Today’s excerpt from Karma Girl by Jennifer Estep is the first face to face meeting between intrepid girl reporter Carmen Cole and Striker, Superhero, and perhaps, her hero. Nothing like a first meeting! Don’t forget to read Chapter One, And stay tuned for a Bigtime contest!
Excerpt
There were no society events scheduled for the evening, so I returned to the Bigtime Public Library. This time, I gathered information on the Terrible Triad. Every newspaper column, every glossy magazine spread, every journal article written about the ubervillains. I copied them all, stuffed them in a trash bag, and headed home.
It was late when I unlocked the door to my apartment and stepped over the threshold. I flipped on the lights, threw my keys down on a nearby table, and walked over to the alarm system. I punched in the code. I shivered and glanced at the thermostat. Sixty-five degrees. I frowned. The thermostat was set at seventy-two. It should be a lot warmer than that in here—
My fingers stilled for a second. Then, I leaned forward and fiddled with the thermostat, pretending to punch in an elaborate command. My eyes scanned what I could see of the living room. One of the windows was open. A cool breeze invaded the room and fluttered the white curtains.
There was only one problem. I hadn’t left the window open. I never did, not since the first time a kid had slipped inside and hidden two pounds of rotten fish under the sofa. Someone had broken into my apartment. Another, more disturbing thought popped into my frantic, confused brain.
He might still be in here.
For a moment, I wanted to scream and bolt through the door. Instead of running, I reached out into the hallway and picked up my garbage bag filled with papers. I knew who had come calling while I wasn’t home. I was just surprised it had taken him this long.
I lugged the bag over to the coffee table and plopped it down. The table creaked under the weight.
“Whew!” I said for the benefit of whoever might be listening and wiped a bit of imaginary sweat from my forehead. “That one was even heavier than the last batch. Time to take a shower.”
I walked down the hall like everything was perfectly normal, even though my heart pounded and blood roared in my ears. I went into the bathroom and closed the door not quite all the way. I stood at the crack, listening. Nothing. Was complete silence one of his superpowers? For once, my memory failed me. My jumbled brain couldn’t recall.
I turned on the water in the sink. The steady hiss drowned out the rapid beating of my heart. I reached under the toilet and yanked off a piece of duct tape. A gun fell into my sweaty hand, along with an extra clip of ammo. It comforted me. I was pretty sure who my intruder was and that he wouldn’t hurt me, but it was better to be safe than sorry. I racked back the slide and stuck the clip in my waistband. My hands trembled.
I took a deep breath to steady myself. Then, I tiptoed to the door and squeezed through the opening. I padded down the hall, as silent as any mouse. I stood in the pool of darkness that separated the hall from the living room and kitchen. I held the gun up, waiting, watching, listening.
Come out, come out, wherever you are …
A long, tall shadow detached itself from the refrigerator and headed for the open window. I raised the gun and aimed at the shadow’s back. I pulled the trigger.
I wasn’t fast enough. The shadow whirled around, sensing my presence. A dart hit the spot where he’d been standing a moment ago. So I fired again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
He kept moving. Dart after dart followed him through the kitchen. Glasses shattered and dishes broke as the tiny missiles hit them. Damn, he was fast, even for a superhero. A hollow click rang out, followed by another, then another. Out of ammo.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
I popped out the clip and jammed in the fresh one. Slow, slow, slow! I was moving too slow, like I was underwater. I expected a body to slam into me at any second. Or a gloved hand to yank the gun from my shaky, sweaty grasp. But nothing happened.
I snapped up the gun. The shadow stilled. We stood there in a silent standoff. Then slowly, oh so slowly, he eased forward into the light that spilled in through the window.
Striker.
He looked just the same as he had last night. Black suit. Black mask. Black hair. Silver swords. Gray eyes. But the effect was far more devastating up close and personal. A dark, dangerous air buzzed around him like an electric current. He stood still, sizing up the situation. Striker was a predator. I was just his chosen prey for the evening.
I licked my lips. Hot, nervous sweat trickled down the back of my neck, plastering my hair to my skin. My hands shook. The gun bobbed up and down. I steadied my grip.
Striker pried a dart out of the kitchen wall and held it up by the feathered end. His movements were lithe and fluid and controlled like those of a jungle cat. He seemed unconcerned with me and my gun.
“Tranquilizers.” I answered his silent question. “With enough juice in them to knock out an elephant. Striker, I presume?”
He nodded.
“I assume you know who I am.”
He nodded again.
We stood there in silence. I kept my gun leveled at him. Striker leaned back against the kitchen counter like he owned it. His gray eyes slid over my body in a frank, assessing way that made me tremble from head to toe. I felt like a fattened calf on the auction block being inspected by would-be buyers. I wondered if Striker liked what he saw. The thought startled me. I looked down at my faded, ripped jeans, battered sneakers, and T-shirt that read 0 to Bitch in 7.7 seconds or your money back. Probably not. Ugh.
“How did you know I was in here?” His voice was deep and rough and rich, with an edge of cool sophistication. The sort of voice that made women melt. Including me.
“It was cold.” I, on the other hand, squeaked like a mouse caught in a trap. “You forgot to shut the window.”
“I see.”
More silence.
“So, what do you want?”
Striker blinked. “Excuse me?”
“What do you want? I assume there was a reason you broke into my apartment. Or is it something you do for kicks?”
“You want me to tell you the reason I’m here?”
“Yes,” I said. “Aren’t superheroes supposed to be honest, forthright, and have outstanding morals? Isn’t that part of the job description, along with helping little old ladies cross the street?”
Striker hesitated, as if he didn’t know what to say. “Shut up,” he growled.
“Excuse me?”
“Not you.” He pointed to his ear. “One of my colleagues is listening in on our conversation. He’s laughing at your last statement. Evidently, he doesn’t think I’m very forthright.”
“Oh.” I wondered which one of the Fearless Five was tuning in to our tête-à-tête. Probably Hermit, given the fact that Striker had some sort of listening gizmo in his ear.
The silence gathered around us once more. Striker stared at me with his piercing gray eyes. The dark current snapped and hummed around him like a live wire. The man oozed danger and sensuality. Every part of my body tingled and tightened in response. And in anticipation of something I couldn’t quite identify.
I dropped my eyes from his face. My gaze landed on his fantastic chest and slid down his rippling stomach to his— I snapped my head back up. My cheeks flamed.
“Look, I’ve had a really long day, and I’m tired. I would like nothing more than to take a shower and go to bed, plus my arm is starting to cramp from holding this gun. So, why don’t you just tell me what you want? Who knows? I just might give it to you. You can be on your merry way, and I can get some sleep.”
“Why don’t you put the gun down first, and then we’ll talk.”
I chewed my lip. “Might as well. I imagine you could take it away from me before I could blink if you wanted to.”
Suddenly, Striker moved. He sprang at me like a panther leaping upon a plump little bird. I blinked once before he pulled the gun out of my hand. I didn’t even feel him do it. For a moment, he stood there in front of me, so close that his breath kissed my face, so close that I could see the flecks of electric blue in his hypnotic eyes. My heart slammed against my rib cage.
“I did just take your gun away. Quite easily. But hold on to it if it makes you feel better.”
He stepped back and tossed the weapon to me. Somehow, I managed to catch it.
“Well, there’s no reason to get all cocky about it,” I muttered, trying to hide my intense reaction to him.
I stumbled forward on shaky feet and put the gun on the coffee table. I sank down into the groove on the sofa, kicked off my sneakers, and propped my feet up on the trash bag. I tried to look tougher and stronger and calmer than I felt.
Striker leaned against the entertainment center. “What’s in the bag?”
“Papers.”
“What sort of papers?”
My eyes flicked over the table. “The sort of papers you’ve been going through, judging by the mess you’ve made.”
“More papers on me?” A hard edge crept into his voice. It cut me like a razor.
“Not exactly.”
“Then what sort of papers, exactly?”
“Papers on the Terrible Triad. Malefica, Frost, Scorpion, their various escapades.”
Striker cocked his head to one side, listening to whatever his comrade said. “My friend says you’re telling the truth. That all you’ve been doing all night is making copies at the library. Why are you gathering information on the Triad? Given our … previous meeting, I thought I was the one you were after.”
“Not exactly.”
Striker jerked his head at the table. “Those papers tell me otherwise. You’ve gathered quite a bit of information on me, and I saw you on top of that roof last night. I assume you weren’t there to buy some drugs. Are you trying to uncover my identity? Planning to expose me to the world?”
I hesitated. “Not exactly.”
“Then what are you doing, exactly?”
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
Striker’s hands curled into fists. His gray eyes bored into mine. They glowed with barely suppressed anger.
I shivered under the intense scrutiny. I didn’t think Striker would hurt me. The superhero code of ethics wouldn’t allow him to. Then again, I hadn’t thought Tornado would commit suicide either. Or that Matt would cheat on me. I wasn’t the best judge of character when it came to superheroes.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I mumbled.
“Try me.”
I weighed the pros and cons. Oh, what the hell? I’d probably never get another opportunity to talk face-to-face with Striker. I might as well lay my puzzle pieces on the table.
I rolled up my T-shirt. Two bruises colored my arms in angry purple and garish green. “Your good friend Malefica paid me a visit a few nights ago. Or rather she made me pay her one. Two goons kidnapped me and drugged me. When I woke up, I was in some kind of factory. Malefica was there with Frost and Scorpion.”
Striker’s eyes bored into me like hot laser beams. My temperature shot up about ten degrees. “I’m listening.”
“Frost had some animals that he’d done experiments on. They were … they were …” I took a deep breath to steady my shaky nerves. The memory of those poor creatures made me sick. I could still feel their pain and horror. “He had changed them. Into monsters. Malefica told me that unless I discovered your identity in a month’s time and gave it to her, she would turn me over to Frost and let him do the same thing to me.”
“I see.”
Silence.
“But I have a plan,” I continued.
“A plan?”
“Yes. I’ve been gathering information on you in hopes of uncovering your true identity.”
“And what happens if you do? How does that help you, other than keep you out of Frost’s grasp? Or perhaps get you back in the good graces of the editors at The Exposé?” Striker’s voice could have frozen boiling lava.
“Simple.” I picked up a wayward Rubik’s Cube and fiddled with it. “I use you to lead me to Malefica. I uncover her real identity and give it to you. You and the rest of the Fearless Five go after her, while I slip off into the sunset. You apprehend your greatest enemy, I don’t get turned into a yeti, and we all go home happy, except for Malefica and her boys, who will hopefully get twenty-to-life in a secure facility for insane ubervillains.”
“I see. Why not just concentrate on Malefica? Why drag me into it?” His voice was quiet and calm, but I could hear the anger in it. Striker didn’t approve of my master plan.
“Because I need you to lead me to Malefica. That’s how it works. The superheroes always lead me to the ubervillains, not the other way around.” I slid a row of colors into place. My hands trembled, and I hoped Striker didn’t notice how much he affected me.
“What makes you think I have anything to do with Malefica?”
I looked up at him. “Karma.”
“Karma?”
“Karma.” I got up off the sofa and paced around. I couldn’t sit still. Not when he stared at me like that. “Good and evil always balance each other out. Superheroes and ubervillains are always connected in some way. They’re like magnets, always attracting and repelling each other. It’s fascinating. Malefica is somewhere in your life. She might be a friend, a girlfriend, a business partner, maybe even your wife. You just don’t know it or refuse to see it.”
Striker paused. His eyes turned inward, mentally sorting through every person in his life, trying to figure out who might fit the mold.
“Come up with any suspects? Anybody sneak off in the middle of an important business meeting? Any girlfriends fail to show up for dates? Any so-called friends have odd, unexplainable injuries?”
“No,” he growled.
“Too bad.”
I finished my Rubik’s Cube and put it on the bookshelf.
“So, I’ve told you my plans. How about taking off that mask?” I asked in a bright, cheery voice to hide my nervousness. “I’m sure you’d be much more comfortable without it. I’ve always wondered how you people breathe through those things. They look terribly thick. And I really don’t see how you move around in those leather suits either. Or is yours some sort of special spandex?”
Striker crossed his arms over his chest and gave me a cold look that would have made Frost icy with envy.
I shrugged. “It never hurts to ask. And it would make my job a lot easier.”
He didn’t respond.
“Look, I don’t want to expose you. I’m not going to reveal your identity to anyone. I promise. I’m through with that. For good.”
Striker’s eyes slammed into mine. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because of what happened to Tornado.”
The words just popped out. A muscle in Striker’s clenched jaw twitched. His eyes grew dark and stormy as a thundercloud. I shrank back against the bookcase. I didn’t need my inner voice to tell me I’d just stepped way over the line.
Still, there was something I had wanted to say for a long time, something I needed to say, whether he believed me or not. I turned my back to the superhero, unable to meet his damning, angry gaze. “I’m sorry. I truly, truly am. I never meant for that to happen. If I’d had any idea Tornado would react that way, I never would have written the story. I hope you can accept my apology and sympathy for your loss.”
The silence deafened me. I turned. The apartment was empty.
Striker had left the building.
