First to Fail (Unraveled #3) - Marie Johnston

Chapter 1

Chris

“Well, if DC Comics could make a solid movie, there wouldn’t be so much complaining. It’s not so much a DC versus Marvel thing as it is a long, boring movie thing.”

I lifted my brow at the woman. Could she even be classified as a woman? She wore a costume that highlighted every curve, but her face looked all of eighteen. Since this was the Twin Cities Comic Con, she could be anywhere from fourteen to thirty-four. And dressed in skintight black vinyl and a red wig, she showcased the Marvel Universe fan craze. Her boyfriend sported a sleeveless black shirt, black tactical pants, and boots. He carried a bow and an empty quiver—no arrows with heightened security these days. They blended with the crowd of homemade cosplay costumes and Party City purchases.

Do not engage. But I couldn’t let it go. “I don’t know if it’s so much the quality of the DC movies that’s the issue.” Which were excellent. Could they have been better? Yes. But did they deserve the many hours I spent defending them? A resounding no. “Marvel came out with some lesser characters and made them larger than life and hugely popular. But anyone old enough to walk was raised on Batman and Superman. They have their own ideas about what each one should be like, and they don’t like their heroes messed with. Putting Henry Cavill in a blue skin suit with no red underwear on the outside was deeply upsetting for some.”

At the actor’s name, the girl’s eyes glazed with dreamy desire. So she was, what, twenty to twenty-five? My fourteen-year-old daughter lost focus when I started discussing movies because she had zero interest in someone who wasn’t young enough to be in a boy band.

The woman’s saccharine smile grated. “At least they didn’t put nipples on Iron Man’s suit.”

Always with Batman’s nipples in Batman and Robin. That was an unfortunate rendition I never tried defending—and never confessed to enjoying.

The guy with the DC hater spoke, apparently needing to defend his own geek knowledge. It was probably very little, since I had never seen the guy shop at Arcadia, my comic book shop. “Who is that poster of anyway? Some knockoff of Batman?”

I made an effort to represent both major comic book universes equally, but not always with the box office headliner heroes. “No, he’s a superhero in his own right.”

“Who’s that?” the girl asked, derision clear in her voice.

Why were they at my booth in the first place? Just to diss my display? Mara and I had run a booth at the local comic con since we’d opened shop, back when Arcadia used to be solely hers. When it had been shut down, I’d cashed in my IRA and proposed a partnership.

Here we were, bigger than last year, our booth gaining in popularity. Mara and her husband handled the fans and customers while I dealt with insults. I didn’t care why people dressed up or who they dressed as, but I wouldn’t tolerate asshats putting down other fans.

I was about to explain who Nightwing was—how could I not?—when a woman beat me to it. “Why don’t you watch Teen Titans and see if you still have questions?”

How could a voice drive a kick of lust through me like that? I wouldn’t mind that voice lecturing me all night long.

Unlike the girl with the unsavory attitude, this stranger was all woman. Dressed in a skin-hugging maroon suit that revealed a tight body and mouthwatering curves, she stood with her hands on her hips, like a real superhero who’d just landed and was assessing the situation. Her pitch-black hair was obviously a wig, but better quality than what we sold in Arcadia. The mask covering half her face let my imagination wander about the extent of her beauty, but her pursed lips and strong chin were stern and sexy—especially because she wasn’t putting up with the couple trashing comic book fans.

“Why would I do that?” the girl asked, her tone snotty.

“Because you’ll find out who Nightwing is and can come to your own conclusions about what you think instead of bowing to popular opinion.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “What are you supposed to be anyway, or am I supposed to read that somewhere, too?”

The stunner in maroon smiled and kicked a hip out. “I am my own creation. Valaria the Assassin at your service.”

I grinned. Normally I didn’t mind the questions, the discussions, or even the arguments. I relished them. It was the tone of