by LE Barbant
Boxes of cheap beer and even cheaper liquor lined the walls, enough to stock the dying bar until the universe blinked out of existence.
The thin, old man standing in the middle of the storeroom couldn’t have looked more out of place. His attire was more fitting the library than the run-down watering hole. Nevertheless, he seemed at ease.
“Welcome home, Rex. I trust your visit to the East went smoothly?” His yellow smile welcomed the man as if they were old friends—which couldn’t be further from the truth.
The large, bald man crossed his arms. “The meeting served its purpose. Fong shouldn’t be a problem. He insisted that the funds we need are at our disposal.”
The old man nodded. “And how do we know he’ll keep his word? Our business associate has proven slippery in the past.”
“Let’s just say he made a blood oath. I painted a picture of what betrayal would look like. He’ll toe the line from now on. The man loves his grandchildren, after all.”
Most submitted quickly to Rex’s will, a testament to his size and cool demeanor. But he had taken extra care to impress his wishes on Fong. He remembered the look on the business man’s face as his assistant bled out in front of him. While he was no stranger to the seedy underbelly of the criminal world, Fong’s face remained stitched with horror as he watched the man gasp for breath. Making good on your promises was an effective negotiation tactic. And Rex was a man of his word. Fong was fond of his assistant, but a mention of his family sealed the deal.
“Excellent work, as always. We’ll need Fong’s resources sooner than anticipated. Things have escalated while you’ve been gone.” He shifted his weight slightly.
“Oh?”
The old man beamed with excitement. “The Guild made their move. My source confirmed that the exchange was less than cordial.”
“Did they take her?” Rex asked. A sneer spread across his face.
“She and the mercenary went unwillingly. If the historian is half as bright as he seems, he should find his way to me shortly.”
Rex’s eyes narrowed. Fire and steel weren’t readily forgotten. He knew that in a fair fight, man on man, he could take down the fiery giant. The melee at the PPG tower was won on account of their numbers, not by Elijah Branton’s strength alone. He considered their interactions before things came to blows. “I can’t speak for his intelligence, but he’s easy enough to manipulate. You shouldn’t have any problem.”
“I suspect you’re right. In the meantime, I need you to begin rallying the troops. The unpleasantness with Dobbs has depleted our numbers significantly. I want to be sure we’re at full strength, in case our little group of heroes isn’t up to the task. With Fong’s money and your…unique skills, it shouldn’t be hard to round up a sufficient force.”
Rex nodded. “I have a few leads. Some old friends who I’m sure would be willing to lend a hand. But why take the risk in the first place? With the power at our disposal, we could dispatch with the wizards on our own. How do you know the academics will do what we want?”
“Patience, Rex.” The yellow teeth returned. “It’s like chess. Each piece can only move in certain directions. And, with a little guidance, the board will be perfectly set in our favor. Don’t worry. We’ll both get what we want. I’ll right the wrongs done to me, and you…you’ll find your prize waiting for you at the finish line.”
A smile crept across Rex’s face. “Once I have my hands on her, I’ll show just you how patient I can be.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chem rocked back and forth on the lumpy couch and tried to rub warmth back into his trembling hands. Left eye pulsating in rhythm with his racing heart, he was once again aware of his shortcomings as a hero in the heat of battle.
Things for him could have ended much, much worse.
The redheaded magician had held back; he had mercy on Chem. From the power exhibited in the few moments at Voodoo, he realized that the robed visitors weren’t there to destroy them. They could have taken the crew out with their eyes closed. Something stayed their hand. They were on a mission, sent to retrieve Tim and Willa, not kill them. Though what they were doing to them now was anyone’s guess.
He took a breath and put an end to his self-loathing. So he wasn’t a fighter, that didn’t mean he was useless. If it weren’t for his serum, Tim wouldn’t have stood a chance. But enhanced by Chem’s science, the mercenary managed to land a few blows. Ford’s strength and speed were incredible. Maybe that’s what got them in trouble in the first place.
They called him an “abomination.” What the Hell?
Across the room, Elijah had collapsed into the faded leather chair. Fresh burns were already scabbing over on his hairless arms. It didn’t require medical training to see that Elijah’s transformation took a toll. But it wasn’t as bad as it once was. Over time, the historian might just be able to fully control whatever was swimming around in his blood. That’s what made them different than the comics. His friends bore the marks. Elijah always would. Although Chem couldn’t see it, he knew that the scar on Elijah’s chest also burned with fire as well. It was a memorial to Elijah’s passenger, and maybe even a reminder of the responsibility he imparted upon the historian.
“What the hell is the Guild?” Chem finally asked.
Elijah shook his head. “Willa mentioned them before, back in February. I tried to push, but, you know, we had just met. She didn’t want to talk about it…”
“And you wanted to get in her pants.” Chem struggled to find a smile.
Elijah’s face almost broke, but it would take more than a crude joke to lighten the mood. “No. I don’t know. I just didn’t want to push it.” Elijah paused to rub some of Chem’s custom burn ointment onto his forearms. “It’s a group, a secret group of magicians. That’s all I know.”
The sound of a can cracking open accompanied Rhett’s entrance. He tilted back the cheap, American, industrial brew. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked, motioning to the can. They ignored him. “Edwin was confronted by the Guild back when Willa was a baby.”
Elijah and Chem stared at their guest.
“What? I have a way with people, remember? She told me about it the day we met. I was asking some probing questions. She was dying to tell someone.”
“Stop being a douche and tell us what you know,” Chem said.
Rhett dropped himself onto the ancient La-Z-Boy and tilted the can back again. “The Guild’s secret. But they also, according to what she told me, had weakened over the years. They’re like the Jedi council. Keeping track of the wizards, making sure everyone toes the line. They sounded kind of stuck in the old ways if you ask me.”
Chem nodded. “We are asking you. Anything else?”
“When Edwin was younger, he and a few of his friends had created a group to bad guys. You know, small time Avengers or something. They mostly focused on muggings, petty crime stuff. But that wasn’t enough for grandpa. He wanted more, needed to make a bigger dent in the world. So, he focused his little group—Vox Populi, they called themselves—to take out the big players.”
“What about the Guild, then?” Elijah asked. “Why would they have a problem with it?”
Rhett reached for a can of honey roasted peanuts on the side table, held them out in front of him, and shook. “You mind?” He didn’t wait for a response and peeled back the lid. “You guys are academics; this should be your bread and butter. Elijah, you know plenty of pure historians, right?”
“Sure.”
“What would they say about your little research project with Alarawn Industries?”
This drew a grin. “I had a few friends that said I was selling my soul; I was a hack.”
“Exactly. These guys, the Guild, think there’s a precise purpose for their magical art. You’re not supposed to waste it running around the city in spandex and saving cats from trees. They see their magic as something pure. Primordial. Hell, I don’t know what they actually think its purposes are for. Like many conservatives, they’re kno
wn more for what they’re against.”
“Spoken like the newest part of the Kinnard team,” Chem said.
“If it walks like a duck,” Rhett said with a shrug. “Anyway, Willa seemed to think they weren’t that big of a deal. Guess she was wrong about that.” He stood up from his seat and moved towards the door. “I’m going to try to find Paul, see if he is getting any vibes from the whole thing. You guys have any other ideas?”
“We need more information,” Elijah said. He turned to the chemist. “Let’s go to Willa’s place and see if we can find anything. Think you can get us in?”
“You mean break in? Is that a black thing?”
****
“She’ll be fine,” Chem said. His voice broke the relative city silence of the Squirrel Hill alley.
“Huh?” Elijah asked.
“Willa. She can handle herself. I don’t think they wanted to hurt her. It’s Tim I’m worried about.” Their cadence fell into pace with one another’s. The street lights did their best to cut through the late night darkness. Long shadows stretched out in front of them, pointing the way forward.
“Tim’s tough.”
“Yeah,” Chem said, “but he’ll have the body of an eighty-year-old in a day if I can’t get him some of my special sauce. The guy’s a brick shithouse now, but just wait.”
They walked up the crooked sidewalk toward Edwin Weil’s old house. Willa had assumed ownership after the old wizard passed, though she rarely invited the two men over. For the first few months of her residence, Chem and Elijah believed she had left town. In reality, she was there all along, crafting her mind and body into something like the battle mages reminiscent of Chem’s old D&D days.
Overgrown grass that probably should have been cut one more time was beginning to wilt. A lawn gnome welcomed them from a dirt-filled tractor tire.
“You’d think the old literature snob would have been a bit classier,” Chem said, nodding toward the onlooker.
“Did you ever meet him?”
“Nope. Only time I ever saw the guy was when he descended in his regalia to save our asses. Now that was some real Gandalf the Grey shit, wasn’t it?”
Elijah nodded as he tried the knob.
Chem cupped his hands and looked through the adjacent window. The basement was dimly lit by a single bulb. He could just make out her work-out gear. It resembled a low-grade CrossFit gym.
“You think you can pick it?” Elijah asked.
“There you go again. Just cause I’m your only black friend you assume I’m some sort of criminal.”
Elijah sighed. Chem’s humor failed to lift his spirits. “I know you’re some sort of criminal. Your race has nothing to do with it. So, what do you got?”
“Sure, I can get us in,” Chem responded as he thrust his elbow against the thin glass.
Elijah winced at the shattering sound. “I kind of assumed you’d have a more…scientific solution.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Elijah checked to see if there was anyone other than the gnome to take note of their breaking and entering. With the coast clear, Chem reached inside and flipped the deadbolt.
The small living room smelled of mothballs and depression. It looked as though Willa hadn’t done much to or in the house other than sleep and workout. Still decorated with an early 80’s decor, the place reminded Chem of his great aunt’s. Smell and interior design aside, the place was immaculate.
A screech made Chem jump.
“Cat,” he said with a sigh. “You scared the shit out of me.”
He bent and picked up his old housemate. “Don’t worry, we’re here. We’ll find your momma.” The orange cat purred in response.
“I feel like I’m in a dead man’s house,” Elijah said, from over Chem’s shoulder.
“You are, I guess.”
“No. I mean, I feel like he’s still here.”
Chem glanced over his shoulder. “Long way from the objective historian now, aren’t you, Dr. Ghosthunter?”
“Let’s just see if we can find something that mentions the Guild and get out of here.”
Chem flipped on the overhead lamp and took in the room. He dropped Cat on the sofa and paced over to the bookshelf. It was mostly filled with classic poetry collections, hardcovers that, unlike those in other houses, gathered little dust. “These are her playbooks.”
Elijah nodded. “She’s been studying almost nonstop since last February. You should have seen some of the moves she pulled at the Mayor’s office.”
“Good girl.” Chem hoped her summertime study session would pay off. He knew she was powerful, but he had also seen the power of her captors. Maybe she had some tricks they hadn’t yet seen.
He ran his hand across the spines of the volumes and stopped at the one turned backward, pages out. He pulled it off the shelf.
The Collected Works of Carl Sandberg
“How appropriate,” Chem said to himself. He flipped the pages. Dots in pencil neatly lined the margins, but otherwise, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Cat was sitting on an end table, pawing a leather bound volume.
“What’s this, Supercat?” the chemist said.
Elijah flipped through its pages. “This is her journal.” He moved to put it back. “We shouldn’t.”
“Oh, hell. We most definitely should. What’d you think we came here for, some E. E. Cummings?”
Chem snatched it from Elijah’s hands and flipped the pages. The Moleskine was nearly filled—partially with verse, but mostly with the etched rambles of the poet’s mind.
“Bullseye,” Chem said.
A knock on the front door broke the silence.
“Ms. Weil,” and an aged voice called through the thin glass. “Is that you, Ms. Weil?”
“Let’s go,” Elijah whispered.
Chem nodded and followed the historian down the basement steps.
****
It was after eleven, so Ritter’s Diner was packed to the gills.
“I’ve never been here,” Elijah said.
“Well, you’re coming in an immigrant; you’ll leave a Pittsburgher. Best worst coffee in town and the only fried green tomatoes I’ll eat north of the Mason-Dixon Line.”
Chem and Elijah settled into the last available booth in the place. The smell of bacon and fried everything surrounded them. Chem shifted back and forth as he tried to find a sweet spot in the lumpy bench.
A middle-aged waitress looked down on them with tired eyes. “Coffee, boys?”
“Yes, please,” Elijah said.
Chem nodded. “Black. The only way to take it.” He winked at the waitress. She tossed him a nicotine-stained smile and turned toward the coffee station.
He nodded at Elijah’s menu. “You pick your artery clogger, I’ll start perusing this thing.” He waved the journal as Elijah picked up the sticky menu. Chem whistled. “It’s more than a diary. This is Willa’s spellbook.”
“Huh?”
“It’s the poems she’s working on, but it has all kinds of notes in it.” His eyes continued to scan the pages. “A lot about you in here. Less about me. She must be repressing.”
“She wrote about me?”
“Of course, she did. It starts this time last year, but the notes pick up as it moves closer to February. She’s documenting what she’s learning and going back to add commentary. Get this shit. Here’s what she writes under Tennyson’s ‘Ode to Memory.’”
Chem cleared his throat then read:
“I tried to use this on myself the first time I read it. Tried to increase my own memory. Am I the one who’s stealing fire from the fountains of the past, in order to glorify the present? For some reason, this poem doesn’t feel like it applies to me. Though I do feel trapped in obscurity. Uncertain of how to move forward, how to get people to listen, to care.
“Then she adds this in a different color pen. I’m guessing much later.
“[UPDATE]
“I used this poem on Elijah. Our conversation did not go well.
It will leave a scar, a permanent symbol of my failure. But when he woke the next day, he didn’t believe any of it. I used this spell to remind him. I could tell it had some effect, although I don’t know how much. Maybe I can ask him what happened when he heard the words. If he ever talks to me again.
As I begin to use these spells, I am finding they are but shadows of what they ought to be, what they could be. The potential is living in me, in my marrow (or so it feels—magic mystery is thick). Is it because of a lack of resolve or dedication? Old Master Weil is far too ambiguous in his teaching. I know this is his method, his pedagogy, but still, he must know that the power could be the difference between life and death.
Master Weil is calling. I can’t ignore him any longer. He’s gonna be pissed.”
Chem looked up and across the table at his friend. Elijah’s mouth was wide open.
“I remember that,” he finally said.
“Guess that’s the point of the spell,” Chem replied.
He continued to flip through the pages. After a few minutes of scanning poetry, he stopped.
“Alright, we might have something here. It’s dated just before the shit got real with Dobbs. A few days before she came back to us. Check this out:
“I just got back from meeting with Dr. Crane. He is a nice old man, so much gentler than E.W. I really can’t imagine them being friends! Anyway, he has clued me in on Vox Populi and given me a lead. I finally have a name for my mother’s killer. Now to give it a face. Let’s see if I can pull this off without getting myself killed…or worse.
“Ring any bells?”
“Crane?” Elijah looked at the ceiling, searching his memory. “Can’t remember her ever mentioning him. Let’s get out of here. Drop me at Hillman Library. I’ll find the guy and whatever is out there on him. You go back to the house. Wait for Rhett. Maybe Rita will show up. We’re probably going to need her too.”
