Unsung Heroine Page 2

  “Agreed,” I said, laughing, relieved she’d apparently dropped the Rose issue. Evie and I often joked about how our Mixed Race Radars were definitely a thing—a thing which had pinged immediately upon meeting each other. A Japanese-Irish hybrid and a Puerto Rican–Mexican–English mutt were definitely meant to be more than mere co-workers. Now we were dear friends and co-workers at Tanaka/Jupiter, Inc., the city’s most smashing superheroine team.

  “Please welcome the newest entrant in our parade of high-flying vocal techniques and ultimate showmanship,” Kevin bellowed, like he was some kind of circus ringmaster. “Or in the case of some of you—” He shot a disdainful stare at Earnest Unchained Melody Guy, who was slinking offstage. “—continued public humiliation.”

  Kevin took karaoke very seriously, and the championship was The Gutter’s annual effort to showcase the very best in the city. Nitpickers in the karaoke community would quibble with Kevin’s definition of karaoke, since the performances he hosted involved singing to a live piano instead of a pre-recorded track with a lyrics screen; technically, the more precise term would be bandaoke. No one ever brought this up to Kevin’s face, of course.

  “Anyway,” Kevin continued. “Our new contestant here is named Celine . . . ?” He gave the beautiful woman a questioning look.

  “Just Celine,” she said, her voice high and sweet.

  “Celine is new to our stage,” Kevin continued. “Please give her a big hand. Even though we all know Lucy’s going to win again anyway.”

  He turned his disdainful stare on me. I gave a one-shouldered shrug and raised my glass in his direction. Kevin was resentful that the competition had become so predictable thanks to my unchallenged dominance, but how was that my fault?

  Hmm. I just realized how that sounds. Actually, it’s totally my fault.

  “Lucy.” Evie nudged me with her beer bottle. “I’m not letting this Rose thing go.” Blast. I should’ve known we weren’t leaving that behind so easily. “Remember how you used to constantly bug me about my lack of dating prowess? Or . . . any prowess?”

  “Ah.” I held up a finger. “But that’s not a problem for me, is it? I have prowess to spare.”

  “Which you haven’t been utilizing much at all lately,” she pressed. “What about my bachelorette party? You said you were going to finally take things with Rose to the next level.” She waved her hand in an upward direction.

  “First of all, your expressive hand gestures are beyond basic,” I said. “Second: I don’t think that’s exactly what I said. But if you want me to be honest—”

  I was cut off by a sudden breathtaking sound—like the clearest, prettiest bell ringing out through the land.

  “Wow,” Evie said, her gaze momentarily diverted to the stage. “Girl’s got pipes.”

  “Indeed.” I took another sip of my cocktail. So in addition to being tall and gorgeous, this Celine Only-One-Name had an amazing singing voice. And my goodness, she was taking on “Emotions” by Mariah Carey—a barnburner of a song that encompassed multiple octaves and a dreaded G-sharp so high it was guaranteed to break even the most accomplished of singers. And probably a few windows in the process.

  We shut up and watched as Celine threw her head back to cycle through the increasingly punishing vocal runs at the beginning of the song. It was mesmerizing.

  At least for a moment.

  “Okay, let’s not get distracted,” Evie said, turning back to me. “Why haven’t you done anything with Rose? I mean, she’s clearly here to see you—”

  “She’s here to support me as a friend—”

  “She keeps looking at you—”

  “In a completely friendly manner—”

  “And you guys text non-stop and hang out all the time and you talk about her incessantly—”

  “Evelyn.” I tried to make my expression stern. “Look. Nobody’s made any moves because it’s too late.”

  She goggled at me. “What? But you said . . .” Her brow furrowed as she tried to recall the words I’d blathered out six months ago at her bachelorette party. “That you were taking things slow because you wanted her to get to know the real you, the one underneath all the flash and fabulousness—”

  “Which she has. And that’s why it’s too late. I miscalculated completely, Evie. She does know the real me—all too well. And that means we are now forever stranded in the utopia that is Friendlandia. I waited too bloody long to do anything and she never did anything and . . . and that’s just how it is now. We text each other about the most minute of minutiae. It’s not sexy. I texted her a photo of dirty clothes with my holey underwear on top and the tagline ‘laundry day,’ for goodness’ sake. There’s no going back from that.”

  “But . . .” Evie’s brow furrowed again. “You still like her, right?”

  God, yes. I think about her constantly. I’ve memorized four thousand and fifty-two facts about her. I know that she has exactly seven white button-downs that she rotates through every week, that she’s obsessed with that terrible theme song from Star Trek, that she smells like sweet vanilla and tart lemons and somehow that is also the perfect encapsulation of her perfect personality.

  Out loud, I just said: “It doesn’t matter.”

  That was the wrong thing to say, because Evie leaned forward intently, elbows resting on the worn tablecloth. “Of course it matters,” she said. “Lucy, you once spent forty-five minutes explaining why a such-and-such blade was better suited for back-handed spins than this other blade—both of which, by the way, looked exactly the same to me. You’ve dedicated huge portions of your life to ruling the karaoke scene at this very bar. And you’ve stood by me and been the best of friends through countless life-threatening escapades: battles against evil pastries, takedowns of possessed Bridezillas, and the unqualified disaster that was my wedding. How can you—” She paused emphatically, her warm hazel eyes getting shiny. “—say something doesn’t matter?”

  “For goodness’ sake, Evie.” I shook my head at her and took a long gulp of my cocktail, trying to affect an air of devil-may-care bravado. “You have become eight billion times more dramatic since becoming a superheroine. All I’m saying is . . .” I trailed off and allowed my gaze to slide to Rose. She met my eyes again and for a moment we just . . . stared at each other. Celine’s beautiful voice swirled around us and seemed to swell, as if someone had turned the volume up. I couldn’t help but get stuck on Rose’s neck, long and graceful and always exposed to the elements, thanks to her close-cropped hair. I was basically obsessed with her neck. I wanted to—

  “All you’re saying is what?” Evie prompted.

  “That some things aren’t meant to be,” I said, tearing my eyes away from Rose’s neck. “And Rose and I are one of those things.” I shrugged and downed the rest of my drink.

  Evie’s brow furrowed, and she opened her mouth—probably to declare how she hadn’t believed in “meant to be” either, and now look at her, all gross and gushy and married—but it was at that moment that Celine released the full power of the G-sharp.

  I’d never seen a hush quite like that fall over The Gutter. It was as if Celine had suddenly cast a spell over the room, everyone thinking the exact same thing:

  Damn, that girl can sing.

  (I should clarify here that this was not an actual spell. Because Team Tanaka/Jupiter has dealt with more than our fair share of demon possession and magic-induced mind control, this is an important distinction.)

  Anyway, that G-sharp—oh my. It was as if the skies parted and heavenly light shone down on us from above. I even felt a tear well its way up, the magic of that beautifully sustained note hitting me right in what Evie’s younger sister Bea would refer to as “the feels.”

  But it wasn’t just technical prowess. Celine also had the ever-important showmanship Kevin had been blathering about earlier, gracefully sweeping one of her arms skyward while throwing her hea
d back—a classic diva move. She was so dazzling, it was as if bright lights flashed behind her, special effects fit for a queen. And unlike with Earnest Unchained Melody Guy, this time the chandelier seemed to vibrate with pleasure rather than agony.

  When she finished, there was a full minute of silence, as everyone needed A Moment to process what just happened.

  Then we all burst into thunderous applause.

  I clapped so hard my palms ached, that single tear trailing down my cheek. Celine inclined her head to the side, the very picture of grace.

  “Thank you,” she said, her sweet voice tremulous. “Oh my goodness—from the bottom of my heart, thank you so very much.”

  “Weeeeellllllll,” Kevin drawled, striding back onstage too early and kind of ruining Celine’s moment. “What an incredible Gutter debut. I don’t think we’ve seen the likes of that . . . ever.”

  And then he looked right at me and smirked.

  My smile dimmed, my applause becoming slightly less enthusiastic. I’d been so busy appreciating Celine’s talent as a fellow performer that I’d forgotten she was, you know, a fellow performer. A rare worthy competitor for the title that was usually mine.

  Well. That was just fine, wasn’t it? Delightful, even. It had been forever since I’d gone up against a performer of her caliber, and I should rise to the challenge, I should . . . should . . .

  Hmm. Why was I so twitchy all of a sudden?

  I glanced over at Rose again without thinking, as if seeking some kind of reassurance I didn’t want to put a name to.

  But she didn’t meet my eyes this time. Like everyone else, she was too busy clapping for Celine. She leaned over to one of her Demon Unit colleagues and said something. Then she clapped even more vigorously, turned her attention back to the stage . . . and smiled.

  I blinked, trying to make sure I wasn’t having some sort of hallucination.

  Because like I said, Rose Rorick, head of SFPD’s Demon Unit, champion casual texter, buttoned-up heartthrob extraordinaire, never smiled.

  Why was she smiling now?

  I shook my head, trying to clear it before I turned back to the stage—and did a double take. The chandelier above Celine’s head . . . was vibrating. Like, actually vibrating. Moving in the air. But before I could really focus on the chandelier, a brilliant beam of light flashed behind Celine. What the . . .

  Had that been . . . actually happening during her performance? I thought I’d just been swept up in all the gloriousness.

  Then the chandelier detached itself from the ceiling.

  And sailed toward Celine’s head.

  “Watch out!” I screamed, my bodyguard instincts kicking into gear.

  I threw my cocktail glass to the side and flung myself through the crowd, expertly winding my way through the tables of patrons stumbling to their feet, trying to escape the impending chaos. Kevin, I noticed, had bolted and was nowhere in sight.

  I landed onstage in a crouched position, my knees narrowly missing the scuffed-up wood, then threw myself at Celine. There was something I loved about this moment, when rational thought fled and my years of training took over—my body knew exactly what to do, could feel what notes it was supposed to hit. It was not unlike how I felt during a transcendent karaoke performance.

  I landed on top of Celine with a not-too-pleasant-sounding thud, and used the momentum of my body to send us both flying out of the way, sliding across the stage just as the chandelier crashed down and shattered into a zillion pieces with a resounding CRUUUUUNCHHHHH.

  “Are you all right, darling?” I asked, pulling back from Celine and giving her a quick once-over, looking for obvious injuries.

  “I . . . I’m not sure,” she said, her sweet voice hoarse.

  “Well, well, well,” Kevin said, choosing that moment to reappear. He cocked an eyebrow at our tangled forms. “I guess this competition just got interesting.”

  Text Messages Between Lucy Valdez and Rose Rorick, Nine Months Before Celine’s Fabulous-But-Nearly-Deadly Debut

  RR: Hello, this is Rose. Rose Rorick.

  LV: Ha, I am aware? We exchanged #s at the bar last night, post-Ms. Aveda Jupiter’s karaoke triumph, yes?

  RR: Yes. Right. I just . . . I was a bit inebriated . . .

  LV: Darling, I remember that, too. You were hilarious! I didn’t know you had such a fondness for whiskey and off-color jokes.

  RR: Anyway. I wanted to apologize. And to say I won’t bother you anymore.

  LV: Bother me? I don’t understand. Did you not have fun?

  RR: No, I did. You’re fun. Your friends are fun. But I don’t usually drink and socialize like that, I’m almost always on duty, so I’m not sure if the way I acted was . . . off-putting. Or inappropriate.

  LV: Oh, not at all, and I know how that is! Being part of a superheroine team means constantly being on call—it’s not like demons only misbehave between the hours of nine to five, is it?

  RR: No, it’s not. Ha ha.

  LV: Was that a laugh? Did you LOL?

  RR: . . . no. I wrote “ha ha,” but I didn’t actually laugh out loud.

  LV: Your secret is safe with me!

  RR: I pretty much never laugh out loud. Some people think that’s off-putting, too.

  LV: Who are these “people” you’re hanging out with, they sound dreadful. Hang out with me instead!

  RR: Okay.

  RR:

  LV: Did you actually smile?

  RR:

  LV: LOL

  Chapter Two

  I know what you’re thinking: surely a flying chandelier and a bunch of flashing lights can be chalked up to various malfunctions of the mechanical variety. Either that or a nefarious behind-the-scenes saboteur, a la everyone’s original favorite chandelier-flinger, the Phantom of the Opera.

  Well, the second one might be true, but no matter what, all these shenanigans meant some nonsense of the supernatural variety was going down for sure. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years being part of an elite superhero team, it’s this: those oddities we believe should be brushed off as “nothing” are never nothing. They are always something. Usually something over-the-top and ridiculous, involving multiple battles with way-too-loquacious villains who think you want to know every little thought behind why they have chosen the path of evil, when really you’re just waiting for them to shut up so you can get down to ass-kicking.

  After we managed to determine that Celine was unhurt (and I gave Kevin side-eye for his awful one-liner), Rose and her Demon Unit did a quick supernatural scan of The Gutter. Their scanning devices picked up traces of supernatural energy around the stage. But, Rose noted, it was fading, meaning the source of this blip was probably the same thing that had caused all supernatural happenings in San Francisco for the past few months: an Otherworld portal on the floor of popular local lingerie boutique Pussy Queen.

  Allow me to back up for a moment. You see, eight years ago, a portal to a demon dimension known as the Otherworld opened up in San Francisco, all part of a very evil plot to take over the human realm. This portal was not very well-constructed and snapped shut almost immediately, but had many lingering effects—like humans getting superpowers. Evie, her sister Bea, and her friend and superheroing partner Aveda Jupiter (aka Annie Chang) had all received a boost. I had not, but given my wide array of existing skills, I didn’t really need powers, did I?

  It also led to an ongoing battle with all things demonic due to the appearance of smaller portals, invasion-happy demon royalty, and “puppy demons,” which were not terribly sentient piranha-like pests who imprinted on the first object they saw upon entering Earth. Six months ago, we’d battled a lost puppy demon who had fused with a human, eventually separating them and sending the little puppy back home via the aforementioned Pussy Queen Portal. The portal the
n closed, though it still remained in the shop, and its lingering presence seemed to allow supernatural energy to leak into our world and cause unpredictable flare-ups all over San Francisco. Like this one at The Gutter.

  Given that the supernatural energy Rose and her team had detected was already fading, it was probably a safe bet to assume this encounter was over and done with, but we all agreed it could not hurt to be cautious. So despite Kevin’s loud protests, Evie and Rose decided to return the next day for a more thorough scan and investigation. As long as things remained all clear, the karaoke championship could proceed. Kevin declared that the championship round would be narrowed down to me and Celine, because really . . . there were no other competitors of our level.

  He then launched into a long, droning explanation of his chandelier safety protocols, a topic that was most certainly not interesting to anyone present. Especially given that almost everyone had cleared out of The Gutter for the night. Rose and her team were debriefing and cleaning up after their scans, so that left Evie and me as Kevin’s increasingly unwilling audience.

  “I triple-bolted the mounts—Triple! Bolted!” Kevin exclaimed, pacing in front of the now-empty stage and stabbing the air with his index finger for emphasis. “So I’m not sure how—”

  “Kevin, really,” Evie said wearily. “No one disbelieves you. Or, um, cares. There was clearly supernatural interference here, which—”

  “Triple-bolting is extremely challenging!” he interrupted. “The process took me an entire week. Look, let me take you through the steps so we’re clear—”

  “Excuse me for a second,” I murmured. Then scampered off, ignoring Evie’s murderous look as I left her to Kevin’s detailing of the triple-bolting process.

  I was intent on saying a friendly good-bye to Rose, who had finished debriefing her team and was leaning against the bar. Most would interpret her cool-as-a-cucumber pose as mere relaxing, but I knew better. I could tell from the way her eyes swept the area that she was going over all the information we’d gathered, contemplating her team’s strategy, preparing for the next day’s investigation.