Read Online In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition by Michael Stackpole - Free Book Online Page A

that would have made him a dandy back when the Dutch owned the town, Baron Samizdat gestured with a white-gloved hand. Glowing, red-gold fire blasted me through the window. My heel caught on the fire escape. I flipped over and hit the far tenement wall face first.
    At least that put the fire out.
    I was probably unconscious by then. If I’d been awake, I’d have seen the dozen other Zomboyz waiting in the alley below. I’m not sure–being as how I was naked and falling four stories–that I could have done much about that situation, but I’m quite sure it would have stuck in my mind.
    Grant had been right.
    Heroing was a young man’s game.
    And I was far too old to be doing my own stunts.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Eight
     
     
     
    The only good thing about having your eyes swollen shut is that you never get to see the bruises until the purple has faded. I don’t know how long that took. Long enough, anyway, for the stitches on my back and scalp to itch like mad.
    I’d have scratched, but that would have required moving. Not happening. Two reasons. First, stiff limbs, lots of pain. Not broken-bone pain, but close enough.
    Second, I’d long ago learned that after a beat down, movement often invites more of the same.
    It’s a horrible thing to come to awareness trapped in a shell that hurts. All the pain makes your body anxious to get away from whatever was causing it, but that wasn’t possible. Panic builds and you scream, even if it’s only inside your skull.
    I made a bid for sanity by cataloguing sensations other than pain.
    The tug on one arm suggested an IV. Then there was the catheter. I really didn’t want to be seeing what collected at the other end of that tube. Whoever had me apparently wanted to keep me alive for a little bit longer. Of course, they could have been anybody, but when you’re clutching at straws, you might as well be hopeful.
    I was in and out a lot. Concussion will do that. Likewise drugs. Degrees of pain came and went. Sedation–a good thing short term, but having my wits dulled wasn’t going to get me out of trouble.
    At some point my nose started working again. My prison didn’t smell bad. Swelling went down in my hands enough that I could clutch the sheets. Once upon a time Graviton could have told the thread-count by touch alone. I just knew it was high. This again inclined me toward optimism. Most captors, if they worry about sheets at all, don’t concern themselves with thread count.
    I decided I probably needed to open my eyes. I waited until I heard someone enter the room, then cracked one. Low light, easy to adjust to, good; though it made seeing her tougher. No mistaking her, though.
    “Three days?” I thought I’d spoken clearly, but it came out as a croaked whisper.
    She managed to parse the words regardless. “Five. You’re old. You heal more slowly.”
    “You didn’t want to be my friend.”
    “You need more than a puppy to change your dressings.” Selene sat on the edge of the bed. She took my hand in hers and I tried to squeeze. Zero strength. I couldn’t have squished the yolk on a soft-boiled egg.
    “No need to show off. You’re still tough.” She caressed my hand. “You’d have died otherwise.”
    “Why didn’t I?”
    “You’re incredibly lucky.” Her voice lost its wistful tone and I closed my eye. “You pissed off the Zomboyz by busting up the robbery. Baron Samizdat couldn’t afford to lose points to ‘Old Dude with yo-yo,’ so he had to set things right. Someone connected the dots and sold you out.”
    “Bennie.”
    “Whoever. Could have been a dozen of them. Here’s where your luck came in. The grocery guy got wind of what was going down–it was private, not public, so no bids. He reached out to Kid Coyote. He intervened and kept them off you, then Gravé showed to scatter them. You were hurt badly, so he teleported you to Grant’s place. That exhausted the kid. Grant called me. I had him bring you here, then I