Chapter 1

Imay not be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound or read minds, but there's one thing I know for sure: any blind date that starts with a painting of your mother staring down at you can't go well. Especially if your mother is dead.

Another bad sign: my mystery man is late. Six whole minutes. Anything after five and I get anxious. Is it me? Did I get the day mixed up? Am I in the wrong place? But I check my phone and the details in Clarissa's text are clear. Wench. 7:00 pm. Thursday. Have fun! She wrapped it up with several kissy emojis, which seems optimistic. I'm not the kind of guy who has rules about these things. You can kiss on the first date if you want to. But I've never been that lucky. The best I've ever managed was a handshake and a "This was fun." Then a string of unanswered text messages that indicate maybe it wasn't so fun after all. Which is probably how I wound up on a blind date arranged by my BFF and her girlfriend in the first place.

A blind date. I sigh, trying not to dwell on how pathetic this feels. Who even goes on blind dates anymore? Isn't it supposed to be all swipe left and swipe right and "Hey, how you doin'? Here's a picture of my penis you didn't ask for."

And yet... the answer to that question is me. I go on blind dates because my love life needs a jump start. Or at least I need Clarissa to stop bugging me about when I'm going to meet someone so we can double date with her and Alyssa.

Yes. Clarissa and Alyssa. You love who you love, right?

Eight minutes late.

"You sure you don't want anything to eat? I could cook you up something." Vee comes to stand at my table. She's been hovering since I arrived. She probably thinks she's being subtle, pretending to be on her way to other tables but always making sure to walk past mine. When she first came over, I faked a phone call rather than speak to her. Childish? Maybe. But either she'll make small talk like we're strangers, which would be awful given she basically raised me, or she'll ask me earnest questions about how I've been for the last two years, which would be worse. This time, though, she catches me unawares, and I have no choice but to answer her.

"I'm fine. I'm waiting for someone."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "A friend? Or someone else?" The quirk of her lips is probably meant to be friendly. I know what she's trying to do, but somehow I can't make myself return her smile. We aren't friendly, not anymore, and opening myself up to that risks feeling too many other things I can't deal with, especially not while I wait for my mystery man.

"He'll be here soon," I say.

Vee's smile falters. She looks the same as she always did. Tanned skin. Dark hair in a long braid. Though as she turns, the streaks in her hair I thought were a reflection of the overhead lights might actually be silver strands. A silent reminder of the passing of time.

Speaking of time, we're at eleven minutes now. I got here twenty minutes ago. Punctuality is the most basic form of respect. Since I was early, I pulled out my laptop to do some work. And now I've got the warning notification that if I don't charge it soon, it'll go into hibernation. Not like there's an electrical outlet in the middle of this superhero-themed diner. Fortunately, I have a way to fix that. I put a finger to the computer, just over where the battery is located. I take a deep breath. It's hard to perform when Mother is watching me from overhead. She's midfight with Indigo, the shadow assassin. The expression on her face is probably intended to be one of fierce determination as she saves the world yet again, but all I can see is the way one eyebrow is arched in scorn over the band across her eyes. She's daring me to charge this laptop without frying it.

Superpowers are meant to be used for the greater good, Morgan. Not for your convenience.

It's a great philosophy for someone like her. The Legendary Flame. She could incinerate the bad guys with a thought. Melt the Great Lakes in February by sneezing. I focus on the laptop, but all I manage is a little spark that makes the display flicker and sends a faint smell of burning into the air. I shut it down and toast my mother with my tea. Our family line of superheroes started with my great-grandfather and ends with me. I'm not a black sheep so much as a dud. At least there's no one left to remind me about things like responsibility and wasted potential.

God, I'm getting maudlin and I'm not even drinking. Time to go. I'll tell Clarissa her mystery man stood me up, and hopefully she'll be distracted with sympathy enough to leave my love life alone for a few weeks.

The front door flies open. A guy in a green toque bustles through the bar. When his gaze lands on me, he slumps.

Oh no.

Watching him rally is physically painful. I know I'm not boyfriend material. Not at first glance, at least. A little too short. A little too soft around the edges. Gay guys can be so judgy. If you don't have a paint roller six-pack and a bubble butt, half the time they won't give you a second look. For a while, I thought my future was a normal human life with a normal human man. That went about as well as you would expect when your childhood was anything but normal and your idea of small talk is differential equations and the physics of climate change.

This is a disaster and we haven't even spoken. Why did I think I could do this? Years of motherly admonitions to "work on myself" echo in my head. And she didn't only mean the superpowers that never quite kicked in. It was everything. My poor social skills. My lack of athleticism. I'm pretty sure she even resented having to pay for braces when I was twelve, like it was somehow my fault my teeth wouldn't straighten themselves.

I have to fight back the urge to flip the image of Mother off as my would-be date comes toward me. I've arrived straight from work, so I'm in a button-down and sweater, along with a pair of khakis that only have one ink stain on the pocket. As he approaches, though, I still feel overdressed. My ears go hot.

He's kind of cute. No, more like really cute, though I could give him some fashion tips. The hat on his head is so old and worn it looks like something infected crawled up there and died. Bits of sandy brown hair stick out beneath it, and his pale skin is freckled over the nose. When he pulls himself up straight and smiles, he's the kind of guy you want to know. Maybe you see him at work or at a party, and the twinkle in his eye and the width of his shoulders say he'll be a good friend. Someone to lean on.

This will never work. Clarissa said we'd have a lot in common, but unless he has a mountain of insecurities and mommy issues, I can't see how this handsome lumberjack is the right partner for me. He's going to want to do things like hike and make organic trail mix. I want to stay up late running data sets and I'm allergic to mosquito bites. And nuts. And some dried fruits.

Still, while I failed crime fighting 101, my mother did manage to teach me manners, so I stand as he approaches and say, "You must be Jasper."

His eyelids flutter for a second and his jaw tightens. Is he already disappointed? But he nods like he's made a decision—maybe to stick this out for a minimally polite amount of time—and sits down with a bright smile.

"Jasper Jackson, at your service."

There's a joke on the tip of my tongue about how I really would like him to service me, but I'm not brave enough to let it out. Things get worse when Vee returns to the table. She smiles at me and I flinch, my gaze darting from her to Mother on the ceiling to Jasper before finally settling on my lap. Vee probably thinks the mural overhead is a touching tribute to a dead friend. I think it's gaudy.

"You're here," she says to Jasper like she knows him.

"I am." His smile is polite. He probably rocks small talk too.

"Can I get you something?" she asks.

Jasper says, "I'll have whatever he's having."

"Iced tea." She writes it down on a stained notepad. I expect her to walk away, but instead she says, "Anything else?"

"Want something to eat?" He's speaking to me. I shake my head. This date isn't going to last very long. Not with the easy way he's smiling up at Vee. I'm going to say something rude or boring, and he's going to realize that we are not meant to be. Also, me ordering food in a restaurant is complicated since I'm allergic to half the menu. Of course, Vee would make something special for me if I'd let her, but I'm not a child. That's not the first impression I want to make.

When Vee finally leaves, Jasper drums his fingers on the tabletop in a happy little rhythm. He dips his head, trying to catch my gaze.

"You look familiar," he says. "Have we met before?"

I meet a lot of people. Travel a lot with the research team at the Ziro Foundation. It's possible I met Jasper somewhere before, but his face doesn't ring any bells. I'd remember the gold flecks in his eyes and the way one of his front teeth is just crooked enough to be endearing.

Maybe it's better if I cut this short. If I'm already cataloguing his features, it's only a matter of time before he notices me staring and I embarrass myself.

"I think I'd remember if we'd met before," I say. I check the time. I've been here for a half hour. Never mind that he just got here. Forty-five minutes is long enough for a first date, right? If I stick it out for fifteen minutes, I can tell Clarissa I tried and save myself from the hurt of waiting to hear from Jasper when he's never going to talk to me again.

"You're probably right." He makes a disheartened noise. See? Doomed to failure.

But Vee returns with his iced tea and also a basket of tortilla chips with salsa and queso we didn't ask for. When I go to point it out, she gives me a wink and says, "There's onion in the salsa, but you should be good with the queso."

It was Vee who was there for my first allergic reaction. Mother was chasing a dehydrated supervillain causing droughts in East Africa. Vee was left behind to make sure little Morgan did basic things like putting his shoes on the right feet and getting proper meals. Except it turned out my aversion to onions wasn't only childish picky eating. When I finally choked down that first spoonful of French onion soup, I started to choke for real, sending us on a panicky ambulance ride to the ER. Thus began my lifelong fear of eating things I shouldn't and making sure I was always armed with a trusty EpiPen in case my careful planning wasn't careful enough.

"Don't like salsa?" Jasper asks when she goes. He dips a chip into the salsa and sure enough, a big glob of it splashes onto the others, contaminating the whole thing.

Well, that's just great.

"So, Jasper," I say quickly, turning the subject away from myself. "Clarissa says you and Alyssa went to med school together. Are you a doctor too?"

He works a mouthful around until he can talk past it. Still, the words are garbled when he says, "I'm a henchman."

My stomach drops. I can't have heard that right. "A what?"

Jasper shrugs as he fishes around for another chip. "A henchman. I hench. If you need henching, I'm your man."

I glance up at Mother, like she might be listening. Did her eyebrow arch get a little higher?

"You're a criminal?" I ask. "Does Clarissa know about this?"

He sticks out his bottom lip like he's considering this. The skin is chapped. His stubble is dark and scruffy against his cheek. Suddenly, I'm annoyed he didn't have the consideration to shave. What about that first kiss? Just because we won't see each other again doesn't mean we can't have one little kiss.

"I guess," he says. "Technically."

"Technically?" Not that there will be a first kiss. Not with someone like him. Henching? I didn't even know that was a verb.

And yet, he doesn't notice my mounting incredulity. Instead, he stuffs another chip into his mouth and says, "Good and evil are relative terms, don't you think? You sure you don't want some of these? The queso is awesome. I wonder if she has guacamole too."

Relative terms? They most definitely are not. You don't need to be a superhero to know some actions help people and others hurt. I clench my fists under the table.

Jasper licks melted cheese off his fingers. Like he's having a conversation with himself, he says, "I mean, my employers are certainly criminals."

"Employers? You have many?" I do my best to look casual as I reach for my drink, but my hand shakes with growing rage.

He shrugs, like we're talking about the news. Stocks are up. War is ongoing. What can you do?

"The economy is tough. Hard to find full-time henchwork these days. I've got a few freelance henchgigs. Mostly, though, I work for Walter Wolfe. You've heard of him?"

I'm gripping my iced tea so tightly the plastic cup creaks. I consider throwing it at Jasper. Who confesses to criminal activities on a first date? Walter Wolfe claims to be a businessman, and maybe he was once. He made a fortune in industrial chemical manufacturing over a decade ago, and now he owns real estate all over the city. But the common wisdom back at SPAM was it's all a front for more illegal activities. He's just very good at covering his tracks, and technically his most obvious crimes are the sort that can be handled by regular human law enforcement, so we never got involved.

Also, I don't work at SPAM anymore, so he's not my problem. But if Jasper's involved in any part of Wolfe's operation, then our rosy future together is officially over. Doesn't matter about his charming crooked teeth or his flecky eyes. I have standards, and they involve not running from the law.

"You sure we haven't met before?" he asks, those same eyes sparkling like we're sharing a good joke. He's the only one who's laughing, though.

"I don't consort with criminals," I say as I stuff the laptop into my bag. My heart is pounding with embarrassment, and I can't say why. I've done nothing wrong here. My jacket sleeve is twisted as I pull it off my chair, and I can't get it undone gracefully, so I stash that too. I give Jasper a frosty smile. "Goodbye. Good luck with your... endeavors."

"See you soon," he says, which is not the response I expect, but whatever. He's a smart-ass. I'm a law-abiding citizen. It was never going to work.

"I highly doubt that," I say.

He winks at me. Winks! "Call it a feeling."

Well, he's wrong. As soon as I'm outside, I call Clarissa. She has so much explaining to do. The phone rings and rings. Around me, the street is empty, and I've already wasted too much time tonight, so I cross against the light.

"Hello?" Clarissa says just as I'm about to hang up. She sounds far too pleased with herself. "Are you in looooove yet?"

"You don't know me at all, do you?" I growl.

"Sure I do. What's wrong?" She coos, and unlike my all-too human growl, her sound has a distinct edge of pigeon to it that only irritates me.

"What's wrong?" I ask. "You said he was a doctor."

"Right. Jasper and Alyssa?—"

I don't find out what she says. Instead, I'm blinded as headlights swing around the corner. Too high off the ground to be a car. The telltale hum of one of the city's new fleet of electric busses is my final warning before body meets grill and my world goes flying.

Surprisingly, the act of getting hit by a bus doesn't hurt nearly as much as you might expect. The problem isn't the moment of impact. It's the part where you hit the concrete. The resulting trauma is unpredictable. Some people get up and walk away. Others land a fraction of an inch in another position and everything goes to hell. In my case, I bounce off the curb while bus tires screech. Pretty sure my pelvis is broken. Probably one if not both my legs. It's hard to see out of my right eye, and my hair feels wet against the back of my head. It's only been a few seconds, but already every breath is getting harder than the last. The wheeze says I've punctured a lung. Basic field medicine is one of those things I learned while I waited for my superness to reveal itself. If you can't be part of the solution, you can be there to treat the collateral damage.

Passengers rush out of the bus where it's come to a halt. One of them says they're calling an ambulance. I can't see who is speaking, though, because suddenly my field of vision is filled with Jasper. I try to tell him to go away, but the words don't come out right and they're punctuated by a goobery cough that is undoubtedly bloody.

He bats my hand away as I try to push him back, and his voice is oddly calm. He wipes my face with a cloth.

"It's okay. It's okay." His gaze swings up like he's talking to someone, though everything goes quiet and dark for a second, so I don't hear what he says. It really is too bad he's not a doctor. We aren't going to have a torrid love affair, but someone with some more extensive medical knowledge than how to dress a wound would be really handy right now.

When my vision clears again, I realize his hair is uncovered. The cloth against my cheek is his toque. There's no way that's hygienic. I go to tell him to leave me alone—people like him don't get to hurt others one minute and help them the next—but all I can do is cough and gasp.

"I'll see you soon," he says, which makes me laugh at least. God, that hurts. Soon I won't be seeing anyone. But he leans over me and whispers urgently. "Morgan. Listen. Tomorrow. Please. I need you to remember me tomorrow, okay?"

Why is he still here? We don't know each other. And if he sticks around much longer, the police will arrive. They won't be able to save me, but at least they can arrest him for all his henching. Odds are good I won't be here to witness it, and that's a shame.

I wonder if I'll get to see my mother again.