Free The Last Superhero by Astrid 'Artistikem' Cruz

is, the boys are
looking all naughty in the pic. Salvatore riding a horse, grinning so
wide his face's about to be split like a Cheshire grin while
Michelangelo's just flying above him, you know, because he can. His
white wings spread against the sky.
    An Icarus of sorts.
    “ By
my grandmother's side of the family there was this man with a
hardened skeleton and several shape-shifters. But there were many
other abilities the eye couldn't catch, even a 'deus ex machina,'
very rare. Michelangelo's wings gave a lot of talk back in the day,
a mutation that had only happened once in another family in Germany.
Telekinesis, earth and rock control, fantasy or image projection, and
gravity control, those were the Waldorfs.”
    “ Those are the Waldorfs.”
    Our sights lock for a moment
and I hold his stare.
    He pulls back and busies
himself with pouring more wine into my glass.
    I go back to the album and
get to the part I thought I was looking forward to and that, now, I
don't really know if I want to know at all.
    A portrait of an adult
Salvatore Waldorf with a young woman under his arm.
    Diana Waldorf says the
caption.
    “ My
mother,” says Steven.
    She's smiling and it's so
true, so warm.
    “ What
powers did she have?”
    Steven sighs. “None.
She was completely human.” And his eyes are contemplating her
with a tenderness that hurts to witness. “Sometimes I think she
was too human.”
    The caption under the photo
reads 1908.
    Next photo. 1912 and there
is little Steven in her arms and the proud father standing right by
her side.
    Wait. 1912? The year the
Titanic sunk.
    “ You're
over a hundred years old?” And you're not a vampire!
    “ Yes.”
    “ Cool.”
    “ Cool?”
    “ Yeah,
I mean, it's interesting. And, well, you look better than most of the
hundred-year-olds I've met.” And you definitely don't shag like
a hundred-year-old either.
    That makes him laugh,
lightens the mood, makes the flame on the candle sway with his
wine-infused breath.
    The lid on the pot starts
protesting and he turns around to attend it.
    “ Were
you going to tell me?”
    A photo of Salvatore in
military uniform takes me aback.
    “ Of
course. When the time came.”
    “ Salvatore
fought in World War I?”
    “ And
in the second one, too. Decorated war hero. They used to have
specialized teams back in the day, but as extinction got the best of
us, they had to give up on that.”
    Government + superhero
connection engaged. All systems go.
    Dammit Daphne.
    More thunder outside. Great
dramatic effect, Zeus, you can stop it now.
    “ Did
you fight in wars too? Did your uncle?”
    “ No
and no. I didn't fight in any wars and Michelangelo being a villain,
they wouldn't even think about it, he'd ruin everything.”
    Not wars. What then? Secret
government programs regarding pushing the atmosphere with his power?
    It could make sense. If I
wanted it to, of course, and, right now, I don't want it to.
    “ Funny
how being from the same family, they were enemies.” I switch
lanes.
    “ Not
exactly funny. It happened with every family. Everyone chose their
own path. My father chose the light, my uncle the dark.” He
wheels towards me as I'm passing the last page, holding a photo of
Steven at ten or twelve years old with his mother, who isn't looking
so young or so happy anymore.
    Then blank pages.
    “ Dinner's
ready,” Steven announces, taking off his apron, and I spring to
help him serve.
    Take the bottle of wine with
us.
    Smile at the silliness of
our feet finding each other under the table.
    “ This
is good,” I say over my bowl.
    “ Why,
thank you.” He smiles. “Not as good as the banquet you
served me, I suppose.”
    “ Far
better, my dear, far better.”
    Awwwweee that grin, good god
all mighty sending thunder from the heavens above.
    Satisfied starts with the
same letter as... Stuffed.
    Either from the food or from
that romantic air swirling around us.
    Really? Giana Armstrong,
really? Normally I would've been puking at the sight of