Apparently the Trill’s operation was a lot more complex than what we’d all first thought. New spies, new toadies, and new brawn in silk masks would crawl out of the woodwork. One would think the Trill was operating an underground breeding camp for Supervillain Aides. I wouldn’t be surprised if they held debutante balls right before those bastards crept out of their holes to destroy something and screw up my commute.
None of those things bothered Magnifiman. He seemed to revel in them. In fact, every time I saw him on T.V., he looked a bit too hungry for justice to be served, glowering more darkly at the camera. He was reported to have turned rougher in the way he handled slime—flexed his muscles more, tore up bad guys’ clothes whenever he yanked them out of a burning truck or crumbling building, shook them like rag dolls until their heads resembled bladders on sticks the way they whipped back and forth on their shoulders. A couple of jailed crooks threatened to sue him for whiplash. They even appeared on camera with neck braces on.
I guess, having tasted a head-to-head battle with The Devil’s Trill—though bad, bad, bad Magnifiman for letting the bad guy go—he’d finally come into his calling. He’d finally settled into his role with all the single-minded determination of a man on a mission.
“The man’s a god,” Liz said one evening, her gaze dreamy as we watched the news. “He’s just—perfect.”
I snorted. “Oh, come on. He’s a man who happens to have superhuman powers.”
“You’re so cynical. Don’t tell me you can picture him getting drunk or fooling around with women or, hell, spitting out a cuss word or two.”
“What makes you think he can’t do all those things?”
Liz rolled her eyes. “Eric, apparently all of Vintage City but you knows that Magnifiman’s untouchable. And guess what? He’s yet to prove us all wrong.”
“He let the Trill go.”
“It was done on purpose. It’s like a cat playing with a mouse before the kill.”
“Oh, yeah? The mouse can’t be found now. Good work, kitty.”
“Blah, blah, blah. If there’s anyone he’ll prove wrong, it’ll be you. Just watch. He’s better than perfect.”
“That’s one hell of a moral pressure you’re all placing on the poor guy,” I muttered.
Liz was quiet for a moment, idly chomping on crackers as reports of a fortune cookie bearing a startling resemblance to the Virgin Mary filled the screen. Then she glanced over her shoulder and leveled me with an accusatory look. “Why can’t you go out there and get screwed over again, so Magnifiman can take you home like before? I’ll try to get him to stay longer when he does.”
“What the—are you trying to whore me out?”
“That’s a pretty harsh way of looking at things.” She sniffed, turning her attention back to the TV. “Never mind. It’s obvious that you can’t be anything better than a melodramatic dork right now.”
“Give me your bankcard, then. That oughta be a magnet for crappy luck.”
The Devil’s Trill seemed to flourish in equal degrees as his archenemy. In fact, I’d begun to think of the two as classic yin and yang, two diameter-something opposed forces that needed each other in order to exist. Magnifiman stood for severe control, while the Trill was, in every respect, all that was impulsive to the point of destructiveness.
The Devil’s Trill began his career in mayhem stumbling around, filling up his résumé with petty thievery, foiled bank heists, a temporarily disabled train system. It didn’t seem to be any different from Magnifiman’s own exercises in justice—carjackings, purse snatchings, vandalism. Having come head-to-head with his archenemy, the Trill had tasted real action. He’d caught a glimpse of all kinds of super diabolical possibilities that soared well beyond hypnosis via his Noxious Nocturne and victimized Ficus trees. Just like Magnifiman, he now tasted higher glory, and he aimed to achieve just that. It seemed as if the two needed to come face-to-face—if only for one fateful moment—in order for their respective roles or—yay, clichés!—their destinies to unfold before them.
Hot damn. I could be a future philosopher yet.
The down side to all of these was that, being a relatively small population to begin with, we locals were constantly endangered the moment we stepped out of our doors. I kind of expected everyone to be given tally sheets, so we could list the different situations when we’d fallen victim to the Trill’s schemes and then rescued by Magnifiman and Peter. It would all be for bragging rights in the end: “I was a victim ten times this month! How about you, Sally?”
Vintage City also became a never-ending construction zone. With all the head-butting from both sides, chunks of the city’s carefully-designed façade fell away, victims of forces that were too well-matched to let either win. That meant lots of money being dumped into city maintenance, but despite the coronary-causing inconvenience, people didn’t seem to care much about it.
“As long as we’re being protected by that marvelous Magnifiman and his sidekick, I don’t mind paying the cost of the damages. He’s our Paragon of Virtue. We’ll always need someone like him,” a woman actually said on one of Miss Bailey’s dozen or so Magnifiman-related special segments in the news. She stood on the corner of 23rd Street and Madison Boulevard, which suffered some damage from a too-short dogfight between Magnifiman and the Trill. Construction workers, soiled, soaked in sweat, and fume-inhaling, staggered and grunted in the background. New bricks were quickly and efficiently attached to all “holes.” The overall effect in the end was surreal—new, unspotted, and vibrant colored bricks mixing it up with their grimy, piss-stained, and rotting counterparts. These uneven patches appeared throughout the city. That pseudo-authentic nineteenth-century European image suffered from a pretty bad case of eczema.
That woman’s borderline stalkery sentiment was echoed again and again, no matter who was interviewed. Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief—they all loved Magnifiman. Except the thief, of course, but he still enjoyed his fifteen minutes of fame with the camera aimed straight at him as he flashed viewers a broken-toothed, black-eyed smile, courtesy of Magnifiman or Peter, as he was handcuffed and led away.
That said, Liz’s wish for me to have my luck screwed over again and again came true, but she never got her wish to have Magnifiman rescue me and fly me back home.
Ayup, I became a victim of the Trill’s nutty schemes at least three more times. I’d been trapped in a burning building. I’d been swept up in a flood, which a breached dam located one city away had caused. I’d been in another hostage situation involving the Vintage City Palace of Art and an exhibit of Rembrandt’s portraits. The Devil’s Trill had fancied about half of the collection and thought it a pretty cool idea to, you know, kind of pluck them off the walls. While also this went on, his goons stood around, aiming guns at the museum’s visitors as we all huddled in one corner.
Magnifiman helped me out every single time, but he didn’t take me home, thank God. After that conversation with Peter, I’d gotten over my petty lust over Trent’s alter ego that I was almost resentful whenever he rescued me.
“Hey, you don’t have to fly me home,” I said after the Trill’s henchmen were handcuffed and marched out of the museum. I expected them to be out of jail by midnight.
Magnifiman stared at me calmly. “I wasn’t going to,” he replied.
“That lady over there,” I continued, pointing at a young woman who was rather pretty and who was on her cell phone, chattering nervously with someone as she sank down on a marble bench. “She looks like she’s in a pretty bad way. I think you should fly her home.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not public transport. She can take the bus if she wants.”
“She looks so vulnerable. I feel sorry for her. Don’t you feel sorry for her?” Around us the police activity continued, the eardrum-killing mix of harsh voices, children crying, and adults asking a gazillion questions. It made normal conversation pretty damned impossible.
“I feel sorry for all innocent victims, young man—”
> “It’s Eric. You know, E-R-I-C.”
“—but even sorrier for the fools who turn into irredeemable villains.”
“Yeah. Sucks to be them.”
“You can say that. Now if you’ll excuse me, justice needs to be upheld.” He terminated his part of the conversation with a sharp nod before striding off, his cape swishing smartly behind him. People around him stared in varying degrees of wonder and lust.
“She—she’ll still be here in case you change your mind! Oh, and did you notice how much of a looker she is? She’s hot!” I called out to him as his massive, perfect figure melted into the swarm of people around us. Once he was gone, I heaved a sigh of relief and silently patted myself on the back. I’d done Peter and me a good turn. A very good one.
Later that evening, Peter stopped by my bedroom and perched himself on my window ledge. Shaking his head, he claimed he needed to take a fifteen-minute break from crime-fighting.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I guess it’s over between you and Trent, eh?”
“I’ll recover.”
“Damn. And I was having so much fun watching you soil your pants in front of him, too.”
I scratched my head. “God, I thought Althea was bad with the sadism thing.”
“Oh, you think that’s bad? How about this—I’ll be picking you up for that promised dinner with my family tomorrow night.”
“Is it a black-and-white affair? Or spandex?”
Peter merely grinned. Then he raised his hands and stretched out his legs, teetering for a moment on the window ledge before tumbling backwards like a doll with its limbs sticking straight out. He vanished, falling out of my window and to certain death below—only to give me my second coronary by turning himself around and using the pavement like a trampoline. He kicked his booted feet and hurled himself up and away. Peter even waved at me as he flew past my window: Bye-bye! Toodle-loo! See you later, alligator! It was as if he hadn’t shaved ten years off my life expectancy just a few seconds ago.
It was a pretty common trick he played on me now, the fucking bastard. It never failed, either, no matter how many times he did it. I’d always lunge forward just as he vanished, throwing my arms out for him, crying out his name and feeling my heart drop to my shoes. When he flew past my window, I’d sag against the ledge, groaning and cursing his name.
I always swore to strangle him the next time he did it. Unfortunately I always ended up soiling my pants instead.
Chapter 23
Dinner with the Barlows was at seven o’clock the following evening. Precisely. Not a second more because, you know—OMFG, I was totally doomed. I arrived with my heart in my throat. I was also freshly-showered, my hair nicely trimmed. Really it was just a shortened version of my bangs-heavy shaggy haircut. Kids at the Quill Club called it an anime ‘do. The blue streaks were muted to a subtler shade. I didn’t have much by way of decent clothes and so showed up in a black dress shirt and jeans. And cologne—hopefully not too much of it, either. Peter said I fussed too much. I told him in-laws frightened me into fake conservatism.
The Barlow estate—yep, it was an estate, fer chrissakes—stood in the swanky northern district. With Vintage City being so hung up on looking like European architecture, even the rich types lived in terraced houses. That said, their properties were still way superior to everyone else’s.
The houses in the area were taller, wider, and deeper than the rest up and down Vintage. They might have the same bricked-up look as our homes, but it looked like even Nature played favoritism. There was less grime, less filth, fewer stagnant puddles. The window and door frames looked forever freshly painted, the window panes crystal clear. Even when seen from outside, the curtains could easily be identified as thick velvet in some cases. The curtains we had at home were gifts from my maternal great-grandmother, who crocheted every single one of them until, literally, her heart stopped. Mom still kept the last unfinished piece in her hope chest.
“Don’t be nervous,” Peter said, giving me a gentle nudge with his elbow. “You’ll charm the pants off them.”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Stop that.”
“Do your parents have powers, too? I just want to know beforehand—you know, in case I piss them off. I want to know my chances of getting pulverized by heat vision or arctic breath or fire blades.”
Peter blinked. “You really need to stop hanging around those fan communities.”
“I can’t help it. I’m out of old books to read.”
“Then our next date will be at Olivier’s. Does depressing philosophical stuff sound good to you?”
If it weren’t for my kidneys being borderline failing, I’d have turned and slugged him. I took a deep breath. He obviously thought I was exaggerating. I sure as hell wasn’t. “Okay, I’m ready.”
We kissed briefly before getting out of the car, and he led me inside.
I was glad they didn’t have a butler. It was enough for the house to give me an attack of massive hives without any of the staff’s help. The interior blew me away with the dark paneled and papered walls and the Persian rug. Peter ID’d that last for me. I didn’t even know where Persia was. I was sure the rugs were set down on specific areas of the house for specific purposes, too. Most likely intimidation. The tasteful furniture looked antique and was dark and well-polished. The family portraits in their huge gilded frames looked like hoity-toity breadcrumb trails that led me from room to room.
I suspected while most of these portraits were real—as in old in that real kind of way, there were some that were made more recently. No doubt money had been poured into them in order to ensure a more “dated” look. If this were so, I was impressed. With a few vague hints here and there that gave some of the secrets away, the paintings still looked so uniformly old. The chalk-complexioned faces in historical European or Japanese costumes watched me as I followed Peter. And if portraits could speak…
“Ugh. Commoner,” I thought I heard them whisper, and one of my kidneys went into full-on failure. Good thing I was so tensed up even my piss hole had fused shut, and I didn’t wet myself right then and there. I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke up the next day all blocked up with stones.
Peter led me to the second-floor drawing room. Yep, he called it a drawing room, and there I met Mrs. Barlow. She’d been lost in a book when we entered. She glanced at us, smiled, and stood up in one graceful, fluid motion while setting the book aside. That hard, assessing gaze I got from her a few weeks before from the safety of her sports car was gone.
In fact, she seemed to be incapable of being cold and assessing, now I stood just outside her personal space.
Peter was so much like her. The eyes, the cheekbones, the old-world-rich-person grace and restraint. Mrs. Barlow, now I saw her up close, was a gorgeous woman.
“Hello, Eric,” she said in a low, melodious voice that only hinted at an accent. “It’s nice to meet you, finally.” She held out her hand, which I shook.
“Likewise,” I stammered, stealing a careful glance at Peter, who’d stepped away to watch the proceedings with a nervous smile.
“Peter’s said so much about you. Well—whatever he’s willing to share, anyway.” She laughed and winked at her son.
“That’s bad news,” I said, aghast that my hand felt cold and clammy against hers.
Peter grinned, shoving his hands in his pants pockets and rocking lightly back and forth on his feet. “I had to censor out the sordid stuff, Eric. Not a lot of substance was left.”
“You’re so funny.” I sniffed.
“He didn’t leave out that bit about your hair. I think it’s a charming color you’re using.”
“Oh. Uh—that’s—that’s Smurf blood. Everyone says so. I toned it down, though.” I winced and raked a hand through my bangs.
“Don’t be silly. That’s not Smurf blood, dear. It’s cerulean. At certain angles, it turns into sapphire.”
My face was on fire as I stared helplessl
y at Mrs. Barlow. “Thank you.” I turned to Peter and whispered, “What’s cerulean?”
“By the way, Eric, Mr. Barlow and my other son won’t be able to join us.”
Peter shook his head, his brows knitting. “Work? Again?”
Mrs. Barlow nodded. “I’m afraid so. Your dad will be at the lab for a while—something about a toxicology report that wasn’t done right. Trent’s out as always, said he thinks he knows where the Trill’s operations are. He sends his apologies.”
I looked at mom and son and then back again, blinking. “Shouldn’t this be talked about in your hideaway or something? I mean—it’s all classified information.”
“This is our hideaway, dear. What my son does—”
Mrs. Barlow paused, coloring a little. “What our sons do, I mean, isn’t any different from what everyone else in Vintage City does. It’s a job—a part of everyday life. When they go out to clean up the streets, it’s no different from a dad who packs up his briefcase and walks out the door to get to work.”
“The only difference is that we’re all mutations,” Peter added.
“Here you go again.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll behave. Sorry.”
Mrs. Barlow shook her head at her son and then turned to me, smiling. “Peter requested a Nepalese menu tonight.”
“That sounds good, thank you,” I said, my freak out levels spiraling. I’d never had Nepalese food before, and I didn’t know if I was set to swell up and break out in warts as an allergic reaction to the spices.
We presently found ourselves in the immense dining room, where the dinner table was already laid out with expensive china and polished silverware. The food was also set out on platters and huge, decorative bowls. Like the rest of the house, the dining room was magnificently paneled and papered, with a few more ancestors leering at us from their heavy frames. I wondered if a psychologist was consulted in the interior design of this house. A cluster of fresh flowers was neatly and beautifully arranged in a large silver bowl in the middle of the table. Some blooms stretched up as though to touch the ceiling, while others cascaded in clusters over the bowl to rest on the white tablecloth.
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