by Sevan Paris
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Epilogue
Back Image
Will Return
Superheroes in Prose
Volume Six:
Magick With a k
by Sevan Paris
Copyright © 2013 Sevan Paris
All rights reserved.
Kindle Edition
This book is dedicated to Dr. Susan North, who taught me how painfully slippery language is.
PROLOGUE
“I’ll have … the whole grain pancakes with … blueberries, walnuts, and whip cream.”
The waitress looks at me, pen not doing a damn thing on that notepad. “I’ve never seen a girl with arms that cut before,” she says. “You workout?”
I hand the menu back to her.
“Where at?”
“Can I just get some more coffee?”
She pops her gum. “Sure.”
She walks away, turning sideways to pass another waitress in the narrow diner. I sip the last bit of my coffee and ignore the accusing look from the cook. The other nine tables are full of people—I’m the only person taking one all by my lonesome. Not my fault that Frankenstein Pancakes never moved into a larger building on North Shore. And it’s not my fault their whole grain blueberry walnut pancakes are so damn good.
The door to the front of the diner opens, dinging the bell above it. In walks a guy wearing blue jeans and a black Marmot jacket, lightly dusted with snow. His brown eyes scan the room until they lock with mine. After taking a while to weave his two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle between the tables and people, he sits on the other side of my booth with a huff.
I shift in my seat, feeling the plane ticket to Paris in my back pocket. Goddamn it—I just had to stop for pancakes first …
Seeing somebody else at my table, the cook gives a small nod, satisfied that all is now right with the world that is his diner. He returns his attention to the griddle, oblivious that his restaurant may be completely destroyed in the next five minutes.
“Hey, Ember,” the guy at my booth says.
“How did you find me, Tommy?”
Tommy takes off his toboggan, turning up short tufts of blond hair. “So that’s how it’s gonna be?”
I thumb the rim of my mug, waiting.
“Your eyes are flaming, Ember.”
“They do that when people upset me.”
“Or you’re just too emotional. Like always.”
“… Are you going to answer my question?” I barely keep a trembling anger out of my voice.
“How do you think we found you? Magick. Do you have any idea how bad this—”
“Can I get you anything?” the waitress asks, stepping between us to pour coffee into my mug. I barely get my thumb moved out of the way. Bitch.
“I’ll have … what she’s having.”
She pops her gum again and walks away.
He leans forward. “We haven’t heard from you. In forever. And it’s not for lack of trying.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Not busy enough.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Ember, when a Ward hangs on to Magick for as long as you have, everybody worries.”
“I’ve told you. I’ve told Mystick: I’ll hand it over when I find the right person.”
“And how will you know when you’ve found the right person?”
I shrug. “My gut will tell me.”
He crosses his arms. I swear they’re thick as trees. “And how long will that take? A day? A week? Another nine months? Eldritch trusted you—before he died. Trusted you with the responsibility to—”
“That’s right: trusted me. Not you. And especially not that tart Mystick.”
Tommy’s eyes get dangerous. “She’s not a tart.”
“Well she looks like one.”
He points at my hair, dyed just a shade lighter than the red on a stop sign. “You’re one to talk.”
I rub my eyes, hoping they’ve returned to normal. “Look—I haven’t changed my mind since the last time we talked about this. Nothing is different.”
“Oh, it’s different.” He looks out to the snow covered parking lot.
I lean back in my chair. “Mystick is here, isn’t she? Listening to us.”
Tommy lowers his voice to a whisper. “This power needs to be accounted for. Things are serious right now. With Macabre and … Jesus Christ—you did hear what happened to Liberty, right?”
“Liberty finally got what was coming to him. Guy was a nut sack. And I’m sure Galaxy isn’t as bad as everyone says.”
“Your gut tell you that?”
I sigh and look out the window, wondering how close Mystick is. “Does the Liberty thing even matter? It was months ago. Mystick should have things well in hand by now.”
“She has a lot on her plate.”
“So do I.”
“Ember—”
I look back at him. “Stop ‘Ember’-ing me. I don’t want this. I never asked for this.”
“Fate chose you,” he says, more to himself than to me.
“Fate can go eff itself.”
“Are you—”
The waitress sets a mug in front of Tommy and fills it with coffee. “Cream or sugar?”
“No, black is fine.”
The waitress looks at me. “What about you, hon? You doing okay?” She walks away before I can say anything.
“I see the waitress has gotten to know you. When are you going to learn? Treat somebody like shit, they’re going to treat you like shit too.”
“I’d rather have somebody hate me for what I am than like me for what I’m not.”
Tommy shakes his head, as if I’ve answered an unspoken question. “You’re not coming, are you?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you should do what she asks—for once.” He pulls a twelve inch wooden rod out of his jacket and sets it on the table. The blackened wood covers most of the hieroglyphs. I recognize the item but not the language.
“Seriously? You want to use a capture stick on me?”
“No, I want you to walk outside and get in the car with me. But you’re not giving me a choice.”
“There is always a choice, Tommy. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do what she tells you.”
“I owe Mystick everything. I was a nobody until I became a Ward. Now, I can make a difference. I can help people.”
“Help her you mean.”
“Same thing.”
“Is it? Do you ever wonder why she has you do the things you do? What kind of people you’re helping? What kind of people you’re hurting? She and the other Sayers may be doing the good work or not. They never tell us anything. The person that gets this Magick is going to be somebody different. Somebody who questions things. Somebody—”
“Somebody like you.”
His grip tightens on the stick. I look from it to him, daring him with my eyes …
Two heavy plates slide onto our table. “Alright, two blueberry walnut pancakes with whip cream,” the waitress says. Four blueberries escape a heap of whip cream and slide down the golden stack, leaving a trail of purple syrup. I’m not ashamed to say I almost lick my lips. “Can I get you two anything—”
Tommy slams my head into the plate, breaking it in two.
The world blurs. I elbow out of the booth and onto the floor, feet still in the chair. I shake my head —flicking away b
lueberries from my hair. A few highlighted strands fall in my eyes. The waitress screams and falls into the booth behind me.
Tommy slides the capture stick off the table, points it at me, and mouths something in some language, long dead. The tip glows yellow …
The danger of the Magicks in that thing snaps me lucid. I kick Tommy’s wrist, throwing his aim to the ceiling.
The yellow blast envelops a florescent light. Reality churns for a brief moment before the light and a good portion of the roof swirl into the stick. Mystickal ash falls around us, glowing yellow.
People in the restaurant don’t say, don’t do, anything but stare at us with wide eyes and open mouths.
Idiots.
Tommy grabs the table to pull himself out of the booth. I kick his knee, sending him to the ground with a scream. A twist and spring from the floor has me on his back, forearms on either side of his neck—and squeezing. He grabs for my feet—I walk them up the wall behind us, putting all of my hundred forty five pounds of pressure on him. My right boot slides down the window, desperately trying to keep me perched. He grunts.
Come on, Tommy, don’t make me take this to the next level—pass out, pass out, pass out …
Tommy lets out a gargled scream and twists, jabbing his elbow so deep in my stomach I swear it touches my backbone.
An instant dry heave slides me to the table, bouncing me back to the floor. A burning pain in my cheek, gut, and the urge to puke makes getting up—makes even thinking about getting up—ridiculous. All I manage to do is roll over a little. Tommy grabs the collar of my black turtleneck and slides me to him on my hip, jeans trailing through the blueberry syrup and whip cream covered tile.
Tommy coughs out some more of that dead language, while rubbing the purpling area on his throat. He leans back and raises the stick …
I scream and throw all of my weight into him. We shatter through the diner’s glass door and hit the ground hard—sliding on three feet of glass and snow covered gravel.
I lay there, on top of him, for several moments. Too dazed, too hurt to do much else. My eyes flutter open—the capture stick lays three feet to my right, upended in the snow.
I roll off him, get to my hands and knees, and frantically crawl to the stick. I reach out—almost touching the edge of the stick with my middle finger. Tommy drives his elbow into my ribs, balling me up with a grunt. He climbs over me, hand almost on the stick …
And with a burst of Magickal energy, a katana hums to life in my hand. Its burning colors shifting from yellow to orange, inches from Tommy’s adam’s apple.
He freezes, hand inches away from the thing that will send me back to Mystick, harmless as a kitten. He looks from the katana to my eyes. Eyes that are burning the same color as the blade. “So it’s come to this?” he says.
“You brought us here.”
“But I never would have used my weapons against you.”
“No, you’ll just use hers. Walk away.”
“And what? Just let you keep Eldritch’s powers forever? You know I can’t do that.”
I shake my head. “I’m not—what good would it do, Tommy? I can’t use it.”
He tenses. “With Magick, anything is possible. I’m going to reach for the capture stick, Ember,” he says, leaning closer to it.
“Tommy …”
“The only way you can stop me … is to kill me.”
He reaches for the stick—a breath I didn’t realize I was holding escapes my lips as I accept that I’m about to end Tommy’s life …
The small area of ground between us explodes.
Nearly blinded by the raining chunks of gravel, snow, and ice, I raise my sword and back peddle. Tommy rolls toward the stick, too far away for me to reach him. A body black as night and filled with stars stands to my right, pointing a glowing blue fist at the smoking crater between me and Tommy.
“Care for a second opinion?” Galaxy says.
CHAPTER ONE
Snow is so freaking cool.
And I’m not talking about the Superhero named Snow (but he’s actually pretty cool too). No, I’m talking about snow-snow. Like the stuff people sing about at Christmas. Like the stuff Mom used to make snow cream out of. Like the stuff whitening everything in the city of Prose.
It snowed four inches last night—unusual for Prose even in winter. And downright impossible in March … yet here it is: Clumps falling off the Michael Booth Bridge, only to slowly be replaced by more; every boring rooftop—angled or flat—covered with a cheery, white blanket of awesome; kids building leaning snowmen in front of their apartment buildings. No school. No worries. No Supervillains. The city looks like the coolest snow globe ever. Nothing can ruin this day.
Gabe, it’s 10:00 AM. How much longer are we going to be out here, galavanting?
Except for the smartass alien I’m bonded to.
“I don’t have to be at work until twelve, M. So for another hour, or until I don’t want to anymore—whichever happens first.”
But there are other things which require our attention.
I lower my altitude and fly slightly above the streets of Prose, weaving between The Café Show and Hunter Museum. “Casa will find a way to get us to Maul’s coordinates.”
And why do you think that?
“Uh, because he said he would?”
It’s sadly ironic that you completely trust one of the most distrustful humans I’ve ever met.
“You’re disembodied. You don’t ‘meet’ anybody.” I fly up beside the Hair of the Dog Pub and bank toward the river.
Be that as it may, you’re placing an unfathomable amount of faith in him. We should, at the very least, be exploring more options in the meantime.
“The science stuff is your department, dude. It’s not like we could just fly there.”
Actually, we could. The journey would only require eight days. But transit time isn’t the concern. Earth’s atmosphere prevents The Council—
“From finding us—I know, I know. We just keep going in circles with this, M—all we can do is wait and see what Casa comes up with.”
You say that now. But Earth’s World War II doesn’t compare to Draxis IX’s World End War. Your nuclear weapons are but bee-bee guns compared to the temporal bombs of Caritha. And Earth’s Superheroes would be helpless infants if the Augmented Pirates of the Rakon Nebula ever showed an interest in its resources.
“I’m sure there is a point in here somewhere, so …”
The point, Gabriel, is that the universe is a dangerous place. Far more dangerous than your limited experience would have you believe. If Deathbot’s information is accurate, and this Tibus Maul individual wants us captured or killed, we’d best find out the details pretty darn fast. Otherwise—
I stop to a hover above a chunk of ice on the river bank. M is obsessed with the sound of his own voice. It’s crazy unusual for him to stop mid-sentence. “M?”
… I’m detecting an odd energy signature emanating from North Shore.
I look at the other side of the river. Most of the shops and restaurants of North Shore are closed because of the weather, giving it a weird sense of calm. “What is it?”
If I knew what it was, I wouldn’t have merely used the word ‘odd,’ would I?
I fly north over the river. “Okay, first: shut up. Second: show me where it is.”
Why? Whatever this is has nothing to do with us.
“You do know the meaning of ‘Superhero,’ right?”
…. Fine. M shows me the location of the radiation by adjusting my vision, turning a section of North Shore blue. I fly toward it—passing over businesses, condos and houses—until I round a hill leading to the parking lot of Frankenstein Pancakes.
Trails of red splatter on the snow lead away from the diner’s busted front door to a big guy doing all he can to kill a girl with punk red hair. By the time I land, she has a sword close to his throat that hums and glows reddish orange.
I’m detecting spectacular amounts of that energy fr
om the both of them.
“I’m going to reach for the capture stick, Ember,” the big guy says. He leans towards a stick half buried in the snow.
“Tommy …”
“The only way you can stop me … is to kill me.”
Tommy makes a move for the stick—Ember raises the sword …
When my blue Grav Blast blows away a good chunk of the ground between them.
“Care for a second opinion?” I say, another Grav Blast glowing and ready around my fist.
Ember faces me. I recognize her instantly: She is that Gina Carano-looking chick that almost killed me over an Indian Tattoos book in Rock Creek Bookstore months ago. Her irises glow the same weird way her sword does.
“Why are you here?” she says like we’ve known each other for years. She turns her fiery eyes on Tommy, who now can’t seem to decide if he wants to point that stick at me or Ember.
“Uh, being a Superhero?” I say.
“Well, go be one somewhere else.” she says.
Tommy points the stick at her and mumbles something. The tip glows yellow.
I’m detecting even higher amounts of the same energy coming from that device.
Ember steps toward Tommy. Tommy’s mumbling turns into yelling and the glowing intensifies.
Whatever you do …
I step between them.
… don’t step between them. By The Void, Gabe.
I raise my hands, one palm facing each of them. “Okay, look, guys, how about we just stop trying to kill each other for a hot second, huh? I’m sure that whatever—”
“Galaxy?” Tommy says. His eyes focus on me and his boots shuffle in the snow. He adjusts the angle the stick.
The glowing tip now points at me.
“Step away,” he says. “You’re getting involved in something that doesn’t concern you.”
“Does nobody know what ‘Superhero’ means?” I say.
“He’s right,” Ember says from my left swinging her sword. Is she closer? “Whatever you’ve done—whatever you’ve been though with that creep Liberty—”
“You know about Liberty being a creep?”
Then why didn’t YOU do something about it. Could have saved us the trouble.
