Rise of Heroes

by Hayden Thorne

  “I’ll ask Althea,” I told myself as I stared at the dead windows of dead buildings. “She can probably find something about the carnival.”

  My mind bungee jumping all over the place, I mounted my bike and pedaled away, ignoring one final burning question. If Althea and I discovered something about The Solstice Masque, what then? Hell, I didn’t have a clue. I even clean forgot about my poetry.

  * * * *

  Sorry, Eric, I can’t find anything on them. Well—other than crap I dug up on MySpace about hooking up with some girl or guy while messing around at the carnival, drunk or high. Don’t make me repeat what I read. It makes my brain shrink from Teh Stoopid.

  I frowned at the white text as it alternately throbbed and spluttered on my computer screen. “Damn. I guess I’m not that good of a detective after all.”

  Nah. Just because you can’t find anything on it, doesn’t mean it’s harmless. Do you think they’re up to no good?

  “Just a hunch. I keep thinking they’ve got something to do with the old genetic labs that closed down.”

  You mean like they used to work there or something?

  I nodded. “Yeah. Exactly. It’s a weird theory, I know. Pretty far-fetched and even stupid, maybe, but I figured it was still worth pursuing. I learned that from Sherlock Holmes.”

  So setting up their carnival at Vintage City has something to do with the labs, then? What would they want?

  “I don’t know.” I leaned back against my chair and sipped my hot chocolate, lost in thought. “Probably watch what’s going on. See the results of their experiments.”

  That’s pretty creepy. Damn it. I had cotton candy from them, too.

  “Althea, I’m sure their cotton candy wasn’t tainted.”

  Oh, yeah, that’s easy for you to say. You didn’t have any.

  “I was broke, and I spent whatever was left of my allowance on you, you high maintenance geek.”

  Consider the score even, boyfriend snatcher! Oh. Speaking of, is Romeo coming around for you tonight? I don’t want to get caught in the middle of mushy shit.

  “Uh, no. He didn’t say anything. I’m keeping my window open, anyway, just in case.”

  Aren’t you cold?

  “No.”

  Not cold, just horny. Makes sense.

  I gulped down the last of my hot chocolate and stared at my empty mug. “I need a refill,” I said, standing up. “Thanks for surfing the wires, Althea. Looks like you’re really coming along here.”

  No prob. Can I peek around your computer?

  “No. Scram.”

  Wait! I just learned how to create dummy files! I’m a bit iffy on it, so I need to experiment with your computer.

  “You’ll probably be planting all kinds of pornographic dummy files in my hard drive, and I’ll get into trouble for it.”

  It’s tempting, but no. Can I? Please? Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease? I’ll keep everything clean and boring, I promise.

  “Okay, okay, go ahead. I’ll delete them when you’re done.” I sighed as I walked to the door. I didn’t see what Althea typed up in response, but the computer gave off a very happy beep when I opened the door and stepped out.

  I returned to my room ten minutes later, completely loaded. Hot chocolate in one hand, a plate of sliced bread in the other. White, soft, squishy bread for dunking purposes. I was in for a gorgefest. I set the dishes onto my desk, ignoring the crazily flashing text on my computer screen.

  “How much longer will it take, Althea?” I asked, moving off to my bathroom to wash my hands. I heard a series of loud beeps and rolled my eyes. She must have just given me the middle finger, I thought. “Girl, shut up. You know I need my computer now.”

  I turned off the light in the bathroom and stepped out…

  …and walked right into a tall, warm body just beyond the bathroom door.

  “Oh—Jesus!” I yelped, stumbling back a pace or two.

  “Peter, quit sneaking up on me like—”

  But it wasn’t Peter who stood before me. Tall, thin, almost spectral in his black bodysuit and red cloak, the black half-mask devoid of expression but for a pair of crescents representing smiling eyes, The Devil’s Trill regarded me in silence for a moment, tilting his head slightly to the side. Under his mask, his lips—white and thin—twitched.

  “Good evening, my dear sir,” he said in that odd guitar string voice of his. “I’m afraid I’ve never had the pleasure of being introduced to you.”

  “I know who you are,” I stammered, backing away and finding myself pressed against a wall. “What the hell do you want?”

  My room hardly had furniture. Where I was pinned, I had nothing within reach that I could use for a weapon.

  The Devil’s Trill, moreover, for all his suave ease, looked to be nothing more than a pile of tensed, coiled muscles under spandex, about to spring into action at the tiniest provocation. He’d have me in a headlock if I so much as shuffled an inch to either side. No, it was better to stand still and hope for survival and an intact body.

  I heard another beep from the computer and stole a glance in its direction. RUN! ERIC, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! The words flashed wildly against the black screen as line after line stretched from one end of the screen to the other, repeating, overflowing, pouring down to the bottom of the screen until the text appeared like an endless army of marching ants going side to side and top to bottom. My stomach tightened in a painful knot. Oh, yikes—how long had she tried to warn me?

  How many times did I need to knock my head against the wall?

  Althea couldn’t communicate but through text. Unless I paid attention to the computer screen the moment I stepped inside my room, there was no way my attention would’ve been caught.

  Well—except for her frantic beeping, I guess.

  “A moment of your time and attention, if you please.”

  “I don’t think so,” I breathed, looking back at the Trill.

  “I won’t keep you too long, I assure you. I understand how precious time is for high school boys—especially those enjoying a particularly romantic time in their lives. Carpe diem, carpe diem, as the poets say.”

  “I’m not interested. Now get the hell out of here before—”

  “Well, tsk, tsk, indeed. I was hoping to proceed along more civil lines. No threats, please, Mr. Plath. Threats are so barbaric.”

  I blinked, swallowed. “How’d you know my name?”

  “I have my ways. Now, I need to ask you again. Will you do me the honor, my dear sir?” he purred, stepping aside and gesturing in the direction of the window with a flourish and a graceful bow. It definitely felt like an invitation to throw myself out. So much for civility.

  I held my ground. “Tell me what you want.”

  “Alas. You give me no choice. What a dreadful waste of time and effort this has been.” With that, he raised a gloved hand, his palm facing me. “At least you can’t accuse me of not trying. I might be a supervillain, but I take pride in being exceptionally well-bred.”

  In the briefest of moments, I managed to catch sight of a tiny hole in his palm. Then my vision was filled with smoke—sweet-smelling, icy, and thick. I blinked a couple of times and gasped. Then everything went black.

  Chapter 26

  When I came to, I thought I’d somehow been transported to Venice.

  Good job, Mom and Dad! All this time you were saving for a kickass European trip, and you didn’t tell me and Liz about it? You crazy sneaks!

  Hoo, boy. Liz and I must’ve gone off and gotten drunk on Italian wine or something because I sure as hell couldn’t remember a damned thing about where we went, what we did, and how I managed to get back to my hotel room.

  Funny thing was, the hangover wasn’t there. I woke up, confused and muddled but without a headache or any other sickly symptoms of too much fun. I lay on a soft, warm bed and stared at a ceiling fresco that was as lush as Venetian frescoes could be. “Fresco”—not from a vocab quiz but a travel program that always made me cry
from envy. Pagan gods, shepherds, nymphs, all half-naked and cavorting around in pastures, meadows, and forests. I ogled from where I lay, feeling kind of kinky in that Old World way.

  The moment didn’t last very long, though, when I realized something. Where were the gay boys in this awesome sea of spotless flesh? God, how typically heterocentric.

  Little by little, my senses began to pick up a few things.

  The room I was in smelled of old furniture and old fabric, and faint—very faint—hints of flowers. Everything was bathed in a warm, golden glow, and I raised my head to look around, catching sight of antique wall lamp things in delicate flower-like designs. The curtains were of old dark blue velvet edged with gold tassels. The furniture was all in subtle, monochromatic brocade and rich, mahogany wood. Even the bed I lay sprawled on matched the furniture in color scheme and style. Maybe everything came from a Martha Stewart catalogue. Somewhere—I couldn’t tell where the source was—soft, violin music could be heard. I wished I knew more about classical music other than the fact that I wanted to sleep with Joshua Bell.

  Whoever the composer was—it could very well have been the Trill himself—the music was amazingly soothing, gentle.

  I sat up, blinking, the truth of my situation bearing down on me in bits and pieces. No, I wasn’t in Venice. Mom and Dad weren’t off on some romantic gondola ride. Liz wasn’t running all over the city sampling gelato and maxing out Dad’s credit cards.

  I’d been kidnapped. Snatched from my own bedroom by The Devil’s Trill. I took a few calming breaths. “Oh, my God,” I whispered. I crawled out of bed and poked around. I tested out the windows, which were made opaque by the buildup of dirt outside. I couldn’t peer through them and they couldn’t be opened. Turning the doorknob—no luck there, either. I walked to one of the antique nightstands and spotted a little note lying there, with an old, discolored key resting atop it.

  I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience, my dear Mr. Plath, it read. Unfortunately, your obstinacy left me with no other choice but to use force. I am, however, very keen on making amends. If you could join me at dinner, I’ll ensure that you’ll be promptly returned to your charming little hovel with nary a scratch. Use the key to exit your room, please. And don’t touch the Ming vases. I had the most dreadful time stealing them and would be loath to see them damaged in any way.

  “Hovel?” I sputtered. “First he kidnaps me, and then he insults my family?”

  If I weren’t so freaked out, I’d have drunk ten gallons of water and then pissed into his precious Ming vases. I tore the note, tossed the bits aside, and walked to the door with the key, my heart hammering furiously. How could I get out?

  The journey to the dining room felt like a walk through history. I was impressed in spite of everything. The Trill’s hideout, from top to bottom, was literally covered in antiques and all kinds of collectibles. Nothing appeared to be made in the recent century. Portraits, furniture, books, rugs, what have you—God only knew how much the Trill shelled out for these things.

  Oh, wait. I forgot.

  He stole every single one of them, more likely, the tightwad bastard. Never mind.

  The dining room wasn’t hard to find. Judging from his headquarters’ configuration, I was pretty sure I was inside a terraced house, but I’d no idea where.

  Everything stretched out from front to back, not side to side. I saw no signs of his henchmen anywhere. Chewing on a fingernail, I crept forward.

  The Trill was alone at the dinner table when I entered the dining room. He was still in costume, with his mask still on. The table was laid out almost the same way the Barlows’ dinner table was laid out. A floral centerpiece accented the polished silver dishes, goblets, and cutlery. Steaming food—very likely Italian—invited me from where it was carefully and decoratively contained. It was a seriously far cry from the frozen dinners and cheap grub that my family could afford to serve. My stomach growled. I was sure my tongue dangled from my mouth like a wet, dripping flag.

  The Trill waved his hand in a sweeping gesture.

  “Welcome, my dear Mr. Plath. Please, make yourself comfortable. There’s no need to be so concerned about the meal. It’s all organic.”

  I sat down at the opposite end of the table, eyeing him warily. “Okay, I’m here. Now what do you want?”

  “At this point, sir, nothing else.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I’m quite done.”

  I felt the blood drain away from me. “What the hell did you do while I was out cold?”

  “Oh, nothing to do with your virtue, of course. I don’t swing your way.”

  Now that was embarrassing. I squirmed in my chair. “Chrissakes, you know what I mean.”

  He laughed, his voice a twang of a thousand guitar strings. Chills crept up and down my spine at the sound. “Feisty creature, aren’t you? Do calm down, sir, and enjoy the feast. Venetian fare, including the wine.”

  “I’m underage.”

  “I understand that you didn’t exactly object to being served a martini in my—staff’s—company.”

  I blinked, torn between shitting my pants and anger. “I can’t really say no when they’re all pointing guns at me, can I?”

  He nodded cheerfully. “Point taken. There’s iced lemonade if you prefer that. Now then—do help yourself. As I was saying, I need to make some amends by hosting a lavish enough dinner for two in your honor. It’s the least I can do, really, for your time and your patience.”

  I hesitated but helped myself to some food, anyway. I dared not take my eyes off him. “What did you do to me?”

  “My dear sir, you’re worrying yourself over nothing. Do you feel strange in any way? Drugged out or something?”

  “No,” I replied reluctantly.

  “Did you see any marks on your arms, legs, or backside?”

  My face turned hot. “I haven’t bothered checking.”

  “You’ll be disappointed if you expect something. Cuts or bruises or tattoos—I assure you that you remain unmarked, young man. Do try the roasted sardines. They’re my favorite Venetian dish.” He sat back, idly sipping his wine as he watched me sample the food.

  “I still don’t know what you did to me.”

  “Took care of you, of course! Laid you out on the finest bed in my best guest room! Didn’t you see the frescoes? Aren’t they marvelous?”

  I slowly chewed on a roasted sardine, which turned out to be pretty good, but I didn’t want him to know that. “Look, what the hell’s going on?”

  “Why, don’t you want to know more about your host?”

  “Uh, duh.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes—crude, perhaps, but a ‘yes’ all the same. Now then—who am I? Music—the highest, most perfect form of art. I’m control, I’m passion, I’m anarchy. Every note requires precision. Every signature, a perfect understanding of the composition; otherwise, a waltz stumbles into a march. Displace a note, and everything changes. See how powerful music can be? You can’t do the same with the written word. A displaced word only creates idiocy and earns a red mark from an irritated pedagogue. A missing visual detail in a painting only leads to a curious question about the artist’s state of mind—worse, a ridiculous treasure hunt for more errors.”

  He smiled. What the hell ever, man.

  “What do you want from Vintage City?”

  “An adventure. Do I need to have a reason for being? Mr. Plath, I simply am.”

  I shook my head. “You’re not making any sense.”

  He laughed again. “Do you question Magnifiman’s existence?”

  “Well—he’s here to deter crime.”

  “And you think I’m here to turn things on their heads.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. It’s common sense, isn’t it?”

  “Ah, yes, well—everyone wants to think so. A charming idea, to be sure, but simplistic. Mr. Plath, some things in the universe just plain are. They exist for no other reason than their own sake. Is that so difficult to understan
d? Does anyone question the purpose behind the existence of the platypus?”

  “You’re comparing yourself to a platypus? That’s new.” I helped myself to some vegetables. “And, no, I don’t question it.”

  “There you are.”

  “You know, after comparing yourself with a platypus, I really can’t take you seriously anymore.”

  “Look, can we forget about the damn platypus? In the end, you silly boy, when one steps back and observes the intricacies of the tapestry’s weaving, he sees balance in all things—balance that requires no questioning, no doubts, because, yes, everything’s as it should be. And that’s the lesson to be gained here. Have some bread, please. It’s completely gluten-free.”

  I regarded him while munching thoughtfully. Odd, but I felt relaxed now. Relaxed and loose. Defiance had won out over fear at this point because, you know, platypus. “I suppose I really can’t guess your parents’ minds when they went to the genetics lab to get you designed.”

  The Trill, who was drinking, snorted and blew red wine all over his dinner. He fell back, pressing a napkin against his face as he roared. If he didn’t have a back rest, I imagine he’d have toppled over to roll on the ground.

  “Very astute! Very astute, indeed! Yes, don’t pretend to know my sire’s mind. A frustrated musician can only offer so much logic—like Beethoven’s father, you see. I’m pleased to say that he never beat me in a drunken rage, but, goodness, he fed my mind with possibilities.”

  “That would count as child abuse, considering how you turned out,” I muttered over my drink.

  He shook his head. “You really are a charming young man, Mr. Plath. I can see what that ridiculous, treacle-bottomed Calais sees in you.” His grin broadened when I gave a little start. “Yes, I’ve seen you two together. How on Earth can I not? But such is the way with teenage love—impulsive, reckless, passionate, all-consuming. Poor Calais would risk drawing you into danger with his evening visits to your little attic space, and he doesn’t even know it. I’m sure he’s warned you against other dangers that you might face out there in the streets, and yet, there he is, working like a trail of moonstruck crumbs, leading me to you. The dear boy—so confused—so in love. I’d call him the Boy Blunder, but that’s already trademarked.”