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

Chapter Fifty-One: Death and Politics

Storm folds his hands in his lap and stares down at them, a rising panic eating through the faux cool he puts on. He tries to smother that surge of fear by sitting still, so still, if one was to glimpse him through the cabin window, they'd think him lifeless. A trick he learned as a kid, to pretend he was a statue. To pretend he could disappear.

The seats are of soft leather, the type that you can lean back and melt into. The cab, with its distinct smells of burnished wood and lemon Pledge, stings Storm with an edge of nostalgia. Juniper presses a hand to the tinted window, holding the other to her stomach to stop the bleeding. Her gasping makes Storm squirm. He rests his hand on her jogging knee, cocking her a frown. Relax. She glances at him once and snaps her head away.

"So," the mayor says, with a flick of her wrist. When the car thumps over a pothole, the chauffeur winces, lowering the brim of his black cap as if embarrassed. Storm stares at the back of his head, at the curly blond-brown hair peeking just below his collar, all to keep from stealing glimpses of Mayor Curtis. "You might be wondering why I need you."

Juniper squeezes her stomach and directs a glare at Storm. He flinches before remembering it isn't directed at him. At least, not wholly.

"Uh," he says. He curls his hand into a fist and coughs into it. "My wife and I have a guess, but I'll warn you, we're out of practice." Storm risks a glance into the window. Pitch black. He wonders if he can break the door off the car, slash through the tires. A smile twitches on the corner of his lips, but he smothers it before Mayor Curtis has time to notice. "Perhaps you should've asked another super to help instead?" His voice drifts into a low, sing-song whisper, his head hung low like a scolded puppy's. The car jolts again and the driver whistles painfully.

"Nonsense, nonsense." The mayor steeples her fingers together under her chin. Her smile is tight and elegant. Everything about her is tight and elegant, from her slim black blazer to her heels laced to her ankles. "You underestimate yourselves."

Juniper stares at her hands, squeezing and unsqueezing a tin of Altoids from her back pocket.

The mayor lifts her head as if she catching the scent of fresh meat. Storm always found her and fake her smiles a little wolfish and the hairs stick up on his arms.

The driver spins the wheel with a practiced flourish. Storm's heart flutters. They're here? What has Owl done? And what can they do to stop it? Storm rests two fingers on his chest, calculating. He hasn't touched a weapon in years, not since that fateful night his friend died, not since he and Juniper took Angelos as their own child. It makes his stomach churn to think of holding another sword, or even a gun. Can he shoot Owl in the chest? Probably not. She has a weakness—all supers do, but Owl is special. Tends to hers more than any other. Stubborn villains are hard to kill.

The car slows. Then, the engine clicks off. Storm sighs, his arms falling slack at his sides like pale ropes come undone. Juniper's face is all red, her eyes, furious. At least she looks alive. The mayor opens her door on the passenger's side, and Storm waits for her, staring glassily at the chrome handle. She'll get them out herself. She likes to keep an eye on them, that way. Even though Storm can crush her skull, easily, like squeezing a grapefruit. The door beeps and Mayor Curtis smiles her signature sweet, smile down at him, her eyes half-lidded like she's still groggy from a lack of sleep. Storm glances at his watch. It's eight in the morning.

She offers a hand and he takes it. The air is heavy, the sky, though clear and bright and blue as any, is off to Storm somehow, The emptiness of it. The silence. He scratches his skin, eyes squinted through the smears of his lenses. He feels like he's staring into backdrop for play, and soon the tarp will crash down and reveal all the ugliness backstage. Juniper, her fingers gingerly poking at the dent in her stomach, squints up at the sky the same way. The mayor claps her hands. The city parking lot is crowded with black cars, glittering in the morning sun. They remind Storm of crows. "Shall we go in?" he asks, his voice pitched into something soft and fragile.