Superhero Me!: An Urban Fantasy Thriller (Mortality Bites Book 3) Page 3

  A League of Heroes, Research and More Awkwardness

  The next day Justin woke me up with a kiss as he got ready for his early morning run. Damn morning people, I thought, and looking over at Deirdre’s bed, I saw that she was already gone, too. Probably got up in the middle of the night to go sleep outside under the pines out back. She did that a lot.

  I, on the other hand, didn’t have class until 1pm and considered sleeping until then. Duty calls, I groaned to myself as I hauled my butt out of bed. I needed to figure out who Underdawg was and investigate if Deirdre’s concerns about Cassy held any merit. Which meant—oh yay—studying. As if I didn’t have enough research with my normal class load.

  I got dressed in a nice little number I picked out—a cute Madeleine top with a high collar and a pair of cropped leather trousers—and completely ruined the outfit by covering it up with my snow pants and a ridiculously baggy (but warm) North Face jacket. I swear to the GoneGods, I don’t know why I even try in winter.

  Dressed, I made my way upstairs. On the windows were several posters, all the usual stuff: ads for tutors, flyers for an exhibit of cursed items at the Museum of Fine Arts, promos for various student-friendly bars and restaurants and … what the hell? Taped to the window were several posters of the kid—Harold, was it?—who’d leaned out his door to yell at me when I was taking care of Underdawg. Someone had written (in an uninspired Calibri font):

  Vote Cheer for Gardner Hall President

  With a picture of Harold front and center.

  Election time.

  Being a freshman, I had no experience with the process. But from what I’d gathered from 1980’s movies and the stories Justin told, elections ran for a couple weeks, during which the candidates made campaign promises that centered around beer, gave speeches about more beer and made boastful, bold claims about how much beer they were capable of drinking.

  All pretty harmless stuff—except Harold Cheer’s poster didn’t have the word “beer” anywhere on it. The words that did litter the page included “Others,” “Restrictions” and “Separation.”

  I couldn’t believe it. The kid was running on a platform that Others should be segregated into their own dormitory.

  Oh, hell no! I thought as I ripped down one of the posters. I’m not going to let some little shit with a chip on his shoulder undo the good of this university. McGill was one of the very few places that welcomed Others, and this shithead was trying to undo it.

  No, no, no! I stomped up and down the stairwell, my rage bursting forth in flames like Dante’s eighth circle of Hell.

  I started ripping down Harold’s posters. This place is a sanctuary. A safe haven. Not some pathetic platform for bigots and racists.

  Once I had removed all the posters I could see, I began ripping them to shreds as I binned them with unbridled fury.

  Sorry—not racists, I thought. Otherists! And the worst thing, the absolute crime of it all, is just because Harold Cheer—stupid name, by the way—is human, he somehow thinks he’s entitled to spew this crap.

  Of course, my little rant/tantrum had been out loud. And not just spoken out loud, but—as was my habit when I was truly angry—screamed out loud.

  That became painfully clear when a roar of cheers and clapping erupted as I trashed the last poster.

  I had an audience. Front and center stood Harold Cheer, holding a stack of posters in his hand and giving me a look that could have frozen a roaring fire pit.

  ↔

  “You can’t do that,” Harold said in a surprisingly calm tone, given what I had done to his posters.

  “Do what?”

  “Rip down my posters.”

  “You call those posters? More like a modern form of Judeo-Bolshevism, only aimed at Others this time,” I said. Scanning the crowd, I saw that my little 1935 Nazi propaganda reference flew over most of their heads. I guessed you had to have been in pre-World War II Germany to appreciate the magnitude of my insult. I was there, and my insult was a doozy … I promise.

  “Anti-Other propaganda,” I added, and several heads nodded in understanding.

  “First of all,” Harold said, still cool and in control, “it is not propaganda. It is a proposal. More than a proposal, it is an invitation for debate, discussion and deliberation. Secondly—”

  “I hate people who alliterate in speech. So smug, slimy and sad.” I hissed every “s.”

  “Secondly,” he said, ignoring my insult, “you must acknowledge that Other culture often clashes with ours. Take your changeling roommate—always prancing around naked, stapling AstroTurf to the walls … and not to mention those baby rats she bottle-fed.”

  “You know about that?” I asked. The rest of the stuff was undeniable. Deirdre had many fine qualities, but being discreet wasn’t one of them. That said, I thought we’d gotten away with the whole rat pups debacle.

  Harold nodded. “That, and much more. But it’s not just her. There’s Sal in McConnell Hall and his apu ways, or Kaito and his massive … ahem … you know.”

  “Balls,” I offered. Kaito was a tanuki from pre-Buddhist tradition. At one point, he and his fellow tanuki were the lord judges of the divine. In other words, if you had a problem, you went to a tanuki to preside over the case. They were so well-respected that their ruling was final. Tanuki looked like raccoons, with one vital exception: they had testicles the size of a MINI Cooper.

  I guess you have to have big balls when passing laws that affect the universe.

  Of course, that was a long time ago, and Kaito was now just a rodent with unseemly boy bits studying human law.

  “Yes … ‘balls,’ as you so crudely put it. Why should we suffer the sight of them just because—”

  “He was born that way. I don’t know, Harold, I suffer the sight of you and the poor skin condition your bad genes gave you.”

  It was a low blow, and probably not helping my case—but hey, I was angry. Besides, when a kid with bright, almost bug-like eyes cried out, “Hear, hear,” I felt somehow vindicated.

  Harold touched the fresh, volcanic zit on his chin before shaking his head. “Whatever. You can insult me as much as you like, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m allowed to run for Gardner Hall’s president on any platform I choose. You owe me posters.”

  I pulled out my purse and slammed twenty bucks into his hand. “And it doesn’t change the fact that I can run against you on a platform of inclusivity and hope.” At this, the crowd erupted in cheers, clapping and hoots.

  When the cheering died down, Harold gave me a smile as cool as slime on the surface of a swamp and looked at his watch. “You can’t. Deadline to put your name in the running expires in … three, two, one. Time’s up.” He showed me his watch, which read 10am.

  “Actually,” a voice called from behind, “she’s fine. I put her name in ten minutes ago.”

  Scanning the crowd to see who was speaking, I spotted Andrew Garner holding up a paper, his black fingernail polish a sharp contrast to the form declaring my candidacy.

  I guess I really am running for hall president, I thought with a sigh.

  Walking, Talking and Rocking

  Harold stormed off in a huff. Given the crowd’s reaction to my words, I was going to beat him and he knew it. Score one for the good guys. Now I just had to figure out what the president’s responsibilities were.

  I’d do that later. Now, I needed to get down to the library and research. Andrew walked over to me and handed me a copy of the application. “Here,” he said, “you should probably have this.”

  “Ahh, thanks,” I said. “That was quick thinking on your part.”

  “Yeah well, I had no idea you were going to get into it with him when I put in your application. I went over to admin and submitted it after I saw you ripping down the posters. Figured if you’re that pissed, I could convince you to run for sure.”

  “How so?”

  “No one gets angry like you did and doesn’t want to put people in their place. I’m the same
way. I see a smug look on someone’s face and all I want to do is take ’em down, if you know what I mean.”

  I did, not that I said anything. I just nodded.

  “So us being kindred spirits and all, I thought I’d put your name in.”

  “Good foresight.”

  “Hmph. It’s what I do,” he said while flicking back his blond hair. He was all right; I had no idea why Cassy would give him such a cold shoulder. “So,” he said after a long pause, “you’ll need a campaign manager.”

  “And let me guess … you know just the right long-haired, black-nail-polish-wearing guy for the job.”

  “At your service,” he said with a surprisingly crisp and proper salute.

  ↔

  Faster than you could say “Underdawg” three times, the crowd dispersed with a few students giving me a thumbs-up and a couple even going so far as to shake my hand.

  If I were a normal human girl, determined to make the grade and get that fantastic job after graduation, I’d consider this move a check in the plus column. But the truth was, I had plenty of money, a castle just outside Inverness, Scotland, and enough antiques I could sell off in a pinch to any museum in the world.

  In other words, I had every reason to coast, and being hall president during the day and vigilante by night was just the kind of overachieving people like me avoided.

  Still, someone needed to put Cheer in his place. And given the platform he planned to run on, I wanted to be the person to do it. I guess my desire not to overachieve was being overrun by my need to do what I believed to be right.

  Yay me. It was going to be an exhausting year—a fact I lamented as I made my way down the hill. I had wanted to think things through, figure out what my ever-growing list of priorities was, but Andrew insisted on walking to campus with me.

  In his words, we needed to hash out the campaign strategy.

  “I think the strategy is to simply crush our opponents beneath our ever-righteous boot,” I said.

  Either Andrew didn’t get my joke or wasn’t in the mood, because he just shook his head. “Righteousness doesn’t poll well. We need a more tactful strategy. What are our assets?” He leered at me, examining me from ankle to forehead. I’d think he was perving on me, except I was wearing waterproof clothing. You can’t be sexy in waterproof clothing—that has been scientifically proven.

  “OK,” he finally settled, “you are cooler, better looking and more charismatic than he is …”

  “A jaundiced mule is cooler, better looking and more charismatic than Cheer. Your point?”

  “My point is that—”

  “Look Andrew, I’m sure I’ll just get up in front of the crowd, yell some sensible stuff that isn’t filled with Other-hating rhetoric and win the day.” My mind went back to the crowd and how supportive they’d been of everything I’d said. If that crowd was any indication of the electoral process, I would be a shoo-in.

  Andrew stopped walking, and I had taken about three steps before I realized he was no longer in stride with me. I turned to see the blond, six-foot-three boy looking down at me with utter confusion painted across his face. “You don’t get it,” he finally said, not so much as a judgement, but as if stating a fact.

  “Get what?”

  “You think the handful of students cheering you on represents everyone on campus, don’t you?”

  “Well?”

  “Gardner Hall is an anomaly. The other halls—Molson, McConnell, Douglas, Solin, RVC—they’re not Gardner.”

  “And what makes Gardner so special?”

  “First of all, it’s the only hall with a 30% ratio of Others in residence. The other halls have 10% at best.”

  “Which means …”

  “Which means Gardner is more used to Others than the rest of the halls. Which means that just because Gardner will vote for Other rights, doesn’t mean the other halls will. I mean, it was only a few months ago that Dr. Dewey was killed—”

  “By a human.”

  He lifted a curious eyebrow. “We don’t know who killed Dr. Dewey. The killer was never caught. And let’s not forget what happened just two days after he died—the flying jinn and that crazy woman who tried to sacrifice McGill’s student body to the gods.”

  I was being so stupid I could have punched myself in the nose. Dr. Dewey was an old librarian (and the first friend I made on campus) who had been ritually murdered by a human who thought the gods left because humans had abandoned their old, bloody, human-sacrificing ways.

  And, as if murdering Dr. Dewey wasn’t enough, she had planned to sacrifice dozens (if not hundreds) of students at the beginning-of-the-year party because she thought she could call the gods back.

  With a lot of help, I had managed to stop her before she could hurt anyone else … but only a handful of us knew who she was and what she’d been up to. The majority of students knew nothing about what had really happened.

  I had stopped her while wearing my father’s cherub mask. Outside of my friends, no one knew I had a hand in the whole thing. And here I was spouting off that a “human” had killed the librarian, like I knew something he didn’t.

  For someone who wants to live an anonymous life, I shouldn’t like the attention.

  “OK,” I finally said, “but that’s my point: no one knows who killed the librarian. But the crazy woman at the party—she was human. I just figured that she was also the one who killed the librarian.”

  “Most of us would agree, but that’s all speculation. You can’t win a presidency based off speculation.”

  Now it was my turn to lift a confused eyebrow. “I don’t know about that—have you been following the U.S. elections?”

  He lifted up defensive palms. “OK, you’re right. But let me put it this way: you shouldn’t win an election using speculation. That’s not how the world should work.” He slammed an angry fist into his left palm.

  “Whoa, easy there boy,” I said.

  “Sorry, I just get so angry.” He shuddered like he was trying to shake off the anger. “I’m better now, but my point still stands. Harold—”

  “Cheer-less.”

  “Sure, fair enough. Harold Cheer-less has supporters. Lots of them. They might not be that vocal—after all, you’re kind of an asshole if you say Other-hating stuff out loud—but that doesn’t change the fact that most people are assholes and when it comes to a secret ballot, they’ll vote along their asshole lines.”

  He was right: anonymity is the coward’s shield. People say and do what they want when they know they won’t have to face consequences. Just think mob mentality, closeted racists and internet trolls.

  Others had only come onto the scene during the last four years, and humans were still getting used to the idea that their neighbors were a dust of pixies or an angry of dwarves, with all their strange ways. (If you don’t believe me, just try negotiating with a dwarf—it is literally a staring contest.)

  But the asshole pendulum swung both ways, and some people—pressured by friends or family to be wary of Others—might say one thing but vote another.

  That, too, happens.

  As it stood, I wasn’t completely convinced that Andrew was right. Yes, many were scared, but McGill was the first—and still one of the only—places that accepted Other students. And according to university stats, human enrollment had never been higher.

  Still, Andrew has a point. This election should not be won by assuming the best in the people. We should be more purposeful, clear in our messaging and uncompromising in our ideals, I thought.

  From the “Yes!” that Andrew gave me, I guessed I thought that out loud. “A bit weird being referred to in the third person when I’m standing right here, but I totally agree.”

  “Fine,” I said, resuming my trek down the hill and toward campus, “what are the next steps?”

  “We settle on our platform.”

  “Isn’t that obvious?” I said. “Other rights—as in equal rights.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll work on the p
hrasing. How about, ‘Others shouldn’t have other rights’? Or, ‘Other but equal’?” Andrew churned through a dozen or so slogans as we turned down University Street and passed through the main gate onto campus. We had just gotten to the outskirts of the quad, an open-air area of the lower campus surrounded by two libraries, the Arts building and the Faculty of Engineering.

  It was also the place most students gathered to hang out between classes.

  “OK,” I said, seeing the Other Studies Library across the quad. I wanted to end this conversation so I could work on my other extracurricular activities. “We’ll figure out the slogan later. Once that’s done, we’ll—”

  “Print posters, canvas and give speeches. Lots of handshaking and baby kiss—”

  “Be wary,” a voice said from behind us.

  I turned to see Cassy walking up to us. She was walking right toward me. “Be wary,” she repeated. “He will—”

  But before she could finish, something exploded right in the center of the quad.

  Justice League vs. The League of Doom vs. One Girl in Snow Pants

  We all want to be superheroes. We might not admit it to anyone, but when we’re alone, we all dream of having superpowers and fighting the good fight. Maybe we wouldn’t have the grand adventures of Spiderman or make the noir sacrifices of Batman, but super strength, flying, invisibility, the Force … they’re all powers most of us would never turn down.

  Until you see them in full effect.

  And that’s something I have personal experience with: super strength, speed, healing … all part of the gift basket called vampirehood. You very quickly (as in almost instantly) stop worrying about the consequences of your actions because, well, there aren’t many. After all, who’s going to pick a fight with a vamp?

  Superpowers also mean you have the souped-up ability to do harm without many of the consequences that go along with having so much power. After all, if you could lift a truck and throw it at someone without fear of being hurt or any reprisal, why not?