Super•Villainous

X

The sound of incessant beeping dragged my unwilling consciousness to the surface. I woke up groggy, my mouth dry, as though I hadn't drank water in days, and a task as simple as opening my eyes took a monumental effort.

I took a deep breath, held it, relished the burn of my lungs expanding to their fullest capacity, although not without a slight tinge of pain from my side, and only when my head begin to swim with the need for oxygen did I release it, choking a little disjointedly on the exhale.

"Don't sit up quite yet," my dad said, startling at my coughing fit. He sat at my bedside, awkwardly hunched over in a chair.

I smothered a yawn, sinking further into my pillow. "Don't worry," I croaked, the words grating over my sandpaper tongue. "That was not on the agenda. I may never move again."

"Lily." He hesitated, then scooted a few inches closer until we were almost near enough to touch. "I know you only just woke up, but you need to tell me everything that happened yesterday. What's really going on?"

I tensed at the question — the reminder of things I would rather forget — and a rush of accelerated beeping greeted my ears.

Side-eying the heart monitor hooked up to my arm, I sighed, "That thing is going to be really annoying, isn't it?"

"At least I'll be able to know when you try to lie to me," my dad said, smiling blandly in a way that didn't reach his eyes.

That statement, more than anything, dispelled my tiredness. "I'll have you know that polygraph is not permitted in court. My heart rate is unreliable in sussing out the truth and will not convict me before a judge, so it should mean nothing here, either."

"I was joking, only trying to lighten the mood." His forced smile faded. "Evidently, I failed."

"I know you were joking," I replied, "but I needed to make sure we're on the same page. I won't have my own father, my own flesh and blood, go around the being misled by the likes of CSI and the million other daytime crime shows that use polygraph failures as a smoking gun. I won't stand for it. You will not bring shame on our bloodline, father, not on my watch."

"I don't know why I was worried." He stared hard at his hands, absently fidgeting with the ring on his fourth finger, my attempt at drawing a laugh from him as much a failure as his attempt to wring one from me. "Obviously you're fine if you can be so argumentative after just waking up from surgery."

"Oh yes, how did that go?"

He peered up with only his eyes, sending me a flat, distinctly tired look. "You survived."

"Really?" I made a show of feigning great surprise.

"You're trying to distract me, and it's not working. Answer my questions."

I batted my eyes with exaggerated, doe-like innocence. "What questions?"

Again, he looked away, this time to examine a generic painting of a stereotypical nineteenth century countryside balanced against the baby-blue hospital room wall. "A representative of The Guild dropped by earlier. They wanted to talk to you. Adrian, he... he chased them off. You know how he can get."

I sure did. Half the time we spent our days dancing over each other's last nerve, but there really was no better person to have in your corner when the goings got tough.

"They'll be back, though," he finished. "They aren't the sort to give up so easily, and they didn't have any benefit to sticking around before while you were unconscious anyway. They've interviewed people present at the scene who said you appeared to be his —Nightshade's — target."