Wearing the Cape: Villains Inc.

by Harmon, Marion G.

  That settled Riptide, but he didn’t look happy. Chakra simply smiled; she’d probably felt the enchantment happening, though I was sure it wasn’t the same as her psychic-tantric magic.

  “In any case,” Blackstone said, “this is why all Hecate could send against us herself yesterday was a golem. Projections like the demon that Astra and Artemis encountered can’t cross the Dome’s new wards and we can’t be targeted directly. What she can do when we’re face-to-face may be another thing entirely, so nobody get cocky.”

  I stared at Blackstone’s doll, circled by protective symbols that seemed to me to glow. I couldn’t shake the wooginess of it, but there would be no box for Blackstone now. Whatever else happened, we could face it as a team.

  I was still glad to get out of there, but as the others dispersed Dr. Cornelius pulled me aside.

  “Astra,” he said. “May I take a minute?” There was nothing left of the strung-out druggy I’d met in LA. He’d even ditched the pin-studded coat for a black three-piece suit with a silver talisman where the tie would have been.

  “How’s Orb?” I asked. We’d seen little and heard less from the unnervingly silent PI since the second night.

  “Fine. Eager to get back to her practice. Look.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m no hero. The kind of fights you guys get in… I can’t stick around for that. I’m going back to my research, but the wards are the best I can make for you people. And—” he watched me closely “you felt them, didn’t you?”

  I nodded, rubbing arms that had developed goose-bumps under my sleeves, and he grunted.

  “In the attack, I released two of the three Words given to me in Aztiluth—the words for Roeled and Phthenoth, the decans of protection and healing.”

  “Released?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t speak them so much as let them speak themselves. You feel the reality of the patterns of the wards. Imagine that reality multiplied exponentially and sitting in your head. With only one Word left, there’s finally room inside my mind for me, but I need to explain. You…”

  “I’ve changed, haven’t I?” I supplied when he stopped to look for words.

  “Yes. Phthenoth is the decan of healing, and its Word healed us all, but Roeled is also the decan of insight.”

  He waved a hand.

  “I think exposure to its Word may have given you what you could call Second Sight. You’ve become sensitive to the inner world behind our hologram of experience. Not—” he stopped me when I opened my mouth to protest “that you believe in that. It might go deeper, but you can see magical operations now. It may wear off, but rely on that insight when you feel it; it’ll tell you when you’re facing something of Dr. Millibrand’s. Or of mine or somebody else’s. We aren’t the only breakthrough mystics in the world, after all.”

  “Thanks? I suppose…” I shook my head, and he held out his hand.

  “Goodbye, then,” he said.

  We shook, and he turned away. “Doctor?” I blurted.

  “Hmm?”

  “What is the last Word? The one you’ve still got?”

  “The word for Kurtael.” His smile held absolutely no warmth. “The decan of death.”

  Sometimes you just shouldn’t ask.

  * * *

  Just before sunset, Detective Fisher called me in on another superhuman homicide, this one an obvious Villains Inc. hit. Or an Outfit hit—nobody was wearing colors showing their side. The victim, Sammy Deines, a D Class Ajax-type with a long rap sheet, had long been suspected of being a mob-hitter. They found him wrapped in a car someone had crushed like a beer can, and there wasn’t much for me to do other than look good and sweep for trace. No witnesses, but no dead bystanders either, so Fisher figured it was all good.

  Apparently Chief Garfield didn’t think so—he was threatening to pull Fisher off the Villains Inc. cases unless he found something for him soon; the identity of the bank-robber who’d started the whole thing was first on the chief’s hit-parade. At least I’d been able to give Fisher a name, Kitsune, and another description, though it was anybody’s guess how meaningful the new description was.

  Chicago News broadcast crime-scene footage of the villain-on-villain slaying as we sat down for dinner.

  Dinner, at Def-1, meant everyone was present and dressed for action. Willis had whipped up a spicy goulash and rice dish for the main course, delicious as always. Watching everyone eating in costume, I had to smile; we looked like movie actors chowing down in the studio canteen before heading back to the set for our next big scene. And it was fun watching Blackstone and Chakra eat; they might as well have been alone together in a restaurant. They were cute.

  After desultory conversation faded and silverware clinked in the silence, Quin put her foot down; we were all going to go stir-crazy if we didn’t get out—and besides, we needed to be seen off-duty or the press was going to get the idea we were turtling up. Blackstone held out until Chakra leaned in and whispered something I definitely didn’t hear, and finally agreed to split-shifts, Lei Zi and the guys first, so that Quin, Artemis, Chakra, and I could have a high-profile Girl’s Night Out.

  Which was all the excuse Quin needed to drag us off to The Fortress and get us into the evening news for the third night in a row.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Civilization is not an inevitable good or a natural state; it is enabling good over evil, imposing justice over nature, and it must be always defended.

  Professor Charles Gibbons, The New Heroic Age.

  * * *

  Low clouds rolled in around Chicago’s towers, crowning their upper lights with halos, and the night breeze carried blossoms into the city canyons. We landed on The Fortress’ red carpet, waved to the cheering line, and Marcus—a C Class Ajax type, former supervillain and now The Fortress’ most popular bouncer—passed us through the rope and into the club.

  Once inside, I realized I should have paid more attention to the line outside; tonight was obviously Girl’s Costume Night—the popular monthly event where girls only got in if they wore a costume good enough to pass the bouncers’ inspection. I looked around and my heart sank.

  They obviously hadn’t held the contest yet.

  “Girls!” Safire bore down on us, and I winced. The Fortress’ event hostess always dressed in a purple-pink flame motif; tonight she wore a fringe of leather microskirt and matching bustier with a satin cape that barely reached her waist. Her over-the-knee boots and token domino mask matched the rest of it, a club costume version of her one-piece field outfit.

  “Safire,” Chakra replied, hiding a smile. She might have been showing nearly as much skin as Safire, but Chakra had taste.

  Chakra changed her costume more often than I did—always around a Hindu theme—and tonight she wore red, a midriff-baring satin choli and full belted skirts that brushed the tops of her boots. A hooded scarf added mystery and made her a contrasting match for Artemis’ black leather catsuit and hood. Quin wore a black and white, diamond-checkered bodystocking and domino mask, accessorized by a frilly cravat and snappy tricorner hat for the evening. Whenever we all went out together I might as well have switched the chameleon-setting on; I was the invisible one in the group. Tonight I was the invisible one in the room.

  And Safire made even Chakra look anorexic with her Junoesque curves. She flashed a smile at our group, then focused on me.

  “Astra! I love your new look! Turn for me!” I did and she clapped her hands. “Wonderful!” she enthused, forcing a laugh out of me.

  “This is going to be great,” she bubbled. “We haven’t announced the categories yet, so we can model after you girls tonight. Classic, sexy, spooky, and fun!” All the while she shepherded us through the crowd to our table. Our table. The one blazoned with the Sentinels ‘S.’ In gold. She left us there to whirl away back into the crowd.

  “Looking good tonight,” Quin yelled over the band, scanning the dance-floor. Tonight Sakura Wind, a Japanese hero-pop band I hadn’t heard before, provided the noise.
There were so many packaged hero-pop idols coming out of Japan that new groups had to have serious talent, and the lead singer moved with his own chorus of glowing angel-girls.

  “Costume Night always raises the game,” Chakra said. She gave our server her order and kept looking. A smile spread across her face. “And someone’s taking notes.” Following her pointing finger, we spotted Andrew across the room. He sat alone at a table, notebook in hand and drink at his elbow.

  Quin laughed, giving us a wink. “Send my drink over there,” she said and dove back into the crowd. Watching her push her way through the throng, Chakra smiled. I seconded her; Quin needed the downtime; our current public-image problem was mostly her headache, and she worked hard at it.

  Over dinner Quin had reminded me about Jamal. In her opinion a new sidekick was just what we needed, but now she was stuck trying to find a situation for the poor kid. He could have easily gotten away from his tormentors instead of sticking around to beat the crap out of them once his speed emerged, so he’d been charged with “aggravated self-defense.” He had no family, and the juvie-court judge had agreed to remand him into the Sentinels’ custody only so long as we could find a new foster-situation acceptable to the court—but with Rush now divorced, not a single Sentinel qualified and she’d asked if my mom could come up with something. Otherwise, it was off to the Academy.

  I actually had an idea, but I’d have to see first.

  Our drinks arrived and I sipped my virgin cooler. Artemis nibbled a tiny tapa, scanning the crowd for her own drink, and her eyes locked onto Hector, an East Side Guardian and one of her occasional “dates.” She whispered an apology before disappearing, which wasn’t good; now that she was famous she didn’t hunt at The Fortress much. I hoped she’d be discreet.

  “They’ll be back before the judging,” Chakra said. Looking over my shoulder, she smiled and stood up herself. “Have fun,” she whispered before heading for the bar. Huh?

  “May I join you?” a masculine voice said. “Your friend approves.” I spun around.

  Yikes, he was yummy. If Shelly’d still been on our neural link I’d have been hearing happy commentary and suggestions. “Konichiwa,” he said, nodding politely with a confident smile. I blinked, grabbed onto my social training, and smiled back.

  “Konichiwa. Sit, please. Are you with the band?”

  His smile widened. “Their manager,” he said, taking Artemis’ chair. “Do you like them?”

  “Hero-pop isn’t my thing,” I replied honestly, “but they don’t suck.” To my surprise he didn’t instantly hand me his card. Instead he held out his hand.

  “Yoshi Miyamoto. It is an honor to meet you.”

  “It is very nice of you to say so.” We shook hands and his smile reached his almond eyes.

  “I am quite sincere,” he pressed, and I felt my cheeks warming.

  “I believe you. Aren’t you a little young to be a manager?”

  He studied me, still smiling, and my flush got hotter. His narrow face was almost feminine, but with no softness, and I guessed his age at twenty to twenty five. He could have been an idol himself.

  “To be truthful,” he admitted wryly, “I’m older than I look. Now I’ve admitted a truth, tell me one of your own. What is a beautiful word?”

  Okay… “Daffodil.”

  “Why?”

  “Just saying it makes me want to laugh. It’s happy. And daffodils are beautiful—like tears of golden sunlight.”

  “Yes. Tears of Amaterasu. ” He sipped his drink, looking at me like I was the most fascinating thing in the world.

  “A thing of beauty,” he said softly, “is a joy forever. Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness, but still will keep a bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.”

  “What?” The flush had gone so deep my hair should have lit on fire.

  “Keats.” He looked away.

  And where did that come from? Quick, new subject.

  He provided one. “Can you tell me what is going on tonight?”

  I looked at the dance-floor, unutterably thankful for the out. “It’s Girl’s Costume Night, so most of the superheroes here tonight aren’t real capes. You’d call it cosplay?”

  “I don’t see any impersonators.”

  “Some fans do like to dress up as their favorite superhero,” I said, wondering if I’d been complimented or hit on. Either way, it had been the most poetic pickup line I’d ever heard. “But only original costumes can enter the contest.”

  He frowned. “It is different in Japan. Most otaku purchase pre-made costumes and play their favorite kensei or mech-warrior or magical girl. There the prize would go to the closest match.”

  I decided to take it as a compliment. “You should be grateful; you’re going to see some pretty scary stuff tonight.”

  “And the woman who brought you to your table? She directs the event?”

  “Safire hosts a couple of nights a month—she’s very popular.”

  “She is…colorful.”

  “She makes your eyes hurt.” I said, rolling mine. “But don’t let her fool you, Mr. Miyamoto. Sure, sometimes her events have all the class of a wet t-shirt contest, but she’s a B Class Atlas-type, a West Side Guardian, and a crackerjack EMT—if you need someone to peel you out of a car and get you to the hospital alive, she’s your girl. Her save-stats are amazing, and believe me her fans keep track. And…” I sipped my drink. “She has a big heart.”

  And like Chakra, she’d broadened my horizons considerably. Often in ways that left me vaguely horrified.

  My defense of Safire earned me another careful look and I turned to watch the dance-floor, wondering if my encounter with Charming had left me more aware of men. I hadn’t been, since John, but Yoshi’s eyes raised goose-bumps on my skin.

  I heard him sigh, and we talked about the Japanese hero-idol scene until the rest of the girls returned. Quin brought Andrew with her. Artemis didn’t bring her snack, but I spotted Hector across the room chatting up a…pink ferret?...as if nothing had happened. I introduced Yoshi around; again, he failed to hand out his business card. Hmm.

  Sakura Wind ended its final number with a thundering riff and bowed to generous applause and whistles. A fangirl in the audience threw a bright bit of wadded cloth at the stage and the lead singer caught it with a laugh (it couldn’t be what I thought it was). Then Safire took the stage, to more whistles and applause, and began explaining the rules. But I wasn’t listening. The mystery that was Yoshi made my mind wander, and now a guy in the audience caught my attention. He wore a fancy trench-coat that must have been hot, and a spandex skull-mask that stretched right down to his collar. He wasn’t watching Safire either, and as I watched, his infared signature brightened visibly. He was scared, or excited, and working himself up to something.

  “Guys…” I said. And that was as far as I got before he spun around, reached into his coat to cross-draw two autopistols, and started shooting.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Hollywood makes it look like every week’s a new supervillain battle, every day you step out for a Starbuck’s something will happen. So not true; most superhero work is patrol and rescue, and nothing you don’t expect ever happens on your days off. But when you spend most of your time out in the thunderstorms, lightning is more likely to find you.

  The Astra Interviews

  * * *

  I swept Yoshi behind me as the gunman hosed our table. Bullets chunked into bodies around us, and Chakra and Artemis went down. The screams spread outward, but I was over the table as spent cartridges chimed on the dance floor. The world shrank to the skull-masked gunman, time dilating and not in a good way; there were at least a good dozen real capes in the club tonight, and I had to get to him first.

  I caught a hand and squeezed the fingers around the grip and trigger as he shrieked, but he kept shooting past me as I flailed for the other. Then the back of his head exploded, screams climbing the scale as h
is blood and bits spattered club-goers behind him. Dropping the body, I scanned the mob. Safire yelled directions and the servers scrambled to push people towards the exits, but the only people moving against the tide were capes I recognized. Including K-Strike, standing with another steel marble in his hand. No more shooters.

  Dropping to my knees, I rolled the corpse for a quick search, averting my eyes from the ruin above his collar. Under the shooter’s coat and the pistol-harnesses I found only clothes. Homicidal yes, suicidal definitely, but not wearing a bomb, thank God. The Fortress’ staff could handle him now—I abandoned him for our table and his victims.