Ha!Ha!Ha!

by Steve Beaulieu

  True to attack-dog lawyer form, instead of staying frightened, the woman angrily turned on Keres. Until she saw who it was, that is. Her rage deflated quickly and she shut the office door, hoping no one would see.

  Keres kept sitting in her desk chair while the woman stared at her. After a moment she pushed a plain manila folder across the desk toward Strickland.

  Eyeing her suspiciously, Strickland approached the desk to get a peek of what Keres offered.

  “Thanatos helped you climb the ranks, Diana. Now you’re a prosecutor. He knows you’ve got your eyes on your boss’s job. Why let him take all the credit for your successes anymore? You would be a better DA than him anyway,” Keres said sharply. She flipped open the folder on the desk so Strickland could see some of its contents. The city prosecutor stared at it. Twenty-year-old pictures and reports stared up at her.

  “It’s a good thing it’s election time, then,” Keres finished sweetly, reinforcing the desires they already knew lay in the prosecutor’s heart.

  “What does Thanatos want?” Strickland finally asked, finding her voice again.

  “He only wants you to make your choice. Like he always does,” Keres answered. She finally stood up. Thanatos never made anyone do anything, not even Keres. He gave them choices. The lawyer stepped forward and snatched up the manila folder to get a closer look.

  “Is this...is that the Banshee?” Strickland’s sullen mood vanished in an instant as she realized what Thanatos had handed her.

  “Is it? A concerned citizen just wants to make sure that all the details of the case come to light during Achilles’s parole hearing.”

  Strickland paid her no mind now that she had the folder in her grasp. She already read through it, a hungry expression on her perfectly painted face.

  They stood in silence for several long minutes while the lawyer devoured the information she’d been handed. Keres cleared her throat loudly.

  “The door is over there if we’re done,” Strickland responded rudely. Her customary snippy tone returned. She didn’t even look up from her reading. Keres sniffed in annoyance.

  “We’re not done. That’s what Thanatos wanted. But you still need to pay me for the inconvenience of delivering the message. I’d hate for there to be any footage of me visiting you in your office,” Keres commented brightly. She had needs and wants, and Strickland could provide for them at the moment. Keres would not steal. Stealing got you killed. But blackmail?

  Blackmail would always get her what she wanted.

  Now the lawyer did look up, her expression irritated.

  “What?” she demanded, aghast. Keres stared back at her, her heart-shaped face as still as stone. She stared into Strickland’s brown eyes until Strickland couldn’t meet her gaze anymore. The prosecutor looked at the ground, unwilling to stare into the instability that raged in Keres’s brain.

  “Alright, fine,” she said nastily. “What do you want?”

  She probably expected that Keres wanted a typical favor. She didn’t. Nothing Keres ever wanted was typical.

  “I want a ball gown,” Keres told her firmly, a petulant edge to her voice. Strickland’s gaze shifted and she stared at her.

  “A ball gown? You’re blackmailing me for a dress?” she shrieked incredulously.

  “You’re one of the most successful prosecutors in the city. You come from money, I’m sure you’ve got plenty just sitting around. I want a ball gown to go to the charity gala tonight.”

  Strickland’s mouth moved but no words came out.

  “Maybe I’ll even see you there. There are so many people you could introduce me to,” Keres’s voice carried no threat. She sounded cheerful and excited.

  Strickland frowned deeply. Muttering under her breath, she pulled out her wallet and handed Keres all the cash she had.

  “Thank you!” Keres said primly. She smiled a huge smile that forced Strickland to look at the ground again. Then she turned and skipped happily out of the office, sliding the huge wad of bills into her bra. No one noticed her leave at such an early hour. On her way out she ducked behind the receptionist’s desk and plugged the camera system back in. Then she took the stairs out the back way—off to find her dress for the night.

  • • •

  Keres gazed fondly at her dress while the stylist combed her pale blonde hair. It was a jarring, outlandish, extravagant sort of design—perfect for her. A single layer of cream-colored, see-through tulle formed the base of the dress. Bejeweled red flower patterned lace stretched asymmetrically from the hem of the dress to the collar that wrapped around her neck. The red lace kept the dress from being completely translucent, but her athletic form would be on full display in the getup. Keres had never owned anything so nice in her life, and in that moment she loved it more than anything else on Earth.

  A whimper from her lap broke her admiration of the dress. Keres looked down and gently patted the terrified Yorkie on the head. Animals hated her—they could sense what she was. But she adored them anyway.

  “Shhhshhhshhh,” she shushed the dog sweetly, adjusting the bright pink rain jacket her owner had dressed her in. “You can go back to your mama when she’s done with me,” she finished brightly. The hair stylist let out a tiny sob but Keres chose to ignore it. She wanted to enjoy today. She wanted it to be perfect. And if it required her to hold the little rat-dog under pain of death to get one of the best hairstylists to work on her locks, then she would. Apparently showing up before the salon was open for the day and demanding that she let her in didn’t go over well. Desperate times called for desperate measures, however. She couldn’t show up in that dress without hair to match it.

  Keres closed her eyes, trying to drink in the environment. She kept petting the shaking dog on her lap, more for her own relaxation than to comfort the dog. The dog would get over it.

  “Done! I’m done!” the terrified stylist shouted some time later. Keres opened her eyes, surprised so much time had passed as she floated around in her own thoughts.

  Her blonde hair was parted down the middle and twisted into two stylishly messy knots on the top of her head. Silver glitter sparkled around her part, dotted here and there with metallic silver and red confetti stars. The stylist had sprayed the rest of her hair silver and pale purple. The colors shone brightly against her pale skin. A broad smile spread across her face while the stylist cowered behind her.

  “It’s perfect! Thank you!” Keres cooed, admiring herself in the mirror. It certainly wasn’t a style most people would choose. And that was the way she liked it.

  She flounced out of the chair and dropped a couple of $100 bills on the floor at the stylist’s feet.

  “For the damages,” she chirped, crunching over the sheets of shattered glass that once sat in the window frames at the front of the boutique. She turned and set the little Yorkie on the floor. It shot away from her, seeking refuge in the closet at the back of the salon.

  “And if you don’t want your little rat to disappear, you won’t talk to anyone, okay?” Keres said with another smile. She walked backward, out the front door of the salon, staring at the stylist until out of sightline.

  • • •

  The gala proved to be everything she thought it would be. She climbed up the steps to the Serenity City Metro Art Museum, balancing like an acrobat in the sky-high bright red stilettos she’d found. Between the scandalously revealing nature of her dress, the crazy hair, and her magnetic presence, everyone stared at her. Keres reveled in the attention.

  Would she have been prom queen in a different world? Keres quashed the random thought. Tonight she didn’t want to think about that life. Tonight she wanted to be free. Not even the stupid thugs milling about the event, trying to snag a wealthy target, could ruin her mood. They wouldn’t be bothering anyone again anytime soon. In fact, they would probably find themselves well taken care of for the remainder of their days. One didn’t need to steal if all one’s needs were provided by the sanitarium.

  Keres felt a sense of power a
s she glided through the glitzy crowds. Colored lights lit up the inside of the gallery and music pulsed through the atrium. She couldn’t stop smiling. She knew everyone in attendance, even if they did not recognize one another. She silently named them off as she saw them.

  The Priest. Pendragon. Clover and Whispers. Oh, look—there’s the prosecutor. Keres paused to wave enthusiastically at Diana Strickland, who pretended like she didn’t notice. Keres laughed.

  And look—there's Victoria and the little invisible girl, she mused. She would have to keep tabs on her for the night. Thanatos had big plans for her.

  But a young man, dressed in a dark suit and wearing a lavender tie, interrupted her plotting.

  “Would you care to dance?” he asked. Keres’s eyes widened. She had never been asked to dance before.

  “Yes!” she replied, smiling at him. For once, a boy did not recoil from her smile. Keres felt almost normal.

  And then she danced the night away. Some part of her continued to catalog the who’s who of Serenity City as she saw them, but mostly she thought about what fun she was having. During a break, as she sipped on a fancy mixed drink, she watched the glitzy and glamorous crowds. She hadn’t ever had this much fun doing something normal before. Is this the life she’d missed out on when that damned hero destroyed her life and broke her brain?

  Again she tried to shake these thoughts away, but she’d made the mistake of letting them in. They broke past her defenses and flooded her brain, tearing at her joy. Despair punctuated her elation, as it always did. Her mood deflated like a balloon burst by a knife.

  Even in her best moments, the voices could not leave her alone. She could not shed the specter of her past, could not escape the spiral perpetuated by her powers. She felt doomed to drown in a maddening sadness forever. Tears started to leak down her cheeks.

  All the joy and excitement she felt evaporated into thin air.

  No...no no no nonono! The voice she knew was hers shrieked. Just this night...just one night...she repeated over and over again. She couldn’t tell if she spoke it out loud as well.

  But the voices and the despair did not obey. They never did.

  She had to hold it together, if only because it would ruin Thanatos’s carefully planned timeline for her to go full-blown psychotic in the middle of this charity gala. He loved her and cared for her. If she let him down she thought she would die.

  A waiter clad in a tux walked past her, carrying a plate of tiny tarts. She snagged him by the sleeve and pulled him close to her.

  Somewhere in her shattered brain, she could imagine a young and handsome man like him courting her. If things were different. If the voices were gone. If she was whole and sane and normal. She took his silver tray from him and set it on an empty table next to her.

  Interrupting his polite protests to her behavior, she kissed him without warning or embarrassment. When her skin touched his, she felt a searing cold sense of stability that would never be hers. To her, everyone but the most damaged people felt like ice to the raging fire of insanity in her head.

  He had a girlfriend, and parents who loved him. He worked nights as a fancy waiter at events like these, using his tips to go to school during the day. He had plans to become an art teacher.

  How sweet, Keres thought to herself, as everything he was flashed through her brain. She didn’t know anymore if she meant the thought to be sarcastic or not.

  But, as always happened, the despair that swallowed her poured into his head. Like a living thing, it rooted in his brain and sought out every bit of pain, humiliation, and anguish he’d ever experienced. Keres broke away from him after a moment. She knew how this would end, but tonight, she didn’t want to watch it.

  She felt significantly more stable for the moment, grasping at the semblance of sanity that came from her contact with the waiter. The sorrow that had threatened to consume her abated after she shared it. For now, she felt better, but it wouldn’t last for long. She took a deep breath and smiled. Yes, she definitely felt better.

  But the waiter definitely did not. He sobbed loudly from the floor, the worst moments of his life consuming him, as the worst of Keres’s life tormented her every day. She paid him no mind anymore. He’d served his purpose. She shuddered, wiping at the tears on her face with her hands. Mascara smeared everywhere. Ruined. Her makeup and her evening were ruined.

  Without an inkling of shame, she turned and ate all the desserts the unfortunate waiter had carried on his tray. For a moment, her mouth tasted of chocolate mousse and raspberries instead of misery. It was a good moment.

  But the wonderful illusion was broken. It wouldn’t be long before someone noticed the pathetic lump on the floor. Keres straightened, and as she did, she locked eyes with the girl in the blue dress across the dance floor.

  The two stared at each other for a long moment, and Keres finally flashed a smile in her direction. A wide one that grew wider still when Victoria Westerdale tried to cross the room to speak to her.

  Gotcha, said her voice in her head.

  She grinned again, turning her back to the other woman. She quickly made her way out a back staircase, making sure that the hero didn’t lose her.

  Catch me if you can.

  A Word from Morgon Newquist

  I started life by causing an international incident in Central America, and have been marching to the beat of my own drummer ever since. I grew up in the Rocket City—Huntsville, Alabama. After a stint at the University of Georgia to study Latin, I've returned to the place of my upbringing to wrangle two dogs, a cat, and four children daily.

  Keres can be found again in my novel Serenity City, due for release in July 2018. You can join the mailing list at serenitycitybook.com for more updates on Serenity City stories and the upcoming novel. Also, you can find me on Twitter at @kevasidhe, or keep up with my other publishing news at morgonnewquist.com

  THE HEART OF A CLOCKWORK GIRL

  BY MICHAEL EZELL

  THE HEART OF A CLOCKWORK GIRL

  BY MICHAEL EZELL

  Rocky Mountains, Sovereign Colorado – 1889

  AS HE ALWAYS DID before a battle, Uriah prepared for death as best he could.

  He ran hand clippers over the red fuzz on his head and shaved his face with a straight razor so his corpse would be presentable. He laced high leather boots over the legs of uniform pants made from material designed to stop handgun bullets.

  To complete his pre-battle ritual, he stepped out onto his balcony. His. Not a familiar thought to anyone who lived under Professor Atomico’s mountain. The other soldiers and workers all lived in barracks and shared common dining areas. Atomico needed room for his machines, and humans didn’t require much space if you packed them in tight.

  But when Uriah blossomed in his teens and became the keen soldier, the legendary red-haired killer, the Professor rewarded him with his own room high in the mountain.

  As he always did before a battle, Uriah considered stepping over the balcony’s stone balustrade. A long free-fall, heart hammering, wind rushing by. Then a quick sledgehammer blow, his body broken by the sharp rocks down there.

  Why didn’t he jump? Why did he stay with Atomico, continue to kill in his name, aid his quest to rule this country and eventually the world?

  As if in answer, she came to him.

  A light knock at his door. “Uriah?”

  Embarrassed that his heart fluttered like a young boy’s, Uriah closed his eyes and breathed in the cold mountain air. Her voice. The words made of lilting tones, phrases struck on fine silver chimes by the hands of angels.

  A master of manipulation, the Professor knew what time the raid was scheduled, and knew Uriah’s pre-battle rituals. He had sent her at the perfect moment.

  Even though he recognized the manipulation, Uriah was still powerless. He hurried to the door and opened it. There she stood, Professor Atomico’s clockwork daughter. His single greatest creation, as far as Uriah was concerned.

  Delilah.

  She smile
d at Uriah and all his doubts fled, as intended. Her porcelain skin was not, of course, porcelain. It was made by a Japanese genius recruited (or kidnapped) by Atomico. An ultra-secret combination of Indian rubber and a strange powder from Amazonia, Delilah’s skin held a permanent blush, suspending her forever in a crushing beauty. Once her inner mechanisms were running, her skin even got warm.

  “Uh, hi, Delilah.”

  Her silver-chime voice said, “Shall we walk to the aerodrome together?”

  “Of course. Gimme a second.” Uriah turned so quickly he banged his forehead on the doorframe. Between the stars in his vision and the tinkling bells of Delilah’s laughter, he felt as if he’d jumped off the balcony after all and woke up in Heaven.

  • • •

  They made an odd pair, the lanky red-haired killer, and the beautiful clockwork girl.

  Uriah wore a uniform of green and brown splotches, a heavy pistol, a short sword, and a four-pound war hammer on his belt. Tall and gangly, he had a fighter’s nose and a looping scar across his face.

  A blue silk sheath whispered across the gold joints at Delilah’s knees, where skin blended into metal. Her perfectly sculpted face, raven-wing hair, and stunning green glass eyes turned the head of every man she passed, even though they knew her heart was crafted from metal.

  It made Uriah’s human heart flutter to think she chose to be with him. Chose to. A strange thing to consider when you were talking about a clockwork girl.

  He couldn’t keep his eyes from seeking the tiny flesh-colored dust plug protecting the keyhole in the hollow of Delilah’s throat. The Professor had the key, but once he started her clock, she did as she pleased for the next twenty-four hours. To the puzzlement of every man living under the mountain, she usually chose to spend her time with Uriah.

  While he damn sure didn’t have the brain Atomico did, Uriah still knew it took more than windup clock gears to make a creation like Delilah run. He had seen men in lead-lined aprons working on the secret “radium slugs” that powered Atomico’s other walking machines. Those machines had not one shred of beauty in them. They all contained horror and death.