“Watched” didn’t quite describe it. I couldn’t see Orb’s eyes; her golden hair, swept around her head and curled on one side like a conch shell, as hard-set as a punk rocker’s mohawk, completely hid the top half of her face. A silver orb about the size of a softball floated by her shoulder. To most people the hovering sphere probably looked smooth, chromed and featureless, but I could see micro-tiny waves rippling across its surface. Shelly had briefed me during my flight; Orb was blind and deaf, the sphere her eyes and ears. I smiled at it instead of at her.
“Thank you for seeing me so quickly,” I said.
She sipped her drink and the ripples deepened.
“For Astra of the Sentinels? Anytime.”
The words, spoken in a pleasant, low contralto and with an edge of amusement, came from the orb.
She set down her glass.
“So, what can I do for you?”
I took a breath. “I need to find someone, quietly, and I don’t have much time.”
She smiled. “I can do it fast, and quiet, and cheap. Pick two out of three.”
“A and B.” I pulled out a stack of hundreds and a picture Shelly had printed for me. “His name is Dr. Cornelius, but he may not be using it yet.”
The orb floated over the picture. For only a second, she froze.
“I’ve never seen him.”
“Please.” I took the picture back. “He isn’t in any trouble and I don’t want to make any, but—” I wanted to say a life might depend on it, but it sounded too cheesy. And desperate.
She softened a fraction.
“He’s already in trouble,” she sighed. “And I doubt he can help anyone.”
She held out her hand, and I reluctantly gave her the photograph. The orb dipped close, like she was drinking it in, and I wondered what she saw. Dr. Cornelius was a reasonably attractive man, tall, thin, his narrow face a striking mix of African-European features. His dark hair and beard were neatly trimmed, his eyes intelligent and good-humored. He looked like someone I’d be glad to know, but not an object of fascination.
“Where did you get this?”
“From a friend. Can you tell me where he is?”
“No. But I can pass a message. Put your money away.”
I was forced to be happy with that. We left the club, Orb telling me to stick around for her call before she got in her car. Back out in the morning sun and lacking anything better to do, I decided to check in at Restormel.
* * *
I hadn’t thought to bring civies, and wouldn’t have trusted a hotel anyway. Fortunately I had a standing invitation to crash at Restormel anytime. Seven had been one of them, more movie star than superhero, and I still didn’t know why he decided to take Blackstone up on his offer to join the Sentinels after the Whittier Base Attack decimated our ranks. I hadn’t been interested in much when he switched teams, and now I wasn’t sure how to ask.
Restormel sat in the Beverly Hills, overlooking LA. The Hollywood Knights were up north shooting for their latest movie, Hollywood Knights VI: Bloody Dawn, but the staff and accommodations were as high-class as I remembered; I showered and relaxed as well as I could, even chatted a bit with Dr. Carlson, the team’s resident physician. She’d treated me back in January when I’d come in with plasma burns after an enraged breakthrough shot me out of the sky.
At nightfall I got the call; Cornelius would meet me at Lunette’s.
And what a difference night made.
Lunettes’ was the same pale shade, but lit by tracks of silver-white LED lights I hadn’t noticed in the daytime. Its open doors let in the cool night air and spilled music into the surrounding lot. There was no club line, just a doorman who nodded some through, stopped others. Most weren’t in costume, and disappointed would-be-partiers didn’t stay around. Cars filled the guarded lot, parked and retrieved by a team of watchful attendants.
When I landed the big guy just nodded to me, light from the crescent above the door shining off a matching tattoo on his skull. Inside, the club wasn’t any brighter than it had been during the day, but I drew looks. Just like at The Fortress, club-goers looked away; I’d be “invisible” unless I talked to somebody. Orb sat at the table she’d occupied earlier, and now she had company.
Shelly popped into virtual existence beside me.
“That’s him,” she said. “And we’re screwed.”
Chapter Eight
Not all breakthroughs follow the superhero stereotypes; there are lots of other “supernatural” breakthroughs based on older myths and stories. Chakra, with her tantric magic, is the perfect blush-inducing example of the Merlin-type (do not talk to her about the source of her powers!), but there are witches in San Francisco, voodonists in New Orleans, English druids, Italian strega, Native American medicine men, Appalachian conjure-men, and enough others to fill books. And because their beliefs shaped their breakthroughs, their magic works.
Astra, Notes From a Life.
* * *
Using my eyes Shelly could see what I saw, and she was right. This was our guy, but not yet, if ever. We could only see his back, but his long hair was shiny in a bad way and pulled into a ratty tail. His shoulders hunched like he expected the world to smack him for no reason. He wore an old evening coat, blue so dark it looked black and glinting with light off of dozens, maybe hundreds of silver pins. All kinds of pins: award pins, logo pins, event pins, even tie and lapel pins as long as they were small and silver. If the night sky went slumming, it would look like this. Even in a club full of sweaty dancers, I could smell the odor of too many missed baths on him.
“Astra,” Orb said when I stepped out of the crowd. She held up her hand and a server took my order of a virgin cooler before I took the unoccupied chair. Her guest was even more unpromising from the front. His dark skin was an unhealthy gray, and the lines around his veined eyes aged him. I was looking at a longtime crack addict or meth-head.
He looked up from his drink, and tired eyes lit with interest. When he didn’t say anything I extended a gloved hand.
“Dr. Cornelius?”
He grimaced, but we shook. He wore fingerless gloves, and he looked at his hand after letting go.
“I don’t know any Dr. Cornelius,” he said. “Sounds like a hero name.”
“Shit. Let’s go, Hope,” Shelly said beside me. I shook my head, putting on a smile. She was right, but we were here and I wasn’t going to be rude.
“A friend of mine told me it was yours,” I said. “Or will be in a few years.”
“That would be the impatient one there? Red hair, green eyes, mouthy?”
Shelly squeaked and slapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide.
“How—” I gripped the table, felt it creak. “She’s a virtual-reality projection in my head, not really here! How can you see her?”
“She’s with you, and you’re here,” he said, his voice too strong and deep for his thin body. “So she’s here, metaphysically. That’s physical enough for me. Would you like an orange?”
He pulled one, slightly squashed, out of his coat pocket and started peeling.
I shook my head weakly. Orb just smiled and slid a snack bowl under his hands.
“Orb says you need something,” he said, focusing on the fruit.
I looked at Shelly, then plunged in.
“According to a book of contingent prophesy, in two or three years, maybe sooner, you’re going to make a name for yourself as an occult investigator called Dr. Cornelius. You’ll specialize in hunting supernatural breakthroughs, their projections and creations.”
“Will I?”
“Yes. And in an interview you’ll speculate about the murder of one of my friends. In the article you’ll say he was likely killed by a projection, a summons, but that after so much time you can’t prove it.”
“Must be a high-profile killing for me to talk about it. Does the victim have a name?” The orange was half-naked.
I swallowed, nodded.
“Blackstone.”
; Orb twitched, and Cornelius stopped peeling. My drink arrived.
“That’s a very interesting book,” he said after the server left.
“It’s more of a time-traveler’s database,” I said. Shelly nodded solemnly.
“You’re trying to change history? That’s taking on a lot.”
“It’s not history yet.” I took a sip of my cooler and explained all about temporal superimposition and the privileged present. He nodded when I finished, back to peeling the orange.
“So it’s like in Dickens’ Christmas Carol: the shadows of things that might be.”
“Yes. But Blackstone’s d— That’s a pretty solid shadow.”
“That’s tough. Wish I could help you.”
“But you’re— I mean, you can see Shelly. Obviously you’ve had your breakthrough.”
He dropped the last peel in the bowl and split the orange.
“Got it the day of the Event. Been trying to give it back ever since.”
I could only stare. “Why?”
He sighed, tired, and looked at Orb.
“Ten years ago I was a snot-nosed grad student studying metaphysics and getting high in pursuit of chemically-assisted enlightenment. The Event gave it to me. The world around us? As real as your friend here. It’s a hologram, an image created by the intersection of thirty-six emanations. Like light. You combine red, yellow, and blue light and you get white light. This world—”
He slapped the table, making me jump. “Hermetic magicians call it Assiah, and it’s like the orange peels here. Just the skin of reality. Inside that is Yetzirah, the astral plane, the dream plane, the place our minds are. Inside that is Briah, the iconic real, home to all the faces of divinity we know and crammed with every afterlife and mythic place we can imagine. Inside that is Atziluth, the hyperion realm, the home of the Source, the Prime Mover, capital G God. All energy emanates from the Source. When it reaches Briah it divides into the thirty-six emanations, the decanic energies that mix to continually re-create Assiah, the world we eat and crap and get high in.
“Me? I saw it all. The Event greased me right through Yetzirah, through Briah, and right into Atziluth where I saw the freakin’ face of God. And He spoke to me. Just three Words, three of the thirty-six Words used to speak the world into being, one for each decan.”
He popped an orange slice in his mouth, grinning maniacally.
“And you know what? I can’t forget them. Can’t say them, either, not one. Don’t know what would happen if I did—they’re realer than I am. And I can’t stop seeing the world for what it is. Except when I’m high of course.”
I didn’t know what to say. He shrugged, popping another orange slice.
“Is any of that real except to me? Don’t know, don’t care. Still think I can help the great Blackstone?”
* * *
With no reason to stay in LA, I retrieved my bag from Restormel and flew out. Shelly ghosted alongside me, but we didn’t talk much. She promised to look some more; maybe she’d missed something, another future lead we could pursue. I only half-listened. I hadn’t thought the trip through on the flight out—had kept myself from thinking about it, really. But now I detoured south of my LA-Chicago flight path, heading for the Bear River Mountains and Atlas’ cabin. When Shelly realized my destination she said goodnight and switched off.
In the middle of the cleanup from the Big One, just before the Whittier Base Attack, Atlas and I spent three nights there. I told his parents about it after the funeral, and I think it helped, a little, because they gave me the cabin. They had their ranch in Texas and had never been up there themselves; it had been John’s “Fortress of Solitude.” I’d thanked them, but hadn’t been able to go back.
Now I descended on the luxury-cabin, tucked in a mountain valley between ridges and surrounded by pine and aspen. Even without a moon, my super-sight let me see just fine by starlight. Finding the key, I unlocked the front door and dropped my bag in the entryway.
And took a deep breath. Now what?
“I could replay for you,” Shelly said quietly, popping in beside me.
I shrieked, spun around.
“Don’t do that!”
“Sorry! I just— Your neural implant was up and running by then, so there’s a complete recording of your trip in the Anarchist’s files. It’s locked, but if you want I can get it. You can see…”
“No.” I covered my eyes, light-headed. I wasn’t going to scream at Shelly. I wasn’t.
“No. That’s…nice, Shel. Maybe in fifty years.”
My breakthrough had forced me to abandon all my adult plans. I was still a college freshman, but I didn’t have time to experience college life. Instead of club and sorority activities, after-school parties and rooming with the Bees, I trained and patrolled. But I got Atlas. Trained as his sidekick for three months, fought beside him, fought with him. And made new plans. Until the attack.
I blinked determinedly.
“I’ll be okay, but thanks for the offer. See you at home?”
She nodded uncertainly and disappeared again.
I took another breath, and realized it didn’t hurt. I’d have to thank Shelly—she’d broken the moment, and now I knew what I’d come for. I stripped off my mask, gloves, and boots, then found the linen closet and pulled out the horse-blanket we’d used together the first night. Going back outside, I climbed to the elevated back porch, stripped the cover off the outdoor couch, and stretched out. The stars were different than the winter stars of January, but just as bright.
I could smell John in the blanket, and it got a little wet, but my dreams were beautiful.
Chapter Nine
Looking at the old comic-book superheroes, Batman had a secret lair from which he could monitor the world and particularly his beloved Gotham City, but Superman had an impregnable fortress hidden as far away from the rest of humanity as it could be and still be on the same planet. A secret base of operations vs. a hideway.
Dr. Mendell, On superhero psychology.
* * *
Capes are a pain in the butt, which is why most capes don’t wear them. Mine are made out of some kind of patented silk-synthetic mix that’s cool and shiny but fairly resistant to damage. Apparently they’re not resistant to being slept on; I forgot to take it off last night, and woke up tangled in cape and horse-blanket. The horse-blanket was less wrinkled.
I’d had no plans last night, but I did when I opened my eyes. Back in January, when Atlas and I returned to Los Angeles I’d left behind all the civilian clothes I’d bought just for the scandal-inducing getaway. I’d optimistically anticipated a lot more time spent here. Now the mountains were green with spring, the meadows covered in wildflowers, and I had the day free. Two days if I blew off class for once.
Going back inside, I showered and changed into cargo shorts and a pink cotton cami with Bow to the princess written in white sparkles. Bouncing down the stairs, I almost screamed when I ran into Artemis coming up from the cellar.
“Morning, Hope. So what kind of coffee did Atlas stock, anyway?” she asked.
“I— What? The who?”
“Shelly thought you might need some big-girl talk, and I got to test Vulcan’s new carrier drone. He designed it to drop Galatea, but I stepped out a few thousand feet up and floated down. Thought I’d let you sleep.”
She’d changed into a civilian version of her daysuit—skintight and covered by sailor pants and a long-sleeved turtleneck sweater. She had the gloves and mask ready, but with the bay-window curtains drawn she was fine inside the cabin.
“Thanks? I… Coffee?” I pulled in my scattered thoughts while Artemis stood there, completely unconcerned at having invited herself to join my getaway. “Just canned stuff.”
She smiled, held up a bag. “I came prepared.”
Being a vampire limited Artemis to a liquid diet, so she’d become a lover of all things drinkable. Coffee, hot chocolate, wine, beer, coolers, ale, even ice-cream (frozen liquid after all). She could brew coffee that m
ade gourmet baristas cry, and I’d kill for her chocolate concoctions.
Ten minutes later, the kitchen filling with the brain-melting aroma of hand-ground bean, Artemis threw herself into a chair.
“So?” she said. “Why is Shelly worried about you?” Birds sang outside, wind rattled the leaves, and my super-duper hearing picked up the soft step of a deer. Two? A doe and her fawn? When I focused I could hear the wildlife around the cabin, but I couldn’t hear Artemis’ heartbeat. Because being dead, she didn’t have one. And though she hadn’t inherited any of the traditional vampire phobias from the psychotic and delusional breakthrough who’d “sired” her, naked sunlight would burn her like a blowtorch. But she sat across from me, up in the daytime and far away from her safe urban haunts.
Wearing the Cape: Villains Inc. Page 6
