I shush her and tug her aside, to a corner where hopefully no one will overhear us, while she’s still chiding me, in her clipped British accent, “Honey, he’s a genius and a philanthropist, and he looks amazing in a suit—”
“Lower your voice, ok?” I say, glancing over my shoulder. If Clayton finds out I didn’t keep it under wraps like we agreed, he’s going to be so disappointed with me, and I’ll just be adding stress to all the burdens he already bears.
“Darling, I’ve seen your taste in men. You’ve dated too many unemployed losers,” Laura tells me urgently, like I don’t know how much my friends have hated the guys I pick. Anytime I ever complained about a problem, I got the same unhelpful boilerplate advice: Break up with him. It was so clear they just wanted me to shut up.
“And you know there’s going to be fallout from it. People are going to hate you for breaking his heart.”
Before she can diagnose me as self-sabotaging, I placate her. “Look, it’s not official, yet. Don’t say anything to anyone, maybe it’s nothing.”
It’s not nothing; it does bother me that Clayton’s whole life is taken over by this superhero thing. It’s not the first time I’ve tried to end things with Clayton, either, and he asked me to wait for the right time in the news cycle to tell anyone.
Maestro’s two henchmen were, weirdly, the only two people in Goethal I could say it out loud to.
But Laura seems appeased by that much. Her attention is quickly diverted by someone else calling her name, and I slip away when she turns around.
I can barely make my way to the open bar once I’ve spotted it, so many people try to stop me and ask about what happened. I’ve had people recognize me before, either as the weathergirl from Channel 6 or Steel Heel’s repeated damsel in distress, but it’s never made it hard to walk around before.
Suddenly, I’m grateful I’m not two inches taller. I keep my head down and push through the crowd quickly, muttering, “excuse me,” as I lose anyone calling my name.
I’m biting my lips as I walk around the glossy tile floors of the museum, probably ruining the lipstick I put on before this. I’m a little afraid that it’s just going to spill out of me that I’ve seen this guy in person, when it seems like no one else has seen any more of him than that one news segment. That’s the last thing I want to do.
No one’s talking about the ooze though. Too many news cycles have passed for it to remain relevant. When it first appeared, people were concerned, but after a few of the Mayor’s public awareness campaigns, people just avoid it. Most people don’t think it’s related to Maestro, because it was around for years before Maestro’s first attack. But the mutant sightings date back at least that far, if not a little earlier, if you’re willing to cite theGoethal Post. It’s been my pet theory that the stuff will lead back to Maestro’s secret laboratory, if only someone would follow it to the source.
“And that explosion yesterday at the old Steel Industries plant, I imagine that sets back any plans to restore it to workingorder,” the mayor is saying when I loop back around to Clayton’s side.
“Not by much, there’s a lot of red tape around the contaminants Maestro’s terrorism spread to the surrounding environment,” Clayton says when I hand him his usual drink: an old fashioned. He gives me the briefest of thanks and a kiss on the cheek before he returns his attention to the conversation.
“You know, I can’t help but feel responsible. Dr. Maestro, while a brilliant mind, was secretly performing his own experiments—dangerous ones—while he worked for my father. He used company equipment, company time. When I took over, I thought we could settle the matter civilly, in court, but then...”
He pauses then, allowing the memory of the first mutant attack to permeate the air, the panic and fear that flooded the city when Maestro destroyed half the Steel Industries factory. He raises his chin stoically and takes a thoughtful sip of his drink while he holds their attention.
“You couldn’t have known what drastic measures he would take,” one of the other guests assures him gently, a dark-skinned woman I recognize from the city council. He nods slowly, giving her a grateful glance.
I take that as my cue to keep wandering around. Clayton always tells this story the same way.
The museum is a lot harder to enjoy when it’s stuffed full to the brim like this, and I can’t even wander off to the hors d’oeuvres table without being mobbed.
Not every hall of the museum is lit, some wings are roped off with red velvet stanchions. Luckily, it’s a simple matter to duck underneath one when no one’s looking, and I have an entirehall full of paintings and sculptures to myself. The pieces on display barely warrant any attention when there are checks to be written.
Maybe I could do with being kidnapped again, honestly.
I glance behind me a number of times anyway, because, realistically, a girl does not get over being gagged and bound that quickly. The gala has security, unlike just walking around the street, and that does make me feel a bit safer.
And the defender of the city, Steel Heel is here to rescue me, anyway, I remind myself. He hasn’t let me forget about any of the other times, so what’s one more debt?
I prop the door open with my purse, just so that it doesn’t lock me out when I step into the gardens behind the museum. It’s well-lit and the hedges are low enough that only small animals could feasibly hide behind them.
My breath clouds in the air, the cold making me pull my shawl closer around me. It’s too far to get my coat from the car, wherever the driver ended up parking.
I chew the inside of my cheek, contemplating just going back inside. I finally found quiet out here, but it’s not the peace I was looking for. Something doesn’t feel right.
Just as I’m taking a long pace on the veranda to look around, I hear someone behind me.
“Done with the party?”
I swallow. Ok, again, I was being ironic about wanting to be kidnapped. I’m not that chill about it.
Turning around, there’s no one there. The garden, the veranda, even the hallway I came from are still totally empty. Slowly, I look up.
