"Perhaps," said Aurora, "but some knowledge is too dangerous, even for us. Bluebell hid the knowledge from our minds – from all of our minds, and such an action cannot be undone."
Hephaestus frowned and adjusted his grip on his hammer. Aurora's smile widened.
"All we need to do is stop the Cowl taking the final vault."
"So," the Greek god began, "why did we let him go, again? If his accomplice was injured we could have treated her here."
Aurora's expression was unchanged. "While we are – were – able to track the other vaults, the location of the final secret was designed as a mystery, even to us. We need to locate it as much as he does. Perhaps he can lead us there."
"Ah." Hephaestus glanced at the others, then back to Aurora. "You have been expecting this to happen, my lord?"
"Sooner or later," said Aurora, tilting his head just a little, almost in amusement.
Hephaestus nodded, then waved at SMART to follow. The two lumbered out, followed by Bluebell, Sand Cat and Linear.
The Dragon Star did not move. She sat at the opposite end of the conference table from Aurora, and, alone together, she finally met Aurora's blank gaze, raising her head until the wide hood slipped back. Still she said nothing. The two heroes sat, staring, for ten seconds before Aurora broke the silence.
"Dragon Star, dismissed." He rose and, sweeping his cloak around his wide frame, strode from the room.
The Dragon Star relaxed, just a little, one hand sliding down her powerstaff a little, the other fingering the data stick hidden underneath the fold in her cloak. She sat for a few more seconds, then left the room, staff clacking loudly on the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
"Are you sure about this?"
Sam frowned and she heard Joe's chair shift next to hers as her partner tried to get comfortable. They'd been in Gillespie's office nearly all afternoon, had spent hours trawling through the data, through surveillance reports and summary sheets prepped by Joe, through request forms and requisition orders filled out by Sam. All the evidence was there, laid out on the small conference table that filled the space of the police chief's office that wasn't taken up by his actual desk.
They had it all there, no problem.
"Is there a problem, captain?" Sam's eyes roved the table top. There were the surveillance photographs showing the target, an athleticlooking young woman with spiky dyed-black hair coming and going from a nondescript apartment building out in the eastern side of downtown. Other photos of her in the CIT parking lot. She'd been trailed all over the city, but the plainclothes out in the field had reported several times when she'd somehow dropped off their radar altogether. She was clearly hiding something, and was doing it with some skill.
It had taken a full two weeks to gather enough evidence – a relatively short space of time, all things considered. Aside from the supposed connection between the names and the information from Lansbury down in ballistics about the fabric, there was nothing to actually link Doctor Ravenholt with Blackbird, nothing more than coincidences and circumstantial evidence. But they needed to talk to her about the fabric, and the best option was a raid. Under any normal circumstances that was probably well over the top, but considering who the suspect most likely was – and who she was partnered with – they needed decisive action.
Gillespie's office was stuffy, but at least he had a window and a view of the city. Sam hadn't been back to ballistics since she and Joe had gotten the results of Lansbury's analysis. Since that hot afternoon underneath the city streets, Sam's laboratory phobia had come back – or, more likely, her phobia of aged ballistics experts who went by the name Lansbury. Speaking on the phone was no better – every time she'd done it in the last two weeks she could just imagine the scientist in her antique office, sitting on the antique chair that no way in hell could have been either comfortable or good for her back, eyes closed and with the confident smile that people who thought they knew everything had.
"Sir, I'm happy with the data we have, and I think we can proceed." Sam knew the chief was just testing. They hadn't gone over everything for nothing and Gillespie had been the model of attention. It was on his neck too, she realized – they'd blown the Seven Wonders off once already and were now going to proceed with their investigation without them. Which was, Sam had argued, essential, given the interference from Bluebell. But on that matter, at least, their hands were tied. While there was no authority they could have complained to about the actions of the town's superteam, they were at least within their rights to do their job and take the Cowl – and Blackbird – down, should the opportunity arise. If the Seven Wonders wanted to complain about that when they handed them Blackbird, or the Cowl, or both, Sam wanted to see them try to mindwipe a whole country via the dozens of television cameras she hoped would be watching.
Gillespie grunted and sat back, which was as much indication as he was ever likely to give that he was satisfied. He put his hands behind his head and looked at Joe.
"Teams ready?"
Joe slid to the edge of his seat. "Picked and ready. We just need you to sign the warrant application and we can get it to a judge. Once everything is stamped we'll be good to go tomorrow morning."
Gillespie looked at Sam. Sam said nothing… but for a second or two she thought her chief was in tune with her perfectly. No more hiding, no more fudging reports and – quite frankly, committing federal offenses in her furtive pursuit of the Cowl.
"This is it, Sam." He never called her Sam. Sam felt heat pricking behind her eyeballs. "This is for David."
Sam nodded and the world seemed a thousand miles away.
"Go bag us that sonovabitch and save the city."
Sam smiled.
"Yes, sir."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
She was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. Not unconscious, but sleeping, helped along by a carefully calculated cocktail of pharmaceuticals. Eyes closed, lips apart, she looked angelic and peaceful. The red mark on her forehead was already fading; the Cowl was grateful for the protection Blackbird's mask had provided, because she was unpowered, unsuper, and the impact from the Flyball Ninja's nth metal baseball would otherwise have killed her. It seemed that some superheroes took risks when things got desperate.
The Cowl pushed his half-mask off and ran a hand through his hair, becoming Geoff Conroy once more. He stood by the side of the infirmary bed and counted the seconds between Blackbird's breaths. She would sleep for a while. Thankfully she had remained unconscious throughout their entire flight across the city, from the ballpark via the Gaslight Quarter. During his meeting with the Justiciar, as he had called himself.
Now, that was interesting. A new superpowered man in the city… just as he had lost his own powers. Very interesting indeed.
She would sleep for a while, and when she woke up the city would be a different place. The Cowl would be no more. Of that, he was certain.
Conroy wanted to hold her hand, but to do so while she slept and with the thoughts racing through his mind, it seemed inappropriate, an invasion. He closed his eyes and thought of God and squeezed the rosary beads in his right fist.
And oh, what had he done? Abduction, coercion, rape – not physical, far from it – that wasn't the kind of villainy the Cowl was known for. But, in essence, he felt it was the same. Manipulation of the mind, of feelings, emotions. He'd abused his sidekick from the very start, subjecting her to a subtle mental assault. He had terrorized her just as he had terrorized the city; broken her to his will, drawn her down the dark path. All the while she had come, willingly. Perhaps that was the hardest fact to bear.
She'd been brought up well by her parents, taught values, principles, her duty as a citizen, her pride at being a native of San Ventura, the Shining City.
Her parents' death had shattered her life – pride turned to bitterness, and the feeling that the city had betrayed her and the Seven Wonders had abandoned her began to grow. Her duty became a cause, her anger became a mission.
&nb
sp; The Cowl killed Jean Ravenholt's parents and had spawned Blackbird. A word here, a motion there, and she was in his grasp. Her technical skill was needed and he'd piloted her rage at the city and the world into something far colder, far more dangerous. She'd united with him. He'd promised her the city. He'd promised her revenge.
Conroy reached for her hand again and this time he did not hesitate. His hands were cold and hers were warm and dry. Her breathing did not alter. He could see the pulse gently ticking in her neck. Her injury was superficial but she would wake up with a headache. And she'd wake up to find herself alone.
Conroy jerked his hand back. His eyes were wet, but he felt nothing but calm inside. He stood like that for some minutes, listening to Blackbird breathing, aware of a growing tightness in his chest.
Without powers, he was nothing. Oh, he was smart, he knew secrets, he was rich and had resources. But he was suddenly mortal, suddenly at risk. Everything was now dangerous. He couldn't continue as he was. But more importantly, something stirred within him. A feeling, fleeting only but still there, that he had taken the wrong path himself. That whatever he wanted to achieve… he had done it wrong. Made a mistake.
Committed a sin.
If he was at risk, so was she. If he had been powered as normal, none of this would have happened. The Flyball Ninja would have been dead in a second.
How many others had he killed without a thought?
Oh, Blackbird was fine, would be fine; had a mild concussion but nothing life-threatening. But it was the thought of what could have been which filled Conroy's veins with ice.
He may have created her, but Blackbird was special to him. Their love, at least, was genuine.
Conroy left the infirmary.
When he next took a breath, he was standing on the narrow grille bridge that connected the central platform of the Lair, with the big computer and control station, to the main exit. The air was slightly damp and when he finally breathed in he could taste something organic and could smell something musty, the two together combining to form something softly choking, the residue of bat droppings, perhaps, or something dry and moldering at the bottom of the Lair's deep pits.
He didn't remember walking from the infirmary to the platform. When he turned he saw the computer was on, the main display showing a view of San Ventura's main shopping plaza patched in from one of the city's CCTV cameras. San Ventura was well covered by them, supplied and installed by Conroy Industries.
San Ventura. He thought he ruled it. Well… didn't he? As Geoff Conroy he controlled most of the large business in the city and had influence over the mayor, the police commissioner, the city council and a dozen other key personnel at City Hall. As the Cowl, he controlled most of the underworld, the criminals and villainy, all part of his ultimate goal, to remove the Seven Wonders.
Well, not all of the city's dark underbelly, but those he didn't control directly were influenced, inspired by his actions to take up his omega sigil and form their own groups and organizations.
The city was in his thrall.
Conroy felt dizzy. Years of work had got him… nowhere. He had money, minor fame, major infamy. But the Seven Wonders were still there. And while they showed little interest in his daily affairs, whenever he tried something big, they put him down.
Conroy laughed and the sound was ugly and reverberated around the cavern. Put him down? No. They poked their noses in, did the minimum required, then let him go. They'd done it just tonight. There he was, deposited right in front of all seven of them – all seven! – by that newcomer, and they'd told him to leave. No arrest, no admonishment. He was free to go and come back another day.
And the newcomer. He was violent, brash, uncontrolled. Sooner or later he was going to do something that even the Cowl would have balked at, and then the Seven Wonders really would have to do something.
Conroy reached into the pocket of his linen suit. He stopped and glanced down, not remembering when he got changed out of the Cowl's suit, not remembering taking a shower and cleaning himself up.
He stood still for a few minutes, then blinked.
He was not only losing his powers, he was losing his mind.
His hand continued its journey into his pocket, and his fingers touched something bulky and smooth. His fingers gripped the object tightly, then he pulled the rosary beads out and began to count them.
Conroy turned back to the main display and watched the city for a while. It was late, but it was busy. Always busy.
He descended into hell; the third day He rose again.
Geoff Conroy walked to the exit and began to pray.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The knock was the classic pattern − da-da-da-de-da… da da. The kind employed by friends who weren't quite in the top league, or by mailmen too cocky for their own good. Whoever it was, it got Tony's back up the instant he heard it. It announced, quite clearly, that someone Tony didn't know and didn't invite was at the door. And Tony hated, fucking hated, the unannounced and unexpected.
He rolled out of bed, leaving Jeannie asleep. The long and late hours she pulled at her mystery job left her whacked most mornings, and today was no exception. He didn't know what time she'd come in, but there was an odd bruise on her forehead and he was tired himself from the previous night's exploits on the rooftops of the city. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and one of the ubiquitous black T-shirts that littered the floor, and took a breath to call out to the unwanted visitors, telling them in no uncertain terms to get lost before he came to the door and told them the same face-to-face.
Tony stopped, catching the call in his throat. Something wasn't right. He could hear it. The morning was quiet and it was easy to focus his supedup hearing on the hallway outside. He didn't even really think about it, it came naturally to him now. He was growing into his new powers.
There were three people in the hall, waiting by his front door. But they didn't sound like normal visitors. The slippery sound of cotton and denim was missing, so it wasn't a postman or neighbor or one of the guys from the Big Deal. The harsher scratch of synthetics like nylon or polyester was also absent, so it wasn't a Mormon or some cold caller trying to get him to change power companies. He listened for the air currents, but it was mostly still, no breezes or streams caused by coats swinging or jackets being straightened. Whoever was outside the door wasn't wearing ordinary fabrics. Aside from the floor creaking beneath three pairs of feet, the visitors were almost silent, wearing something tight. Something like… spandex?
Superheroes. The Seven Wonders. Well, shit. He shouldn't have been so naive to think they wouldn't have managed to work out who he was. They were here to dress him down for last night's little escapade.
Wait, that was good, right? OK, they weren't perfect. In fact, the superteam were part of the whole problem of San Ventura. But they'd seen him dealing with the Cowl, and they'd traced him back here. They wanted to meet him and talk, and explain how everything wasn't working how it should, how they needed new blood, how they were impressed with his work in the Gaslight Quarter, how they saw he had the courage to stand up to the Cowl and had delivered the supervillain right to them (and boy, didn't that feel grand?), how he'd fundamentally changed the way they saw crime and their responsibility to the city, how they needed his help to make a case to put the Cowl behind bars and clean the place up and make San Ventura the best city in America and…
A second knock, shorter this time, just three raps, but much louder. Tony cleared his head, and realized that his heart was pounding a little. He pushed himself forward, toward the door. Now he felt nervous. They were here to kick his ass, right? Well, he could deal. He was more powerful than all of them put together.
He called out this time, the standard stalling tactic of "Hold on!" He reached for the handle and his ears pricked at a subsonic whoosh, a thin envelope of air parting quickly then collapsing again. The floor creaked again, revealing only two people now. Linear had stepped into the Slipstream and left. Well OK. One down, two to
go.
Tony opened the door. In front of him, in the narrow hallway, stood the lithe warrior woman, Sand Cat, her brown and ochre suede-like catsuit, dark skin and black hair a sharp contrast to the electric blue and white stripes of Bluebell's equally figure-hugging outfit, pale skin and short peroxide hair. Sand Cat's expression was pleasant but guarded, a thin smile and a raised eyebrow the only greeting offered. Over her shoulder, Bluebell's face was creased in a wide smile showing perfect teeth. Tony wasn't sure which he preferred. But one thing was clear: both were very fake.
"Ah, hi there," he said. He wanted to play it cool. They'd only seen him in his Justiciar suit, and while they'd obviously discovered his identity, he wanted to find out how. It was time to play dumb, let them do all the work. Sit back and enjoy the game.
Sand Cat said nothing. Bluebell's eyes flickered beyond Tony, into the apartment, for just a second. The air whooshed again, at a volume far below the detection of normal humans. Tony realized this too late, spinning around to find Linear relaxing on his couch, his featureless silver face looking in Tony's direction. Tony could see the man's jaw move under the mask, like maybe the hero was smiling at something.
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