“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I say. “A train? They’re putting it on a train?”
“That seems weird,” Tuck agrees. “Plenty of Darklings can cast teleportation spells. Wouldn’t that be safer than transporting the gun on a train?”
“It’s a trap,” I say. “They’re dangling this big fucking bait in front of Robin’s nose. Dude, how can you resist a fucking train robbery? ”
Tuck grimaces. “Yeah. Robin would never refuse a chance like that.”
“Good thing he’s not Robin right now,” I say. “Let’s hope Marian keeps him Vernon for a while.”
But how long is a while? Without any sense of a WikiJools download, I know the schedule for every train in Ontario. “It’s seven and a quarter hours from Waterloo to Ottawa. But that’s the passenger train, with a ninety minute stopover in Toronto. High-speed special express would take four or five hours. If Marian can keep Robin as Vernon that long…”
“What ho, Merry Men!” cries a cheerful voice from a speaker in the ceiling. “The game’s afoot! The prey is on the wing! Assemble, my hearties, for we have villains to thwart!”
I bury my face in my hands. Robin Fucking Hood is back.
14
Feeding Strategies
STILL ON THE OVERHEAD speaker, Robin calls for the shortest possible meeting to discuss strategy, then off for the great train robbery.
I say to Tuck, “Before the meeting starts, can we take just a minute to get my ring?”
The room we’re in has a door leading onward, presumably to the place where Ninja Jane stashed my stuff. But Tuck refuses; when Robin says, “Hurry!” everyone else has to hustle their butts.
“It’ll only take a second,” I say, heading onward anyway.
Next thing I know, Nana bites the seat of my pants and yanks me back. Lucky for me, the Will Scarlet costume is as tough as Marian claimed—Nana’s teeth don’t break the fabric. Still, it’s a major-league grab-ass and it hurts like hell, even if it doesn’t draw blood. Just to drive home the message, Nana growls. She may not be able to talk, but she can communicate with excellent clarity.
Sigh.
I let myself get herded back the way we came. Tuck hurries up the slanting corridor, while Polly glares from his shoulder and Nana trails behind us like a sheepdog. We make our way through the lab and into the forest. Tuck leads us along yet another game trail until we arrive at a mead hall.
The exterior is similar to Robin’s house: Tudor-style, with walls made of wood laths and wattle and daub. The interior is a single big room with a table in the middle. No doubt the table has supported zillions of suckling pigs with apples in their mouths, plus tankards of Viking hooch sweet enough to make your teeth ache. The rafters have rung with many a rowdy song and the echoes of farts. Tales have been told, bets have been betted, toasts have been quaffed and queefed.
By the time we arrive, the hall is full. Full of people: familiar faces like Robin, Marian, and Wrecking Ball, plus Multiplier, the Artful Dodger, Middlemarge, Posit, Sinquisitor, Shtum, and Mistah Kurtz. Also full of animals: a sturdy gray quarter horse, an orangutan, a kangaroo, a komodo dragon, a family of otters, two eagles, and an untold number of insects, spiders, etc. lurking in the shadows. Everyone seems to be squawking without paying attention to anyone else … but as soon as they notice Tuck and me, everything goes silent.
“Excellent!” Robin exclaims. He stands at the head of the table, with Marian on his right and Wrecking Ball on his left. He shows no injuries from our quarterstaff frivolities. He shows no ill will either, because he gives me a beaming smile. “Fellow outlaws!” he says. “Allow me to introduce the beauteous Jools. A jewel of a woman indeed, and a fine addition to our band.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” I say. “I’m not an addition, I’m just passing through. In fact, it’s time you sent me home.”
“That won’t be possible,” Marian says. “I can’t let you leave with your memory intact, and I don’t have time to erase it now. You’ll have to wait till we’ve robbed the train.”
“But waiting is tedious, don’t you think?” asks Robin. “Surely you’ll join us for the robbery? You’ll see what jolly times we have together.”
I glare at him. “My dad always warned me against falling in with a bad crowd and committing felonies. Especially since any moron can see this is a trap. Why are you so obsessed with getting this gun?”
“Better for us to have it than the Darklings,” Robin replies. “They’ll use the weapon for villainous ends. And of course, dear Jools, we all realize this is a trap. But that’s what we live for: to confound those who think they’re smarter than us rabble.”
“Pass,” I say. “Have fun storming the castle.”
Robin stares at me with his dark glittering eyes. “Milady, might we have a word in private?” Without waiting for me to answer, he takes my arm and escorts me to a corner of the room. It never crosses my mind to resist—he suddenly got so charming, I literally stopped thinking. For ten seconds there, my mind was just putty in his hands.
Fucking superpowers. And if I weren’t a Spark myself, I’d still be under his spell, a blank slate for Robin to write on. Even now I feel tempted to give in and swoon.
I wonder if he realizes what he’s doing. He might just believe he’s a suave handsome guy whom women instinctively adore. He may not know he literally compels their minds.
“Milady,” Robin says (and his voice makes me want to cream), “you and I both know you’re a Spark. If you join our sport, you’ll enjoy it, I guarantee. But if you insist on staying in Sherwood, we’d be forced to ensure you don’t escape during our absence. We couldn’t afford to weaken our numbers by leaving someone to watch you—as you have observed, this is a trap. That means we’ll require our entire company for the operation. I will therefore have no choice but to hobble you before we set out on our mission.”
Hobble? I don’t like the sound of that. I say, “What do you mean, ‘hobble’?”
“Marian has a device that neutralizes powers of the Light. It will put your Spark to sleep, so to speak. Render you unpowered. I’m told the experience can be upsetting. If one has grown accustomed to being more than human, reverting back is stressful.”
My breath catches in my throat. Reverting back? Is that possible?
But of course it is. That’s how the medi-tank works. The first thing it does is shut off your powers. So why is it any wonder that Marian built a device that did the same thing?
Something that could make me plain old Jools. The stupid Jools who flunks her courses. Not an Olympic-level anything, but a slutty alcoholic whose biggest claim to fame is klutzing around with an intramural hockey team that only went four-for-eight last season.
They’re threatening to reduce me to that?
I couldn’t bear it. Stupid Jools is worse than ordinary; she’s pathetic. Before she became a Spark, she was circling the bowl into nothingness.
I can’t go back.
I can’t go back.
“Bastard,” I say to Robin. “Fucking bastard.”
“You’re not the first to call me that,” he answers. He takes my hand and kisses it. (Why do I let him?) “But when the wind of adventure blows through your hair and you stare danger straight in the eye, you’ll change your mind, milady.”
I want to yank my hand free and backslap him hard. But something in my head refuses to do it. The most I can manage is a gentle pulling away, like a shy little maiden blushing prettily as she says, “Good sir, you mustn’t.”
What I actually say is, “Fine. I’ll rob your fucking train. But after that, this is over. You erase my memory and send me on my way, with my powers one hundred percent intact.”
Robin gives me a smile that flutters my heart, despite how much I hate both him and myself for the reaction. “Whatever milady wishes.”
He kisses my hand again.
* * *
ROBIN LEADS ME BACK to the table, where the others are working out tactics. Not that we can do much planning in ad
vance—we know virtually nothing about what we’re facing. Apparently, Robin gets info from a Darkling spy, a rebellious rich girl they’ve code-named Gisbourne. (She gets off on betraying the Dark in exchange for “forbidden pleasures” with a super outlaw. Yeah, sure, whatever.)
Robin knows she’ll eventually double-cross him; she’s just bored and doing this for kicks. And the info she supplies is pretty sketchy. Still, it’s all we have to go on, so we’ll have to make do.
According to Gisbourne, the bazooka will be transported as part of a regular passenger train. That’s a pain in the ass, since it means we’ll have to be careful of innocent bystanders. On the other hand, it’s trivial to learn the train’s schedule and the route it’ll take. This lets us figure out the optimal place to attack: a long stretch that parallels the shore of Lake Ontario, where the rail line runs through relatively empty farmland. A Dark-Spark battle there shouldn’t cause much collateral damage. Since it’s winter, there won’t even be cows in the fields, so no livestock will be killed in the fighting.
And yes, there will be fighting. We don’t know who or what will be on the train, but presumably Reaper and his bosses will want overwhelming force. That gives them lots of options; they could, for example, hire mercenary Sparks to act as guards. Plenty of superpowered people sell their services by the hour. But Robin and Marian have good connections in the merc community, and they haven’t heard a peep.
This suggests the bazooka will be protected by other types of guard. Most governments have secret Spark military units, but that’s a double-edged sword—Spark super soldiers have a habit of going rogue. They rebel against their Darkling masters, and either become renegade heroes fighting governmental corruption, or else crazy villains who name themselves after war crimes.
When it comes to capturing a popular Spark like Robin Hood, the Darklings in our government will probably opt for non-Spark minions: Renfields like Stevens & Stephens, and full-fledged Darklings like Reaper. But it’s hard to find Darklings willing to fight; how do you persuade multimillionaires to risk their lives in brawls? Robin is a high-prestige target, so he’ll attract more interest than a random Spark off the street. But Gisbourne reports no calls for volunteers. Apparently the feds have something different in mind.
Nobody knows what it might be, and nobody cares. Robin’s plan will be the same, no matter what: attack in full force, grab the bazooka, then vamoose.
My own plan should be to run the fuck away while the others fight. Just one problem: running is literally my only means of es cape. Let’s say I jump off the train and race away across the surrounding fields. I’ll either get caught by one of the outlaws, or else the Merry Men will just abandon me and teleport back to Sherwood. I’ll be left alone and on foot, forced to deal with whatever army the Darklings have mustered to guard the gun. They’ll be able to track me down with magic, or even just a werewolf’s keen nose. The only question is whether they’ll kill me on the spot, or just rough me up and throw me in jail forever.
My best chance for avoiding an ugly orange jumpsuit is to stick with Robin and his gang. Cling to their coattails when they run home, and hope that Robin eventually lets me go. Yes, it means Marian will erase my memory, but that’s better than getting killed or locked up.
I’m still thinking through these thoughts when Robin asks, “Anything else?” We have nothing that resembles a plan, but the outlaws shout, “No!” and jog off to gather their gear. Within seconds, the only ones left in the hall are me, Robin Hood, and Nana, who’s circling the table and lapping up any mead left in the tankards. (The tankards are big enough for her to get her muzzle inside. I can’t see what happens next, but I can hear her tongue going flap, flap, flap inside each tankard’s echoing interior.)
“Milady,” Robin says, “you make a most bewitching Will Scarlet.”
“Willow Scarlet,” I correct him. I feel clever for coming up with the name. Then I realize I’m not the first—I know of twenty other Willow Scarlets in the world. This must be the work of WikiJools, though I didn’t sense any download; how else would I have heard of, say, a writer in New Zealand? But if I’m going out in public as a Spark, I need to construct an identity, even if it’s not unique. I’ve got the fancy red costume, and now I have a code name. But …
I say, “I need a mask.”
“That’s easily arranged.” Robin goes to the mead-hall table. For the first time, I notice that it has a delivery hatch like the one in Robin’s kitchen. He taps on the hatch. “Might I please have a suitable mask for Willow Scarlet?”
The table whirs softly, then the hatch slides open. Up rises a simple eye mask, the same shade of red as my costume. The mask is totally basic, like the kind you buy for a buck at Halloween, except it doesn’t have an elastic band to hold it in place. Robin dangles the mask in front of me. “Would milady pay a kiss for this bauble?”
I roll my eyes. “Cut the crap. I’m not in the mood.”
“Not in the mood for a kiss? A kiss, nothing more?” He gives me a look of mock disapproval. “You wound me, milady.”
I can feel his Halo flare. I don’t know if he’s doing it intentionally, but it’s suddenly all I can do not to grab him and nuzzle his beard. I snatch the mask from his hand and mash it against my face.
Better. With a costume, a mask, and a code name, I’m now a full-fledged Spark. My own Halo flares, insulating me from much of Robin’s aura. He’s still the sort of dude I keep pictures of in the drawer of my nightstand, but he’s not a roofie on legs.
Robin clutches his heart. “Milady!” Which I guess must mean he got hit by my Halo’s clout.
I wonder if Willow Scarlet’s Halo feels different from Ninety-Nine’s. My roommates assure me that Ninety-Nine’s Halo is “inspirational,” not sexy. That’s mucho disappointing, but what else would I expect when I put on a bulky hockey uniform? Not the stuff that wet dreams are made on. By contrast, the Willow Scarlet costume isn’t a tight-fitting catsuit, but it’s red and it’s lithe and it’s leather. That has to help.
I’d love to investigate if my Halo gives off different vibes when I change my costume and code name. Is my Halo part of me, or is it created by whatever identity I assume?
That question has to wait. Robin is still pretending to be smitten by me. He taps the table’s delivery hatch, and without him saying a word, a shot glass of whisky rises into his hand.
He drains it in one gulp, as if I’m so dazzling I drive him to drink. He taps the hatch again like he still needs bolstering.
“Oh, stop it,” I say. “You’ve slept with Tigresse. Don’t pretend to go wild over me.”
“You underestimate yourself, milady,” Robin says. “And you slander me as a man. Do you think a single night with Tigresse leaves me jaded and blind? I am still most able to appreciate beauty in its multiplicitous forms.”
“If you want multiplicitous forms,” I say, “fuck a shape-shifter. I have one form only, a form that pounded you unconscious once, so don’t make me do it again.”
“The lady doth protest too much.” Another glass of whisky has appeared in response to Robin’s tap on the hatch. He picks up the glass and offers it to me. “Mayhap you are simply on edge before battle. Will this settle your nerves?”
“Fuck off,” I say wearily. I don’t want a drink; I just wish I did. I know who I am when I’m hard up for booze.
But no. And no on sex offers, too.
I picture ripping open the V of my shirt and smothering Robin’s face in my cleavage. That would be natural. Simple. That would be me. I could check my brain at the door and float away.
But my brain doesn’t want to float. It’s thinking about … what? The mask I put on a minute ago. How does the mask stay in place without strings? It doesn’t even have glue. I think that it’s bonded to my skin, as if some kind of tissue on the mask’s interior has merged its cells with my face.
I realize exactly how I could do that with hagfish slime.
Robin asks, “What’s wrong, milady?”
> I don’t answer. I just start to cry.
* * *
A GUY ONCE ACCUSED me of being without shame. What a douche. He just wanted me ashamed of sleeping with people who weren’t him.
The truth is that I do feel shame. I’m ashamed of being a crier.
Big tough Jools. Hockey enforcer. Superhero. Takes no shit from anyone. But prone to outbursts of tears. Sometimes, I don’t even know why.
I hate it. Then I get mad at myself for crying, and that makes me cry harder.
Robin Hood moves toward me … and I swear to God, if he tries to take me in his arms for a reassuring hug, I have no idea what I’ll do. I might try to rip him apart. Or I might fuck him. Won’t be the first time for either—I’ve cried in front of other men, haven’t I?
Stupid emotional bitch.
But before Robin reaches me, Nana moves between us. She has a worried look on her face. She nudges my chest with her nose, as if to ask why I’m crying.
I fall on the big dog’s neck and hug her hard. Nana licks me with her huge wet tongue. Robin comes in close, but then wisely steps back. After watching me cry into Nana for a bit, he goes back to the sideboard and has a quiet conversation with the delivery hatch.
I keep hugging Nana. I kiss her, too, pressing my lips hard against her fur. She leans her weight against me … although maybe that’s just a counterbalance so I don’t push her over.
Time passes. I truly don’t know why I’m crying. I could make a list of reasons, but they’re all dumb.
It’s a good thing Newfoundlands are water dogs. I’d fucking drown a Chihuahua.
Eventually, Nana gives a soft wuff and pulls away from me. I let her go. Robin is gone, so Nana and I have the hall to ourselves.
The tears in my eyes have cleared up enough that I can see my snot on Nana’s fur. I pull myself together and go to the table; I need to order some wipes to clean up me and the dog. But I stop when I see what Robin has left for me.
Two swords. Specifically sabers.
They Promised Me the Gun Wasn't Loaded Page 25
