by Rich Horton
“Why would he do that?”
The girl shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
“Saying what?”
“Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. People. Funny, ain’t they?”
“A riot.”
“Are you okay, lady?”
“You know, I keep getting asked that.”
“Your cheeks are all flushed and everything.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Don’t keep it all bottled up. You know, like—” and she nodded in the direction of nothing.
“Like what?”
The girl whispered. “Like Professor Whipple. One day a mild- mannered geologist. The next, phhht. Could be aliens, a foreign power, magic, super-villains. We may never know. Anything can happen in this city.”
* * * *
Ginny did not return the Venus diamond. She went home and tried to sleep, leaving the jewel in her belly button. She tossed and turned and her skin tingled. Her toes and fingers kept grasping; she grew alive, more electrified and more feverish as the hours passed. She wanted a man, but there wasn’t any man. Something had awakened in her in the last twenty-four hours, a genie that would not be forced back into its bottle.
Mid-afternoon, she took the green outfit she’d worn to the museum ball and stuffed it in a hefty bag. At Christof’s boutique, Ginny upended the bag at the designer’s feet. “I want this,” she said. “But times ten.”
“Oui, madam. You would like ten outfits like this.”
“No, Christof, I want one outfit like this, but ten times sleeker, ten times more durable, ten times sexier. And I want it in midnight blue. And scarlet. Midnight blue and scarlet. And I need it for tonight. And pockets.”
“Oui, madam. Will there be anything else?”
“A mask. Something understated. Something to highlight my cheekbones.”
He looked at her evenly. “A mask. Is there to be a masquerade?”
“To my knowledge, no.”
“Ah.”
“Can you have it by, say, 2:00 A.M.?”
“To anyone else I say, I am not a miracle worker. But you are my favorite customer so to you I say, I am a miracle worker. You will have your costume by 2:00 A.M.”
“Thank you. Now I have to get to the hairdresser’s and a hardware store, I suppose. And Christof?”
“Oui?”
“Don’t call me Ginny.”
“Oui, madam. How shall I call you?”
“Let’s try…Fevre. Spelled, vee-are-ee.”
“Fevre, spelt vee-are-ee. Oui, madam, I have it. Until tonight then.”
* * * *
Pupper slept in his own bed. He had been asleep there since 9:30 P.M., in fact. Wing checked back every couple hours, but the super-villain never stirred. Long past midnight, Wing made a final patrol over the Lower East End.
The Wing decided, as he made his way above the city streets, that he would bury his costume at dawn. A fitting marker, he thought, for the end of his career. He would do it in the underground warrens beneath the sewers, where he and Dasher had defeated the Vole Legion. He called that secret land, known to no other living soul, the Cavern of Champions. Dasher was buried there, along with Raja, Wing Girl, and Kid Spirit—each of his fallen comrades. Now at last the Wing, former mentor, failed protector, would join them.
The Wing swung past Ginny’s place one last time on his way to the cavern, telling himself it was just to see if restoration had begun on the Clocktower Building that he had so shamefully wrecked the night before. The apartment was dark when he arrived. He dropped onto her balcony and put his ear to the glass; his heightened senses detected no heartbeat, no breathing. Out on the town, most likely. Ginny must have recovered from whatever ailed her earlier.
Why did that thought bring him such little comfort?
Perhaps because she was out of his life forever, now. As busy as the Wing had been, unable to commit to romantic entanglements, Mayor Lang would be even busier. The Governor’s Mansion beckoned even now, and then perhaps would come the White House. It was time to grow up and work within the system, he thought, his eyes blinking back his emotions.
An alarm sounded then, in the direction of the Kryse building. The Wing sighed. Another false one, he was sure. However, it was almost 4:00 A.M. and the bars would be letting out soon. A burglar alarm so close to Heritage Square might rile a few inebriates, could maybe lead to a scuffle or two. The Wing swung toward the noise. What was it the poet said? Not with a bang, but a whimper?
* * * *
Fevre learned several lessons about super-villainy the moment she knocked off the First Ethical Bank in the Kryse building. She used Ginny Flynn’s key card to get as far as the lobby. So lesson number one, super-villains could take shortcuts. Then she kicked in the glass door of the bank branch using her maniacal super-Venus-Diamond strength, and learned lesson two in the process: super-villains could break things, and breaking things was fun. She learned the third lesson as she climbed, swag-bag on her back, to the top of the Fairview Hotel and looked across into Heritage Square: it’s never about the money.
Citizens poured from the bars, heads craning to see what was causing such ruckus. If the people on the street could see her at all, it was as no more than a speck—and that wouldn’t do at all. Fevre ripped open the canvas bag and released its contents into the air. As the bills drifted down, and people realized it had begun raining greenbacks, the citizens below her began to cheer. More of them ran into the streets, arms outstretched, grasping.
Fevre watched and laughed, catching in the process part of the brilliantly lighted sign below her; it read “Fairview Hotel.” Thousands of individual light bulbs comprised it, and she noticed that if she looked at the letters a certain way…
Fevre hooked her grappling rope to a nearby ledge and swooped down to dangle before the sign, kicking and shattering bulbs with precise, nimble kicks. Below her, people began to point past the money and gasp.
* * * *
Pandemonium greeted the Wing in Heritage Square. Some madman had thrown hundreds of thousands of dollars in the streets, causing mayhem. There were even some policemen below, stuffing their own pockets with the bills. Were Lang Mayor, such acts would not be tolerated.
No doubt, thought the Wing, this display was meant to distract him while the villains committed some other, more nefarious deed across town. He should have checked Pupper’s bed more carefully. Pupper could have substituted an animatronic dummy for himself; clever trick, thought the Wing, cursing his gullibility. He should have known!
Citizens, drunk and giddy with their ill-gotten cash, shouted into the sky, chanting one word again and again. The Wing looked up for the first time, and saw that the sign above the Fairview Hotel had been vandalized. The letters were jagged, but clear enough to read: it was the same word the mob chanted.
FEVRE.
A new one.
From nowhere, a foot collided with his chin. The Wing tumbled backward, rocked by the magnificent blow. He plummeted several stories before regaining equilibrium enough to swing back up. He settled on the rooftop again and there she was, all in midnight blue leather. A bit standard, he thought, not very original at all, but then it never did to underestimate a new foe.
Seeing her formidable legs, corded with muscle and enmeshed in fishnets, he moved his aching jaw and realized he was lucky to still be conscious. Bare, diamond-studded midriff and flowing mane of magenta hair—maybe she wasn’t so standard after all.
He rubbed his chin with one hand and glowered at her. “That was your free one. Enjoy it, Fevre. You won’t get another.”
She grinned, a broad toothy grin. She looked thrilled by this! The Wing fought the urge to grin back at her when he realized that the quiet nights were over now. The deadliest foe of all was one who did it for fun!
Fevre took one step towards him, then another. She gathered speed, racing right at him at such a pace he half expected her to leap into his arms. It could be an amateur’s mistake, he thought, a full-
frontal assault against an expert and expectant opponent. If so, she would be a short-lived enemy indeed. Or it could be something else, a trick, a ruse, so he crouched, deciding to play it safe and slow and learn more about her.
She leapt as he crouched, disappearing over the side of the building. He whirled in the direction he thought she’d gone, peered after her, and saw only the backdrop of the night’s sky until a loud, sharp whistle caught his attention. It brought to mind some other whistle—no. He discounted that. It was a red herring. He had to focus on the immediate. He turned toward the sound, and saw Fevre standing on another rooftop, across the street. She had the audacity to wave at him before disappearing again. Lord, how quick!
He grinned through the pain that washed over his jaw. He might even have a hairline fracture—and there was certainly another ugly bruise for Lang Lofton to explain in the morning! Lang had a lot to explain, actually. The mayor’s race would have to wait—everything would have to wait, while he dealt with this new foe.
Was she working with Archetype? Or Van Hellion? Perhaps all three in unholy alliance together, this newcomer Fevre the mastermind behind all the others! And she wore a diamond in her belly button—of course! The Wing snapped his fingers. The Venus Diamond! Hadn’t the museum’s curator disappeared under mysterious circumstances after the ball? So many possibilities. A world of them.
The Wing leapt to the next rooftop, the one she’d taunted him from. From that one to the next, and the next, and the next, he pursued his magnificent new foe. Fevre glided away, ever seductive, always threatening to elude his hyper-acute senses—but never quite escaping them altogether.
And where she fled he would follow, light as air, silent as shadow: two flashing figures together, racing each other through the endless, ink-blue night.
EMPTY PLACES, by Richard Parks
Jayn of Laksas was widely acknowledged a thief and rogue, but no one had ever accused him of incompetence. So it came as quite a surprise to him on one warm summer evening to discover someone was following him.
He was on his way home to Laksas after a very successful pass through several of the border towns near the foothills of the White Mountains. Jayn’s purse was heavy and his heart, as he slipped through the wooded hills near Laksas, was light.
Perhaps I was careless, he thought, ruefully. Or…am I getting old?
He didn’t really think so, at least not yet. When Jayn washed his face in a quiet pool that very morning he hadn’t noticed anything of an alarming temporal nature—his hair was still red, the face still unmarred except for a touch of windburn. His hands, when he’d tricked locks and pried doors in the last few days, were still steady and his grip firm. It didn’t make any sense that someone could follow Jayn without him knowing. Unless…
Perhaps whoever is following me is really, really skilled.
Jayn considered the matter as he strolled ever so casually along the woodland path. He had two choices: either run or try to ambush his follower. Since he didn’t know who was behind him or how well armed, running was the sensible thing. Yet Jayn’s curiosity wouldn’t allow him to run; he wanted to find out who was following him.
He waited until the path led him by the foot of a tall cliff and a tumulus of stones left by some ancient rockslide; he quickly checked the path behind him to make certain no one was within sight and then he slid quickly and quietly into a narrow crevice between two great boulders, where he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The last of the sunlight faded into darkness, and it was out of that darkness that a voice finally reached Jayn within his crevice. “Are you going to stay in there all night?”
Jayn sighed. So much for stealth. “Show yourself!”
“If you insist.”
There was a spark in the darkness, then a small flame, then a bigger flame. It took Jayn a few moments to realize he was looking at a campfire. Behind the flames, sitting casually on a small boulder, was a man of about thirty. His hair was black and nearly shoulder length. He was wearing a plain brown cloak pulled about him against the night’s chill, so Jayn couldn’t tell much else about him, though it was clear his build was slight. Jayn judged him to be an inch or two shorter than Jayn’s own six-foot height.
“Who are you? What do you want with me?”
“My name is Timon, and I have need of your professional services. That being the case, obviously I intend you no harm.”
Jayn wasn’t convinced. “How do I know you’re alone?”
Timon smiled. “Obviously, you don’t know. I could be surrounded by archers waiting for you to appear, or some other such rot, but do you really think the bounty on your head is so great for me to go to all that trouble? I’m alone, Jayn of Laksas. Either believe me or don’t, but the alternative is for you stay in there and starve. I can assure you it’s far warmer and more comfortable out here.”
The man’s name sounded vaguely familiar but Jayn couldn’t place it. He peered cautiously out of the rocks, but no arrows twanged out the night; there was no sound at all except for a faint crackle from the campfire and the small sounds of frogs and insects that Jayn would normally expect at this time of night.
“Your name is somewhat familiar. Do I know you?”
“I doubt it, but you may have heard of me. I’m usually known as Timon the Black.”
For several long moments Jayn just stared at the smaller man. After a little while he finally remembered to breathe.
“No offense, but I don’t deal with wizards,” Jayn said a little unsteadily.
Timon looked a little surprised. He also looked a little relieved. “You believe me? Most people would need convincing, you know. Forgive my immodesty, but that’s no small claim I just made.”
“You tracked me for a considerable time without my realizing it, and forgive my immodesty, but there are not many people who could do that. Besides, I can’t imagine what advantage you’d gain by such a wild story.”
Timon nodded. “You’re as clever as your reputation. Good. We can skip the tedious proofs and arguments and get down to what matters.”
“No, we can’t. Didn’t you hear what I said? I don’t deal with wizards.”
Not that Jayn had anything against them as a group; he considered wizards self-sufficient and untrustworthy, which were traits he respected. It was more that, beyond the two traits already mentioned, he didn’t understand them. He didn’t know what they wanted or why they wanted it, and in Jayn’s line of work, that was very dangerous. Greed, Jayn understood. And lust, and avarice, and spitefulness and a host of other petty sins—those all made sense. Yet, if the stories were true, Timon the Black had committed some of the worst crimes imaginable simply because he wanted to, and he could. For instance, he was reputed to have kidnaped a princess of Morushe and murdered the hero prince who came to rescue her, all on a whim. Such a person was capable of literally anything.
“You can decide after we’ve spoken, but refusing to listen is not an option,” Timon said, then added, “Well, not a good one, anyway.”
Jayn put his hands on his hips. “Timon, I know your reputation as I trust you know mine. How do you plan—”
Timon didn’t even wait until he’d finished speaking. Thinking back on it, Jayn still wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. All he knew was that there was a blur of motion that might or might not have been Timon’s right hand. The next moment a small ash tree not ten feet away from Jayn burst into flame and exploded with a sound like thunder. Jayn found himself on the ground, his ears ringing. It took him a few moments to be certain he was still alive. He got up, slowly. He would have run, if he thought for a moment that would have worked.
“That was a warning,” Timon said. “And, since I’m rather fond of trees as a rule, I don’t think I’ll bother with another.”
As he spoke, Timon continued what looked like preparations for tea as if nothing at all had happened.
“Ahh…” Jayn suddenly found himself at a loss for words.
“I’ll take the tea,” Jayn said.
Timon nodded. “Good choice.”
* * * *
The choice, at least in the short term, turned out better than Jayn had suspected. Not only was he still alive, but his insistent host made excellent tea as well. Jayn usually preferred something stronger, but he could not remember when he’d tasted better.
Jayn regarded his cup thoughtfully. “I would almost give up wine for this.”
“Each has its place,” Timon said, “though a good pot of tea is usually harder to find. One reason I make my own. So. Have you considered my proposal?”
Jayn nodded. “Yes, and all I can say is that it is a very puzzling one.” He eyed the package Timon had produced. It wasn’t much to look at—little more than a small bundle wrapped in plain cloth, about the size of both of Jayn’s open hands put side to side. Then again, it wasn’t the package that puzzled him, although of course he was curious about it. Rather, it was what Timon wanted done with it.
“You want me to sneak into the king’s fortress at Wylandia and leave this package in the nursery?”
“That is correct. If you wish, you may steal some identifiable item from the palace as proof of your exploit, so your reputation is enhanced at the same time. We both win. So. Will you do it?”
“We haven’t discussed terms.”
“Quite right,” Timon conceded. “I could just threaten you, but I’ve found that a reward and a club get better results than a club alone.” He named a figure. Jayn just stared at him for several long moments while his tea began to grow cold. Timon, for his part, drank the rest of his with apparent satisfaction and poured another cup.
“You’re joking,” Jayn said finally.
