Superhero Detective Series (Book 4): Hunted

by Brasher, Darius

  “That little stunt you pulled is a new one on me,” Avatar had said at the time in the deep voice that almost everyone on the planet was familiar with. He had shaken his head ruefully as he shook my hand. “I’ll be sure to not fall for something like that again,” he had said. Only a long-ingrained sense of decorum had stopped me from asking Avatar for his autograph before he had flown away. A Hero treating another Hero as anything other than an equal was considered bad form. Similarly, the President of the United States was theoretically just another American citizen, neither better nor worse than any other. In actuality, though, that clearly was not the case. Regardless of theory and protocol, some people—and Heroes—were clearly more equal than others.

  At the base of the huge bronze statue of the current Sentinels’ lineup were the words of the team’s motto: “Those who sow darkness soon shall reap.” Though it was not public knowledge, I knew those words were but a part of a larger whole. The words were taken from the Hero’s Oath each Hero swore during his swearing-in ceremony after he received his license once passing the Trials:

  No cave so dark

  No pit so deep

  Will hide evil from my arm’s sweep

  Those who sow darkness soon shall reap

  For in the pursuit of justice

  I will never sleep.

  I thought about those words I had sworn along with several other newly minted licensed Heroes years before. My musings were soon interrupted. Four young children—three boys, one girl—were having their pictures taken in front of the Sentinels’ group statue by a man and woman a few feet from me. The four children were all freckled and sandy-haired, and looked like a combination of the man and the woman. The man and the woman both had wedding rings on. I surmised the group of six was a family. My years of training as a detective were not going to waste.

  “I’m going to be a superhero when I grow up,” declared the second tallest boy, striking the same pose as that of the Avatar statue behind him.

  “You can’t be a superhero, Ryan,” the tallest boy said disdainfully. “You’re too shrimpy and stupid. Besides, you don’t have any superpowers. Unless super-smelliness is a superpower.” Ryan turned and pushed his brother. Within seconds, a fight broke out between the two boys, with the third and smallest boy immediately jumping in on Ryan’s side. What the third boy lacked in size, he made up for in enthusiasm. The boys’ sister let the fight swirl about around her, as unfazed by it as she would be by a gently breeze. Her brothers’ fighting was probably something she had seen many times before. If Ryan wanted to be a superhero, at least he was used to fighting. Being a superhero was not for pacifists.

  The father went over to break the fight up. His wife just peered down at her phone despite the fact her boys were in the middle of fighting World War Three. The father pulled the boys off of each other with a bored expression on his face. Like their daughter, the mother and father had no doubt experienced their boys fighting many times before. As for me, I did not have any experience breaking up children’s fights. I did not have children. I did not have any family at all. I was unmarried, and my parents and sister had died when I was fourteen. The fact I did not have any family is what permitted me to operate as a Hero under my real name and without hiding my identity under a mask and costume. Most Heroes only adopted code names and costumes because they wanted to keep their Heroic and normal lives separate and because they had family to protect. I did not have any such family. Though my relationship with my girlfriend Ginny Southland was growing increasingly serious, we certainly were nowhere near thinking about having children together. Watching the brawling boys did not inspire me to go knock Ginny up. The behavior of other people’s children was often an effective form of birth control.

  “What do I need to do to be a superhero, Daddy?” Ryan asked once he was separated from his older brother. None of the boys seemed worse for wear after their fight. Ah, the benefits of youth. When I got into a fight with someone, usually neither of us walked away unscathed. “Is there a club or something I need to join?”

  “Something like that,” the man said. “If you develop superpowers, the government makes you join something called the Heroes’ Guild and it makes you fight crime.”

  “Actually, that’s not quite true,” I said, interrupting. The entire family looked at me. I regretted opening my big mouth, but I hated to let bad information about Heroes go unchallenged. “People with superpowers are called Metahumans. There is a law called the Hero Act of 1945 that requires all Metahumans to register with the federal government when their powers first develop. But if you have superpowers, the government does not make you use them. In fact, you are legally not allowed to use them under the Hero Act unless you become a licensed Hero first. To become a licensed Hero, you have to pass a series of tests called the Hero Trials. All licensed Heroes are members of the Heroes’ Guild, which is the group that runs the Trials and supervises Heroes. The point of the Hero Act is to make sure that, when superpowers are used at all, they are used for good and not for evil.” I almost made the analogy that the process of becoming a licensed Hero was similar to becoming an attorney—just as attorneys had to pass the Bar in order to legally practice law, Heroes had to be licensed in order to legally use their powers. And, just as state bar associations monitored and regulated lawyers’ behavior, the Heroes’ Guild did the same for Heroes’ behavior. I almost made that analogy, but I did not. The kids would not have any idea of the process one had to go through to be a lawyer. The analogy would be lost on them. Plus, discussing lawyers with children was a little too close to child abuse for my taste.

  The girl and the smallest boy were looking up at me with open-mouthed wonder. Perhaps they had never seen a suit as elegant or a hat as dapper as mine. The mother was no longer looking at her phone. She was instead looking at me with interest. Despite her husband’s presence, maybe she was acutely aware of how dashing I looked. Either that or she hoped I would take her kids off of her hands. Even to a highly trained detective such as I, it was easy to confuse what lust looked like with what a longing for childless freedom looked like. It was Mother Nature’s dirty trick that lust was what led to an end of childlessness.

  “Are you a superhero Mister?” Ryan asked me.

  “Yes,” I said. I really wished I had not started this conversation.

  “Wow!” Ryan said, his eyes widening. He looked at me like he was itching to be my sidekick. The father frowned and looked dubious. My lack of mask and costume was no doubt throwing him off. I could have proven my Hero status by forcing the blood in his head to expand rapidly and making his head explode. I then would feel morally obligated to take care of his kids, though. I had enough headaches as it was. Dealing with supervillains was bad enough.

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost time for me to meet with the Sentinels. I tipped my hat to the family. Polite and oh so elegant. I made my way to the front door of the white mansion.

  A large portico extended from the front of the mansion. I started to climb up its stairs. The roof of the portico was supported by massive white columns. In the middle of the two central columns stood two guards dressed in the same uniform as the guard who had admitted me into the grounds. Once I got to the top of the stairs, I told the guards I had an appointment to meet with the Sentinels. I gave them the same access code I had given to the other guard. They directed me to step behind the column on my right. Set into the column were two glass panels, one narrow and horizontal, the other square. At the guards’ direction, I put my eyes up to the narrow panel and placed my hand against the square one. A light shone into my eyes and the square panel glowed red as my retinas and palm were scanned. I knew records of my retina and my hand prints were kept by the Heroes’ Guild, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Astor City Police Department, and God only knew who else. It took a bit for the Sentinels’ computer system to compare the scan it had just done of me to the records kept on me. While I waited with my eyes and hand still up against the panels, I was hyper
-aware of the futuristic guns at the guards’ sides.

  I was starting to think maybe I was actually not really me when the panels suddenly flashed green. The guards visibly relaxed, their hands moving away from their guns. I too relaxed, releasing the breath I had not even known I had been holding. I realized I had been contemplating the best way to disarm the guards if the Sentinels’ system had not given me the green light. Old habits died hard.

  “You’re free to go inside, Mr. Lord. I see you are armed,” the guard said, no doubt having been informed of my gun by his visor. Before I left, I would have to ask someone if they would give me such a visor as a parting gift. A weapon-spotting visor would be useful in my line of work. “As you are a duly licensed Hero, you are permitted to carry your weapon into the mansion. I would warn you however that drawing your weapon and attempting to use it is strictly prohibited.”

  “What would happen if I did?” I asked, curious. The guard shrugged a bit. He had a thick moustache that looked like a black caterpillar glued to his upper lip.

  “Honestly, I am not quite sure. I do know though that the last person who went into the mansion and pulled a gun I never saw again. So I am guessing that whatever happens, it is not good.”

  “Don’t draw my gun inside the mansion at the risk of disappearing. Got you. I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. Before turning away from the guards, I looked out at the park I had just left. Though most people there were not paying me the slightest bit of attention, a few were looking at me with interest. They were no doubt curious about whether I was going inside the mansion, and if so, why I was so important that I was being allowed in. I felt like the hot girl who was being permitted past a new nightclub’s velvet rope and who was jumping past a line of people. The notion flashed through my mind to take off my hat so people could get a really good look at me and cry out, “Suck on that, losers!” I suppressed the impulse. Like a baseball player going to the World Series for the first time, I should be a professional and act like I had been here before.

  I turned and walked to the front door. I did not know what I expected. A shimmering force field that only permitted you to pass through if you were a licensed Hero, maybe. Or, perhaps a battery of futuristic cannons that would blast you into nothingness if you turned out to be a supervillain. But, there was no force field and no battery of cannons, futuristic or otherwise. There was simply a stained, dark wooden door with a doorbell next to it. It was a nice door, one that suited the mansion it was attached to. But, it still appeared to be an ordinary wooden door.

  Feeling a little let down, I rang the doorbell. While I waited, I thought about drawing my gun as soon as I was inside despite the guard’s warning. Telling me to not do something was the quickest way to get me to do that something. I was perverse that way.

  In seconds, the door opened. I stepped inside and into another world.

  CHAPTER 4

  “May I take your hat, Mr. Lord?” Kenton Pearce said to me. His British accent made him sound like royalty. I would have bowed to him, but my ancestors who fought in the Revolutionary War would have turned over in their graves. I handed Pearce my hat. I did so reluctantly. I felt I should be holding his hat rather than vice versa. It felt like I was handing my hat to one of the Sentinels themselves. For those of us who followed the Sentinels and knew their history, Pearce was an institution. When I thought of the Sentinels, I thought of Avatar first, and Pearce second. Him holding my hat was bizarre. It just did not seem appropriate, like having royalty shine your shoes.

  Pearce looked at me carefully, as if he were an interviewer assessing a job applicant. I did not mind; I was gaping at him too. It was not every day I met a living legend. Pearce’s thin face was heavily lined, and his otherwise black hair was grey at the temples. Though he was in his seventies, Pearce’s posture was ramrod straight and he carried himself like a much younger man. He wore grey striped trousers, a black morning coat, a white wing collar dress shirt, a black tie, a grey vest, and white gloves. Pearce looked the way someone would look if you called up a talent agency and asked for an actor who could portray an old-fashioned butler. That was precisely what Pearce was: a butler. More to the point, he was the head butler for the Sentinels. But, saying Pearce was the head butler was like saying the President of the United States was a government official: it was true, but still did not capture the duties, responsibilities, and history involved. In his position as head butler, Pearce was in charge of running the Sentinels’ mansion and the surrounding grounds. Running the grounds and the mansion required a huge staff, and Pearce was in charge of it. Pearce had started working for the Sentinels when he was a very young man. Though Pearce was not a licensed Hero or even a Metahuman, thanks to his long history with the Sentinels, he was thought of as the honorary eighth Sentinel. Whenever the Sentinels needed advice, Pearce was the first one they turned to.

  “I must say I’m surprised you answered the door yourself, Mr. Pearce,” I said. “I know you have a large staff. I would think you would be too busy to answer the door.”

  Pearce smiled slightly. He had the air of a man who had seen everything and was surprised by nothing. And perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed like a hint of sadness clung to him, like someone who was in mourning.

  “You are correct: normally I do not answer the door myself,” he said in very precise British English. I could easily imagine him on a stage somewhere, reciting Shakespeare’s soliloquies to rapt audiences. “In this instance I made an exception. I wanted to see you for myself.” I did not know what he meant by that, but being confused about something never stopped my mouth from running before.

  “Am I all you hoped for and dreamed of?” I asked. A shadow of a smile hovered around Pearce’s lips.

  “You certainly look formidable enough,” he said. I suddenly felt like I was twelve feet tall and covered with hair. “If you can keep yourself from drinking, perhaps you will do.” I shrank back down in size, now feeling like a pygmy. Months before I had struggled with a drinking problem. That problem had led to a client of mine being murdered by a Metahuman assassin, which in turn led me to being publicly reprimanded by the Heroes’ Guild. I considered myself lucky the Guild had not defrocked me and pulled my Hero’s license. Though I did not like to hear it, I was not surprised the Sentinels had apparently checked me out before inviting me over. Careful Heroes did their homework, and the Sentinels were the cream of the crop.

  “Please follow me Mr. Lord,” Pearce said, turning away. “The Sentinels are waiting to meet with you in the Situation Room.” Chastened, I followed him. Though his words still stung a bit, I was excited about the prospect of seeing the Sentinels’ Situation Room. It was like going to a meeting in the Oval Office.

  Pearce hung my hat up on an antique wooden hat rack in the mansion’s foyer. Actually, the hat rack would have looked like an antique had it been anywhere else. It looked right at home in the foyer. The foyer and the rooms it opened up into looked like they belonged in the home of a wealthy aristocrat in the late 1800s. Everywhere I looked were vaulted ceilings, dark woods, solidly made thick furniture, and handwoven fabrics. There were even a few animal’s heads mounted high up on the walls. I paused below one of them.

  “Is that a saber-toothed tiger?” I asked in disbelief, staring up at one of the animal heads. “They went extinct over ten thousand years ago.” Its fur was brown with hints of red, orange, and gold. Its eyes glittered, seemingly looking down at me hungrily. The two long fangs that extended down from its upper jaw were the size of my forearms. The row of razor-sharp teeth between the two fangs looked only marginally less deadly than the fangs themselves. Despite the fact there was no body attached to the head, the animal looked so alive it seemed like it was going to leap down and rip my throat out. Maybe this would be a good excuse to pull my gun out and find out what happened when one drew a weapon inside the mansion.

  Pearce paused and turned. He glanced up at the tiger’s head.

  “Yes, it is real,” he said. “It and
three others were accidentally transported back here with Master Avatar and Master Millennium after they had gone back in time to deal with an issue.” Yes, he called Avatar and Millennium “Master.” I thought butlers only did that in movies. Then again, I had also thought there was a zero percent chance I would be looking up at a saber-toothed tiger, so what the heck did I know?

  “We had to put the tigers down, of course,” Pearce continued. He frowned slightly. “Nasty bit of business that. They really are quite majestic animals. We could not take the chance they would get loose and wreak havoc, though. Plus, as there was a male and three females, we did not want them to reproduce. The twenty-first century hardly needs a revitalized line of saber-toothed tigers. We tried to give the bodies to natural history museums, but they did not believe they were real and turned them down.” Pearce paused and looked at his watch. “It is almost 11 a.m. We really must get to the Situation Room. The Sentinels have a lot of responsibilities and ought not be kept waiting.”

  We proceeded through other rooms that looked like they belonged more in the past than in the twenty-first century. I saw some historical relics that were long thought to be lost or destroyed, plus stuffed animals that were believed to be mythological. A lot of what I saw made me question my eyesight. Unless my eyes had lied to me, I could report that dragons, unicorns, pegasuses, and manticores were real, or at least they used to be. I was beginning to think I had in fact been transported to the past, or at least to an alternate universe where myths were real.