Devil's Cape

by Rob Rogers

  Flying as fast as he could to his father’s restaurant, Jason was furious. Furious with Uncle Costas for endangering his father. Furious with the murderous Rusalka for daring to intrude in his life this way. Furious with his brother for lots of things—for becoming involved with Uncle Costas’s criminal organization, for freeing Rusalka, for being so damned coy about revealing the information that their father was in danger. And lying under that, Jason was furious with himself. If he had never fallen in with Uncle Costas himself years ago, if he had never allowed himself to be blackmailed by Detective David Dees, if he had never gone to his brother for help, then perhaps Julian wouldn’t be where he was today and their father wouldn’t be in the danger he was in now.

  The city rushed past him below. He flew over taxicabs and buses, streets and canals, pedestrians and vagrants, homes and offices, all in a blur. He didn’t slow or reduce his altitude until he was over Sarandakos Avenue, and then he plummeted to the crowded sidewalk in front of Zorba’s, his cape billowing out behind him.

  He’d never seen Zhdanov in person, only seen photos of her in the news room. But he spotted her right away turning into the doorway, the scarf around her head and the sunglasses at this time of night both conspicuous. The people near her probably thought she was a celebrity trying to avoid the limelight, or one of Devil’s Cape’s many eccentrics. It didn’t occur to them that she was an escaped homicidal maniac on the run.

  She saw him coming. She turned toward him, a deer in the headlights look registering on her face for a second, then, strangely, a sort of delight.

  With her in the doorway, his options were limited. He couldn’t tackle her—that would pull both of them into the restaurant and endanger any number of other people, including Pop. And she was close to the line of people waiting to get inside.

  He landed right next to her, grabbing her by the shoulder and the waist, ready to pull her someplace more isolated. Despite the heat of it, he was glad of his uniform, the way it covered most of his body. She killed with a touch, and the only really exposed parts of him were his chin and his mouth.

  But it wasn’t him she reached for.

  As soon as he had his hands on her, Zhdanov’s arm shot out, grabbing another woman by the wrist.

  The woman, her blonde, short hair carefully coiffed, her tailored black dress glistening with a row of sequins near the neckline, turned and began to protest. But then her mouth opened wide. She gasped, her eyes rolling back in her head, her tan skin growing pale and wrinkling, shriveling in front of Jason’s eyes.

  Horrified, Jason reacted quickly, pulling Zhdanov toward him, breaking her grip on the other woman’s arm.

  The blonde woman collapsed on her back on the sidewalk, muscles convulsing, her skin hanging loose on her bones, eyes sunken into their sockets, mouth opening and closing silently.

  Zhdanov sighed in a kind of ecstasy, steam snaking out of her lips. And then she punched Jason in the chest.

  The blow felt harder than the gunshots, harder than any of the hits he’d received in the fight with Ducett. It was like a wrecking ball smashing into his sternum. He flew backward across the street, smashing into a flower cart. It collapsed under his weight, roses and carnations scattering in the air.

  By the time he’d righted himself, she’d gone back into the restaurant.

  * * * * *

  Kate could have flown faster, but she held back a little to allow Bedlam to keep up with her. Argonaut had flown off alone, but they’d be more effective working in concert. Besides, the extra seconds gave her time to prepare.

  Accessing her databases, she determined that while a blueprint of the restaurant, Zorba’s on Sarandakos Avenue, was on file with the parish, it had never been rendered electronically. She was able, though, to pull up a satellite photo of the block it was on, part of the area called Little Athens, zooming in to get an idea of where she was going.

  “Things are accelerating kind of fast here, Katie,” Samuel said over her communicator. He was again sitting in her lab, talking her through what she was doing. She didn’t really need his assistance in pulling up information from databases—that she could do herself. But she’d wanted his advice.

  “I know,” she said tightly. “Argonaut seemed trustworthy at first blush, but I don’t understand his connection to Scion. And I wasn’t expecting to be flying into combat tonight.”

  She and Bedlam flew over Ayers Boulevard, then zipped under the Vollenweider River Bridge, sending hundreds of sleeping pigeons flying.

  “You could bail,” Samuel said. “Head back here, let things sort themselves out.”

  He didn’t sound like he thought that likely, so she didn’t bother to reply to it. “What’s your read on Bedlam?” she asked. She looked over at the man. He was cutting tirelessly through the air with broad strokes of his winged arms like an Olympic-class swimmer doing laps. A satchel was strapped to his back. She briefly flipped on the X-rays, identifying a shotgun and an aluminum baseball bat. She hoped he knew what he was doing with the gun. Her eyes flickered over his skeleton on her display, the goatlike horned skull, the elongated bones of his hands and feet, the tail extending from his spine. And then she turned off the display, embarrassed at the intimacy of it.

  “It’s a shock,” Samuel said, “getting any kind of superhuman abilities. And his?” She could feel the shrug. “It’s got to be blowing his mind. The fact that he says this is something temporary tells me he’s either got a way of switching back or expects to, but even so, it’s weighing on him. Velociraptor—Jose—went through all sorts of discomfort about his powers, and he could go back and forth from dinosaur to normal guy.”

  “Bottom-line me here, Uncle Samuel,” she said. “We’re almost there.”

  He chuckled. “What do you think? Trust him for now—trust both of them for now—but not too much. Leave yourself an exit.”

  “Hell,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Argonaut’s down.” She saw him pulling himself out of the flower cart, preparing to head back inside. She took in the sight of the mummified woman moaning softly on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, a crowd of people milling around, some trying to assist her, others recoiling. She’d read that Rusalka was rumored to have increased strength after draining one of her victims. Judging by Argonaut’s position, that was true. She pointed at Bedlam. “Take the back,” she said. “There’s an alley half a block around, but you’re better off flying over the roof.”

  He gave her a startled nod, quickly gaining altitude and arcing over the building.

  “You seeing this?” she asked Samuel.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m calling 911. Corrupt or not, the cops are going to have to show up and help. Ambulance, too, of course. That woman—she looks bad.”

  Argonaut rushed over to the woman’s body, torn between it and the interior of the restaurant.

  “BP’s down,” Kate said, “breathing shallow.” She landed between Argonaut and the crowd. She held up a finger to Argonaut. “One second,” she said. “We go in together.” Then she turned to the crowd. “You and you”—she pointed to two men—“carry her away from the scene. An ambulance is coming. Find a blanket or something to wrap her in to keep her warm. Get her some water.” She gestured at the rest of the crowd, letting her armor amplify her voice like a megaphone. “Everyone else, move away from the area immediately. There is a dangerous felon inside this building. Move-move-move!”

  The crowd scattered, the men she’d selected carefully carrying the woman down the street.

  “That was nice,” Samuel said over the communicator as Kate and Argonaut walked toward the door to the restaurant. “And by the way, she’s probably not the only dangerous felon in that restaurant.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “I was pulling up information on Zorba’s from one of these computers of yours, and it tells me that the restaurant is owned by a Pericles Kalodimos. His brother, Costas Kalodimos, is head of the Greek mafia here in Devil’s Cape—a
lthough he’s never been convicted of anything, of course.”

  “Great,” she said. She turned toward Argonaut. “Let’s go.”

  * * * * *

  In the midst of pouring a cup of coffee for a customer, Pericles Kalodimos heard the yelling and screaming coming from outside. Setting the thermos down next to the half-filled cup, he hobbled toward the door to see what was happening.

  The woman in the scarf, the one who’d been eating with Costas, was walking back inside, her sunglasses slipping off her face. People on either side of her were recoiling.

  He turned around, looking for his brother. Costas, leaning over a plate of galaktobouriko—an egg custard baked in filo—fork halfway toward his mouth, swore at the sight of her, hopping up from the table and moving for the back door.

  Pericles heard a megaphone outside, the words muffled except for the last ones, “Move-move-move!” The police, he thought. The police were finally here to arrest Costas. Though he wondered what the woman in the scarf had to do with all this. She brushed past Pericles’ waitress Charmaine, who seemed startled, swaying in place at the woman’s touch. And then she was making a beeline for Costas, tossing her sunglasses on the ground, her eyes alight, a wide, frightening smile on her face.

  Pericles knew, then, that there was something seriously wrong about this woman, and that she meant Costas harm. Whatever his faults, whatever his crimes, Costas was Pericles’ brother. He stepped in front of the woman. “Miss,” he said, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave my restaurant.”

  The wild, wide smile never left her face as she reached for him, fingers on both hands spread wide.

  And then suddenly, in a rush of air, a man stood between them. He wore a dark blue and gold uniform, and a cape that hung almost to the floor. “No,” the man said, reaching out and pushing the woman back. “No.”

  Pericles stared at the man. He’d seen him in the news. Argonaut. He’d wondered, when he’d heard the name, but now, standing next to him, he knew. “Jason?” he whispered.

  Jason turned toward him, exasperated but smiling, “Hush, Pop,” he whispered back. “Run. You’ve heard about Rusalka on TV? This is her. Run.”

  Pericles stared at the woman. She’d staggered back a few feet when Jason had pushed her, but now she was pressing in again. “But she had dinner with Costas,” he said, not quite understanding what was going on. Jason looked very impressive in the uniform.

  “Go!” Jason shouted.

  The woman stepped forward, and behind her, Pericles saw another woman entering his restaurant. She was wearing some kind of polished armor. Seeing Jason glance back at him again, Costas nodded. “All right, all right.”

  And then the woman—Rusalka—reached out to Jason. Distracted by Pericles, his son didn’t avoid her hand in time. She reached up and caressed his cheek.

  Jason screamed. His skin seemed to wrinkle and bulge under her touch. He gripped her hand in his, trying to pull it away, but he seemed unable to do it. Pericles thought he could see his son’s bones under the woman’s fingers.

  And Rusalka seemed entranced. Her eyes quivered in their sockets. Her tongue ran along her upper lip. There was something frank and sexual about the expression on her face. Her scarf fluttered to the ground. Smoke curled around her and Jason. “There’s so much,” she said softly, her voice a moan. “Oh, God,” she said. “Oh, Papa.”

  Pericles cast his eyes around the restaurant, looking for something to get this woman away from his son.

  And his eyes lit on the thermos of hot coffee he’d been holding, now twenty feet away.

  * * * * *

  Cain had flown to the back alley as Doctor Camelot suggested, lifting his body over the rooftop and landing lightly on the cobblestone “old city” pavement of the alley. A dumpster nearby smelled of spoiled food. The neatly tied garbage bags that had been tossed inside had been ripped open by a homeless man searching for scraps or recyclables. The man stood there still, hunched over the bags, muttering to himself, barely registering the fact that a winged demon had landed less than fifteen feet from him. Cain saw with grim amusement that a CEs tag—graffiti from one of the Concrete Executioners—dominated one brick wall, an elaborate kaleidoscope of spray-painted color.

  It had made sense to cover the back door in case Zhdanov attempted to escape that way. What they hadn’t counted on, though, was that she wasn’t the only one looking to escape. Just as he landed, people began running out of the crowded restaurant into the alley, making their way to the street beyond. A woman screamed at the sight of Cain. He pointed her toward the street. She blinked and ran, high heels clicking on the cobblestones.

  A heavyset, gray-haired man glittering with gold—rings, a bracelet, a watch, a necklace—seemed stuck in the crowd. Pushed out the door, he turned to go back inside, ready to fight his way back in. He reached inside his jacket, where Cain saw the bulge of a gun.

  Cain grabbed the man’s heavy wrist just above his sparkling bracelet, pulling him away from the crowd, back into the alley. Snarling, Cain leaned forward, putting his own face mere inches from the man’s. “No guns,” he said.

  The man was obviously shocked at the sight of him, but he stood his ground. “I am going back through that door,” he said.

  “No,” Cain said, his voice crackling like fire. “You’re not.”

  Cain shoved the man toward the street. The man took a few unbalanced steps, turned and looked at Cain again, and then quickly headed out of the alley and into the crowds.

  Once he was gone, Cain stepped back away from the door again, away from the exiting crowd into the scant shadow of the dumpster, trying his best to become inconspicuous, afraid of sending panicked people back into the restaurant.

  Careful to watch the crowd, careful to make sure that Zhdanov wasn’t attempting to slip out with the others, Cain stood in the alley, heart hammering, wanting nothing more than to push his way through the shoving crowds and make his way to Zhdanov inside. But there were too many people, too much fear and confusion. He had to wait until they cleared out.

  And then he heard a woman screaming.

  * * * * *

  Kate saw Rusalka grab Argonaut’s face, saw her ecstatic reaction. “Oh, hell,” Kate said.

  Argonaut had grabbed at Rusalka’s hand, but he seemed unable to pull away.

  Kate stepped closer, pointed at the Russian woman, and blasted her with her air cannon—releasing air compressed to 350 pounds per square inch in a small burst.

  Rusalka was thrown away from Argonaut and across the restaurant, smashing into a table. She lay there for a moment, and Kate wondered if she’d badly injured the woman, but then she saw the Russian quickly pulling herself to her feet.

  “You okay?” Kate asked Argonaut.

  He had fallen to his knees when Rusalka had been knocked away from him, but was rallying. “I feel weak,” he said, “but I’ll be okay.” He started to pull himself to his feet, but collapsed backward again. He was going to be out of it for a few seconds. It was up to her.

  “That was not very nice,” Rusalka said. She grabbed a metal chair and hurled it at Kate. It slammed into her with incredible force, staggering Kate backward. She had Argonaut’s strength, Kate realized.

  And then Rusalka leaped across the room like a pouncing cougar, grabbing Kate, rending at her armor with her hands.

  “What the hell?” Samuel shouted over her communicator. “I’m getting all sorts of warning lights.”

  Kate struggled to push the woman away. “She’s incredibly strong,” she said. “And she’s twisting at the armor’s joints. She’s trying to break me open.” She tried to get in position to shoot the air cannon again, but the Russian was ready for it, holding her arms, preventing her from getting in position to shoot.

  “Don’t you have some kind of electric current in that thing you can shock her with? Your dad once—”

  “No,” she interrupted him, not ready to listen to another story of battles past at this moment. “My armor’s less con
ductive than his. I’ve been developing something, but it’s not ready yet.”

  She butted Rusalka with her head. Blood flowed into the Russian woman’s eyes, but she kept smiling maniacally. Kate looked over at Argonaut. He was still shaken, still trying to pull himself to his feet. Zhdanov began to concentrate on Kate’s left arm, twisting at the elbow, and Kate realized that it was only a matter of time before the joints there broke under the pressure. Given the insane woman’s strength, Kate’s arm would probably be ripped off. She amped up her speakers to maximum yield. “Get the hell off me!” she shouted. The words echoed through the restaurant, and Zhdanov winced in pain as the sound blasted her eardrums. But she didn’t let go.

  Where the hell was Bedlam?

  The reinforced carbon and plastic polymers at the left elbow joint reached their critical stress tolerance and cracked.

  And then an elderly man with tanned, wiry arms and a shock of white hair stepped forward and threw a pot of steaming coffee into Rusalka’s face.

  * * * * *

  Rusalka was screaming, clutching at her burned face, but Jason saw that she was far too close to Pop. One grab and Pericles Kalodimos would be joining Desma at the cemetery at Devil’s Cape’s Greek Orthodox Cathedral of the Ascension. Jason was nauseated, dizzy, weak. His face felt shriveled where she’d touched him. But that didn’t matter. He rushed forward, unceremoniously punched Zhdanov in the jaw with all of his waning strength, and then grabbed his father and flew him out the front door to the safety of the street beyond.

  “You’re a feisty one, Pop,” he said.

  The old man blinked at finding himself in the street, then placed a tanned, scarred hand on his son’s shoulder. “And you are a hero, my Argonaut,” he said.

  Jason leaned forward, kissed his father on the forehead, and rushed back into Zorba’s.

  * * * * *

  Cain reacted to the scream, brushing by the last of the escaping patrons, one of whom screamed and bashed him on the head with a cell phone as he burst into the restaurant.