Chapter One

I SHOULD PROBABLY start from the beginning. Not my beginning: Hostage Girl’s. The world thinks that’s my full name (it isn’t), supervillains think I’m handy to kidnap in a pinch (I’m small and therefore easily portable), and the world’s convinced that I’m the love of Blaze’s life (I’m not).

The first time Blaze rescued me, I was twenty-­three. A villain named Sykik was terrorizing crowds at my ‘L’ train stop, and I was the only one stupid enough to challenge him. Chicago has more than its fair share of villains, super or otherwise, so I assumed I was a random, unlucky victim and did my best to ignore the nightmares and move on.

Until it happened again.

Three bank holdups, four kidnappings, and one very interesting hostage situation atop the Willis Tower later, I kind of figured there was something else going on. What it could be, I had no idea. I was an assistant editor, not some spunky investigative journalist out sticking my nose in the villains’ business, I wasn’t secretly superpowered, and I definitely didn’t court trouble by leaving bags of flaming dog crap on the front porches of local villains.

A few doctors have told me that most ­people, when they wake up in the hospital, ask the logical question: Where am I?

I learned not to bother. I knew what the hospital looked like. Instead, four years almost to the day after Blaze first snatched me from the air and dislocated my shoulder, I stared blearily at the tiles overhead, and asked: How long?

Good to see you again, too, Girl. Dr. Dimarco, my usual physician, appeared above me, his wrinkled face smiling. He was wearing his blue shirt with the checks, the one that made his eyes appear more rheumy than usual.

I sighed and gave him a look. Must be bad.

Not terribly. We kept you under for about eighteen hours. Do you remember anything?

I mentally catalogued every part of my body, careful not to move. Nothing hurt, but I’d learned the hard way that moving around would change that fantasy, and never for the better. I searched my memory, which came up dull and blank, like somebody had leached the color from my mind. Nothing. Who was it this time?

Razor X. I heard the click of a keyboard as Dr. Dimarco typed something into my chart in the corner.

I thought War Hammer put Razor away last week.

They didn’t do the body-­cavity search thoroughly enough, it appears. Dr. Dimarco reappeared. You had both Blaze and War Hammer trying to rescue you this time. The nurses are quite jealous.

I’ll play swapsies anytime, Doc. Just say the word.

I’ll let them know. It seems Razor dosed some guards on his way out of Detmer. Looks like he got you with the same stuff, according to the bloodwork.

I looked down at the crease of my elbow. Bright pink medical tape held down a bit of gauze. It made my skin, washed-­out thanks to the hospital lights, look even more diseased and sickly. Any side effects?

The main side effect just seemed to be pain—­some psychosis, so we had you strapped down until that passed. Memory loss is consistent with the stories we got from the guards. Now. He looked down at me, putting his scholarly doctor face back on. Any headaches? Double vision?

I answered in the negative as he ran down the medical checklist I’d memorized a long time ago. Has Jeremy been by?

You’ll have to check with the nurses. They’ll know if Mr. Collins has been in. He moved over to the computer to make one final notation and gave me a nod before he left.

I sat up slowly (every muscle in my body shouted) and nudged aside the covers. Starting at my ankles, I began to probe up my legs, across my stomach, chest, and shoulders, and finally down to each individual fingertip. When the only pain turned out to be a minor bump on the back of my head and a bruise on my jaw that made the world go temporarily blurry, I breathed a sigh of relief. No new scars.

Finally, I turned to my empty bedside table and frowned. No new flowers, or old ones either. While this sometimes fit Jeremy, it was definitely out of character for Blaze. No matter which supervillain I faced, or how bad things had gotten, there was always a single white rose on my nightstand whenever I woke. Today, there was nothing.

The clock on the wall told me that it was four thirty. Afternoon, I deduced, eyeing the gray drizzle of light coming in through the window. I shifted and turned on the TV, clicking over to the news. Let’s see what the villains are up to today, shall we?

There’d been one threat of Armageddon in the Big Apple, two threatened nuclear attacks in Houston, and one hostage kidnapping (not mine) in Arkansas. Every threat, the newscaster assured me with plastic compassion, had been neutralized by the local superhero. Even the Raptor had emerged for the threat in New York, which added a hell of a lot of legitimacy to the whole situation. Very little drew the Raptor out of retirement these days.

At least Armageddon had a way of keeping the news cycle from covering me provided I wasn’t directly involved. I flicked over to The Bird Also Sings to see which of my favorite characters had discovered a heretofore-­unknown half sibling in the time I’d been unconscious. Nobody had, but Chance was now seriously debating sleeping with Lucille. Luckily, some of the characters in the show had already reminded him she might be his half sister, so I wouldn’t have to shout it at the TV later.

Ah, she lives.

I tore my gaze away from Chance’s soulful eyes (blue, unlike Jeremy’s and Blaze’s green stare). Jeremy stood in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets so that his thumbs stuck out. They drummed against his hipbones. He was smiling, so I must not have looked too horrible.

Hey, you, I said, reaching out a hand.

He took it and kissed my hair, careful to avoid the bump. How do you feel?

Like I went a few rounds with a sledgehammer and lost.

Jeremy wrinkled his nose. He had such an attractive face, sometimes I wondered what he was doing with somebody who looked like me. I’m not a hag, but I’m not a stunning beauty, either. Jeremy, on the other hand, was a paragon of male perfection. His eyes were direct and wide-­spaced, his features aristocratic. A sprinkling of dark freckles under his eyes somehow made him even cuter. And which villain did the sledgehammer belong to?

Razor X. The mask with the yellow bug eyes, terrible breath. Not so good with the ­people skills.

Oh. Right. Jeremy searched his memory for a minute, now playing with my fingers. Red cape?

I don’t know if I’d call it a proper cape. It’s a little half cape. I reached over for the remote and muted Damien and Lucille’s argument—­one that would probably lead to the bed. Apparently, he got me with some sort of pain juice. You called Angus and let him know I’m shored up in the hospital again, right?

Right. I said you’d probably be released tomorrow.

I groaned. Why would you do that? Now he’ll expect me back tomorrow.

Jeremy shrugged. Wasn’t thinking. Sorry.

Something felt off, I realized. He’d always been good about visiting me after one of the supervillain attacks, but now he had yet to fully meet my gaze. He kept playing with my fingers, his hands never still. What’s up? I asked him, sensing there was an elephant that I couldn’t see somewhere in the room.

Nothing. He attempted a smile. How d’you feel?

I narrowed my eyes. You asked me that already.

Well, I was worried. You know. One of his shoulders moved in his patented half shrug. My girlfriend’s in the hospital. I’m not allowed to be worried?

Something’s definitely up, I said, squinting at him. Jeremy was usually direct and honest—­at least when it came to me. Though I’d been told before that I could be unnecessarily blunt, the kidnappings had turned me into a rather squirrelly person whenever emotions were involved. I didn’t like sharing feelings, while Jeremy regularly announced whatever was on his mind to the world. Sometimes he even filtered it first. What’s going on?

It’s nothing. Jeremy dropped my hand, but he still didn’t look at me.

For a second, I was tempted to let it go. The last ­couple of weeks had been rough. We were close to print on two of the magazines at work, there had been a train holdup on the way home from work last Tuesday, and Razor X had seriously put a crimp in our plans for a nice anniversary dinner out. By all means, I should have dropped it.

Instead, I gave him what he calls the Girl Look.

Gail . . . Jeremy ran an exasperated hand over his shoulder, pushing down on an unfelt ache.

I stared harder.

He got up to pace. Given how long his legs were, it didn’t take many strides to reach the other side of the room and return. Once. Twice. Finally: I got a job offer.

Really? That’s great! Jeremy hated his job. In truth, he would have hated any job that took him away from his video games, but Jeremy hated his boss. And unlike me, he could afford to do something about it. After all, he didn’t have to worry about the healthcare plan. Where is it? Doing what?

It’s . . . it’s the same stuff I’m doing now. Same company.

Oh.

The thing is, it’s in Miami.

Wait, what?

Girl. Jeremy paused and took a deep breath even as he shot me an annoyed look. I didn’t want to get into this until you were better. I still don’t.

A new job in Miami? Miami was half a country away, and I certainly couldn’t afford to fly. Nor could I really afford to move. Any other employer would have found some reason to let me go, what with the constant danger I caused everybody around me. I was lucky to have what I did. But I’d been with Jeremy for years. I knew what that look on his face meant.

You’re going to take it, I said.

A mutinous scowl crossed Jeremy’s face. We don’t have to talk about this now.

Just tell me.

Now Jeremy looked deeply unhappy. His hands had started moving once more, thumbs tapping a new rhythm against his hips as he resumed pacing, albeit more slowly. The pay’s better, he said at length. And it’s a promotion. I’d be an idiot to turn it down.

And what about us?

We could do the long-­distance thing, Jeremy said, but it sounded halfhearted. I didn’t blame him. A long-­distance relationship was hard enough without having to wonder if your girlfriend wasn’t picking up the phone because she was in the shower—­or in the claws of a supervillain.

So I shook my head, and Jeremy sighed.

Look, he said, dropping back down into the chair by my bedside. Let’s just not think about this right now. We’ll get you feeling better, get you out of here, and then we’ll talk, okay?

I opened my mouth to tell him that with my luck, there was always going to be sometime when I was in the hospital or recuperating from some supervillain’s attempt to get Blaze’s attention, but Jeremy knew that. He’d lived the past few years with me, even when all signs indicated that he should bail, should run fast and run hard. He knew just as well as I did that it was only a stalling tactic, and I didn’t have the heart to point that out.

So instead I sat there dumbly, with my soon-­to-­be-­ex-­boyfriend holding my hand in the hospital, and tried not to think about how much breaking up was going to suck.

Chapter Two

WHAT KIND OF douchebag dumps somebody in the hospital? Portia McPeak licked foam off of her thumb, ignoring the napkin right next to her. More importantly, what kind of girl just lets him?

It wasn’t like that, I said, though I couldn’t exactly work up much enthusiasm to defend either one of us, not when I had the latest text from my landlord on my phone screen. Jeremy had dropped off a box of stuff with him since I was at work.

It was really over.

Then what was it like? Portia asked.

The job in Miami pays better, and he hates his job here.

Hey, I’m on your side—­he dumped you in the hospital, and that makes him a douchebag.

Thank you, I said.

I mean, so what if he’s a tool, and we all think you should have dumped him years ago?

I take that back. I lifted my head to glare at Portia.

Five days had passed since Jeremy had walked out on me. I’d gone back to work, sore, limping, but otherwise alive, to find that my coworkers had oh-­so-­thoughtfully saved all my work for me. So it wasn’t like I had time to miss Jeremy at all. It just stung that I’d been dumped so callously.

Since Angus was out of the office on a business trip, I’d tried to sneak away for coffee at the Daily Grind to gain back a moment of sanity. Unfortunately, Portia had decided to tag along.

I mean, I get why you didn’t kick him to the curb. Portia, with her too-­expensive bag and her designer shoes, didn’t fit in with the hipster crowd at the Daily Grind. But she didn’t seem to care. He’s hot. And what girl doesn’t want a hot boyfriend? But, hey, now that he’s out of the picture, I think I might be able to set you up with someone.

No way. I picked up a sugar packet and flicked it at her, and she sniffed. No blind dates. Ever. I’m just going to sulk and be single for a while.

Then who’ll bring you clothes at the hospital? Portia asked. "And before you can say me, I’m not going into a hospital unless I’m dying. So forget about it, Girl."

I’ll figure out a way, I said. Besides, maybe I’ll stop ending up in the hospital if Jeremy lets enough ­people know he’s in Miami. You know all the villains think he’s Blaze.

"Because he is, Portia said, rolling her eyes as though it was obviously my gamer ex-­boyfriend pulling on a superhero suit to save the city on a daily basis. Duh."

So with him in Miami, I’ll get a break from the kidnappings. Stranger things have happened, right?

To you? Portia considered. Not really. Remember that time Venus von Trapp turned you green?

Thank you for that depressing reminder of the worst two weeks of my life. I got a paper cut this morning. Would you do the honors? I handed her the saltshaker.

Portia blinked at the saltshaker. Huh?

Never mind. I rested my head on my arms. Portia was probably the friendliest worker out of everyone in the office, and some days I wished I’d never drawn her attention, so I could drink my coffee in peace. She’d been standing next to me during one of Blaze’s epic fights with Dr. Death and had subsequently ended up on the front page of the Domino. She’d been lucky: ­people who spent time around me had an equal chance of winding up on the front page or in the hospital. But Portia was too fame-­hungry to care about that.

I’m going back, Portia said, and I looked up. Walk with me?

Yes, because who knew what could happen to a long-­legged blonde in three blocks? In broad daylight? I refrained from pointing out she was safer without me, cleared my coffee cup off the table and into the trash, and followed her out though I had absolutely no desire to go back to work.

I’d been working at Mirror Reality for a ­couple of years, and while I knew I was lucky to even have a job, it wasn’t a picnic. The work itself wasn’t bad, but the office was stuffed with idiots. Portia could probably be considered the smartest of all of them. My boss regularly hired men and women hoping to break into print modeling by constantly putting themselves in Angus’s line of sight. He found them amusing, but he knew better than to actually expect quality work out of these ­people, which meant I had to pick up the slack.

I hated my job. Every morning, I turned off the alarm clock and rolled over to stare at the window of my fourth-­story apartment. And for ten minutes, I contemplated rolling out of bed and out of that window, and not having to go to work. I even set my alarm clock back ten minutes just so that I would have time for my daily existential crisis.

Once I decided that I had too much to live for, I dragged myself out of bed and headed into the office, two hours before anybody else came in. I used the quiet to prep meeting materials, research stories, and even occasionally ghostwrite a few articles if the regular writer didn’t live up to Angus’s standards. My coworkers trickled in between nine and ten. They left right on the nose at five. You could set your watch by that, at least. If I was having an efficient day, I’d be out of there at seven. The earliest I’d managed in a ­couple of years was nine.

Why did I stay there? That’s easy. The healthcare plan.

Angus paid for the gold plan for his employees, probably to keep the idea men and the overworked happy. Even if I tried to find another job at this point, the insurance company would have taken one look at my record and burst out laughing.

I don’t ask to get kidnapped. In fact, in the grand scheme of things, I’d prefer if the villains focused on something else. One of them—­I think it might have been a mind reader—­got it into his head that Jeremy is Blaze, savior of Chicago. And even though I’d been insisting for over eighteen months that there was no way my boyfriend was Blaze, everybody insisted right back. So, ­people asked, why were Jeremy and Blaze never been seen in the same place? Because Jeremy was usually at his computer, playing games. How come Blaze came to save me every time? He must be a nice guy, but I assure you, he’s not Jeremy.

So I stayed for the health care. And I think Angus knew it. He was the first to start calling me Girl instead of Gail after the media named me Hostage Girl. Others followed suit, no matter how many times I insisted that it was Gail. Gail from Nowhere, Indiana.

When Portia and I strolled back into the seventh-­floor offices of Mirror Reality, the receptionist was already mid-­fit. There you are! she said.

It was just a coffee run. Don’t worry so much, Adrianna. Portia barely glanced up from her phone as we walked through. Angus insisted that the front office be kept spartan and minimal, so there was only the coatrack, two chairs, and Adrianna’s desk. Which was mostly empty anyway, usually of Adrianna herself. What can I do for you?

Not you. Adrianna waved her away. With an affronted look, Portia stalked off, and Adrianna turned toward me. "Angus has been calling for the past half hour. Why did you pick today of all days to leave?"

I refrained from pointing out that I was legally allowed to take breaks. What does he want?

He’s got a meeting with Edward, Adrianna said, grabbing my arm.

I raised my eyebrows. Gonna need more than that. Who’s Edward?

"Davenport. Edward Davenport! Adrianna practically melted back into herself before she remembered that I didn’t care. He wants the entire office prepped, and with Guy leaving today, you’re it."

I’m taking a meeting with Edward Davenport? I blinked. Edward Davenport, CEO of Davenport Industries, was practically a celebrity in Chicago. And why not? He had the smashing good looks of a movie lead, the brains to tackle the country’s top law school at nineteen, a tragic past, and the world’s formidable most company behind him.

Not you. Adrianna rolled her eyes. Guy and Asiv are, but the meeting room, it’s a wreck and—­

Get the cleaning crew up here, then, I said. That’s not my job. If Angus wants to meet with Edward Davenport, he’ll want all the materials prepped. I need to start that.

He’s going to be here at three! Adrianna looked frantic at the thought. "The maintenance staff takes hours, and I’ll never get the office cleaned in time. You know how hopeless I am with cleaning products—­we always kept a maid."

Get somebody to help, I said.

But what about the phones?

Have one of the McClavens do it.

You know they hate that.

What’s this? It appears my well of compassion has dried right up. He pays them, they can answer the phones for an hour. I have to prep the materials.

On cue, the phone rang. Oh, that’ll be Angus, Adrianna said, fluttering her hands worriedly. Yes, she actually fluttered her hands. Like an old-­time movie actress.

I waved a hand at her. Send it back to me. He wants to talk to me, anyway. And with that, I trudged the familiar path to my cubicle.

Girl! Angus’s European accent (I’d never been able to quite place its source) thundered through the handset. Where have you been?

On the phone with a potential client, I lied as I sat down behind my cluttered desk.

I’m sure. Have Adrianna get fresh coffee—­use the corporate account, don’t put it on the company card until we teach that idiot in accounting how to actually pay the bill—­and have it waiting, and hot, precisely at three. We’ll need the sales packet for the millennium clients, not that piddly one you put together for the golds and the silvers.

I bit my tongue over the retort that those piddly packets had taken me the better part of a month of arguing with Angus to perfect, and continued to jot down his demands. Once he’d finished, he sighed. And for heaven’s sakes, Girl, put on proper shoes before Edward and I get into the office, will you?

I glanced around, but Angus was nowhere to be seen. How did you know that—­?

I didn’t, but you just confirmed it.

Damn.

Thankfully, Angus just chuckled. Proper shoes, he said, and hung up.

I dug into the bottom drawer of my desk for the pair of plain black flats I kept on hand. As long as nobody came too near my feet, which had been sweating a little in the heat that morning, everything would be fine. Feet shod, I headed across the office to where Asiv and Guy shared a glassed-­in office. Asiv, as usual, was tilted back in his office chair, asleep. Guy sat behind his mahogany monster of a desk, his hands steepled as he regarded something on his computer screen. I tapped on the door; he straightened.

Hey, he said once I’d entered. Something up?

You haven’t heard? I rolled my eyes for emphasis. Angus scored a meet with Edward Davenport. And since you’re not blowing this joint for a few more hours, you get to sit in on it.

Fantastic. Guy’s lips quirked up in a smile. Does that mean you have paperwork for me?

Millennium packet. I handed over a thick manila demo folder. Edward Davenport would naturally get the one in the slick black binding, presentation-­perfect. You’ll want to look over that before the meeting. Review the numbers. The usual.

Guy rose to his full height to take the packet from me. Standing, he towered over me—­and everybody in the office. Actually, sitting in his office chair, he was almost of a height with me. Nobody would ever consider me tall. Diminutive, maybe. Elfin was how one ex-­boyfriend had described me.

I preferred short.

Are you coming to my going-­away party tonight? Guy asked, not looking at me as he paged through the packet. His hair came down his forehead and over his stylish glasses. The sleeves of his seersucker dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows. He looked like exactly what he was: a trust-­fund boy idling the days away in publishing.

On the side of the room, Asiv let out a snort in his sleep.

I bit my lip. Hang out with my coworkers outside of the office? You couldn’t have paid me enough, even if Guy was the only nice one in the office.

I’m sorry, I said, twisting my fingers together behind my back. I’m behind on work.

Really? And this time Guy did look up from the paperwork to chuckle at me. Can’t get away for one night?

If I could, I definitely wasn’t going to spend an evening with my coworkers. So I smiled at Guy and prepared for my retreat. Come say bye before you leave, will you? I asked him, and before he could answer, I turned and left.

BY THE TIME Edward Davenport descended on the offices of Mirror Reality, every spare inch had been scrubbed and polished until the shine on the chrome wall panels threatened to give me a headache. Angus paced like a general surveying his troops. In truth, he was the furthest thing from a general, being stoop-­shouldered and a little bit pigeon-­toed. He made up for the former with expensive Italian suits and the latter with expensive Italian shoes.

Angus P. Vanderfeld was nothing if not classy.

The