Page 103 of No Capes
A loud siren blares outside the window, in a red and blue whirl. A fleet of five helicopters lands on the lawn and several police cars pull up below.
In the yard, however, I see no signs of Dark Static, Flare, or Phil.
My dad sways in his chair and I finally see the screen. There’s an email pulled up, addressed to everyone he knows, including Officer Kyle. Empty CD cases scatter haphazardly on the other side of him.
“You sent the tapes?” I sit back in awe.
“Arielle c-climbed to the—the tower,” he gasps. “She brought them back down here, then something shocked her.”
Salt drips onto my lips, and I realize I’m crying.
“We did it, Madeline.” A tear falls from his chin. “I got the man who killed her.”
I hold back a sob as he hugs me. Thanks to my dad and Arielle, Phil Bridges—when he’s finally caught—will never see the outside of a maximum-security prison again. The special prison too, where the food is extra-disgusting, because that’s where they put Supervillains.
It’s there, with my family, that I finally pass out.
Thirty Three
Everyone has fears. Whether it’s four fears or forty, when it comes to facing your nightmares, there’s one guarantee: it only gets easier.
I wake in a strange place, but am not immediately alarmed. Something in me says I can handle whatever’s about to happen.
My surroundings sharpen. I lie in a bright blue room, in an enormous bed that has little dogs drawn on it. Long windows fill each wall, as well as several photographs of different colors of tulips. I sit up, adjusting to the environment. My head throbs like someone had been using it as a soccer ball, and my back aches like it was the playing field. Bracing myself, I stand. I wear a tie-dye t-shirt and long pajama pants that I’veneverseen before.
I stumble to the closest window and take in the sun setting over an immaculate lawn. It has already been cleaned up from our epic Super battle—a true landscaping masterpiece on Arielle’s behalf. I must be in one of her three million guest rooms.
Holding onto the wall for support, I hobble out the door and find myself on the first floor of the mansion, which is a good thing, since I definitely can’t do the stairs. I stumble into the nearest bathroom and reach for the sink. Cool water stings my cheeks when I splash it on my face, but fortifies me. I risk a glance in the mirror.
My skin is ashen and a long scratch runs down my jaw. I lean in to get a better look, wincing against the counter. Three black threads run across the scrape.
When did I get stitches?
I notice a pile of towels above the toilet, and I grab one for a mini sponge bath, not feeling strong enough to risk a shower. It helps bring some color back to my cheeks, but I still limp from Arielle’s bathroom to the dining room, where the floor is a complete disaster.
“That’s wild,” Fox’s exclamation comes from the kitchen. “I can’t believe he wasn’t a Super. He was so fast.”
“We don’t know he wasn’t a Super,” replies Damian’s melodic voice. “Just that—”
I enter and Damian cuts himself off. “Madeline!”
“S’up?” I say. Around Arielle’s long kitchen table are Damian, Fox, and Kristen. Damian sits next to a bag of chips and some juice, while Fox and Kristen have a giant bowl of popcorn. Arielle has her hands on her fancy jeans, stiffly leaning against her marble countertop.
In two long strides Kristen helps me into a wooden chair.
“Mads, oh my gosh. We didn’t think you would be up yet,” she explains, passing me the popcorn and a pitcher of water. I gather Arielle has told her everything. Seeing them all, alive and together, brings a lump to my throat.
“How are you feeling?” Arielle asks.
“Why do powers hurt?” I stutter.
Damian, who sits across the table from me, has a blue sling around his neck, and his cheeks are scraped more than mine. Memories of him unconscious in the mud flash in my mind. We’re lucky he’s alive.
“It’s just the first few times. Then you get better at using them.” Damian adjusts the sling on his arm and adds, “Usually.”
It’s shocking to see Damian and realize that we’re actually friends now. That, and I can talk to him without breaking into hives.
It’s when I look at the tall, sandy-haired boy leaning against the table that the butterflies begin.
