She stood at the open doors and the rest of the passengers exited, flowing like a river around her.

Michelle stepped out of the car, and Adesina stuck out her tongue at the men as the doors slid shut.

The Midnight Angel hurried up the front steps of the Bleecker Towers, a Jokertown hotel that lately she’d become all too familiar with. She compressed her lips tightly in a peevish expression accentuated by a disapproving frown.

The usual desk clerk stood behind the reception counter. He was neatly dressed as always and was rather handsome for a Cyclops. The hotel, with outdated but clean and well-cared-for carpets and furnishings, was located on the edge of Jokertown. Most employees and guests were jokers of middle-class means, and hotel management tried hard to project a friendly, safe, and stolidly respectable atmosphere. They mostly succeeded, but then, the Angel reflected, this was Jokertown, where things could turn in a second and often did.

She caught his eye and he nodded deferentially.

“Is he in?” she asked, making no attempt to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

“I don’t know, ma’am.” The clerk knew she was talking about Jamal Norwood through previous interactions. “I haven’t seen Mr. Norwood go out today, but then I’ve been away from the desk several times.”

She hurried past, heading for the staircase that led to upper-floor rooms, her exasperation tinged with worry. Maybe he’s too sick to make the appointment, she thought to herself. And too stubborn to call for help.

Norwood was a member of the team of SCARE agents the Angel ran, but lately things hadn’t been going well for him. His power of invulnerability to damn near everything had been failing, making him weak and lethargic after physical encounters. It had gotten so bad that currently he was on medical leave and being treated at the Jokertown Clinic by Dr. Finn—so far to no avail. SCARE had arranged for several out-of-state specialists to consult on his case, and Jamal hadn’t shown up for that appointment.

The Angel took the stairs at an effortless jog—it was her policy to get her exercise in everyday activities rather than waste time at a gym—worrying about her subordinate as she went up the five flights.

Norwood was brash—he’d hung her with the nickname of She Who Must Be Obeyed—borderline insubordinate, far too stubborn, and all too unwilling to ask for help. The Angel had grown up in the South, and she knew the difficulties a strong, intelligent black man trying to make a place for himself in the world had even today, so she was willing to cut him some slack. She allowed him his stubbornness and petty rebelliousness. In a sense Norwood reminded him of her husband. Loving and living with Billy Ray for a decade, she’d experienced many manifestations of both those traits over the years. She didn’t, and never could, have children and although Norwood was only a few years younger than she, the Angel felt motherly toward him. Or at least big-sisterly.