor."

"But I didn't! I was never one of those students who wanted to be the best surgeon in the world. All I wanted was to be good enough, maybe a little above average. I wanted to get a decent job at a hospital where most of my surgeries would be easy. I wasted so much time trying to settle into a life I didn't even like!"

My heart broke for her. "Then maybe this is a chance to pick a life you _would_ like."

"I'm almost twenty-eight. I have a hundred thousand dollars of student loan debt. How in the world would I pick a life I'd like?"

"There has to be some option. Maybe they forgive student loans if you get injured or something."

"It doesn't matter. I'd still be twenty-eight with no experience to speak of beyond medicine. By the time most singers are my age, they've already had their big break. And if I went back to school for something like engineering or science, I'd only end up with more debt to deal with."

The desperation in her voice matched what I felt every time I thought about college. It brought me back to the existential crisis a week before. There were too many choices, and the cost of making the wrong one was so terrible. "What are you going to do, then?"

It took her a while to answer. "I'll compromise."

A few more seconds of silence while we both contemplated the heavy words. I stared at my sister's hand while she stared at her hospital gown. "What about you?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Mom told me about you trying to pick a major. What are you interested in?"

"Nothing. I told you, I'm going to be a starving artist."

She shook her head. "You know Mom's never gonna let you do that, right? She'll keep pushing until you agree to go to college for a major she approves of. When she talked to me earlier, she was already trying to loop me into her plan."

"I don't know, I think maybe if I can ride it out until I graduate I'll be able to—"

"To what? Talk her out of it? She doesn't stop being your mother just because you graduate high school. If you move out she might have less power over you, but she'd still use the power she has to get you to see things her way. And like it or not, you'll eventually cave, because you're a good daughter."

My jaw tightened. "You don't know that. She and Dad agreed that as long as I got a job she'd leave me alone."

"Uh huh." She raised an eyebrow.

"If getting a job won't make her happy, what can I do?"

"Oh, I never said it wouldn't make her happy in the short-term." A small smile came to her face. "In the past I probably would've told you it was easier to do what she wanted. But—take it from someone who did everything right and still got screwed over—compromise is overrated. I think you should do whatever makes you happy."

"But what if nothing makes me happy?"

"Then I guess you should go with whatever makes you the least unhappy."

I thought about that for a second. Art fit that bill. It was the only thing that did. But if I believed Kelsey, that path was closed off to me. "So what are you saying? What should I do?"

"I have no idea. You have to figure it out." She exhaled loudly. "When I was younger—before you were born—I remember Dad teaching me how to play Monopoly. I was about six; way too young to understand all the rules, let alone win. He kept trying and trying, and after about the thirteenth night of feeling like I was getting cheated at every turn I finally got mad enough to flip the entire board over."

She chuckled. "You should've seen Dad's face. At first he looked like he was going to get really mad, but then he laughed and said 'well, they say it's supposed to teach you life lessons.' I never found a time to apply that particular life lesson, but maybe this is it. Maybe if the game isn't fair, it's time to toss the board aside and invent a new one."

"Hmm. I'm not sure how I would do that."

"I'm not sure either. Heck, I'm half passed-out on pain meds and the other half of me is wallowing in self-pity. I wouldn't exactly take my advice as words of wisdom."

Even though she dismissed her own advice, it struck a chord with me. I'd reached a point where the game of my life was unwinnable. At least, not by the rules I'd been given.

So I had to flip the board and pick a new game.

# Chapter 8

Without all of the indecision that had slowed me down before, I had a relatively easy time of completing my resume and application. I stopped by Damien's house to drop it off just a few days after we'd gotten back into town.

Less than thirty minutes later, I got a text from a number I didn't recognize. _This is Damien Devereaux. I've received your application. Currently reviewing it. I'll compare you to the other applicants and get back to you soon._

As if there were other applicants. I had a hard time picturing anyone else applying for the job. Heck, if it wasn't for the combination of my mother's ultimatum about getting a job and my sister's advice I might not have applied for it myself.

At any rate, I waited for the next week while he mulled over his many applicants. Then he contacted me again. _Hello again, this is Damien Devereaux. I've reviewed your application, and I think you would be a great addition to my crime fighting team (even though you failed to provide the application on ivory card stock as requested). Please stop by my house tomorrow at seven PM sharp._ Following it was his address. When I typed it into Maps the house didn't look too far off; hardly a thirty minute walk.

When I made the trek over to Damien's the next night, the first thing I noticed was that the porch lights over the front door were all off. From a distance it looked dead, but once I got closer I saw the flickering of a TV through the glass on either side of the door. I rang the doorbell, but there wasn't any answer. I rang it again.

To my left, the bushes rustled. When I turned to look, a head poked out from the greenery. He had on a grey mask that covered little more than his eyes, and he held his finger up to his lips like he was afraid I might scream.

"Don't worry," he said, "I may look different, but it's only my costume. I assure you I'm the same man underneath."

"The same man underneath? What are you talking about?"

As if he was an actor and that was his cue, Damien burst out of the bushes and planted a hand on either hip. "I am the shade in the night, the bane of all would-be criminals in this suburb. By day a lonely high school student, but by night I'm... Ethereal." He said it all with a commitment that might have impressed me if I hadn't been too busy laughing.

I nearly doubled over, not bothering to hide my reaction from him. "It's... nice to meet you, Ethereal. How's your night going?"

"It's going well. For you—my sidekick—have finally arrived. A friendless, parentless girl I found on the streets and trained in the arts of combat and stealth. The one who passed the test. She single-handedly saved my cat from a tree. By day you're a weird stoner chick. But from now on you will be... Whisper." Once he'd finished, he turned around to rummage in the bush. A second later he was still rummaging. Still rummaging.

Finally, he turned around, holding a purple spandex onesie. "Whisper, do you promise to fight evil with me? And if villains get the better of me, do you promise to take up my mantle and stand for the rights of the oppressed?"

"Um... Sure." I wasn't sure what he was expecting of me as far as his strange ceremony went, and he didn't give me any help either. "So what do we do?"

"Good question. First, you change into your costume and pick a mask. I have a few here. I'd recommend one that doesn't cover too much of your face. Those make it really hard to breathe."

_They also don't do much in terms of hiding your identity._ I didn't bother saying it. "And I'm gonna get paid for this?"

His brow knitted. He looked past me, then back. "Yes, of course. But that's not supposed to be the reason you do it. You're supposed to want to do it for the good of the city. You and I are going to save Pride from all of the evil elements hiding below the surface."

Something told me that I couldn't come out and say that there was no way in hell I'd be there if there wasn't some kind of money involved. "For sure. Sign me up, dude. Are those my masks there?"

He followed my eyes to a group of plastic shapes on the ground. "Yup. Here, let me turn on a light so you can see them better." I thought he meant he was going to turn on a porchlight, but instead the round white glow of a flashlight fell on the ground.

I fell to my knees, studying the four different choices he'd laid out neatly. They were all purple; I assumed that was so that they would match my costume. There was a flimsy masquerade mask, a strip of cloth with tiny eye holes that looked like it was the result of a recently murdered t-shirt, a ski mask that was crunchy with spray paint, and a Halloween mask that sadly looked like the most promising.

Damien tapped the cloth mask with a toe. "That's the one I was thinking you would go with. I can get someone to make a better version, but for now it should hide your identity without making it hard to breathe or anything like that."

It was a fair point, but my main consideration wasn't how well I'd be able to breathe. I could imagine how much my friends would laugh at me if they saw me running around the city in purple spandex. I was down with the joke, but I also liked the idea of keeping some anonymity. I picked up the Halloween mask and worked it over my head.

Once it was on, I was surprised at how well it fit. The whole thing was made out of soft rubber that boxed in my ears, but the sunglass-like pieces over my eyes and the slits for me to breathe through worked perfectly fine. I turned my head left, then right. I worked it around in a circle. "Actually, I think this will work pretty well." Saying it felt strange, like I was putting on a new identity in addition to the mask. "Where do I change into the rest of the costume?"

"Oh, I didn't think about that." He frowned. "We can't go back inside. I sort of snuck out. Do you think you could go back to your place and change?"

"Maybe, but it would be too late by the time I got back."

"Nonsense! There's no such thing as too late for Ethereal and Whisper. They rise at dusk and hunt criminals until dawn, when they shed their fake identities and attend school like everyday students."

"Um, yeah... That's great and all, but I need my seven hours. And if I start going out late every night my parents are gonna realize and probably ground me."

"Oh, that won't do." I waited for him to come up with some sort of solution, but he stayed quiet.

Fortunately, a solution occurred to me. "What if we fought crime during the day? The criminal element won't be as hidden then, and we can rely on our superior stealth to sneak up on them."

"But no one commits crimes during the day."

"No no, you've got it all wrong. Only the novice criminals come out at night. All the best ones—the really nasty people—are so skilled that they can commit crimes in broad daylight and no one knows." I bit my lip, hoping that I'd done a decent job of selling the idea.

His eyes widened. "Whisper, I think you might be right! Just this week I saw a man trying to steal half a dozen purebred dogs in the early afternoon, and I wished I was in costume so I could've stopped him. Besides, if we fight crime a few hours a night we can span the gap, catching both those who are active during the day and at night. I knew there was a reason I chose you as my sidekick! And it's not only because you're an orphan."

"I'm not an orphan."

He continued on like he hadn't heard me. "We'll start tomorrow, then. Five o'clock."

"Maybe seven. I have a lot of homework tomorrow."

"Alright, seven it is! Homework first, and then saving the world!"

"Right. Also, can I get weekends off? I haven't, um, seen many criminals on Saturdays and Sundays recently."

He frowned, seeming to take a moment to think about it. Then he shook his head. "My sweet Whisper, you're too good-hearted. You don't see this city the way I do; the thefts that happen everyday, the murderers hiding in abandoned houses. The weekends are when we need to be most vigilant. Some of those criminals I mentioned have normal jobs that allow them to blend in, so the weekends are the only time they have left for their crime-committing."

"Oh, of course." I can't deny that there was a tiny bit of sarcasm in those words. "So what days do you think would be best to take off?"

"Take a day off? Evil never takes a day off, and neither should we. I will patrol the city every day until it's safe again. But as for you, I think I should be able to handle myself well enough on Monday and Tuesday."

"Monday and Tuesday? Got it. And maybe Wednesday?"

He sighed, his shoulders lifting with the motion. "Okay, Wednesday too. But Thursday through Sunday I need your help. Unless you have a family matter or friend's birthday or something like that. Does that sound alright to you, Whisper?"

"Yup. Quite alright. I'll see you here tomorrow."

"Tomorrow. Welcome to the team. I'm glad to have you join me in this."

I couldn't help smiling at that. By _this_ he probably meant his heroic fantasy, but in my own mind I felt like _this_ meant his special brand of crazy.

After all, if I was going along with him despite knowing how crazy he was, I had to be a little crazy too.

# Chapter 9

As much as I hate to admit it, Damien was in my thoughts quite a lot the rest of the night. And the next day. I kept trying to imagine what would happen our first night as heroes. Probably a lot of stares and a lot of nothing.

At least, that was what I assumed. Based on what I knew of our city, I thought the odds of spotting an actual crime being committed were pretty low. Spotting it during the daytime, while we were dressed in costumes? Even lower. So when I wiggled into my spandex and headed over to Damien's, I felt reasonably confident that nothing would happen.

In the daylight, I spotted Damien hiding in the same bushes as the night before. His dark gray outfit didn't do much to hide him, even though he was in the thick of them. But I didn't want to hurt his feelings, so I went straight up to the door and pretended to try ringing the doorbell.

The moment I did, he popped out. "Whisper, I'm here."

I pretended to jump back. "Whoa! How did you do that?"

"Years of practice. Someday—if there's enough time—I'll teach you. But right now we have to patrol the city. Bad things are stirring; I can feel it."

"Oh, okay. So where are we headed?"

"Wherever our feet take us." He raised up to his full height. "We have to let our intuition take us in the right direction."

"Don't you think a car would be a little more practical? We could cover a much larger area." And of course, a car would have heating. As cold as the night was, that was definitely the big selling point on my end.

"Hmm, maybe you're right. And there's a precedent for it. Batman had his batmobile, after all. I'll need to get a new paint job and some other decoration at some point, but for now the plain car will have to do. Let's go!" He strode toward his garage, pausing to enter a code into the lit keypad.

I'd never been much of a car person, but even I knew the sleek lines and Porsche symbol meant the SUV sitting in the garage was fancy. I got in and Damien started the car. We rolled backward a few feet, then stopped while he pressed a button to lower the garage door. Once it was most of the way down he pulled out of the driveway, and our crime-fighting for the night had officially begun.

"Let me know if you see anyone who might need our help," Damien said. "Even if it seems like something little. There's nothing too small for us; we're building up our name now, and new heroes can't be picky."

"Okay." I stared out of the window, watching as the suburbs slowly passed. There was a man struggling with his car keys, but that was about it. No one getting robbed or attacked or even jaywalking. It was so dull that I almost started falling asleep.

"There he is!" Damien exclaimed. "The dog thief! I've seen him along this exact path before!"

I opened one eye to spot a boy about our age, struggling with the leashes of nine dogs. He didn't look like a thief to me. An overworked dog walker maybe, but no thief. "So what should we do about it?"

"Free the dogs, of course. Then they can find their way back to their real master." Before I could say anything to stop him he'd thrown the car in park and hopped out.

"Oh boy." I breathed through my clenched teeth, sure that something bad was about to happen. I checked for oncoming cars and then got out, slamming the door behind me.

Damien was nearly to the boy, who was eyeing him with a look of half-surprise and half-amusement. "Can I help you?"

I heard Damien clear his throat as he came to a stop. "Yes, you can. Release those stolen dogs now."

"What? Dude, I didn't steal—"

"Don't lie to me. I've seen you mule at least two dozen dogs along this route, but not anymore. Ethereal and his orphan sidekick Whisper are here to stop you."

"Not an orphan." Neither of them seemed to hear me. Or care.

The dog walker glanced between us. "Look, I get that you think this is fun. You're way too old for dress-up if you ask me, but I get it. I'm just trying to make a little gas money here, and I don't get paid by the hour, so I'm gonna go."

Before he could take a step, Damien moved to block him. "No matter how good your alibi is, you're still a thief. Whisper, unclip that hook at the base of his leash. We have to free these dogs."

I stood motionless, caught between my desire for a car and my desire to... well, stay out of trouble. Damien's look got more and more annoyed the longer I stood still.

It was the dog walker who crossed the line first, though. He swept Damien aside roughly, knocking him to the ground. Damien rolled to his feet, putting his hands up like he was ready for a fight. The dog walker scowled at him, looking back and forth between Damien and the dogs. "I'm not gonna fight you. Just get out of the way and I'll leave you alone."

"Not until you can prove these dogs are yours."

"They're _not_ mine!" He pointed at a fluffy terrier. "That one is a nice old lady's. She lives a block down the street. That one belongs to my father's friend. Those three are from the pound. I'm not a dog thief. I don't even know why someone would steal dogs."

"For their fur, of course. Dog fur is a commodity in certain markets, as you well know." Damien took a step forward. "If you're really a dog walker, what route do you take?"

"I walk to the end of Oak Street and back."

"How often?"

The boy's brow wrinkled. "I don't know. Like two or three times a week. However often the owners want me to."

"How much do you charge per dog?"

"Look, I'm not sure what you're doing here. If you're trying to steal my business, you won't have much luck. I've been walking most of these dogs for years."

"And what about _that_ one?" Damien asked with a triumphant tone. "He's new."

"Right. As I said, he came from the pound. They don't pay well, but I figure those dogs need some outside time more than any of the rest of them." He looked at the dog Damien had pointed out and smiled a little bit. He seemed like a nice kid; I really hoped we didn't end up having to fight him.

Thankfully, Damien seemed to be calming down. He let his hands fall. "It sounds like you're telling the truth. I'll let you off with a warning for now." He moved off the path to let the dog walker through.

The boy took a step, then paused and turned to face Damien with a wide grin. "Cool. Almost thought someone had caught me in my plot to abduct these dogs and steal all their fur." I could tell he meant it as a joke, but if so it was a really bad one.

Damien collided with him a moment later. They both fell. "Whisper! Release them!"

I wasn't sure what to do. Releasing the dogs seemed like a terrible idea. I took a step toward the boys, planning on pulling them apart, but then I saw the dog walker land a powerful strike on Damien's cheek. I didn't want to get into the middle of that either.

Dogs. Fighting. Dogs. Fighting. I glanced between them, trying to decide. Most of the dogs looked calm. I doubted they'd run away if I released them, and in the meantime it would help calm Damien down. I hoped. I jogged over to where the different leashes met and leaned down to unclip them. The smallest dog shot off faster than I would have thought a dog could run, darting into a park as I heard a grunt over my shoulder.

"Seriously?" The dog walker rolled away from Damien. He looked at me. "Seriously?" A moment later he was on his feet, chasing after the small thing as it tried to climb up a smooth plastic slide.

We needed to get out of there. I knew he would catch the dog. Once he did he'd come back. And then there'd be another fight. I turned toward Damien, who looked like he'd been on the losing side of the fight. "We have to go. Now."

He cocked his head. "Why?"

It was a fair question. One I didn't have a good answer for. Not immediately, at least. "The dogs. They're still here because we are. Our presence is calming them. If we leave they'll run home."

"Oh. Ohhhh. Maybe you're right." He ran at them, flapping his arms and growling. They moved out of his way, but otherwise didn't react to the strange behavior. He looked at me. "You say it's our presence that's calming them?"

"Yeah, I think so." Or something like that.

"I suppose that makes sense. They say dogs can sense people's moods. Maybe they can sense that we're guardians of good. We have to get out of here before the thief can round them up." He ran for his car, and after a second I followed.

The poor dogs didn't move even once we'd gotten in. I mentally willed them to do something, anything so that we could avoid another fight.

The car rumbled to life. Damien drove forward about fifteen feet, until he was right in front of the group. He slammed a hand on his horn, and the dogs scattered. The dog walker had just gotten a hold of the smallest dog; when he heard the horn he turned around and started shouting something. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but I had a feeling I could guess the intent of it.

I leaned back in my seat as Damien drove off. For having completed our first heroic act, I didn't feel very heroic.

# Chapter 10

I turned back to face Damien as the dogs shrank in the rearview. "So how did you know that guy was stealing the dogs?"

"Easy. I never see him with the same ones. One day he has a bunch of short dogs, the next some large ones, and today a mix. A real dog walker walks the same dogs each time."

"Okay, but what if he follows a weekly schedule? Like he walks big dogs on certain days and small dogs on the others?"

He looked at me like that was the worst idea he'd ever heard. "This is why you're the sidekick, Whisper. I already thought of that. I tailed him for a whole week and spotted at least two new dogs that weren't there before. And one of the dogs disappeared. Obviously he sold it and managed to steal two more."

_Or like he said, the new ones were from the pound._ I didn't think there was any point in arguing. "Of course. It makes the most sense."

"Yeah, it does." He sat up even straighter. "Hey, do you see that house over there?"

"Over whe... oh. Yeah, that one's been abandoned for years." I was expecting Damien to drive by it, but instead he slowed to a stop.

He squinted at some graffiti on the side. "'Ribaldi.' Aha! It's the name of my nemesis! We have to go inside!" For the second time that night, he'd hopped out of the SUV before I could move to stop him.

Even worse, the darn thing was still on. I grabbed his keys for him before getting out. As I made my way toward the abandoned house I could hear the sound of the front door slamming shut.

"Please don't be a meth den," I whispered to myself. "Please don't let this be a meth den." My parents had always told me the abandoned house was where the hardcore druggies hung out. I took a slow, steadying breath and made my way inside.

The first thing that struck me was how dark it was. Outside dusk was starting to creep in, but inside the house there was hardly enough light to see. The second thing that hit me was the smell, like mold on top of hundred-year-old cheese.

I wrinkled my nose, but I didn't take more than one step into the place. "Damien?"

A head poked out from the stairwell, a floor above me. "I'm here. And don't call me Damien! We're in costume."

"Right. Ethereal." I shook my head and started up the stairs. They made an awful creaking sound with each step. With my luck, I was sure I'd crash through at any moment. But I didn't, and a couple seconds later I was on the second floor.

Damien—sorry, Ethereal—nudged a motionless body with his shoe. The man swiped at it, muttered something I didn't catch. Damien muttered something back. Then he turned to me, whispering, "It looks like Ribaldi's already been through this place. Stole everything this poor man had and got him addicted to alcohol and whatever this is." He leaned down and picked up a meth pipe.

"Um..." I took a moment to think about what I wanted to say. "They're obviously done here. Maybe we should leave."

"Leave? No, we need to document this." He pulled out his phone, opened a camera app, and handed it to me. "Evidence for the police. Ribaldi has to be stopped."

I started recording, following him around the floor as he worked his way through each room. The first was completely empty, except for a bunch of piled newspapers that looked a little like a bed. The second room was almost the same: piled newspapers, trash, and peeling paint. Someone had even taken the toilet, leaving a hole and rubber ring in the floor.

The third and final room looked like it had been an office at one time. It was too small for a bed, there was a slightly off-color portion of the wall in the shape of a desk, and there were still a few electronic cables in the closet that had probably belonged to a keyboard or mouse or some other gadget. When Damien spotted them he picked them up with a gasp.

"Well, I guess now we know what she was doing here."

"She?"

"Ribaldi!" He scowled at me. "There must have been some valuable electronic equipment she wanted. Now all that's left are the wires."

"Wait, so Ribaldi's a she?"

"Of course she is. It doesn't sound like a guy's name, does it?"

"I guess not. So she stole some electronics and turned that guy into an alcoholic?"

"Probably the other way around. Turned him into an alcoholic so that he wouldn't be able to stop her from stealing the electronics. Oh, I just wish I knew what they were and why she needed them!" He shook his fist in frustration.

"Whatever she stole, I don't think we're gonna find out by staying here. We should probably go."

"Yes, we should. But first we need to take that poor man to a shelter."

"Um..." I sighed, shook my head. "Alright, are we carrying him or do you wanna just toss him over the balcony?"

"We'll carry him, of course." He led the way out to the hall, where the poor homeless man had no idea what was about to happen. After some instructions about where to hold and how to lift, Damien counted to three and we pulled the man's upper body off the ground. Neither of us was strong enough to lift his whole body, so we started dragging him, twisting him so that his legs wouldn't bunch up and make things harder.

It was a longer trip to the stairs than I'd imagined. At each step Damien paused, shifting the arm he had over the man's shoulders like he couldn't possibly find a comfortable position. Step, pause. Step, pause. I gritted my teeth to stop myself from shouting at him.

At the stairs, things got a little more complicated. Damien told me to go around and grab the homeless man's legs, but when I did he pushed the man forward, leaving me to deal with all the weight. I stumbled back, barely managing to grab onto the handrail in time to stop from falling.

We repeated the motion, but this time I was prepared. I let the still motionless body fall down the step with a crack, only moving his legs enough that they were out of the way.

After about fifteen minutes, we reached the bottom. I took my spot under one arm and Damien lifted the other. This time when we lifted the man he shifted noticeable; I jumped back, startled by the movement.

Damien pursed his lips and finished the trip on his own, grunting as he manhandled the body through the front door. He set him down and leaned on his knees while he panted.

I walked out to join him. "How far are we going with him?"

"All the way to my car. Then we can drop him off at the nearest homeless shelter. It's the least we can do for someone who's on our side in the fight against Ribaldi."

The thought of being in the same car with the man made me wrinkle my nose. Not that I hadn't gotten enough of a whiff when we'd been carrying him. But being trapped in an enclosed space for half an hour seemed worse. "Are you sure we shouldn't leave him here? Maybe he'll get clean on his own."

"No. He's our ally. We have to make sure he's taken care of."

"Can we at least do something to make him easier to carry, then? I'm not sure I could drag him all the way to the car."

"Sure. I have some ropes. Here, come with me. I'll show you how to make a travois." He led the way back to his car, bouncing with each step as if he was looking forward to it. He reached into his pocket, only to frown at me. "Where did I put my keys?"

"What? Oh, right." It took me a second to get them out of my own pocket; I handed them to him, ignoring his surprised expression.

"Thank you," he said, clicking a button to open the trunk. He grabbed a long, white rope and started knotting it in different places. He explained what he did as he was doing it, but I had a hard time paying attention. There was something about a rabbit jumping into a hole, but the knot that he ended up with wasn't the kind I expected. I don't even know how to explain it, only it was... weird.

My eyes drifted to the house. The homeless man seemed to have woken up. I turned my eyes away quickly.

"What's going on?" Damien asked, apparently noticing my disgusted expression.

"Well, your ally... I'm not sure how to say this. Your ally just relieved himself against the wall." I glanced back at the abandoned house. "And now he's heading back inside."

Damien sighed. "He's obviously very committed. Ribaldi must have had her hands full in trying to corrupt him." He held his hand to his chest, like a soldier might for a fallen comrade. "Bless him."

"So you're not going to try to take him to a shelter again?"

"I guess not. It seems like he can take care of himself. I'll keep an eye on the place, and if Ribaldi comes back I'll stop her. But for now we can't let ourselves get bogged down."

I disagreed with his criteria for the homeless man being able to take care of himself, but I didn't want to argue. I just shook my head and got back into the car.

# Chapter 11

When I told my friends about the episode with the dogs and the abandoned house and 'Ribaldi' the story made Brit crack up, but Benjamin only shook his head and told me I was crazy for not cutting ties then and there.

He had a good point. If Damien was going to lead me into things like releasing dogs and fights and abandoned houses with meth pipes, the best decision would have been to peace out before it got even worse. It was a rational argument. But in a weird way, it had been a lot of fun. Jumping into action to free the dogs, walking through an abandoned house that I never would have dared to enter before... it didn't make me feel like a hero, but it did make me feel empowered in a strange way. As if his craziness gave me permission to break the rules.

Plus, there was the promise of a lot of cash. No matter how much Benjamin tried telling me it wouldn't happen, I didn't believe him. Damien might have been crazy, but he was an honest kind of crazy. In fact, his particular type of insanity probably made him one of the most honest people in the world. He'd die before he broke his word, since that would ruin him as a hero.

I went over to Damien's house at the agreed-on time the next night, not even bothering to ring the doorbell. I went up to the door and waited for him to pop out of the bushes, but he didn't. I turned around, frowning at them when I couldn't spot the colors of his outfit like I'd seen the night before. Either he was getting better at hiding, or he wasn't there.

Finally, I gave up and rang the doorbell. I heard heavy footsteps, and then the door swung open. Damien scowled at me. "Whisper!" he hissed, "What are you doing in costume? We're supposed to be incognito right now!"

"Oh, sorry. I didn't realize today wasn't a dress-up day."

"That's alright." He stood aside. "Come in before someone sees you. I don't want you revealing my real identity."

I did like he told me to, ducking inside the door and stepping aside while he closed it behind me.

"Since you're in costume anyway, I guess I might as well change," he said. "That way we can patrol right after." He headed toward the stairs, leaving me behind to look around at the black-and-white paintings. The main floor looked almost deserted. I didn't even know someone was there until I heard the sound of a kitchen knife.

I followed it, heading down the main hall until I could see a woman about my height. She stopped chopping vegetables and looked up at me. "Hi, there. You must be Damien's new friend. Whisper?"

"Yeah, I guess so." I had a million questions I wanted to ask her, but none of them seemed appropriate. Like _how did your son get so weird? Why does he think he's a hero? Do you even know what he's getting himself into?_ But I stayed silent.

"I think it's good for him to get out," she said. "He used to spend so much time cooped up in his room, never meeting anyone new or doing anything but playing videogames. I'm glad he's got a friend."

"Mhm." In a way, what she said made me pity Damien. I could understand why it would be hard for him to make friends. Even without the hero stuff, he was a bit of a weird duck. But still, everyone deserved at least one good friend. "Are you making dinner?"

"That I am. You're welcome to have some. If your play doesn't keep you too long."

"Oh, I think my parents will want me back home once we're done. Thanks, though."

"You're quite welcome, dear." She returned to her chopping.

"Miss Devereaux...?"

She raised an eyebrow at me. "Not Devereaux, dear. Damien's _mother_ was Devereaux. I'm just Stacy. Stacy Kipling."

"So you're not his mom?"

She shook her head. "His mother's been dead for years. I'm his uncle's... well, I'm not sure what the actual job title is. I keep the house in order for him. Cooking, cleaning, all of that. And I keep an eye on Damien when I can."

"Oh." I felt a lump growing in my throat. It was hard to imagine growing up like that, with no parents at home and the only relative in the house was an uncle who was never there. At least, I'd never seen him there. It sounded like enough to drive anyone a little crazy.

Damien crashed down the stairs, his dark cape flowing behind him. He jumped the last four steps and landed a few feet outside the kitchen, striking a heroic pose. "I'm ready, Whisper. To the basement!"

I gave the woman a half-hearted wave goodbye and followed him down. The basement was separated into three different rooms; Damien led the way to the smallest one, an office with an old-looking computer and a window looking out at a metal ladder. He gestured for me to sit in the black chair in front of the computer; he fell onto the couch facing me, his hands folded in his lap like a weird father figure. "So Santana, I've decided we need to start on the second part of your training in heroism: your atonement for crimes in your past. What's the worst thing you've ever done?"

"I stole a candy bar from a store once."

"No no, I mean the absolute worst thing you've ever done. Remember, I know more than you think."

"Well, I tackled the school's quarterback last year. Is that what you're talking about?"

He exhaled slowly. "Santana, you don't need to hide anything. The whole point of this is to come clean about all the evil you've put into the world so that you can fix it."

_Hmmm._ I didn't want to tell him anything personal. But apparently the non-personal stuff wasn't evil enough for him. So I decided to lie. "The worst thing I've ever done? It's a little dark."

He leaned forward. "That's okay."

"When I was out on the streets it was hard to find food. Because I'm an, um, orphan and all. So this one day when I was really hungry I went into a gas station store—you know, like the ones with all the cheap food and soda—and filled up a bag..." I paused, watching for his reaction.

It looked like he was waiting for something a little darker, so I decided to turn it up a notch. "The owner noticed me leaving and he went to stop me, so I kicked him in the knee and smashed one of my soda bottles against his head. I didn't even check to see if he was okay; I ran off with all of the stuff I'd stolen."

He pursed his lips. "That's it?"

"No, of course not. A whole group of people who were filling up their cars surrounded me. They tried to stop me, but I fought them off. I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway. The only thing is, by the time it was done all I had left was a jar of peanut butter." I faked a sob. "I hurt so many people, just for one stupid jar of peanut butter."

"Oh, wow." He looked like he was going to put his arm on my shoulder, but thought better of it at the last moment. "Santana, these skills we've been given can be used for evil way too easily. It's a curse, I know. That's why we have to channel them into doing good and making the world a better place."

I wasn't sure what he meant by 'skills'—whether he was so far away from reality that he thought we actually had special powers—so I faked another sob and buried my head in my hands. "How can I atone for something so terrible?" I asked, surprised at how my voice broke.

"It's simple. First, you need to return everything you stole or were trying to steal from that store. Now, where was it?"

"It wasn't in Pride. It's a few hours' drive north of here. Off the highway."

"Okay, so we'll have to go on a weekend. This Saturday, hopefully. Do you remember what you were trying to steal?"

_Oops._ I grimaced behind my cupped hands. I'd been hoping that if I said it was far enough away I could get out of having to go to the actual store. "Not off the top of my head. I'd need a few weeks to come up with the actual list."

"Please do. We'll check back in a week. Atoning for the injuries you caused will be a lot harder. You're going to have to do one good deed for each person you harmed. How many were there?"

Thankfully, he'd told me the punishment before asking. If he'd done it the other way around I probably would have come up with a much higher number. "I think six or seven in total."

"Alright, six or seven. So you owe seven good deeds for your atonement. And these need to be things you do on your own. I can't help you."

"Do I have to be in costume to do them?"

"Not necessarily. The costume is about protecting your identity and providing you flexibility to move if you need to fight or flee. If the good deeds you do wouldn't make you famous or put you in danger, then you shouldn't wear your costume."

"Okay, cool." I thought that was the end of it, but he was still leaning forward.

"So tell me, what's the second worst thing you've ever done?"

Part of me wanted to scream. But another part of me had already come up with an answer. "I killed my parents."

His eyes widened. "What?"

"I killed my parents. It's how I became an orphan. We were at a dinner party and they were both drinking. They had a hotel room in walking distance and, um, they were planning on going there after the party. But I wanted to go home. I told them I couldn't sleep in a hotel bed, that it wasn't comfortable, that it didn't fit me. I complained so much that they finally agreed to take me home. And I forgot, it was an icy night too. And we were up in the mountains. As my dad was driving down he saw a semi that he thought was about to hit us, so he swerved and went right off a cliff. I only survived because I was in the back seat. I still remember the face of the man that pulled me out."

"Oh, Santana. There's no evil in that." This time he actually did hug me. "You were young, and it wasn't your fault. I don't think you should have to do any atonement at all."

I sniffled, surprised to find that I was crying a little. Being forgiven by a fake hero for a crime that had never happened was apparently affecting me more than I thought it would. "Well, those are the two worst things I've ever done. The rest are smaller, like what I already told you. I can make a list if you want."

He backed out of the hug, shook his head. "There's no need. As long as you atone for your theft, the smaller crimes will come as we do good deeds of our own."

"Cool. And by the way, I go by S."

"Alright, S it is." He clapped his hands together. "This took a lot less time than I thought it would. Let's get out there and stop some bad guys."

# Chapter 12

I didn't tell my friends the part about Damien being an orphan. Somehow, it seemed off limits. If I told Brit and Benjamin, I knew they'd make fun of him. Brit would speculate about how they'd died, and Benjamin would either join her or get really quiet, depending on his mood.

So I didn't tell them that part. And we didn't encounter any bad guys—or anyone Damien thought looked like bad guys—that whole night, so my conversation the next day was a lot less interesting than it had been lately. On my end, I was happy that I'd managed to buy a few weeks before we had to go to the made-up gas station store and return a grocery list of items I'd never stolen.

We started patrolling late the next night. One of my clubs had lasted longer than expected, so I got started on my homework late, and before I knew it seven had almost come and I wasn't at Damien's. In about thirty minutes I was, though.

Damien was back to hiding in the bushes apparently. I walked straight up to him and cleared my throat. "How long have you been hiding there?"

"Whoa, how'd you know I was here?" He straightened up, revealing himself entirely. "Your senses must be getting better from all the training we've been doing. I haven't been here long. Maybe an hour or two."

"That's... ahem, that's commitment. Didn't it get painful?"

"Not really. I was meditating." He started walking toward the garage, walking with a limp that seemed to directly contradict what he'd said.

I bit my tongue, following him to the SUV. Damien left the neighborhood quickly, driving on a four lane-wide street for a couple miles. I watched the neon signs and business fronts pass, trying to imagine where we'd end up. We turned onto a smaller street where the homes were all at least twice as large as mine and two or three stories tall. We drove around the neighborhood for several minutes, covering every foot of some streets like Damien had a route memorized.

"Wait." He perked up. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"That!" He pointed out one of the windows, as if that would help. Then he took an immediate right.

A few more seconds of driving, and then I heard it. A faint car alarm, getting louder as we approached. Damien turned left, and then I saw it. An old man standing in front of a car door, messing with a set of keys.

I threw my hand out to stop from going through the windshield as Damien squealed to a stop. By then I was prepared for what came next; I had my seatbelt off and was out before him.

"Sir!" Damien shouted. "Step away from the car!"

The poor man jumped a half foot into the air. He turned around, his breaths coming quick and shallow. "Jesus, you scared me!"

"Criminals _should_ be afraid in the presence of Ethereal. Now, please step away from the car."

"It's my car. I just pressed the wrong button and now it won't let me in."

I tapped Damien on the shoulder. "I think he's telling the truth. Maybe we should give him a break."

"Don't let appearances fool you, Whisper. Weak old men can be criminals too." He came to a stop a few feet away from the man. "I'm not going to ask you again, sir. Step away from the car."

The fear which had been in the man's face at first had disappeared, and as Damien kept giving him orders it was replaced with anger. "No. This is my car and my house, and I won't be harassed by a couple of weirdos in capes."

"We're not weirdos in capes! I am Ethereal, and this is my sidekick Whisper. I found her as an orphan and taught her the ways of heroism. In her younger days she robbed a convenience store even though more than half a dozen men tried to stop her, but now she fights for good. Now, I'm only going to ask you one more time: step away from the car."

"It's my car! I'm going to call the cops!" I felt bad for the guy. I'd gotten locked out of my house often enough to know that one of the biggest fears in that situation was someone thinking I was breaking in. And there we were, assuming he was breaking in. The man advanced toward Damien. "You need to... need to..." His eyes glazed over and he lifted a hand to his chest. A moment later he collapsed.

Damien leapt into action. I was almost surprised at the way he fell to his knees, straightening the man out. "Hang on, I'm going to check for a pulse. Whisper, do you have your phone? Oh, never mind." He pulled his out and tossed it to me.

His phone hit me in the chest. I barely got a hand up in time to keep it from clattering against the pavement. I opened up the emergency dialer and called 911.

"Nine one one, what's your emergency?" A man's voice asked.

I hesitated, trying to think of the best way to explain the situation. In the end, I decided not to explain anything beyond what I needed to. "We're with a guy that we think just had a heart attack. He was all angry and red in the face and then he collapsed."

"Okay. Everything's going to be alright. Do you know where you are?"

"We're in the Meadows area. Hold on, there's an intersection nearby..." I jogged over, squinting to read the signs. "Ford Street. The address looks like fifty two twenty."

"Five two, two, zero." He took a loud breath. "I'll dispatch an ambulance. They should be there soon. In the meantime, can you go back to the man?"

"Yeah. Sure." I spun around and jogged back to the scene, where Damien had started giving CPR. "Alright, I'm back. What should I do?"

"Do you have a defibrillator available?"

"Uhm... no."

"Okay. Then the first thing you need to do is check for a pulse. Put two fingers against his neck, preferably near the top of his throat."

I knelt down, doing like the man said. It was a lot harder than I'd expected since I had to work around Damien.

"What are you doing?" he asked me.

"The nine one one guy said I should check for a pulse."

"Already done. No pulse. Why do you think I'm doing compressions? Now back off; you're messing up my rhythm."

I waited another couple seconds—giving the man a chance to let me feel his heart beat—before falling back to a sitting position. "It doesn't look like there's a pulse. Should we do CPR?"

"Yes. I'll talk you through it."

I didn't know how to do CPR, but it looked like Damien did. He hummed a song too quietly for me to hear as he worked, his arms pumping about once a second. "Okay," I said, "We've got the CPR covered. Anything else?"

"Are you the one performing CPR?"

"No. My friend is."

"Alright. Can you put me on speaker phone? I'll still need to talk them through it."

I took the phone away from my ear and—with shaking fingers—pressed the button to turn on the speaker. "Okay. We're on speaker phone."

"Perfect. Whoever's performing CPR, can you hear me?"

"Mhm," Damien said, maintaining his rhythm.

"Is the victim in a safe place?"

"Yup."

"Are they on a flat surface?"

"Yup."

"Good. I want you to interlock your fingers so that the pinky of your non-dominant hand is resting above the crease between the thumb and forefinger of your dominant hand. Keep your elbows locked and press down with your shoulders on the beat. I'll count it out for you. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One..."

The next several minutes were more than a little awkward. I didn't have anything to do but wait and listen to the rhythmic counting of the dispatcher. One car drove by, then another. I looked down, way too aware of my spandex outfit. Being around someone who might die took me out of the hero fantasy entirely.

In the time we were waiting, I rethought everything at least a hundred times. I considered quitting, trying to convince Damien to quit, staying with him, and even committing more to the whole hero thing. Maybe if I had, I would have spotted something before the car alarm that would have prevented us from ever hearing it.

But what I finally decided was that it wasn't our fault. It might sound weird, but we'd actually done what everyone was supposed to do when they hear a car alarm. We'd stopped the person trying to get in and Damien had told him to get away from the car. If he'd done it, we wouldn't have had a problem. Heck, if the old man been able to shut it off on his own we wouldn't have had a problem.

A part of my mind got really attached to that train of thought, to the point where I half-expected the real owner to show up and thank us for stopping the thief. But no owner came; instead, we heard sirens. Damien looked up from his CPR, nodded to himself, and returned to humming the same song he'd been humming for the last five minutes.

The paramedics parked nearby, jumping out of the ambulance with a speed I was quickly becoming familiar with. It was the speed of someone on a mission. They asked Damien to move out of the way while they loaded the man onto a gurney and into the ambulance. He tried asking where they were going, but since neither of us were family they refused to tell us.

It wasn't until they'd already closed the doors and started driving away that I noticed the man's keys on the pavement. I stretched forward to grab them, inspecting the large black top of one. There were four buttons with different symbols. I tried clicking the one with an open lock, but the alarm didn't shut off.

I pointed it at the car, holding the button down. After a second, the alarm was still blaring. I sighed, started to lower it. And then the car beeped and the alarm stopped.

Damien held a finger to his lips. "Hmm, I guess he wasn't a criminal after all."

"Guess not." I locked the doors, got to my feet, and went over to drop the keys in the brass mailbox.

# Chapter 13

#

The incident shook Damien even more than it shook me. I knew because he told me I shouldn't come over the next few days. I tried texting him several times—even tried calling him—but I never managed to get a response.

On some level, some part of him must have known what he'd done. I went through a version of that kind of self-blame myself. Even though we'd technically done the 'right' thing, there was no denying that if we hadn't been there—if Damien hadn't been so insistent—the man wouldn't have gotten angry enough to have a heart attack.

But then the weekend came. I was lounging around the house in pajama pants well past the time when pajama pants were considered socially acceptable when my phone started buzzing. It took me a second to find it in the folds between our couch cushions.

"Hello?" I said, bringing it up to my ear.

"Whisper?" Damien's voice.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Good. Have you watched the news already today?"

"Nope, not yet." Not that I was planning on it, either. I usually got my news from one of my parents, when they told me all the most interesting stories at dinner. It was like having my news curated by someone who shared all my tastes and interests; mostly because I'd inherited my tastes and interests from them.

"Okay, that's good. What time is it?" I heard some shuffling over the line. "Four twelve. Perfect. Turn on channel four."

The remote was all the way on the other side of the couch. I debated staying on the same channel and simply telling Damien I'd changed it. But my curiosity got the better of me; I crawled my way to the remote and pointed it at the TV.

_The Dangers of Puppy Treadmills,_ read the headline across the bottom. A newswoman in a power suit was talking. "Lately, there have been a string of accidents from dogs using so-called 'puppy treadmills.' This attachment for a regular treadmill—"

"Damien, what's this?" I asked, worried that he was thinking he'd discovered another criminal we needed to fight.

"What do you mean?"

"The puppy treadmill story. Why am I watching it?"

"It's not the puppy treadmill story. It's what comes after. Just keep watching."

I sighed and returned my attention to the television. "So in conclusion," the newswoman said, "Do not try to pen your dog into a treadmill and force them to run. Their reactions may be cute, but it's quite simply inhumane." She turned, and a moment later the camera angle changed so that she seemed to be looking right at it.

_Masked Vigilante Saves Man's Life_ flickered onto the bottom of the screen. "We switch now to what might be a stranger story, if that's possible. A few days ago a man was confronted by two masked vigilantes that he says saved his life. We have Sarah on the scene. Over to you, Sarah."

The scene changed to what looked like a hospital room. Another newswoman in a simple dress spoke crisply into her microphone. "Thank you, Tiffany. I'm here at St. John's hospital, where local entrepreneur Geoffrey Jordan claims that he was confronted by the vigilantes after getting locked out of his car last Friday. He says that they appeared upon hearing his car alarm, and after a heated exchange he was struck with a heart attack. But the twist? After conducting several tests, the hospital discovered an abnormal growth on his heart that they believe caused the attack. Geoffrey, you say you're thankful to these two vigilantes?"

The camera panned down to the old man from a few days ago. He nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, ma'am. The doctor gave me a clean bill of health at my last check-up. That was only a few weeks ago. But they told me that this is growing fast enough I could have died before my next one. It's crazy to think that if I hadn't gotten so mad, I would've never ended up here. Everyone's saying I have good odds of surviving the surgery now."

"So you're saying that they caused you to have a heart attack?"

"That would be the long and short of it."

"Well, that's quite the story. If you could say anything to those two, what would it be?" She held the mic back out.

"Why, thank you, of course. You may not have known it, but you were agents of God last week. Guess the big guy's not done with me yet."

"That was us!" Damien said. "See? I told you we'd be famous soon!"

Honestly, I doubted most people would remember us longer than it took for the show to finish. But there was no denying it was kind of cool. "I'm kind of surprised they didn't mention you doing CPR for seven minutes."

"They did when they showed the segment an hour ago. They didn't have time to fit in on the four o'clock news, I guess. But yeah, they said that I performed CPR and we put him in the hospital and made him get those tests and now they can remove the growth."

"Hmm." I can't deny, I felt a little brighter than I had before. "That's really cool."

"Right? See what happens when you decide to be a hero? Great things happen. So I was thinking... can you head over now?"

"You mean _right_ now?" I looked around the room. I'd been kicked back on the couch for the last few hours. "I don't know how good I'd be at fighting bad guys right now."

"Why not? You said you fought off half a dozen hulking guys single-handed when you were on the wrong side. Now that you're on the right side, don't you think you should bring that same kind of commitment and energy?"

"I dunno. Maybe we could go to the mall or something? I think I saw a lot of criminals last time I was at Westgate." And of course, that had nothing to do with the fact that Westgate was far enough from our neighborhood that the odds of running into anyone I knew were low.

"Really? What kind of criminals?"

It took me a second to come up with a good answer. "Bad criminals." Okay, so it wasn't _that_ good of an answer.

There was silence on the other end of the line for several seconds. "Do you think Ribaldi's minions might be gathering there?" Damien asked, his voice quiet and completely serious.

"Yeah, probably. It's a big mall. I'd be surprised if we didn't see Ribaldi's influence all over it. If you ask me, we'd probably be able to do more there in one night than we already have in all of our patrolling so far."

I heard coughing through the phone. "I find that hard to believe. We've done a lot of good, Whisper. Were you watching a different newscast than I was or something?"

"No, I saw the newscast. It was cool and all. It's just..." I had a hard time ending the sentence. _It's just that I still think we've done more harm than good._ I couldn't shake the memory of the man having a heart attack or of that poor boy chasing after all of his dogs.

But another voice in my mind pointed out that the heart attack man had thanked us on TV. The boy had probably been minorly inconvenienced at most. And as for the homeless meth addict... We hadn't exactly helped him, but it wasn't like we'd hurt him either.

"Maybe the mall is a good idea," Damien said, breaking the silence. "There are a lot of people there. A lot of chances for bullies and pickpockets to prey on them. We can go tonight, but if we don't see any signs of Ribaldi then we'll go back to patrolling around the neighborhood. Sound fair?"

"Yeah, that sounds fair to me."

# Chapter 14

With more effort than I'd expected, I convinced myself to get up and start preparing for another heroic outing. I worked my way into my outfit and put my mask on. I'd barely gotten it on when I heard a long honk outside.

I pulled the door to my room open, took a deep breath, and left the house. A few more seconds and I was pulling at the handle of the passenger door of Damien's white SUV.

"Thank you for being ready on such short notice," Damien said as I climbed in. "If I've learned one thing in my study of heroes, it's that the first success means nothing if it isn't quickly followed by another one. We'll need to be extra vigilant when we arrive at Westgate."

I nodded.

"If you see anything suspicious along the way, don't hesitate to tell me to pull over," Damien said as he pulled away from the curb. "We can't ever be in so much of a rush that we pass over the everyday evils."

"Okay, I'll keep an eye out." Of course, as soon as I said it I turned toward the window and closed my eyes. He had the heat on at the perfect temperature, and combined with the leather seats I felt so comfortable that I could have passed out then and there.

To be honest, I'm not sure that I didn't. I don't remember much of the next half hour or so; I'd open my eyes every few minutes or so and notice we were in a new section of the city, but nothing more than that.

The SUV jerked to a stop, forcing me to wake up completely. I yawned, stretching my arms out as far as they would go. "Are we here?"

"Yes we are. Westgate mall. I have to be honest, I don't like the look of it. Perhaps Ribaldi _does_ have a foothold here."

I took in the five story building. White paint with a blue tile accent at the very top. The waterfall out front. The uncountable Porches and Jaguars and BMW's in the parking lot. "Right. I'm sure we'll find the worst kinds of people inside."

He led the way toward the mall, striding with his head held high. The closer we got to the entrance, the more aware I became of how many other people were there. It wasn't like driving in Damien's car, where I could be fairly certain that no one would see us. It wasn't even like approaching someone alone.

A trio of girls saw us going by and turned to whisper to each other. A moment later they all started laughing, stealing glances at me and Damien as they did. I gritted my teeth; all of a sudden the scene felt way too much like the first day of high school. I reached up to make sure my mask was fully in place.

I made myself take slow breaths, focusing on that instead of the girls. Step, breath, ignore. Step, breath, ignore. Damien pulled the mall door open, holding it for me to go through.

We walked around for several minutes, going up one floor and then down two. Damien led the way around the lowest level, poking his head into a store every once in a while. But he never stepped inside. I was sure he was looking for something—I mean, something more than the usual bad guy—but he never seemed to find it.

Finally, he slowed down and gestured for me to come forward. "Have you seen anything that you think would lead us to Ribaldi?"

"I think we might have passed something in that jewelry store a while back." In my mind a hazy plan formed. They'd have pendants there, and I figured I could point one out as belonging to Ribaldi.

He followed me dutifully to the store, perking up as we both stepped inside. I went straight for the necklaces and pendants, keeping an eye open for something that could reasonably belong to the imaginary Ribaldi. A girl's shoulder collided with mine as she passed by. I turned to scowl at her, but she didn't even notice. She just crouched down in front of a display of bracelets.

"Hmm." I examined the display from half a dozen feet away. The girl lifted a bracelet with a charm that seemed perfect. I tapped Damien on the arm. "Hey! I think that's something." The moment I spoke the girl hurried off, leaving the display open for us.

I went straight for the bracelet she'd lifted before, pulling it off the hook to show to Damien. "Do you see this broken heart thing? That's Ribaldi's symbol, isn't it?" The charm turned as I held it up.

Damien's brow knitted. His lips scrunched up as several different expressions passed through them. Finally, he nodded slowly. "I think you might be right, Whisper. Ribaldi got into the villain business after we broke up, so it makes sense that she would choose a broken heart as her symbol."

"Of course. I remember hearing the... um, rumors about that." I let the bracelet fall. "So what do you think it means?"

"It could be nothing. Then again..."

"It could mean that she's here." I finished for him.

"Right. But not necessarily. It might be a coincidence."

"Come on, there's no such thing as coincidences." When that didn't seem to convince him, I decided to change strategies. "What if we find more copies of her symbol here? That would prove it's not just a coincidence, right?"

"Maybe." He looked around slowly, his eyes settling on the girl who'd bumped into me for a moment before continuing onto the rest of the store.

I walked up to the glass counters, angling toward the only clerk in the store; a younger man with a scruffy beard and a nose piercing. "Excuse me, do you carry anything else with this pendant?"

His head jerked back as if he was surprised at my appearance. "Uhm..." He glanced around. "I think I remember seeing a necklace from the same designer. Maybe some ear rings too. Let me check." Once he seemed to get over the initial shock his tone was cordial. Nice, even. He looked down at the glass cases, working quickly along them as if he only needed to see a single piece to know whether or not they contained what I'd asked about.

After a few seconds, he leaned down to unlock a case. He pulled out several different options, which I took as a good sign. Then he brought them over to me. "Okay, so we don't have any replicas of that exact pendant. But we do have these. I think this one looks pretty similar." He held up a necklace with a cute heart pendant.

There was only one big problem: it wasn't broken. Definitely a very complete heart. I frowned, inspecting the other necklaces he'd brought over. "So you don't have any other broken hearts?"

He laughed. "I think they're supposed to be _open_ hearts. I didn't see any when I checked just now. But I'll tell you what: I'll check the designer who made that bracelet and bring the catalog over for you. We should be able to special order something. Or if you'd rather not wait, I could switch out the bracelet band for a necklace and switch the pendant over."

"Hmm..." I thought about it. Looked over my shoulder at Damien, who was still torn between manually searching the store for a broken heart and keeping an eye on the girl from before. I turned back to the clerk, an idea coming to mind. "Could you switch the pendant over for me? I like the chain on that necklace in the middle, if that's okay."

"Absolutely. Just a sec." He leaned down, opening the tiny clasp with a single motion of his thumb. He'd just slid the old pendant off when a loud "Hey, could I get some service over here?" caught his attention.

The girl was standing at one of the counters on her tiptoes, tapping a locked case with several pairs of fancy sunglasses. She saw me looking at her and scowled.

"I'm sorry," the clerk said, sweeping all of the necklaces off the counter except for the one he'd just finished switching out. "I'll be back in a moment."

"No worries." I took the necklace and made my way back to Damien. By that point his attention was completely on the other girl. I had to tap him on the shoulder to get him to notice me. "Hey, I found Ribaldi's symbol on something else."

He frowned, inspected the necklace. "Oh. Ohhh. Whisper, this isn't good." He handed the necklace back to me as if it were something filthy. "Is that the same symbol that was on the bracelet?"

"Yup. The exact same one." Literally _._

His eyes jumped back to the girl, then to the necklace. Then to the girl. "Whisper, I want you to go return that necklace."

"Why?"

"You'll see. Just do it and come back to me."

I did as he asked, walking up to the counter and nodding at the clerk to get his attention. Thankfully, it was easy enough to get him to notice me; he was standing back from the girl trying on sunglasses with a bored expression, and when he saw me at the counter he came right over. "So? What do you think of that chain? I can grab a different one if you'd prefer."

"No, that's okay. Actually, I wanted to give it back to you. It doesn't really feel like my style."

He looked me up and down with the hint of a smile crossing his face. "Yeah, I can see that. Maybe if you took that helmet off it would look better."

"Probably. But then I'd be compromising my secret identity."

He chuckled, then held out a hand to take the necklace. I dropped it into his palm and walked back to Damien.

"What did you see, Whisper?" he asked as soon as I'd reached him. "Or rather, I should ask how much you saw. Did you see her pocket the pair of sunglasses?"

It took me a second to figure out that he was talking about the girl who'd bumped into me. "She did what?"

"She stole them. They're still in her jacket." His voice got really low. "I need you to confront her."

"Why can't you do it?"

"Because I'm a hero, and I've never read about a hero fighting girls."

"But Ribaldi's a girl."

"Ribaldi's a villain. There's a difference."

_Only in your mind,_ I wanted to say. I glanced from Damien to the girl, then back again. "Fine. I'll ask her to put them back."

"Thank you. I'll block the exit so that she can't run away."

I didn't think he'd be a very good guard for the exit if he wasn't willing to fight her, but didn't mention it. Instead, I went over to the girl and cleared my throat. She turned to face me. "Excuse me, my friend thinks you might have a pair of sunglasses that don't belong to you."

The clerk—who'd come back to help her—took a step back in shock, but the girl hardly showed any emotion. "I don't know what you're talking about. Look, if you wanna play dress-up and run around the mall I don't care. But don't harass the people who actually want to buy things."

"I'm not trying to harass you. I'm only asking you whether you've taken anything."

Her cheeks turned red. "I would never! Who do you think I am?"

"I have no idea. But if you really didn't do anything, there's an easy way to prove it."

"What's that?" she asked.

"Empty out your pockets."

"No! You can't walk up to someone and accuse them of something like that and make them prove that they didn't do it! That's a violation of the fourth amendment!"

The clerk pursed his lips, looking at her like he believed Damien's side of the story more than hers. "Empty your pockets, please."

Her jaw set. She worked her jean pockets inside out, but didn't dare to touch her jacket. "See? Not like I could hide anything in there anyway."

I started to think that Damien was right. She was being too suspicious otherwise.

Apparently the clerk agreed with me, since he huffed in frustration. " _All_ of your pockets."

The girl—instead of doing like he asked—turned on a heel. I grabbed her by the elbow before she could get away; she spun back around immediately, screaming for help.

Her jacket flew out with the motion, releasing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses to clatter against the floor. She swung at my face; or rather, at my mask. I heard a rip, but I didn't let go of her elbow.

"Help! Help! I'm being assaulted!" she shouted. The clerk turned to a phone on the wall, lifting the headset off of it.

The girl moved her free hand down to my hand holding onto her elbow. She clawed at it with long fingernails, making me cry out with pain. It was all I could do to keep from letting go.

My mouth tasted heavy. I could hear my heart beating out a quick rhythm in my ears. But I didn't let go. She tried to spit in my face, but behind the plastic all I saw were white smears.

"What's the matter?" a thin, old man dressed like a security guard asked. The moment he came into view of the two of us he leapt forward, holding his hands out like he wanted to separate her from me.

"No! You don't understand!" I said, refusing to let go even though they were both pulling as hard as they could. "She's stealing from the store!" But their combined strength was too much for me to fight; a moment later I felt myself stumbling back, tumbling down to the floor.

The girl turned to run away, but Damien at the door. He spread his arms and legs out wide, gripping the door frame on both sides to form a human barrier. It would've been a good plan if it hadn't left him completely exposed to a kick in the crotch.

A kick which she quickly delivered. Damien's left hand released its hold, leaving a gap that she slipped through a moment later. She sprinted off, her hair flying behind her.

The security guard turned to me. "You know, you should never lay hands on a girl."

The clerk huffed, glaring daggers at the old man. " _She's_ a girl too! And she was trying to stop a shoplifter! Isn't that supposed to be _your_ job?"

The security guard stuck his chin out. "My job is to maintain a safe shopping environment. I assessed the situation, and to all appearances that poor girl was being assaulted. So I intervened."

I inspected my hand; tiny drops of blood were starting to form where she'd scratched me. "She scratched me and spat in my face! All I did was hold onto her elbow."

"Illegally detaining someone—"

"Might be a crime," the clerk interrupted, "But it's one she'd have to be around to press charges for. Shouldn't you be chasing after her? Or do you want me to tell Westgate management that our store was robbed and the thief got away because you were too busy interrogating young girls?"

"Yes, well... Fine." With a huff, the security guard jogged out of the store.

I worked my way to my feet. The clerk walked off as I did, but when I started to turn away he said "Wait!" He came back with the necklace in his hand. "Here. To say thank you."

"Oh, I don't know if I could..."

"Please. It's a five dollar pendant and a two dollar chain. Those sunglasses are worth over a hundred dollars. There's no telling what else she might have taken if you hadn't caught her. So... take it."

"Okay. Thank you." I smiled, but I wasn't sure if he could see it through the mask. I took the necklace from him and grasped it tightly in one hand.

Damien met me at the door. His eyes still looked a little watery and he was half bent-over. "You were right about this place, Whisper. The worst kinds of people are here."

# Chapter 15

After the incident, Damien didn't have any more reservations about patrolling around the mall. He took to it with a kind of energy that made me jealous, always taking off in a sprint when he spotted something remotely suspicious. Then—most of the time—slowing down when it became clear there wasn't actually anything to worry about.

After a week, the grand tally was three. That is to say, we'd managed to catch three different kids who'd lost their balance and nearly fallen into wishing wells. We'd also managed to walk enough steps that I wanted to ask my gym teacher for extra credit. But other than that, nothing. No sign of Damien's made-up villain other than a single pendant in the jewelry store.

"Felicity, you really shouldn't mess with your hair so much," I heard a clucking voice say. "You'll make the ends curl." I angled around the pillar blocking the speaker from view, but I only caught the back of two heads.

"I know, Mom." An exasperated voice replied. That had to be the slightly taller one. Her voice sounded raspy, like she hadn't gotten any sleep in a long time. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need to be sorry. Just stop touching it. It's a terrible habit. And do you have to wear so much makeup? You look ridiculous."

I glanced back at Damien. He was standing with his hands planted on both hips, taking in the rest of the mall. I knew the stance meant he probably wasn't about to take off after anyone. Curious to hear the rest of the conversation, I followed the girl and her mother at a distance.

"... why you're not wearing any of the dresses we got last time." Apparently the mother had found something new to nitpick about her daughter. "We spent several hours picking out dresses you just 'had to have,' and they all still have tags on them. Do you even realize how hard it is for me to take time out of my day, drive you all the way to this mall, and then spend five hours shopping for dresses?"

A moment of relative quiet. Then, "I'm sorry. I thought it was good bonding time." The girl's voice sounded so sad that I almost wanted to give her a hug. As much as my mom gave me a hard time about making smart choices, I'd never had to buy dresses that I wouldn't wear just to get a few hours of her time.

"We can have plenty of bonding time at home. Not when I'm in my office or cooking or working on projects, but outside of that."

"Work and cooking and your projects take up all of your time, though! When you're at home, there _isn't_ any time outside of that."

"Well, maybe there would be if my daughter didn't insist on spending so much time dress shopping." The way she said it chilled me to my core. I could hardly imagine a parent using that tone with her child, like every moment her daughter spent with her was taking her away from doing what she actually loved.

They both stopped dead. The girl turned to her mother. She looked vaguely familiar from the side, but I couldn't figure out why. "I'm sorry that spending time with me is so horrible. I'm sorry that I mess with my hair too much and don't always wear the dresses that we buy. I'm sorry that my makeup is too heavy and that my perfume is too thick. I'm sorry that I'm not perfect in every single way!" She took a step back before turning to run off.

Her mother didn't even bother calling after her. She huffed loudly like the scene was yet another annoyance to add to the list of things to change about her daughter before marching in the direction of the girl.

My eyes fell to the tiled floor. I looked back at Damien, who had dropped the hands-on-both-hips pose. He was staring in the direction of the girl who'd run off, his eyes narrowed. He looked at me. He took a few steps, closing the distance between us.

"Do you know what that was about?" he asked.

"Well, I think—"

"It looks like she needs our help."

"Which one? The girl or her mother?"

"So that's her mother? Hmm, I was thinking it might've been an attempted kidnapping..." He shook his head. "You were closer, Whisper. What do you think we should do?"

"I don't know. Seems like family stuff. We should probably stay out of it."

"Wrong. Obviously, we need to make sure that girl is okay. The hero's role is to offer help wherever it might be needed, even if it turns out not to be."

"They're already pretty far away, though. And the girl's stopped running." I groaned inwardly. Chasing after someone who was having a fight with her mother wasn't my idea of a fun Thursday. Besides, I was pretty sure it would only make things worse if we caught her.

Damien started forward at a jogging pace, leaving me behind at first. I sighed and fell in after him, plodding along in a rhythm barely above a quick walk.

The girl stepped into a two-story clothing store; she'd stopped running, but she was still very obviously trying to stay away from her mother. A few seconds later, her mother followed her in.

We gained on both of them slowly. We were close enough to see the mother go up an escalator inside the store; Damien made it into the store as she reached the halfway point. He nearly knocked over a stock boy as he rushed for the escalator, getting faster the closer he got.

On the other hand, I slowed down a little. Somehow, it felt weirder to run inside of a store than it had to run out in the mall. I made my way over to the escalator, getting to it as the girl's mother got off and Damien reached the halfway point. He chased after her, keeping up a pace that made my fingernails dig into my palms for fear that he would break something.

He ran out of sight. A few seconds later, I'd reached the top and spotted the mother. Her eyes searched around the store, no doubt looking for her daughter.

At first, I almost went right past her. But I remembered Damien's words from a few minutes ago: 'the hero's role is to offer help wherever it might be needed, even if it turns out not to be.' I reached up, took off my mask, and walked up to the woman.

She immediately turned to look at me with an awful sneer. "Who the hell are you? It's too early for Halloween, and you're too old for playing pretend. Have some respect for yourself."

I ignored the rush of heat to my cheeks, wishing for a second that I'd left my mask on. But no, I needed to show a human face for what I wanted to say. "Listen, I heard you talking to your daughter before she ran off. I know that I don't know anything about your situation, but I just wanted to say that if my own mother didn't spend time with me—or if she saw the time she _did_ spend as some awful chore—it would absolutely crush me."

The words seemed to have no effect on her. "You're right about one thing. You don't know anything about our situation."

"Right. But I know what it feels like to have an overbearing mother. I wanna tell her that I'm tired of hearing the phrase 'I just want what's best for you.' I want to be able to make my own mistakes, to live my own life. I want to be able to jump off the cliff, and if I fall flat on my face then it should be okay, because at least _I_ made the choice to jump."

She blinked once, twice. "I'm sorry that you feel that way about your mother. I offer family counselling sessions, if that's what you're asking about."

"No! I'm not asking you for family counselling sessions! I'm trying to give you some advice, because I think you should know how you're making your daughter feel. My mom can be overbearing sometimes, but at least she always has time for me. It sounds like you hardly ever have time for your daughter—fine, you're busy or whatever—but can't you turn that overbearing side off when you're finally forced to be together? All I'm trying to say is that it really sucks."

"Okay. Are you done judging me now?"

I wanted to scream. I wanted to kick and yell. I wanted to throw a very childish tantrum that probably wouldn't have done anything in terms of getting her to realize what she was doing wrong. I gritted my teeth instead. "No, I'm not done judging you. You didn't exactly have a problem judging me for the costume, did you? So as long as we're both being rude, let me give you some honest advice. If my mother treated me the way you just treated your daughter, I'd move out the moment I turned eighteen and never speak to her again."

For some reason, that seemed to reach her. I saw the tiniest dew of tears come to the corners of her eyes. "Yes, well... then I feel bad for your parents. Any child who'd run away over something so small must be pretty ungrateful."

"Whisper, get over here!" I heard Damien yell. "I need your help!"

The woman pulled herself up to her full height. "I'm assuming he's talking to you?"

"Yeah, that would be me." I lowered my mask over my face. "I'm Whisper."

A vicious smile came to her lips. "You'd better run along then. And be careful not to run into any adults while you're playing." She patted me on the head like a seven year old, and I knew that the single shred of self-doubt—the emotion that had brought the dew to her eyes—had gone away.

# Chapter 16

When I got down to the lower level of the clothing store, I saw Damien pacing back and forth, like a dog who'd trapped a squirrel in a tree. In front of him a girl was standing in a corner, her eyes wide.

Damien's head moved just enough that he could see who was coming toward him. "You got here just in time, Whisper. It's Ribaldi's minion."

I looked at the girl again. "Oh! You're the one from the jewelry store! My hand still has scabs from your fingernails!"

Her brow drew down. "I don't know who Ribaldi is—or who you think I am—but I didn't do anything wrong. I've never stolen a single thing in my life."

"Who said anything about stealing?" Damien asked with a triumphant tone. "You've revealed yourself, criminal! Now you must tell us where Ribaldi is."

"Like I said, I don't know who Ribaldi is." The raspiness in her voice seemed to be getting worse. I absently wondered whether she was a heavy smoker or something.

"Nonsense!" Damien said, his voice rising. "Feigning ignorance won't help you now. Tell us where Ribaldi is or—"

"Or what? You'll report me to the mall cops?"

"No, we'll report you either way. But at least if you cooperate, we'll tell them to go easy on you. Having a hero to vouch for you can go a long way in such matters. They might even let you off with a warning."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Somehow, I don't think that would do me any good." She took a step along the wall, toward double doors leading back into the greater mall.

Damien side-stepped closer to the same wall, no doubt preparing to stop her if she made a run for it. "Then how about this? If you tell us where she is we'll protect you from her wrath. We can teach you how to walk the path of good. We can make it so that you don't have to steal just to eat."

She snorted. "If you think I have to steal to eat, you don't know anything about me. And if you think I'd be happy being someone's minion—even someone made up—then you don't know anything."

"You leave me no choice." Damien sighed, took a step forward. He reached for her elbow, but she moved it out of the way too quickly. She pushed off the wall and headed straight for me; it all happened too quickly for me to react, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground again.

The pounding of feet echoed through the store. I rolled over to spot the pair sprinting for the exit like both of their lives depended on it. Damien nearly caught her at the doors, but she spun on a heel so abruptly that he skidded past by a few feet.

My hand burned, as if to remind me that I had a score to settle in the chase too. I got to my feet and started running after them, sure that I wouldn't be able to catch up in time. Heck, by the time I got to the doors they were already almost out of sight, having just turned down a hallway in front of the jewelry store.

When I made it to the entrance of the hallway, I saw that it didn't lead anywhere. The girl and Damien were running around it like they hadn't realized—or she hadn't realized—that she was essentially trapped the same way as before.

I worked around a round potted plant near the hallway's mouth, standing in front of the pair of them with arms outstretched. My plan was to catch the girl in a wide hug and wrestle her to the ground, but the moment it became clear what I was doing she changed her angle. I'd seen her turn quickly before; I knew that it wouldn't be hard for her to avoid me with so much space.

I looked around, trying to work out a different plan. I glanced back; she and Damien were still a good twenty feet away. Damien was running like a bull, with his head down and both arms pumping rapidly.

_Oh. Ohhh._ I turned away from them, jogging for the stairs. I went up one flight, turned as quickly as I could and then went up the rest of the stairs to the second floor. I heard the footfalls, saw a couple dozen people milling around. I ran forward...

And collided with a girl sprinting off the escalator. She fell back against the plastic with a groan, but I managed to keep my feet under me. I took a step forward.

Her eyes met mine. Her worried expression made me pause. I felt like I knew what she was thinking. _When my mother finds out, I'll never hear the end of this. This will just be another thing to add to the list of my imperfections. Another way I've let her down._

I thought back to why I'd agreed to become Damien's sidekick in the first place. I'd wanted to invent my own game, my own rules. And in that moment, the rules were 'anyone with a mother like that is going through a hard enough time already.' I exhaled slowly. "You won't steal anything else from the stores here, right?"

She shook her head. " _Hell_ no. If I'd known it would be this much trouble, I never would've stolen anything in the first place."

I moved to the side to let her take a step past me. "Why did you?" I asked as she squeezed by.

"Sorry." She looked over a shoulder, spotting Damien as he got closer to the top of the escalator. "I don't know!" Then she turned as Damien reached the second floor.

I put out an arm to stop him from continuing the chase. "Hold up. I let her go."

"Why would you do something like that!"

"Because..." I sighed. "I felt bad for her."

He frowned. "You felt sympathy for her? But she's one of Ribaldi's minions! Someone like that doesn't deserve your sympathy, Whisper. The only people who have sympathy for evil-doers are other... evil-doers." He took a step back from me. "I just remembered that you never atoned for your grocery store theft. Is that it? Is that why you let her go?"

I battered my mind to come up with a good answer. "No! Of course not. It's only that her mom was being so mean and..." No, that wouldn't convince him. "I think Ribaldi put a spell on me to make me let her go."

"Don't be ridiculous." He snorted.

_Okay, note so self.... mysterious villains with minions are believable but magic isn't._ I nodded to myself, feeling as if the mental note would come in handy at some point. Unfortunately, that still left me with the issue of trying to explain why I'd let the other girl go. "Then I don't know why I did it. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. _I_ know why. I thought we could get by without atoning for your theft—for a while, at least—but it seems that's not possible. You need to atone as soon as possible. I'm thinking tomorrow."

"What? No! I mean, that's not why I let her go. I swear."

"You may _think_ you had a different reason, but if so you're only fooling yourself. Some part of you knows that you've never made up for hurting all those people—for robbing that store—and you need to fix it."

"Right. Maybe give me a little more time, though?"

"No. No more time. What if that was Ribaldi herself? Would you have still let her go? There's no telling how many lives you could have put in danger because of this." His tone made me feel like I'd let him down somehow, but I didn't feel like I really had.

Well, that's not true. I felt like I had let him down. Somehow. But on the whole, I was happy with my decision.

# Chapter 17

"Okay. One apple, two loaves of bread, a bottle of juice, three packs of gum, and a pack of beef jerky." Damien pointed to each item in the shopping bag. "Looks like we're all set. Are you ready to make amends?"

"Mhm." I couldn't help biting my lip out of fear at what might happen. I'd come up with a grocery list and managed to find a gas station close to where I'd said the one I stole from was, but I had no idea how they'd take us walking in and replacing a bunch of items that I'd supposedly stolen years ago. In my mind, the worst case scenario was that they'd believe us and get angry about the theft, but we'd have a ready solution: offer them the replacements.

Damien closed the trunk and walked to the driver's side door. I went around the other side, falling into the passenger seat and settling down for what was going to be a long ride. Thankfully Damien didn't say much, allowing me to text friends and play games on my phone to pass the time.

That started to get boring after a while, so I put my phone away and stared out at the passing scenery. We were getting closer to downtown, with its skyscrapers and packed streets. There was a different vibe there, like everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere. They didn't wait for crosswalks to turn, and they were quick to yell or honk at anyone who slowed them down for more than a second. I wanted to roll down the window and tell all of them to take a chill pill, but it wouldn't have done any good.

Damien turned on the radio, playing a pop song that I'd heard before. It was the kind of song that got played everywhere: catchy, up-tempo, and completely forgettable. It wasn't until the second verse that I even remembered the song was about getting over an ex.

The song ended and another, just-as-forgettable one started. I started messing around with my phone again until Damien pulled into a gas station. He looked at me expectantly.

I shook my head, realizing that we must have arrived. Closed my eyes, and when I opened them I put on my best regretful face. "This is it, isn't it? I recognize this parking lot. Right there was where it happened. I barely got away."

He nodded. "I can imagine. But you don't need to be afraid. You're doing the right thing here. Do you need help carrying the bags inside?"

"Yes please." Even if there had only been one bag, I felt like I would have asked him to help. He needed to be there to explain the train of thought that had led to me bringing groceries _into_ a store. I got out of the car and grabbed a couple of the lighter bags before heading toward the glass door.

A slightly overweight man behind the counter perked up as we entered. He looked at me with a confused expression.

I went up to the counter and set my grocery bag on it. "Hi there. I... um, I stole some groceries from this place a long time ago, and we came here to return them."

His expression didn't change at all. "You what?"

"I stole groceries. But it's okay, see, because now we're bringing them back. No harm no foul and all that, right?"

The man pulled the beef jerky out of my bag. "We don't carry that brand here. What am I gonna do with this?"

"Eat it?" I tried smiling at him, but it didn't seem to make things any better. "Look, it was a long time ago, and I'm doing my best to make it right here. Please don't make this difficult."

"You're saying you robbed my store? And you don't want me to make things difficult for you?"

"Hmm, yeah. I can see where that would be confusing. And you have every right to be mad. But obviously I got away with it. I could've left it at that, but I came back and now I'm returning everything that I stole."

From the look on his face, it took a moment for his brain to catch up with the words. "It's a special kind of dumb to return to the scene of the crime and confess you did it, don't you think? I've half a mind to call the cops on you right now."

Panic set in. I took a step back. "Sir, maybe I can—"

"Don't you even think of calling the cops!" Damien said, poking the man's chest to emphasize his point. "It took me a long time to convince my sidekick to do the right thing, and now that she has you can't ruin it by calling the police. When someone who used to be evil decides to be good they should be rewarded, not punished."

"Keep that finger to yourself if I was you," the man said. "I might be tempted to let y'all go, but half this stuff isn't even the right brand. Chugga juice? What the hell is that? I've never even heard of Chugga juice before. Certainly can't put it on my shelves."

Damien's eyes narrowed. "Then don't put it on your shelves. So we made one mistake. It shouldn't matter. What should matter is that we're doing the right thing here."

That didn't seem to sit well with the man behind the counter. He dipped his chin, pulling at some strands in his rough beard. "Right thing would have been not to steal from me in the first place. And when your friend finally got the guts to 'make up for it,' she should've stopped by and asked what I needed. I can't do anything with this. Now, I _could_ use someone to stock shelves for a while."

"Oh, no no no! You can't force someone into indentured servitude! This isn't the eighteen hundreds!" Damien took a breath, seeming to regain a bit of control over himself. "Look, we replaced everything she took. You can do what you want with it. But now you're being rude, so we'll have to leave."

The man cleared his throat. "You stay right there. The both of you." He lifted a telephone and dialed exactly three numbers. I had a feeling I knew which ones.

I started to leave, but Damien grabbed my elbow. He turned to me and whispered, "You should never run from the law. The day we do that is the day we stop being heroes."

It wasn't a bad sentiment, but I couldn't help thinking about what would happen once 'the law' arrived. They'd ask the store owner what was going on, he'd point to our replacement groceries and say that I'd stolen from him, and I had a feeling Damien wouldn't be a witness in my favor. If anything he'd probably repeat what he'd said before. But feeling guilt for crimes after the fact was hardly a get out of jail free card. I tugged at Damien. "If I get in trouble, I won't be able to fight crimes or stop bad guys or be your sidekick ever again. My mom will ground me for at least a few months, and by the time it's over I'll have reverted back to my evil ways. Think of the long-term here."

To my right, I heard the store owner start to tell the dispatcher what was going on. Damien planted himself, maintaining his tight grip on my arm. "If that's your punishment, you have to face it. But like I said, we don't run from the law."

"Sometimes it makes sense to run from the law, Damien! Like right now. They might arrest us! Do you realize that?"

Damien looked at the grocery bags we'd brought, squinting at them through one eye. "Seventy nine, one ten, one twenty-two... There are only a hundred and twenty two dollars of groceries there. Do you know what that means? It's a petty theft charge, even if they don't care about the fact that you were trying to make it right. No more than a thousand dollar fine."

At some point I'd started hyperventilating. I tried to make myself calm down. "I don't have a thousand dollars, Damien! I didn't even steal from this store! I made it up so that you would think I had a 'troubled past' or whatever! The worst thing I've ever done is smoke pot."

He cocked his head, like it was taking him a while to catch up to what I've said. "Listen, Whisper. You shouldn't lie about your past just because your atonement is a little more complicated than we thought it would be. You confided this theft in me, and I'm not going to let you backslide to avoid whatever punishment is coming our way."

When I didn't say anything else, he sighed. "Fine, I'll pay the fine if they give you one. Okay? But you need to own up to what you did."

I took a second to think about it. I probably couldn't get in trouble for robbing a store I'd really never stepped foot in before. If the owner pressed charges I'd tell the judge my story and he'd have to prove I'd really robbed him.

And if worst came to worst, Damien would pay the damages. I bit my tongue as I worked through the decision. "Okay, I'll stay. But only if you'll really pay the fine."

"I'm a man of my word, Whisper. You know that."

"I do." I turned to the store owner, surprised to see his expression quite a bit calmer than before. "I'm really sorry. Could you give us a list of brands that you carry? Maybe we could go back and buy those."

He shook his head. "You're not officially one of my suppliers. I can take returns from customers, but not when it isn't a product from my store. There's all sorts of liability there."

"Like what?"

"Tampering, for one." He tapped rhythmically on the cash register. Then he breathed out slowly. "Okay, give me a minute." He reached down to the counter and picked up the jug of Chugga Juice. He glanced between it and the register a few times before typing something in.

I caught Damien grinning at me. He raised his eyebrows at the owner as if to say 'See? I told you this was going to go well.'

The owner finished with the first bag of groceries and pushed it across the counter toward us, as if he was done with it. I took the bag by the handles, watching as he reached for the next item. I glanced at the numbers on the register display: the total went from _$30.22_ to _$35.57_ as he finished entering it.

He worked his way through all three of the other bags, pushing them out to us as he finished. Finally, he looked up and tapped the register display. "This would be the damage if you wanna make things right. I went through and entered the closest items we carry to what you brought in. I wasn't sure about the jerky chews, so I just gave you credit on that one. If you pay me the one forty you can go on your way. You should be able to return _those—_ " he nodded toward the bags in our hands, "—to whatever low-rent store stocks Chugga Juice."

Damien stepped forward, the grin still filling his face. He handed one of his grocery bags off to me and reached into a pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a black credit card and swiped it. "Thank you for your honest dealing, sir. Would you like us to stay around after this to speak with the cops?"

"What? Oh, right... the cops." The man shook his head. "Didn't actually call them. I only wanted to scare you straight." His eyes landed on me. "Seems like you don't need it, though. You're a couple of honest kids. You made a mistake and you came back to make up for it. I shouldn't have given you such a hard time."

"No need to apologize," Damien said. I almost pointed out that the man hadn't quite apologized, but decided it didn't matter. "Thank you for letting us—for letting Whisper—make up for her past transgressions. Now, is there anything else we need to do?"

"Nope, that should be it. Just take that cheap Chugga Juice and get out of my store." The words might have sounded short, but his tone was kind.

Damien nodded at him before leading the way out of the store. I followed him to the trunk of his SUV; he opened it and we hoisted the bags inside.

"So do you want to go return the groceries now?" I asked him.

He laughed. "Doesn't matter to me either way." A frown. Then, "Actually, I think you should have them. A reward for your courage. Teach you that doing good pays off in the end."

"Oh, thanks." I had no idea what I'd do with any of what we'd bought. But that didn't stop me from smiling. If only a little.

# Chapter 18

"So how's your job going, honey?"

"Pretty well. Yesterday we went back to patrolling the neighborhood, and we didn't see anyone suspicious." I made a mental note to avoid talking about the gas station incident, since Mom wouldn't appreciate hearing that we'd almost had the cops called on us.

She pursed her lips, staring at the salad in front of her like she was holding something back. I had a feeling I knew what. "That's good to hear. So basically, this job has become riding around the neighborhood in a costume? Are you sure that's fulfilling enough for you?"

"I don't know. I guess it's fulfilling enough. We stopped that one girl from stealing a necklace not that long ago. That was pretty cool."

"Well, yeah. But then you said you let her go when you caught her afterward."

"You sound like Damien. What was I supposed to do, drag her to the mall cop's desk?"

"Personally? I think you shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place."

"Not this again. You told me I had to get a job, so I got a job. It's not my fault that it doesn't live up to your expectations." I couldn't help noticing that my dad was surprisingly quiet; he was picking at his food, his eyes glued to the plate like he didn't want to engage either of us.

"This isn't what we had in mind when we asked you to find a job, Santana. This 'job' is a child's job. I was hoping you would find something meaningful. Something that would help you figure out what you wanted to do after high school."

"You mean something that would send me running straight to college. Maybe you're only mad because I found a job I actually like. And I make pretty good money, too."

"Oh yeah? When do you get your first check again?"

"I'm not sure. I could ask Damien. I'm sure he's good for it."

She nodded slowly. "Like I said, a child's job. If it was a real position you'd be getting paid regularly. There'd be promotion opportunities, bosses, co-workers..."

"Not necessarily," Dad said, finally breaking his silence. "The stereotypical white collar world has all of those things, sure, but I think there are a lot of jobs out there that are different. My buddy Sam works as a contractor; he doesn't get regular pay or benefits, and definitely no promotion opportunities."

"You're not helping, Tyler." Mom threw him a dirty look before turning back to me. "Regardless of what _some_ people may say, I think we can all agree that this position isn't sustainable. You can't exactly put this on your resume. And it's not like you're learning useful skills, either."

"I'm learning how to be a good person."

"Santana, you'll spend your whole life learning how to be a good person. But it's not a marketable skill."

I looked around the room, taking my time to come up with a response. "Well, I got an offer to stock shelves at a gas station through this. So obviously someone thinks I'm learning marketable skills."

"Oh, that's good! Did you hear that, Tyler? Your daughter's going to be stocking shelves at a gas station."

Dad raised his eyebrows at her. "And what's wrong with that? It's honest work."

"It's not enough! You can't pay the bills on minimum wage!"

"Oh, contraire. My mother did it for forty years." His breath hissed out through clenched teeth. "I think the real problem here is that you clearly have rules in mind that you didn't share with us when we reached this compromise. So what are they?"

"You know what I want. I want her to go to college. But since it seems like everyone's dead-set against that, I guess I don't have any say." She crossed her arms.

"Darn right you don't have any say!" I was surprised at how loud my dad's voice had gotten. "We're her parents! That means we can give advice and guidance, but we can't force her to make huge life choices just because they seem right to us. I agreed to asking her to get a job because I thought you'd be reasonable about it. I guess I was wrong. So I'm putting my foot down. Santana, if you like where you're at, stick with it. Be the best sidekick you can be."

Mom's jaw set. "Oh, _you're_ putting your foot down? What about me? I'm her parent too. And that means I get a say. Whether you like it or not. Whether _either_ of you like it or not."

"I never said you didn't get a say," he huffed. "Okay, let's say we each get a forty percent vote as her parents. Santana gets twenty percent. That's sixty-forty. You lose."

"Don't be ridiculous. You can't just make up numbers like that and pretend it decides something! Alright, you get twenty, Santana gets twenty, and I get twenty. And her future gets twenty and her future family gets twenty more. That's sixty percent for my side and forty for yours. Now _you_ lose." It was funny how she said that like it meant something.

"Why would her future vote with you? You can't be sure of that."

"Oh, but I am. I know that ten years from now—heck, five years from now—she'll be thanking me for making sure she went to college and got a good life. When she gets married, won't her husband be happy that she has a degree? Won't her kids appreciate that she'll be able to help them with their classes?"

Dad's expression got dark. I reached out to touch his elbow; I could feel how deeply she'd wounded him. "So it's coming back to that? I'm sorry that I don't have a degree. Really, I am. But not because it's had any effect on my career. I'm sorry because you still judge me for it. After thirty years, you still think that piece of paper makes you better than me."

"When Kelsey was struggling with Trigonometry, who stayed up to help her? And who talked Santana through her Latin roots back in middle school?"

"Yeah, well... when she was struggling with that bully, _I_ taught her how to stand up for herself. _I_ showed her how to tackle, how to throw a punch. I may have had a different life than yours, but my knowledge is _just_ as valuable."

Mom broke down, covering her face with a hand. "I don't know why you're attacking me, Tyler. I never said that I judged you for not having a degree. I think that's something you've built up in your own head. Maybe you need to work with someone to figure out your feelings of inadequacy."

"My feelings of inadequacy! My feelings of inadequacy?" His hands curled into tight fists. "I'm sorry, you don't get to play the victim. Not after that little speech. 'When Kelsey was struggling with Trigonometry, who stayed up to help her?' And you're going to pretend right after that that you've never judged me?"

"I _haven't_ ever judged you. My dad never judged you. You've gone through so much of life with your fists up that you don't see past them anymore. Everyone is a potential enemy to you, and it only takes one wrong word to set you off. That's what I'm trying to avoid for Santana. I only want her to be happy."

I wanted to tell her to take that back, but I couldn't find my voice. I felt like a spectator.

"Yeah, god forbid Santana grows up to be like me." I saw tears welling in his eyes, and I knew it was a sign that something was _very_ wrong. His chair squeaked as he pushed away from the table. "I'm sorry. I need to go for a drive."

Maybe Mom noticed that something was wrong too. Maybe that was why she didn't say anything as he grabbed his coat and stepped into the garage.

When we heard the sound of his car starting, she refocused on me. "I don't know why he was making such a big deal about that. You know I've never judged him for not going to college."

"Right, Mom. Just like you're not trying to force me to go to college now." I pushed away from the table and got to my feet. "For the record, if five years from now I'm on the same track as Kelsey, I'll hate myself more than you could ever know." With that, I left the table and went into my room, slamming the door for good measure.

I stared at my bed, trying to figure out what to do. The night had barely started, but I wanted it to be over. I wanted to fast-forward past my dad coming back and the tense apologies on all sides. I wanted to fast-forward exactly three months; long enough that it would be behind all of us.

But that wouldn't solve anything, and I had too much energy to do anything productive. Even though I didn't feel like sleeping, I found myself kicking off my jeans and crawling into bed. I closed my eyes, trying to skirt away from dangerous thoughts.

I think that causing a fight between parents is a special kind of hell for a child, no matter how old they are. At the back of their mind, there's always the fear that that fight will result in divorce, that they'll be the reason an otherwise happy couple broke up. At least, that was how it was for me. I pictured my dad coming home with the papers, my mom signing willingly. I wouldn't have to go to college then, but the cost would be too high.

If it meant saving my parents' relationship, I'd do what Mom wanted. I absently wondered if that was how Kelsey had gotten talked into med school. No, it couldn't be. She'd never been as stubborn as me.

A knock on my door. It creaked open slowly, and I saw my dad standing there. He closed it behind him and took a seat on the foot of my bed. "It occurred to me that you're getting a good lesson out of this. Santana, if you don't go to college there will always be people out there who will judge you for it. If you carve your own path, people who were talked into walking the straight and narrow will never forgive you."

"I don't want them to. I don't want anyone's forgiveness." I swallowed past a lump in my throat. "All I want is to feel like there's some meaning in the world. Why is it so hard to get her to see that?"

"Because she was raised differently than you or I. I'm not saying that she's wrong... All I'm saying is that she has a different perspective. There are plenty of people who make it big in this world with nothing but their own intuition to guide them. I believe you're one of those. She doesn't."

"Yeah, well, I was never _her_ shooting star."

He gave me a sad smile. "You'll always be my shooting star, Santana. And I love you. But—oh god, this is hard for me to say—maybe you should put the sidekick thing on the back burner for a bit. Until she has some time to get used to the idea of you following your own path." He leaned down to kiss me on the forehead, and then he left.

Part of me hated him for that. Mom could have yelled and manipulated me for a lifetime and it wouldn't have changed my mind. But Dad? All he ever had to do was ask.

# Chapter 19

I couldn't talk myself into meeting up with Damien the next night. Or the night after that. After a few days of staying in, the whole Whisper and Ethereal story seemed like it had passed me by. I had some hazy ideas of stopping by to collect a check for the money I'd earned, but that would mean facing him. Admitting that I'd let my mother win.

Seven missed calls and fourteen un-answered texts later, it seemed like Damien got the idea. He stopped texting and calling, which made it even easier to forget.

About a month later, Brit and Benjamin asked if I wanted to hang out at a new spot they'd found while I was hanging out with Damien. It was in the southern part of town, and to get there I had to walk for at least half an hour. They both had cars, so it wasn't a big deal for them, but for me it meant a lot of time alone with my thoughts.

I stopped dead on the sidewalk. The old abandoned house was right in front of me, as old and abandoned as ever. I shook my head, ready to turn around and keep walking, when I spotted someone enter and close the front door behind them. The piece of me that had been affected the most by Damien took a step forward.

_This is a terrible idea. This is really stupid._ I took another step forward. My curiosity wouldn't let me stop, even though I knew the odds were good it was only the homeless man, returned to the house we'd so rudely tried to kick him out of.

A moment later I was at the door. I reached out to push it and it swung open, but there wasn't anyone inside. I reached into my backpack and found a pencil, figuring it would make a good weapon in a pinch.

I paused inside the doorway, but there wasn't anyone around. A noise at the top of the stairs made me jump, but I couldn't see anything there. The noise came again, and I decided to head up.

As I made my way up the stairs I stayed on the balls of my feet, willing them not to creak even though they did with every step. I kept looking around, but it wasn't until I got about halfway up that I saw a hooded figure perched on the railing.

The hooded figure swept back a black cape to reveal a spandex outfit scarily similar to the ones Damien had made for us. "Hello, Whisper. Or should I call you Santana?" Her voice sounded awful and raspy, like she was getting over a million year cold.

I rolled my eyes. "If this is Damien's way of roping me back in, tell him it's not gonna work. I promised my parents that I was done being his sidekick."

The figure cocked her head. She was wearing a heavy mask that covered almost her entire face and ended in wiry black hair that stuck out at a hundred different angles. "Roping you back in? Oh Whisper, you _are_ in. And there's no getting out." Before I had a chance to ask what the hell that meant she jumped off the railing, crashing into me.

I fell against the stairs. I grabbed at whatever I could, but before I could get a grasp of anything of value she was gone. I pushed myself to my feet, chasing after her.

The door to the basement was already closing by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs. I managed to get to it before it closed all the way, fighting whoever was on the other end for control of the knob. After a few seconds I relaxed for a single moment, and once she'd released I yanked hard. The door swung open, but she was already jogging down the stairs.

I ran after her, but her legs were so much longer than mine that I couldn't help falling behind with each step. By the time I reached the bottom she was completely out of sight; I turned toward where I'd heard her last, putting my fists up in case she wanted to attack me again.

Something slammed into my back, producing a horrible metallic ring and knocking me to the floor. My head hit the concrete hard, and next thing I knew I was fighting to stay conscious. I shook my head, holding back the coppery taste that threatened to overwhelm me.

The sound of someone running upstairs made me twist. I turned just in time to see the black cape and wiry black hair disappear. I scrambled to my feet, but not quickly enough. The door at the top of the stairs slammed, and then I heard that scratchy voice again.

"As you've no doubt guessed dear Whisper, I am the one they call Ribaldi. I had such grand plans for you. But now that you've left dear Ethereal, the only plan I have is for you to die. Divide and conquer, as they say."

At first I thought she was kidding, but a hissing sound made me turn. Brown smoke rushed out from under the walls, followed by a wave of heat that made me cringe. I sprinted to the top of the stairs, but the door handle was locked.

"Come on! This isn't funny!" No answer. I looked back; a flickering orange had filled the basement. The smoke was getting thicker. I couldn't hold back a cough. The thought that I'd actually die in that place brought tears to my eyes. I couldn't believe Ribaldi was real. I couldn't believe that I was honestly going to be murdered by someone who thought they were a supervillain.

I returned my attention to the door, twisting the handle with one hand while I pounded on it with the other. It wouldn't give at all, and the more time went on the harder it got to continue. The smoke blocked my vision, making it hard to see anything but a brown cloud.

"Help! Someone, please help!" I pounded harder on the door, but still nothing. I had an idea—that I might be able to knock the handle out and push the door open that way—but when I slammed a fist down on the handle it remained firmly locked in place.

I started back down the stairs, covering my mouth with my elbow as I did. At the bottom I spotted what I'd been looking for: the metal cylinder that Ribaldi must have used to hit me on the head. I picked it up and headed back up the stairs. The good news was that it was light enough to lift.

I raised it above the door handle and brought it down as hard as I could. The cylinder rebounded off, but I thought it looked like the handle had moved a little. So I did it again. Again, I thought I could see it move. One more time.

The worn wood cracked, creating space for the handle to fall into. I set the cylinder down and tried pushing the door one more time; this time it gave way easily, creaking as it opened to reveal the hallway and...

Damien. Or rather, I should say Ethereal, since he was dressed in full costume. His eyes narrowed when he saw me. "What are you doing here?"

"I saw someone run into the house, so I chased after them and... Hold on, what are _you_ doing here?" I gritted my teeth, waiting anxiously to hear what he had to say.

"Someone slipped a note through my window telling me that you'd be here, and that I should hurry if I wanted to save you." He held up a sheet of paper that someone had plastered cut-out letters onto, serial killer style. "Guess you didn't need saving after all."

"Guess not. Good thing, since you were standing there staring at the door instead of opening it. So how much did you pay the girl to trap me down there?"

He looked honestly confused. "Girl? What girl?"

"You know, the one who was playing Ribaldi. How much did you pay her? Fifty dollars? A hundred dollars?"

"I would _never_." His voice was low and steady, and for a moment I believed him. "I can't believe you would think I was associated with Ribaldi in any way. She's my sworn enemy. If I knew anything about her I'd bring her in. Make her pay the price for her years of crime and villainy."

"Huh." He certainly seemed sure of himself. I thought about it for a moment. It was a little easier to think outside of the basement, where smoke wasn't filling my lungs and I didn't have to worry about the rising flames. "So Ribaldi is real?"

He looked at me like I was an idiot. "Of course she is. What do you think we've been doing all this time? Chasing after a fantasy?"

The honest answer was obviously yes. But I bit my tongue.

"Still want to avoid me?" His voice had a mix of emotions that I had a hard time separating out. There was a betrayed tremble, a resigned monotone, and a little bit of a hopeful ring at the end.

I glanced back at the basement, where the fire seemed to have died down. Whoever Ribaldi was, she'd put me in real danger back there. But..."I promised my parents that I would stop."

"If someone made you promise not to be a good person I don't think that's a promise you should be held to."

"Maybe not, but I don't want to hurt him."

He sighed. "Alright. But if there ever comes a time where you feel like you can take up the mantle again, I'll be here."

# Chapter 20

The next couple of days passed by slowly. I hung out with Brit and Benjamin a lot, but we didn't do anything. There were no mall thieves to chase, no dog walkers to terrorize. I started to miss being Whisper.

Worse, my curiosity about Ribaldi was killing me. I'd believed Damien when he said he wasn't paying her, but that still left the question of who was behind the mask. No matter how much I tried to tell myself that I had to stick by the promise I'd made my parents, the question of Ribaldi's true identity kept me up at night.

A strange sound found its way into my dreams. An 'a-woo' like a wolf, but not quite right. It sounded flat, hollow. The sound came again.

I rolled over, accidentally taking my sheet with me. I opened one eye first, then the other. With a sigh I got up to correct it, but right when I was getting ready to go back to bed the a-woo sound from my dream repeated outside my window.

My whole body tensed up. I crept over to the blinds, peering through a slit on the right side. The a-woo came again, and this time I could see the outline of a head covered in black, close enough to know what it was but too far to make out more detail. I backed away from the blinds, careful not to disturb them.

It was related to Damien and Ribaldi and all the other crazies in our neighborhood. I was sure of that. Before I'd become Whisper, no one had bothered to a-woo outside my window. I slipped on a pair of athletic pants and a t-shirt. If the person who was a-wooing was outside of my window, that meant they had to be in the backyard. I knew the exact path to take so that whoever it was couldn't get away.

The way I saw it, there were two pretty good guesses: either it was Damien or the strange girl who thought she was Ribaldi. Or it could be someone else entirely. That thought made me shiver; I paused by the entrance to grab a heavy flashlight Dad always left there, figuring it could be used like a club if push came to shove. Plus, I could shine it on the howler to see who they were.

I was careful to keep the door quiet as I opened it and slipped out into the night. It was a dark one, with barely enough light to see the path leading to our back yard. I crouched down, feeling for the familiar rocks with a hand. Once I'd found them I started forward, taking slow steps in the hope that I could sneak up on whoever was bothering me.

It took me longer than I want to admit to sneak around to the unfenced yard. So long that the howler stopped. I started walking faster, praying that he or she hadn't left. If it was Damien, I would know the whole Ribaldi thing was made up. If it was Ribaldi, maybe I could unmask her.

Thankfully, the figure dressed in all black was still there when I got to the back yard. They were on tiptoes, looking into my window. Probably trying to figure out whether I was even still in there. I waited until I was about fifteen feet away before falling into a run.

The howler spotted me and yelped. He—based on the yelp, it was definitely a he—turned away, running in the direction I'd been expecting. All the way to my neighbors' fences, then left. I chased him into the three-foot gap between two of the fences, slowing only long enough to turn my flashlight on.

He lost ground with each step, especially when he reached the end of the alley. The wooden slats of another fence blocked off the path he'd been running down, leaving him with no option but to head for a back yard with a slightly open gate. It took him a second to spot it.

The house—whose owners I'd never met—had a generous pool and a gate that was only held closed on the back by a bit of bungee cord. He worked it off and slipped through; I almost caught him, but he was too quick.

I shoved the gate open wider and followed him into the yard. "Okay, what's with the howling outside my window? Are you crazy or something?"

He glanced from side to side, backing away from me as I walked forward. But he didn't answer.

"Look, I grew up in this neighborhood. I know most of these houses pretty well. There's no quick way out of this one except for that gate you just came through. And to get to it you'll have to get past me."

The raspy sound of Ribaldi's voice came from over my shoulder. "Who says he's trying to get out? We've got you right where we want you." I turned, and my heart nearly stopped.

Ribaldi was standing at the gate in full costume. Behind her there were at least half a dozen people. They were all dressed black like the howler; they stared at me silently, as if they were waiting to see what I would do.

My first thought was how terrible it would be if I died there. It would be the worst—and weirdest—gang murder ever. My second thought was that Ribaldi wouldn't actually kill me, because... well, what kind of person would come up with a such an elaborate plan to kill a high school girl? It would be so much easier to strangle me in bed or something.

I wasn't sure about that, though. And that uncertainty made my arms shake. "Well, you've got me here. What are you gonna do now?"

"Hmm, I haven't decided yet. You escaped my first death trap, so this seemed like the obvious next step. As you said, no escape here."

"So you're going to kill me?" I hated myself for the tremble in my voice.

"Yes, I think that's the plan. Get her, my hearts." She turned aside, and the half dozen boys and girls behind her charged.

I raised my flashlight, but once they got through the gate I could see that there were too many to try and fight. I tried to take off, but something grabbed my ankle, tripping me. I fell against the concrete walkway surrounding the pool. My arms hit first; I tried to roll out of the way of the rush of boys, but the grip on my ankle wouldn't let up. It was the howler; I brought the knee of the leg he was holding to my chest while slamming down with the other. I heard a pitiful moan and then a splash, and then the rest were on me.

They grabbed my arms, twisting them behind my back painfully. Someone produced a rope, and they managed to tie my wrists together. At some point the flashlight fell; I could hear the glass break. A dozen different hands lifted me to my knees, and I was left face-to-face with Ribaldi.

She leaned down to look me in the eyes, but her mask covered so much of her face that all I could see was the reflection off of what might have been a pair of sunglasses. "Do you know who I am?"

"Obviously. You only told me who you were about a week ago. You're Ribaldi. Or someone Damien's paying to pretend to be Ribaldi."

She took a step back,like I'd offended her. "I would never! You're the only one here who's low enough to accept money for your services. But you're right about one part of that. I _am_ Ribaldi, and I've brought you here to deliver a message to Ethereal. He'd better keep a close watch on this precious neighborhood of his, because I'm planning on burning it to the ground."

"Wait," a young voice said from behind me. "I thought we were going to burn the whole world..."

Ribaldi let out an exhausted huff. "Not yet. The whole point is that we're supposed to start by threatening the city and then expand to the state, then the world. You can't just start with threatening to destroy the world! Where's the intelligent progression there? Where's the sense of enjoyment? We have to be able to appreciate what we've accomplished along the way."

She refocused on me. "Okay, pretend you didn't hear that. We're going to destroy the world I guess, because some of my lackeys can't keep their mouths shut." That got a laugh out of the 'lackeys.' "But I want you and Ethereal to try your hardest to make it a challenge for us. That means you have to be out patrolling, trying to stop us at every turn. I want to watch you squirm when you realize that we're going to succeed. I want you to agonize over the knowledge that you failed. That's the message I want you to bring to Ethereal."

"Wait, I thought you wanted to kill me. Divide and conquer, remember?"

Another huff. "No, that was last week. Now this is what I want. I'm trying to go for the whole unpredictable villain thing. Who knows? Maybe next week I'll want something totally crazy." She stood up. "Someone get Tommy out of the pool, please. And take Whisper back to her house."

"Should we untie her?" the boy who'd spoken before asked. "My dad made me promise to bring the rope back."

"Yeah, whatever. Drop her off at her house, make sure she can't chase you, and then you can take the rope off. And _you..._ " She looked at me. "Don't forget to bring my message to Ethereal. No more hiding at home. He needs to be out there trying to stop us."

The last few minutes had been enough to get rid of any fear I had of actually getting hurt. I nodded, recognizing that she was playing a game just as much as Damien. "Okay, I'll tell him."

# Chapter 21

It took me a while to figure out how to feel about the whole Ribaldi thing. If she was playing a game then we would probably be safe. But coming to my house made me believe that it wasn't the kind of game I could quit when I got bored.

As long as going along with it was the only way out, I decided that I couldn't be faulted for going back on my promise to my parents. I asked Damien about being his sidekick again, on the condition that I'd be done when Ribaldi was. Once he'd agreed I told him about her message.

I had a feeling it would cause problems if I tried to leave the house in costume, but thankfully I managed to talk Damien into an incognito day. He showed up outside my house at the exact minute we'd agreed on, honking his horn once to let me know he was there.

I rolled off the couch and got to my feet, nodding at Mom as I left. She didn't seem to think anything was wrong; I considered telling her that I was going out to interview for a job, but she wouldn't believe that. So instead, I opened up the door and jogged over to the passenger side of Damien's car.

I climbed into the car and sat down next to him.

"Where did Ribaldi accost you, Whisper?" he asked. "We should probably start there."

"Around the block. Here, I can show you. Take the first right you can."

He turned the car on and started driving.

"Okay, right here. Then... yeah, another right. And it should be about halfway down the block. Alright, stop here." I waited for him to roll to a stop before hopping out of the car.

It took me a moment to figure out how to get over the fence blocking us from the alley where Ribaldi and her minions had attacked me. It was one of those standard wood ones with cross bars like ladder rungs on one side, but unfortunately we weren't on the side with the cross bars. I grabbed a metal trash can and pulled it over. Something crunched under my foot; when I lifted it to check it was covered in bits of red candy, like someone had tossed a jolly rancher in the dirt.

I sighed and brought the trash can the rest of the way over. After a moment to climb on top of it and get my feet under me, I grabbed the fence and tried to get one leg over. Once it was clear I kicked off with my other foot, grimacing as splinters dug into my palms.

"Shouldn't there be a gate somewhere?" Damien asked, looking around like it would appear in front of him.

"There probably should be. But there isn't. Now come on. If you wanna see where it happened, you have to climb."

He nodded. He got a weird look in his eye and raised his arms like an Olympic sprinter, and next thing I knew he was running straight at the fence.

I braced myself, leaning low against the top of the fence so I wouldn't be knocked off by the inevitable impact. When he hit the fence the whole thing shook, but I could see his hands wrapped around a post just a few feet away from me. I raised my head and saw his feet scraping frantically against the wood, struggling to get higher.

"You have to push out against it, not straight down," I said. "If you push down they slip, but if you push out you can work your way up." Seriously. It was like he'd never climbed a fence before in his life.

His cheeks puffed in and out three times a second. After a few more tries his way he seemed to give up and switch to my method. His feet stopped scraping and he managed to get a little bit higher. I swung my back leg the rest of the way over, stood on the crossbar of the fence, and worked my way over to where he was. As he kept rising I pulled him up by his shoulders, and we started to make good progress.

After about a minute or two more he managed to sneak a leg over and log roll to the other side.

I hopped off the fence and backed off a few feet. "Would've been easier to use the trash can."

"Trash cans can break. I don't want to damage anyone's property."

"Huh." I didn't know what to say to that. Trash cans near fences were natural boosters. I'd been using them since I was a little kid, and I'd never broken a single one. Bent? Sure. Accidentally kicked out from under me? Oh yeah. But never broken.

I turned to the back yard with the pool. The gate had been shut, but the boards were far enough apart to see through. "There's where it happened. I chased after one of her minions and they cornered me, and she said she was planning to destroy the whole world."

"Hmm. Interesting. Most interesting." He pressed his face against one of the slats. "Looks like a normal pool to me."

"Did you think it wouldn't be normal?"

"No, that's not what I meant. What I mean is that I can't see any clues. Normally villains like this leave something for the hero to find. Otherwise there's no game in it."

"Wait, no game?" For a moment, I let myself hope that he was realizing the whole superhero thing wasn't real.

"Yes. Villains love to play games with those they mean to destroy. They leave clues and threaten and they torture us like a cat with a mouse. It doesn't make sense to me that there wouldn't be a clue. It's like Ribaldi has us caught but isn't playing any games."

Or not. "Maybe she just wanted me to give you the threat?"

"No no, there would be easier ways to threaten us if that was all she wanted to do. This was meant to be something else. Keep your eyes open, Whisper. I wouldn't be surprised if we get ambushed in broad daylight." He pointed to the alley entrance in front of us. "Is that where you came in last night?"

"Yeah. That way leads to my back yard."

"Perfect. Then that's where we'll go. Retrace your steps, so to speak." He started walking in that direction, his head whipping around like he was having a seizure.

We made it to the end of the alley, and he asked me to point him in the direction of my house. I did, and we made it about ten feet into the open space before he paused. He looked down, then back up, then at me. "Whisper, why is the ground so... red?"

I followed his eyes. "Oh wow. Weird." It looked like someone had spilled a whole bag of red hots in the grass. I shrugged and was about to continue when Damien took off toward the nearest tree. He scrambled up it, helped by several low-hanging branches. Once he was part of the way up he turned back to look at me.

"Whisper, take a few steps back."

I backed out of the pile of red hots, watching my feet so that I wouldn't accidentally step on any.

"A ha!" Damien gave a loud whoop. "Whisper, we've found our clue! We've found our clue! I told you we'd find one!" He dropped to the ground and bounded over, a grin plastered on his face. He didn't bother to explain until he was close. "They're in the shape of a broken heart. Ribaldi's symbol. Whisper, it's Ribaldi's symbol!"

"Seriously? No freaking way." I waved him off, since he looked like he was about to do something with the candies. "Don't touch it. I have to see this first."

I went over to the tree and climbed the same branches he had, although I didn't bother to go quite as high. When I looked at the candies, it seemed about fifty-fifty to me; either they were really in the shape of a broken heart, or someone had just stomped through the pile and not bothered to pick them up.

Once it was clear I'd seen, Damien returned his attention to the ground. He shoved the candies off in either direction and started shoveling fistfuls of dirt with his hands.

"This was recently disturbed," he said once I'd made it back. "Did you notice while you were up there? It's in the center of where the symbol was, and it was recently disturbed. I bet..." He reached into the dirt and pulled out a plastic water bottle, holding it up like a first place trophy. He flipped it over and unscrewed the cap and a piece of paper fell out.

As much as I hate to admit it, I felt my pulse pick up a little. I leaned in, just as anxious to see what it was as Damien had to be. He opened it, revealing a bunch of writing.

"Congratulations...you've unraveled the... your prize is death and misery..." His brow knitted as he read. "You'll never find me... never stop me. I am the thief in the night, the scythe of despair. Yours truly, Ribaldi."

"That doesn't sound like a clue," I said. "It sounds like she's taunting us."

"Yes, it does. Like a cat with a mouse." He flipped the paper over. "Huh, it's blank."

"So what's the plan? Wait for Ribaldi to do something else?"

"No, of course not. We examine this for more clues. The water bottle, the candies... they're all clues. If we follow enough threads, one of them eventually has to lead to Ribaldi."

"Huh." I didn't say anything, but I couldn't see how red hots and a water bottle would show us where Ribaldi was. Then again, I hadn't expected her to leave anything for us to find in the first place. "What do you wanna do next?"

"Gather everything here. Then we do one more sweep and—if we don't find anything—we reconvene to analyze what we have."

"Can I read the note first? I wanna see exactly what she said."

He handed it to me, and I started reading:

_Congratulations, you've uncovered the great puzzle. Your prize is death and misery. You'll never find me. You'll never stop me. I am the thief in the night, the scythe of despair. I'll wash upon this town like a cleansing rain of the spirit. By the time you find out what I'm planning it will be too late. You'll only be able to watch it all_ _burn_ _._

Yours truly,

Ribaldi

"So?" Damien asked. "What do you think?"

"'Watch it all burn.' That sounds pretty aggressive." I frowned, my eyes landing on the water bottle. Or rather, what I'd assumed was a water bottle. "Damien, is that a lemonade bottle?"

He looked at the label. "Yeah, I think so. So what?"

"So..." It seemed significant, but I couldn't figure out why. "Why do you think it would be in a lemonade bottle? A water bottle would be so much easier."

An excited look filled his eyes. "It's a clue! Whisper, you've found a clue! Now you need to follow it... Why would lemonade be important?"

"It wouldn't be." I looked back to Ribaldi's note. "Wait. 'Burn' is underlined. 'Watch it all _burn_.' What if that's a clue too?"

The excited look fled from Damien's face. "Okay, now you've lost me."

"Lemonade! You can use it to write secret messages! Messages that show up under heat. Or fire. Benjamin did a science experiment on it in eighth grade. A bottle of lemonade would be enough to write an entire essay on the back of this."

His eyes widened again. "Whisper, you're a genius! We have to reveal it immediately!"

"Okay, we'll need an oven or a lighter or something."

"Back to the Ethereal-mobile, then? I'm sure my uncle has a lighter lying around somewhere."

"Well..." I paused. "I mean, my house is _right_ here. Although you couldn't tell my parents this is related to superhero business." It felt strange offering my house to him. Like I was finally admitting we'd become friends.

Based on the softness in his eyes, he felt the same thing. He stared at me for a moment, then looked away. "That sounds like a good plan to me. Don't worry, I can protect both of our secret identities. Although there are other ways to get a lighter if—"

"No no, it won't be a problem. We're right here. It would be crazy to drive somewhere else just for a lighter. Here, follow me." As I led the way to my back yard, I didn't quite know how to feel. My chest tightened, but I shook it off.

I could see Dad's car in the driveway once we turned the corner. When I unlocked the door and stepped inside—with Damien standing a couple steps behind me—Dad was sitting at the dinner table while Mom checked the oven.

My dad noticed me first. "Carmen," he said, keeping his eyes on his newspaper. "I think someone's breaking in."

Mom straightened. "You're home a little early, Santana. Did you get bored of hanging out with... Who's that?"

I gestured to Damien. "This is Damien. Damien, these are my parents."

He gave a half-bow. "Nice to meet you. We have urgent business, so if we could borrow a lighter we'll be out of your hair soon."

"Nonsense." Dad said. "You have to come eat with us. We couldn't very well send one of Santana's friends away hungry. Isn't that right, Carmen?"

She looked at me in a way that seemed to say 'I know exactly who this is, and I'm not happy about it.' "Sure, he can eat with us. I'll set another place at the table."

We both took a seat. Mom stared at me with one eyebrow raised, no doubt trying to determine whether Damien was a real friend or if bringing him over was a sign that I was ready for round two of the earlier argument. I smiled back at her as calmly as I could, hoping it would tell her that he was only a friend. Even if that was a lie.

After a few tense minutes to let the pot roast finish cooking, we all grabbed a plate and had dinner. Afterward, I grabbed a lighter from my room and we heated the paper to reveal a map. Damien took it home, with a promise that we'd find out where it led tomorrow.

# Chapter 22

"I think we're here," Damien said, holding up the lemon juice map. "But I don't see anything."

"Me either." The map had taken us to a bike trail near school, but it wasn't detailed enough to show us where we needed to go on that trail. There wasn't even an x marking the spot or anything like that.

"This seems like an ambush to me. Keep your eyes open, Whisper." Damien fell into a sort of crouch. He walked to the edge of the trail and off of it, into a dip near the stream where the grass grew thick.

I couldn't help noticing that once we were there we actually made a lot more noise; there was less crunching like there had been on the trail, but the grass swished with every step and I had to look down to make sure I didn't twist my foot on a hidden branch or rock. Damien gestured for me to crouch, so I did until I was at the same level as him.

"I'm going to start walking in _that_ direction," he whispered. "And I want you to follow me. Keep quiet and keep your eyes open. There's no telling who could pop up. If it's Ribaldi, we need to be ready to fight."

"Got it. I'll keep my eyes open."

We made our slow way through the grass, moving at a pace that made me yawn more than once. Every time I did Damien turned back to glare at me, as if that was what would give us away. Not the fact that we were dressed in costumes or that we were swishing through the grass.

I stood up. "Damien, I think I see something." I squinted at the split in the trail ahead, not sure whether what I was looking at could really be... I ran toward it, ignoring Damien's hissing to stay hidden,

The closer I got to the tree, the clearer the image in the bark became. I slowed to a stop a few feet away, tracing the broken-heart outline with my eyes. It had been done with red spray paint that looked a little faded, but from so close there was no denying it was Ribaldi's symbol.

I waved Damien over and he broke out of his cover, running half-folded to where I was. "Whisper, what was that?"

"Nothing. I saw this and I had to check it out. What do you think it means?"

Damien frowned. "I assume it means Ribaldi's claimed this area. We should be extra cautious."

"You don't think it might be another clue?"

"I doubt it. We've already gotten our clue, and now it's up to us to follow it. This isn't some stupid treasure hunt, where we get a new clue at each step."

"Okay. Well, I think it means we should go left at this fork."

"Hmm." He pursed his lips. "Why do you think that?"

"Because that's the side of the trail it's on."

"No, that would be too obvious." He frowned. "But I guess we need to pick a side of the fork to take, and going left will be just as good as going right."

"Cool. Do you wanna take the lead again?"

"Okay. But stay hidden this time. No matter what." He fell back into his crouch-walk position and started forward.

The grass on the other side of the path was too low to hide us, but I didn't say anything about it. I continued as the trees thinned and revealed an open space where a group of children were playing tag. After a while Damien straightened, walking a little faster like he was impatient to find some trace of Ribaldi.

The path crossed a four lane street, forcing us to wait for a few minutes while the light changed. Damien paced back and forth, picking at his nails nervously. "What if this is the wrong direction? I'm sure we're almost off the map by now."

"Let's keep going. The trail hasn't ended yet."

"The trail's several miles long. What do you want to do? Walk all the way to the end?"

"Maybe. What other option do we have?"

"We could go back to the fork in the road and go right. That's the right way. I can feel it."

"Well, I feel like _this_ is the right way. And it's the side the symbol was on."

He exhaled loudly. "We're wasting our time here. Don't ask me how I know. Call it hero's intuition or—"

"We can walk now." I stepped into the crosswalk.

Damien hesitated, but after a moment he followed. We kept walking along the trail, keeping our eyes open for any signs of Ribaldi.

"Get down!" The whisper had so much urgency that I pressed myself flat to the ground immediately, scraping my knees in the process. I looked back at Damien.

He pointed to a group of trees at least a hundred feet down the trail. It took me a moment to spot the outline of someone slipping inside. They were dressed in all black with a matching ski mask, like one of Ribaldi's minions.

Damien crawled over to me. "Never mind, I guess you were right. That was definitely some sort of villain."

"Yeah. So what are we going to do?"

He took a moment to answer. "We can't go this way. Too obvious. They're probably waiting for us to try it. But if we could sneak up on them, it might be a good opportunity to capture one and figure out what Ribaldi's planning."

"You want to fight them?"

"Let's find out how many there are first. That one could be alone, but if there are more we won't have much of a chance. Here, come with me."

He lifted himself back to his feet and went to the side of the trail where the stream was running. We kicked up gravel and dust as we made our way down to the sandy bank. There was a good four foot lip to hide us from the rest of the trail there, although I wasn't optimistic about our ability to stay quiet.

Damien took a step forward, but stopped at the loud crunching sound. "Do you think it would help to take our shoes off?"

"I don't think that would be a good idea. What if we need to run away?"

"Good point. Wouldn't be smart to sacrifice maneuverability for stealth." He left his shoes on and started forward slowly. After a few steps he seemed to get the hang of it, making less noise than before.

For what it was worth, I tried to stay quiet too. There was a certain skill to it; three parts that each provided their own challenges. First, there was picking a spot for the next step. It had to be soft sand that would squelch instead of crunch. Second, there was the step itself. I found a smooth motion was best: lift, step, and roll forward.

Then there was the skill of quietly lifting a foot after the step. That was a bit harder. I pictured it as keeping my foot as flat as possible against the ground, under the belief that the noise came from having my weight concentrated on a small surface. Once I had some practice with all three components, I stopped grimacing every time I stepped.

Damien lifted his head for a single moment, then gestured for me to stop. He got close enough to whisper, "Only a bit farther. There are some trees up ahead we can hide behind, but I don't think we'll be able to talk once we're there. So here's the plan. If I do this..." He made a throat-slitting motion with his hand. "It means abort. And of course, thumbs up means go."

"Thumbs up means go. Got it." I shook out my shoulders, preparing myself to sneak up the bank.

I started forward, putting one foot on a branch sticking out from the incline. I put my other on a hard clod of dirt, and then I could see into the group of trees.

There were four figures there, sitting on a downed log facing away from us. They were obviously talking, but I couldn't hear a word of it. I got my knees under me and crawled over to the nearest tree, almost forgetting stealth in my anxiousness to hear what they were saying.

Once I got behind the tree and stopped moving, I found it was quiet enough to hear their conversation. "... Don't know what we're doing out here. We should've picked a place we could get to without walking so much." The boy's voice sounded young; so young that I would've thought he was a girl if it hadn't broken around the fifth word.

"Oh, stop complaining. The whole point of this is to have a good time. You don't..."

The sound of Damien climbing up the bank must have been what made them pause. He'd kicked a rock loose, and it had clattered down to the stream. I didn't dare to move, since I was sure they had to be looking in my direction.

"Anyway," the second boy said, raising his voice louder, "Once Ribaldi finishes her death machine we won't have to worry about where our camp is. No one will have to worry about where our camp is."

"You mean 'cause they'll all be dead?" a third voice asked.

"Yeah." The second voice. "I just wish she didn't spend so much time around the warehouses. Place gives me the creeps."

"But that's where..."

"Shut it. Do you want Ethereal and Whisper to find out? She said they're the only two that can stop us."

"Oh, please. It's not like they're gonna overhear us. They can't be everywhere, you know."

"You'd be surprised. Ribaldi said they got our girl at the mall, and she was one of our best. What do you think they'd do with you?"

"They wouldn't do anything with me. I'd kick their butts! Just... hycha! And... kya!"

I'd almost lost myself in the trail of their conversation, but the sound of scraping against a tree as Damien finally got into position made me look up. A moment later he looked out past his hiding place.

"Ethereal!" the second voice said. "How nice of you to join us! I take it that means Whisper's here somewhere?" I heard the sound of several rushing steps and scrambled to get to my feet.

The first boy came into view and I jumped him, grabbing him by the shoulders and throwing him to the ground. Someone grabbed onto my elbow, so I let them have it. By which I mean that I shoved my elbow into their gut, using the momentum to spin around and face them.

The boy staggered back, obviously hurting. I felt too bad for him to press the advantage like I normally would have, but then he came at me. He landed a painful hook on my cheek that brought tears to my eyes. I ducked under the next one and shoved him hard in the stomach. This time when he staggered back, I kicked him in the knee.

Something hit the small of my back hard. I let out a silent cry as waves of nauseous pain hit me. My eyes happened to pass by Damien on my way to the ground; they stayed just long enough to see the two boys who'd attacked him turn to run.

I shook my head, telling myself it was two on two. More importantly, whoever had hit me in the back obviously wasn't playing around. I rolled to face him, but he was already half a dozen feet away.

His friend—the one I'd kicked in the knee—was pulling him by the arm. "Come on! We have to go! We have to go!"

"Naw, let me get them! I can kick both their butts! I can do it!"

"I know, I know, but we have to go." He'd barely said it when Damien came into sight, sprinting full-on toward them. The boy who'd been protesting turned to run away.

It would have been a very heroic moment if Damien had been a bit faster. As it was, the other boys managed to put a little bit more space between them with every step, until all three were out of sight. I sighed and tried to get up.

My back didn't hurt as much as it had at first. That was good. It was certainly nowhere near as bad as when I'd fallen out of the tree after rescuing Damien's cat. With that thought, I managed to make it the rest of the way up. I went to the trail and started walking in the direction I'd seen Damien and the other boys go.

I wound up retracing almost all of our initial path. Across the street and past the open space. All the way back to the fork, where Damien was standing with his hands resting on both knees. He looked up at me. "They got away. I didn't even manage to capture one of them." His voice sounded tired, defeated.

"I don't think it matters. I heard their conversation before you came up. I know where Ribaldi is."

The revelation seemed to breathe new life into him. He stopped panting and stood up straight. "You did? Where is she?"

"The warehouses. The one boy said they gave him the creeps."

"The warehouses! I should have known it!" He slammed a fist into his open hand. "Of course Ribaldi would think to keep her machine of world destruction there!"

"Yeah, it makes sense." Not exactly inventive, if I did say so myself. But at least it made sense. "Are you sure you want to go there, Damien?"

"What do you mean?"

"The warehouses. They can be dangerous. And I'm pretty sure the people who own them don't want kids crawling around all their machines."

"They'll have to deal with it. I'm willing to do whatever's necessary to stop Ribaldi. The question is whether _you're_ willing to go there."

I paused. It felt like a big step. There were no trespassing signs and hardhat signs all over those warehouses. If we got caught, we'd be in big trouble. And I doubted they'd go easy on us because we were kids; that excuse worked for ten year-olds, not seventeen year-olds.

But I knew if I didn't go, Damien would go without me. There was no telling what trouble he might get into then.

# Chapter 23

"You worry too much, Whisper. No one's even going to know we were here." Damien pulled on the chain keeping the fence closed; it gave way about a foot. He looked back at me and smiled. "Almost like the good guys wanted us to get in. Come on, we have to stop Ribaldi."

I didn't even bother trying to tell him how stupid the idea was. Not again. He'd only shrug it off. Again. I slipped through after him, holding up the flashlight he'd given me.

The rows of warehouses rose up before us, each one several stories high. The metal doors were all closed, but I had a feeling they'd be about as hard to get past as the gate. Damien started forward, heading straight for the first one.

He stepped up to the door, but it didn't move when he pulled the handle. He frowned, took a step back. "Gotta be another way in." Without waiting for me to answer he went along the concrete wall, shining his flashlight at every window we went past.

The light stopped at a second-floor window that someone had left halfway open. Damien looked over his shoulder at me. "I'm gonna climb up, okay? Can you spot me?"

"Oh, no way. No, you're not climbing up there. How would you even do it?"

"Easy. There's a ladder for the fire escape a bit farther down. So all I have to do is run at the wall, jump off at an angle and grab onto the lowest rung. Then I'll climb up to the second floor and work my way along the ledge to the window. Then roll over the top of the window, and we're in."

I snorted without meaning to. "Damien, I've seen you climb. You have trouble with things like trees and fences. There's no way you could do that."

"Of course I can. At the very least, I have to try." He lowered his voice. "This is Ribaldi we're talking about, Whisper. There's nothing I wouldn't do to stop her."

If that was how he felt, I had the feeling Ribaldi was going to be the death of him. "Nope. I'm not going to let you try it. Let's at least check the other warehouses first. Maybe one of them has an open door or a window you can use."

"Hmm." He touched his lips with a finger as he thought. "I think that might not be a bad idea. Better save my energy in case I need it later. Okay, we'll keep looking." He turned toward the next building in the row, making a quick circuit around it before moving on to another.

As we went along, I kept hoping we'd find an easy way in. If we didn't, I wasn't sure how I'd stop him from climbing up the fire escape. Or attempting to, at least. I shined a light on a closed window that was so dirty I couldn't see inside. What were my options if none of the warehouses had an easy entrance?

I could try dragging him away, but then he'd probably try to fight me. I could break a window, but that would be vandalism. Also not a good option. Unfortunately, the only other choice was to cross my fingers and hope.

The next warehouse was a bust, just like the others. Worse, we'd reached the end of the row. Damien moved to the other row of warehouses, walking along them with a kind of frantic purpose. I went a bit more slowly.

Maybe that was why I saw it and he didn't. "Hey, Damien! Come here!"

He jogged over immediately, his eyes wide like an excited puppy. "What? What is it?"

"Look. This window's unlocked." I tried to move it, and sure enough it slid open. Not very quickly or very easily, but it eventually gave in. I aimed my flashlight inside, where a bunch of box-shaped machines were sitting motionless.

Damien stepped forward, almost pushing me out of the way in his rush to get inside. He worked one leg inside, then the other, and then his entire body through. I followed after, grunting as my back leg caught on the sill.

We searched every inch of the first floor, but there wasn't anything there other than the box-shaped machines. We went up to the second floor, which was almost entirely open. Above us—on the third and last floor—dangled something that looked like a full-sized version of one of those claw games. For a moment I pictured a really big person looking down at us through the windows, excitedly putting in their quarter in the hopes of winning a Santana doll or a Damien action figure.

The wood floor creaked underneath my feet with every step as I made my way over to a pile of boxes stacked against the wall. I inspected the sides, hoping that they might say something about what they contained, but when I shined my flashlight on them they were blank.

The more I thought about it, the harder it was to explain what the crane was for. It seemed to me like it had to be for moving something heavy, but there wasn't anything heavy that was close enough for it to reach. Maybe the workers moved heavy things under it during the day, and all the crane did was lift from the second to the third floor.

"Do you see Ribaldi's symbol anywhere?" Damien asked. He was so close to my shoulder that I nearly jumped.

"Nope, not yet. I don't think we'll find it in here, though. She... wouldn't be so obvious." I stopped myself from saying that it was extremely unlikely she or her minions had ever been inside any of the warehouses, much less that one in particular.

"No, you're right. This is something we need to unravel for ourselves." He sighed. "Well, I hate to say it, but I don't think this is the machine she's working on. It doesn't look like it could destroy the world."

Visions of him climbing up the fire escape jumped into my mind. "No! No, I think this is it. You're just not looking at it the right way. It can't look like any old world-destroying machine when she's not working on it. It has to blend in with everything else in the warehouse. But what if when she's working on it, the crane lifts up and becomes like a giant antenna?"

"Giant antenna?" He pressed his lips together tightly. "Don't be ridiculous, Whisper."

"Okay, maybe not a giant antenna. But it can't hurt to look a little more, right? You don't want to pass right by her machine because she was good at hiding it, do you?"

"No, I guess not. But we have seven more warehouses to get to. I don't want to waste too much time."

My heart sank. It sounded like he was intent to search the whole yard until he found Ribaldi's project. Or something that he could reasonably think was Ribaldi's project.

"Hey, look at this!" A moment later yellow fluorescent lights turned on. I saw Damien standing at a panel of switches; he flipped another one and immediately took off for the stairs.

"What did you do?" I asked as he passed.

He spun around, running backward as he answered. "The switch said it turned on the crane. I'm gonna test it, make sure it isn't dangerous."

"Wait, that might not be a good idea. What if...?" I trailed off, since he obviously wasn't listening. He made his way up the stairs and over to another panel that seemed to control the crane. He fiddled with it for a bit; he pressed one button and a chain jumped up, nearly snaring him by the waist as it fell out into the space above me.

It was in a sort of loose sling shape, like it was meant to be fit around something large. Each link was about two inches long and as thick as one of my fingers. The warehouse was filled with tinkling as it swung back and forth.

"Damien! This is a bad idea! We don't even know what half of those buttons do." I couldn't see his face at the controls, but I was sure he still wasn't paying any attention to me.

I heard a mechanical rumbling. The crane twisted ever-so-slightly. There was a horrible crunch. A scream. Then, "Turn it off! Turn it off!"

It took a moment for my mind to catch up with what had just happened. I sprinted over to the switch panel and yanked a set of keys out of it, hoping that would turn the machine off completely. Sure enough, the rumbling stopped. The screaming didn't, though.

I was up the stairs before I was even aware of making the choice to climb them. Damien was standing in the same spot as before, his left arm twisted out at a painful angle. "Are you okay?" I slowed down a little, trying to figure out what had happened.

He stared back with a pale, sweating grimace. "What does it look like? Just get me out of here!"

"Can you move your arm?" I took another step forward, twisting my head to get a better view of his hand. A piece of plastic blocked me from seeing the details, but it looked like it must have gotten trapped between the base of the machine and the part that had twisted.

His breaths came out quickly, as shallow as a series of gasps. "I can't do it, Whisper. Help me get it out. Please."

I tried grabbing his wrist—gently—and pulling it out—gently—but it wouldn't budge. I used a little more force, but there still wasn't any give.

My eyes turned to the control panel he was still standing in front of. "Okay, I think we need to turn it back on. You can make the crane move the other way and then pull your hand out. Alright?"

"No. No, I don't want to. What if it crushes my hand more?"

"It won't. All you have to do is press _this_ button." I pointed to one of four yellow buttons with an arrow in the direction we wanted the crane to twist. "I'll put the keys back in and then tell you when you can go. Sound good?"

He pressed his lips together tightly, but after a moment he nodded.

"It'll be over before you know it. Don't worry." I squeezed his shoulder for support before heading back downstairs.

A few seconds to find the right key on the key ring—which was easy because it was the smallest one—and then I put it back in and turned. The lights came on and I heard the machine grumble to life. "Now, Damien! Press the button!"

He didn't need to be told twice. The crane spun faster than I would've thought possible, carrying the basket chain with it. I heard a grunt, then a whimper, and then Damien was thanking God. I took that as a good sign.

# Chapter 24

There's a funny thing about hospitals: when a boy shows up late at night with a broken arm, they tend to ask questions. Like how he broke it. And who I was. Where his parents were.

And worst of all, where _my_ parents were. I wasn't going to tell them, but once they brought in an official-looking man with horn-rimmed glasses I sort of panicked and told them how to get in touch with my parents. Which, of course, they immediately did. I could hear my mother's yelling through the speaker, even though I was almost four feet away from the man when he called.

By the time they came to retrieve me, there was no question that I was grounded. I didn't even try to argue the point; I stopped by the room where they'd put Damien to say goodbye, and then I followed my parents out.

As we drove home, I couldn't shake the feeling that he blamed me for what had happened. He'd barely recognized that I was in the room, and when I'd tried to squeeze his good hand it had been perfectly limp. It was like he was giving me the silent treatment. But I hadn't done anything wrong. After a few minutes dwelling on it, I decided to add Damien's anger to the list of problems stirred up by our trip to the warehouse.

There was also the problem of the warehouse keys. Once Damien had gotten free I'd pulled them out, and in the rush of getting him to the hospital I'd forgotten they were in my pocket. So I had a set of keys to a random warehouse that I would probably never visit again. I couldn't give them back or tell my parents, since that would get me in even more trouble. So they had a permanent spot on my nightstand.

I went to school like normal the next Monday, counted the hours until lunchtime, and once the time came I went down to the cafeteria to meet up with Brit and Benjamin. They were sitting at one of the gray plastic tables, and beside them... Damien. I nodded at him, but he barely even acknowledged me.

"Hey Santana," Brit said. "How's prison?"

"It's good. I'm still in solitary, but in a few days I think I'll riot."

"A breakout would probably be better."

"Yeah, probably." I shrugged, taking a seat across from her and next to Benjamin.

"Well, you should talk to Damien. He said his uncle wasn't letting him do anything. Even took away his car. Isn't that right, Damien?"

He gave a weird sort of head bob in response. My eyes couldn't help jumping down to the cast around his left arm. I coughed into a hand, wishing Brit and Benjamin would leave long enough for me to ask him where we stood.

"Well, awkward silence," Brit said. "Benjamin dearest, what's new with you? Any exciting stories to share with us?"

"I mean, nothing like sneaking into a warehouse and breaking my wrist." He glanced at me with a wry smile. "Or stealing the keys from a warehouse. I've just been focusing on my studies."

Brit snorted. "Like hell you have."

"No, seriously. I wanna pull my GPA up this year. The counselor said I might be able to get into community college, and if I do well then maybe real college after."

"Community college _is_ real college," Damien said, so quietly I almost missed it. "The focus is different. That's all. Community colleges are more focused on trades and applicable skills. Traditional colleges are all about 'well-round students' and building your skill base. Look, what kind of job do you want to end up in? That's the real question."

It was almost like he was a different person. The way he talked about colleges was so different from the way he talked about heroism.

Benjamin laughed. "If you think I know what kind of job I want to end up in, you have way too high of an opinion of my future planning abilities. As long as it pays well, I'll be happy."

"Then you should be a plumber."

Benjamin started to stand up, his mouth drawing into a tight line.

Damien held up his hands to block his face. "Hey, don't get mad! It pays really well, and you don't have to worry about traditional college. All you have to do is learn the trade. There's a shortage of them right now. And you could even go into business for yourself if you wanted."

"I don't wanna spend my life unclogging toilets, though."

"I'm sure that's a small part of what plumbers do." Damien shrugged. "I know it's not a glamorous job, but it's gotta be better than a lifetime of working at McDonald's."

"But McDonald's has free hamburgers."

I filtered out the rest of the conversation as it devolved into Damien giving career counseling advice that Benjamin and Brit either made fun of or tried to turn to a more interesting subject. They kept bringing up Ethereal and Whisper, but Damien ignored every mention of the names.

Finally, he finished his food and got up to leave. I shoveled the last few bites of sandwich into my mouth and went after him.

"Hey." No answer. "Hey. Damien." I got close enough to grab his good elbow. "Hey, what's up? Are you ignoring me?"

He didn't bother turning to face me. "I'm not ignoring you. I just have nothing to say."

"What do you mean? I thought we were friends."

"You were my sidekick. You were only doing it for money." He reached into his pocket, and when his hand came out it was holding a thin slip of paper. "Well, here you go. Two thousand dollars. I rounded up."

I eyed the paper, trying to hide my reaction to the large check. "Look, I can't deny that it was about the money at first. But the point is, even after my parents told me I needed to find a new job I kept coming back. I think there's something nice about being a hero. Something... pure."

"Something childish, you mean. I need to start applying to colleges. And they aren't going to take me if they know I still play pretend."

"But think of the application essay!" I meant it as a joke, but it came out bittersweet. "You could write about so many things. How you performed CPR on that guy when he had a heart attack! How they ended up saving his life because of it! How we stopped the mall thief. It hasn't always been a picnic, but at least your heart's always been in the right place."

He sighed. "What are you suggesting, Santana? Do you wanna get out the costumes and go out again tonight? Didn't you say your parents grounded you?"

His use of my real name stung. "They did. Look, I'm not saying we have to go out and patrol tonight. All I'm saying is that I don't want to pretend like it didn't happen. Because it did."

"Fine. It happened. And now it's over." He spun around and kept walking.

I didn't follow this time, because I didn't know what I would say if I caught up with him. What I really wanted—the only thing that wouldn't feel like something was wrong with the world—was for Damien to swear he was going out that night no matter what. On his own if he had to. I wanted him to say that the world needed Ethereal, and he'd be there rain or shine. Light or dark. School night or not. I wanted him to be who he'd been before.

After about a minute of him being gone, I realized how awkward it was to stand alone in the cafeteria. I headed back to my friends, faking a smile as I sat down with them again.

"So?" Brit asked, almost immediately. "Did you convince him?"

"Convince him to what?"

"To stop Ribaldi. We thought that was why you went after him."

It took me a moment to answer. "I don't think he cares about Ribaldi right now."

"That sucks. I was really excited to find out who she was. I mean, someone who dresses up like you two and pretends to be a villain from some awful comic book? She's got to be at least as crazy as Damien."

"Yeah, probably."

"You don't mind that I asked him to sit with us, do you? I just saw him in the hall and he looked so lonely."

I raised an eyebrow at her. As far as I knew, she wasn't capable of that kind of sympathy. "You sure you weren't more interested in getting the latest updates?"

"Well, yeah. That too. But I'm not totally heartless. I can't believe how defeated he seems."

Benjamin laughed. "I can't believe how _normal_ he seems. That whole conversation about me being a plumber... I swear, I could've had that same conversation with any prep at this place."

"So are you gonna do it?" Brit asked.

"Do what? Become a plumber? Please." He held a hand against his chest. "I'd like to think the world has bigger plans for me."

"You'd better hope the world has bigger plans for you, since you don't have any for yourself." Brit's attention shifted back to me. "Who peed in your Cheerios, S? I swear, you're as bad as Damien."

"No one peed in my Cheerios. I'm fine." _And that's the problem._ Everything was fine. Directionless. Boring. Fine.

# Chapter 25

The sound of a banging against my window shook me awake. I twisted in the sheets, opening one eye to look at the glass. Another bang.

I crawled toward the headboard and reached out a hand to lift the shutters. When I pulled them away from the window I saw a pair of eyes staring back at me; after a moment they disappeared, replaced by a folded sheet of paper.

It stuck against my window, held by vivid red ketchup in the shape of a broken heart. My hands closed into fists. If Damien was done with Ethereal, I wanted to be done with Ribaldi. I climbed out of bed, way too slowly to catch the black-clad figure who'd put the paper against my window. I opened it, smearing ketchup as I pulled the piece of paper inside.

Once I unfolded the paper I saw a note: _We have Ethereal. You know where. If you want to save him and the rest of the world, you'll meet us there. Time for one final battle, Whisper._

The promise of one final battle sounded good to me. Maybe I could unmask Ribaldi, or she'd claim victory and be done bothering me. As for her having Ethereal? I wasn't sure whether I trusted that or not. It could easily be a lie to get me to go.

I sat on my bed, spending several long minutes debating whether or not to go to the warehouse. On the one hand there was the promise of things being over, but on the other there was all the trouble I'd get in if my parents found out. They'd probably never let me leave the house. Not until high school was over, at least. They'd make me use all my sidekick money for college, and Whisper would be gone forever.

But if I didn't go, Whisper was already gone. I tapped my fingers against a leg. I didn't have a costume anymore; my parents had made sure of that. Damien wouldn't have his costume either. But the costume wasn't what made me his sidekick.

My eyes landed on the night stand, and in a second all of my debate was over. There was an empty space where I'd placed the keys from the warehouse.

If Ribaldi had those, there was no telling how much trouble she could get into. How much trouble she could get _me_ into.

I threw on a baggy shirt and a pair of jeans. I made it all the way to the door before I noticed how cold it was and added a hoodie to the ensemble. I knew that I hardly looked like a hero—or even a sidekick—but I was too tired to care.

The warehouses were about a ten minute drive from my house. Which meant they were about a half hour walk. The night was darker than I'd expected it to be; so dark that I wished I had the flashlight Damien had given me the last time we were out so late. I hugged myself close as I walked, checking my phone every few blocks to make sure I was going in the right direction.

The gate was just as poorly protected as it had been the last time. I slipped in through the foot-long crack, bracing myself for whatever might come next. Someone darted out in front of me, running from the shadows of one warehouse to the next like they didn't even notice me. They were dressed in the usual black outfit of one of Ribaldi's minions. I kept an eye on where they ended up as I walked toward the building where I knew Ribaldi had to be.

A pair darted out in front of me at the next gap between buildings, paying no more attention to me than their ally had. I started moving slower, very aware of how outnumbered I was. I knew from the night at the pool that they could overwhelm me as a group.

I made it to the row with the warehouse with the crane. I paused before moving toward the door, and in that moment several things happened. Three new forms ran in front of me, someone howled loudly, and I felt a hand grab my elbow.

I spun without thinking, slamming my shoulder into him. He grunted as he fell back. The three people running in front of me stopped. I grabbed the upper arm of the boy I'd hit with my shoulder, spinning him around to put him between us. I let him go and kicked him in the small of his back, sending him stumbling toward them.

In the moment that bought me I went for the one to the left, closing in with him and landing a gut punch. He doubled over, but I didn't have time to do anything else. Rough hands tugged my hair, nearly pulling me off of my feet.

It didn't feel like a game then. There in the dark, fighting four boys, it felt like life or death. I found flesh and dug my nails in. I felt someone's leg underneath my foot and kicked hard. I screamed bloody murder as I threw a hard elbow. Something cracked, and the grip on my hair relaxed. I threw another elbow.

"Someone get her arms!" I heard the boy behind me wheeze out. "I can't keep doing this forever."

I kept my elbows going as he pulled me back. He pulled me underneath a lamp above one of the warehouse's doors and I could see the scene more clearly: one of them was deliberately lagging behind while the other two inched forward, looking to grab my legs.

The boy pulling me paused, giving me a chance to get my legs underneath me. I lunged back powerfully, feeling the crown of my head land against something soft. A muffled gargle. I was free. I raised up both hands in a boxer's stance, going for the closest of the two boys inching forward.

His shoulder rolled as he threw a wild hook with absolutely zero form. I deflected it with a swat of my left arm. I tried a hook of my own. It landed on his cheek, twisting his head almost a quarter of the way around.

Something hit me in the ribs. I felt pain, but distant enough that I could ignore it. I grabbed the shoulder of the boy in front of me with my right hand and hit him in the solar plexus with the other. I recoiled, my eyes watering. It had been like punching brick; my hand felt like tiny shards of ice had been injected into it.

"Shit, she's not kidding around," the boy to my right said. "What are we supposed to do?"

"I don't care." That was the one I'd just punched. "Screw this. I didn't sign up to get beaten up by a girl." He took a step away.

For a moment, I stared into the eyes of the only boy who still looked like he was up for a fight. He stared right back at me. Finally, "Darn it. He's right. I don't wanna have to hurt a girl."

I decided not to point out that I'd managed to hurt them more than they'd hurt me. I was only glad to see them slink away. Four down... I didn't know how many left to go. I took a slow breath before heading for the warehouse door.

It was unlocked, like I'd expected it to be. One of the keys on the ring had to have been for the front door. Either that or Ribaldi had found an open window to climb through. I pulled the door all the way open and stepped inside.

The whole place was lit up with red lights, giving it an unreal color.

I heard Ribaldi's thin voice. "Hello, Whisper. I take it you're here to save Ethereal. Well, guess what? He's not here. We left him the same note and he didn't show up for you. How does that make you feel?"

I knew she was trying to bother me. So I laughed. "That's the most predictable idea ever. Listen... I don't know why you're doing this, but I know you have the keys to that machine up there. I came because I wanted to ask you not to turn it on. It's dangerous if you don't know what the controls do."

"What makes you think I don't know what the controls do?" Her voice sounded like it was coming from a few dozen feet in front of me, but I couldn't see her. "I built that machine, Whisper. It's _meant_ to be dangerous. To the wrong people. To the right people, it has the power to grant them the world. I'm the right people."

I gritted my teeth. "You're taking this too far, Ribaldi. It was fun when we were play-fighting and everything, but this could really hurt someone. How do you think Damien's wrist got broken? This isn't a game."

"I know this isn't a game. It never was, dear Whisper. This is life or death."

It took everything in me to stop myself from screaming at her that she was being an idiot. But if Damien had taught me anything, it was that for someone like him or Ribaldi that would only make things worse. They'd go to their graves before admitting it wasn't real. Or at least, they'd get pretty darn close.

If the only way out was to play along with her, I decided I had to do it. "You'll never win, Ribaldi. Ethereal might not have come for me, but that doesn't mean I can't do it alone. I still believe in things like good and justice."

"Justice? Ha!" She stepped out from one of the box-shaped machines, revealing her mask-covered face. "You think what they did to me was justice? I used to be beautiful, Whisper. I used to be kind. I did everything right. And they stole it all. They burned my beautiful face. They made me cruel."

"Who's they?"

"You don't know anything, do you? I used to be a hero like you and Ethereal. I used to be his partner. We fought the Wallygarble monster on top of the old dam and stopped forty bank robberies together. He didn't need a sidekick to do his dirty work back then. But he betrayed me. My own lover. My dear Damien."

I took a step forward, hoping that she would be too busy spinning her made-up origin story to stop me from grabbing the keys and getting out of there. Another step.

"I trusted him with my secret identity and he trusted me with his. But when I was captured by Dr. Wallygarble, he didn't come for me. Just like he hasn't come for you. Damien has a way of letting people down." She exhaled loudly. "Dr. Wallygarble had me for three years. He burned my face, and then he left me in a cell until he was convinced I'd completely lost it. So tell me now, Whisper: what did being good get me? What is your justice worth?"

Another step. I worked to come up with something appropriate to her train of thought. "Justice isn't a coin, Ribaldi. You aren't supposed to purchase anything with it. You fight for justice because it makes the world a better place." I took another step. I was almost at the first of the box-shaped machines.

"But it doesn't! It doesn't make it a better place, Whisper. Don't you get that? Nothing we do matters." I was surprised to hear her thin voice slip. For a moment it sounded like she really believed the words. _Nothing we do matters._

"No, it _does_ matter. Everything matters. Because we make it matter." I started side-stepping, thinking it might draw her into pacing in a circle with me. I'd end up near the stairs, and she'd be left at the door.

"Now you're making no sense at all. How can we make something matter when it doesn't matter on its own?"

It was a fair question. One that I wouldn't have been able to answer a while ago. But—to my surprise—an answer came to me. Something that I felt like I'd always known, but that I'd forgotten along the way. "We do it all the time. Everything we feel, we only feel it because we choose to. Love, hate, anger, sadness... When was the last time you cried because some random stranger in Kansas died? On some level, caring is a choice. Whether things matter is a choice." I side-stepped again. "Helping people is a choice."

Sure enough, she side-stepped in the other direction. I could see her lips lift in a slight smirk. "You don't understand. You can't inject meaning into anything if it isn't there on its own. Whatever happens tonight, in the end it won't matter. Give it a few years. The newspapers will stop printing stories about you. Ethereal will forget you existed. Heck, I think he might have already forgotten."

I stopped walking. I didn't know why, but the idea of Damien giving up Ethereal felt like a knife plunging into my chest. "You're wrong. He's on the downswing right now, but he'll be back. Maybe not tonight, maybe not for a while. But eventually."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."

"No, I believe it. I have faith in him." I took another step, feeling for the stairs behind me. I had to be close; a few more steps and I'd be able to run for the keys.

"My mom used to say that the only people who need faith are the ones who are too blind to see reality."

I felt the rail of the stairs behind me. I turned, gripping it with one hand as I sprinted up the steps.

Almost a dozen forms dressed in black were lounging around. They snapped straight the moment I came into view.

"In other words," Ribaldi said from over my shoulder. "Faith is worthless."

# Chapter 26

I inhaled. I brought my hands up in a boxer's stance. The panel with the key I needed to grab was on the other side of the room. There were twelve people ready to stop me from getting there. My goal was obvious.

The first one came at me with arms raised. I ducked to the left, using an elbow to throw him off balance as he overshot me. Eleven. I stumbled forward, planning to run past the next three. They shifted, spreading out to block off any hope I might have had of getting past them.

So instead of trying to get past, I decided to go through. I kept my momentum going, and when I was close to the first one I grabbed his outstretched hand, crashing right into him. I'd thought it would be enough to knock him over, but he absorbed the force with a grunt.

My grip on his arm was the only thing that saved me. I twisted it around, forcing him to turn his back to me to avoid the pain. Then I had a sort of horrible decision in front of me: dislocate the arm or let him go? It only took me a moment to decide to release him, but in that moment all of Ribaldi's other minions had closed in.

They formed a tight circle around me, chanting something. I couldn't figure out what it was. My heart was beating too loud in my ears, and they were chanting too quickly. But a moment later I got it. "Claw! Claw! Claw!"

I looked up, worried that I knew exactly what they were chanting for. The machine we'd seen in the warehouse before was poised above me, ready to reach down and snag me like the demented claw machine game I'd thought of before. Put in your quarter, win a Whisper doll.

The chant died down and the circle opened up to reveal a smiling Ribaldi. "You're good, Whisper. Better than I'd thought you would be. But I wonder how you'll do against me."

I sighed. "So that's what this is? An elaborate plot to talk me into a fight?"

A dry chuckle from Ribaldi. "No no no, Whisper. The plan is to destroy the world, remember? This is just me playing with my food before I eat it. Have to savor the moment and all that." She gestured to one of her minions. "Did you bring the foils?"

A nod. Then a hand behind me grabbed my shoulder. Someone pressed a fencing sword into my hand. Ribaldi took one of her own and swung it around in a tight loop. "I'll make you a deal, Whisper. One fight and this will all be over. One way or another. If you drop the foil, my minions will attack. If you use any other weapon, they'll attack. If you try to make a move for the machine, they'll attack. Winner is the first person to get their opponent to yield. Got it?"

"Yeah, whatever."

"En garde!" She poked forward with her foil, only missing my shoulder because I swung out of the way at the last possible moment. I flung my own foil up to deflect hers; she pulled back and avoided my return strike entirely.

The air rushed out of me as a point stabbed into my gut. It wasn't sharp enough to really stab me, but it didn't feel like a hug either. I took a step back, mentally preparing myself for Ribaldi's next attack.

She swung her foil down in a wide sweep; it picked up speed as it got closer, and when it landed on my back it felt like a cracking whip. I recoiled without meaning to, but before I could think of starting a counterattack she'd hit me again.

I backed up further, trying without much success to block or deflect her blows. On some level, I could see that she wasn't exactly a master. But compared to me she was, and that was all that mattered. It felt like I couldn't catch up to what she was doing; I was constantly trying to block strikes after they'd landed, trying to hit her everywhere she wasn't.

She went for my gut again. I felt one punch. Two. Three. _Aww, screw it._ I let my foil tumble to the ground and grabbed hers, yanking it toward me. Ribaldi must not have been prepared for it; she stumbled forward, letting out a shriek.

I pulled as far as I could, reaching out with my other hand for that stupid mask. One more tug and it was in my grasp. My fingers closed around it and I lifted, but it barely moved. Ribaldi let her fencing foil fall, aiming a weak punch at my face with her newly-freed arm.

When it landed, it felt more like a love tap than a real blow. I ignored it entirely, bringing my other hand up to pull on the mask. She pushed away from me at the same moment, using both hands to get free.

Something gave, throwing both of us off balance. I stumbled back, stomping a foot into the ground to keep from falling. Ribaldi...

Well, Ribaldi turned away from me completely. I didn't realize why until I noticed the blonde hair pulled into a tight bun on top of her head. And more importantly, the mask in my hands. I looked down at it, staring at the straight black hair attached to the back.

"Get her!" Ribaldi practically screamed. "Get my mask! I need my mask!"

Her minions jumped into motion. Twelve against one. Not exactly good odds. My eyes shot to the staircase, as if Damien would appear.

He wasn't there. No one was. There was no space to dart through to get to the keys, no escape I could think of. I glanced down to the mask, then back to Ribaldi's minions. There were too many. All I wanted were the keys. I just wanted to make sure no one would get hurt. At least, not in a name in the newspapers sort of way.

I desperately threw the mask at the person in front of me, dropping my shoulders and charging him. Or her, as I guessed based on the grunt she gave when we collided. We both fell to the floor; I rolled off, my eyes already searching for a next move. But there wasn't one. A sea of legs surrounded me, pulling so tightly that I could barely see the panel with the keys.

"Wait!" I shouted. I hadn't expected it to work, but Ribaldi's minions stopped. "Ribaldi, I have a deal for you. Turn off the machine and I'll join you. I... I see it now. The world is meaningless. I don't have anything left to fight for."

"Hmm." There was a curious note in her tone, but I wasn't sure why. "You're lying to me, Whisper. You had too much conviction in what you told me earlier to go back on it now. No, you would never be my true servant."

My mouth felt like it had turned to ash. _So this is what it's like to truly lose hope._ She must have given some sort of signal, because next thing I knew her minions were advancing again. I lashed out with a fist at the nearest body. I kicked a shin, felt fingers on one arm as my elbow landed in someone's stomach. My foot stomped on top of someone's toes and I twisted to set up for a powerful kick. I pulled back, but a pair of hands closed around my foot. I shook my whole body, clawing out with my remaining free hand at anyone who came near.

They dragged me back, got both of my arms behind me. One of the boys in black masks took the lead as they circled me with rope and tied my knees together. It reminded me of when we'd made mummies in elementary school, only instead of toilet paper they were using thin red rope that scratched my skin. I tried pushing my arms away from me, but there wasn't any slack.

# Chapter 27

"Ahem. I said, ahem!" That was Ribaldi. Her mask was back on and she was standing on the floor above, at the machine's controls. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah!" one enthusiastic voice answered. "Claw! Claw!"

The rest of them joined in the chant. "Claw! Claw! Claw!"

I looked up, feeling an immediate wave of sickness. The machine was poised above me, dangling at the ready. All Ribaldi had to do was press the right button and I was sure it would plunge down. My safety depended entirely on her.

My mind ran back to the first time I'd met her. When she'd almost burned a building down to hurt me. Then to our conversation earlier. Ribaldi didn't seem like the kind of person I wanted to trust with my life. I felt like I could already see what was going to happen; the machine would come down to grab me and—since it had been built for wooden boxes and nothing as fragile as a person—it would crush me. Ribaldi and her minions would get in unimaginable trouble, and at school our principal would tell everyone about the dangers of playing with heavy machinery.

_Please don't,_ I thought. _Please don't do this._ I closed my eyes, bracing myself for what was bound to be a horribly painful experience.

"Claw! Claw! Claw!" The chant slowed down, eventually coming to a stop.

"Not quite yet, my hearts," Ribaldi said. "First, you need to understand the power of this moment. This is the culmination of our entire plan. We started out at a shopping mall, and now we're moments away from conquering the world. Ethereal isn't here to stop us. Where do you think he is?" She paused, as if she actually expected an answer to the question.

After a second, she continued. "Well, he's not here, anyway. But we have Whisper. No way she can stop us now." An awkward pause. She paced back and forth on the wooden floor. "We've come so far. And I thank you for your help. And now... I guess all that's left is to turn it on."

"Wait!" I shouted. "You don't have to, Ribaldi. We all know this is made-up. You could let me go, and we could all just walk away."

Her pacing stopped. She looked at me, and for a moment I thought she was really considering it. "You think this is made-up, Whisper? This is _all_ real. This is the most real thing any of us has ever done."

"No it's not! Look, I know you're searching for meaning or whatever, but this isn't the way to do it. There's no move to make once you use that machine on me. What do you do then? Let me down and use it again? Kill me?"

"You don't understand. This isn't about finding meaning for _me_." She turned to the controls and started playing with them.

My heart tightened. The image of getting crushed by a claw came back, and it made me sick. I wished that I'd never taken Damien's sidekick job.

The machine grumbled to life. My eyes shot up to it in time to see it turn, faster than I would have thought possible. Everyone seemed to hold their breath as Ribaldi stood at the controls.

Then something happened. Ribaldi screamed as the chain-link basket swung off the edge of the third floor, carrying her leg with it. Her body flipped upside-down like a twisted acrobat, accompanied by more panicked screaming.

She swept through the air like a toy, carried close to the wall where the boxes were stacked. For a moment she was still, and then she fell back toward the base of the machine.

Her minions—most of whom were still near me—looked from her to each other as she swung back and forth, desperately reaching for the chain around her foot. "No way," one of them said. "I am _not_ getting in trouble for this." He took a step toward the stairs.

"Come on! Help me! Guys!" Ribaldi's voice had lost its old quality completely. She sounded like a normal teenage girl. "Please!"

The ones who hadn't moved for the stairs stood looking at each other for several seconds. The shortest one glanced from me to Ribaldi. "I'm with Freddy. She's the one who wanted to do this. We've gotta get out of here before we get suspended or something." She turned, and several others followed. After a moment of thought, the rest joined them.

My heart sank for what felt like the second time in the last minute, but this time it was for Ribaldi. I could hear her struggling with the chain around her foot, as if she was trying to get free. Or maybe she was trying to make sure she wasn't about to fall twenty feet on top of her neck.

"Stop!" I said. "At least untie me first! I'll try to get her down, okay? Just untie me."

Only a couple of the black-clad minions looked back. They stared at me for a full second, but they didn't move to help. "Dude, what do you think?" one of them asked, turning to his friend.

"I think we get out of here and then call the fire department. Looks like she's pretty safe for now. They can come and get her down."

"What if they trace our number or something?"

"We'll block it before we call. Or we'll borrow someone else's phone. All I'm saying is that if we untie Whisper she's gonna try to save her on her own. Maybe she gets hurt too. Right?"

"Yeah, you're right." The second boy shrugged. "Sorry, guys. We'll make sure you get help. We just don't want to get in trouble for this." With that, the last pair of them left, leaving us in relative quiet.

# Chapter 28

"S? S, it's me." The voice was weak. Small. Ribaldi's minions had been gone for several minutes. She reached up—or rather down—to pull off her mask. "S, it's me."

"Brit?" I sighed. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. How are you doing up there?"

"Oh, you know. Absolutely peachy. But I can't feel my leg anymore. I thought it was gonna slip out at any second."

"But you don't think so now?"

"Probably not. I mean, if I've managed to stay stuck this long I figure I must be wedged in pretty well."

"So what do we do now?"

"I guess we wait for the firefighters. The boys said they'd call them."

"Yeah. But what if they don't?"

"Then when the warehouse workers come in tomorrow they're gonna be surprised. But they'll be able to get us down." She groaned. "Oh, I just wish I wasn't in a costume."

I couldn't help a chuckle. "Yeah, me too. Feels like I'm tied up pretty well here, or I'd get you down and we could both go home and pretend this never happened."

"Deal. If you can get me out of this, I'd be more than happy to pretend none of it happened."

"Why _did_ it happen?" I couldn't help asking. "Why would you want to pretend to be Ribaldi?"

"I don't know. I thought the stories of you and Ethereal were really fun, and when you told me your parents made you stop I was worried there wouldn't be any more of them. So I decided to ramp things back up."

"Brit, you lit a house on fire. You're telling me that was only because you were bored?"

"Hold up. I didn't light that house on fire. I just made it look like I had. We had a fog machine that was supposed to fill the basement with smoke. You know, frighten you a bit. It's not my fault we put the wrong mix in it. Made the whole thing more believable, if you ask me."

"It definitely made it believable." I pursed my lips. "I was worried I was gonna die down there."

"Right? Wasn't that fun?" I could hear the smile in her voice. "That's what I meant when I said this wasn't about meaning for _me._ It was about meaning for you and Damien."

"What do you mean, meaning for us?"

"All the best heroes have a villain. Batman and Joker. Ironman and... whoever it is that Ironman fights. Without someone to fight against, they're boring weirdos. Ribaldi gave both of you a purpose."

I thought about it for a second. It wasn't a bad point, if I was being honest. "But you were going to use that machine on me!"

"Yeah, I might've gotten a little carried away there. I couldn't think of a way out toward the end. You were supposed to fight harder. Ethereal was supposed to fight harder."

"But he didn't even come."

"Yeah." She sounded almost as sad as I was. "I was sure he would. I had a whole thing planned out. We were supposed to get into a grand fight—that's why I had the foils—and then at the end he'd defeat me and take off my mask, and my minions would act like they'd been under some sort of mind control that got broken. Then you pull the keys and everyone has a happy Sunday. But as it is..."

"You're stuck up there," I finished for her. "I was so worried that something like this would happen."

"Chin up, buttercup. It could've been worse. My other plan involved fire-starting squirrels."

I snorted. "How would you have done that?"

"I'm not sure. That's why I scrapped it. Figured there wasn't an easy way to do it without going full-on pyro."

"Oh boy. So it's probably for the best that you went a different route."

"Maybe. But if I'd gone with the squirrels I wouldn't be hanging here like a pile of forgotten Christmas lights."

"Fair enough." I absently tried to pull at the rope around me again, but it didn't budge. "So where'd you pick up the minions from? I mean, how did you get that many people to follow you?"

"Simple. I went to the videogame club and told them about you and Ethereal and my idea. I mean, come on... who doesn't want to play the villain sometimes?"

"Huh. Well, they weren't exactly reliable. Maybe you should've been a little bit pickier."

"Eh, they did the job." Something made her raise her head. "Ethereal! How nice of you to join us!"

My head whipped around to the stairs, where Damien—Ethereal—was standing in a heroic pose. He had both hands on his hips, but no costume. His eyes were covered by a ripped piece of fabric that served as a simple mask. "Ribaldi! I see Whisper has defeated you!"

Brit swallowed, and when she spoke her voice was transformed into Ribaldi's. "Whisper hasn't defeated me yet. She's been caught in my trap. You can't release her from her bonds; only _I_ can touch them without being poisoned."

He breathed in through his nose. "I have to admit, you have me in a bit of a bind here. How can I free my sidekick without also freeing my enemy?"

"You can't, Ethereal. The only way is to free me, and I promise I'll release her then."

"I can't let you go, Ribaldi. You have to pay for what you've done."

"No! You'll never make me go back! Either you release me or your sidekick dies a slow and painful death. Your choice."

In my mind, I was working through the real problem. I felt like it would be a lot safer if Damien untied me and then tried to help Brit down. "Ethereal! You can touch the ropes! I've... um, I've absorbed all the poison into me. Totally safe to touch the ropes."

Brit laughed like a mad woman. "That's what you think, dear Whisper. If you'd really absorbed all the poison, you'd be dead by now. So what's it going to be, Ethereal?"

He looked at me with a sympathetic expression. "It sounds like you leave me no choice, Ribaldi. If it's between you and Whisper, I choose Whisper." He went up to the floor above, over to the machine.

I think we all breathed a sigh of relief when the button he pressed brought the crane and Brit back toward the base. He pressed it again and the machine jerked more aggressively.

"Stop!" My eyes shot to Brit, who was scrambling to grab onto the chain. Her foot slipped out completely and her legs swung underneath.

Her whole body fell half a foot, until she caught a link of one chain in the crook of her elbow.

She hissed through her teeth. "Okay, you can bring it in now. But do it slowly."

Damien pressed the button, but the moment he touched it the machine jumped again. Brit's whole body swung, nearly shaking her loose. She kicked at the air, grabbed onto the chain with her other arm. "No! Don't you dare!"

"It's the only way," Damien said.

"I swear, if you touch that button I'm gonna fall. We need to find some other way."

"There isn't another way. This is—"

"The boxes!" I said, nodding toward the far wall. "They're close enough that if you climbed them you could pull her over."

Damien looked over at the far wall. I was sure he was thinking about the odds of falling. Especially if he had to lean out to try and grab Brit. "Untie me," I said. "I'll do it. Brit can cure both of us or whatever. Just untie me and I'll do it."

His eyes were wide with fear. I could tell he was weighing the decision: to be a hero or not. He breathed in deeply. "It would take too long. I can do this." He ran back to the steps, filling the warehouse with clangs as he sprinted down them.

A moment later he reappeared at the bottom, headed for the boxes at the wall. He stopped in front of them, pausing like he was trying to figure out the best way to climb up. He ran at a stack of two, his shoes squeaking against it as his fingers tore at wood. I heard him hiss—and he fell down a little—but he adjusted one hand and managed to find a solid hold. He placed a foot on the cross-section and probed out with a hand for the cross-section of the box above.

I heard scraping as his foot slipped lower again, but he managed to move up. He got both hands on the box above and used the hold to pull his whole body higher.

The box wobbled visibly. Damien pulled close to it, shaking to his very core. "You can do it!" I said. "I have faith in you, Damien! You saved the heart attack man. You confronted the mall thief. You took an orphan off the street and taught her how to be a hero!"

He paused, his eyes meeting mine. The expression in them shifted. He turned back and climbed sideways, scaling up the neighboring box in a few seconds. He got his arms over, rolled his legs on top of the wobbly box. Then he rose to his knees and reached out for Brit.

He was a few feet short, but she lifted up a long leg for him to grab onto. He pulled her a bit closer and then let it go. It was a strange picture—almost like he was pushing a child on a swingset—but when she came back he was able to grab both of her legs.

She touched the box with her toes, helping him as much as she could. Or at least, that's what I thought she was doing. Until her fingers gave out. She screamed as her back bent at a painful angle, pulling the rest of her body away from Damien. He clung tight to her pant legs, forcing her whole body to arc around the box until her head hit it with a terrible thwack. He couldn't hold on then, and she fell the last few feet.

Her arms stretched out, but she still hit with a solid thwack. Her body collapsed in a heap on the ground.

"Does this mean I get your liver?" I asked, hoping that she hadn't been hurt by the fall.

I heard a dry laugh from where she'd fallen on the floor. "Not quite yet. I think I'm still going to be using it for a while."

A few minutes later, Damien had made it back to the ground. Brit shook her arms, grimacing as she did. She noticed Damien staring at her expectantly. "Oh, right. The poisoned ropes."

She walked over to where I was still kneeling on the floor and hastily undid the knot in the rope. It gave me a little bit of slack; I wiggled, sighing as my arms finally got some room. Brit ran off before I could get totally free, but Damien was still there.

I slipped the ropes off my body, working them past my feet before standing with a low groan. "So. You came for me."

"I did. Thought you might need saving."

"I did. It was very heroic of you."

"I'm just glad we finally defeated Ribaldi."

"Me too." I looked around the room, trying to think of something I could say to fill the awkward silence. "So does this mean Ethereal's back?"

His eyes met mine. Then he looked away. "I don't know."

# Chapter 29

"You know, the park really isn't safe anymore. Ribaldi's minions used to hide out right over that hill."

Benjamin smiled at me. "Do you think we should crawl down to the creek bed and try to sneak up on them?"

"Nope. I'm just saying." I shrugged. Maybe the memory was only amusing to me.

Brit turned to lead the way along the dirt path on the right. "Well, they wouldn't be a threat to me. For obvious reasons."

"Sure, Ribaldi. I knew we should've left you hanging in that stupid warehouse."

She laughed. "Everyone else did. Ah, that was a good time. So what do you think Ethereal's going to be up to now?"

"I don't know." I let myself fall back, not bothering to keep up with Benjamin and Brit's aggressive pace. Sure enough, they slowed down too. "I haven't heard anything from him since that night. I think he really intended to hang up the cape for good after he broke his arm. Maybe confronting Ribaldi was just his last hurrah."

"Boo. I don't want it to be over." Brit smiled. "I don't suppose there's any chance of taking Whisper on the road as a solo act?"

"I'm not _that_ far gone. The only reason this all started was because my parents wanted me to get a job. And I did. So I think I'm gonna hang up my cape too."

We reached an area of the park where the left side of the path dipped off, leading to tall grass and an off-leash dog park. Brit paused, glancing at her phone. "Are you sure about that? You didn't enjoy it even a little bit?"

"Oh, I enjoyed it. Sometimes. I'm not saying I didn't have fun. All I'm saying is that I can't replace Damien. He was so committed to it. I could never be like that."

"Yeah, that was what made it fun," Brit agreed. "Anyone could play vigilante, but it takes a special kind of weird for someone to think they're an honest-to-god superhero."

"He saved _you_ , didn't he?" I don't know why I bristled at her making fun of him, but I did.

She nodded. "Sorta. I mean, they would've gotten me down in the morning anyway."

"You're hopeless, Brit. He saved you. He helped that guy discover he had heart issues. Even if it was accidental. We stopped a shoplifter at the mall."

Both of my friends broke down laughing. "You know who you sound like?" Brit asked, her eyes watering. "'He saved the heart attack man, stopped the mall thief, took an orphan off the streets and taught her—'"

"Oh, shut up. I'm just saying, he did some good."

"Definitely. He provided us with a lot of entertainment."

Benjamin pointed at something in the tall grass. "Hey, do you guys see that?"

"See what?" I asked.

"Down there. Looks like a dog and fox or something. Maybe a coyote."

"No way." I followed his eyes; it took me a moment, but I found what he was pointing at. A little weiner dog and a gray coyote were circling each other slowly with their haunches raised.

"You should go save it," Brit said. "Be a hero or whatever. You can add it to your list of accomplishments. 'Saved the weiner dog from a terrifying coyote.'"

"Yeah, I think I will." I grabbed the strap of my bag and pulled it over me, setting it gently on the path.

Brit looked at me like I was crazy. "I was kidding, S. Remember what happened the last time you tried to save an animal by yourself? Just call a park ranger or something."

"It'll be too late then. That coyote isn't very big. Don't worry about it." I stepped over the lip of the path, jogged down the hill leading to the open space.

The coyote jumped, growling loudly enough that I could hear from fifty feet away. It was a violent growl, low and rumbling. I saw it close its mouth around the weiner dog's ear, shaking it back and forth like a chew toy.

I was fifteen feet away. The dog whined pitifully, his tail falling and his body practically going limp as the coyote shook his head. I don't know how he got free, but he managed to take a few steps back, buying himself a little time.

The coyote sprang again, but I was almost there. It had barely closed its jaw around the weiner dog's neck when I kicked it hard in the ribs. The coyote let go, yipping like it hadn't enjoyed the blow. I kicked it again.

It jumped away from me, turning to run. I was almost amazed by how quickly it fled; in a few seconds the tall grass hid it from view, and in a few more seconds I couldn't even hear the rustling. I focused on the poor weiner dog, kneeling to check on it.

There were several red dots on his neck, but his ear was what made me grimace. It looked torn and ripped painfully, to the point where I wasn't sure it would be able to be sewn cleanly.

The sound of footsteps made me look up. A tall boy with soft features and a single freckle underneath his left eye was standing a few feet away. He crept forward, his eyes focused on the poor dog. "What happened?"

"A coyote attacked him. I managed to scare it off, but I think you should take him to a vet. This is your dog, right?"

"Yeah." He looked me in the eyes. "Thanks for saving her. I... um, I let her off the leash and she took off. She likes to play hide and seek, you know? Guess she went a little bit too far."

Normally, I'd have told him to keep a better eye on his dog and gone back to my friends. But something about his eyes drew me in, made me want to stay. "I'm just glad she's okay."

"Me too. Me too." He sighed. "I'm Derrick, by the way."

"Santana. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too. Thanks again for saving my dog." He exhaled slowly, as if to express the awkwardness of the moment. "So you really fought off a coyote?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd call it fighting off. All I did was kick it a few times. But yeah, I did."

"That's cool. Not that you hurt it, but that you were willing to step in. Most people would've stood on the sidelines, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess." I tried to fight the heat coming to my cheeks.

"Do you go to Emerson? I feel like I've seen you around before."

"Yeah. You?"

"Yup." Another awkward moment, another slow breath out. "So, where do I know you from? Are you in any clubs?"

"Nope."

He chuckled. "Come on, don't make me carry the whole conversation here. If you're not in any clubs, what are you into?"

"Well, until about a week ago I was a superhero's sidekick."

"Wait, what? That sounds like a really interesting story! Like a real superhero?"

I rolled my eyes. "I hate to break it to you, but there's no such thing as a real superhero. We tried to be, though. You might've heard of us. Ethereal and Whisper?"

His eyes widened. "That's it! That's totally it! One of my friends pointed you out the other day!" He stuck out his hand. "You're like a legend at school. So what happened with Vivaldi? I've heard a lot of different stories, but none of them seem to fit."

"It's _Ribaldi._ " I smiled. "Do you want the Ethereal version or the real version?"

"Definitely the Ethereal version. Although I don't know if I have time to hear it now. Gotta take Lucy to the vet." He scooped up his dog, his expression shifting to a sympathetic one. "But yeah, if you wanna grab lunch or coffee or something..."

"What's this I hear about lunch?" Brit asked. She was approaching both of us; she must have decided to come up once she'd spotted Derrick.

Derrick blushed. "It's nothing. I was just saying..." He looked at me. "Here, let me give you my number. If... you know, if you want to figure out logistics."

"She'd love to," Brit said. "But don't be one of those losers who picks a fast food place. And I'm assuming you mean lunch on a Saturday? Lunch during the week doesn't make for a good date at all. Too rushed."

I took his phone and entered my number. "Thank you, Brit. Lunch during the week will be fine. And I love fast food. Let me know what the vet says about Lucy, okay? I wanna make sure she's alright."

"Will do. Thanks again." He gave a weird sort of half-bow before jogging off.

At least Brit was smart enough to wait until he was reasonably far away before whooping excitedly. "Someone got a date! He was pretty cute, too."

I didn't know what to say to that. It wasn't like I'd never been on a date before.

"We need to talk about your attitude, though," Brit said. "You shouldn't make things too easy on a guy. They lose all interest if you don't put them through their paces every once in a while. And the best time to do that is the first date. It's all about expectation management, S. You need to make sure they know that you expect to be treated like a queen from the very start."

"I don't know. I've never worried about all those stupid dating games people play."

"Well, maybe you should. Look at what happened with Benjamin."

"You mean how he ended up being one of our closest friends? Yeah, better be careful that doesn't happen again."

She rolled her eyes. "I mean how he follows you around like a puppy. If you'd followed my advice—"

"If I'd followed your advice, I'm sure I'd have a lot of fun dating stories and complaints about how much guys suck. I'm happy doing things my way. Let me live my life, and if I happen to meet someone I wanna date that's cool. But I'm not going to make my whole life revolve around who I like and who likes me, and—ooh, I think I have a crush on this one, but that one's mysterious so I'll go with him for a bit. Screw all that."

"Tisk, tisk. There go all my hopes for an Ethereal-Whisper romance."

# Chapter 30

White light from a brand new lamp covered my desk as I drew, giving me a good view of what I was doing. I absently changed the direction of the pen, adding a heavy arc to the shape I'd been outlining before closing it off and filling it in.

"Knock knock." The door creaked open. When I turned I saw Kelsey in the doorway.

"Hey! What are you doing here?"

"I came home for the weekend. This week was a little bit easier, so I figured it would be a good time to come see you all. Reassure Mom that I'm not planning on throwing away my education."

"Oh." I tapped my pen against the arm of my chair, trying to figure out how to phrase what I wanted to ask. "So you're still going to be a doctor?"

"Yup. Not a surgeon, I guess. But I talked with one of my mentors, and he helped me find an opening for a GP residency." She laughed, shook her head. "It's crazy. I think I had more stress and saw more blood in a single day of being a surgical intern than I have in the past month. The patients I'm seeing now are mostly broken arms or migraines. They're so much easier to deal with."

"I can imagine." I smiled at her. It was good to hear that she'd found a path she could enjoy. Well, maybe not enjoy, but tolerate a little more than the path she'd been going down initially. "How's your arm?" I asked.

She absently touched the cast around her wrist. "It's fine. As good as it can be. They're planning a couple more surgeries down the road. Mostly outpatient stuff. In a few more months I might even be able to move my fingers without feeling like they're on fire."

"Is it really that bad?"

"No. I mean, yes. When I'm off painkillers it's really bad. But I'm usually on—"

"Sorry to interrupt." That was my dad's voice. I heard him, but I couldn't see him until Kelsey moved to the side. He nodded at me. "Damien's outside. He asked if you could come talk to him."

"Oh, okay." I studied Dad's face, trying to gauge his feelings about the visit. His voice hadn't given much away—and I could guess that he wasn't thrilled by the idea of me getting in more trouble—but he had the faintest hint of a smile.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Kelsey." I paused to squeeze her hand on my way out of the room. She gave me a peaceful smile as she returned the squeeze; an 'I'm going to be okay' sort of smile.

The front door was open about fifteen feet farther on; Damien was standing there, dressed in civilian clothes. He nodded at me once I was close. "Hey, Santana. How are you doing?"

"I'm good. How are you?"

"I'm good. So, um... can we talk?"

I glanced back at Dad. He shrugged as if to say it was alright with him. "Yeah. Let's go outside." I stepped onto the front porch, closing the door behind me.

Damien took a step back; he had something in his hands that he held between us, like he wanted to maintain a buffer. "How have you been, Whisper?"

"I've been good. Things have been quiet ever since we defeated Ribaldi."

"I know. Almost too quiet." He clicked his tongue. "Not that I'm complaining. It's given me time to work on things. Very cool things." He looked at me expectantly.

"What kind of things?" I had to ask.

"Things like _this_." He held up a stack of papers.

"What's that?" I squinted at them.

"It's a comic book. I paid an artist to provide the graphics, and I wrote up everything from these past few weeks that I can remember. I wanted to make sure you were okay with the idea."

I took a moment to think about it. "Yeah, that's fine with me. Can I get a copy of it?"

"Yeah, of course! Actually, that's sort of something else I wanted to talk to you about... I think we could sell these. I floated the idea in my homeroom and before I knew it I'd pre-sold fifteen copies. It would be a great way to earn some extra income."

"Are you sure that wouldn't be like against the code or something? Selling stories of our exploits?"

"Oh no, it would be totally fine. Peter Parker got paid for photos of Spiderman, and Clark Kent got paid for reporting on Superman. This is basically the same thing." A grin spread on his face. "Besides, think about it! We can have our own comic book!"

"So does this mean you still want to be Ethereal?"

His brow knitted. "Yeah, of course. The world needs Ethereal and Whisper, Santana. Think of how much good we've done. How much good we could still do. If these comic books make enough we could get some real equipment. I'm thinking grappling hooks, throwing stars, night vision goggles. And we can redesign our costumes to take into account all the limitations we found with the first versions. I'm working on costumes that we'll be able to hide under our everyday clothes, so that we can be ready in a few minutes' notice."

I laughed, shook my head.

"What?"

"Nothing. I've got some ideas too. But you have to let me keep at least some of the comic book money for myself. I don't think I'll be able to take your money if I'm going to be a superhero instead of your sidekick."

He frowned, took a moment to think about my thinly veiled suggestion. "That seems fair. We can't get _too_ focused on money, though. We need to rid this city of the cloud of corruption swirling around it. I feel like Ribaldi was only the tip of the iceberg; ever since defeating her, I've been hearing rumors about new villains. Maybe you have too. Does the name Blue Sky ring a bell?"

"Um... not that I can think of."

"I received a note from him the other night. Very coded, very cryptic. He said he was one of Ribaldi's old lieutenants, and that he was going to make us pay for what we did to her. It's only a matter of time before others come out of the woodwork. It's what I told you would happen, Whisper; we've become so famous that villains are seeking us out, trying to make their names by defeating us. We have to always be on our guard. We have to prepare. We have to buy some night vision goggles!"

"Aren't those really expensive?"

He waved his hand like it didn't matter. "We'll charge more for our comic book. Like I said, we need to be prepared."

"If you really wanted to prepare you'd schedule some time for us to go to a gym. Neither of us are in shape for the kind of cardio we've been doing."

"Good point." He pulled out his phone and tapped at it. "Okay, gym time, new outfits, and night vision goggles. Anything else?"

"I should talk to my parents, see if there's a way that they can be okay with this. I'd rather not get grounded again. So that's the only other thing I can think of."

"Fair enough. We'll talk through whatever rules they want to set."

I didn't know how to tell him that I didn't really think that conversation would include him, so I just nodded. "And maybe we should wait on the serious hero stuff until your arm heals?"

"Yeah yeah, of course. It was hard getting up those boxes with a cast on." He made a note of it on his phone. "Okay, so gym, a healed arm for me, make sure your parents are on board, and night vision goggles. Sound good?"

"Yeah, sounds good to me." I stuck out my hand. "I'm looking forward to working with you again, Ethereal."

# End Matter

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