by Alex Gabriel
He couldn’t choose between Nick and his family. He wouldn’t. Pat was just going to have to let things run their course. When the time came, he’d know what to do to steer this all towards a good outcome. Everything was going to turn out fine. It was all going to be okay in the end, because it had to be. That was all.
Before Pat hurried over to help his sisters, he took the time to fire off another quick text to Nick. You’re hot, and my sisters like your omelets. I guess you can stick around, dude.
Later that evening, full of excellent food and sweet foreign wine, Pat checked his phone to find the answering message: Like you’re getting rid of me after all that drama.
See? This was going to work out just fine. Pat knew it, and Pat’s intuition was never wrong.
For a certain value of never. Whatever, it totally counted.
Chapter Sixteen
Don’t count your chicks before they’re devoured.
It wasn’t a dark and stormy night, which was just as well. Serpentissima wasn’t terribly fond of either the cold or the dark, preferring sunlight and warmth to bask in. When she kicked off her plan, it was a lovely spring day, balmy and pleasant, with no more than a handful of fluffy white clouds drifting across the azure sky. Not that the sky was visible from the throne room, but Pat had ridden his bike to the lair, so he knew.
The pleasantly melodic chime that signaled an incoming transmission sounded, and everyone’s heads went up. “Executive Lieutenant to lair.” Hell’s voice echoed dramatically in the cavernous reaches of the throne room. “Phase Two achieved. I repeat, we have entered Phase Two. The heroes’ response is growing less disjointed. Evidently, someone vaguely competent has taken charge. Four minion leaders have reported surveillance efforts intended to trace them back to the lair. ETA of Catalina’s minion group at lair: ten minutes. ETA of heroes watching them cannot be calculated with certainty, but is estimated to be twelve to sixteen minutes.”
“That’s wonderful, honey,” Mom called from her dread throne. “We’ll be ready in ten. Keep us posted!”
Pat couldn’t help but hear annoyance in the brief silence before Hell logged off, but maybe it was just his imagination. It was hard to tell with silence, even when the annoyance was Hell’s.
Not only was the day balmy and pleasant, it was also right at the beginning of spring break, which was the result of a combination of good fortune and skilled wheedling. Even after all these years, Pat still had the sad, wide-eyed “but Mo-oom” whine down to an art. Plus, by even more good fortune, Pat had been smart (and/or love-sick) enough to finish all his term papers ahead of time. With any luck, his studies wouldn’t be held up by his mom taking over the world. He’d have to wait and see how the conquest went, of course, but it could hardly take more than two months or so. Three on the outside. Right?
“Honestly.” Serpentissima handed the novel she’d been reading to a minion, made a shooing gesture to indicate he should also remove the tea tray, and re-arranged Marlene across her shoulders. “I was beginning to think we’d have to wait all day. Doesn’t anybody know how to read clues anymore? Vindicator would have been here hours ago, immediately after I’d hit that warehouse district. Following minions to their lair, I ask you. How inelegant and pedestrian! I left behind dirt with bio-luminescent fungus spores, how much more of a clue bat do these people need?”
To listen to Mom, her old nemesis Vindicator had combined the razor-sharp deductive skills of Owlet and the mean cunning of Nexus with the overpowering physical prowess of Star Knight, all in a single hoagie. Pat was pretty sure the man couldn’t really have been as impressive as she claimed, or he’d have ruptured the space-time continuum by the massive improbability of his existence.
Still, unfair comparison or no, at this point Pat wasn’t tempted to defend Nick’s sleuthing abilities anymore. He and his Hero Corps friends really had taken ages to trace Serpentissima to her lair. In fact, they’d been so long about it that Mom had ordered tea and cookies, nobody was in their assigned place anymore, and Zen had sent Pat to get his hair done for the second time running.
Dad hurried in, still wrapped in his bathrobe, and paused briefly in the doorway for a high five with Cea. Pat caught the edge of her wicked grin before she hurried out, heading back to the lab where the tech minions awaited their Technical Lieutenant. (She’d claimed to be dropping by from boredom, but Pat bet she’d actually been growing dangerously tempted to zap a random minion with the amber, if the heroes didn’t turn up soon. Having something so cool at her fingertips and not being able to use it must be sheer torture for her.)
The stylist finished messing with Pat’s hair and stepped back, subjecting him to a critical once-over before nodding decisively. She gave him a small push in the direction of Serpentissima’s throne, where the rest of the guys were waiting for him. But — no way, had she seriously just patted him on the butt?
She really had. For a moment Pat wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but then he settled on flattered. It was a sign he was doing his job right, after all. And he was pleased to say that he did look great: The artfully tousled look he’d caught glimpses of in the stylist’s mirror suited him like whoa, making him seem almost rakish. She’d also done something to his face to make his eyes large and striking, and way more intensely blue than usual. Pat might not live up to the standards of a first-rate companion agency, but he was burning hot even so, and not afraid to admit it. (For the record: He’d been hot even before Zen had delivered him to the scarily well-groomed stylist minion brandishing her battery of combs, brushes, sprays, powders, creams, foams and waxes. Went without saying.)
“Alright, Sluts, listen up!” Zen clapped her hands briskly, as though she were calling to order an unruly school auditorium. She’d climbed on the lowest step of the throne’s dais and was frowning sternly as she surveyed Pat’s small flock of perfectly styled dudes in bathrobes. “We’re hoping to get a minute or two of ‘business as usual in the Serpent’s lair’ footage before the heroes arrive, so let’s haul some ass here, guys. Drop the robes, oil up and assume your assigned positions. Hop to it, we don’t have all day!”
Bathrobes dropped all around, one of Zen’s minions hurrying to collect them. Pat caught his sister’s gaze and rolled his eyes in an act of brotherly insolence she pretended not to see. She appeared to be enjoying her role a tiny bit too much, all bright and brittle as she directed the half-dozen Serpent Sluts to their places. PR and Marketing Lieutenant going on Micro-Managing Dictator… Mom was going to be so proud.
Pat’s official job title was a little less glamorous than his sisters’. Or more, really, depending on your point of view.
“Slut Leader Patrick, keep an eye on the Sluts when the fighting starts, and be sure…” But Pat never found out what he was meant to be sure about, because Zen trailed off with a disgusted snort. This might have had something to do with the way Pat had opened his eyes very wide in his best approximation of clueless admiration, cutely folding his hands beneath his chin. “What the hell, Patrick.”
“Do tell me more about how to do my job, Dread Lieutenant Zenobia,” Pat said, batting his eyelashes. “It seems like a particularly good idea because we have time to burn, seeing as the heroes are not due to arrive for ages.”
Right on cue, large projected numbers appeared on the left-hand wall of the cavern, counting down from seven minutes. Looked like Cea had reached the lab and taken control of technical operations.
Zen snorted exasperation at him. “Fine! Off you go, then. Go pout and be slutty. Shouldn’t be too much of an effort, should it?”
Pat gasped, giving his youngest sister a shocked and wounded look. Unfortunately, she was wise to his ways and failed to fall for it.
Millie was snoozing in the pocket of his bathrobe. Pat carefully scooped her up with one hand, setting her down on his shoulder as soon as he’d shrugged out of the robe (which he made sure to toss at Zen’s head). She twined around his neck immediately, bumping her nose against his ear in a friendly fashio
n. Pat took this to mean she wasn’t too put out at losing her cozy warm spot.
“Show time, baby,” Pat told Millie. He put his shoulders back and put a little bit of a slink in his step for effect, prowling his way up the dais to his cushion as sexily as he knew how. He made a special effort not to ogle the six half-naked, well-built young men already draped around the Dread Serpent’s throne, rubbing oil on each other and stretching languidly to show off their muscles. Pat had a guy of his own to ogle, and was way too classy to go there anyway. All he was doing was evaluating the guys’ aesthetic impact, as was his duty as leader of the Serpent Sluts.
In his professional opinion, they looked pretty damn fine. Pat himself did, too, and he’d look even better once he’d oiled up. He disliked the sticky feeling on his skin, but watching the stretch and flex of sleek, gleaming skin all around the Dread Throne, Pat had to admit there was something to be said for that part of the uniform. He was just glad he’d been training so hard with the swim team, and had squeezed in regular work-out sessions, too; he had some killer abs to show off, if he did say so himself.
Above them all, Serpentissima coiled in dreadful might, her beauty glorious and terrible to behold. She had donned a shimmering sleeveless gown in the same metallic shades as her scales, and her hair writhed wild and free. Her eyes glowed with the baleful heat of hell itself, venom gleaming at the tips of her fangs as she smiled a slow, cruel smile, stretching out one arm to beckon commandingly.
Zen hurried up the steps of the dais, brushing past Pat to put the Serpent Staff in Serpentissima’s hand. It immediately lit with a poisonous yellow-green light, playing over the pale skin and gleaming scales of its mistress in irregular pulses that seemed weirdly and disconcertingly organic.
The Serpent Rising cleared her throat delicately before speaking in a low, sibilant rasp. “We’ll begin by recording some soundbytes and video footage, Zen. The media need something short and snappy for news broadcasts, and you must always have a small video selection of catchphrases and key points on hand that aren’t ruined by ambient battle noise and heroes flying in front of your face. That way, if necessary, you can later edit the — Patrick Vercingetorix West, what on earth are you wearing?”
The sudden marrow-freezing hiss swept through the lair as violently as the frost of an endless winter; as chilling and raw as the touch of an unseen hand in the starless night, ice-cold and dead against your tender, living throat. Mom was glaring at him, all the fires of hell burning in her scarlet gaze.
Pat shivered and blinked, instinctively glancing at Zen. Zen looked just as wrong-footed as Pat felt, and only gave him a helpless look and tiny shake of the head to indicate she was as clueless as he.
“Uhm,” Pat said, looking down at himself. Skintight black leather pants, high pirate boots, black leather collar — yep, all present and accounted for. “The Serpent Slut uniform?” Somebody would have told him if he’d put on the pants inside out or whatever, so he had no idea what the problem was. It was the kind of outfit that only worked with good legs and some upper body muscle, but he had both of that. Plus, had he mentioned the killer abs? So, yeah. And oiling his chest and arms would only take a minute. He had plenty of time yet.
“That is your father’s uniform, Patrick, not yours!” Serpentissima’s hair was coiling and uncoiling agitatedly in clear maternal displeasure. “Go put on some proper clothes this instant, young man, before the heroes arrive. What are people supposed to think?”
“I, uh,” said Pat intelligently, and then got stuck. But I’m the Slut Leader crowded onto his tongue, though he managed to bite down the words. It was an entirely valid response, of course, but Pat got the feeling it wouldn’t be particularly helpful right now.
The roiling, hissing echoes of Serpentissima’s displeasure died down slowly, leaving behind silence and the sound of Dad’s footsteps.
“Darling.” Dad was still in his bathrobe, but Pat could see the pirate boots and leather pants he wore underneath as he climbed up to stand next to Pat, putting a supportive hand on his shoulder. (Dad was a little bit shorter than Pat, Pat realized. Strange, he’d never noticed that before.) “We need a Slut Leader who can not only command the Serpent Sluts in any actions that become necessary, but also lounge aesthetically and provocatively at the foot of your throne. Both aspects of the role are indispensable —”
“Don’t lecture me, Martin! Do you think I’ve forgotten? I’m the one who created the position. I’m also the one who appointed the man to fill it, and in case you have somehow forgotten, that man is you. You’re my Slut Leader. You always have been!”
Dad sighed, and slid the bathrobe off his shoulders. He was wearing the same outfit Pat and the other Sluts were, but… well. The impression wasn’t quite the same. Dad was in pretty good shape for a middle-aged suburban accountant with four grown kids and an SUV, but, yeah. He jogged and did some cardio on the equipment in the cellar, and that was pretty much it. His fondness for croissants, pasta and burnt sugar almonds could not be denied.
“I’m not twenty-five anymore, Tissa.”
Pat had seen a bunch of pictures of his parents when they’d been young — pictures, and also news programs, feature films, online video clips, and what had to be several decades in airtime of footage from Serpentissima’s legendary showdowns (one with Lightning and Owlet, one with Vindicator and his posse). It was always a little weird to see his parents so changed by youth: Mom’s serpent form short, slim and predominantly green and umber, Dad fresh-faced, built like a brick outhouse and sporting a full head of wild golden curls. Weird, and also vaguely embarrassing, at least when it came to his dad. There was a reason Serpentissima had dubbed her eye-candy minions the Serpent Sluts, and seeing his own father in the uniform had always been kinda odd. But whatever, back then Dad hadn’t been much older than Pat was now, and he’d obviously worked out a lot. Even Pat had to admit that he’d looked as good in the costume as any dad could be expected to look.
Today, black leather and body oil just weren’t Martin West’s best look anymore. And Pat was pretty sure he didn’t just think so because he basically never wanted to see his dad (or his mom, or his sisters for that matter) wear skin-tight leather and oiled bare skin ever, okay, thank you very much.
“You look ravishing, as always,” Pat’s mom stated heatedly. Her voice slithered along the high ceiling and hissed silently in the nooks and crannies of the cavern. “You will always be my only true Slut Leader.”
Awwww, Zen mouthed at Pat. Sappy parents being sappy… yeah, that was kinda cute. Still in love after all these years, not to mention all the scheming, mayhem and terrorizing of superheroes.
Still, cute or not cute, one thing was for sure. “I’m not taking off the uniform,” Pat announced darkly. Dad was right, he couldn’t be Slut Leader anymore, no matter how much oil he applied to his croissant belly. That was Pat’s job now, and he was going to do it. He wasn’t going to abandon the Sluts; they had not been chosen for their degree of independence or their ability to think on their feet. Someone needed to take care of them, and Pat was not going to make a fool of himself by wearing jeans and a BadMadRad t-shirt while he did.
His mom failed to protest, probably because she was too busy smiling at Dad to pay attention. And then, they all had other things to worry about as the melodic chime of an incoming transmission was almost drowned out by the hero alarm.
“Phase Three achieved,” Hell’s voice cut through the noise of the wailing siren, as cool and even as a glacier. “ETA: ten seconds. I repeat, Phase Three achieved. Subject Star Knight positively identified. Other subjects lagging by six to seven minutes.”
“Heroes incoming!” Serpentissima boomed. “Places, everyone! It is time to triumph!”
Pat slid neatly onto the large cushion at the base of the throne, picked up the waiting bottle of body oil, and began defiantly oiling up. Dad faded strategically into the background, and then there was no more time for discussion over Sluts, because the ceiling was caving in.
<
br /> ~~~~~
Most of what happened next took place too quickly for a human brain to follow. Pat’s brain couldn’t keep up, at any rate; he caught glimpses here and there, nonsensical and disconnected like the fragments of an old, badly reconstructed silent movie. A blur of motion right in front of him. A flash of electric blue. An avalanche of dust, soil and rubble loosed from the ruined ceiling, sheeting down into the center of the lair like a solid waterfall. A small bush, branches torn and roots dangling naked in the air. A white sun, emblazoned on a broad chest.
The floor lurched. The bottle of oil fell from Pat’s fumbling fingers, a golden arc of droplets escaping to spread through the air as if in slow motion. Light sluiced down where no light had been before, casting a warm glow over a crescent of polished stone floor and irregular mounds of soil and rocks. Electric blue boots slammed down right in front of Pat — so close he could have reached out and touched the attached legs, had he been completely suicidal, not to mention cursed with terminal lack of taste.
Events stitched together into a more sensical narrative again then, the key facts leaping into Pat’s awareness all at once. A large hole had been broken through the several meters of solid rock that formed the cavern’s ceiling. An irregular trickle of rocks, earth and small plants was raining from the edges of the hole. Rays of sunlight lanced down to illuminate the lone hero who stood in the midst of the destruction, legs planted firmly apart, chest thrown out with both fists stemmed into his sides.
Star Knight in all his dubious glory. Seriously, the man was like a parody of himself. If the term ‘man’ applied to an alien, which Pat still wasn’t prepared to judge.
The dude was absurdly predictable, too. He’d come crashing in exactly where Hell and Cea had predicted he would. Like, exactly — they’d even marked out a cross on the stone floor with red tape, just for fun. Star Knight stood squarely on top of it like the big, oblivious, predictable lug he was.
