VICTORIOUS CROSS
BOOK ONE: THE CITY BETWEEN SERIES
JESSE DE RIVERA
BOUNCING BALL MEDIA
SEATTLE
Chapter One
Empty Houses
The commercial ends, and foreboding music begins.
“Previously,” the canned announcer’s voice says, “on Wandering Stars.”
Opening on a vast, stone throne room painted in brilliantly saturated hues; the gilded and tiled seat flanked by twin waterfalls. On the archaic throne sits a powerful figure dressed in the regalia of ancient Mesopotamia: a hard-faced, dark-skinned man, crowned and a thick, black beard trailing across his beaded robes.
The ancient god Enki speaks to his audience, “The Koffmans’ ‘collecting’ has gone too far. By our count, they have Freya’s sword, the shield of Athena, and Dr. Jekyll’s formula.”
Punctuating each item are images of a young, black-haired and icy-eyed man of sixteen or seventeen, tall and handsome in a suit, absconding with each of these famous artifacts as their defeated owners look on in dismay.
Finally, the first of Enki’s audience speaks, a cat in witches’ robes. Her yellow eyes peer from underneath an oversized, pointed hat, and white patches on her muzzle and nose stand out from her inky fur. “What are they planning, Lord Enki?”
Beside her stands a dog, though his figure speaks more of a boxer by profession than just breed: wide shoulders, taped knuckles, and a flat cap mysteriously unhindered by his pointed ears. “Sumthin’ big,” he says in a gruff voice. “They ‘ave to be stopped, whatever it is.”
The scene changes, a wide-open plain under a night sky. The cat and dog plead with a more human figure, the dog gesturing largely to convey his desperation. “We’ve been cut off from the Wandering Stars, Hunter,” the dog begs. “Ye have to give us sumethin,’ anythin’ that can help us!”
This Hunter towers above them, clad in shadows and the worn duster, canvas pants, and large, slouch hat he wears. No hair is visible under the hat, only a chiseled face twisted in an indifferent grimace. “There is nothing that can help you if you plan to infiltrate the Koffman tower,” he all but growls in a voice that rumbles with hard years. “Walking directly into their lair is playing by their rules on their own turf. Only two of you don’t stand a chance.”
As he speaks there are images of the dog and cat, Brasil and Gatina, heroes of the Wandering Stars, fighting their way through corporate halls and security in blue and black uniforms. Brasil uses his fists, while Gatina waves a star topped wand and blasts of sparkling magic fly.
Gatina’s voice says, “We still have to try!”
Gatina and Brasil’s fight ends in an ornate office, facing the young man seen prior. “Orion Koffman!” Brasil shouts.
Gatina adds in a furious hiss, “Do you have any idea how much you’ve altered events, on how many worlds?”
Orion, his icy blue eyes thin in anger, thrusts an accusing finger at the pair. “You! This is the last time you two inter—”
“Stand down, son.”
This voice, a voice heard many times before, emanating from the shadowed figure on a swivel chair, cuts through the room. It is gravely and hard as steel, low and full of malice. The figure on the chair slowly stands, and a man steps further into the light. Hard lines define his square face, along with fine scars from battles long past. His bearing is military despite his trappings of wealth, and his expression twists in barely concealed hate. “No one breaks into my home and tells me how to run my family’s affairs.” From his side, he unsheathes a wicked-looking katana, its blade formed of swirling alloy, its grip a solid black. The same blue eyes he shares with his son pierce into the intruders and he seethes, “I will handle this.”
With a pained half-smile, Gatina glances at her partner. “…There’s another one to add to the list, Braz. The sword Masamune.”
And as the Wandering Stars logo made way for the title card, the last of Victorio Cruz’s short life began to drain out of him. Considering he was currently becoming one with the sofa, it was difficult to imagine he could droop into it any farther. But he wanted to. God, he wanted to just sink into the sofa to wherever loose change goes so he wouldn’t have to watch his siblings’ favorite cartoon. His mom had once again randomly demanded he watch the twins while she made dinner, even though he had made plans. It wasn’t fair for her to do that, and it’s not like they were still four or anything.
His younger sister Angala held one of the throw pillows against her chest, her tanned face skewed into a tight pout. “I don’t like it when it’s scary…” she mumbled.
Victorio snorted at the idea that a cartoon aimed for six-year olds like them could claim anything like ‘scary.’ “This isn’t scary,” he grumbled, feeling his back nearly merge with the sofa seats. “This just blows. Really hard.”
His brother Demario snapped, “No, it doesn’t!”
Victorio rolled his eyes in the opposite direction. It’s not like Demario even knew what that meant.
“Wandering Stars is the best show ever,” Angala added, scowling at him.
Not enough eye rolls in the universe to reply to that. “Maybe if I was retarded, I’d agree with you.”
Victorio should have guessed Demario’s response. Instantly his younger brother stood upright on the couch, turned to face the kitchen, and shouted, “Mama! Victorio called me retarded!”
“Victorio Marcos Cruz,” his mother snapped back from the kitchen. “Ahora mismo, you apologize.”
“Sorry, Demario,” Victorio said loudly enough to be heard. “Whatever,” he added in a grumble.
“Gracias,” Demario called in a sickeningly sweet tone, which Victorio met with a thin-eyed glare.
“Shut up,” Angala whined. As she turned her head, her thick, burnt-umber mane swirled with the motion. “I’m trying to watch.”
Victorio considered even two minutes into the episode too much. Glancing at the wall clock, Victorio pulled himself out of the couch and trotted to the pile of shoes by the door. As he pulled on his sneakers, he heard his mom from the kitchen calling, “Papi, where do you think you are going?”
He looked up, catching the dark eyes of his mother from where she was chopping vegetables. “I said I was gonna meet the dudes at the park.”
“You get back here,” she said, her hold on English slipping. “I ask you to watch your sister and brother. One thing. That is all, papi. One thing I ask.”
“They’re just watching TV,” he rebutted as he opened the door. “I gotta go.”
Her full lips tightened and her eyes turned back to the boiling pot. “You—Fine. Fine. Go. I cannot even ask you to do one thing for me. Nevermind that I am over this hot stove every night. You think sancocho is simple? No, I have to watch these hours—but you go, papi.”
The tone said he was going to regret this (she had gone into the ‘hours cooking’ bit this soon) but he would also regret missing his friends. “I’ll be back for dinner, Ma.”
“Que falta de respeto. Just go.”
Bitterly given permission was still permission in his book. As he closed the door, he could hear his mother raise her voice further, “Fine. Go. Padre will be home soon; you know I tell him. Just go.”
A quick slip into the garage and he had his skateboard in hand, and then rapidly propelled himself down the suburban streets. The southern California air was dry and hot, as it always was, ripping through his t-shirt and long shorts as he boarded down the roads. Years before, the neighborhood was bustling—a flurry of joggers, families tending gardens, and the sounds of expanding construction. Now as he traveled down the street he rarely had to watch for cars in the late afternoon, he passed by far more ‘For Sale, Bank Owned’ signs than he did neighbors, and long-aba
ndoned, skeletal homes were all that remained of construction. This was just the way of things, his father would say. Victorio couldn’t remember any different, so he supposed that was a good enough explanation.
The farther toward the center of the subdivision he traveled, the more signs of life made themselves known. Rows of nearly identical, sandy-colored houses with vibrant lawns despite the yearly droughts, and more cars littered the driveways. Finally, he saw his destination, the park that rested in nearly the dead center of the neighborhood.
His friends draped across the various brightly colored spires and swings of the playground. A couple of them were classmates, but most just neighborhood friends from over the years brought together solely by geography. The oldest among the four waiting, Sean, was a few weeks from fifteen. He waved as Victorio approached, him once again one of the last to arrive.
“Hey,” Victorio huffed out as he arrived and slowed himself to a stop.
“‘Bout time,” Sean said.
“Had to get away from Ma.” Victorio shrugged.
Manuel let out a choked laugh from where he hung off the monkey bars. “You so white, you talk back to your mom. My mama would beat my ass.”
The group laughed at Victorio’s expense; even Sean despite shaking his head. Sean was the only white dude in the group, after all. Both Mike and his brother Ty were African American, and they nodded in agreement with Manuel.
Victorio quickly changed the subject, more offended than he wanted to admit. “We boarding tonight?”
“Naw, man,” Ty said. “Parkour.”
A sinking feeling sat in Victorio’s gut. Ever since they’d seen parkour in some games they played and videos online, his friends were dead-convinced it was only a matter of time before they were backflipping off walls. Victorio’s pelvis ached at the memory of the last fall he taken in the attempts. “Crap,” he mumbled.
Seeing Victorio’s expression fall, Manuel let out a jabbing laugh. “You nearly broke your ass last time,” he reminded everyone.
“Shut up,” Victorio cut back.
Calmly, Sean held up his hands. “Hey, easy. It’s seriously not that hard. We’ll tone it down ‘til you get it.” He pointed his freckled arm in the direction of a set of stairs that led to a cluster of benches. “Okay, dude. Just run down the slant next to the stairs, kick off the railing, and land. Cool?”
Victorio studied the rail, slant, and stairs, then swallowed under their judgmental gazes. “Cool.”
It was about momentum, the videos said. Gaining speed and just going with it as opposed to trying to force it. He ran through the basics in his head as he sped down the slant, but something felt wrong the second his feet left the ground. The angle he kicked hadn’t gone right. He watched his feet sail under the railing, but the rest of him wasn’t so lucky. He felt his side collide with the bar, and then the distinct feeling of meeting with stairs before he was flat on his back at the bottom.
“Oh, dude,” Sean hissed sympathetically, while Victorio could make out Manuel laughing loudly.
Blearily he opened his eyes to find Ty, Mike, and Sean standing over him, Ty looked worried while Mike tried hard not to laugh. “You break anything?” Ty asked.
“‘M fine, ‘m fine,” Victorio grumbled as he sat up. His ribs ached, his ankle felt sore, but otherwise, he assumed he was fine.
“You fuckin’ suck, man,” Manuel said, finally able to talk.
“Don’t listen to him.” Mike helped him to his feet. “You’ll get better.”
“Sure, whatever,” he grunted in irritation, vibrantly red.
“Hey, guys,” a new voice called.
The group turned to see the last arrival, Jimmy, walking sluggishly toward them. His board dangled in his fingers.
“What’s up?” Ty greeted him as he approached.
“Uh, nothing, I guess,” he mumbled. Victorio studied Jimmy as he dropped his board with the others. His dark eyes avoided the group, and every gesture he made spoke of a weariness unusual for the loud and brash kid.
Manuel called out, “Where ya been? You’re late.”
Jimmy’s brow hardened. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Hey, Jimmy…” Victorio began in concern, “seriously, what’s up? You look pretty bad.”
Jimmy stared at him for a moment, then his expression fell heavily. “Um…things are pretty bad,” he finally pushed out, rubbing the back of his head.
They glanced between each other, long familiar with the background noise that had been Jimmy’s crappy home life for some time.
Uncomfortable, Mike shoved his hands in his pockets. “So, your dad still can’t find a job?”
Jimmy stared at the ground and a heavy sigh shook his shoulders. “They kept saying it was okay though…” When his friends looked on silently, he tightened his lips and shrugged. “We…We’re gonna lose our home. They don’t know where we’re gonna go.”
The revelation struck the others hard, this rude invasion of reality into their time off unwelcome. Ty hissed and shook his head, Sean kicked at a particularly interesting pebble on the ground, Manuel looked at Victorio as though this was somehow his fault just by getting Jimmy to speak. Mike made himself the first to move to Jimmy and patted his shoulder silently.
“Hold up…” Ty ventured. “You’re gonna be, like…homeless?”
The word seemed to physically cut Jimmy—he brushed off Mike’s hand. “I dunno. We might have to go to Tacoma and move in with Grandma. I dunno.”
“Naw, they still got a little time, right? Something’ll come up,” Manuel offered.
Jimmy’s eyes grew more distant as he stared at the ground. “I dunno…they sounded kinda…”
Through most of the exchange, Victorio had only listened, knots in his stomach tangling tighter and tighter, and a fearful lump building in his throat. The sheer powerlessness he felt slowly ripped at his vitals and lay them in front of his eyes. He felt so small, and like the world mocked him for living so secure in his own comfort. The others surely felt it, that they were just one mistake from what Jimmy was going through. It could happen at any time, and who would be there to help them?
It couldn’t be hopeless. Victorio couldn’t just let it happen.
He pushed out through his tight throat, “I can help.”
The silence broken, all eyes turned to him in confusion.
With more confidence, he spoke again, feeling a swell of hope. “My dad, he works for that apartment company. He’ll be able to do something.”
In an instant, Jimmy’s eyes brightened. As the others laughed, Manuel clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“That’s right,” Ty said. “His dad can help you guys into a new place.”
Jimmy laughed as well, looking to Victorio in stunned relief. “You’d do that, man?”
Victorio shrugged, trying to play it off as nothing big. “Come on, we’re friends. Whatever. I’ll tell Dad tonight.”
“See, I told you something would come up,” Manuel said with a nudge to Jimmy.
Jimmy smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Victorio. That’s really cool.”
Sean waved to everyone. “Now come on. We’re doing parkour, just jump in.”
Mike watched Victorio sit on one of the swings, rubbing his shoulder. “You sitting out?”
“Eyeah,” he sighed sheepishly. “Gimme a sec.”
As Victorio watched his friends leap and tumble over the playground, he found himself staring up at the rapidly changing sky. Fiery reds mingled in the twilight blues, and the first stars made themselves known. His eyes focused on the dots of brilliant white peering from the inky sea, reminding him that the brightest ones were most likely planets. He couldn’t help but wonder if things here didn't look so bad from their point of view.
Chapter Two
Revelation at the Cul de Sac
Victorio only knocked once before entering his dad’s study. The room was as dimly lit as Mom’s name for it, la cueva, the cave. It was cramped for office space, the much-too-large computer desk hi
s father had bought at a city auction filling most of the space, with cheap filing cabinets and a useless fax machine occupying the rest. His dad didn’t turn right away; he sat at his desk with his side to Victorio and the door. He leaned his square jaw against his hand, the low light reflecting in his horn-rimmed glasses illuminating his black, dense, trim-cut hair and goatee. His eyes didn’t move to Victorio, focused on a small piece of paper instead.
“Hey, Dad?” Victorio asked.
“Mm?”
The eagerness that he had felt on the playground began to wane now that he stood in his father’s office, surrounded by photos of distant relatives from Columbia and Puerto Rico, his father’s diploma, and the inexplicable framed posters of eagles in flight. Something about the room always made Victorio humble, perhaps because Dad had been so adamant about him staying out when he was younger. While that had changed, Angala nor Demario had earned admittance yet. “I, uh…just wanted to ask you something.”
Knowingly, Dad set down the paper he held. “¿Que pasa hijo?”
Victorio’s curiosity finally got the better of him, and he pointed to the discarded paper. “You have to do work tonight?”
His father chuckled and shook his head. “No, no, no…there’d be a lot more of it if it was work.” With a long, heavy sigh his father pulled himself up from his creaking office chair and rubbed his lower back. “Although I’m sure I’ll be getting some text sometime tonight. No, this is just something I have to do after hard days. I’m not going to feel like going in tomorrow and dealing with these people. May as well get it out of my system now and get it over with.”
Victorio shrugged, “So don’t go.”
Dad let out a scoffing laugh and raised his thick eyebrows. He shook his head and lifted his glasses far enough to rub the bridge of his wide nose. “¡Así no más! Don’t go?”
Like much of what Dad said, this had apparently been some kind of test, and Victorio wasn’t passing. He shrugged again; this time larger. “Why not? You’re there all the time. You’ve got plenty of people to run the offices without you.”
Victorious Cross Page 1
