37: Sapphire Girded

The hot water rained down over her long slender form. The air was warm and heavy with shower steam.

The shower was supposed to make her feel better. Instead, it only stirred memories.

Vivid, terrifying moments.

The feel of hot wind on her skin. The smell of singed clothing. The burn in her lungs, taking ever deeper breaths but getting no air. The flames rolling overhead. The air being sucked away.

The total darkness down in that hole. The unseen slime that grew on the manhole rungs.

Shocking instants of recollection that emphasized the hollowness that followed. The hollowness she still felt now. How she longed to feel something.

The sapphires had put an intensity upon everything. They had made her alive, even as they subtly deadened tactile sensations beneath their invisible shroud. Only now did she realize the effect they'd had on her, numbing the world ever so slightly, then amplifying the extraordinary.

Now freed of the gemstones' cloak, her senses were heightened to the mundane. She felt every nuance of a suddenly dull and lifeless world. It emphasized her insignificance.

The irrelevence was deafening.

"Valerie, are you nearly finished? Your dinner is getting stale."

She turned off the water. "I'm not hungry," she called out.

"You need to eat to keep up your strength," Max's gently-nagging voice replied, growing closer. She grabbed the thin robe hanging outside the door.

He looked at her with the eye of a caring father. Or perhaps a concerned husband. It was more emotional warmth than he'd ever shown her -- the hot, sweaty sex didn't in retrospect count as emotional -- and yet it left her feeling cold.

"Melancholy does not suit you."
"Nothing really suits me, Max." She was too withdrawn for him to consider it an insult.
"You know you are lucky to be alive."

Lucky. There were two kinds of luck.

But he wasn't going to quit hovering, so she might as well try to appease him. She sat down and took a sandwich off the plastic tray.

"I thought I had lost you," Max said simply. They hadn't really talked since the incident.

"I almost didn't get the windshield out. Good thing I was wearing combat boots. And I almost fell down the damn manhole coming off the hood. I should have stopped short."

"Do not criticize your performance too harshly. You achieved the objective. The ruse was successful. You are alive. And they think you are dead."

"I guess," Val shrugged, taking a hesitant bite.

"How do you feel?"

It was a tough question. Max rephrased.

"Are you hurt?"
"A little tender in places. I think the explosion cooked me a little bit. But mostly it's my chest. When that bullet first hit, I thought I was going to die. Seeing all that blood -- I knew wearing that many packs it was gonna be messy, but still, I thought the vest didn't work, it hurt so much. I don't think I've ever been hit so hard."

Max smirked. She had no idea. She'd gotten lucky; perhaps the shot hadn't been straight on; he'd expected significant bruising from a shot that close up; if her description of the weapon was accurate, probably a few cracked ribs as well.

He looked at his young companion. Engaging her in conversation had lifted her spirits a bit.

"I am sure you will feel better tomorrow."
"I'll feel better when I'm not here anymore."
"Why? We are safe here. No one saw us enter. The building should be empty until Tuesday morning."
"No, I mean leave Oak Valley."
"But why? Everyone thinks you are dead."
"And I'd like to keep it that way."
"Where will you go?"
"Anywhere but here. Some place where no one will recognize me. Some place where I can get a decent job doing decent work. Some place where spending cash won't attract a lot of attention."

Val looked at Max with total sincerity. "I wanna go to Las Vegas."

Max did his best not to laugh. But once his sense of comedic irony faded, a sense of desperate sadness overcame him. If she was content to simply run and hide, how would Max ever claim his place? She was his Queen. He touched upon her mind; he felt her fear and loneliness. These were not feelings to which she was accustomed. They were symptoms of defeat.

Max breathed a sigh of relief. This, he knew, could be managed. He wasn't done with this pretty young thing yet.

"Shhh. If that is what you really want, then that is what we will do. But right now, you need to rest." He kissed her forehead.

"I don't wanna rest," she said, looking up at him with an impish grin. Max felt delicate fingernails brush their way up his thigh.

"I am not sure that is a good idea, Valerie," Max said, standing upright, mustering his sternest look even as his dick began to swell.

"Oh, Max, please don't leave me. I don't want to be alone," she cried softly.

The sudden emotion took him by surprise. Max looked down at her, curled up in the corner of the bed, framed by a backdrop of pillows, nibbling tentatively on an apple slice. Bare feet tucked beneath her, coltish legs folded together, knees hugged to chest, delicate satin robe draping but not concealing her, doe eyes looking back up at him with unexpected innocence. She seemed so fragile. This was not the powerful Black Widow that Max had come to know. But she was enchanting nonetheless.

Max lowered himself to the bed to lay next to this feminine thing that so clearly needed his strong comfort.

Expert fingers loosened the sash of her robe. He felt her stiffen slightly -- what was this?

Max's lips moved from her ear down the nape of her neck. Val recoiled a bit at his touch. "Oooh, careful; it's still tender." Max could see no physical sign of trauma, but Valerie maintained that the area around her neck felt 'sunburned'.

No matter; Max preferred the nectar of another fruit...

But her hand pushed his away. "No, not yet. Just hold me a while."

Max's fingers grazed ever so briefly over her sex before retreating. Surprising. She wasn't ready; her delicate petals had yet to unfurl. This was a first. Her appetites had always been, well, insatiable, and her body never more than a beat away from arousal.

But now it was Valerie's... heart that sought coupling. Her spirit needed reassurance; her body needed coaxing.

Well, Max had never been one to ignore the needs of a lover.

Hands gently caressed up and down her form, careful to avoid overt sexual advances, his goal to relax, not excite the girl. She rewarded him in kind, her arm wrapped back behind them, fingers stroking up and down the base of his spine.

They lay there a long time, spooning simple comfort and companionship. And gradually the playful-but-flighty girl became a delicate but inviting woman.

"Mmmm, that's nice, Max..."
"Ohhhh, Maxxxx..."
"Oooooohh..."
"Hhmmmmhh..."

His young lover responded hesitantly but hungrily to his more direct touches, as if it was their first time.
And in a sense, it was.

Finally his middle finger ran up her inner thigh and over the folds of her sex; she gasped as his stroke slipped briefly between her lips, her warm slick honey speeding the interloper on its clever pass.

Her words were a breathy whimper. "Make love to me, Max."

Her intrepid lover rose to the blissful task.

Max moved closer to his sighing young lover, propping himself up on an elbow to gaze down at her. The tall dark-haired beauty had escaped Ginger's trap physically unscathed. Max's fingers gently traced up and down this slumbering vision's form with bemused wonder and sadness. Valerie Strain was a remarkable physical specimen, with the svelte form and long limbs of a Manga heroine (or villain). But she was so much more. Or at least, she had been.

Sex this morning had been fantastic. It almost seemed wrong to call it sex; for the first time in Max's recent memory he thought another term was more appropriate -- they had made love. In any other world -- in Max's old world, that which existed before the Amulet -- Max would have thought his desire fulfilled, his need for connection more than sated. Their coupling had the energy of lovers who'd learned each other's triggers but still had uncharted territory to explore. But it lacked another kind of energy, an energy Max so desperately needed.

And something else was missing too. Well, not *missing* so much as different. Valerie was no less passionate -- if anything, she seemed to need him inside her more desperately now than ever -- but she was pleading, not demanding; following, not leading. The fiery young woman's former agression was absent -- their sexual dance had become a simple conquest. It was as if the tactical submission to the one called Ginger had burrowed into Valerie's soul and infected her with its weakness. Well, not *weakness* so much as passivity.

Indeed, Max had to wonder why he was still here. He should be searching for the other one. How could the path to ascention not lead to her now? And yet Max was still here. Something kept him here. The amulet was barely felt, but it drew even colder with the very thought of leaving Valerie.

Max stroked his ingenue's cheek; she smiled in her sleep.

Or maybe it wasn't the amulet at all; maybe Max was feeling something else.

"Man, I don't know how anyone can listen to that crap." Johnson gave up trying to tune a radio station and switched the clock radio off.

Andrew tugged on the ropes that held him fast to the motel chair. It was an old piece made of welded chrome tubing, far sturdier than the modern pressboard crap in newer dives. He wasn't going anywhere.

"Bet you didn't know we had your car bugged, did you, sport?" Taggert looked down at his captive. The late-afternoon sun slivered between the curtains to draw what looked like a glowing scar down one side of Agent Dean's face.

"Of course I knew. That's why I left it at a motel while I hid the necklace."

"Yeah, we'll come to that in a minute," Johnson said, eyeing a large hypodermic needle critically. He walked around behind the datahound-turned-field-agent-turned-traitor.

"So why did you come back to it if you knew we were watching you?"
"I didn't want you guys joyriding in it and fucking it up. You have any idea what it's worth?"
"Speaking of fucking things up..."

Andrew felt a needle jab him in the ass. "Hey! Not on the first date!" he wisecracked. The other Johnson came around and stared him down, eyes darting back and forth between Andrew's two eyes. "It won't be long. It binds to the receptors almost immediately."

Andrew already felt a little strange. His mouth was quickly filled with saliva; he had to swallow almost continuously to keep from drooling. The room seemed to get warmer. And the three men there with him didn't seem like such bad guys after all.

"You got it from here?"
"Yeah."
"Call us if you need anything." With that, Johnson & Johnson excused themselves, leaving Andy with his buddy Taggert.

"Hey, sport," Taggert said, pulling up a chair and sitting down backwards, arms crossed over the seatback. "Can I get you another beer?"
"No, I'm fine, thanks," Andrew heard himself say. Taggert was older than Andy, but he was still a pretty cool guy.
"Hey, man, I was with this chick the other night, I met her at this bar across town. You shoulda been there. She looked a lot like Ginger. You remember Ginger, your ex?"
"Yeah." Andrew's head lolled; he'd had a few too many...
"This girl looked just like her. She was even wearing a sapphire necklace like Ginger used to have. Except her tits were a little smaller. Damn, that Ginger had a great rack."
"Fuckin' A, dude."
"Hey, you remember that time you took her to that hotel after Chris' wedding?"
"Chris?"
"Yeah, you remember him. Or maybe you don't; you'd had a lot to drink that night. He was my old Army buddy. Anyway, you and Ginger left the party early, and you told me you went back to that hotel and fucked her all night long."
"Oh yeah; damn that wuz great! She wuz wearin' thiss *hot* lookin' lace thingie... I thingkh we diddit twice b'fore she even tookkit offf..."
"Yeah, I remember you told me you accidentally ripped off Ginger's necklace while you were doing it."
"Oopsh," Andrew blushed at the memory.
"Man, was she pissed! That was the last time you ever saw her, wasn't it? What ever happened to that necklace?"

Andy's face wrinkled in a childish pout. What *did* ever happen to that necklace? "I ffuhget..." he trailed off.

"Oh come on, Andy, you remember, don't you?"
"I... I don' mumembur, but who cchares anyway?"
"I was just askin, man. I heard it was really expensive. I was talking to Ginger and she said if you gave it back she'd go out with you again."
"Nno s-shitth?" Andy slurred.
"No shit! Come on, Andy, tell me where it is and I'll even go get it for you, so you can start getting ready for Miss Ginger."

"Oh, yeah! I remumimber now! I gavve it tothat nice old lady at the airport..."
"At the airport?"
"No, no, man, zhe's not att thuh airport now; I don' see'er off untill later tonight..."
"You're meeting her at the airport? Where is she now?"
"Hell, I don' know! They wen' sightseeingg, allover the ssitty!"
"Where are you supposed to meet her? I'll go meet her for you, get Ginger's necklace back for you."
"Naw, thass alright man, you don' haveta dothat..."
"Hey, it's no problem! I know how happy you were with Ginger -- and what a hot piece of ass she is -- and I just wanna do everything I can to get you two back together, fucking like minks."
"Fffuckhin' like minks!" Andy shouted.
"Yeah, fuckin' like minks. So tell me where to meet her."
"At the airport."
"Where at the airport?"
"Umm, Northeastern flightt 247... or maybe itss 274, I can' remember, itss the one goin' back ta Jersey!"
"Jersey, eh? Tonight?"
"Yepp... Cheap ol' biddy's takin' the redeye..." Andy had trouble keeping his head up...
"Okay, Andy, we're almost done. What's her name? What's she look like?"
"Ol' lady," Andy said, matter-of-factly.
"Did you put the necklace in her bag? What's her bag look like?"
"White with a big'ol blue stripe, like a bowling bag. Like an old fag!" Andy mumbled off into quiet laughter at his own clever pun.
"All right Andy. I'm gonna go get the bag. You stay here and get ready for Ginger, all right? And give her a good shagging once for me, eh?" Taggert punched Andy sharply in the shoulder. Actually it felt more like a big mosquito bite...

He checked the time again. Damn.
He looked out the window. Down below, the entrance to the convention center's south service dock was buzzing with activity. He looked further up. Nothing happening at the north end from what he could see. Maybe it was closed. That would be good. It meant he would probably see her coming. Whenever she finally did come. Eric always hated the waiting. Waiting for Ginger. Waiting for Angela.

Waiting for Noel Aquino. He said he'd only be a few minutes. He said he'd just needed to check a couple of sources. That was nearly an hour ago. And he wasn't answering his cellphone.

Maybe Ricky knew where he was. Eric had avoided going online to talk to Ricky -- the kid would certainly be a flurry of questions, and Eric wasn't comfortable doling out answers. But the more he thought about it, the more he knew he'd need Noel as spotter and backup if he had any chance of ending this well. So he went online.

Predictably, Ricky was killing time himself, sitting alone in the Sapphire chat room.

*Scott8412 has entered the room.
Scott8412 (whispered): Call me. 867-5309
*Scott8412 has left the room.

The phone rang within a few seconds.
"Man, I thought you'd forgotten me!"
"Have you heard from your dad?"
"No. I thought he was with you."
"Shit."
"Is he okay?"
"I'm sure he is, but..."
"What's wrong?"
"He's supposed to help me."
"Maybe I could help you. If I knew what was going on. You totally left me hanging."
Eric wondered if Ricky would talk to him the same way in person.
"I'm sixteen. Don't treat me like a little kid. Fill me in."
Yeah, probably.
Eric looked at his watch. What the hell, he wasn't going anywhere. And Ginger already wanted the kid dead once she was done with him; it wasn't like anything Eric told him was going to get him in any deeper shit...
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything! Is Gladys Barrett really dead? What happened?"
Damn. The kid really knew how to punch a guy in the gut.
"Ginger took Mrs. Barrett hostage to use as leverage against Angela."
"Against Angela? Who's Ginger? I thought Black Widow's name was Val. Is Ginger another one?"
"One what?"
"Supervillain."
Man, did the kid live in the comic book world or what?
"Ginger is my old boss."
"And who are you?"
The blunt question caught Eric by surprise. But it was a legitimate question -- Eric hadn't exactly introduced himself.
"My name is Eric Lockwell. Let's just say I used to work for the government."
"What agency?"
"That's classified." And irrelevent at the moment.
"Oh. I guess it's better if I don't know, huh?"
"You're a smart kid."
"I'm not a kid. I'm sixteen."
"Right. Sorry."
"So don't stop. What's Ginger want with Angela? Is she using her to get to Sapphire?"
That was a strange way to put it. This kid took the secret-identity thing really seriously...
"Um, yeah."
"So Mrs. Barrett isn't really dead, that's some kind of government code for a hostage situation, right?"
"No, Ricky, it's not. She escaped. They shot her."
"Oh my God."

Ricky was silent for a long time.

"Is Angela okay?"
"Your dad talked to her this morning. She took it really hard. He went to look for her."
"What does Ginger want from Sapphire?"
"She wants her power."

"Why doesn't she pick on Black Widow instead?" Ricky knew why -- nobody seemed able to find her -- but he bristled at the idea that the heroine he worshipped and his... girlfriend? Angela were being singled out.
"Black Widow's dead. Someone blew her to smithereens. Bates claims he did it; I think it was Ginger."
"Oh my God. What's Ginger's power?"
"She's a scheming bitch with no conscience."

Eric found it hard to believe that such a connected kid was so out of touch. "Don't you watch TV? Black Widow, Angela's mom, it's all over the news."
"I'm up here in the... we can only get satellite where I'm at, and the dish got knocked down by a broken tree branch in the last storm. And I've only got dialup, and a lousy connection at that; I can't get any of the video streams from the Oak Valley TV stations to work. Stupid notebook."
"You really are out of touch."
"I feel helpless up here. Angela's in trouble, I can't get in touch with my dad, I can't do anything up here."
"You also can't be used as a hostage."
"So then Sapphire's free to hunt down your boss, my dad will throw her in jail, and Angela can come home safely."
Eric sighed. "If only it were that simple."

"I don't understand. What's the problem? Is it the Hunter? Does he work for your boss too?" A chilling thought came to Ricky: was Eric the Hunter?
"No. For one thing, Angela doesn't have a house to come home to. Ginger blew it up yesterday."
Ricky had forgotten about that. "But why can't Sapphire and you and Dad and the police catch Ginger? Doesn't anybody know where she is? Where she'd hide? *You* worked for her..."
"She wouldn't leave without the sa... without Sapphire's power."
"But she doesn't have a hostage." Damn, they killed Angela's mom! "Unless Ginger's got Angela now. Oh God. I hope she doesn't. Do you think maybe that's why my dad's taking so long?"

Eric's blood ran cold. That was a scenario he hadn't considered. How could he have been so stupid? Ginger could have moved up the meet, changed it to a different location...

If that was the case, all they could do was pick up the pieces after Ginger made her cover-up play.

But then again, if Noel couldn't reach Angela, maybe Ginger couldn't either. They could only hope. "I.. I don't think so, Ricky. Ginger is probably afraid of Sapphire. The hostage exchange was originally supposed to occur at the Alluring Enduring Party at ten o'clock tonight. It's a public place -- that makes for a lot of innocent lives at risk. That's more Ginger's style. I think taking Gladys was just a ruse to keep Sapphire off-balance." Eric almost had himself convinced.

"Your Ginger is *evil*."
"There's nothing she won't do to get her hands on that kind of power. But there's nothing I won't do to stop her."

"What are you going to do if my dad doesn't come back to help you?"
"I'll manage," Eric said through gritted teeth.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm gonna blow her fucking brains out."

The sudden rawness of Eric's response took Ricky by surprise. It took him a moment to recover.
"The convention center's a big place."
"Sapphire kind of stands out. I just have to follow her."
"Good luck. Or can you fly?"
"No. But neither can Ginger."
"Won't she have guards or henchmen or something?"

Henchmen. Again with the comic book terminology. Or was it more James Bond? Whatever, it was certainly appropriate.
"Yes. Five of them." Eric's tone of voice conveyed derision.
"But you're better than them, huh?"
"I better be."
"Don't you have to take them all out at once? It only takes one of them to hurt a lot of hostages."
Hmm. The boy was sharp.
"Basically."
"So if they spread out, you're fucked."

This time it was Eric's turn to be surprised at Ricky's language.
"Basically."

"Let me help. I can tap into the surveillance system, call out their location."
"Your dad was going to do that. But the more I think about it, the less I like it. Unless Ginger's really stupid, and she's not, they'll be dressed to blend in. It'll be like finding four needles in a huge haystack. It's going to take more than one set of eyes to spot them. If they spread out, I'll just have to take out Ginger first and hope the others don't figure it out."
"What if she's rigged up a bomb, and she's got one of those triggers that goes off if anything happens to her, like the President did in 'Spawn?'"

Eric flashed back to his childhood, when firefighters had visited his third-grade class, and he'd asked them questions about ever-more-complicated-and-dire scenarios... until finally, the chief responded, "well then, in that case you better hope it's not you."

Now Eric was the firefighter.

"Good thinking," he patronized. "I'll have to knock her out then."

"Well, if my dad finds Angela, can he bring her up here? Or some other safe place. I don't want her to get hurt."
"But we need her to draw out Ginger."
"I thought it was Sapphire's power that Ginger wanted. Or is Angela supposed to do the drop?"
Eric was befuddled. What kind of question was that? Who else would do it? "Well, of course."
"Can't Sapphire do it herself? I can't believe she'd risk Angela like that. I know they're friends and all, but-" one thought interrupted another, "And wouldn't Ginger want Sapphire to bring it herself, just to be sure it's not fake? Or are they both supposed to be there? I'm confused."

"*You're* confused? I'm confused. You're not making any sense."
"I just don't want anything to happen to Angela. I... care about her. I care about Sapphire too, but she's the superheroine, not Angela. Sapphire can handle herself. I just don't want both of them to get hurt."

"Ricky, that doesn't make any sense."
"Why not?"
Eric gasped when he put it together. "I can't believe you don't know."
"Know what?"
"Angela *is* Sapphire."

The revelation hit Ricky like a two-by-four to the head. For several long moments his brain was lost in a sea of implications.

Eric could hear the young man's gears turning. "You really didn't know, did you?"
"Oh, my-... All this time, I... God, I'm so stupid."
"You're not stupid, Ricky."
"I thought she cared. Dammit! Does my dad know?"
"I presume so." Eric wasn't so sure anymore. He thought *Ricky* knew...
"Dammit, why didn't he tell me? I run the biggest Sapphire information website, and I'm the last to know? Why didn't you tell me before? Why didn't she tell me?"
"I thought you knew. She probably never told you because she didn't want you to worry. And maybe she wanted to know you liked her for her, not for what she can do."
"Well I am worried. Because I do love her."
Did Eric detect a catch in Ricky's throat? "Uh-oh, you said the 'L' word."
He could practically hear Ricky blush.
"Well, I do," Ricky said, his dander up. "I love Angela. And I can't let anything happen to her. You can't let her do this. You gotta help her. You gotta stop her."
"Stop her? Ricky, Angela is Sapphire. You oughta know, there's no stopping her."

It's early, but already the place is wall-to-wall with people.

She enters the party, looking for anyone that looks out of place.

This turns out to be a horizon-expanding exercise.

Leather, plastic, rubber, lace, spandex.
Backless, cupless, legless, crotchless, topless.
Dominating, domesticated, depilitated, debilitating, diaphanous, disturbing.
Pierced, pouched, pressed. Buckled, bulged, bespectacled. Shaved, shorn, shown.

Wall-to-wall bodies. Old and young; hot and hideous; gay, straight, and indifferent.

Eyes glance upward. The emptiness above beckons her, but she dare not embrace it. Her strengths uncertain, her weaknesses well-known, caution is her character this night.

And there is the stern stare of the authorities, scanning the sea of beat-surfers, looking no doubt for supernatural fugitives. She must duck the long arm of the law, lest it lay her up indefinitely. Her mind recalls with horror her last encounter with law enforcement. Dehumanizing. Defiling. Defenseless.

She parts the crowd, searching. It's slow, deliberate, desperate. And distracting. In the thickening crowd, she feels bodies jostle and slither. The rhythm and the incidental contact conspire to enthrall the unsuspecting heroine. But is it incidental, or do hands linger longer than social convention suggests?

Unseen bodies brushing up against her, feeling her, groping her, more and more obviously. She moves through the syrupy crowd of near-naked cavortion, her more determined movements echoed in more demonstrative handling.

And the hapless heroine, trapped in an unending morass of grabbing hands and gyrating hardbodies, begins to feel the glow.

Someone grabs her panties, fingernails tugging, tearing at them -- a wave of remembered panic raises both her alarm and her arousal, seeing and feeling in a repeating flash the moment of her restaurant submission to the Black Widow.

She tries to push the hand away, but it won't move; another hand clamps her breast; she twists to get away, panties rip off her. More groping and grinding; her eyes are closed, she's moving with the beat of the music, accepting the strangers' touches, welcoming them; her clouded mind convinces her she may as well enjoy herself while she's waiting for this woman to show up. The beat compels her revelry.

She smells an intoxicating perfume, strong and spicy; an arm encircles her waist, fingers intertwined with hers, holding her hands above her. Her eyes see no one, only an indistinct inseperable mass of writhing, wriggling wantonness. Someone standing in front of her begins moving hands up her torso, massaging her breasts, moving closer; another behind her is pulling her backwards, arching her; she sighs in submissive contentment. It's been so long since she truly felt caressed, coddled, cajoled, conjoined. Her mission scarcely remembered in the face of such sweet sexual supplication.

She feels the lover in front of her press into her pelvis; his erection is hot against her swollen, scarcely-covered lips. One hand holds her two; another hand works into her hair, turning her head sideways. Lips press against hers, impossibly soft lips, a tongue invades her. She hears herself drowning in physical need, lust outlasting prior purpose. Hands interlope under her skirt, stroking her, the erection now pressed up against her thigh. Fingers are replaced with something bigger, firmer, warmer, sliding up and down her liquidinous labia, dipping inward only to stroke up and around her engorged clit. A gasp, both of body's hunger and brain's horror escapes the ensnared heroine. She knows she is succumbed. Hands grab her ass, holding her up; her legs wrap around her male lover, while the female behind her drags fingernails across her chest and pinches her nipples through her flimsy top...

She's being fucked right there on the dance floor and she doesn't even care... No, she more than cares, she craves, she cries out for release.

Release comes, but not rapture with it; as she climaxes, her power chord of pleasure carries a disturbing, disorienting dissonance. She realizes too late that her trembling orgasm is but a distraction. Her shoes slip off her toes; she feels hands rip her gems from her wrists and her tiara from her hair; she is defrocked.

The woman is gone now; she's pressed up against a wall as the man withdraws and too fades into blackness.

Sapphire in name only, stripped of adornment and identity, she slides down the wall, her whole body limp and spent and powerless...

"Nnnnggh! Nnoo! Don't take them!" White-knuckled fists gripped the blanket as the body convulsed itself out of dreamspace. Angela's eyes shot open with pure fear. "Ohhh!"

Chest heaved and nostrils flared with frantic gasping. Gradually, confusion faded and the world became real.

"Shhh. There, there, honey, you were just having a bad dream. It's okay. It's okay, honey." Faith's voice was soothing, protective.

But dream or real, it wasn't okay.

Gladys Barrett was gone. And nothing, not all the sapphires in the world could bring her back.

And the people who'd done it would surely disappear, now that they'd lost their leverage. But they'd be back. Angela would forever be looking over her shoulder.

Faith broke through the girl's troubled reverie. "What happened last night?"
"What? Nothing. I guess I slept."
"You *were* pretty worn-out. But I mean last night, the explosion, Black Widow. Was that you?"
"What explosion?"
"I guess not. It's all over the news. Everyone on the street's talking about it. Bates says he killed Black Widow. One of his cars blew up last night on the way to the airport; he says she attacked it, the driver lost control, and they hit an embankment. But from the way the car was destroyed, it was pretty obviously a hit."

"Oh." The young heroine was unmoved.
"Oh? That's all you can say is 'Oh?' If it's true, then the city is saved. From Black Widow, at least; Bates is another matter, but I don't think there's any getting rid of him."
"Whatever."

The news should have been stunning, but to Angela it was just another sign of her failure. She was of no use to anyone. Just a silly girl who got in way over her head. She half-wished that 'Ginger' and her secret agent squad would just show up and get it over with.

She just wanted to run away. Run far away and forget she'd ever lived in this stupid city or worn those cursed crystals.

"What's wrong, dear?"
"I'm a failure. Everything I do turns to shit." She wasn't even aware she'd cursed.
"I know things don't always go the way we want them to, but that's just the way life is sometimes, sweetie." Angela felt a hand brush hair out of her eyes. She pulled away roughly.

"You don't understand. It's over."
"What's over? The Black Widow? I don't know what kind of a relationship you two had, but she was a destructive force and the world is better off without her. Now you can move on."
She just didn't get it. (How could she?) "No, not her. Me. Sapphire's finished. I quit. The world is better off without *me*."
"Now that's just not true. You've done some good, but you could still do so much more. The world needs heroes. The world needs Sapphire."

Angela snapped. "They killed my mom! They tried to get to me, so they took her as a hostage." She began to cry. "And then before I could even do what they wanted, they killed her! She's dead and it's my fault! If I'm so good, why couldn't I save her? If there's so much I can do, why couldn't I do this one thing? You don't understand. She gave up everything for me, and I just threw it in her face. I laid here and *slept* while they *killed* her!"

Faith was taken aback. "Oh my God," she said with a gasp. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. I didn't know." She was afraid to even touch the distraught girl. "I'm... I'm so sorry." There was nothing more she could say.

Angela's small frame sagged against the older woman's shoulder, her breaths coming in sharp gasps as she tried not to break down again.

"I wish Sapphire never existed."
"Oh, honey." Faith could only hold the girl as she sobbed. Faith struggled to think of something, anything to say that would be comforting.

After a long while, the small girl looked up to her newfound friend with plaintive eyes. "What am I gonna do now?"
"I don't know, honey. Do you have any other relatives?"
"No. It was just me and my mom." She was truly on her own now.

Faith gathered her wits. Waitasecond, this is absurd. This girl is Sapphire, a genuine superheroine. What would a superheroine do now? What do they always do?

"Listen, honey." She pulled the smaller girl away from her, holding her chin to look into her eyes. "Don't quit now. You need to find the people that killed your mother and bring them to justice. You can't give up."

The words hit home. "That's what she said," Angela said softly. Her mother's last words. "Angela can't give up."

"But how do I find them? I don't even know who they are."
Faith remained positive. "I don't know, honey, but you've got to do something. You can't just sit here and cry about it. That's not why you were given your... ability." It seemed ridiculous to call them 'powers' even if that's what they were. "Have you been to the police?"
"N-no. Well, sort of. There's a detective I trust; I told him about it. He said he would help me. He was the one that told me she was... that she'd been..." Angela couldn't finish.
"Shh, I know. Let's focus on what you can do now, okay? What do you know about these people? What did they want from you?"

"I think they're with the government. Or at least they were. Some kind of secret agents I guess. They want my... my powers."
"You mean, they're like a thing?"
"Well, yeah. I guess. Black Widow's too."
"That's why you were so desperate to find Black Widow. To take her power and give it to these people so they'd let your mom go."
"Yeah." It seemed so simple the way she'd said it. So why had it gone so horribly wrong?

"When were you supposed to meet them?"
"Tonight at ten o'clock. At the party. Why? They won't be there now. They don't have my mom hostage anymore, and Black Widow's dead."
"But they still don't have what they want."
"Well, no, but it's not like I'm going to give it to them."
"But do they know you know about your mom?"
"Well, of course." Why wouldn't they? After all, they killed her. But... wait... maybe they didn't know. Maybe they weren't sure. "Actually, I don't know. Maybe they don't. Was there anything on the news?"

"Well, yes, there was a..." Faith stopped short; it probably wasn't considerate to say "there was an unidentified dead body found in the warehouse district." "The news said something about a woman but they didn't say who, and it was very brief. Do these people know you're working with the police?"
"I don't know. Probably. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Well, you're a fugitive of justice, for starters."
"Oh, right." It sounded like being wanted by the police wasn't important. Considering what she'd been through, it probably wasn't.

"So, if what you have is so valuable, I bet they'll still show up and try to bluff you."
"Like I'd give them the... like I'd give it to them without at least seeing my mom."
"Be honest; you would have if they'd told you it was the only way you'd ever see her alive."
"Well, it's too late for that now."
"I know. I'm sorry; I shouldn't have-"
"No, it's okay. You're just trying to help. I appreciate it," the young woman said, sniffling back the last of her cry.

"So, I guess you've got a party to go to."
"What if they're not there?"
"Think positive."

"I will. Thanks," Angela said as she stood up to go.
"Hold your horses! You can't go dressed like that."
Angela looked down at herself. She was basically naked. And she wasn't wearing her sapphires.
"Oh, right." She blushed bright red.
"Besides, you said you were supposed to meet them at ten. You've got plenty of time. Let's get you cleaned up. You don't want to stand out at the party, do you? I'm not sure they'd let you in the door the way you are now."

What was she talking about? She wouldn't go in the front door, she'd find a skylight or something and come in that way... Oh. She meant something else. She *had* had a long day. She probably stank. And she could really use a nice hot bath. It would help clear her head.

"I just feel like there's something else I should be doing."
"Like what? The only thing you know right now is that they're going to be at the convention center at ten tonight."
"They *might* be there."
"Think positive. They'll be there. And you'll be waiting for them. Now you go get yourself cleaned up. I'm gonna go get you a new outfit." Faith shot down Angela's protest before she could voice it. "You need to look the part. Now go. Bath beads are behind the shower curtain."

Faith put down the blush. "There, all done."
Angela was amazed. Her makeup was stunning. "Wow."
"You said you didn't want anyone to recognize you."
"They won't. I look beautiful."
"You were beautiful before. Now you just look a little more... dramatic. Now, get dressed and then I'll finish putting your hair up."

Faith combed out the girl's soft hair. "Do you think they'll have guns?"
"They did the first time they came after me. But guns can't hurt me." Before Faith knew what had happened, the girl had grabbed the scissors out of the caddy on the counter and jammed them down on the palm of her hand. Faith screamed. But there wasn't a drop of blood. Not even a mark. She picked up the scissors; the tip of one blade had broken off.

So it was true. She really was bulletproof.

"Don't do that again," she said when she'd caught her breath.

"It's okay," Angela said reassurringly.
"No it's not. You owe me a new pair of scissors."
"Oh, sorry."

Faith finished her hair, pulled up into a small scrunchie before billowing down in a high-set ponytail. The tiara shimmered in the bright light of the makeup mirror.

"Anyway, what if there's a bunch of them? What if they come after you? Maybe you should take a phone and once you spot them just call the police."
"These people are dangerous. I wouldn't want the police to get hurt."

The police get hurt?! This girl's confidence was certainly running high. Maybe the incredible story of her encounter with the Black Widow at GB's and her subsequent breakout of the city jail weren't exaggerations at all. Still, she was just one girl...

"Bulletproof or not, sweetie, if ten guys rush you and get a hold of you, they might be able to do some damage, or maybe disarm you somehow. I assume they know how your, um, power works?"

"I don't think so. I sure shocked the hell out of them when they showed up at my house yesterday."
"But they'll be better prepared tonight."
"So will I. They'll never even get close. Watch this." She stood up from the makeup chair, looking around the apartment.

"What's in the box?" Sapphire pointed at a large cardboard box, some two feet square and four feet tall, parked in the hallway.
"Just a bunch of old clothes I retired. I should have gotten a smaller box; I packed that one so full I couldn't move it. I didn't realize how much a box of clothes that size would weigh."

Sapphire eyed the base of the box. Child's play. She flicked her wrist, as if feigning a backhand slap.

The box shot across the room as if propelled from an invisible cannon, bouncing off the wall and slamming into the door with a loud Thump! The box split open, spilling neatly-folded clothes all over the floor.

"Oh, shit. Sorry. I guess even when I hold back I don't know my own strength."

Faith took a deep breath. "Wow. You're the Real McCoy."
"Who's McCoy?"
Faith smiled at the girl. Youth... "It's an expression."
"I've never heard it. Must be a really old one."
"Thanks."
"Sorry. I didn't mean it that way."
"It's okay. I'm still young at heart."
"Well, anyway, I can do a lot more than that."
Faith put up her hands in surrender. "I'll take your word for it."
"I guess you didn't hear about GB's. I threw Black Widow through the back wall."
"I heard about it, I just didn't believe it. I mean, I thought you had something to do with it, but maybe weapons or explosives or something..."
"Do I look like I could hide weapons or explosives or something in this outfit?" She spun around gracefully.
"Honey, I don't think you could hide an agenda in that outfit."
"Where did you find this on such short notice?"
"My cousin. She was going to go to the party dressed as you, if you can believe that."

Angela was reminded of the Sapphire costumes she'd made for other young women. Each girl had had her own ideas of how it should look, and each one was a little off. Too ornate, too short, too tight, too butch...

But this one was perfect. A flyaway cropped top with a peasant neckline and a matching low-slung skirt, in twin layers of irridescent georgette, royal blue over midnight blue. The brilliant color imbued the feminine garments with a sense of power that lit up the room. Underneath was an irridescent powder-blue ruffled sheer bikini panty -- an outfit like this didn't lend itself to off-the-rack skivvies. Even the wings were right, ending in sheer fingerless gloves. Sapphire adjusted her wrist cuffs; Faith's cousin had serendipitously made her own cuffs removeable. The only thing that wasn't as Sapphire would have done it was a pair of sheer powder-blue ankle socks with contrasting midnight blue ruffle, but once on she thought them an improvement.

"It must have been custom made."
"Actually, she made it herself. You wouldn't believe what I had to promise her to get it."
"What?"
"She asked for your autograph."
"Really?" Angela beamed.
"Here." Faith handed her a piece of paper and a pen. "Her name's Claire."

To Claire -
Thanks for the dress. It's perfect!

The ink was a shimmering sparkling blue. She signed 'Sapphire' with a flourish. The name just flowed right out of the pen, like she'd been signing her name. Well, it *was* her name.

The preening heroine took another turn and bent this way and that. "It seems a little snug. Does it look like it fits?"
"It looks like it's a size too small." Faith smiled. "It's perfect."
"It doesn't make me look fat?"
Faith had to laugh. "Dear, you're lucky I don't kill you where you stand." It took the girl a moment to realize what she meant.
"So I look okay."
"No. You look... devastating."
"Good. Then appearances won't be deceiving."

It was time. "I should get going. Thanks for everything."
Sapphire stepped to the low bedroom window, ducking through the opening to perch on the narrow ledge. The sun was still set well above the horizon; it caught her sapphires as she crouched, reflecting a dazzling blue.

"Go make your mom proud."

Sapphire paused at that thought. She remembered what her mom had said to her so many times. "You'll always be my little Angel."

Tonight, I'm your Avenging Angel.

"I need to make a pitstop first. Turn right at that signal."

Val slid across the seat to get out. Max reached out, his fingers sliding down her retreating arm, feeling the snug fabric of her long-sleeved lightweight turtleneck until they found the softness of her hand. The grip was pleading, not controlling. Val froze for a long moment, looking into Max's eyes. "What?"

Max's mind reached out too, stronger through their physical contact. He searched her mind. She was so hard to read. So much inky blackness since the explosion. Everything covered, shielded from view, not unlike her body. Only the faintest traces of mood rippled the blackness, like the shift in an ocean wave caused by a dolphin beneath the surface. But there was no fear, no panic. Only resignation. He let her go.

"Don't be long."

Val saw her companion's eyes mirror the sad smallness she felt. "I won't."

A meaty hand, peppered with sweaty grit, stroked through sweat-streaked curly hair. Impossibly-bright blue eyes caught Valerie's attention as they darted up and down her slender frame, reading her curves through snug stretch pants and sweater, only hands and face exposed, yet everything visible. She'd felt that look before, but this time she found it strangely comforting.

"Hi," she said finally. "Remember me?"

"Can I help you?"
"Oh yeah hi, I'm Scott Phillips, Johnson Controls, Environmental Services Division, I'm here about the smell?"
"Excuse me?"
"They didn't tell you I was coming?"
"As you can see, there are a large number of contractors here. Your company name again?"
"Johnson Controls."
The guard checked his clipboard. "I do not see your company listed."
"Well, that figures. Is there somebody you can call?"
"You were here for what, again?"
"I'm here about the smell."
"The 'smell.'"
"Yeah, the smell. You know, it probably didn't get to your clipboard there yet. I just got the call myself this morning. Call yer supervisor, I'm sure they'll clear it."
"This will take a minute."
"Is your supervisor's name a Mister... hold on, lemme get my little book... it's like Spaghetti or something, yeah, here it is, Mister Jeff Spicoli?"

Jeff Spicoli was the name of Gerald Bates' personal assistant. The guard turned pale.
"Mr. Spicoli called you?"
"Well, no, he didn't call *me*, he called somebody complaining about a bad smell in the ventilation system, up in the suites, and they called Johnson Controls, and they paged me at 2 P.M. on Labor Day weekend and told me to get my ass down here. I'm not even supposed to be on call this weekend, but Vargas and Hamilton are already on-site and they said this couldn't wait. Said you guys had strict security here so if I ran into any trouble to tell you to call Jeff Spicoli."

"I'm afraid Mr. Spicoli is unavailable today." The guard seemed unsure of what to do. "Normally Engineering handles this sort of thing." But it wasn't unusual for Spicoli to go outside the normal chain of command, especially if Bates got riled up about something.
"Um, okay, so should I stay or should I go? I don't wanna cause any trouble. Well, hell, it's trouble already, I guess your Engineering told your Management that they had better things to do this week than go crawling through all the ducts just because some bigwig's secretary changed brands of air freshener, and that pissed somebody off, so here I am. I mean, I can understand Engineering's position; if I was them I wouldn't want me here either, since it's gonna cost a fortune and it's gonna come outta there budget in the end. But if you're not gonna let me in, I need you to sign my job sheet, or they're gonna think I just skipped out on the job, and I don't wanna get fired." He thrust a thick metal clipboard in front of the seated guard.

The guard looked at the clipboard.
"And put your name and title underneath the signature."

The guard hesitated.

The guard looked down at the technician's toolbox. "Lemme see what's in the toolbox."
"Sure thing." The toolbox slammed down on the desk. The guard used the end of his pen to shift the contents back and forth. He pointed to a black plastic case within the box. "What's that?"
"That? Hydra-Krimp."
"Howdy-cramp?"
"Hydra-Krimp." The tech pulled out the case and flipped it open. Inside was something that looked like a medieval torture device for the male appendage. The guard picked it up, squeezing the handle experimentally; the jaws of the tool slowly closed around the hole in the center; it looked horribly painful.

"Careful, that's a five hundred dollar tool." The guard quickly put it back in the case, his hands nervously returning to the tool after a moment to adjust its position for a proper fit, as if to erase any evidence that he'd touched it.

"What's it do?"
"It's a hose crimper. You know, for line fittings." He put the case back in his box, snapping it shut and heaving it back down off the desk. "So if you'll just sign my job sheet, I'll be on my way."

"I think I see you on my list after all. Here, put this tag on next to your badge. Don't lose it."

"Hey, Phil."
"Back again, eh Scott?"
"Yeah. Check my toolbox?"
"I don't need to see it every time, Scott."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. Don't worry about it. There's so many people comin' and goin' anyway. I don't know what they're so worried about. Black Widow's dead."
"Okay. Thanks."

Shit. It was almost six o'clock, and Eric was still getting the lay of the land. He set up his ladder underneath a duct on the main promenade balcony and looked out over the main floor, an artfully-random arrangement of platforms and curving walkways that broke up the massive space into a half-dozen distinct areas, punctuated by speaker and light towers over forty feet high. Higher above the floor was a spider's web of cables, cords, and guy wires, some running from tower to tower, others running floor to ceiling or wall to wall, many decorated with plumes, lights, or tattered hangings that danced about in the breezes of the ventilation system. The organizers had certainly spared no expense.

He'd known the main floor was huge, but he'd had no idea there were so many smaller convention halls, meeting rooms, and suites. His task was beginning to look impossible without a whole lot more help. There were just too many ways in and out, and too much territory.

Frankly, he didn't know how Ginger was going to spot Sapphire even with five lookouts. And the woman certainly couldn't expect the superheroine to actually find *her* unless she made herself a fat juicy target, and Eric knew that Ginger wasn't...
that...
stupid...?

Eric's jaw dropped at the sight before him.

Double doors thrown open, and a swatch of impossible red burst forth.

A gorgeous body bound in a strapless satin minidress. Black stockings, lace stayups visible below the hem. And a massive red satin cape with huge funnel collar and ten-foot long train.

Falling into a chevron behind her, five black-suited male attendants pulled wheeled equipment trunks. Heads pivoted, eyes scanning the floor from behind black shades.

A hush fell over the room as workmen's shouted instructions became amazed whispers.

"Check it out."
"She must be one of the DJs."
"God damn, she brought enough equipment."
"Where's the supervisor? They're not allowed to carry anything onto the floor."
"Hell of an entourage."
"What a diva."
"Red Dress and the Black Suits. What is this, the Agent Training Program?"
"If they let people cut across my work area one more time, I'm going to set fire to the building."

Ginger certainly knew how to put on a show.

None of the workers would forget an entrance like that. Which was of course the point. She wanted to be seen. She was throwing down the gauntlet.

Here I am, Eric Lockwell. I dare you to come and get me.

What do you have up your sleeve, woman?

Eric's brain went rapid-fire through the possibilities. Nothing made sense. Any way he looked at it this was a dumb move. She was exposing herself. Her whole team was right there on the floor in front of him. Sitting ducks. He could practically hit them all from here. Fuck it, he *could* hit them all from here. Five seconds and they'd be gone. All he had to do was grab the pistols out of his bag...

But she knew he'd be waiting for her. This had to be staged to draw him out. The only way this made any sense was if Eric was already fucked.

But if this was a dare, he was going to take it. His hands reached into his bag...

"Don't move."
"Freeze."
"We've got you covered."

Three voices from three directions. Two men in front of him, one peering out from behind a heavy steel door. Two inky-black holes surrounded by a graphite finish.

And one barrel pressed against the back of his neck.

Eric Lockwell was good, but he wasn't bulletproof.

"You're coming with us. Mr. Bates wants to see you."

He looked over the balcony railing at the vermillion procession making its way across the floor. The queen at the formation's head dipped her shades and gave him a triumphant grin.

Sapphire shifted on her perch, high in the rafters, tucked into the corner where it was dark. She didn't know how long she'd been there, looking down on the workers below. The temperature-controlled, windowless manmade cavern gave little sense of the passage of time. She could only measure it by the progress made in transforming an empty hall into a party palace.

Most of the heavy lifting had been done, and the armies of movers and carpenters and electricians had left, reducing the furious rumble of activity to a scattershot scramble. Now the sound and lighting technicians were doing their part, climbing up rigs, running cables, checking equipment, and generally doing a lot of shouting and pointing and tossing rolls of tape around.

Some of the speakers had been hooked up, and were already piping in music to keep the crews motivated. But apparently the sound engineer was an old guy, maybe even in his late thirties, because all the music was really old. Sapphire only recognized it from sitting through late-night infomercials. The relative unfamiliarity of the music captured the girl's attention as she sat with nothing to do but watch and wait. Either the 80s were a depressing decade or the sound engineer was a depressing guy -- the music reflected Sapphire's own dark mood, steeling her for the confrontation that was to come.

The city is crowded
My friends are away
And I'm on my own
It's too hot to handle
So I got to get up and go

It's a cruel, cruel summer
Leaving me here on my own
It's a cruel, cruel summer
Now you're gone

The waiting was making Sapphire crazy. But what else could she do? Mr. Aquino wasn't answering his phone. Right now her only chance of catching her mom's killers was to hope that they showed up here. And if they did, the superheroine was determined to get the jump on them.

Them. She didn't even know who they were, much less what they looked like or even how many she was up against. But something told her she'd be able to spot them. Evil seemed to have a way of marking a person. A mean streak. They all had a certain vibe that you could just *feel*. The QuickMart crooks had it; the punks behind the club had it; Dirk and his buddies had it; even Josh had it. Black Widow and The Hunter *definitely* had it. You just *knew* as soon as someone like that walked into a room that they were bad news.

And the woman who'd just walked in was a Dan Rather Special Bulletin.

A violent beautiful liquid red attracted men like a magnet. All work on the floor stopped.

Several men in black suits, black shirts, and black sunglasses trailed to either side, as if deferring to royalty. Each dragged a different-sized box behind him.

Sapphire's blood boiled. She wanted to rocket down there, a bright-blue bullet of vengeance. She wanted to smite them down without a word spoken, without a breath taken. Gladys Barrett's killers deserved no better.

But something held her back. That wasn't what a superheroine did.

There were six of them. They were probably armed. They were certainly dangerous. And if they could have killed her mom so easily, they would not hesitate to defend themselves without a thought for the safety of the dozens of workers still on the floor. She couldn't put those innocent lives in jeopardy. A bloodbath would not honor her mother's memory.

Gladys Barrett would have wanted her to be a heroine. To bring these killers to justice. Gladys Barrett would have told her that to kill them would make her no better than them.

Sapphire's tightly coiled body unwound as the heroine pulled away from the dark edge of vengeance.

Righteous eyes watched as the entourage entered the glass elevators at the far end of the room. The red queen and her court withdrew on the top floor and disappeared.

Sapphire waited.

A window overlooking the main floor lit up. A beacon of red bathed the room around the rose of a woman in its center. A black suit went to the window and drew the shades.

The only way you're leaving that room is in handcuffs.

The stealthy superheroine stepped off her perch, dropping into the flourescent void with a whisper of fluttering fabric.