by C. C. Ekeke
Greyson breathed in greedily and stared at the twinkling heavens. He, Kathy, Tom, and Connie were doing this.
“Protect each other.” Letty’s voice in his ear startled him. “And the hostages.”
Greyson remembered those words as the group moved across the lot. Protecting those kids and their counselors was the top priority. He suddenly grew calm and grounded as he marched forward, his teammates following him.
Tom’s enthusiasm disrupted his focus. “What’s our team name?”
“Who fucking cares?” Connie growled.
Tom ignored her. “How about the Fearsome Foursome?”
“No,” Greyson stated in his distorted voice.
“Quad Squad?”
Kathy groaned.
“Oooh,” Tom continued. “Maybe the Fantastic Fou—?”
“Shaddup, Tom!” everyone snapped, including Letty.
After reaching the parking lot's edge, Greyson saw the community center roof through the trees…and the light pollution from the authorities’ vehicles.
Greyson shook his hands and gestured for everyone to approach. “On my mark, I’ll float us up to that roof.” He tapped inside himself, sensing the gravity mooring him to the earth. Greyson stretched that field wider, touching the gravity around Connie, Kathy, and Tom. He smiled and loosened gravity’s hold on them. Within seconds, they were rising.
Connie yelped. Tom and Kathy jerked their heads in all directions as the lot shrank beneath them. Soon, Greyson hovered them high above the trees. Letty’s van was a small rectangle below.
Greyson looked away as his stomach lurched. Better to focus ahead at the community center surrounded by trees…and government vehicles. Not much better of a view.
“High enough, Tango,” Letty said on coms. “Focus the pull of your gravity on the community center.”
Greyson nodded, feeling weightless. He stretched his hand toward the darkened building ahead. The gravity welding it to the earth grazed his fingers. He clenched a fist and pulled. Slow and steady, Greyson felt himself and his friends drawn closer. This was harder than expected, especially while negating the gravity fields of three other people. His muscles burned under the strain, his breathing growing labored. But thinking of those children inside that center provided the only boost he needed. The massive building dominated Greyson’s vision, darkened by night, save the lit-up gym lights around the structure.
A news helicopter soared overhead, its spotlight slicing dangerously close to the quartet. Tom whistled in relief. Greyson could only suck in wind. He could barely hold his arms up. Beneath his hockey jersey and football pads, Greyson was drenched.
“Almost there, Tango,” Letty encouraged him. “Keep steady.” Greyson’s arms trembled, his muscles screaming. Then Connie caught his arms, holding them up. Bless her.
Greyson grunted, making one last agonizing pull onto the roof. When everyone touched down, he relaxed his gravity field and sank to his knees. “Made it!” Greyson gasped, smiling beneath his mask.
Connie and Tom helped him upright, whispering congratulations.
“Good job, Greys—” Kathy began.
“Codenames!” Letty snapped. “Slipups like that get you ID’d.”
Kathy’s face was hidden under her mask, but Greyson sensed her dread. “Sorry, Tango.”
Greyson waved off the apology. After a few moments, he started regaining his wind. Reaching the roof was the easy part. He moved for the roof entrance a few feet away. Like everyone else, the less attention Greyson gave the charred OSA bodies strewn across the roof, the less freaked out he was. “Kilo. The door.”
Connie grabbed at the door handle. Increasing her personal density, she yanked the knob off with a curt metallic wrenching noise. The door swung wide open. “Done!” she crowed.
Greyson advanced to step inside when eerie green radiance washed over the roof. His sweaty skin prickled as he turned and gaped. A massive translucent wolf crouched before them, baring its teeth.
Greyson swore. The wolf lunged, claws ready to shred them asunder.
Greyson and Tom stood petrified…
Until Kathy stepped in their path, hands stretching and morphing. “I got this.” The wolf was on top of her when she started swinging her four-foot blades like meat cleavers.
The wolf illusion recoiled from Kathy’s ferocity, as did Greyson. She showed no mercy, swiping and dicing until the wolf illusion finally dissolved. Kathy stood victorious and panting, arms returning to normal.
Greyson stared at her in amazement. “Damn straight, you got that!”
“There’s activity downstairs,” Letty said over coms. “Excessive Menace must know you’re there.”
That jolted Greyson into action. “Bravo, remember what the community center looks like?” Tom could safely teleport to areas he’d either been to or seen in pictures. He nodded his masked face.
“Teleport us inside.” The group crowded around Tom and touched his shoulders. He stiffened. Abruptly, the world went black and smoky around Greyson, his stomach flip-flopping.
A moment later, everyone was in the community center gymnasium. The lights were dim but gave a good view of everything. Greyson promptly scanned the familiar surroundings.
They stood in the midst of several seated and frightened children, including Cairo, Lennox, and Randall.
Coach Wendell and a few other counselors were crouched near the kids. The sudden appearances startled the hostages. On the gym’s furthest side, the pudgy Illusionist was kneeling and wailing in pain. Probably some feedback from Kathy destroying his illusion, which was a bonus. ShocKing with his styled afro had rushed to his friend. Mr. Silk and Brickhouse, patrolling either side of the hostages, jumped in surprise.
Adrenaline scorched Greyson’s system. They had seconds before Excessive Menace regrouped.
“Bravo, hostages!” he shouted. “Echo and Kilo, engage Brickhouse.”
Tom lunged for the nearest two children, grabbed them, and vanished in an outburst of black smoke.
ShocKing reared up at what had just happened. “Is this some hockey enthusiast meeting?” His eyes glowed blue as his crackling fingers. Mr. Silk squatted down, wiry muscles coiled in anticipation.
“Nope!” Greyson pointed at Mr. Silk, ShocKing, and the Illusionist, touching their gravity fields. Then he cranked the volume up by ten.
The trio sank to their knees and faceplanted, too heavy to stand.
ShocKing and Mr. Silk screamed out curses.
Brickhouse, six-feet of chiseled womanly muscle, froze when she saw her teammates’ plight. Connie, at maximum density, tackled the woman and sent her flying into the wall. The impact shuddered through the building. Brickhouse slumped to the floor with a groan.
Kathy charged in with wild swings, her arms shaped like crowbars. Brickhouse rose to her knees as the blows snapped her head back repeatedly. Connie held the woman’s arms while Kathy unloaded.
Tom reappeared in a dark, smoky eruption, grabbed two more hostages, and vanished again. Eleven left. He reappeared, grabbed another three, and disappeared.
Eight left.
Reappeared, grabbed three more.
Five left.
Meanwhile, Greyson had restrained three of Excessive Menace unaided. He smiled. This superhero shit isn’t so…hard…
He locked eyes with a pinned ShocKing, forks of electricity crackling through him with growing intensity.
Greyson’s heart leaped. He’s gonna blow! Tom reappeared after taking three hostages and reached for the last two—Randall and Lennox.
Greyson turned to his team. “Run!”
Too late. Plumes of radiant lightning arced out from ShocKing, illuminating the gymnasium. Greyson caught the full impact. Suddenly, he was floating. The world turned white…then black…
Sometime later, Greyson awoke on his back, barely able to move.
To his right revealed Tom face down, motionless. No sign of Lennox or Randall. Goddamn it. The gymnasium lights flickered sporadically from the
power surge. Or was that Greyson fading in and out?
Painfully turning his head left, he saw Brickhouse on her feet, pummeling Connie with a flurry of punches. The last blow spun Connie around like a ragdoll. She pitched forward and crumpled to the floor. Greyson cried out, nearly calling her real name. Kathy coughed, struggling to stand. Brickhouse grabbed her throat, hoisting the woman off the ground. She squeezed. Kathy gagged and clutched her neck. No way could she last too long.
Greyson had bigger problems. ShocKing loomed over him, both hands crackling with electricity. Mr. Silk and the Illusionist, though struck by his electricity pulse, were slowly recovering. Greyson tried tapping into his powers. His weary muscles protested.
“Not sure who you clowns are,” ShocKing growled. “But once I’m done, no one will even recognize your corpses.” The criminal pointed an electric finger at Greyson.
Chapter 34
“You’re WHERE??”
On her cell with Annie, Quinn recoiled from her BFF’s loud disbelief. “Near Paragon’s Bar in Southside Atascadero.” Her flats click-clacked on the cracked sidewalk.
“You’re in Supertown? On purpose??” Annie protested.
“Following up on a lead.” It was after ten in the San Miguel suburb, according to Quinn’s cellphone. Chilly breezes seeped through her clothing. Or was that fear? Quinn had just left the rows of micro-breweries, art galleries, and wine bars in Atascadero’s Colony Square. Now she entered a mostly superhuman neighborhood, its dive bars and clubs splashed in garish neon lights. Quinn did pass a single familiar establishment, one of those free clinics run by Paxton-Brandt. Their white-walled clinics were ubiquitous in low-income areas like Supertown, always perfectly nestled into the background.
Quinn had never stepped foot in this part of Atascadero. Her fierce beige leather jacket over a lacy black blouse and faded blue jeans weren’t meant to invite attention. Being a baseline human in these parts wasn’t safe at night. Already, Quinn spied not-fully-human individuals trolling the streets, some arguing while other engaged in loud merrymaking.
She clutched her purse tighter. Boston Strong, Quinn recited. Well…Boston adjacent strong.
“Quinnie,” Annie fretted. “Love you, mean it. But your Lady Liberty interview is airing in half an hour. Come over and enjoy that!”
“I should,” Quinn replied honestly. She wanted to watch her interview on SLOCODaily.com, which was a teaser to the Vanguard series. Social media chatter was huge. Helena had invited Quinn over to watch. But tonight was the only time Seraph could join her. And she wouldn’t let Quinn go alone. “This is more important.”
Annie sighed. “You shouldn’t be in that part of ‘Atrashcadero’ this late.” Her voice turned grim. “The stories I’ve heard about what happens in the superhuman district at night—”
“I’m not alone,” Quinn reassured her, weaving around a gaggle of teens with glowing eyes. “That’s why I’m calling, so you know where I am. My auntie and uncle know too.”
“Got your bases covered, as usual. I wanna be you when I grow up.” Pride and worry colored Annie’s tone.
Quinn smiled. Paragon’s bright pink sign appeared as she turned a corner. “Call you when I'm home.”
“Be careful, Quinnie. Johnny’s my fiancé, but you’re still my person.”
“Likewise,” Quinn said, warm and fuzzy over the declaration.
“I better be!” Annie exclaimed. They exchanged goodbyes. Quinn hung back across the street, observing the bar’s patrons. There was a short line in front. Some patrons were mountains of muscle, others skinny as reeds, a few resembled small children. They might actually be children, Quinn considered. Regardless, many semi-famous superheroes or supervillains were known to drink at one of the first bars for superhumans.
“Quinn!” an accented voice called from her left.
Quinn turned. “Mikaela…” She looked the superhero up and down, marveling. “Helloooo, nun!”
Seraph passed under a streetlight, undoubtedly not in costume. Instead, Mikaela Guerrero wore a slinky little black dress that flattered her curves. Her brunette hair was parted right, sleek sheets falling past her shoulders. She’d ditched her usual fresh-faced look for dark cherry lipstick and other makeup to accentuate her natural beauty.
The ogling visibly unsettled Seraph. “Is this disguise good enough?”
“Absolutely,” Quinn said as they embraced. “No one will expect Seraph at a superhuman dive bar dressed like this.” She gestured at Seraph’s splendor as they crossed the street. “You look hot, Kaylie.”
Seraph blushed appreciatively. “Lucas tells me that much more than Kurt.”
Quinn gave her a blank look. “Lucas…OH.” She cringed, recalling the name of Seraph’s teen lover, Blur.
“And I hate that nickname,” Seraph added.
“Kaylie?” Quinn supposed, somewhat surprised. Seraph nodded.
“Sorry.”
“No worries.” Seraph brushed off the apology. “I only tolerate Kurt calling me that.”
Quinn didn’t respond, having already given her thoughts on Seraph’s Facebook-complicated love life. The reporter shook her head to clear it, unmoored by the direction her life had taken. Two months ago, she was as far removed from superheroes as a normal person could be. Now, she’d met the Vanguard, interviewed Lady Liberty, and was bar-hopping with Seraph.
“By the way,” Quinn asked as they got in line to enter Paragon's. “Where does your team think you are?”
“Church,” Seraph said as if the answer was obvious.
Quinn stared at her. For someone so pious, Seraph sure had a unique relationship with honesty. She swallowed her distaste. The line moved quickly. “Carmine’s wife described two bartenders who usually served him,” she explained, using Lord Borealis’s real name in case anyone was snooping. “Both were working that night, according to him. If we find one, we ask if he was in any condition to…you know.” Kill Titan, her expression suggested.
Seraph’s brown eyes tightened in understanding. “You know what this means if you’re correct?”
Quinn nodded. “The real killer’s out there.” The night grew colder. She shivered. “Let’s do this.” Paragon’s outside bouncer was tall and long-limbed, his skin vaguely resembling tree bark with a mop of shrubby green hair. A plant-based super, Quinn deduced. But not one of the bartenders Lord Borealis had mentioned. After studying her and Seraph’s IDs (the latter’s being fake for anonymity reasons), the pair gained entry. Quinn exhaled in relief. Now for the hard part, she mused as they stepped inside.
Paragon’s was wall-to-wall crammed, dark and writhing like a club despite it being Sunday night. The thunderous and erratic heartbeat of EDM throbbed in the air, married to rowdy and overlapping conversations. Quinn took lead, holding Seraph’s hand as they weaved through boisterous crowds.
While trying not to get crushed, the reporter spied too many wonders to process. A spiky-haired Asian man sat in a booth, impressing three ladies by juggling fire-based puppies. Another super, a lean and long-legged Asian beauty, shifted from human flesh to crystal to avoid a man’s unwanted advances. She shoved him back hard, drawing cheers. Quinn saw another pair, a short, squat man and a colossal wolf-man covered in shaggy black fur. The latter scanned the bar, his yellow eyes lingering on Quinn three seconds too long. Like a predator tracking prey.
Trembling, Quinn quickly turned away. Being petite in height, she couldn’t see above the writhing wall of drunks surrounding them. Quinn turned back to Seraph, who was a little taller. “See the bar from here?”
The superhero frowned, shaking her head. Then her eyes widened at something ahead. “Look!”
Quinn followed her gaze and found a brief opening in the throng. Three bartenders worked the bar, zipping back and forth among customers. Quinn focused on one—pale and beefy with a green dragon tattoo covering his right arm. And vertical reptilian pupils. Herman. He was one bartender Lord Borealis had described through his wife, working the night Titan died.
“Do you see the bartenders?” Seraph yelled over the noise.
“One of them,” Quinn confirmed and pulled her forward. “C’mon!” The pair shouldered a path amid sprays of alcohol and unwanted catcalls to the furthest end of the bar where Herman held court.
Quinn tried flagging Herman down to no avail.
Seraph, already grabbing glances everywhere, took a barstool and did a girly handwave. Herman scurried over like his ass was on fire.
“Of course.” Quinn laughed. “Maybe I should’ve worn a little black dress.”
“Ladies! Pick your poison, and I’ll see if I can provide,” Herman stated, laying on the charm.
“We have questions!” Seraph shouted over the booming racket.
Herman shrugged, leaning over the bar. “Hopefully, I can help you cuties out.”
Quinn leaned in, meeting him halfway. “A former customer,” she spoke in Herman’s ear. “Lord Borealis.”
The bartender flinched. “Okay,” he said, flirty demeanor vanishing.
“He was a regular, right?”
Herman shrugged, glancing around nervously. “Borealis came a few times after his so-called redemption. But I don’t discriminate against who I serve.”
Quinn wasn’t satisfied, folding her arms. “Was he here on June 26th?”
Herman stiffened. “Don’t remember.”
Quinn exchanged skeptical glances with Seraph. “Everyone remembers where they were June 26th.”
“I don’t,” Herman snapped. “I worked that night. It was packed.” Looking over his shoulder, he saw his fellow bartender gesturing irately at increasing customers. Herman turned to Quinn and Seraph with a hostile glower. “Unless you’re getting drinks, I have actual customers to serve.”
Dang it! About to lose a lead who could acquit Lord Borealis, Quinn moved to grab him.
Seraph stopped her with a terse headshake, touching the bartender’s arm to regain his attention. As soon as Herman’s eyes met Seraph’s, he froze.
“We only want the truth, sir.” Seraph’s soft, accented purr sliced through the barroom noise. “Please help us.”
