Damsel[ed] Rescue Required

Rain drums on the roof of the super museum. Soft footsteps echo from the room over and the night watchman"s flashlight hits the ground with a "thump."

She rolls her eyes and nudges her partner. He grunts, leaning against a pillar with a half-eaten turkey sandwich hanging out of his mouth. "Teens again," she says, pointing to Tauras" and Nebula"s Room of Love.

"I hate teens." Joe Grayson finishes his sandwich in one gulp, flicking crumbs off his starched collar onto the polished floor. A boom of thunder sends him ducking.

The Starlight City Commemorative Superhero Museum is eight floors high, the top one all windows, like a big, glass cage. From here, the two watchmen have a clear view of where the capital building burned. It"s a gap in the skyline, like a missing tooth in a silver smile. Joe Grayson frowns out at the view. "But it"s only teens, right?"

The power is out. Could be the storm, could be worse. A super. Melissa Sanchez picks up the flashlight, breaking in a cold sweat. The silence is heavy.

"Maybe not."

Grayson runs his hand over his bald head as if to smooth back hair. His cheeks puff up and he lets out a noisy breath. "Hey!" he shouts, pushing past his partner. "Hey, kid! Get out of here!"

There comes a wheezy laugh, as booming and deep as the thunder outside. Sanchez is right behind her partner, the flashlight shoved hastily in a holster, her handgun out and pointed at the door.

This is the way it is in Starlight. Civilians hear a loud noise, they assume a supervillian is standing over them with a raised fist and a syringe. You become a thief, and you"re equal parts likely to be pummeled to criminal soup by a superhero or shot some dozen and a half times by a terrified civilian.

The watchmen rush into the room, army of two. Rain pelts the windows. Light dapples the floor, the plastic memorial candles flickering on the fountain.

The figure whirls around, silhouetted in a long, slinky shadow. Nebula and Tauras look down at the scene, captured forever in a lover"s embrace. It"s a beautiful piece, based off a photo. Nebula, her helmet torn off, crying happy tears, her supersuit streaked with grit and dust. Taurus, unable to stand, collapsed against her, his civilian suit tattered and bloodied.

The statue is so lifelike, from the folds of Tauras"s torn clothing to the tangles in Nebula"s hair to even the unsteady one-leg pin-up girl pose the playful Taurus struck when he saw the camera, that even in bronze, Sanchez can imagine them perfectly. Breathing, in the flesh, though Sanchez only caught in eyeful of them back in "84 during the room dedication.

Now, in an ironic turn of events, their museum is being robbed.

The figure is small and lithe, dressed all in black with a bag slung over their shoulder. The shadow of their hood hides even the color of their eyes. All the guards can make out if the burglar"s smile. "Freeze or I"ll shoot!" Sanchez shouts.

The figure dips a graceful bow and whirls out the open window, falling some eight stories into the night. By the time Sanchez empties the barrel of her .22, the burglar is gone.

And so is Nebula"s supersuit.

***

Angelos.

"Gotcha!" the man shouts, cupping his hand over my face. My eyes fly open and my mouth parts in a silent scream before I realize it"s a sham and wriggle free. I roll over and hit the carpet.

"Ow, ow, ow, OW!"

Storm smirks down me.

Jaylin and Keplar are still asleep. Fed with all the meat I could find in the fridge, washed with my own shampoo, and given three bowls of mineral water, Kep was out, living the good life. I fell asleep on the couch. Jaylin did the same, her forehead pressed against my thumping heart, her fingers skimming my feathers. Turns out wings make good blankets in a pinch.

"Hey-"

Storm picks me up by the collar of my tee shirt. Kepler blinks an eye open and growls at him, then goes back to sleep. Jaylin is still. Doesn"t so much as twitch. Storm"s eyes flare behind his broken glasses. Gray like Gats." "You"re dead, kiddo. I just broke into your house, knocked you out, and brought you to your dad."

I rub my eyes, my shirt cutting under my arms from Storm"s grip. "I know, I know. I"ll do better next time." I yawn. "I"m just tired, da"."

He harumphs. A small smile plays out on his features. ""Da," huh? Is that who I am now?"

"Yup. You"re my dad. The stork just got mixed up is all."

Storm sets me down on the floor. His smile is small and sad. "I don"t think Fallout agrees and I don"t think Gatsby will ever call me that."

"He really is your son?" I hesitate. "Your biological one, I mean."

Storm nods, adjusting the rims of his cracked glasses. Some people have huge family resemblance. Me and my "parents," for instance. But Gats is different. If you look hard enough at June"s small, wiry build, at Storm"s hard gray eyes and the distinct structure of his face, you can make it out. You can connect the dots.

Since this is the third book written after "Life of a Teenage Eugenics Experiment" and "Life of a Teenage Fugitive Kidnapped by Literally Every Member of His Family," I"ll recap.

My mother is dead. She seized the Starlight City capital before Gats plunged a sword through her chest and ended it. Luce is sentient and functions independently from me, but I can knock him out with obsidian. The downside? I knock out my powers, too. Poison kidnapped me, Fallout kidnapped me for about thirty minutes, then Owl kidnapped me. I only wish we could"ve had a family dinner or something. Aside from being a hero, Gats is also a traitor. He betrayed Heaven and played Owl"s minion, threatening to stab me a good three or four times.

He"s also, you know, Juniper and Storm"s son. And not in the way I am, either. He carries their genes.

I"m also dating Jaylin. So there"s that.

"Well, then. You and Ju-Mom going to go out and talk to him about it?"

Another nod. "Dinner at The Ritz. We"re leaving you home tonight. Lock every door and window and make sure to keep Heaven nearby. Call us at the first sign of trouble." Storm takes off his glasses and rubs the cracks with his forefinger. He offers Kepler a meager pat on the head. She kicks her legs out and sighs, tail thumping. "You stole yourself a designer pet. These things are worth a fortune. Wolves, tigers, bears, you name it. Models of new taming methods through genetic modification. Gentle as lambs."

I swallow the growing knot in my throat. "Are there any designer kids, too?"

Storm adjusts his jacket and checks his watch. "You," he says, "and Feli-Gatsby, and your brother."

"Anymore I should know of?"

Storm turns toward the door, fluffing the bean bag chair and flipping the cushions. "Stay safe." By the time I"ve wobbled to my feet and cleared my throat to remind him that that isn"t an answer, the door is open and his glasses have been pitched into the wastebasket.

He turns, half-outside, and grunts, eyes flicking from me to Jay. "If you"re going to have sex, use protection and don"t do it on my sofa." The door clicks locked. Just like that, Storm has waltzed in and out of my life. Just like that, I"m shriveled against the couch with a face so hot I could fry pancakes on it.

Me. Jaylin. Sex. Hah. I just decided I don"t hate her a day ago.

"That"s the fastest "talk" I"ve ever heard in my life." Jaylin rolls off the couch and hits the floor beside me, her head in her hands.

"You"ve been awake this whole time, haven"t you?"

She pulls Kepler off the couch by the fluffy scruff of her neck. Kepler doesn"t seem to notice, limp as a ragdoll in her arms. "Who"s a good wolf? Who"s a good wolf!" Kepler rolls her golden eyes and sighs, her snout pressed up against Jay"s knee as she falls back to sleep.

Heaven is patrolling. Gats is asleep in the back of the family Prius, I think. That or taking a walk to clear his head. The coast is clear. I head to the kitchen, each step a stumble. My wings drag on the floor like coattails.

"What are you doing?"

"Making us some coffee." I slam the grounds on the granite and fumble with the detachable cap on the percolator. The stove clock reads "8:46." P.M. The attack happened noon yesterday. Jaylin and I have been asleep for a little over a day and everything feels like it"s happening inside a fog. "We"ve got investigating to do and I"ve got the keys to Gats" BMW."

***

Updates Saturdays!

Heaven.

Falling in love with my best friend"s psychotic supervillain brother seemed like a good idea at the time. And it was planned, thought through. Was it a sort of surrender? Yes, but it was a calculated surrender.

Tonight, as I "clean up the streets" with a bucket of soapy water and a push broom, Poison"s on my mind. Gats, Angel, the wringer we"ve been through, but mostly the boy with the white wings. His snowy hair, his beautiful wings, his handsome face.

I don"t love him. I"m drawn to him, like a bee to a deadly flower. I should want Gats. Should want to cradle him, coo at him, tell him everything is okay.

But I don"t even want to do that.

It"s raining. Raining hard. I"m soaked to the bone, shivering through my hoodie. I"ve been doing this all day, combing through subdivisions and city streets, scraping away the "Syndicate" graffiti and sweeping up broken glass. No one is out. The capitol building burned yesterday, Fallout"s doing. And people left their homes, bought food, and bunkered up, preparing for a new super war. It"s one I"m sure is coming.

I scrub "Syn" off a frosted window, the neon sign hissing and snapping over my head. A shadow passes over me. I glance up at the glass, and see his face.

"Hey, Hev." He flexes his good wing through the back of his leather jacket.

I whip around, blinking hard against the cold, pouring rain. My heart is in my throat, and for one tremor of a moment, I laugh, because he has to be a hallucination. The past few days have warped my broken brain so much that I"m seeing mirages of him. He rakes a hand through his feathery white hair and steps to me.

"I heard about a hoodie-wearing hero "cleaning up the streets" and thought I"d ought to check it out." He touches my chin and tilts up my head. I lift my hand to smack him away, and it quivers there in the open air.

I asked him to put me under his spell, and now, a little more than a day later, I"m melting. Without Owl to fight, the thoughts of him consume me. I just want to latch onto him to make the craving for his presence go away. So I can think. So I can breathe.

"What do you want?" I snap. "And how"d you even get here? I thought your dad grounded you."

He flinches. Sticks and stones may break your bones, but my puns with all the real crushing-power. His smirk wavers, and it"s as thin and papery as a mask. "Oh," he says, with a shrug. "He"s busy plotting. Figuring out how to capture Angel, you know? So I slipped out. I have legs too, Hev."

"And Ceres?" I lean the push broom against the window. Cross my arms over my chest and scowl down at his hand. Not that I have a reason to avoid his eyes anymore. Other than that they"re pretty and I"m a sucker for them.

He drops his grip. "He"s fine. How are you?"

Been better, I want to say. Owl tried to have me gruesomely tortured. I failed. My parents are superheroes, and not just any superheroes, either. Nebula and Taurus. The Romeo and Juliet of the golden-agers. The leaders of my heroes.

I am the daughter of a tragedy.

"Look," I say, "I don"t know what you want. I don"t know how you keep finding me, unless you"ve got a tracker on me, which I guess you might, grade-a stalker. I"m kind of tired. So did you come here to kidnap me?"

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Sure. Something like that." His smirk looks a little more genuine this time, but he steps back, giving me enough room to throw up my hands.

"In case you have amnesia, I"m the strong one here. If you want me to break that other wing, try me. I"m never too tired to tangle, Poison." I pinch the bridge of my nose with one hand and grab the push broom with the other.

"You love me." His eyes flash. They are pretty. So blue against the foggy night sky that they cut against the darkness. He leans over my head, drumming his fingers on the glass. Bored. He"s even taller than Angel, and I, the superhero, shrink back. And no. It"s not the broken-winged dreamboat I"m intimidated by.

It"s me. It"s my pounding heart, the bubbly little awkward laugh caught in my throat, the way the heat has rushed up into my face. I want to throw my arms around him. I want to melt into him. "And if you just keep running, it"s going to get worse."

I sink down to the sidewalk. And the truth is, he"s right. The pressure in my chest is tightening. I"m sitting in front of Cupid, with the wings and the love-powers and everything. I cup my face in my hands. "I don"t want to think about it."

He stoops down. I shiver as the rainwater drips down my face. "So what are you going to do?"

"You came here to "collect" me, didn"t you? That"s what you meant when you said you were going to do "something like" kidnapping me." I slide my hands back down to my lap. They"re shaking. Poison takes them up in his, and I jolt upright. The pressure behind my eyes makes me want to cry. I don"t know how to handle this. I"ve never known how to handle my own feelings. Let alone this, whatever it is.

"Look, you said you"d come with me. If you don"t, this spell stuff will drive you crazy." He squeezes my hands, and I freeze, deer in headlights. I don"t even read romance, except for the ones with the shirtless guys on the covers. Sometimes. Is it supposed to work like this? The lead is just doing her thing, tending to her friends, doing her schoolwork, saving the world, when love hits her like a sheath of barbed arrows to the heart. "Snare needs your help, with the aftermath and all," he adds with a shrug. His soaked shirt clings to his chest. And it"s such a painfully dumb thing to notice, I laugh. Just a harsh chuckle that makes Poison arch an eyebrow.

"Yeah, sure." I steady my voice, looking him dead in the face though my hands are sweaty and my pulse is thumping and all I can think about is how beautiful he is, "cause it turns out I"m shallow as sin. I"m leaning forward before I even realize I"m doing it. "But you see, I have friends that need me, too. And school. That"s a thing that I keep forgetting exists. Spring break ends like, Monday." Our spring break lasts until the first week of April. "We go to school on my birthday." I offer him an awkward chuckle. He"s looking at my mouth and my knees are too tingly. I love Gatsby. Even if he betrayed me. Love my friends, even if I couldn"t protect them. Can"t do this, even if I want to. I can"t.

"Just come with me." He leans forward, eying me with that desperado passion that you only expect from soap opera stars, holding both of my hands to his chest. I"ve gone stiff. Couldn"t move if I tried. So this is how it feels when a train is barreling at you and you"re tied to the tracks. The train in this metaphor being my feelings "cause they"re off the rails and about to make me human mush.

"Look, I want to," I say. "I really do." Now that he"s in my space, I might as well be honest. I love him because of his powers, but it feels genuine. And craving him is like craving, well, poison, pardon my pun, my cheese, and my cliche. He closes the last of the space between us, tugging down my hood. And I don"t shrink back this time, I lean in.

Then his mouth is on mine.

My enemy. The bad guy. He calls himself "Poison." Red flags, Hev!

But when he kisses me, I kiss him back.

I"m all pins and needles. Shivering, sweating, melting essentially. And when I"m back on my feet, still pressed against the cold glass window, still kissing, I let him pick me up. My arms are wrapped around his shoulders, fingers combing the feathers of his good wing.

And I"ve never felt so scared and so excited and just so very much before, like my heart will explode in my chest and I can"t breathe and the world is spinning. I don"t want to think about last night. I don"t want to think about Gats. I don"t want to think about what he"s done, don"t want to think about Owl, don"t want to remember how it feels to watch someone you love being dragged away from you or the sound of the tendons snapping in your neck. So I"m making out with my enemy. So I"m tired of being strong. Guess what? I"m worn out.

"So do you want to stay with me?" he asks into my neck. I"m still shivering. My pulse slamming in my wrists, the rain still pouring and cold, the wind still brisk. I squeeze my arms around his chest and close my eyes, mind racing with all my responsibilities, with thoughts about how this boy hurt my friends. How this is wrong.

But I don"t care. I just want the pain to stop.

"As long as no one knows."

Gats.

By the time I"ve stuffed my soaked clothes in my hamper and scampered back onto the street, Juniper and Storm are waiting for me, half-drenched under their big floppy umbrella. Storm, in his thick black trench, his tie peeking out from the folds of his collar. I"ve never seen him without his glasses before. I never realized how gray his eyes were. Juniper, in a shoulderless blue dress that looks far too fashionable for her style. She leans up against the Prius, arms crossed over her chest. She sighs at me. "Gatsby, your clothes."

I give myself a quick once over. I"m wearing skinny blue jeans and a graphic tee-shirt of talking turtles. It"s the only real tee I"ve got. The rest are plaids and button-ups. I stuff my hands in my pockets, trying to smile. It"s a shaky attempt at best. My brain hurts. I want to curl up into myself and sob. And instead, I grin at them, my stomach all clenched up and my head pounding something awful.

"They"re not going to let us in any way. They don"t like cars that cost less than houses." My hair is slicked to the back of my neck, the cold seeping through my clothes. June grabs me by the arm and pulls me under her umbrella, splashing me in puddle water that sloshes in the toes of my mud-streaked sneakers. If Angel saw me like this even a week ago, he"d laugh. I"d laugh. I pat my soaked hair against my head, the cat ears lying flat at the touch. My wrists are still pink where the straps chaffed the skin, and my knees wobble at the sight.

"Gatsby, hon, I know what you"re feeling," June says, pulling me into a hug. Storm offers me an awkward pat on the shoulder. "It"s been so long since we saw our first..." She hesitates.

"Death." I make my voice as smooth and lilting as it will go. I killed a woman. And yet the world still spins and the lights still glitter on the skyline. I should be curled in a corner with my face pressed against the wall, rocking slowly with my hands cupped around my knees. And I was. And all I can see when I shut my eyes is the half-hidden terror in Heaven"s face, and the little smirk she plastered on when Owl pinned her. She wasn"t fighting to save herself. She was fighting to hurt Owl.

And that haunts me even more than the feel of the sword in my hands or the final, squeaky sound Owl made when she collapsed. More than the splatter of warm blood, more than knowing I ended someone"s existence, though the guilt crushes me even now. I had to. It was to save Heaven"s life. And yet I wonder, stupidly wonder, if I had any right at all.

I am a monster.

"You did what you had to do, honey. She killed many people, and you ended what would"ve been a long and blood-filled reign. We"re proud of you."

The smile falters. A lump wells up in my throat and I choke back my tears.

There"s silence as the three of us huddle together in the downpour under the folds of the umbrella. Then Storm speaks, his voice as soft and whispery as usual.

"When Owl had you," he asks, "did she hurt you?"

I lower my head. Tears blur my eyes. I rub my face with the back of my hand. My pulse pounds in my fingertips as I fumble with the door handle. I nod at them with an awkward laugh that breaks at the end with a squeak. "Mom. Dad. I don"t want to talk about it. I just want to eat."

They flinch. I see it in their reflections on the Prius"s windows.

"If you don"t feel like calling us that," June starts, the rain thumping the street behind her, "you don"t have to, you know. Nothing has to change."

I"m not listening. I"ve already propped the door open and scrambled inside, arms wrapped around my knees, back snug against the seats. The cat ears flick flat and pin.Little tremors have crept into my fingers and wrist. I"m hugging myself to keep out the chill.

"How are you-"

"I"m fine!" I don"t mean to snap. "I don"t-I didn"t mean t-to-I just feel so-I"m s-sorry." The words gurgle together, my head pounding, pounding, pounding with the type of pain that"s brain-numbing. I stop my shaking and stretch, the cold rushing in on all sides. "I"m really fine."

I even offer up a smile, though it"s twitchy and a little too broad on my aching face.

The adults say no more as they slip into the front seats of the economy car. June takes up the passenger side and Storm takes up the wheel. I shrink back, eyes squeezed shut, fingers pressed into my temples.

"What about the cat ears?"

"Supers have oddities all the time. No one will say anything."

I raise an eyebrow. The only supers I"ve seen "oddities" is Fallout"s line and whatever it is that faces me in the mirror every morning. "Angel has to hide his wings-"

"That"s different," says Storm, shooting me a glance over his shoulder. His voice is still soft, but there"s an edge to it now. Even Juniper is twitchy. She had the crap kicked out of her a little over a day ago. Her blood ran the steps of the capitol building red. And now all that"s left to show for it are the yellowing bruises on her exposed shoulders. Fingerprint-sized, all of them.

It makes me wonder what they"ve seen if the burning of the capitol building and their own torture skimmed over them as if those events were all in the everyday life of two millionaire environmentalists. I force a smile. If I look happy, then I am happy, if I look okay, then I am okay. I repeat this to myself as rain pelts the glass, wishing I had Angel on my left and Hev on my right, wishing I had my friends to confide in, or more appropriately, beg forgiveness from. Saving someone only gets you so far before they remember you betrayed and threatened to kill them. Multiple times.

Storm pulls into a parking garage. "But you"re right, Gats, these folks don"t take kindly to cars that cost less than a hundred grand or two."

I dry my forehead with the back of my sleeve and blow on the window, fogging it up just enough to draw a smiley. My hands are still shaking, so the smile jags down into a frown. I lean my weight against the door and exit into darkness. The orange lights on the ceiling and supports hum and snap, beetles and moths buzzing around them. Otherwise, the deck is empty of life and light. The only pocket of movement comes from a shadowy corner, where all I can make out is a silhouette of figures muttering in the dark.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and walk away from them as fast people. I know the ingredients of a superhero origin story when I see them. Now that I have parents, even nearly indestructible ones, I know the risks. Juniper and Storm look over their shoulders. The figures stop talking.

June takes my right and Storm takes my left. I look back and they"re following us. Under the low, hissing glow of the artificial lights, I can make out more of their features. Their cloaks. Their masks. I freeze.

Storm sighs. "Sometimes you just can"t get a break."

"Of course not. We know everything about you," says a woman with a raspy voice. Her two friends chuckle. "Give us the freak."

Juniper pats me on the shoulder. "Get in the restaurant, we"ll be right behind you."

And you know what?

I run. I don"t look back. I don"t shout that I can fight my own battles, or that the villains don"t deserve my fear, or that Juniper and Storm shouldn"t have to get hurt over me. All I remember is how it felt to be shoved in a van, shoved in a cage, shot in the face, starved. I clear the parking garage in a few quick bounds. I"m outside, gasping in the pouring rain, the city windows glittering at the edges of my vision. I turn the corner, shoulder through a couple kissing on the sidewalk, and slip-and-slide through the puddles into the revolving door.

The Ritz is in London. Starlight does not have The Ritz, but it does have string after string of expensive restaurants that serve meals so pricey you"d think the food squeezed from the essence of gold itself. This restaurant has a name, I"m sure, but there"s no sign with it. Not even above its door. It"s one of those places, like its own secret club, where anyone who"s in knows what it is and how much it costs. Juniper, Storm, Angel and I call it The Ritz. Heaven doesn"t call it anything because she never goes.

I step out into the foyer, coughing into my fist. The restaurant is as beautiful as you think it would be. Chandeliers dangling from gilded ceilings, violin music playing softly in the background, ceilings that vault up like a cathedral"s. The hostess sizes me up from behind her podium, drumming her fingers on the base"s edge. "Where"s the rest of your party?" she asks, shooting a pointed look at my cat ears. "This isn"t a place for toys, Gatsby. What are you wearing?"

I skim my hands through my hair and flick one of the ears. "Oh, these." With a smirk, I lean back against the podium. It feels good slipping back into my old skin. "I consider them pretty stylish, don"t you?"

She shakes her head, though she"s smiling. "You think you"re so slick."

"Very." I shoot her a wink. "You might as well call me Romeow."

She giggles. "Your pun-game could use some work. May I ask what happened to your eyes?"

"They are lovely, aren"t they?" I give my eyelashes a flutter. "What can I say? I"m trying a new look."

Storm and Juniper barge in through the revolving door. It"s an almost fluid movement, and the two intertwine hands with gracious smiles. They look so perfect together, you"d never guess what they"ve seen or where they"ve been. Storm"s on the phone.

"No ma"am," he says, with an awkward smile at the hostess. She offers one back and picks up the menus. We"re ushered into the dining room, which is even more lavish than the foyer. The walls are all mirrors, and the chandelier light shimmering on the floor is reflected from a thousand different places. The table cloths are crisp and white, with little flickering oil lamps in the middle of the tables. The chairs are so plush they might as well be thrones.

"No, ma"am, we can"t-this is a terrible time. Have you seen the news?"

We"re brought out little glasses of lemon water on a silver tray. I take a long sip of mine, staring out at my face in the mirrors. My eyes are stained with dark circles. There"s a long pink scar under my eye, splitting my cheek into even parts. The cat ears are perked. I wish I could say I look as handsome as before, but I don"t know, I just know I look different. Like Angel"s awful brother, with the feathery white hair and the piercing eyes that follow you around the room. I have become a stranger.

"I"m sure he"s a good kid." Storm leans on his elbow, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And I understand that he"s in danger. My wife and I would love to help, but we"ve got our hands full with Angelos and Gatsby. We-"

He frowns. Juniper does too. I drum my fingers on the tablecloth, taking in the characters at the tables around us. They"re dressed in all black, mostly. I shrink down in my chair.

"I think we should leave," I whisper into my lemon water. Juniper hardly seems to hear. She"s too involved in making exaggerated faces at Storm. Specifically, shaking her head and mouthing "no."

"No." Storm glances down at his drink. "Are you threatening us?"

A pause. I catch the eye of a grinning man in a tux. I duck down even lower. In the mirror, the ears pin. I clutch them because a woman in an evening gown has begun to laugh.

"Please don"t," Storm says, softer now. Juniper snatches the phone from him, holds it up to her ear, and her expression softens. There"s silence for some time. And then she sighs.

"We"ll pick him up, then. Tomorrow morning. But this is it. No more favors."

She hangs up and slams the phone on the table, pinching the bruises on her skin. The waiter comes to serve us, and Storm and Juniper are already on their feet. "Wha-"

"Sorry, sorry," Storm says with a hand wave. I offer the young man an awkward smile that he quickly returns. The patrons are watching me. All of them. Juniper seems to notice and tugs me against her like I"m a little kid, and I don"t mind it. It makes me feel safe.

When we leave the restaurant, I draw up a big breath, hands still trembling in my pockets. The night is young. I want to be with Heaven and Ang and I don"t want to go back to that parking garage.

"What was that about?"

Juniper presses her face in her hands and attempts a smile, but it"s so big it looks plasticky. Storm doesn"t even try. He stares off bleakly into space with his head tipped on his index and forefinger.

"We"re taking in another child," he says. "Looks like you and Angel are going to have a third brother."

***

This chapter is super late and it shouldn"t happen again. Sorry!