Damsel[ed]: Rescue Required (#3 of the Damsel[ed] Series)

Chapter One: A New Villain

Rain drums on the roof of the super museum. Soft footsteps echo from the room over and the night watchman's flashlight hits the ground with a 'thump.'

She rolls her eyes and nudges her partner. He grunts, leaning against a pillar with a half-eaten turkey sandwich hanging out of his mouth. "Teens again," she says, pointing to Tauras' and Nebula's Room of Love.

"I hate teens." Joe Grayson finishes his sandwich in one gulp, flicking crumbs off his starched collar onto the polished floor. A boom of thunder sends him ducking.

The Starlight City Commemorative Superhero Museum is eight floors high, the top one all windows, like a big, glass cage. From here, the two watchmen have a clear view of where the capital building burned. It's a gap in the skyline, like a missing tooth in a silver smile. Joe Grayson frowns out at the view. "But it's only teens, right?"

The power is out. Could be the storm, could be worse. A super. Melissa Sanchez picks up the flashlight, breaking in a cold sweat. The silence is heavy.

"Maybe not."

Grayson runs his hand over his bald head as if to smooth back hair. His cheeks puff up and he lets out a noisy breath. "Hey!" he shouts, pushing past his partner. "Hey, kid! Get out of here!"

There comes a wheezy laugh, as booming and deep as the thunder outside. Sanchez is right behind her partner, the flashlight shoved hastily in a holster, her handgun out and pointed at the door.

This is the way it is in Starlight. Civilians hear a loud noise, they assume a supervillian is standing over them with a raised fist and a syringe. You become a thief, and you're equal parts likely to be pummeled to criminal soup by a superhero or shot some dozen and a half times by a terrified civilian.

The watchmen rush into the room, army of two. Rain pelts the windows. Light dapples the floor, the plastic memorial candles flickering on the fountain.

The figure whirls around, silhouetted in a long, slinky shadow. Nebula and Tauras look down at the scene, captured forever in a lover's embrace. It's a beautiful piece, based off a photo. Nebula, her helmet torn off, crying happy tears, her supersuit streaked with grit and dust. Taurus, unable to stand, collapsed against her, his civilian suit tattered and bloodied.

The statue is so lifelike, from the folds of Tauras's torn clothing to the tangles in Nebula's hair to even the unsteady one-leg pin-up girl pose the playful Taurus struck when he saw the camera, that even in bronze, Sanchez can imagine them perfectly. Breathing, in the flesh, though Sanchez only caught in eyeful of them back in '84 during the room dedication.

Now, in an ironic turn of events, their museum is being robbed.

The figure is small and lithe, dressed all in black with a bag slung over their shoulder. The shadow of their hood hides even the color of their eyes. All the guards can make out if the burglar's smile. "Freeze or I'll shoot!" Sanchez shouts.

The figure dips a graceful bow and whirls out the open window, falling some eight stories into the night. By the time Sanchez empties the barrel of her .22, the burglar is gone.

And so is Nebula's supersuit.

***

Angelos.

"Gotcha!" the man shouts, cupping his hand over my face. My eyes fly open and my mouth parts in a silent scream before I realize it's a sham and wriggle free. I roll over and hit the carpet.

"Ow, ow, ow, OW!"

Storm smirks down me.

Jaylin and Keplar are still asleep. Fed with all the meat I could find in the fridge, washed with my own shampoo, and given three bowls of mineral water, Kep was out, living the good life. I fell asleep on the couch. Jaylin did the same, her forehead pressed against my thumping heart, her fingers skimming my feathers. Turns out wings make good blankets in a pinch.