Spectra: A Cynical Superhero Page 4

  Most supernaturals liked humans; they were just like us except less complicated. It would be nice to think that humans would like us too and maybe even be excited to know about the supernaturals living among them, but I suspected that most were like that asshole deputy. If there ever came an “incident” that couldn't be covered up by human politicians, there might be another World War. Except this time it would be more literal; fought in every country—supernaturals against humans. The thought was enough to make my stomach turn.

  “Hey, Color-Me-Badd, how you doing?”

  I looked to my left and saw the statue of a man in a Captain Morgan pose with his lifted foot on the front stoop of an apartment building. The statue had the classic features of your average Greek Adonis and the build of a Spartan warrior but was dressed in modern clothing. An odd but eye-catching piece of stonework. Then the statue broke character and cracked a smile at me.

  “A has-been band from the eighties.” I rolled my eyes and kept walking. “No; that's not acceptable.”

  Among the supernaturals, there were a select few who believed that because we were born with powers, it was our duty to look after those who hadn't. These do-gooders had the nerve to call themselves superheroes instead of supernaturals. They ran about the human sections of cities in silly costumes and got into all manner of trouble in their mission to help humans. Not that I hated humans or didn't want to help them; I helped that woman the other night, didn't I? But I didn't think it should be my responsibility to patrol the streets for free just because I was born different. Well, born different and then made even more so by my scientist father and his unfading elixir. I huffed my angled bangs out of my face. Either way, I hadn't asked for this.

  “Come on, Mara, just hear me out.” The statue suddenly came to life; his skin and clothing shifting into more healthy hues.

  Right; back to the “superhero.”

  “Get stuffed like an olive, Davorin,” I said as I resumed walking.

  Davorin chuckled. “You always have the best come-backs, Mara.”

  “How hard is it to say 'Amara?'” I asked him. “It's one more letter.”

  “But your friends call you Mara,” Davorin pointed out with a wicked smirk.

  “We're not friends,” I said coldly.

  When he wasn't stone, Davorin was stone-cold sexy. He had mahogany hair that shone as if it were polished, luscious lips that begged to be bitten, and ivy-green eyes outlined in thick lashes. Oh, and rock-hard abs.

  If only he didn't dress like a ninja in his free time and refer to himself as Gargoyle.

  Yes; it's a catchy name. Davorin could turn anything into stone and then back again; including himself. The moniker was appropriate. Unfortunately, he'd been after me for months to join his budding superhero team and get my own ridiculous name. I told him he could call me Coma because that was what I'd put him into if he kept hounding me. That didn't intimidate Davorin in the least. In fact, he'd been coming up with his own names for me ever since; a new one every time we met.

  “Don't say that,” Davorin purred as he chased after me. “We're close; you and I.” He butted his shoulder against mine and sent me stumbling. “Oh, shit; sorry.”

  Davorin grabbed me before I fell into the road, and I wound up pressed tightly against his chest. I took a deep breath of expensive cologne mixed with male musk and clenched my teeth. The last thing I needed was to develop an attraction for the Living Pigeon Perch.

  “You okay?” His voice dropped even lower, and his aura flared from the blushing-pink of flirtation to a lusty, amorous red.

  I changed it to a sedate amethyst and pushed out of his arms.

  “Don't think that I don't know what you just did there, Amara.” Davorin caught my hand as I tried to leave. “Have dinner with me; I promise I won't talk about the group. It would be a normal date.”

  “Normal?” I lifted a brow as I pulled my hand away. “I don't think so.”

  “Around seven, then?” He asked.

  “Davorin darling, if you show up at my house tonight, I will grind your balls into dust,” I threatened sweetly.

  “Oh, how she wounds me,” he cried dramatically. “Threatening my stones; that's low.”

  I hid my smile as I hurried away.

  Chapter Five

  It was a good thing that I refused Davorin's dinner invitation because three hours later, two agents from the Secret Service braved the Supermarket to knock on my door. They had to get special permission just to enter the Market, even when going in at the President's request. It was mainly because of the gate spell. That ward was so good that the Market couldn't even be found from above; non-supernatural eyes would just skid away from it. Humans couldn't even parachute in unannounced. And since they couldn't make it past the gate without a supernatural, the agents also had to be escorted. So, not only did a pair of black-suited SS men show up with ear-pieces and all on my doorstep, but also Mandy Grundage, Mayor of the D.C. Supermarket.

  “Ms. Madison, these men are here from the White House,” Grundage said imperiously as she patted her blonde curls; they were hairsprayed to the point of looking enameled.

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” I asked the agents directly.

  “Ma'am, I'm Agent Dawson and this is Agent Craig,” one of them said as he gestured to the other. “We have orders to escort you back to the White House for a private dinner with the President to discuss matters of state.”

  Grundage's coppery snake eyes couldn't go any rounder, but they sure tried.

  “The President wants to talk about matters of state with me?” I couldn't help messing with them.

  “Um, it's about the situation,” Agent Craig said. “The one you were briefed on.”

  “I turned that job down,” I said.

  “The President would like you to reconsider,” Agent Dawson said.

  “Okay.” I sighed and looked as if I were pensive. “No.”

  “Perhaps you could speak with him before you make a decision?” Agent Craig suggested patiently.

  “What's for dinner?” I asked.

  “Ms. Madison!” Grundage nearly screeched.

  I ignored her. I'd never liked the woman. And it had nothing to do with her snake traits. Although, they didn't help.

  “Excuse me?” Agent Craig asked me; completely ignoring the Mayor.

  “What is the President going to serve me for dinner?” I asked more slowly.

  “Does it seriously make a difference?” Agent Dawson asked.

  “Yes.” I didn't blink.

  “She wants to know what they're serving for dinner,” Agent Dawson said into his communications piece. “Uh-huh. Okay. Yeah; I know.” He looked up at me. “There's a choice of prime rib or roasted chicken for the main.”

  “What is this; a bad wedding reception?” I huffed.

  “Ms. Madison, the President of the United States is asking you to dinner,” Grundage growled. “Just go!”

  The agents looked at each other in bafflement.

  “Fine,” I huffed and grabbed my coat. “I guess I'll have the prime rib. But there had better be something phenomenal for dessert.”

  “Yes, Ma'am,” Agent Craig said. “I'm sure there will be.”

  I locked up, and we all tromped down my steps to the street. I lived in a brick townhouse in one of the nicer areas of the Market. Being a translator paid well. On the tidy street before my place—parked under the shade of a young maple—was a black SUV with yet another stoic agent in the driver's seat. Agent Craig opened the door for me, and I slid into the luxurious, leather interior.

  “You will keep me informed, I assume?” Grundage asked Agent Dawson.

  “I'm sure that someone will notify you when it's appropriate, Ma'am,” Dawson said to her.

  From eighteen to eighty, every woman was a Ma'am to a secret service agent. But Grundage didn't like the Ma'aming or the brush-off. She started to grumble when the agent expressed how urgent their mission was—mission; that's a laugh—and how he didn't have
time to argue with her. The doors were shut on her furious face, and the SUV lurched forward. There was a smaller car behind us; some kind of sedan. It tailed us until we left the Market and then it stopped and turned around—the escort, I presume.

  I chuckled. “Nice going; you just pissed off the most important supernatural in the D.C. Market.”

  Agent Dawson frowned. “I was just doing my job.”

  “Your job may have hurt supernatural-human relations in this city,” I noted casually. “But hey, as long as the President gets his dinner date, right?”

  “This isn't a date, Ma'am,” Agent Dawson explained. “This is—”

  “Do they beat all the humor out of you in your training?” I interrupted him. “It was a joke.”

  “Not a funny one,” he said dryly.

  I shot a blast of yellow at Agent Dawson, and he burst out into a surprised bark of laughter. He covered his mouth with a horrified look as Agent Craig gawked at him.

  “It appears that it was funny, after all,” I murmured as I stared innocently out the window.

  Chapter Six

  “Thank you for accepting my invitation,” President Colton said as he stood to greet me.

  “I don't think I had much of a choice,” I said honestly.

  I glanced around the President's private dining room before I took the seat he pulled out for me. The walls were buttermint-yellow and very tall. An enormous painting hung on one of them; a portrait of some old, jowly, intimidating fellow who looked as if he'd never missed a meal in his life. I suppose that was appropriate artwork for a dining room. The table was oval but small; a four-seater with lots of elbow room. The guy in the painting would have taken up half of it. There was a bowl of peonies in the center of the table and real silverware set to the sides of the White House china.

  “I'm sorry that you thought so,” President Colton said as he resumed his seat. “And I'm sorry for the brutish way you were treated by Deputy Secretary Lathem. I've taken him off the investigation and temporarily removed him from duty until he can be assessed for competency.”

  “You what?” I gaped at him.

  “I can't have a bigot investigating a crime involving people who he's biased against. Nor can I have that same bigot as the Deputy Secretary for Homeland Security; that's a racial war just waiting to explode. And I have no desire to go down in history as the President who started the second civil war,” Colton said reasonably. “I had no idea that Lathem was such a racist. If I'd known, I would have acted sooner.”

  “Fair enough,” I murmured as an elegant salad was slid in front of me. “Thank you,” I said to the stealthy waiter.

  He nodded discreetly and crept away.

  “I hope the rest of this meal doesn't feel too much like reception fare,” Colton teased me.

  “They blabbed, huh?”

  “Agents Dawson and Craig are part of my personal security team,” he said. “They tell me everything. Also, I was listening in through their mics.”

  “You were eavesdropping?” I asked in surprise.

  “I needed to know if I had to dress for dinner or if I could stay in my underwear,” he said blandly.

  “You were not sitting around the White House in your underwear.” I rolled my eyes. “But thank you for that amusing imagery.”

  “I'm here to entertain.” Colton held his arms out and grinned brightly. “Also; I live here. I assure you that there are moments when I'm just in my underwear.” He leaned in to whisper, “Sometimes, I'm even naked.”

  I shook my head and started on my salad.

  “When you have a moment, could you hit Play and take a look at this?” Colton slid a tablet over to me.

  I glanced down as I chewed. A video was already loaded and ready to be watched. It was the interior of a bank; tellers at one end and the entrance at the other. A group of men was spread out through a cowering crowd, but despite their aggressive postures, they held no weapons. I hit Play.

  And then I froze.

  “What is it?” Colton asked. “Do you recognize the language?”

  “Of course, I recognize the language. I know all of them,” I huffed without thinking; I was that startled. Then I gasped. “I'm so sorry, Mr. President.”

  “Forget it,” he waved it aside urgently. “What language is it? And what are they saying?”

  I stopped the video and went back to listen again.

  “It's Bleiten,” I murmured.

  “The Demon language?” His jaw dropped. “But they haven't visited Earth in years.”

  “Yes,” I muttered as I waved him into silence and listened intently.

  The supernatural bank robbers didn't appear to be Bleiten; at least, not all of them did. So, why were they speaking it? Bleiten never spoke their native tongue in mixed company. On Earth, they used the language of the region they were in. When in Rome and all that. Unless, of course, they didn't want to be understood.

  I looked closer at the video; one of the men—and they all appeared to be male—was almost completely covered. He had a ski mask on like the rest of them but also gloves, a heavy jacket, a turtleneck, pants, and boots. Only a small ring of skin showed around his eyes. But halfway through the video, something dripped out of his sleeve and landed on the floor. It looked thick and clear—like hair gel—and the stone floor started to smoke where it hit.

  “What the fuck is that?” I whispered as my eyes went wide.

  “You caught that, did you?” Colton asked with a smirk. “I thought you would.”

  “He's leaking toxic goo,” I proclaimed.

  “We were able to collect a sample of the substance and have it analyzed. Your analysis is spot on; it's a poisonous mucus,” Colton said. “Producing poisonous slime isn't exactly your average supernatural ability.”

  “No; it's not. In fact, I've never heard of it,” I murmured. “Most of these men are too small to be Bleiten. Only this one here looks large enough.” I pointed to one of the robbers. “But with his mask on, I can't tell for sure either way. This slime-dripping fellow is definitely too short to be one of them, but the Bleiten have been rumored to experiment on their own kind. His reduced size could be a side-effect of whatever made him gooey.”

  “So, he may be an experiment gone wrong?”

  “Or one gone horribly right,” I said grimly.

  “Jesus,” Colton whispered.

  “Your god can't help you against the Bleiten, Mr. President.” I rubbed my arms to work the shivers away. “No one can. Except maybe the Triari.”

  “The Triari?” Colton perked up. “Do you think they would help us?”

  I sighed deeply and contemplated how much I wanted to confide in the President.

  “Are you all right, Amara?” The President asked in concern.

  “I may know someone whom you can speak to,” I offered.

  “A Triari?” His eyes widened when I nodded. “I didn't think there were any left on Earth.”

  “We thought the Bleiten had left as well, but there you go.” I waved a hand at the tablet.

  “Fair point,” he conceded. “Can you set up a meeting between this Triari and me?”

  “I can try; we're not exactly friends.”

  “That's all I can ask,” he said gently. “Now, can you tell me what the thieves were saying?”

  “They were talking about the robbery; where to stand, who to target, and what to take.”

  “They had specific targets?” He leaned forward.

  “Not that specific.” I shook my head. “The went for the strongest. It's a common tactic; take out the biggest opponents first and make the weaker cower.”

  “But they also had specific things they wanted to steal?” Colton asked.

  “Nothing from the drawers,” I said. “They wanted the cash from the vault, and they said they needed to...” I went back and listened again. “Grab a few deposit boxes randomly in addition to one in particular.”

  “Which one in particular?”

  “They don't say.”

/>   “Well, shit,” he whispered. “That's still more than a team of experts have gotten in two days.”

  “The robbers thought it was safe to speak in Bleiten.” I shrugged. “No one on Earth knows that language anymore.”

  “No one but you and these criminals,” Colton noted.

  “Now, I'm really glad that I walked out of DHS,” I muttered. “If Lathem had heard that, he'd probably arrest me for conspiracy.”

  “He'd take you into custody, which is far worse,” Colton said grimly. “Why do you how to speak Bleiten, Amara?”

  “My father had a book on the language.” I shrugged. “I read it once.”

  President Colton laughed and shook his head. “You read a book once and learned a language. Just like that?”

  “I'm a fast learner; especially with languages.”

  “Damn; I wish I had your brain.”

  “I wasn't smart enough to become President,” I pointed out.

  “This office isn't about intelligence,” Colton said. “It's about diplomacy.”

  “Diplomacy is key,” I agreed. “But you can't be an idiot either.” I frowned as a few past presidents came to mind. “Or rather, you shouldn't be.”

  “True. So, in an effort to not be an idiot, I'm going to ask an expert for help. Will you help us with the investigation, Amara?” He asked in a very diplomatic way.

  “I'm not going back to Homeland Security,” I said stubbornly.

  “I can arrange for you to use an office here,” he offered. “Amara, we were able to track the robbers through traffic cams and CCTV after they left the bank. DHS is currently working on identifying them through facial recognition and the assistance of the Supermarket Police. If we can find them and set some surveillance on them, we can discover whether they're just one group of criminals or if they're part of a bigger conspiracy. But we'll need someone to interpret what we hear. We need you.”