“Let’s get ourselves organized,” Tristan said. “Training wheels are off, and we’ve got a few things going on today. Ashley’s going back in, and it makes sense to insert her before things get messy. Two hero teams are swinging through sometime after that, we’ve got Chris on standby and one hero who wants to pay us to get a chance to do something, which we’ll want to discuss.”

“There’s Prancer to account for too,” I said, releasing Rain’s wrist, approaching, “He’s had a day to think about what we’re doing and a day to get countermeasures in place. He reassured his friends that he had a handle on this. Let’s prove him wrong.”

Shadow 5.2

“Maybe trouble,” Kenzie said.

I was digging through my bag when she said it. I set some of my things aside and headed to the front of the room. Erin was standing beside Kenzie, while Kenzie regaled her with stuff.

Rain was thirty feet away, sitting in his computer chair in his nook. Some of the tables we’d arranged were situated so the long side was against the wall, but in the interest of giving Rain some desk space, we’d set up two so the shorter ends of the table were against the wall and the tables jutted out into the room, his whiteboards against the wall between the tables. He’d unfurled a roll of paper tablecloth, laid out his arms on it, and was using marker to draw on the tablecloth and make references.

His bag was open, and I could see the jaws of a bear trap and a bit of chain within.

He looked up, met my eyes, then looked at the screen. He remained where he was. He, Sveta and I were the ones who hung back a bit. Him because of his work, and Sveta and I because we were rummaging in our bags.

“Continuation of a bit of family drama,” Kenzie said. She hit a few keys. The camera’s image on the screen focused in on one section and rotated.

Nailbiter and a teenaged girl were standing outside of the nail place where Ashley had been comparing her nails to the outdated example images in the window. A middle-aged woman with bleached blonde hair was holding the teenager’s wrist. The angle didn’t allow for a very good view of Nailbiter or her expression. She didn’t seem to be doing anything to step in.

The teenager had a resemblance to her mother, but was slender. Her hair reminded me of how Byron wore his, it was the same medium-long length, slicked straight back from the face, but the teenager’s was bleached where Byron’s was black. In facial features and in expression, the teenager was a younger mirror of her mom. Neither was happy with the other.

“What’s this?” I asked. “What’s the drama?”