Jim Butcher - Songs of Love & Death

In Dorian’s car on the way to her apartment, she got a second wind.

“You should have seen it; it was amazing, I don’t know who this guy was, and the way the cops were talking I’m not sure if they want to catch the thieves or him. You know, I’d have expected him to be wearing some suit or armor like the other ones do, at least maybe spandex, but no, just jeans, and you know how you joke around because you don’t think those flimsy masks would really hide anyone’s identity? But I can’t for the life of me remember what he looked like. I just saw the mask.”

“You weren’t scared?” He glanced at her.

“Well, yeah, sure.” But she let the thought fade. She only wanted to remember amazing.

Charlotte shared an apartment with several other starving-artist types in too small a space, an arrangement that worked because most of them were gone most of the time, at their theaters or band rehearsals or projects or day jobs. The place was in a part of town that in another ten years would be hip and gentrified, and they were all hoping they’d have made their fortunes by then so they could afford to stay.

He guided her inside, made her put on pajamas, tucked a cup of tea in her hands, and apologized.

“I have to get back to work. I want to tell the DA about this. We’ll get those guys. We won’t let anything like this happen again.”

Well, that wasn’t nearly as romantic as him rushing to the police station to tend to her emotional wounds. But Dorian was a very dedicated assistant DA. She didn’t feel quite right complaining.

“But… but I’m not sure I want to be alone right now.”

He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t leave if it wasn’t an emergency. Call me if you need anything, anything at all.”

And there he went, saving the city again. She sighed.

She couldn’t sleep, so she made another cup of tea and sat in a chair by the bedroom window. She half expected to see a shadowed figure running across the rooftops, pausing to strike a heroic pose against a backdrop of city lights. She fell asleep, wrapped in a blanket and leaning against the window, dreaming strange dreams, until one of her roommates came home, nudged her awake, and put her to bed.

HER PHONE RANG early. She had to scramble for it; it was still in the pocket of her jeans, on the floor somewhere.

“Hello?”

“Have you seen the news? Was that really you? Are you okay?”

“Otto?”

“Charlotte, are you all right?”

Muzzy-headed, she rubbed her face. Hadn’t it all been a dream? “Wait a minute. What? How did you—I mean, yeah, I’m okay. How did you hear about what happened?” It was the only conceivable reason Otto would be calling this early in the morning.

“It’s all over the news, hon,” he said. “They’ve been calling the theater. You’re a genius, Charlotte.”

“What are you talking about?”

“As publicity stunts go, this is over the top. I love it.”

“But it wasn’t—”

“I know. I’m teasing. You’re really all right?”

“I—I think so.”

“I know it’s opening night, but if you’re not up to coming out, don’t sweat it.”

Opening night. Almost as terrifying as dangling off a roof. “I’ll be there, I think. I gotta go.”

She clicked him off and went to the computer, to find two roommates already there, ogling over her. And Otto was right, the story was everywhere. Someone had gotten a cell phone picture of the guy in the mask—and Charlotte, looking flustered and windblown. It was all fairly dramatic. The more sedate Web sites had facts and figures, what had been stolen—a shipment of loose diamonds—and what the police knew, sparsely delivered news. Including Charlotte’s name, her association with the theater, and her profession—playwright. There it was in the news; it had to be true, right?

Her phone rang three times in five minutes, friends wanting to know if she was okay, really okay. She put them off as quickly as she could, which probably convinced them that she really wasn’t all right. They’d call again in an hour.

Then Dorian called. “Honey, are you okay?”

“I think so. Hey, do you have time for breakfast or lunch or something?” Anything?

“Well, not really, I’m afraid. I talked the DA into giving me the case. At least, when there is a case, I’ll get it. Isn’t that great? I have to get to the precinct and find out what they’re doing. They’d better not screw this up. This could make my career.”

I almost died , she wanted to mew. Her phone beeped to tell her of another incoming call. She checked—it was her mother this time. She canceled the call. “But you’ll be there tonight, won’t you?” she said to Dorian.

“Tonight?”

“The play, opening night.” It must have seemed like such a small thing to him.

“Oh, right. Of course I’ll be there. I’ll meet you at the theater.”

“And don’t forget about the party afterward. Otto rented out Napoli’s.”

“Of course I’ll be there.”

After Dorian hung up, the phone rang again, a reporter this time. She told the woman to call the police. Then the police called, telling her to tell reporters to call the police, which was a relief.

Mostly, though, she read everything she could find about what had happened.

....

THE MOST HELPFUL source was a Web site called “Rooftop Watch.” It tracked superhumans and masked vigilantes and villains, recorded sightings, and gleefully spread all manner of gossip. Her masked man had been seen two previous times. In both cases, he’d foiled residential robberies by racing in, shining a high-powered flashlight at the would-be burglars as they were breaking into the back doors of houses, then racing out before the thieves could react. Their cover blown, the burglars ran, and so did the masked man, but by then the owners were awake and on the phone with the police.

They were calling him Blue Collar, which seemed rude. It was a commentary on his wardrobe rather than his powers or personality. Nothing like Speed or Blaze or Comet. There was a lot of speculation about who he was, what he was doing. Most commentators in the know figured he was new and starting small, foiling robberies and break-ins. He’d work up to bigger feats—like snatching young playwrights from certain death. Maybe he’d even get a real uniform someday.

The cell phone picture of him standing with Charlotte was too good not to post all over the Internet a billion times. She hoped someone was getting rich off it. The possibility of prosecuting the case was certainly making Dorian happy.

She arrived at the theater two hours early and crept backstage, unsure if she should gather everyone together for a manic pep talk or hide in a closet. Unable to decide, she paced along an out-of-the-way section of wall backstage, while stagehands and tech crew bustled.

She’d gotten her dress at a fancy consignment shop, which meant she looked much richer than she actually was. Red, sleek, slinky, strapless. She’d even found the heels to go with it in the right size. She’d been in one of her good moods, thinking of the glamorous life and her possible place in it. Now she felt a bit like a dyed poodle. Unnatural, vaguely humiliated.

She’d been in a good mood when she met Dorian at a fund-raising party for an arts-in-the-schools organization. She was there helping run the party, and he was there to rub elbows, see and be seen, and all that. She liked to think that they swept each other off their feet with their mutual romantic notions.

The actors swooped in, Marta last of all, carrying on, and backstage got loud after that.

Marta even rushed over to stage-hug her. “Charlotte, I can’t believe you’re even here after what happened! My God—what happened? Are you all right? If it were me, my nerves would be shot, I’d be traumatized, I’d be in bed for a week, how are you even here? Oh, where’d you get that dress? Nice. Oh my God, what time is it—” And she rushed off again.