His face hardened. Angry gold flecks sparked in the depths of his eyes, which glowed a rich green. “None of your damn business.”

“We’re not going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Mr. Sage said in a calm, soothing voice. “We only want to talk.”

Hermit nodded. Smoke smudged his thick goggles. Johnny Angel stared at the three of us. Outnumbered. He nodded. “All right. We’ll talk.”

He stared down at my hand on his arm. I dropped it, even though I didn’t want to let go.

Angel leaned back against the side of the pockmarked building. From his pants pocket, he fished out a pack of cigarettes and a black lighter that had somehow survived Intelligal’s missile. Silver angel wings gleamed on the dark surface. He lit his cigarette, drew in a long drag, and blew smoke out his nostrils, showing us what a badass he was. Please. One snap of my fingers, and that cancer stick would blow up in his face like a grenade. I should light up the cigarette anyway. H o t M a m a

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Didn’t he know those things would kill you? Or perhaps his lungs were as hard as his chest. And his head. After another couple of puffs of his cigarette, Johnny spoke. “I’m the new Angel. I have been for a few months now, ever since Siren and Intelligal killed my predecessor.”

“We hadn’t heard. How did it happen?” Mr. Sage asked, his voice soft and kind. My father. Always the diplomat. Angel stared at the ruined factory, which smoldered behind us. “The two muscled in on some of the High Riders’

territory. The motorcycle gang asked the old Angel to get rid of them. He owed the gang a favor, so he took the job. It was going to be his last gig, since he’d been training me to take over as Angel. One night, he tracked down the ubervillains and confronted them. He told them to get out of town or else. They just laughed at him, and Intelligal fired off some of her heat-seeking explodium missiles. He tried to outrun the missiles on his motorcycle, but he never had a chance.” Sad, bitter anger colored his low throaty voice.

“Because he didn’t have superpowers,” Hermit said. Angel nodded. “All he had was his bike. It wasn’t fast enough.”

I stood to one side and listened to the question-andanswer session. Generational superheroes and ubervillains were rare, but not unheard of. Fathers and mothers who moonlighted for the greater good or evil often passed down their powers or some variation thereof to their children. When the old folks got tired of fighting or creating crime, the youngsters donned the cape and spandex and took up the family mantle. It didn’t even have to be a family member. More than one aging hero and villain had plucked a young orphan off the streets, trained her, and introduced her to Bigtime and the world as the new whomever. Pistol Pete and Hangglider were classic examples. If I remembered correctly, 102