by Rob Rogers
He wondered who the Storm Raiders had told. The mayor? The chief of police? The district attorney? A friend?
And what had they been doing here in the first place? That one was pretty easy.
There’d been a mysterious arson in the Silver Swan district, a heavily insured night club that had gone out of style and become a money pit, burned to the ground, with no cause identified. No accelerants used to create the blaze. Untraceable.
Residents of Crabb’s Lament had spotted a huge winged figure flying overhead late at night. An angel with knives, they’d said.
Two sisters from Elizabeth Colan Junior High had reported being approached by a man wearing a long trench coat despite the heat. He’d propositioned them and they’d run away when they saw his face, which they described as hairless and covered with green scales.
Someone had broken into a storage center in Gray Flats, ripped the huge paneled door of one unit right off of its hinges and thrown it into the water of Palm Lake some two hundred yards away. The unit had contained old equipment from a bankrupt traveling carnival called Ma’s Spectacular Amusements.
A news report had connected these isolated incidents into the supposition that the Cirque d’Obscurité had returned to the United States and were holed up somewhere in Devil’s Cape.
Jason’s news report.
The Cirque d’Obscurité had killed Doctor Camelot more than twenty years earlier, then had moved around the world, on the run most of the time. Until now. Jason’s investigation had told the Storm Raiders where to go to bring their teammate’s murderer to justice. But things hadn’t worked out the way they wanted.
Someone should have stopped this from happening. Someone powerful enough to help them. Someone who knew Devil’s Cape.
Jason should have stopped this.
The mighty Hercules, whose shoulders afterwards upheld the sky, was one of them. And there were Castor and Pollux, the twin brothers, who were never accused of being chicken-hearted, although they had been hatched out of an egg; and Theseus, who was so renowned for killing the Minotaur, and Lynceus, with his wonderfully sharp eyes, which could see through a millstone, or look right down into the depths of the earth, and discover the treasures that were there; and Orpheus, the very best of harpers, who sang and played upon his lyre so sweetly, that the brute beasts stood upon their hind legs, and capered merrily to the music.
— Excerpted from Tanglewood Tales, by Nathaniel Hawthorne
Chapter Fifteen
Devil’s Cape, Louisiana
Five hours after the deaths of the Storm Raiders
In his dream, Jason knelt by a rocky shore, ocean waves crashing, the sea bubbling as the rocks churned it into foam. Gulls cried out overhead. There was one thick patch of sand and he was digging in it, sand up to his elbows, shaping something.
He was shaping himself, building himself out of sand. As he raised his head up and looked at what he was doing, he saw his own body before him, not made of sand, but of skin and sinew and bone, unmoving, pulse beating in the throat, eyes closed.
“It’s time for the vestments.”
In the dream, Jason knew the voice, although he’d never heard anything quite like it before. A man’s voice, gravelly, strained from salt and sea. Commanding and sad and impatient.
“I don’t know how,” Jason said.
“Palaemon was the son of Hephaestus. He knows how to forge, how to make armor and smith gold. Admetus had herds of cattle and knows how to work leather.”
Argonauts. Palaemon and Admetus were Argonauts.
Jason dug his hands into the gritty sand. He began to pat handfuls of it onto the body in front of him. It molded to the form like clay, hardening into a flexible form like leather.
“Dark blue like the depths of the Aegean,” the voice said. And the blue spread throughout the leathery armor as though dye were pulsing inside.
“Gold for the fleece,” the voice said. Jason dug deeper, pulling strands of gold from deep in the earth. As he watched the gold run sparkling through his fingers, he felt the dream slipping from him and fell into another dream.
He was flying through the soot-tinged clouds over Devil’s Cape, moonlight cutting him in stark relief, a mask on his face, a cape fluttering in the wind behind him. A name came to him, but it disappeared, a whisper in the dark night.
* * * * *
Twelve hours after the deaths of the Storm Raiders
Since he wanted to be unrecognized but inconspicuous for the shopping expedition, Jason wore a beaten baseball cap and a cheap pair of sunglasses. He didn’t shave that morning, and wore a simple white T-shirt over cut-off blue jeans and sandals. Instead of his car, he took a bus to Bogan Heights, the city’s unofficial arts district, a collection of antique shops, bric-a-brac kiosks, and pink stucco coffeehouses, getting off at Emmert Street and making his way through a twisted alleyway to a leather wholesaler. One wall of the store was decorated with nothing but row upon row of cow skulls. Head down, voice a soft mumble, he bought more than he’d need, paying cash, and stuffed it into a heavy knapsack.
From Emmert Street, he caught a trolley car deeper into Bogan Heights. An unwashed man sat next to him, tapping his foot and singing along loudly with music only he could hear. At D’Agostino Court, Jason got out and walked into a huge and dilapidated art supply store, its cavernous ceiling buckling and stained brown from water damage. Though it hadn’t rained for days, water dripped steadily into half a dozen buckets spread here and there inside on the floor. The air was musty and thick. Jason bought twenty bottles of dye, a swivel knife, needles, and two spools of heavy-gauged thread. His wad of cash got that much thinner, the knapsack that much fuller. He bought himself a watermelon-lime shaved ice while he waited for the next trolley, and had nearly finished it when it came.
There was an area near the center of Devil’s Cape called Chinatown, but that was a misnomer. It was more of a jumbled hodgepodge of all of Asia. One particular apartment building called the Lo Center summed it up for Jason. An eleven-story brownstone painted white and maroon, the Lo Center dated back to 1917 and featured heavy, curved eaves reminiscent of a pagoda. Trumpet vines crept up the walls and tangled around the shingles on the eaves. Four statues stood guard at the corners of the rooftop—a Chinese dragon, Krishna, a samurai warrior, and a huge-bellied Buddha. It had become known as the “flag building” because nearly every window sported one or more flags, a proud tradition of the residents, many of whom were born and died there. There were American flags, the state flag of Louisiana, and the masked skull and crossbones adopted by the pirate St. Diable. There were flags from China, Taiwan, Japan, Pakistan, India, Tibet, North Korea, South Korea, Vietnam, Thailand, Myanmar, the Philippines, and Indonesia. There were college flags and seasonal flags and even one that Jason recognized as the flag of Liechtenstein. A narrow but lush lawn surrounded the building, and most days it was filled with children playing soccer or football.
The rest of Chinatown might not be as much of a mishmash as the Lo Center, but it was close. Head down, the visor of his cap casting shadows over his face, Jason walked past the Lo Center and made his way to a jewelry store that he knew fenced stolen goods for the Pang Hui tong, which in turn paid an “operational fee” to the Robber Baron. He dropped down a larger stack of bills of larger denominations and left five minutes later with half a bar of gold in his satchel.
He smelled frying chicken and spices and stopped at a walk-up restaurant counter for a spring roll before catching a bus to Miller Avenue. At a scientific supply shop there, he bought safety goggles with reinforced glass.
When he got back to his small apartment, only a block away from the apartment where his father now lived, he dropped the knapsack on a thick wooden dining table with a crash, then went into his bathroom, where he threw the cap and sunglasses on the floor, undressed, and showered and shaved. For some reason, it was important to him that he looked like himself for this. When he dressed again, he left his usual clear-lensed glasses sitting on the b
athroom counter and walked back to materials he’d bought.
Since David Dees had died, Jason had done little with his powers except hide them. Part of that was guilt—not so much over Dees, but over what Jason’s brother Julian had become. The rest? Fear, indecision, doubt—some combination of those.
The deaths of the Storm Raiders weighed on him. Julian’s activities as the flying criminal Scion—one more masked villain in a city drowning in crime, but protected by no heroes—weighed on him, too. Someone needed to stand against the Robber Baron, the people who swore loyalty to him, and the other criminals on the streets of Devil’s Cape. The Cirque d’Obscurité. The Ferazzolis, The street gangs. The Pang Hui tong. Even Jason’s own family, including his twin brother. Someone needed to oppose them. The Storm Raiders had tried, but it wasn’t their city. Devil’s Cape had made short work of them. Devil’s Cape hadn’t had a hero in generations. It needed one. Desperately. But there was no one else. Only Jason.
He jerked open the knapsack and upended it, dumping the contents across the table with a crash. And then, his skin flushed, his breathing slow, his eyes wide as though overtaken by a vision or a fever, he began to work. With techniques he’d never used before in his life, but that seemed to come naturally, he began to assemble a uniform, the vestments from his dream. One word came to his parched lips again and again as he worked.
Argonaut.
“The flags at town hall behind me stand at half mast. I stand stooped, my eyes red, my heart heavy. This is a terrible day for Devil’s Cape, a terrible day for America. We grieve at the loss of these heroes and we will find those responsible and bring them to justice.
“Still, I ask for caution and compassion during this time. It’s vital to understand that, no matter how noble their aspirations and history, the Storm Raiders were here without authorization, outside of any reasonable jurisdiction. This matter is in the capable hands of the fine men and women of the DCPD. The last thing we need at this trying time is for any other vigilantes to come to our fine city seeking retribution. This is an internal matter, and anyone coming here to interfere will do so against the will of the people of Devil’s Cape. Anyone disrupting the police investigation will be prosecuted to the full extent that the law allows. . .”
— Excerpted from a press conference held by Devil’s Cape Mayor Randy Bowers the day after the assassination of the Storm Raiders
Chapter Sixteen
Devil’s Cape, Louisiana
Two days after the deaths of the Storm Raiders
Kate Brauer, Ph.D., swore softly to herself. Navigating the knotted streets of Devil’s Cape in her small Mercury, pulling the heavy trailer filled with her possessions, was a nightmare. Her air conditioning had gone out just north of Tuscaloosa, and now, fighting through traffic in Devil’s Cape’s Soirée Bleue Ward, she’d been forced to turn on her heater to keep the engine from overheating. Even with the windows rolled down, she was sticky with perspiration, and the interior of the car was damp with humidity. Legend had it that the streets of Devil’s Cape had originally been laid out not for the convenience of the area residents, but to allow for enough twists and turns that the pirates who had founded the town could use the terrain to avoid pursuit. Glancing back and forth between her map and the crowded streets around her and the bewildering combinations of one-way streets and crooked roads, Kate had no reason to doubt the stories.
It took her an hour and a half, three stops for directions, and two cell phone calls until she finally came to the narrow, three-story Creole townhouse that was to be her new home. “Huh,” she said to no one in particular as she came to a stop in the middle of her street—more of an alley, really. She flipped on her hazard lights, then climbed out of her car to move aside the trashcans her realtor had used to block off a parking space.
Once she’d parked her car and double-checked the heavy locks on the trailer, she grabbed her overnight bag from the passenger seat and headed toward her front porch. A radio nearby was playing flamenco music—something from Ramon Montoya—and she could see children down the street, shouting to each other and splashing in water from an open fire hydrant. She waved to them, but the only child who noticed stared back unsmilingly. “Welcome to Devil’s Cape,” Kate said softly.
Her new house faced Thibodaux Court, a small Soirée Bleue cul-de-sac that had changed little since the early 1800s. The house, built in 1803 for a notorious Spanish smuggler named Juan Marco Quintana, displayed wrought iron balconies on the second and third floors and a stucco façade. Her front door and the two windows that flanked it were crested with graceful arches with Victorian flourishes. All the windows were barred.
Her key worked smoothly in the lock, though the door creaked as it opened. The air was musty and tinged with lilac. She’d memorized the floor plan before leaving Vanguard City, so she made her way to the master bathroom on the second floor with few surprises. The hardwood floors of the house were smooth and worn, but sturdy. The house creaked a bit as she moved around, but that suited her. She’d be able to hear anyone moving around. The bathroom itself had old fixtures, but running water had been installed in the house in the 1940s and most of the pipes had been replaced in the early 1990s. The wiring was relatively new, too, and the house was set up for cable and broadband Internet access.
Kate threw her sweaty clothes into a corner, pulled a towel and bar of soap from her bag, and showered in a clawed bathtub with no shower curtain. She’d have to unpack soon, but the niceties of setting up her bedroom and bathroom were far from her mind. She towel-dried her short, black hair, dressed quickly, not bothering to mop the water off her tile floor, and climbed the stairs to the third floor.
The top level of the house seemed cramped—its ceiling was less than seven feet tall and to all appearances, there was room for no more than a small parlor or storage space there. That appearance was a sham. Old Juan Marco Quintana had constructed a cleverly hidden room in the top of his house, one where he could store his smuggled goods. It had remained more or less a secret through the years except to its owners, and the realtor’s mention of the room had sealed the deal for Kate.
She found the secret panel without much difficulty based on the realtor’s explanation, and used her key to open the room. Stale air swept from the room, but the hidden area behind the panel was everything she’d hoped for—clean, large enough for her needs, and wired for electricity. A second hidden doorway in back even gave her access to a neighbor’s rooftop.
She nodded in grim satisfaction. Her lab would go in this room. In this room, she would alter her father’s armor. In this room, she would become the new Doctor Camelot.
She closed the door and walked out onto her third-story balcony. The previous owners had left a tattered flag hanging there. It rippled in the humid wind. With deft fingers, she untied the knot holding the flag in place. Pulling on the flag’s rope, she lowered it all the way, raised it to its highest point, and then slowly lowered it to half mast, tying the knot back. The Storm Raiders were gone. But their murderers would be brought to justice.
Patient exhibits diminished affect. Threats from other youths produce no reaction. Mother’s visits produce little reaction except perhaps mild guilt. Only demonstrated interest is apparent fascination with evaluation process. Enjoys turning questions around on me. In one meeting, I ended up revealing more about myself than he did. Genius-level intellect. Insightful. Manipulative.
— Excerpted from St. Tammany Parish Juvenile Detention Center, psychologist’s evaluation of Cain Ducett, twenty-one years ago
Chapter Seventeen
Devil’s Cape, Louisiana
Three days after the deaths of the Storm Raiders
3 a.m.
As he had for several nights now, Dr. Cain Ducett, a respected psychiatrist who specialized in working with the criminally insane at Devil’s Cape’s Holingbroke Psychological Institute, dreamed of blood and fire.
He pulled his bed sheets over himself, despite the heat of his room. He felt nauseated,
his skin itched, and sweat soaked his pillowcase. It stank of fear.
He swore, throwing the sheets aside and sitting up. His body felt strangely light as he padded his way to the bathroom.
He turned on the light.
The rigidly controlled Dr. Cain Ducett was not given to fear. If anything, he displayed a cold calm even in the face of the most horrible revelations from his patients.
But this was different.
The reflection he faced in the mirror was not his own.
He saw a young woman’s face, pale, pretty. But the eyes. He knew that face, remembered having seen it before when the eyes were nearly invisible, filled with dark blood after he’d almost killed her. Jazz.
He screamed. And then the image smiled at him and the mirror shattered.
He blinked. What was left of the mirror showed only his own reflection. He splashed cold water onto his face. He’d eaten nothing but raw carrots and yogurt for dinner, yet he had another taste in his mouth, a spicy oyster po’ boy, like the one he’d been eating that hot August day. A hint of RC and Jim Beam, too, though he hadn’t touched alcohol in more than twenty years. He vomited suddenly and violently, barely steering himself to the toilet in time, his hand hitting the flusher before he was even done. He had a terrified feeling that what was coming up wasn’t carrots and yogurt, and he couldn’t bring himself to look. He flushed again, repeatedly, eyes shut, then stumbled to the sink again, putting his face beneath the faucet.
The mirror was still cracked. He stared at each of his hands, fully expecting to see one covered with blood, but they were uninjured. He must have broken it, though. He must have broken it another way.
He’d had a hallucination once before, about a week after he’d nearly killed Jazz. He’d seen red-black fur growing on his arms, demonic ears growing from his head, tough, translucent skin growing out of his armpits and stretching up his arms and down his abdomen until, when he spread his arms, it looked like he had venous wings stretching out of his body. He’d beaten his mother and a neighbor in his panic and rage, and had nearly killed himself before he’d let a hostage negotiator, Salazar Lorca, talk him into surrendering. Of course, by that time, the episode had subsided, and he saw that he was in truth the same Cain Ducett as always, human and normal, except possibly for the empty place where his soul was supposed to be.
