Free The Last Superhero by Astrid 'Artistikem' Cruz Page A

myself being
so giddy and stupid, but this man makes me feel all tingly and
excited.
    And nice.
    And safe.
    And warm.
    And right.
    Everything's right with the
world as I stand here, in the middle of his library because he won't
let me near the dirty dishes.
    Not that doing the dishes is
an activity I'm fond of, anyway.
    I run my fingers through
some shelves, trying to guess how all these books are arranged, if
cataloged in any certain way. They seem to be, yes. So many subjects,
so many titles, so many pages to dive into.
    Oooh, surprise surprise.
Franz Anton Mesmer's treaty on animal magnetism.
    And there's Sigmund Freud.
And some Phineas Quimby, Mary Baker Eddy, and Pierre Janet.
    I've been reading about
those on the Internet since Mr. I Can Rape Your Mind appeared.
Society's approach to superpowers has varied since the last of the
Waldorf Trio faked his own death. Which I know now thanks to the fact
that he's standing right behind me and his hands are slithering
around my ribcage.
    “ Looking
for something?”
    “ I
see you've got some interesting titles here.”
    “ You
can borrow any you like.”
    “ Is
there some kind of card for this particular library?”
    Twirl me like I'm a rag doll
and peer into my eyes.
    “ No
card, although late fees are, indeed, collected.”
    Kiss my lips and take me
over to the divan, but not before you've plucked a book and taken it
with you.
    I let him push me gently
down and settle himself flushed next to me, one arm around me, the
other holding the book in front of our faces, snuggled together, and
he starts reading poetry over my shoulder.
    Utter. Extreme. Total.
Surreal bliss.
    Goddammit.
    His voice is silky and
devilish and makes me want to do things to him that I know can't be
done on a full stomach.
    His breath tickling that
sensitive skin on my neck, the one he's uncovered by brushing my hair
away.
    And I cuddle against his
chest, inside his arms, and this is what happens when you eat a heavy
meal before you give yourself over to the Sandman.

12

    The air's suddenly cold. So
fucking cold.
    Look around.
    Where the hell am I?
    It's dark and the sky's
filled with clouds although the rain has subsided.
    Did Steven kick me out in
the middle of the night? I'm so going to kill him for that.
    Wait. No. This isn't
Steven's house.
    Is that someone there?
    Agh.
    Adjust my eyes.
    A dirt path. Great. And some
force telling me it's the way to go.
    Go on, stupid girl, and
check if there's a rabbit hole while you're at it.
    Oh, now the rain decides to
start again.
    I'm not liking this. Not in
the slightest.
    Fuck, it's pouring harder.
Dammit! Run for cover, but where the fuck?
    A house, yes, of course. Run
to it and push the door without knocking. Why bother?
    Someone or something opens
it for me before my hand's even made contact with the surface and I
land on my face.
    Ow .
    Push myself up and...
    Ffffffuuuucckkkkk.
    Everything's floating
inside. Sofa, chairs, rugs, tables. Hovering above the floor.
    SHIT. This doesn't feel
good. I've seen this on those TV shows about paranormal stuff and I
always change the channel because I hate to admit they scare the shit
out of me.
    This has got to be some kind
of nightmare.
    Something brushes past me to
the front door and I follow it.
    Tumble down the front steps
and hit... asphalt?
    “ NO!”
A woman's voice cries as I push myself to my feet and take in the
scene.
    Night. Street. A man doubled
over, screaming in pain.
    And... Is that Steven?
    Dirty blond hair, purple
mask, he lifts his open hand over the man and the quivering mass is
levitated from the street only to be pushed down again with extreme
force.
    SHIIIIIIT.
    The woman's crying, trying
to crawl towards the aching man while Steven, or should I say
Salvatore Jr.?, summons a metal pipe with his power and starts
hitting the man. His teeth are showing through his almost feral grin.
    He's dressed in flannel
trousers and a tweed sport coat and they are both drenched in blood.
    The woman manages to