Questing for Adventure

“Come on, Quinn!” Neil bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, nerves jittering with excitement. He looked down the slope of the high hill to where Quinn was struggling to climb up. She pulled herself up the slope using protruding branches. Her feet slipped over moss-covered rocks and wet grass, but she finally, finally, made it to where he was, breathing hard through her snub nose and brushing the dirt off the front of her clothes. Her red hair was coming out of its tight braid.

“How much further is it?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Neil told her. “That's why it's an adventure!” He turned and continued walking, this time down the other side of the hill. It was grassy but steep, so Neil had to walk almost sideways to keep himself steady. It was the third hill they'd climbed today. The further they got from Dormer, the fewer people they saw and the more trees they found. Soon there might not be any sign of people at all.. They would really and truly be somewhere magical, then.

“So an adventure is just wandering until we find something?” Quinn asked. He could hear her close behind him, but she'd fall behind him eventually. She always did.

“No, an adventure is exploring. We know what we're looking for. The Nowhere Lands,” they said together. “And when we find them, there's all sorts of adventures we can have there!”

 “But what if the Nowhere Lands are just a story?” Quinn asked, as she always did. “What then?”

“But what if they're not?” Neil said, as he always did. “I don't want to miss out on that if they are. Besides,” he added, skipping down the hill, “where did the stories come from?” Quinn had nothing to say to that.

The landscape rolled on around them, endlessly green and lush. The Taltale mountains loomed behind them, dark and distant, their tops white with snow, their bases covered in trees and fog. Here and there little mushrooms grew, cream or red. Beneath a spreading oak tree Neil found a ring of mushrooms growing in a perfect circle. He pointed it out to Quinn. “A fairy ring,” he said. “A good sign.”

“Fairies almost never leave Nowhere.” Neil knew that despite the doubts she constantly voiced, Quinn knew the stories by heart. They all did. Everyone in Dormer and probably everyone in Yoreland grew up hearing the Nowhere Land stories. Maybe everyone in the world did. Nowhere was where magic came from. “What are they doing out here?”

Neil put his hand into the middle of the ring. It just fit. His palms came away damp, clumps of black soil sticking to his pale skin. “Whenever they leave,” Neil said, “they're on a mission. From the Autumn Elk, usually.”

“Or they just want to cause trouble.”

“But that still means they were here. And that's something.” The two of them moved on. The terrain became even wilder. Trees were taller, branches larger so that the sun was almost blocked out. They walked until they were hungry, and then they ate the apples and scones that they had stuffed in their pockets.

“Maybe we should head back soon,” Quinn said. “I don't want to be lost out here in the dark.”

“We won't be lost.”

“Oh really?” she asked, raising an eyebrow in such a fierce imitation of Neil's Ma that he found himself recoiling from her, but her eyes were sparkling with amusement. “Where are we now?”

Neil opened his mouth to answer before realizing that he wasn't quite sure. “Yoreland,” he said.

Quinn sighed. “So we're already lost.”

“No! We're not!”

“Let's go back. Neil, this is stupid...”

“Just a little further, Quinn, please!” This always happened, with him begging her to go on a little more, and then a little more, and more. “I know we'll find something soon! We already found the fairy ring. And faith is the key to finding Nowhere.”

He could see her considering it, frowning and crossing her arms, fidgeting. He knew she would agree to it, but she had to say it...

And at last she said, “Fine. A little longer.” A little longer brought them to a stream that babbled and glugged its way down the hill. Neil followed close to its winding course with Quinn right behind him. “This has to go somewhere,” Quinn said. “A lake, maybe. Lake Locks, I bet.”

That might be good. There was one story about a powerful mage from the Nowhere that had crossed into Yoreland through a lake. The mage, whose particular powers had let him walk through water without having to breath, had climbed down to the bottom of a lake in Nowhere and emerged in a Yorish lake.

The ground turned down once again. The stream grew thinner until it was just a just a trickle of water running down a stony staircase. Moss grew over the slippery rocks, and the low-hanging trees made a green tunnel. Halfway down the steep slope Neil slipped, the wet rocks flying from under him. He landed hard on his backside, and pain flashed across his back. “Aaargh.”

From further up the hill, Quinn gasped, then called down to him. “Neil, let's go back. We can try again tomorrow.”

He stood up, brushing the dirt and water from his trousers. His backside smarted, and there was a cut on his hand that he hadn't felt. He wiped the cut off, but it just stung more. “Look.” He pointed downhill. “We'll go to that bridge and then we can turn back.” Or he could convince her to go further. There was a tiny part of him that was sure, or mostly sure, perhaps, that any sort of quest for the Nowhere Lands would end in failure. If they were real, and they could be found, why had no one done it before? He'd discussed this with Ma and Pop and Quinn many times before. It took someone pure of heart or powerful in magic to find the Nowhere. Sometimes both. There must have been others before who met those requirements, but maybe, just maybe, he and Quinn were the first who really were the right ones...

The bridge was old, perhaps a hundred years old by Neil's guess. It was made of stone, an arc that ran over the stream. It must have been a cow path in older times. Perhaps it was still used. “Just under there...” His voice echoed under the dark stone bridge. For one moment his world was cool darkness, the echoing sounds of boots splashing through water, and the growing light at the other end. Then he was through, the green-tinted sunlight brushing his face and sounds returned to normal. Quinn came splashing behind him moments later.

“See anything?” she asked.

Neil frowned at the landscape around him. “No,” he admitted, heart sinking. Had he really expected to find anything? How foolish.

A sudden gust of cold wind at his back made Neil shiver. He wrapped his arms around himself as Quinn did the same. “Let's go back,” she said. They turned around to head back under the bridge.

The problem was, that was no longer possible.

The stone arc of the bridge was lined with golden light. A cold wind came whistling through bridge, and instead of seeing the other end of the stream, there was a winter landscape, all snow and bare trees. The cold wind stirred Neil's hair. Snowflakes drifted out, landed and then melted on Neil's skin.

“Oh my gosh,” Quinn whispered.

“This is it.” Neil stepped forward to the bridge. He hesitated for a moment and, ignoring Quinn's gasp, stuck his arm under the bridge and into the winter. His hand and lower arm became cold, but he could still feel the warmth of the late summer day beating down on the rest of him. It was a very strange feeling. “Should we go in?” he asked in an undertone. Before Quinn could answer something shuffled its way through the snow to the bridge. It was a man, or something man-sized, dressed in a long cloak and hood, head bowed against the wind on his side of the bridge. Quinn held onto Neil's shoulder, holding him back. The thing raised its head towards them, and with slow hands lowered its hood. Neil felt himself tense.

It was a man. An ordinary-looking man with long black hair, so dark it seemed to drink the light around him, and a tired but kind expression and golden eyes.

“A mage,” Quinn breathed.

“A fairy king,” said Neil.

“Children,” the man or the mage or the fairy said. He smiled. “How do you fair?”

“Well,” said Neil, speaking for both of them. What should he do? What should they do?

“What are your names?” he asked.

“Neil,” said Neil.

“Quinnalus,” said Quinn. “Who...what are you?”

The man smiled again. “Call me Lorcen.” A fairy name. “What I am is a man on a quest.”

Neil nudged Quinn in the side, as if to say I told you so! What he said was, “What are you looking for?”

Lorcen stepped closer. He kept his hands folded into the wide sleeves of his robes. His hair blew around his face in the icy wind. His black hair and golden eyes made him look majestic. Though his hair covered his ears Neil swore that they had a pointed shape. This has to be someone magical. “Tell me,” he said, “have you heard of the Shrouded Isles?”

“Of course.” The Isles lay just north of Yoreland, but no one and nothing lived there but the hardiest or loneliest of men. Neil felt something tingling in his chest. He knew where this was going.

“What I seek is on the northernmost of the Isles, on the Edge of the World. It is something that I have great need of.”

Behind Neil, Quinn made a little “Oh,” sound.

“On the very end of the island, where nothing lies to the north but sea and ice, there is something that I need. An egg.”

“The Monster of the Islands' egg?” Quinn said, her voice quiet. “But that's just a legend...”

The man spread his hands and smiled at them, his teeth white as the snow behind him. “And you question that after seeing this? It is real, or it must be. Either way, it can be found.”

“Take us into the Nowhere,” Neil said. “Take us in and we'll accept your quest.”

“I cannot,” Lorcen said.

A sudden abandon seized Neil. He pushed Quinn's hand off his shoulder and stepped forward, his strides long. The wind from beneath the bridge howled and beat him back. Lorcen extended his hand, palm outward, and Neil had the impression that he was pressing his hand against a glass wall dividing the wintery Nowhere from the late summer in Yoreland. He reached out, grasping, trying to touch the edge of the divide, to get even one finger into that magical land. He felt his skin tingle, but he could come no closer.

“You cannot come in. It is impossible. Not until you do this thing for me.”

“Why can't you do it?” Quinn asked.

“I cannot leave,” Lorcen said. “I can only make requests of those pure of heart.” He inclined his head in a bow. “Such as you two.”

Neil stood still, heartbeats away from the opening. “Why do you need it?” he asked.

“To save the Nowhere lands. When I hatch what is inside the egg, my lands will be saved.”

The Nowhere Lands in danger...Neil could think of no more noble a quest. “Then we'll do it.”

Lorcen bowed again. “My eternal thanks. When you have it, return it here.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Farewell, and fortune light your way.” The scene began to fade, but Lorcen's golden eyes remained on them as he stepped backwards from the bridge. The golden light lining the bridge's arc shrinking as if some invisible hand were crumpling the winter scene up before their eyes until nothing was left but the empty underside of the bridge. The winds that kissed Neil carried a leaf-scented warmth. For a moment he said nothing, just brushed the droplets of melted snow out of his hair. Then, without turning to Quinn, he said, “So.”

“Are we going to do this?” Quinn asked him.

She'd said 'we'.

He turned to her. “Is that even a question? We can't turn down something like this! When will we ever get a chance like this again?”

“Never,” Quinn admitted. “But we need to get to the Shrouded Isles somehow. And what will our parents think when we tell them?”

That Neil hadn't considered. Clearly, Ma would never let him travel to the Shrouded Isles. She'd never believe that a fairy king from the Nowhere Lands had spoken to him either. She'd call him a liar and give him chores to do and that would be that. “We won't tell them. We'll go. Now.”

“Neil...”

“We won't be gone long! We can write them so they won't get worried. You know it's the only way, Quinn. Please.”

Quinn frowned down at her shoes, scuffing the heel of one with the toe of the other, but somehow she said, after Neil wasn't sure how long, “Alright.” She looked up at him. “I don't think you'd get far without me anyway.”

They walked back under the dark stone arc of the bridge and back up the hill, Neil's heart hammering in his chest, imagination alight with possibilities, as they made their way to adventure.

“How long do you think it'll take us to get to the Isles?” Neil wondered aloud as they crested the top of the hill again. “A day? No, a couple of days.”

“It might be close to a week,” Quinn said. She sat down with a thump and exhaled. “We need to get to the north end of Yoreland and find a ship or mage or something that will give us passage to the Shrouded Isles. And then we have to find the egg...”

“One step at a time. We'll get to the Isles first.”

“Right.”

Neil realized that his feet were sore and his legs felt stretched thin. He and Quinn had been walking for most of the day. He plopped down next to her. More rolling hills and emerald forests rose before them, receding far off into the distance. Somewhere out there were the Shrouded Isles and the egg that they sought.

“You ready for this?” Neil asked his friend.

“Aye. I am.”

It would be a long journey.

Judgment

The sounds of the alarm clock rang through the tiny room. Sullivan rolled over, mumbling and cursing as he flailed for the clock on his bedside table. He lashed out with a hand and solidified air sprang from his fingers. He heard the clock crash against the ground, still ringing. “God damn it,” he muttered. He got out of bed and turned the clock off. The glass face had acquired a crack. Sullivan groaned and put the clock back on its table. 7:30.

Five more minutes couldn't hurt, he reasoned, so he tumbled back into bed and shut his eyes. When he opened them again moments later over an hour had mysteriously passed. Yawning, Sullivan threw on his bathrobe. It wasn't like he had to be anywhere. Begging for work on the streets could wait.

Not begging. He wasn't a beggar. He was a mage, and he was asking people for the privilege of assisting them.

Breakfast was toast with margarine. While he ate Sullivan thought about the things that needed paying for. Bill still needed this month's rent, and in a few days it would become last month's rent. He needed to buy food soon, or he'd be back to plain pasta for meals, if he was lucky. Soup kitchen lines were something he refused to stoop to. And then there was his costume, which needed cleaning and repairs. Though it didn't matter if no one was hiring his services anyway.

After he'd eaten he looked through his mail. Bills, mostly. Adverts from banks and other companies. A flier promoting a sale at a furniture store. An official-looking creamy white envelope. Sullivan slit it open, frowning, and pulled out the folded letter. The Harrington seal, a cross-bearing horse within a shield, was at the top of the letter, along with the very formal heading Mr. Sullivan J. Andrews. “Ah, shit.” It was a court summons, for the next morning at Central City Superior Court due to the matters of 'disruptive vigilantism and obstruction of justice during recent police actions'. “Damn damn damn.” Sullivan threw the letter across the room and watched as it fluttered to the ground a foot away from him. This was the thanks he got for trying to help? Maybe he'd botched it up, sure, but he'd tried, right? That's what mattered, right? Sort of?

Sullivan dressed, though it took him longer than usual to do so. He spent the day wandering around the borough of Anna's Downs, stalking the poorer streets with his sign. Mage for hire. Sullivan the Sensational. Extra, extra, please for God's sake give him money...

Most of the problems he saw were poverty and depression, things that punches and powers couldn't help. Not immediately, at least. Some of the people gave him strange looks for the cape and sign. One kid on a porch threw a stone at him. Sullivan had been on the street for several hours before hearing the cries of a woman being mugged. He gave chase to the man who had stolen her purse and managed to stop him for a short time with a forcefield directly in the middle of the sidewalk. It then took another minute of wrestling the man (who was shorter but much stronger than Sullivan) to get the purse back. “Let that be a lesson to you,” Sullivan said. The thief rubbed his shoulder where Sullivan had driven blunt forcefields repeatedly. He returned the purse to the woman.

“Thank you,” she said. She looked around thirty, and pretty, for the most part. Her legs were nice, anyway.

“Just doing my job,” he said. He doubted the woman had much money with her, at least not enough to cover rent, anyway. It seemed rude to ask. Hadn't she noticed the 'Mage for Hire' sign? Would a kiss from the rescued damsel be too much to ask? But she did pay him. A single one mark bill. A proper hero wouldn't need money for the good deeds he performed and would have rejected any offered charity. But he needed the money, so he took it.

Nothing else happened that day. At six o'clock Sullivan made his way to the nearest bar that didn't look like someone was waiting to knife you as soon as you walked in, and plopped down in an empty stool. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of flat beer and stale sweat. Blue-collar workers in flat caps and suspenders sat side-by-side with men in suits, skinny ties and fedoras. There was one other caped superhero in the corner, a pointy-nosed and chinless blond man with a hangdog expression, nursing a martini. “What'll it be?” the bartender asked Sullivan.

“Beer. Fieldson's Original.”

The bartender twisted the top off the bottle and handed it to Sullivan. He silently passed the bartender the bill the woman had given him. “Thanks.” He took a long sip, slumped forward in his seat, and exhaled. The knowledge of his court hearing that he'd suppressed all day came bubbling back to the surface. He pulled a face and took another long sip. Maybe this was the universe's way of telling him that he wasn't cut out for the superhero thing. He could go back to an ordinary job somewhere. Perhaps he could move back home to Emerson. Or he could move away from Central City to a place where there weren't so many government heroes.

A man in a suit was speaking to the mage in the corner. “Did you hear about the scuffle in Princeshire?” the man asked.

“Heard? I was there.” The mage spun his empty martini glass around on the bar. “It was more than just a scuffle, too. Had to call in the Mighty Men.”

“Get outta town.”

“They did. I was the first one on the front lines fighting Father Famine. Nasty piece of work, that man. Has some power that lets him suck the life out of stuff.” Sullivan walked over to where the two men were conversing. A new villain in town? This could be a big break for him. “Anyway, battle was a bit of a stalemate until the Mighties showed up. Grace and the Battery came in to fight him, and then they called in Starbright from the Reserves.” The mage noticed Sullivan hovering outside the edge of the conversation and nodded to him. “Save any lives, hero?”

“Close enough.”

“You missed the action in Princeshire today.”

“I heard. What happened to Father Famine? Did the Mighties get him?”

“Nah,” the mage said. “They had him cornered, but he did something to the Battery and made him collapse. Ran right past him before Grace or anyone else could get him. Police are searchin', and Panopticon's supposed to be lookin' too.” The mage looked at him. He'd sewn what looked like a metal fist onto the lapel of his uniform jacket. “Did you really miss all of it?”

“Yeah.” Mentally Sullivan kicked himself. Princeshire! Of course that's where any burgeoning supervillain would go, not the slums of Anna's Downs. It was only petty crime there. Such a place might have the right ingredients for brewing the resentment, frustration and hostility in a young mage needed for a villainous life, but no one would use it as their secret fucking headquarters or anything. “You met the Mighty Men, huh?”

“Oh yes. Pleasant bunch. But that's not the life for me, no sir. I like working on my own. It's not a living, but it's a good hobby.” And he waved the barkeep over for another martini.

Sullivan slept poorly that night, his mind full of concern and worry for what would happen at the courts. What could they possibly do to him? Levy a fine? Force him to stop hero work? Whatever. They couldn't strip him of his powers, and that was what mattered. With that vaguely comforting thought, Sullivan drifted off to sleep. In the morning he drank instant coffee that still somehow managed to taste burnt and debated whether to wear his hero costume or a suit to the courthouse. Given what he was being tried for, the cape and boots seemed inappropriate. He walked Superior Court in Yorktown. By the time he got there his feet were smarting from walking almost three miles in dress shoes and he realized how hungry he was. “Damn damn damn.”

Superior Court was a white stone building, featureless except for the wide stairs in front and the statue of King Bennett II, the legendary king-become-judge from the days of the Kingdom of Harrington. The statue stared down at Sullivan, scales in one hand, sword in the other, its blank white eyes harsh and judging. Sullivan kept his head bowed and jogged up the front steps, past the other morning stragglers and through the winding halls of the courthouse. He slipped into the appropriate courtroom and found a seat in the back. The room had a high ceiling and high windows. Keeping in theme with the court's exterior, the room was bare of any decorations except for the First Union and Harrington flags hanging on the rear wall. The rest was all white painted walls and plain floors. Despite the early hour – it was not quite 10:00 – it was already full. Men and women in smart suits, reporters or lawyers or curious civilians, filled the pews in the back. Nervous-looking people – the accused – sat closer to the front. The judge himself sat behind an elevated podium, dressed in white robes. He looked bored.

One by one people came before the judge. Most of the matters were very simple ones; minor thefts or speeding in automobiles or blowing up street vendor carts in a magical battle. A lawyer in the front of the room represented each case, delivering minimal arguments for the accused while the judge doled out punishments. Sullivan watched with increasing nerves as they were passed out. Extensive fines. Prison. A day in the stocks. The bad coffee in his stomach churned as his guts twisted themselves into knots.

Finally, the judge called out, “Mr. Sullivan Andrews.” Feet leaden, armpits stinging with sweat, Sullivan walked to the front of the room. It seemed to take forever. The judge's podium loomed far above, impossibly tall, the judge's face stony and still as a mask. Sullivan stood by the lawyer, who shuffled papers around, pulled out one sheet, and frowned at it.

“I think we can do something here,” the lawyer asked Sullivan in an undertone. There was something about the man that reminded Sullivan of a weasel.

“Mmm.”

“Mr. Andrews,” said the judge. His voice boomed off the blank walls. “You stand accused of interfering with police actions, leading to the escape of a thief and criminal. How do you plead?”

Sullivan really wanted to say, “Innocent.” But the fact of the matter was that he had gotten in the way of police action. Perhaps 'obstruction of justice' was an exaggeration of terms, but still...

“Guilty.” The word hung heavy in the air for a moment, as if with his voice Sullivan had solidified the air into a forcefield.

The judge said nothing for a while, so that Sullivan began to squirm. The lawyer beside him shuffled his papers again and coughed. “Police protocol and Harrington law dictates that, for the severity of your crime, you receive four years in prison.”

Sullivan felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, plummet through the floor and down below the earth's surface. Four years? Four years of wasting away as a criminal? He turned, helpless, and gaped at the lawyer, who eventually took his cue and spoke up.

“Ah, your honor,” said the lawyer, “Mr. Andrews here may have gotten in the way of police action, but, ah, according to the same police records his actions saved the life of two hostages. Surely that's worth something?” He sounded like he was pleading.

The judge squinted, considering for a moment. A line of cold sweat traced its way from Sullivan's armpit down his side. He rubbed at it, flinching.

“Would his honor consider a fine of an appropriate amount?” the lawyer asked.

“No!” Sullivan shouted, louder than he meant. He swore he heard every head in the room snap up to look at him, felt the iron stares of everyone on his back. “I can't afford to pay a fine,” he said in a lower tone, hoping that only the judge and lawyer would hear him.

“Mr. Andrews, you are a mage, correct?” the judge asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you a superhero?”

“Not registered, no. Vigilante.”

The judge stroked his chin. “If you want to be a superhero, Mr. Andrews, then perhaps community service will suit you best. Learn how to use your powers to the benefit of Central City, and a little bit of discipline and healthy respect for authority.” He paused briefly. “One hundred hours.”

“I don't think-”

“Take it,” the lawyer hissed at Sullivan. “I don't think I can get you much better. Agreed, your honor.”

“One hundred hours service.” The judge banged his gavel. “See the bailiff on the way out, Mr. Andrews. Next, Mr. Donald Wood...”

Sullivan wasn't sure how he managed to walk away from the front of the podium. He was both very aware of the fact that they were moving, but utterly uncertain how. They felt odd. The bailiff in the corner of the room took down Sullivan's information and provided him with police groups to report to for service. It was all very mechanical and Sullivan realized when he stepped out of the courthouse and into the dazzling late morning sun that he wasn't sure why there was a sheet of paper with addresses and voiceline numbers written on it.

Community service. Well, all things considered, it would have been much worse.

It would be best to patrol the streets again to look for people that needed his service. Perhaps there was still work to be done in Princeshire after the battle with Father Famine. The police might want help finding him. But somehow Sullivan couldn't summon the resolve. He'd be doing plenty of service soon, anyway.

It wasn't yet noon, so the bars in affluent Yorktown were all closed. Instead Sullivan found a restaurant and slumped in to an empty table. It was a couple of decades old, if the style of the place was anything to go by. The charm of the varnished wood, polished chrome surfaces and comfy booths was lost on Sullivan, and he ordered a coffee from the young, bored-looking waitress on duty. When it arrived he didn't drink it, but stared into the mug, as if the rising steam would inscribe an answer for him upon the air, however brief, before twisting and dissipating into nothing. Really, he shouldn't be complaining. He wanted to be a hero. What did heroes do but help people? He was being given the opportunity of a lifetime. This could be it. This could be the step into real honest to God registered superhero work. So why did it feel like a death sentence?

Because it was still punishment. Despite his powers and his good intentions, the law still frowned on him and what he'd done. It wasn't enough to be blessed with unnatural skills, oh no. Those skills had to be put to use as the government saw fit. Or at least, in ways that did not conflict with the government's interests. Bullshit. Shouldn't mages be above the law? Sullivan took a mental step back and analyzed his strong, if brief, argument. No. That was a slippery slope. The next logical step was a mageocracy where only the strongest survived and villainy reigned supreme. The collapse of society.

Sullivan took a bracing gulp of coffee. The warmth slid down his throat and washed around his empty belly. He put the mug back down on the table, put his hand close to the steam, and concentrated. The elementary particles above the drink were unstable and energetic, rattling around faster than he could get a grip on them. He cupped his hands into a rough ball shape, willed the air to solidify. The air resisted him, rising between his fingers. Then it began to congeal. Sullivan drew his hands away, and a steam-filled orb floated above his mug. Grinning, he plucked it out of the air and turned it around in his hand. Then he crushed it between two fingers. The forcefield cracked and dissolved along with the steam within it.

I bend reality and destroy plausibility.

When his drink was done he dug out the last few coins from his pocket and dropped them on the table and, not quite disheartened, left.

Fresh Blood

The drink, Jiang decided as he sipped and smacked his lips, tongue running over his fangs, was excellent. A vintage rice wine from the viceroy's own personal stores, near thirty years old. It had been flavored and colored a bright pink with drops of human blood. “Exquisite,” Jiang said. He held the tiny glass up to the lamps, turning it slowly in his clawed hands. “A young female, if I'm not mistaken?”

“Seventeen.” Fat Cho lifted his glass and downed it in one, sighing as he did. “Sweet young thing. Tastes of sunshine and nectar, of sweat and lust and sugar and smoke, all the spices of this decadent south.”

“A pity we could not keep her,” Zixin said. He steepled his hands together, tips of his manicured claws tapping together. The scent of perfume wafted off him in gentle waves. “But it would not do to have city police asking about her should she have disappeared. So we took from her what we could, and a little does go a long way.”

“Here, here.” Cho raised his empty glass and smiled, his plump cheeks stretching. He poured himself another finger of wine, squeezed in a few drops of blood from a crystal dropper, and settled back in his chair. The dim lanterns set a dusty reddish light upon the room, and the dark, polished wood floor and table drank it up. Jiang took another sip of his drink, closing his eyes as he savored the confluence of flavors dancing over his tongue. The girl's blood was truly wonderful. Ah, how it sang of innocence and sweetness! It sang of her life. The blood and wine burned as it slithered down his throat and into his stomach, like liquid fire, like life made drink. “I assume everything is going well with your assignment?” Cho asked once Jiang had opened his eyes.

Jiang considered for a moment. “It is too early to know. I have spoken to the police we own and to various minor businessmen in the northern districts. Words and bared fangs are well and good but it is their actions that will speak. And with the fashi doing all they can to oppose us...” Jiang pulled a face. “No, I cannot say.”

A soft whispering of parting silk curtains announced a new arrival. Jiang turned around to see a footman in a dark waistcoat and trousers standing before the curtains, a small scroll clutched in his hands. “Jiang,” he said with a shallow bow. Head still lowered, he held out the scroll with both hands. “From the viceroy.”

Jiang accepted the scroll and unfurled it, careful not to tear the thin paper or deface the viceroy's perfect handwriting. The message, written in shining black ink, was brief. Abner Clayburn has threatened going to the police and city superheroes. We cannot lose his business. Do what you must.

“New orders?” Zixin asked, one thin eyebrow raised.

“Indeed.” Jiang tucked the scroll into his jacket pocket. “I believe I shall have to leave you two to deal with this.”

“Alas,” Zixin moaned, eyelids fluttering. He topped off his glass and raised it, the silver and ruby ring at his finger flashing. “We'll drink for you.”

“How thoughtful,” said Jiang. Zixin smiled. Jiang left them to their drink and enjoyment. Business first. The viceroy's will was not to be questioned.

It was, thankfully, night, so Jiang eschewed the dark glasses and umbrella, but he donned a tall-crowned fedora, settling it between his ears. He stepped out of the viceroy's manor and into the city. Even after so many years of living in Revival, the brightness of the nights still surprised him. Back home in the Cradle of Night, the nights were painted in black and silver, illuminated only by the moon. In Revival, the nights were almost as bright as the day, alive with lights from automobiles, storefronts, traffic lights, businesses and streetlamps. The artificial lights did not burn, at least, but they proved hard to look at for too long. People milled about in tight clumps, out for drinks or walking home or going to and from the theater. Most of them gave Jiang a wide berth when they saw him. There were a few other vampires out and about, too. A rough-looking male with a scraggly beard leaned against the doorway of a bar, cigarette in one hand and a glass of blood-tainted liquor in the other. A burning eye was tattooed onto the membrane of his right wing. He regarded Jiang with bleary yellow eyes. Two females in tight-fitting dresses waved to Jiang from outside a dance hall. One of them winked at him with a heavily made-up eye, and Jiang lifted his lips, offering them a glimpse of fang. They tittered.

He walked until he left the glittering heart of the city. The northern sections of the city were older, more languid in design. Streets wound back and forth without proper plan or function. Buildings were more spaced apart, their designs grander than those lining the main thoroughfare. It was quieter, too, and darker without the glitzy lights of businesses and cars. This was where the wealthier inhabitants of the city resided, the old money that had built the old kingdom of Rallaway with their own hands. The old blood.

The streets were far less crowded, though here and there policemen or mages patrolled the streets. Jiang made note of them and avoided them. He could deal with them, but the less conflict and interactions, the better. He only needed to see one person tonight.

It was easy to find Clayburn House. The place was massive, so opulent that it looked suffocated amongst the other buildings. The manor was painted all white, three stories tall with a columned front porch. It belonged on a sprawling lawn in the middle of a lonely country somewhere in Xima or perhaps the provincial sections of Rallaway. The single willow tree on the front lawn only emphasized how undersized the lawn was compared to the house. High iron gates ringed the property, and a guard stood behind the front gate. No weapon was visible, not even a baton or sword, so he had to be a mage. Jiang approached the gate, hands in his trouser pockets.

“State your business,” the guard said. He was Jiang's height, a square-faced man with short, dark hair and a thin moustache. His eyes had an odd twinkle to them. Mage, Jiang decided.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Clayburn,” Jiang said. A lie, but surely Abner wouldn't refuse a meeting with his benefactor's representatives. Or he wouldn't if he knew what was good for him.

“Mr. Clayburn ain't seeing anybody.”

“I really think he'll have time for me.”

“He ain't seeing anybody.” The guard's expression hardened. A good show of bravado, but Jiang could tell that he was afraid of something. Abner Clayburn must be wound tight about something.

“Is that so?”

“It is. So git.”

Jiang sneered, enough to expose his fangs. By way of response the guard clenched his fist. Light seeped out from between his fingers, and its gentle touch on Jiang's skin felt cold. They both stood there for a few seconds, threatening each other in the best ways that they could. Then Jiang closed his mouth and gave the guard an even look. This pissing contest would go nowhere, or at least nowhere productive. “Very well. Then I shall be going.” Jiang inclined his head in a shallow bow, the smallest courtesy he could show, turned and left. He walked until he was out of sight of the guard and on a darkened part of the street where the lamplight did not touch him. Glancing left, then right, and seeing no one, he darted beneath a roadside tree and scrambled up it, claws digging into the soft bark. His shoes scrabbled on the trunk, and he wished for a moment that he had kicked them off to make this easier. In seconds he reached the first branch, and he pulled himself up and up to the crown of the tree. A car drove by, headlights turning the night harsh and yellow for a moment, but if the drivers noticed a dark form wriggling in the tree, they did nothing about it.

From the top of the tree it proved easy to leap over to the roof of a nearby building. Jiang kept low, wary of someone looking up and saying, Now what's a vampire doing on the roofs at this time of night? But the few people on the streets didn't look up. No one did in the city.

It didn't take long to get close to Clayburn House again. Perched on the edge of the roof of a nearby house, Jiang squinted across into the manor grounds. The guard was still at the gate, staring dutifully out onto the street. The rest of the yard was empty, and only the light in a few windows showed the presence of other people. One of them had to Clayburn.

Getting in was another matter. From where he crouched on the nearby roof, Jiang was about level with Clayburn House's second story and far enough away that it would have taken several seconds to run to the house.

Fortunately, vampires had other methods of transportation.

Jiang pulled his shoes off (scuffed from his climb and run, anyway), placed them side-by-side on the rooftop, removed his hat, then struggled out of his custom-made jacket and shirt. He tore at the buttons with impatient claws, then tossed the shirt aside into a heap. He'd get a new one, later. Tilting his head back to the light-smudged sky, Jiang stretched his arms out and unfolded his wings. Skin stretched and thrummed as joints in his fingers cracked. Moonlight washed against his wings, the sensation electric. Jiang sighed. Keeping one's wings constricted in a suit jacket was a terrible sensation. It was so rare that he got the chance to fly anymore. Stepping to the edge of the roof, toes curled around the end of the tiles, Jiang tensed, lifted his wings, and jumped. For a second he was suspended in the air, weightless. Then he fell. The wind howled in his ears, and it would have been a very short fall indeed if not for the wind billowing up in his wings, sail-like, and with a leathery snap he leveled out and soared forward. The wind pricked at his eyes and he narrowed them. Jiang flapped his wings, once, a powerful thrumming as he pushed up against the air. The air felt solid for a second as he propelled himself upward. In the dark he circled Clayburn House, pushing himself higher and higher. This was what vampires were made for. The thrill of the hunt.

He was now level with the third floor of the manor. He aimed for a darkened window, bringing his wings up and flapping them to slow his flight as he reached out with his feet to grasp at the window ledge. Straining, he hauled himself up until he was standing on the ledge. He wrapped his claws under the pane and hoisted up. It was unlocked. He slipped inside. The room was empty, fortunately. It was a small room, perhaps a guest bedroom of some sort, but no less lavish for that. The wallpaper was stylish in an old way, the curtains a light linen embroidered with elaborate patterns. An old oil painting hung on the wall. Jiang left the room and slipped into the hallway, which also proved to be empty. Most of Clayburn House must be asleep at this hour, but Jiang heard the low sounds of conversation a floor down along with the tinkle of glass and the sound of knife and fork grinding together. The stifled gasps of two people in the middle of lovemaking filtered up from some distant room. The unbidden thoughts of how their blood would taste arrested Jiang's movement. It would be sweet, overwhelmingly strong and full of high emotions, lust and maybe even love. Such a rare spice. So easy to get drunk off of. Their fear would only make it better, their sweat-slick skin salty and their blood pumping hot and fevered...

He shook his head. There was only one person that he needed to see tonight. A single previous meeting told Jiang that Abner Clayburn's office was on the third floor, in a large room overlooking the front grounds. By his best guess, Jiang was closer to the back of the house. He made his way down the halls, ears erect and alert for any sounds of approaching people. All it would take would be for someone to scream upon seeing a half-naked vampire creeping around, and the jig, as they said, would be up. But all the doors here were closed, and the lights dimmed or off. He heard and saw no one.

As he rounded a corner the sounds of voices grew louder. Someone was nearby. Before Jiang had a chance to react a door opened and a woman stepped out. She was older, greying hair caught up in a bun, dress down to her ankles. Jiang froze. The woman's back was to him and she did not see him. On the balls of his bare feet he crept forward, hands extended towards her. His mouth was dry. Mere feet from her he stepped on a creaking floorboard. The sound was sudden and vulgar in the quiet. Jiang flinched as the woman turned. Her eyes grew wide, and she opened her mouth, but Jiang flung himself at her and clapped a hand over her mouth, shoving her up against the wall. His nails dug into her cheeks.

“Don't make a sound,” he hissed at her. She nodded. “If you make a sound I'll kill you.” He could feel her heartbeat through his hands, fluttering high and fast. “Is Abner Clayburn in his office?” Another nod. “Good.” He removed his hand from her mouth. Slowly he backed away from her. She remained pinned against wall, breathing hard and not moving. Paralyzed with fright. Good. Jiang slipped away and dashed down the hall towards the decorated doorway that led to the promised office. Jiang put his hand on the doorknob and twisted. It was unlocked. He flung the door open. Abner Clayburn sat behind a large wooden desk, neat folders of papers stacked before him. He looked up at the sound of the disturbance. Shock and then anger registered on his broad face.

“Good evening, Mr. Clayburn.”

Clayburn fumbled for something in a desk drawer. “How the hell did you get here?”

“Insignificant.”

“Get out. Get out before my mages rip you apart.”

“I come here representing the viceroy.” An utterly unnecessary statement. Why else would a vampire wearing tailored trousers show up unannounced? “And his will shall be met.”

Clayburn pulled out from the drawer a ring containing an eight-pointed star and a hollowed-out X in the center, all wrought in silver: the emblem of the One True God and his Holy Avatar. “Stay back, fuckin' vamp!” He brandished the emblem like a weapon.

Jiang rolled his eyes. “Are you done yet?”

Clayburn wasn't done. “By the light of god and the Avatar I banish thee from my home!”

Jiang stepped right up to the desk, directly in front of Clayburn. The businessman shoved the emblem into Jiang's face. Most dramatically, nothing happened. “Silver and faith. Myths. Your god has no righteous power over us.” Jiang leapt across the desk, grabbing the lapels of Clayburn's fine white jacket and shoving him backwards. Clayburn let the emblem fall from his hands. “Now. Word on the streets is you've been backing out on your deals.”

“Go to hell,” Clayburn spat. His arms shook, as if considering whether he should push Jiang away.

“A deal's a deal, Mr. Clayburn.” Jiang pushed himself closer to the aging gentleman, shaking him a little. Let him get afraid. He'd crack. “We protect your business investments, the legal and the less than legal. Every product sold to market or to friends under the table, all the precious jewelry, and the whores too. And now you're getting cold feet all of a sudden. Why could that be?”

To his credit, Clayburn didn't falter when he responded. “I'm rich and powerful enough to protect my own interests now. I don't need you blood-sucking sons of bitches taking my money and breathing down my neck.”

Jiang laughed quietly. “We'll do more than that, Mr. Clayburn.”

Clayburn moved faster than Jiang would have expected. His hand flew to his waist and came back up with a hunting knife. The blade flashed in the room's light. Jiang hissed and moved to knock the knife out of the man's hand, but Clayburn lunged forward, snarling, and caught Jiang in the right shoulder with the knife. Pain made itself known, bone-deep and hot as the sun's kiss. “Hssss!” Jiang extended his right wing, the skin and bone filling half the room and knocking Clayburn's offending arm aside. With his left hand Jiang shoved Clayburn in the chest, pushing as hard as he could. The man tumbled onto his back, the knife skittering from his hand across the office floor. Jiang was on Clayburn before he could get up. He pinned the man's limbs to the ground.

“Avatar's light,” Clayburn moaned.

“Now, you'll retain our protections and services, won't you, Mr. Clayburn? Because if you don't make your monthly deposits or go running off to the police, you'll find that your business empire will come tumbling down. The viceroy will make sure of it.”

“Alright, alright! Just get off me!” Clayburn's pink face had gone pale, and he squirmed under Jiang's grasp. He was strong for a human, but Jiang wasn't letting go.

“Then we understand each other.” Blood dribbled down from the injury on Jiang's shoulder, thick and dark. A spot of it splattered onto Clayburn's jacket. “But first, I think I owe you something.” Jiang opened his mouth as wide as it would go, which was very wide indeed. The joints in his jaw cracked. He plunged down onto Clayburn's neck and clamped his mouth shut. Fangs and sharp teeth sank into flesh. Clayburn gasped, then screamed as Jiang yanked his head to the side. Blood ran from the open wound and Jiang fell to lapping at the fresh, hot drink. Exquisite as the girl's blood in the wine had been, blood straight from the source was all the better, even if Abner Clayburn's was too fatty and somewhat stale. Zixin would not have approved. But blood called for blood. Jiang restrained himself, and gave the wound one last lick. The saliva would numb the injury and help it to heal. Mr. Clayburn might be left with an ugly bruise for a few days, but he would recover.

Jiang stood, sighing theatrically and running a tongue over his lips to clean off the last of his meal. “That will be all.” He bowed to the prone form of Abner Clayburn, and turned to leave.

“They'll catch up to you eventually!” Clayburn shouted. His voice was weak. “The mages'll get you and all the rest of the fuckin' vamps!”

Jiang said nothing, just smiled at Clayburn with bloody teeth, and left the office.

Masks

He went out dressed in his full Lord Malice regalia with a backpack full of supplies, despite the simplicity of the mission. The world didn't know his true face yet. Best to hide it behind the mask of Malice. My true face, or the one that really matters, anyway. When people saw him, they wouldn't want to see the round-faced fourteen-year old boy. They'd want to see the legacy of House Malice, the power and terror that had plagued the world for generations. Lords may rise and fall, but Malice was forever. My legacy. A legacy of terror and power. Power above all. 'Power through terror, terror through malice'. The family motto. It was engraved over the stone archway framing the double doors of Malice Tower. Curtis saw them every day, each day a reminder to what his name represented. They were his inspiration, his drive to be greater than the two Lord Malices before him and rise above his family's blood-soaked history, to not be merely great, but legendary.

Curtis found himself wishing, once again, that he'd been left something beside Malice Tower, old science equipment and a bunch of blueprints. If only his family had left him an automobile or even a horse, this would be so much easier. Well, Henry Malice had rebuilt the family legacy with nothing, and so too would Curtis Clairmont Malice the Third. So Curtis checked the settings on his weapons again, brushed down the front of his robes and adjusted his mask, and walked on.

Malice Tower was situated on the highest peak of the southern mountains in Yoreland, so far north and so high up that snow lingered on the ground through the spring and drifted down in early autumn. Old trees crowded around its stony base, pressing against the tower walls. The forest continued on down one side of the mountain, down and down almost to the cliffs that marked the southern edge of the country. Beyond there the sea licked the white cliffs, hungry and murmuring, stretching south to the First Union where lay the Mighty Men and the First United Army. To the north lay Yoreland proper. The mountains were largely uninhabitable and whether they were officially part of Yoreland was a constant question, at least until the arrival of the Malice family, seeking asylum from Mordania. After that it became quite clear that the mountains, conveniently including Malice Tower, was not under Yorish control. Now Curtis sought to breech the neutrality of that diplomatic blind eye through theft, subterfuge, and abduction. All out of necessity, of course. He'd have to survive the brutal Taltale Mountains first and then make it to something resembling a town. Then the real work would begin.

Curtis spent most of the first day walking winding, half-faded trails through trees so thick they formed a near-solid wall around him. His labored breath fogged up in front of him. God, it was cold. At least the snows had melted, but it was still too cold. By the time the sun began to set Malice Tower's crenelations and crumbling roof were still peeking over the treetops. Curtis cursed his small, weak body, his chubby legs, his ancestors for putting a tower on top of a mountain, his father for blowing up the family car in a demonstrative fireball. But cursing never did any good, so he contented himself with jerky and hard biscuits warmed on a fire created with a portable flame-ray device (patent pending), curled up beneath his cape on a pile of pine needles and went to sleep.

He dreamed of his father, but it was his father as a six-year old Curtis remembered, face unlined and hair still mostly black, eyes a-twinkle and a snap in his step as he danced around the tower, cape flowing behind him. “You and I, Curtis, we're gonna take over the world!” He lifted Curtis up and spun around the grand sitting room with him, laughing. Curtis reached out and touched his father's face. It fell, slipping to the ground where it clanked and rolled away, and Curtis found himself looking into the Malice mask where his father's face had been. The eye sockets stared at Curtis, black and empty. The nose was long and thin, the lips stern, the slashed cheekbones harsh. Curtis's own face was reflected weirdly back at him in the polished silver surface.

“Dad?”

“What is it?” the mask said with his father's voice, but the lips didn't move. His father's kind face lay unmoving on the ground, dusty with neglect. The portraits of the family members hanging around the room, of bald, bespectacled Grampy Curtis and bearded, long-haired Henry Malice, stared back at Curtis through the same mask.

The room caught fire. The hardwood floor with its elaborate Inoori rug, the walls hung with priceless treasures from the world over, the wide glass windows, all of it burned. The portraits became blackened and melted in their frames. Curtis spun around the room, still in his father's hold. The thick smoke stung his eyes and choked him with its acrid taste. “Dad, you're on fire!” he yelled. But his father didn't seem to feel the flames consuming his clothes and skin. He did not cry out. The mask remained untouched. Through the destroyed windows Curtis saw men and women in capes flying towards the tower.

“Avenge us,” the mask whispered over the roar of the fire. “The world is your birthright. Kill them all.”

The superheroes burst through the walls, eyes livid and hands extended towards the elder Lord Malice and his son. Their fingers were like claws. They dug into Curtis's skin, into his face, tearing and pulling. “Your face, your face!” they said, “show us your face!” He screamed.

He awoke with a stiff back, his cloak damp and cold. The fire had gone out long ago. Feeling miserable, he got up, brushed the needles and dirt from his clothes, and began to walk again. The weight of the guns at his hips comforted him, but when he remembered the silver mask in his backpack he removed his hands from the straps, sudden as if he'd touched a snake.

The day wore on. The air became warmer the further down the mountain Curtis went and by the time the ground leveled out Curtis had taken off his cloak and stuffed it into his pack. He wiped the sweat from his brow, pushed his hair away from his brow, and walked on. The first Yorish town should be just past the mountains at the forest's edge. I'll demand an automobile from them, or a truck. Yes, a truck. Then I'll drive to one of the big cities. Moors, perhaps. They'll already know that I'm coming after the car theft. I'll go for the banks first, load up on gold. Then I'll demand to see the top scientists. There weren't many famous or exceptional scientists or engineers in Yoreland, but it was a start. What Curtis wanted most was someone from the First Union's top universities, or one of the Emperor's own engineers. He wondered what it would take to get Dr. Gavril Kazarian. He'd be able to interpret my father's blueprints. In time. It would take a lot to convince or capture Dr. Kazarian.

As Curtis stepped out into a clearing where a trail became more clearly defined, he heard a low hum. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he turned around. Nothing. The sensation continued, setting his teeth to vibrate. He glanced up. With a thrill of horror he realized that three caped superheroes were descending down on him. And will the rest of my dream come true too? They could only be here to fight him. Curtis struggled to get his backpack off, then fumbled around in its depths for his cloak and mask. In one motion he flung the black cloak around his shoulders and fastened it with the silver chain, then shoved the mask onto his face. The world became a narrow thing, cold against his skin and hot where his breath billowed up against the silver. He turned back to the mages, now close enough for him to make out the emblems on their chest. The Mighty Men. Curtis reached for the two guns at his belt and cried out, “Come no further, mages!” They came further. “Stop, I'm warning you!” He drew the guns and aimed them at the mages.  He hoped that his hands weren't shaking.

The three of them landed feet away from Curtis. Despite the fact that they had guns aimed at their hearts, they didn't seem at all intimidated. They didn't shrink away in fear or fall to their knees and beg for mercy. Did they care nothing for the face of Malice? Curtis had seen people throw themselves at his father and grandfather's feet when they strode through ruined cities wearing the mask. But not these three. Well, why would they cower from a fourteen-year old?

The youngest of the three spoke. “Lord Malice, I presume?” He spoke with an air of sobriety; appropriate, given the situation. His clothing was dark, the typical uniform of a First Union mage, with the silver buttons running down one side of the jacket, black boots and white epaulettes. The gold-trimmed white cape and the double-M emblem on his chest identified him as a member of the prestigious superhero group. The others were similarly dressed, though the woman wore a skirt in place of trousers and her jacket had short sleeves, and the other man had dark skin and ink-black hair, though his eyes were pale in contrast. “We've been ordered to ask you to cease with your current course of action. By the authority of the President of the First Union and-”

“You have no authority here!” Curtis yelled. “This is Yoreland, not the Union. So piss off.” I shouldn't have said that. Lord Malice should use stronger phrases, not 'piss off'.

The woman took a step forward, gloved hands at her side. She reminded Curtis of a housewife. “We're not here to do anything bad, Lord Malice. You haven't committed any crimes yet.”

“Then leave. You don't know what I'm going to do and you can't do anything to me.”

The dark man chuckled. “Dressed and armed like that, you can only have one thing in mind.” His voice was flavored with the tang of the southern regions. “We're just giving you a warning, kid.”

“I am Lord Malice,” said Lord Malice, “and you will address me as such!” He tried to put the same steel into his voice that Grampy had once had.

“We have no ill intentions,” the woman said. “We just want to make sure you don't do anything you'll regret later.”

Curtis was sick of bandying words with these mages. He shouldn't have even done that. They were the enemy. These were the people that had defeated his father and brought his family to ruin. Well, maybe not these people in particular; they looked too young. But it had been the Mighty Men. And that, surely, was enough.

He aimed his guns and fired. A stream of fire burst out of the portable flame-ray towards the dark man, a stream of bullets from the pistol towards the younger man. He was outnumbered but, he hoped, not outclassed. “Die, super scum!” he shouted. His father had used that one before.

None of them moved. The dark man held out his hands and embraced the flames as they rushed at him, roaring. The light and heat drained from the fire as it touched him, turning into a black-and-white photo of itself, and then it vanished. Curtis kept his finger on the trigger, pumping more magical energy into the sparks to feed the flames, but the mage absorbed it all. His other attack did little better. The young mage ducked and swerved, gestured with his hand. The bullets exploded before they hit him. The dark mage flicked his hand at Curtis, a casual gesture as if he were warding off a fly. A rippling beam of fire-colored light lanced from his hand and struck Curtis in the chest. It didn't hurt, no more than being punched, but it knocked him onto his back. He's holding back. Growling, he scrambled back up, his feet getting tangled in the cloak. He glanced at each of the three mages in turn, stepped towards the dark mage (still glowing with magical energy), but then turned and fired on the other two. As before, the bullets exploded in midair. The woman leaped into the air and arced gracefully over the flames. The energy mage hit him between the shoulders, and Curtis stumbled forward. It had been no more than a light, playful tap.

“Stop toying with me!” Curtis yelled, and turned on the woman. He imagined his cloak flaring out behind him, light reflecting off his silver mask. Dramatic and awe-inspiring. Before he could pull the triggers he realized that the guns each weighed a few hundred pounds, or his hands did. His arms couldn't support their new weight, and they slammed down to the ground, unmoving. The woman approached him, one hand extended towards him.

“That wasn't necessary,” she said.

“Ready to surrender?” the dark man asked. The fire's energy he'd absorbed flickered between his fingers, orange and crackling. “We'll ignore the unprovoked attack.”

“Release me,” Curtis spat, doing his best to be contemptuous while pinned to the ground by the weight of his own hands.

“Will you shoot at us again?” the younger mage asked.

“No.” Not that he had many options.

The woman dropped her hand, and Curtis felt his hands return to their normal weight. Guns still on the ground, he shook his hands out to free them of the lingering pins-and-needles sensation. “You don't have to fight us just because your father did,” she said. “There doesn't have to be a grudge. Oh. My name is Vectoress. This is Ray,” she said, indicating the younger mage, “and the Living Battery,” with a nod at the dark-skinned one.

“I will remember those names”, he said, eying Vectoress back through the slots in his mask. “But what if I don't care about that? About grudges.” It wasn't true, of course. “Maybe I just want to fight tyranny.”

“Is that it?” Ray said. “Ever consider joining up with the Mighty Men?”

The Living Battery shot his companion a warning look. “Ray...”

“We might have use for a brainiac like you. Always good to get some fresh blood in the team too.”

Curtis decided not to disprove the braniac theory. If they had no idea about his current problems, he wasn't going to enlighten them. “I meant you.”

Vectoress seemed genuinely shocked. “Us?”

“You. What right do the Mighty Men have to patrol the world and stop whatever they deem as a crime? What right does the First Union have to stick its nose into everyone's business? Just because you're the biggest power on the planet doesn't mean you can do whatever you want. I want no part in your little controlling ways. So, no.”

Vectoress looked, if anything, saddened, but the Living Battery shrugged and said, “If that's how you feel.” He snapped his hand shut. “I think we've made our point. I hope this is the last time we have to see you, Lord Malice. But if you threaten the citizens of Yoreland again, we'll have to take further actions.” Vague and idle threats.

“It will be no concern of yours,” Curtis snapped. “If I bother the First Union, you can deal with me then.”

The Living Battery looked unimpressed. “Right.” He turned to Vectoress. “Let's go.” Vectoress lifted her arms. The air around the mages hummed. They drifted slowly upwards, inches above the ground, then shot into the sky, as if they were falling up. Then they were gone.

Once he was sure that they had gone, Curtis picked up his guns and holstered them. It wasn't the sound defeat that stung. It was the way they'd treated him. They'd spoken to him like he was a child, not a force to be reckoned with. No respect at all.

Curtis slipped off the mask and turned it over in his hand. The carved face stared back at him. My true face. But they didn't even see it.

Maybe I'm not supposed to be doing this. Maybe this isn't the right career path for me. As if there could ever be another option.

Sighing, Curtis put the mask back into his backpack, turned around, and headed back for Malice Tower.