Damsel[ed]: Some Rescue Required (#2 of the Damsel[ed] series)

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Traitor

Gatsby.

There's something incredibly cruel about asking a boy to choose between his girlfriend's safety and cookies. Because no matter how much he loves his girlfriend, 98% of him only cares about the food.

And I'm sure it's the same for the ladies, too. Heaven would die for me—she already has. But as for passing up cookies for my sake? 

I wipe my mouth with the inside of my wrist to knock away any possible culmination of drool. The hunger pangs wash through me with an intensity I've never felt before, not even when Angel cooked for my birthday and locked me out of the kitchen. I sink lower on my knees, my head bowed as Owl shakes the cookie box.

"Heaven?" I try to be snarky. It's weak. "What do you want to know about her? The last time I checked you wanted to slash her neck open."

Owl laughs, a small, polite little laugh, as she tips her head to the side. Her black hair cascades down her back like an inky waterfall, and I can't help staring. It's clear where Angelos gets his good looks from, though I think he'd be appalled if I mentioned it. Owl smiles good-naturedly.

"No. I wanted to kill you, cat boy. Though I was a little rough on the girl, I'll admit. I suppose James makes me act a little..." She flourishes with her hand, lips pursed as she searches for the right word "...aggressively, if you know what I mean."

"James?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Fallout."

"Oh." The bars chill the back of my neck and I can't help shivering. The villain nods, resigning to reading the packaging on the back of the cookie box over and over, grinning to herself as if thinking a funny joke. A few moments of silence pass between us before she resumes her monologue.

"I might have unmasked her, broken her arm, crushed a bit of her." The woman blows out a breath from her nose. "She is no match for me."

Part of me wants to shout "She could kick your lousy butt!" and defend Heaven's honor, but Heaven can defend her honor well enough without me, and said outburst would make this meeting go a lot rougher between Owl and me, so instead, I twist the collar of my shirt around my finger and ask, "Then why do you care? And how do you even know her name?" My eye twitches when I speak. Each breath brings a tide of blood and sweat, perfume and cookies. It's a fight to keep from gagging.

Owl snaps her head up, and for a tick of a moment, she almost looks childish, grinning, her hands squeezed together, her eyes lit up like glow-flies. I suppose every supervillain needs someone to vent their brilliant plans to, and that, I suppose, is where those long-furred cats come in. Even Heaven used to do that, pick up one of the Larries and burst in an angst-filled monologue about the follies of youth. I feel a prick in my chest. I'm not gonna sell her out. I'm not a traitor. I repeat it over and over in my head, just to make sure I get the picture and get it good. I am not a traitor. I am not a traitor. No matter what anyone says, no matter how badly I want those cookies, I am not a traitor.

"You must remember that I've been away from Starlight a very long time. After the first wave of superheroes were disposed of and I become Syndicate's new leader, I decided to leave. I suppose I was annoyed to come back and see what James did with all this territory."

"And what's that?" 

 She snorts, her hands seizing up in a gargantuan gesture that doesn't match the rest of the dignified villain I've seen. Briefly, I wonder if she's drunk.

"Nothing! He did nothing with it. All the time spent crushing those heroes and he lets the new generation run rampant, like rats. You spend years clearing them out of your house, and when more come, you let them settle. It's ridiculous."