of the farthest screen and gave her a languidly warm smile in return. “It might be a little tricky, but I’m sure you’re up to the task. We can’t have anyone noticing what you were digging into, though. Our lives could be at stake.”
The woman’s expression turned more solemn. She nodded briskly. “You can count on me. I’d give my own life before I let those I fight for come to harm.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Ruse said wryly. “We have reason to believe there are people in this city looking to purchase supernatural beings of particular power, as well as hiring mercenaries of some sort for security details. We’d also like to check for any mentions of activity around a construction site last night.”
He gave her the address and a few other details that might help narrow down her search, and she dove into the world wide web as enthusiastically as if it were the Fortress of Solitude. The glow of the screens turned her pale face almost luminescent.
There didn’t appear to be anything for me to do here. Of course, it wasn’t as if Omen was contributing in some brilliant way either. He drifted over to the display shelves, running his finger over what looked like a ray-gun and then lifting a katana to study the arc of its blade.
“Hmm,” Ms. Super Hacker said, more to herself than to us. “This could be—oops, no, I didn’t need to see that many boobs all on one lady… What about—oh, that’s a shipment of counterfeit plushies. Hmm… Yikes. ‘Seeing you waiting at the bus stop, I couldn’t help succumbing to the radiation of your smile’—nope, definitely not, lots of luck with that missed connection, weirdo. Hey, this is an interesting thread.”
She leaned even closer to the screen, as if she might climb right into it in another minute or two. I ambled a little closer, but she was opening and swiping away windows too fast for me to make out much of what she’d unearthed.
Omen was still exploring her display cases with a rustle here and a clink there. I glanced around the rest of the room, searching for an opportunity to show I was more than dead weight. A stack of ramen packages sat on a little shelving unit in front of the moped. Maybe I could offer to cook her up a snack?
Wait, was I reading that right? She had… barbeque octopus balls flavor. And let’s not forget the evergreen classic, mocha cheddar corn. Where the hell had she picked up those? More importantly—I averted my face so she wouldn’t see me wrinkle my nose—why?
She tapped away at the keyboard some more with a rattle like machine-gun fire. I turned to examine the arsenal Omen had found so fascinating—just as he swiveled away from the cases with a metallic flash.
The curved dagger he’d picked up sliced across my bare forearm. A stinging pain sprung up along the line he’d carved. I did yelp then, yanking my arm back toward me so fast a fresh pang echoed through my other shoulder with its bandaged wound. Blood welled along the cut.
Omen swiveled the weapon in his hand with a practiced grace and set it back on the shelf. “I didn’t see you there,” he said, in the least apologetic-sounding apology ever, and grabbed my hand to yank my injured arm into one of the streams of light. “Let’s see the damage.”
Ruse had straightened up, eyeing Omen warily and me with a warmer concern. “We can’t have you carving up our mortal. Are you all right, Miss Blaze?”
“It isn’t much more than a scratch,” I had to admit, but the pain was still nibbling across my skin with a similar sensation to the prick of Pickle’s claws. Omen was studying the wound as if he thought he’d find the meaning of life in the slow seeping of my blood. An uneasy quiver raced down my spine.
Had that really been an accident, or had it been some kind of test to see my reaction? If it was a test, what in Waldo’s name was he looking for?
And had I passed?
Our superhero had glanced up. Seeing my arm, she turned slightly green. She jerked her gaze away, her balance wobbling in her seat.
Fainting at the sight of a tiny bit of blood—not a great quality in a caped avenger.
“There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom,” she said in a tight voice, waving toward a door in the far corner. Ruse