Page 54 of No Capes
Something chilly brushes my neck, but when I turn, nothing is there. A spookiness lies in wait, and I wonder if Phil realized I’m here. What does he have in store for me? Now that I’m alone.
Twenty
I quickly lose track of Fox. I can’t spot Damian or Kristen either. Instead, I’m surrounded by men who wear almost identical tuxedos and women who model every color of dress, and everyone has a mask.
“Don’t you love parties like this?” A familiar voice hovers behind me. “Isn’t the drama fascinating?”
He wears the same tuxedo that all the other males are wearing. Apparently, you can only get one kind at the tuxedo store. His bowtie is missing, however, and I figure he’s setting some kind of new trend in neck-exposing formal wear. Unlike the obsidian black mask he usually wears, D.S. has a deep purple mask tied around his ears, covering only his forehead down to his nose. A black fedora covers his hair, and his exposed skin glows golden under the light—barely dark enough to be Damian, but possible. In the low lighting, he could still be Fox or Aaron. I check behind me for Fox.There wasn’t enough time.
I remind myself that Aaron is with Kristen, but Zane Milligan would undoubtedly be at the party somewhere. As obsessed as I am with uncovering Dark Static’s identity, a tiny part of me wonders if knowing it would ruin everything. The immaculate fit of his suit is distracting anyway.
“Why does your voice sound like it usually does? Does this mask interfere with it too?”
D.S. grabs my hand and pulls me outside with him. “Very good, Sherlock.”
His gloveless hands are coarse, long, and cover mine. I recall the electricity that had flickered in his palm, the night we’d met. What would happen if he summoned it now?
“Why are you here?” I ask, “Did the mayor invite you?”
“Right again, Roberts.” D.S. grins. “He asked me to cause a stir tonight, but that’s not due for a bit.” He leads me into the Bridges’ impeccable gardens. Tall hedges, curled with roses, line paths across the grounds. The evening is perfect for walking among them, and with almost everyone still drinking indoors, we have privacy.
I picture Damian Scott Jr. sauntering out of my line of vision. It would have been a long shot, but there could have been time for him to change his mask before D.S. had intercepted me.
“You seemed like you needed the company,” D.S. adds.
“Should we look around the house?” I ask. That was why I’d come, after all.
“I already went myself. Found nothing. Phil either has this place secured like a castle or honest-to-gosh doesn’t hide his materials here. I like to assume that I’m rather good at breaking into places I’m not supposed to be, so I’m opting for the latter. I found the blackmail CDs in his City Hall office, but there’s nothing else for us there.”
“What do you think Phil’s plan is?” I ask.
We walk to the edge of the garden, where ballroom music carries distant melodies and stars poke infinite dots into the dusk. Spiny shadows from dormant rose bushes conceal D.S.’s expression, but the hitch in his shoulders gives him away. He’s puzzled. “I’m not sure yet, but if I were in his position, I would invite all the Supers I knew about and those I suspected to a party, put them in the same room, give them a lot of alcohol, getthem to spill some secrets, and then use that as blackmail for the rest of my life. I would be unstoppable.”
“Oh, no.” I’d told Kristen my secret, and she’d gone off for champagne. If the mayor was encouraging just that, I’m done for. Chances are the mayor already knows my secret, after I blew up his private prison and everything, but the rest of the city does not.
D.S. seems to sense what I’m feeling. “It’ll be fine,” he whispers.
“I hope you’re right.”
“Me too. I don’t want Bridges to find out that I’m working against him either. I’d prefer to squander his plans myself.”
The way D.S. says “squander” makes me double over. I’m glad he found me.
“Hey,” he says, squinting at something in the distance. “Why is that person running?”
A lanky man in a tuxedo sprints across the manicured lawn, but oddly, no one chases him. D.S. grabs my hand, pulling me along, and let me say, running in a dress is more difficult than getting Aaron to speak. I have to hold the train with my free hand to keep it out of the mud, and I’m still leagues slower than Dark Static is.
Finally, we crouch behind a hedge, and through the branches we spot the running man and two women, who I immediately recognize as Arielle’s friends from her film club. My mom used to give Arielle rides to their houses, and I’d sometimes tag along in the car.
“Arielle won’t see it coming,” one of them whispers. “We’ll catch her off guard.” I stifle a yawn; they must be planning to give Arielle a new convertible or something.
“But how do we keep her from knowing it’s us?” The second replies, and my ears perk up. That sounds more suspicious.
“We’re the last people she would expect,” says the man. “Especially since she has no reason to be angry about—”
“—Ah, this dress is dry-clean only!” one woman yells.
“Mine too,” screams the other, and in seconds, the three people we’re eavesdropping on scatter back to the estate. A raindrop grazes my ear, then another.
