by Rob Rogers
Spotting two news helicopters, including one from his own station, he pantomimed some suggestions for them to evade the pursuit, steering them through places where it would be more difficult for the helicopters to keep track of them.
He worried, too, about what Uncle Costas might do with the information he had.
He was still pondering that, and what to do about Julian, when Doctor Camelot spoke.
“Before we get there,” she said, “we need to stop someplace for a few minutes so that I can tell you what I know about the Cirque d’Obscurité and what we might be able to do to catch them.”
“I know a spot,” Jason said.
* * * * *
A locked door on the bottom level of the Lehane University clock tower prevented anyone but authorized personnel—typically, whoever maintained the clock itself—from accessing the stairs to the upper levels. But Jason and Julian had discovered years ago that no one ever bothered to lock the windows on the top floor.
From behind the face of the huge illuminated clock, Jason, Doctor Camelot, and Bedlam could see the wide panorama of Devil’s Cape. The twisted, curving roads. The strange hodgepodge buildings thrown together with whatever building materials the pirates could plunder. The rooftop of the Devil’s Cape Public Library, with its mix of angels and gargoyles. The Castelo Branco City Courthouse and its stained glass window of the Great Flood. And, far in the distance, boats and ships passing each other on Lake Pontchartrain.
The tower also gave Jason a good view of his brother’s penthouse apartment, where the lights were currently off.
“No one’s likely to interrupt us?” Doctor Camelot asked.
Jason shook his head.
Ducett was staring out the window, fingers against the glass. Looking at Holingbroke? Jason wondered. Looking for something else?
Doctor Camelot more or less ignored the view of the city. Instead, she was focused on a blank wall. Then a bright light came out of her right shoulder and a life-sized image of Hector Hell appeared on the wall. He was standing on a mound of sand, the ocean behind him. Short and pudgy, with thinning ginger hair and a beard, he wore yellow spandex decorated in orange and red flames, accented by a red cape and boots. His hands were shrouded in flames.
“That’s an attention-getter,” Jason said, leaving it up to the others to decide if he was talking about the costume or Doctor Camelot’s projector. He wasn’t sure himself.
Ducett came and stood beside him, staring with curiosity at the figure on the wall, his arms crossed, the wing flaps dangling down. Jason wondered how much personality he could read from a photo, how much of a profile he could build based on what the man wore and how he held himself.
“Hector Hell,” Doctor Camelot said, “is the leader of the team and probably the most dangerous of them. His real name’s Hector Nelson Poteete. Like most of the team, he was a sideshow attraction before they got their powers, but he was a fire-eater, not a freak. Now he’s a pyrokinetic, which means that he can create and manipulate fire. He can yield incredibly high temperatures and can take the heat, too; he is extremely resistant to it.”
“He’s got a lot invested in the Cirque d’Obscurité succeeding,” Jason said. “The Robber Baron has given him and the team control over most of the operations of the Ferazzoli crime family. He’s looking to grow roots here.”
Doctor Camelot looked at him sideways, obviously wondering what his sources of information were.
He looked back at her the same way.
After a minute, she switched images. They saw a tall, twisted figure standing on the sides of his feet in front of a brick wall sprayed with graffiti, most of the words in Spanish. His greenish skin was hairless and scaly. He was barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of red shorts. His legs and left arm looked awkwardly long, but his right arm was longer, extending far beyond the edge of the projection. “Kraken’s real name is Clayton Xavier Stecker,” she said. “He was the Indian rubber man in the sideshow, billed as the Karnivorous Kraken of Kiribati. Back then he was double-jointed and could dislocate his limbs without flinching. Now he takes that natural elasticity to the next level. He can now stretch his entire body to something approaching fifty feet, has above-average strength and body control, and can squash himself flat enough to slip under a door with a two-inch gap. Because of his elasticity, he’s likely very resistant to blunt trauma.” She looked at them. “He’s a suspected rapist, too.”
“I think he’s the one who strangled Swashbuckler,” Jason said, remembering the sight of the young man’s broken body. “I saw the crime scene.”
Doctor Camelot stared at him and he wished that he could see more of her face behind her mask.
The image of Kraken disappeared, followed quickly by the furry, feral body of the Werewolf. He sat hunched on all fours on the stump of a cypress tree, his elongated snout lifted upward. Foam flecked the edges of his mouth, and his long teeth were coated with blood. “This was the photographer’s last picture,” Doctor Camelot said. “The Werewolf is an Austrian named Errando Geringer. At a young age, he suffered from hypertrichosis, or abnormal hair growth, with long hair all over his face. He was billed as Errando the Wolf-Boy then, but whatever event gave the Cirque d’Obscurité team members their powers gave him the ability to change his shape. He can be a normal man, a wolf, or anywhere in between, although this hybrid stage”—she gestured at the image—“seems to be his preferred form for combat. Watch out for his claws and fangs. He’s also got superhuman strength, speed, and resilience.” She turned to Ducett. “Probably on a par with yours, judging by the size of the concrete blocks I saw you lifting at the warehouse.”
Ducett’s smile showed those needle-sharp teeth, like a bat’s. “Maybe I should get a silver bullet,” he said.
If she smiled back behind her mask, they couldn’t see it. “He’s not especially vulnerable to silver,” she said. “Nor are his changes tied to lunar cycles. He is just a very powerful, animalistic man prone to homicidal rages.”
No-nonsense, Jason thought. Abrupt and to the point. She was scared, he realized. They all were. The steamroller briefing was just her way of dealing with it.
Out the window, he saw the lights in Julian’s apartment flick on. Was he there alone, Jason wondered? With Uncle Costas?
The quality of the next picture was poorer, the edges pixilated, the color faded. But they could make out the hauntingly damaged features regardless. Gork was turning away from the camera, some type of rifle in his hands, jogging toward a grove of bamboo. He wore a black T-shirt over jeans. Every inch of exposed skin was puckered with scars.
“Gork takes his name from a medical slang term,” Doctor Camelot said. “It means—”
“Brain dead,” Bedlam said. “Or so far gone it’s hopeless. Stands for ‘God only really knows.’ It’s the kind of word residents use when they’re trying to act like they’ve seen it all.”
Doctor Camelot tilted her head. “That’s right,” she said. “His identity’s never been confirmed, but the general assumption is that he’s Frank Horodenski, the carnival electrician. He’s like a walking wound, his entire body covered with burns. He can’t feel pain anymore, and he’s very strong. You hear those reports of mothers lifting cars off of their children with a burst of hysterical strength? Well, he’s got the equivalent twenty-four/seven.”
“He’s good with the rifle,” Jason said. He remembered Miss Chance’s body, the red hole in the center of her forehead. “A sniper.” He looked at Julian’s apartment again. He recognized his uncle’s silhouette.
“He’s been seen wearing a belt with a large belt buckle engraved with a skull,” Ducett said. “The description I heard made me think the buckle might be a hidden knife.”
Doctor Camelot nodded. “He’s not really as powerful as the rest of them, but he’s one of the most ruthless. We shouldn’t underestimate him.”
Gork’s picture was replaced by Osprey’s. She was flying, of course, arms at her sides, diving forward, a cruel, joyous smile on
her face, a knife clutched in each hand. “Osprey,” Doctor Camelot said, “is from here in Louisiana, a Creole named Sasha Crozier. She was part of a family of aerialists, but abandoned them when the Cirque group split off from the carnival. She was about twelve.”
She shook her head. “She’s got something of a knife fetish. She’s got bladed claws on her gloves and boots, and it’s been documented that she carries a brace of throwing knives, too.” She pointed at the knives in Osprey’s hands. “Those blades are called katars or Bundi daggers. You don’t thrust or slash with them. You punch. It’s an extension of your fist.” She nodded at Osprey’s image. “She was trained to be a trapeze artist from age three. She can spin and corner with those wings like you wouldn’t believe. You know, the fastest animal in the world isn’t the cheetah. It’s the peregrine falcon. Osprey’s been clocked at over two hundred miles an hour in a dive. You don’t want her diving into you with those knives.”
Ducett shook his head. “You’re right about that,” he said.
Doctor Camelot looked at him. “She hates other people with wings,” she said.
Jason remembered the crushed form of the Winged Tornado, his wings carved right off his body.
“She’ll target you first,” Doctor Camelot said to Ducett.
He nodded. “And that leaves the Behemoth,” he said. “He killed the last Doctor Camelot.” He looked at her. “He’ll target you. And you’ll target him.”
She was quiet for a moment, then silently switched the image. She probably could have chosen from any of a dozen images of the Behemoth, but the one she selected was Vanguard City, taken a few seconds before the previous Doctor Camelot’s death. The hero stood in his shining armor in a damaged section of the Roscoe Clay Bridge, the Behemoth’s hands grasping his head. The Behemoth towered over him—he was about ten feet tall, covered with tattoos, huge tusks jutting from his mouth.
“Zechariah Woods, AKA the Behemoth,” Doctor Camelot said, her voice shaking. “The Behemoth is perhaps the most powerful of them all. His strength had never been effectively measured. He is incredibly resistant to any kind of damage.” She seemed about to say something more, to give more detail, but she stopped, staring at the image for a long while before shutting off the projector. “Don’t face him alone,” she said, her voice breaking again.
As they flew out of the tower, Jason could see his brother and his uncle, deep in conversation.
* * * * *
“You did what?” Julian said to his Uncle Costas, feeling the anger rise in his voice. He never spoke back to his uncle, but today seemed to be a day filled with exceptions.
“I sent them after the Cirque d’Obscurité,” Costas said, ignoring the implied rebuke.
The two men sat in Julian’s penthouse apartment, glasses of red wine untouched on the table between them.
“There are only three of them,” Julian said. “They’ll be slaughtered.”
“Jason is very resourceful,” Costas said, the hint of a smile on his lips.
So he knew. It wasn’t that great of a surprise, actually, but it was another complication.
“Our agreement,” Julian said, rubbing at a sore spot on his jaw, “was that you would keep Pop and Jason out of your affairs. You haven’t done a very good job of sticking to your agreement today, uncle.”
Costas let his eyelids droop. “Odd coincidence, them coming across the Russian and me this evening.”
“You should never have been there with her,” Julian said, standing up. He sighed. The argument wasn’t accomplishing anything. “You were trying to get her to kill the Robber Baron,” he said, “not the circus freaks. So why not send Argonaut and the others after him instead?”
Costas shook his head and reached for his wine, taking a sip. It turned his lips red. “For what?” he said. “They’re not killers like her. They wouldn’t just murder him for me. They are trying to imprison criminals, and the Robber Baron is not wanted for any crimes. The Cirque d’Obscurité, at least, can be arrested. The police superintendent has turned a blind eye to them so far, but even he couldn’t be so blatant as to let them go if they’re brought into custody by a group of new superheroes in the middle of a media circus.” He sipped the wine again. “I can live with the Robber Baron, if I can only get his hired goons out of the way. No,” he said. “They’re a different tool than she is. I needed to use them in a different way.”
“They’re not much of a tool if they get themselves killed,” Julian said quietly.
Costas shrugged. “I didn’t have any choice, Julian,” he said. “They were all I had.”
Julian breathed. He stared at the Kerageorgiu painting that Jason had liked, the trombone player in the middle of Lockheardt Street, putting everything he had into a song that no one was listening to. “They’re not all you have,” he said softly.
Costas stood up. “No,” he said, his face turning pale. “Absolutely not. Anything you do is tied back to me. You cannot get involved in this.”
Julian watched his uncle’s face for a moment, then sighed. “I guess you’re right,” he said. Turning his back on his uncle, he walked to his bedroom. “I need some sleep, Uncle Costas,” he said. “You can let yourself out. Don’t forget to finish your wine before you go.”
He closed the door behind him.
Maybe it’s the air of menace that draws us to Devil’s Cape. Or maybe it’s the idea that in Devil’s Cape, we can be a little wicked, too.
— Excerpted from A Devil’s Cape Traveler’s Guide
Chapter Forty-Seven
Devil’s Cape, Louisiana
Nine days after the deaths of the Storm Raiders
11 p.m.
“Uncle Samuel?” Kate asked again. There was still no answer. He hadn’t returned to her lab.
The impromptu briefing in the Lehane University clock tower had both encouraged Kate and shaken her. She was impressed with Bedlam and Argonaut, with their intelligence and perception. But running through the names and faces of the Cirque d’Obscurité had just served to remind her how outnumbered the three of them were. The Cirque members were absolutely ruthless and had been working together for more than twenty years. It was an incredible advantage.
The mansion where they were holed up was a problem, too. State-of-the-art sensors. Machine guns. And neighbors way too close for Kate’s liking. Anyone walking a dog or returning home late from a movie became a potential hostage.
Their best hope, the three of them agreed, was to hit as fast as possible. If they could isolate one or more of the Cirque team and incapacitate them before they could warn the others, maybe they had a chance.
* * * * *
Clay Stecker—Kraken—had taken an immediate liking to Tony Ferazzoli’s spacious home when he and the rest of the Cirque d’Obscurité had arrived there to murder the man. Decorated according to Ferazzoli’s expensive tastes, the house had a well-stocked bar, dozens of electronic gizmos, and even a small movie theater in the back. Its landscaped backyard included a huge in-ground swimming pool, a hot tub, and a high-end barbecue grill, all shaded by cypress and maple trees and crepe myrtles. The air was filled with the scent of flowers and the soft croaks of frogs. The nearest neighbors were closer than Stecker might have preferred; despite their size, the homes in Doubloon Ward were packed close together. But the neighbors seemed to keep to themselves. No one had come to investigate even when Ferazzoli had screamed his loudest.
It had been Kraken’s idea to ask the Robber Baron if they could take the place over. Ferazzoli’s Mrs. had left town before the blood had even dried. “Hell,” Stecker had said, running an arm across the silk sheets on one of the the Ferazzolis’ guest beds, “I could learn to like it here.”
He was taking a dip in the pool—it helped keep his scales from drying out if he took a swim now and then, chlorine or not—when he saw three figures streaking through the sky overhead. “Oh, crap,” he said.
But Kraken was a wily fighter with years of experience. Half a second after spotting the
approaching figures, he stretched one arm up to Ferazzoli’s house, punching through a window and setting off the loud whoop of the burglar alarm to let the rest of his team know to expect trouble. “Boys and girls,” he muttered to no one in particular as he rose to meet the flying figures headed toward him, “the shit has hit the fan.”
* * * * *
Cain spotted Kraken in the pool first and pointed him out to the others.
Hoping to keep him from alerting his teammates, all three heroes flew toward him. Cain pulled himself into a dive, feeling the wind playing against his fur.
But Kraken spotted them and reacted fast. He stretched an arm out of the pool, across the patio, and up to the second floor of the house, unflinchingly driving his fist through an upstairs window. A loud alarm cut through the night air.
Pulling the arm back and stretching his legs so that his torso hovered some twenty feet off the ground, Kraken smiled at them like the Cheshire Cat, beckoning them closer with his arms. “Y’all are in so much trouble,” he said. “This won’t be pretty, I promise you that.”
Cain started to swoop closer, thinking that he might grab one of the man’s arms and haul him into the air, when Doctor Camelot said, “Hang on.”
She dove low, heading just to one side of Kraken, her armor glistening in the light coming from the water. As Kraken reached toward her, she pointed at him and a small projectile with tiny trailing wires flew out of her arm, lodging in his scaly belly. His entire, elongated body shook and danced as an electrical charge ran through him, exacerbated by the water of the pool. One arm swept spasmodically across the lawn, uprooting a rose bush and sending a chaise lounge careening end over end into the side of the house. Then he collapsed in on himself like a rubber band and fell convulsing into the water.
