CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One: Youth
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Part Two: Adulthood
Two Years Later…
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also Available from Titan Books
Spider-Man: Forever Young
Print edition ISBN: 9781785659867
E-book edition ISBN: 9781785659874
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First Titan edition: October 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2018 MARVEL
Spider-Man created by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko
Editor: Stuart Moore
Interior art: Humberto Ramos and Wayne Faucher with Jay Bowen and Salena Mahina
Cover art by Ed McGuinness and Teo Gonzales
VP Production & Special Projects: Jeff Youngquist
Assistant Editor: Caitlin O’Connell
Associate Editor: Sarah Brunstad
Manager, Licensed Publishing: Jeff Reingold
Director, Licensed Publishing: Sven Larsen
SVP Print, Sales & Marketing: David Gabriel
Editor in Chief: C.B. Cebulski
Chief Creative Officer: Joe Quesada
President, Marvel Entertainment: Dan Buckley
Executive Producer: Alan Fine
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Dedicated to Stan Lee, without whom…
’nuff said.
Brief as the lightning in the collied night, That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and Earth; And ere a man hath power to say “Behold!” The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion.
— A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM
by William Shakespeare
PART ONE:
YOUTH
ONE
THE INSTANT Peter Parker’s fingers lifted from his palm, he snatched the end of the thick strand shooting from the nozzle strapped to his wrist. The strand went taut, sending him curving through the air, leaving New York City a blur.
While his uncle’s death had first motivated him, there was another big reason Peter fought crime as Spider-Man: He liked it. Swinging and diving, leaping and latching, moving from flagpole to building, scuttling along walls—it all felt good. Pretending to be an average Joe, on the other hand, made him feel like a runner forced to wear lead shoes. It wasn’t that he felt more himself as Spidey…but he did feel allowed to be more of himself.
Tonight, though, his money troubles weighed so heavily that he couldn’t even let go enough to enjoy the wild, roller-coaster whirl. Despite the sharp mind that created the web fluid and shooters—despite the proportional strength, speed, and agility he’d received from a radioactive spider bite in high school—Spider-Man kept thinking about all the things he couldn’t do.
Can’t believe I sold my scooter and still can’t afford a lousy half-price matinee! Or books. Or food. Not to mention rent.
At the peak of the pendulum arc, he released his grip, felt a brief sensation of flight, and then landed flat on the white-brick surface of a pre-war building.
If water wasn’t included with my apartment, I’d die of dehydration.
Sitting on a corner ledge, he tugged at an uneven fold in his mask that had been making the back of his neck itch.
Man up, Parker! Plenty of people don’t even have clean water.
He scanned the silent buildings, the streets and sidewalks glowing from the lampposts, but there was nothing. He could usually count on a villain’s pompous “I will destroy you” or a gasping mugger’s “Oh nuts it’s Spider-Man” to focus his chatty mind.
In the quiet, he had no one but himself to answer.
So now what? Hope for a crime so I can snap some pics for the Bugle? Well…yeah…kinda.
He listened carefully, in case the city din hid a cry for help. But even the traffic flowed free and easy. A recon of the area revealed nothing more than a few illegally parked cars. Otherwise, as far as he could tell, New York City was crime-free for the first time ever.
Eventually, the late shows ended, and the sidewalks filled with friends and couples.
Time to head home before Harry gets back from his date with MJ. Don’t want my roommate and his girlfriend seeing me climbing in through our apartment window.
Picking the shortest path, he swung past the hulking warehouses of the garment district. As he passed a particularly old one, a small tingle ran from his fingertips and toes, up along his limbs, meeting at the small of his back. The spider-sense that warned of impending danger was usually more of a five-bell alarm, sometimes making him leap even before he knew what he was dodging. This was more like goosebumps from a cool breeze, a shadow of unease.
I’m so overeager, I’m jumping at nothing. Parker, when will you ever grow up?
* * *
STANDING alone inside the decrepit building, 89-year-old Silvio Manfredi figured he’d left behind any need to grow up a long, long time ago. His street-name—Silvermane—said it all. He was the leader of the Maggia, the city’s largest criminal syndicate. He was the silverback, the alpha male, and—for decades now—a target for anyone eager to take his place.
In his line of work, any sign of weakness was death. Silvermane couldn’t just be on top, he had to make sure everyone saw him there—even when it came to fashion. The right business suit meant dominance. The right gun meant the guy carrying it knew how to use it. That was why—though he missed his old homburg hat, dark-gray striped suit, and two-tone shoes—he now wore the latest Brioni, and why, rather than his old tommy gun, he always carried a sweet little piece that could spray 420 rounds a second.
Experience had also taught him how to smell a threat. So when the pug-faced attorney Caesar Cicero had pleaded with him not to come to this warehouse without backup, his nostrils flared. Good advice? Yeah, sure, but lawyer-talk always had more than one meaning. Cicero, Silvermane’s ambitious second-in-command, was probing for weakness, searching for signs the old man had grown feeble enough for him to make a move.
But Silvermane hadn’t fallen for it. The city’s crannies hid the bodies of hundreds of chumps who’d trusted important duties, like this face-to-face, to some lackey. He should know. He’d put half of them there.
<
br /> So, despite his aches, a hip that creaked when he walked, and a bum heart that threatened to take him out faster than a hitman’s bullet, Silvio Manfredi had showed up all on his own, refusing so much as a single bodyguard.
If it was a setup, he’d have smelled that, too.
But as the minutes ticked by and he remained alone, the cold making its way into his bones, he had to admit that, signs of weakness aside, death was death, too. Sooner or later there’d be a point where trusting his aging instincts might not be such a good idea. Three times, he’d forgotten the address. When he checked the flip-notebook he used for the special kind of info that only a fool would trust to a digital whatsis, he could barely make out his own scrawl.
Afraid the tremors had returned, he held out a hand. It was steady enough, but the fingers—once able to crack bones—looked so wrinkled, they reminded him of his grandmother.
Thinking of that sadistic witch sickened him. If one of his men were here, he’d have beaten him just to shake the memory. When his sainted mother had died shielding him from a Sicilian mobster with a vendetta, Silvio was sent to stay with his only living relative. That crone had never been young. She was already as calcified as a tombstone when they met, and she spat her first words to him:
“Se non fosse per te, mia figlia sarebbe ancora vivo!”
If not for you, my daughter would still be alive!
Too arthritic to make a fist, she’d beaten him with a wooden spoon.
But at night, when she thought he wasn’t listening, she’d sing herself a lullaby, the tune half-remembered from the harsh countryside of her birth, where only the quick and strong survived, and survival was cherished above all.
They tell us that we’re born to die
But there’s no sense in that—say I.
Those of us who know the truth,
Will drink, drink, the nectar of youth.
When the wooden spoon cracked, she stole the few coppers his mother had left him and bought herself a new one made of steel. After a year of daily beatings, that one bent, too.
And his grandmother shook it at him, saying, “Anche sarai la mia morte!”
You’ll be the death of me, too!
When she finally did die, from a massive coronary, he hoped it was true.
Silvermane was trying to recall the second verse when a cough made him spin. A hooded figure stood behind him. He must have entered while Silvermane was lost in his stupid reverie—a mistake he could not allow himself again. The newcomer was already too close for comfort.
Hiding any surprise, Silvermane sneered. “You’re late.”
The figure gave him a not-quite-disrespectful shrug that rippled through his bright green-and-yellow cloak. The costume was probably meant to distract from a face only partly concealed by the oversized hood.
The voice was husky, deep, its age difficult to place. “Word on the street was that you’d bring company. I had to be sure you were alone.”
Manfredi feigned hurt feelings. “You thought I’d break my word?”
The contempt in the answer was clear. “From what I know of your history, part of the reason you’ve survived this long is because you only keep that word when it’s in your best interest. I’m glad you understand that this time, it is.”
Silvermane gave him a slight smile and stepped a little closer. “Your info on the Kingpin’s delivery schedule was golden. You’ve got nothing to fear from the Maggia, uh…what should I call you?”
“The Schemer.”
To keep from laughing, Silvermane sucked at his teeth, dislodging a piece of chicken that’d been there since lunch. “Okay. Call yourself Lady Gaga for all I care. So now that we’ve bonded, what can I do for you, Schemer?”
“More like what I can do for you.” The figure held out a thick file. “I know you prefer printouts.”
The small print was difficult to read, but what Manfredi saw in the headings made him feel young again. “This is Fisk’s entire distribution network! I could take him down for keeps if I play it right.” Silvermane narrowed his eyes. “What’s the Kingpin to you? He kill your sweetheart or something?”
“That’s my business.”
“Sure it is, sure. It’s just that…”
Experience had also taught him not to trust anyone unless he knew their weaknesses. So, feigning an old man’s dizziness, he stumbled forward, planning to yank away the Schemer’s hood.
“…I don’t like secrets!”
He’d either grown slower than he realized, or the Schemer was wildly fast. His fingers clawed air; the Schemer had already moved out of the way. Silvermane tensed, expecting a counterattack. But the Schemer, having quickly established a comfortable distance, waited for Silvermane to make the next move.
“That was foolish,” the Schemer said.
He’s right. I must’ve looked like an idiot. If this fool opens his yap about it at a bar, word will be all over the streets in an hour. If Cicero finds out…
Silvermane’s finger twitched on the trigger of the piece in his pocket. Half of him wanted to whack the Schemer here and now. But the other half wanted to keep his pipeline to the Kingpin. What was the smart move? The indecision brought a sick, terrified dread.
Out of nowhere, it felt as if an invisible elephant had sat on his ribcage. Silvermane moaned, grasped his chest, and fell to his knees.
It wasn’t until the agony made the Maggia leader pound at his own upper left arm that the Schemer came closer, convinced the heart attack was real. “Do you need help? A doctor?”
Enraged by the pity in his voice, Silvermane turned his tearing eyes to look up at the shadows within the hood. “Back off! What’s it to you if I live or die?”
“Nothing.” The contempt returned. “I only want to be sure the information is used. If not by you, then by your successor.”
“Successor? There won’t be any successor. I’ll use it. Now, go on, get out. GET OUT!”
* * *
IN THE sleek office building rising above Hell’s Kitchen, the Kingpin’s conference room held both trusted advisers and hired muscle. By and large, the muscle knew that only advisers were allowed to speak here, but the newest hire, the high-cheeked Tommy Tuttle, had yet to learn.
“So what’re we looking at here, boss?”
His train of thought interrupted, Wilson Fisk, a.k.a. the Kingpin, shifted to look at Tommy. As he did, his custom leather chair creaked like the hull of a New England schooner. Hoping his angry glare was enough to make his point, Fisk turned back to the image projected on the wall.
“The delicate carvings are beautiful, Wesley, even hypnotic. I understand your obsession with it. But how can this…artifact put my organization back on top?”
“It’s a treasure map, Mr. Fisk, a key to the greatest secret of all time. Throughout the ages, men have died for it, but beyond some wild speculation no one knows for certain what that secret is, since no one’s been able to decipher it.”
The answer was obviously incomplete. No doubt the bespectacled man expected his employer to figure out the rest. It was one of the things Wilson liked about Wesley.
“And you believe you can?”
“Not on my own, but I’ve researched a number of candidates, and weeded it down to one. He should be easy to…procure.”
Fisk’s fingers pressed brief patterns into his chin. “Where is it now?”
“The National Science Foundation has been sending it to different universities, hoping one will be able to crack the code. Right now, it’s on exhibit at Empire State University.”
Tommy spoke up again. “It’ll be easy to snatch it from there. What’ve they got, a bunch of bearded profs with padded elbows?”
Despite the second offense, Fisk kept his eyes on the tablet. The man’s sad efforts to nickname himself Tommy “The Talker” had not helped. But something about the boy reminded Fisk’s wife of their son, so he again tried to overlook the interruption.
Thankfully, Wesley stepped in. “Actually, sir, the colleg
e hired an outside security firm to guard it— Tech-Vault. On the surface, they look legit, but they’re owned by the Maggia. They do a fine job for their clients 90 percent of the time, despite giving their owners a heads-up when items of singular value are being transported in the city.”
Fisk’s attention was piqued. “Go on.”
“From what I can tell, the consigliere, Caesar Cicero, figures the tablet’s too famous to have any black-market value. I doubt he’s even mentioned it to Silvermane.”
“But the Maggia has no idea how to translate it, and we do.” Fisk’s eyes twinkled. “Wesley, you’ve outdone yourself. I’ve been looking for a chance to make them look foolish. Snatching this from under their noses will send the perfect message. And if this legend turns out to be true, the world’s greatest secret—whatever it is—will be an added bonus.”
“Thank you, sir. Now we only have to…”
Wesley trailed off. All eyes turned to the door.
At first, the Kingpin was annoyed by yet another distraction, but when he whirled and saw the source, he felt his fierce expression melt into that of a vulnerable child. The presence of the tall, slender woman, the perfect black of her hair broken by a shock of equally perfect white down the center, was a completely appropriate reason for his employees to fall silent.
“Vanessa, my love…”
Vanessa Fisk returned a cooler version of his lovestruck look. “Forgive the interruption…”
Remembering his seldom-exercised manners, the Kingpin rose, his abdomen moving the table back an inch. “No. There will never be a need for you to ask forgiveness from me.”
She was about to touch him, but did not. “I tried waiting, but I feel as if I’m going mad. I just heard from one of our son’s former classmates. He said Richard was despondent before he left on his ski trip, and I can’t stop worrying about it.”
The intimate subject didn’t surprise anyone. He and his wife often acted as if they spoke in private— not because the world didn’t matter, but because they had the power to put it on hold.
“Is every college dropout a licensed therapist now?” He gave her a pleading smile. “Your heart is so large, I’ve seen you weep at the sunset. Richard’s enjoying his leisure, that’s all—taking time to think about the things that task all young men before they begin their adult lives.”
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