What was it with the first-year women and guy’s asses?
“He canceled on me,” she continued, as if I’d asked for further details. “Three days before the dance, and I’m suddenly dateless. Me! A High-Three! How does a Crow have a date to the Remembrance Day dance when I don’t?” Without even looking, she grabbed my screwdriver off the table and drained it in one long gulp.
I shrugged. “It helps that I’m hung like a horse.”
Maybe it was a lie, maybe it wasn’t. It definitely wasn’t the reason Kayleigh wanted me there, but since I was going to be dead or in prison by the time the dance rolled around, I figured some creative storytelling couldn’t hurt.
Also, watching Penelope Von Pell, High-Three Weather Witch and Full-Five pain in the ass, spit vodka and orange juice across the table was entertaining as hell.
•—•—•
When trouble finally came, it wasn’t a first-year who started it, no matter what you might have read about that night. It sure as fuck wasn’t me, though I seem to get the blame in at least a few of the stories. Truth was, it wasn’t a student at all. It was one of the adults I’d barely noticed when we first came in. Most were seated with third-years, making them either parents or over-eager Cape recruiters, but there were two booths that consisted of nothing but adults, all men. They’d gotten noisier as the night dragged on, but I guess that was true for all of us. Free alcohol has that effect.
Anyway, one of the men—short as Prince, wide as the Viking, and clothed in black denim with a red bandana skullcap—was passing our tables, two mugs of beer in each hand, when a visibly drunk Muse, coming back from his sixth trip to the bathroom, stumbled into his path. The man was either Stalwart or Jitterbug, and that was the only thing that allowed him to avoid the otherwise inevitable collision. Even so, he lost about a quarter of the beer in each mug. He threw the Switch a dirty look and kept that glare going all the way back to his booth. After he dropped off the mugs, he came right back at Freddy, one large paw catching the first-year’s shoulder.
“Hey dickhead! How about you look where you’re going before you get your ass beat?”
Muse’s eyes were rolling so hard I wasn’t sure he could see a thing, but I saw him swallow a couple of times, mouth gaping open like a fish trying to breathe air.
“He’s drunk, man. He didn’t mean anything by it.” Caleb was there, as fast as only a Jitterbug could be, to help the drunk Switch back to his seat.
“Of course he didn’t.” Captain Denim shook his head. “Just one more reject from baby school, isn’t he?”
There were only a few tables close enough to hear him, all of them populated by first-years, and that little comment got our attention.
“You have an issue with the Academy?” asked Tessa, her hard voice undercut slightly by the fact that she was clinging onto the table with both one hand and her telekinesis.
“Bunch of failed ex-Capes ruining the next generation? Damn right I do.”
“The Academy has a spotless reputation,” began Winter, in that haughty, instructional voice most of us knew far too well.
“Founded entirely on bullshit.” He eyed Winter from under bushy eyebrows, and snorted. “Surprised you can’t smell it with a beak like yours. What do they call you? The Incredible Nose?”
“We call her Winter.” If you’d have told me I’d be speaking up on Penelope’s behalf, I’d have said you were even crazier than I was, but there I was. I blame the vodka. “She’s an obnoxious pain in the ass, but she’s our obnoxious pain in the ass.”
“Shut up, Damian. I want to hear what this cretin’s problem is with the Academy.”
Guess gratitude was too much to expect.
“I told you, girl. It’s bullshit. All your little classes. All your games on the field. How many of you fuckers even know what death is?” He cut the Weather Witch off angrily. “And I know about the Healer you morons got killed. I’m talking real death, not a dumb-ass accident. How many of you have seen someone die in blood and pain? Raise a fucking hand or shut up and leave the real Capes to their beer.”
I stepped forward, mostly steady even after four screwdrivers. “You want to talk death, I’m your man.”
I saw realization hit. “You’re the Crow kid, aren’t you? Black Hat pretending he can be something else.”
Before I could respond, Paladin was there. Because of course he was. Matthew-fucking-Strich, only person left in the bar who wasn’t at least a little bit drunk. He placed a cautionary hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Sir, I think maybe you’ve had enough. Nobody’s trying to start—”
The other man shrugged off Paladin’s hand. “You don’t get to touch me, kid. You haven’t earned the right to touch me. Do you know who I am?”
“I’m guessing you’re Backstreet, and you and those fine gentlemen over there are members of the Bay Area Brawlers.” Poltergeist paused, and sent the man a smile so sweet even Paladin looked worried. “San Francisco’s junior Cape team.”
One of the other Brawlers pounded a fist into the table and started to rise.
“Tessa!” That was one of the few occasions that year that I saw Matthew lose his calm. Not the best one, mind you… that one was still a few seconds away. “On second thought, I think we’ve all had enough. Why don’t we just call it a night?”
Tessa started to nod, but Backstreet wasn’t done yet. “And you’re Paladin’s kid, aren’t you? Now there’s a real man’s Cape! Not sure if I’m more impressed by his performance on the battlefield or in bedrooms around the country. How does your mom feel about the old man stepping out on her—”
He didn’t get to finish
