CHAPTER 23
JET
Get it through your head—the average criminal on the street wants to kill you. It’s up to the hero to act first, to neutralize, to both stay alive and discharge their duties. The criminal has no such concerns.
Manual of Basic Self-Defense, Third Edition
Jet sensed Lancer behind her, but she didn’t acknowledge him. Taking her eyes off of the Boy Moron for even a second would give him the opening he’d been looking for. Besides, after two years of self-defense with the Daft Family (as she and Iri had taken to calling Hornblower and his uncle), Jet knew what the instructor was going to do.
You’d think by now he’d have stopped being so freaking predictable. A sobering thought checked her from rolling her eyes: Maybe this was another lesson. Everyone, from the most revered heroes to the vilest of archenemies, had a tell. Learn what that giveaway move was, and you learn your adversary’s weakness.
Or maybe Lancer really was just that stupid. The thought made her smile.
Crouching lower, she crab-walked on the mat, circling the large teen. Beneath her black unikilt, she was sweating like a First Year during finals. The fabric of the costume was gorgeous, and just wearing the outfit made her feel confident, even dangerous. But did it have to be so hot? Ignoring a bead of sweat that was working its way down her nose, she made a mental note to ask one of the Runners about breathable material.
Matching her movements (if not the sweat), Hornblower snarled at her. Oooh. How intimidating. Not. Jet decided that he must practice making scary faces; no one could naturally twist their mouths into something that made them look like a lion coughing up a hairball.
Around them, the rest of the class stood in a loose circle, watching. Some were taking bets—that was Iri’s voice she heard, laying twenty-to-one odds that Hornblower would get flattened with a TKO. Then Frostbite asked, “Does it count if he trips over his own big feet?” The laughter that followed was like the sweetest music.
People weren’t laughing at her anymore.
In her ear, the white noise of a waterfall played on—just loud enough to give any Mental powers a case of the nerves … and to drown out any other voices she didn’t want to hear. In the three weeks since Night had given her the earpiece, Jet had been sleeping better than she had since she was a kid. Her studies weren’t a struggle anymore; even the thrice-damned Physics units began making sense. Most of her instructors chalked it up to budding confidence, brought to light (ha-ha-ha) by her wearing her costume almost a full year before others in her grade. She’d gotten praise from teachers who she’d previously thought had hated her.
All because she didn’t have to be afraid of the dark anymore.
Thank Jehovah for Night.
In front of her, Hornblower snarled impotently. Jet wondered if he knew he looked like a poster child for junk abuse. Probably not. Hey, maybe the American Medical Union would sponsor him when he graduated. Kids, stay away from junk, or this is what will happen to you! Brought to you by your friendly neighborhood medical spinners.
“Time?” someone shouted.
“Two minutes twenty,” Iri answered, sounding smug.
Hornblower’s biceps and thighs strained against his Second Year jumpsuit, all but screaming his need to break and rend and tear. All the circling was making him impatient.
Excellent.
Jet slowed the pace of her steps while slightly increasing the radius of their circle. Now Lancer was in her peripheral vision—flexing his fists, the idiot. He might as well wear a holosign that announced I’M GOING TO HIT YOU FROM BEHIND.
Of course, none of the Taft family were known for subtlety. Or, really, for anything other than being walking, talking punching bags. Or, in Boy Moron’s case, a windbag. Jet allowed herself a smile.
That pushed Hornblower into addressing her. “Any day now, skank.”
She said nothing, but her smile stretched wider.
“Christo! Come on, already! You going to hit me, or what?”
Jet said nothing, kept circling.
“You’re a creepy skank, you know that? Think you’re so hot.” He leered, which made him look like an advertisement for date rape. “You’re nothing but a dirty Shadow. Why don’t you crawl under a rock, where you belong?”
She batted her lashes. “If that’s the best you’ve got, I recommend you take Battle Banter as an elective next year.”
His face purpled, and baring his teeth like a rabid dog, he barreled forward.
Too easy.
She let him come. Five, four, three. She dropped low and spun around, right leg straight as a pylon. Two. Her leg leading, she completed the spin. One.
Contact.
She swept his legs out from under him, and he pin-wheeled wildly. She followed through, getting her body out of the way before he lost his balance and landed heavily on his back.
The students whooped and cheered—cheered for her, for Jet. Probably it was because most of them despised Hornblower and his whole “I’m Jehovah’s Gift To Extrahumans” attitude. But maybe, just maybe, some of them actually had been rooting for her instead of against him.
She grinned. That would be sort of cool.
“Two minutes fifty-one!” Iri chortled her glee. “Horny didn’t even last three minutes!”
“Got to work on that stamina,” Frostbite laughed.
Oh, how the other students ate that up.
On the mat, Hornblower glowered at her. Couldn’t attack her, though; rule of the unit was if you land on your back, that’s a kill for your opponent. In a battle situation, Hornblower would be either incapacitated or dead.
No great loss.
Standing up, Jet gave her back to Lancer as she smiled grimly at the Boy Moron. Come on, she thought, I’m right here, not seeing you, practically helpless …
Behind her, Lancer charged.
She pivoted right, her arms bent and up. Lancer’s fist sliced the air where her back had been. Grabbing onto his overextended right arm, Jet yanked down and to the left, and Lancer, as off-balance as his nephew had been, tumbled to the mat.
“Two for the price of one,” Iri cheered.
Jet offered her hand to her instructor, but Lancer sneered at her. “Get your stinking hand away from me!”
Someone whistled. “Bad form,” Frostbite said.
Jet withdrew her hand and stepped back. He’s a jerk, he’s a jerk, don’t show him that the insults still hurt.
Lancer pulled himself up and rotated his shoulders, his small eyes glittering as he stared at Jet. Behind him, Hornblower climbed to his feet. “Today’s lesson’s about overconfidence. Just because you may win a battle, that doesn’t mean you win the right to be smug. Because you never know when the next fight’s going to come.”
As if on cue, Hornblower opened his mouth and let out a sonic blast.
Oh, cowcr ap—
Jet threw herself to the left, but the sound wave grazed her. Intense static in her mind, angry bursts of power reverberating, but washing away—a combination of its being a passing blow and her blessed, blessed earpiece.
Furious, she scrambled to her feet. “No powers in Street Defense,” she shouted, pointed at the towering boy. “That’s the rule!”
“And you should have learned by now that in street fighting, there are no rules.” Lancer sneered at her, let out an ugly laugh. “Take her, boy.”
Hornblower cut loose again, but this time Jet was ready for it. Reaching inside herself to where her power lived, she raised graymatter to form a shadowshield. The sonic bolt hit it square on—and her shield absorbed it. She felt the impact rattle her bones.
Before he could attack again, Jet took the offensive. Her brow furrowed as she reshaped the shadowshield into a creeper, one of her new toys. It hurt—a lot; damn, she needed an aspirin—but as Night had told her again and again, she’d never know the full extent of her powers if she didn’t push past the pain. When she’d shown her mentor the creeper last week, he’d encouraged her to practice it, no matter what her Power tutor otherwise instructed.
So she had. Quietly, of course; unauthorized use of powers was a major offense. She wouldn’t have dreamed of practicing on the sly, but Night had given her explicit permission. He’d explained that mentors had the authority to override Academy procedure—but even so, she should practice cautiously. And she did, every chance she got. In the past week, Jet had gotten very good at morphing Shadow into a creeper. It would be her signature move, Night had said.
It was that thought that allowed her to focus past the building agony in her brain as she manipulated Shadow. When she was a fully certified hero, the creepers would be her signature move.
And the really neat thing was, no one else knew about it.
Until that moment. Her graymatter shield darkened and bubbled out, slinking forward like a living thing—a shadow seeking its own Peter Pan to adhere to.
Hornblower’s eyes boggled, and he stepped backward. “What is that? Get it away from me!”
Hearing the panic in his voice made the agonizing headache worth it. Grinning madly, she nudged the creeper forward.
“Uncle Erik! Make her stop!”
Lancer aimed his fist at Jet’s face. A glow of power outlined his hand. “Call it back, girl. Right now.”
Sweat beading on her brow, Jet summoned the creeper back. It flowed into her, leaching away her headache but leaving her so drained that she almost toppled over. But she would be damned to the darkest hell before she let the Daft Family see her stagger. She lifted her chin and waited.
Lancer didn’t lower his fist.
“Um … sir?” That was Iri. “Shouldn’t you, you know, power off now?”
If he heard Iridium, he ignored her. His dark gaze drilled into Jet, and she clearly saw that while she may have thought other instructors hated her, Lancer actually, truly, despised her.
“You are damn lucky that I swore I’d never intentionally harm a student,” he said. His voice was low, and breathy, and Jet saw his arm tremble. Holding himself back, she realized. He’s forcing himself not to attack me.
And that utterly terrified her.
She swallowed, lowered her head. Whispered, “Yes, sir.”
“If you ever—ever— use your filthy Shadow powers in this unit again, I swear by all that’s holy I’ll forget you’re a student. Now get the hell out of my classroom and report to the Superintendent for detention.”
Around her, the students muttered. A few—including Iri—opined that Lancer was being unfair. And then one of the students, a boy, asked, “What did she do?”
Still glaring at Jet, Lancer replied, “She used her filthy power against my flesh and blood. And I won’t stand for it.”
“But sir,” the boy said, “all she was doing was defending herself. You’re the one who let Hornblower attack first with his power.”
At that, Lancer cut his gaze over Jet’s shoulder. “Samson, you questioning how I run this class?”
A pause, and then: “In this case, yes, sir.”
A collective hush fell over the room.
“Well then,” Lancer said through clenched teeth, “you and the Shadow can both go to the Superintendent. Rot there for all I care. You think about returning here, you better have an apology at the ready. You hear me, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get the hell out of here. And take this trash with you.” Lancer glared at Jet again, then lowered his arm. “The rest of you wannabes, pair off! Hand-to-hand combat!”
Jet took a deep breath, caught Iri’s eye. Her roommate shrugged, mouthed, He’s an a*shole.
Jet couldn’t argue that point. She nodded to let Iri know she was okay, then turned to walk out of the room.
A large boy was waiting for her by the door. Samson. Big, bigger than big—at least six feet tall and a good two hundred pounds of muscle. Short blond hair that called attention to the way his ears stuck out. A lantern jaw in the classic superhero tradition; dazzling green eyes that crinkled in the corners when he smiled. Like now.
Jet smiled at him, said, “Sorry to get you in trouble.”
He shrugged, an easy movement of his shoulders. “All I did was tell the truth when I was asked. Basic heroing.”
“A real good guy.”
“I try. Race you to the Super’s office?”
She cocked her head, considered him. “No running in the halls.”
“What’re they going to do, send us to the Super’s office?”
Running in the halls was against procedure. She was about to open her mouth to quote the code, but then she noticed how his eyes were twinkling as he waited for her answer, and she saw a mischief there that reminded her of Iri.
If Iri had been a very, very cute boy.
Logic shorted out as hormones kicked in.
“You’re on,” Jet said, then dashed away.