Black and Blue

by Nancy O'Toole Meservier

  “Radioactive spiders?

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, that’s the internet for you. Anyway, it looks like Marty was receiving private messages from someone.” The sound of the mouse clicking filled the air. “A…Daniel Forger?”

  “Daniel what?” I took a step forward.

  “That can’t be a coincidence,” Dawn said.

  “But would Marty have been able to pick up on it?”

  “Calypso did talk about the Forgers openly before the transference. He would be familiar with the term at the very least.”

  “But he might not know what it means.” I paused, then frowned. “And why would a Forger be so open about who he is? That doesn’t match up with the two we met.”

  “Phew,” Dana interrupted. “It’s a good thing I have my evil self’s repressed memories floating around in my mind or this would be a very confusing conversation to follow.”

  Evil self? I was about to ask him what the hell he was talking about until I remembered Calypso. My old boss had ordered us to abduct five individuals: Edison Kent, Joanna St. Pierre, Sylvie Bouchard, Arthur Hamilton, and Dana Peterson. Ten years ago, they had promised her power. Unfortunately, the process had broken her mind, leading Calypso to seek revenge. Only, when she came to collect, no one could remember what had happened. This was thanks to Amity, who had wiped their minds way back when. When it came to people like Edison Kent, it seems like all she had to do was erase a few memories involving Calypso. With Dana, on the other hand, she had needed to do some serious rewiring. Apparently, the person that he had been before hadn’t been all that nice. To reactivate Dana’s ability to transfer powers from one person to another, Amity had needed to unlock all those memories.

  Dawn blinked, turning to him.

  “You remember that much?”

  “It comes back in random waves,” Dana replied. “I’ll stumble across something and it will trigger a specific memory. Like, what a cute dog! Oh, I tortured and killed small animals as a child. Isn’t that grand?”

  As he spoke, his voice reached an almost hysterical note.

  “My god. Are you okay Dana?” Dawn asked.

  “It’s like having memories of being possessed,” he said. “All the evil, just less head-twirling and vomiting. I have to hold back the urge to shower at least four times a day.”

  “But you do remember the Forgers?” I asked. “Did you…or past you…ever meet them?”

  “Asshole-me never dealt with them directly, no,” Dana replied. “Just heard rumors through the grapevine, enough to make him realize that they wouldn’t take too kindly to someone with the ability to make Empowered people. At least, someone who wasn’t working for them.” He paused. “Huh.”

  “What is it?” I asked, as Dawn leaned over Dana’s shoulder.

  “The conversation with Mr. Forger here,” Dana replied. “It looks like Marty had been asking around for a while about finding someone who has the ability to locate Actuals. The two of them chat for a bit. Daniel asks him a bunch of personal questions, seemingly confirming that he’s actually Marty Tong, and then he starts providing answers.”

  “Hunter Davies!” Dawn exclaimed, reading off the screen. “That’s who he was looking for at Northwest Comics.”

  “The comic book writer? How would he be able to find Actuals?” Dana asked.

  “He does seem to know a lot about people he’s never met before,” I found myself grumbling, thinking back on the first Hikari comic. The Hunter Davies version of Faultline was different, but he picked up on both of my money problems and my relationship with Dawn. The fact that Faultline’s street clothes included a jacket nearly identical to mine made things too close for comfort.

  “It’s strange to admit,” Dawn said, “given what a big part he plays in our world, but no one really understands how he knows so much.”

  “It makes sense to assume that he’s Empowered,” I added.

  “But why did Marty go to Northwest Comics?” Dawn asked.

  Dana turned to us.

  “Because Mr. Forger told him to,” he said. “Apparently, Hunter Davies works there.”

  10

  Dawn

  The space above Northwest Comics, where Steve and Michael lived, was completely dark. Not like, “we’re at home in bed,” dark. While the two of them were openly morning people, 8:00 p.m. was pushing it. No, Steve was down in the shop, and Michael had left on foot five minutes ago. Staring into the lit, but conveniently empty storefront, I debated cornering Steve right there, demanding that he reveal his secret pen-and-paper-focused identity. Only, I couldn’t. It just felt wrong. How could Steve, my friendly and supportive Steve, be the mysterious and elusive Hunter Davies? The infamous comic book creator? The one responsible for naming every single Actual for the past ten years? It didn’t make any sense! Nothing more than the ramblings of a paranoid conspiracy theorist.

  Although, the more I thought about it…

  Steve was the first person to know about new preview art or release date. But that could be explained by the fact that he, you know, owned a comic book store and was great at his job. At the same time, he had once revealed that, during high school, he had created a web comic. And when I had asked to see it, he had turned me down. I always assumed that it was due to shyness, or maybe even embarrassment. But maybe it was due to Hunter Davies’s unique style of art?

  And perhaps the most damning piece of evidence, Northwest Comics always had the latest Hunter Davies comic. And I couldn’t think of a single other store that could make that claim. They were famously hard to get your hands on, but Steve always reserved a copy just for me.

  “Hunter Davies works there.” Dana had said, and Steve hadn’t hired on any help since he had bought the store from the previous owner years ago.

  And while I was too cowardly to talk to him face-to-face, there were other ways of finding out the truth.

  I walked around the building to the back, where a locked door led to the above apartments. Next to it was the fire escape. The ladder hadn’t been pulled down, blocking off access.

  But that was no match for my handy-dandy powers.

  I bent my knees and did a mini-super-jump, letting out a tiny sigh of relief when I managed to make the third-floor landing, as opposed to banging my face against the metal of the fire escape.

  I’ve done it before, and it’s about enjoyable as you might expect.

  After finding my footing, I walked over to where a small potted plant lay, having long since been killed by the cold (or squirrels). I dug around in the dirt and found the key that Steve had stashed away. Back when Alan and I had been teenagers, Steve had told us that he left a key there for Michael. Apparently, he had a habit of locking himself out on his early-morning runs. Unfortunately, they kept forgetting to lower the fire escape, leaving Michael stranded in the back alley more than once.

  Did Steve even remember telling us that?

  Grasping the key in my right hand, I vaulted over the railing once again, landing on the pavement below, not breaking my legs in the process.

  I smiled. Hopefully, this was a sign that things were back under control.

  The key fit fine in the back door (phew!), and I quickly and quietly let myself in.

  The stairwell was so dark, I couldn’t make out the individual steps. Remembering the basement at Colossus Fitness, I reached for a flashlight I knew Steve stored by the door in case of power outages. I clicked it on. The faint beam illuminated my darkened, windowless ascent. I made a mental note to be more cautious about the use of the light once I got up to their apartment, suspecting it might look a little suspicious from the outside. I trekked upward, ignoring the store on the first floor, passing by the empty unit on the second floor, and made my way up to the third where Steve and Michael lived.

  I entered an open-floorplan apartment, consisting of a decent-sized kitchen/dining room duo and a living room. The place was pretty much what you’d expect if you knew anything about Steve and Michael. It
was neat, but not creepy showroom-level clean. The sink wasn’t overflowing with dishes, but there were a couple of coffee mugs in there. The table was completely cleaned off except for the day’s mail. As I moved into the living room, I caught sight of a graphic novel (looks like someone was re-reading Sandman) left open on a red couch, which faced a large flat-screen. The front part of the apartment was made up of tall windows that let in the light of the city. The curtains had been pushed aside, making my flashlight pretty much pointless. I clicked it off.

  Okay, Dawn. Best to do a general sweep-through of the rooms to make sure they don’t have any random house guests before moving onto the specifics.

  There were three doors that led off the main kitchen/living room area. I crossed the apartment and went to the far one first, guessing that it probably led to the bedroom (it did). The second door led to a bathroom, complete with soggy towels. I swiftly made my way to the third one and tugged on the doorknob.

  It was locked.

  I frowned. Given the shape of the building, combined with the fact that Michael worked from home, I figured this would be some sort of office. Michael did coding on a freelance basis, which I guess meant he could be dealing with information that certain companies preferred he keep private. Could that involve locking the door to his office?

  Or was he hiding something more?

  I walked back to the table and pulled up a chair. Stepping up, I removed the hinges from the top and bottom of the door (note to self—don’t forget to put those back!). Given that the door was just as old as the hundred-year-old building it stood in, this would have been pretty heavy for regular Dawn, but as Hikari…

  I didn’t even feel a strain as I removed it from the doorframe.

  The room was pitch black when I stepped inside, as if it were a windowless closet. I frowned and reached next to me to where I found a table-side lamp. I switched it on.

  Then I jerked backward.

  I had thought it kind of strange that, besides a replica of Action Comics No. 1 above the television, there wasn’t a single comic book poster or piece of artwork to be found in the entire apartment (In fact, it was making me doubt the presence of superheroic posters in my bedroom. Was it time to take them down?), but this room made up for it. Pretty much my entire view was covered in comic book art.

  Hunter Davies’s art, to be exact.

  And they weren’t finished products, either. A massive cork board covered most of the back wall, and it was crawling with thumbnails and concept art. I took a step forward to examine a desk dominated by a large drawing pad. Next to that, several pages of the next Hunter Davies comic sat unbound. Weapon’s Master, I couldn’t help but notice.

  I raised a hand to cover my mouth.

  Marty had been heading in the right direction, thanks to this “Daniel Forger.” Steve was Hunter Davies. I shook my head, trying to make sense of it. But I had known him for years. How could…

  “Dawn?”

  I spun around at the familiar voice. Steve stood behind me. And for a couple of seconds, all I could do was linger over how wrong it looked to see him outside of the shop.

  “You’re Hunter Davies,” I said, finding my voice. “Marty was right!”

  He paused, taking a step forward, then smoothed his lips. “Listen, this isn’t what it looks like.”

  “Then why did you call me Dawn?”

  Because how else would he know? I saw Steve pale, as if recognizing his mistake.

  “Actually,” he said. “It’s a little more complicated than that. This isn’t mine. It’s—”

  “Mine.”

  I jumped at the sound of a second voice. We both turned to see Michael standing behind him. He held a notebook—no, a sketchbook—in his hand. Steve turned to Michael, his gaze darting down to the sketchbook.

  “Saw her coming,” he said. “I just failed to get back fast enough.”

  “Wow,” I said, running my fingers through my hair. “I mean…this is kind of amazing, if you think about it. Hunter freaking Davies in Bailey City?” I dropped my hands. “But everyone thinks you live in New York. I mean, you write so much about Silver Shot and Golden Strike. And the comics are shipped from that area!”

  “That’s where the printer is located,” Michael said with a shrug. “I’ve never seen a reason to correct people.”

  As he spoke, he pushed his way into the room and dropped the sketchbook on the desk.

  “How did you figure this out?” he asked. “Does anyone else know?”

  “Faultline,” I said. “And Marty Tong, of course.”

  “Wonderful. Marty Tong and Alex Gage.”

  “How…” I blinked. “Of course, you know who Faultline is. You knew about me. I suspect you know about everyone, don’t you?”

  “For the most part, yes.” He sighed, sitting down in the desk chair. “Which is why we need to make sure that the pool of people that know about me is small. How did you—”

  “Marty’s computer,” I said. “He was poking around in this conspiracy theory website, looking for a way to find Calypso. Someone messaged him saying that he should contact Hunter Davies, who works here.”

  “Which is why he came to my shop and threatened my partner with a gun. Fabulous.”

  Of course! I had assumed, reading Daniel Forger’s message, that he was talking about the person who worked in the actual comic book store. But Michael was a co-owner. Just because he wasn’t a visible part of Northwest Comics like Steve, it didn’t change the fact that his name was on all the paperwork.

  “Who exactly did Marty get this information from?” Michael asked.

  “He went by the name of Daniel Forger,” I replied. “Although given that it’s the internet—”

  “Then it could have been anyone.” His voice grew tense. “Dammit! This is not good.”

  “Mikey, let’s not get too upset,” Steve said, raising both hands.

  “How can I not? I knew that too many people were in the loop already, and who knows how many people this ‘Daniel Forger’ could have told.” He shook his head. “It was probably Amity Graves. And after all my years of covering for her.”

  “Amity knows?” I was unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.

  “Of course. No actual members of the Forgers would use that word in any conversation online. But Amity might just do it for spite. I wonder who else she’s told.”

  “Listen, we don’t know anything for certain yet,” Steve said, taking a couple steps into the room. “If you could get some sketching done…”

  Sketching?

  “Maybe I can help,” I said. “Listen, I know someone who’s good with computers. Maybe he can find out more information about who’s been speaking with Marty, and if he’s told anyone else.”

  Michael paused before responding, a frown spreading across his face.

  “Would that be Dana Peterson?” he asked.

  “Yeah. He kind of owes me.” I shrugged.

  “That’s fine,” he replied, shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m sorry I got so upset.”

  “I did break into your apartment. I suspect most people would be less than pleased.”

  “Did you have to take off my door?”

  “Oh! I can fix that one.” I paused, looking down at his sketchbook “But I have to know…”

  Michael’s gaze followed mine.

  “Steve. Would you mind giving us a minute?” he asked.

  “Are you sure?” Steve asked. “This is—”

  “Yes, I’ll be fine,” he said, his lips twitching upward. “It’s just Dawn, after all.”

  That statement made me very glad that Alex and I had determined that this should be a solo mission. After Dana’s prickly reception, we had surmised that it would be easier for to me talk to Steve, who had been my friend for years, if I wasn’t accompanied by someone who had kinda trashed his shop.

  “Of course,” Steve said, then looked to me. “Sorry I didn’t tell you about all this.”

  “I can see it wasn’t yo
ur secret to tell,” I replied.

  And with that, Steve nodded and left the apartment.

  “The store’s important,” Michael says. “For one thing, it gives us a front. And it means a lot to Steve. The fact that that kid came here looking for me.” He paused, shaking his head. “Regardless, I’m sure that you have questions.”

  “How do you do it?” I stepped forward. “Some of the things you know…you would have needed to be there to get the details right. Unless you’re—”

  “Empowered?” Michael reached down and opened his notebook. I blinked when I saw an image of me—a rough sketch really—going into this very room.

  “I can see across the present,” he said. “All I need to do is think of someone, and I can see what they’re doing. Sometimes, it’s a conscious thing, like when I notice that someone is coming close to Actual status and want to keep an eye on them. Other times, like with this.” He gestured to the picture of me. “I’m just filled with this urge to draw.”

  “Anyone?” I asked. “Then that means you can find Marty!”

  He shook his head and flipped the pages to a far more detailed sketch of Marty sitting in what looked like a white room with no furniture but a mattress. My classmate sat on the edge of the bed, hugging his knees to his chest in a look that made me feel crazy guilty.

  “I check in on him multiple times a day,” Michael said. “Which is a lot, considering that he ran into my store with a gun, shot one of my patrons, and threatened my partner.” He frowned. “But beyond the fact that he’s alive, I can’t see much else. Whoever is keeping him in here is careful not to show their faces. And there isn’t anything particularly identifying about the room.”

  He slammed the sketchbook shut, leaving it on the desk. “It’s a little frustrating, if you ask me.”

  “Can you only see images?” I asked. “No sound, for example?”

  “Usually,” Michael said. “Although sometimes the images come on so strong it’s like the other senses get dragged along with it.”

  “That’s…” I shook my head. “That’s amazing. And you can really see anyone? Like, if I wanted to know what my brother was doing right now?”