Villains Deception

by M. K. Gibson

  “Fair point,” I acquiesced. “So, was it difficult to find? Any traps? Ancient curses or undead guardians to deal with?”

  “Actually . . . no,” Lydia said. “She had the damn things on display in her room. Right next to the coffin on her jewelry stand.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “Seriously?”

  “Honest, boss,” Myst said. “I guess she never suspected any would-be thief could breach the manor, let alone penetrate her inner sanctum.”

  “It was a bedroom,” Lydia huffed. “And a gaudy one at that, so let’s not put on airs and call it a ‘sanctum’.”

  “That’s my wife.”

  “So, anything interesting down there?” Lydia asked.

  I looked around and observed the battle in all its gory glory. “Many things. In fact, it feels like a disservice to would-be observers to have a conversation with you two as opposed to taking in the beautifully grotesque action going on. I mean, who wants to be part of banal dialogue when there are literally people being ripped in half and pools of blood at least an inch deep.”

  “Sounds like some asshole telling a badly written story,” Lydia agreed.

  “Indeed,” I mused. “Here I am, talking to you while there are vampires exploding into flame, turning to dust, dissolving into primordial goo, and evaporating into millions of pieces. I guess how they die depends on their respective . . . clan?”

  “You could always ask Wraith Knight,” Myst chided. “I bet you’d get the entire errata and lore on vampire biology.”

  “Speaking of, how is the big minion?” Lydia asked.

  “How maternal of you,” I mocked. I scanned the room until I saw a pile of lesser vampires. Suddenly, WK popped up from the impromptu dog pile. As he threw his arms wide, smaller fanged figures flew in every direction.

  “Ah, there he is. Man, he does not look happy.”

  “Battle rage?” Myst asked.

  “Not exactly. More like when they had to put down Old Yeller,” I theorized. “It’s seems to be a mix of sadness and frustration.”

  “Isn’t that him all the time?” Lydia asked.

  “Well, it’s like they say: Never meet your heroes,” Myst pontificated. “You always end up disappointed.”

  “Which is why I don’t have any,” I said.

  Across the ballroom, Vitalia Grace engaged her mother in mortal combat. The lady of the manor had one of her wings severed and had many bloody cuts. Grace wasn’t looking much better. Her left arm hung limply to her side and it seemed she was having trouble breathing. Astroth moved in to flank the dhampir. Despite dozens of arrows sticking out of him, and being positively drenched in holy water, the vampire lord still fought like a demon.

  And it was boring.

  Look, I love watching a good family squabble that isn’t my own as much as the next guy. But this wasn’t getting me closer to Evie. It was time to go. I held the rudimentary walkie-talkie to my face.

  “Sophia, be a dear and ask Dmitrius to teleport us out of here.”

  “Can’t, sir,” Sophia said.

  “And why not?”

  “According to Dmitrius, teleportation is not setting-appropriate. Rules are rules, after all.”

  Sigh. “Fine. Then send down the auto-retracting rappelling lines.”

  “You got it, sir,” Sophia said cheerfully. “Line out.”

  Through the broken dome, two silver chains dropped to the ballroom floor. Still dim, I stood, dusted off my outfit, and made my way through the battle. I reached the silver chain, set my foot in the attached stirrup, and gave it a quick tug. Immediately, the line went taut and began pulling me up.

  “Wait for me!” Wraith Knight yelled as he barreled through several vampires.

  Reaching the second silver chain, he too put his big foot in the stirrup and gave it a quick tug. As we rose into the air, up to the Umbra, I took a moment to look not only at the battle below, but also at the night-shadowed countryside. In another life, in another time, I would like to come back here.

  If only to profit from the misery.

  The chains retracted into the belly of the Umbra and I stepped off onto platform. Even from the height of the dirigible, I could hear the chaos below. Screams of pain, the lamentation of the dying.

  The hissing. The stupid, stupid hissing.

  I looked over at Wraith Knight as he took his foot from the chain. “Was it everything you wanted it to be?”

  “I . . . I think I had my fill,” he admitted. “Playing a game and reading the books is one thing. Up close, it . . . well, let’s just say it lost its luster.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “Jackson,” he said, then shook his head. “Boss, I know I’m . . . weird, and maybe a little slow. But, during the fight, I realized we were the distraction while Lydia and Myst were the primary team.”

  “Go on,” I said, lighting a cigarette.

  “And since I’m not as good at lying as the rest of you, it means everyone else knew the real mission. You needed me to, well, react honestly to pull off your plan. I guess . . . I guess I doubted you again.”

  “You did,” I said. “And like I said, I am sorry you didn’t enjoy your time with the vampires.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Because that’s where you’re going to stay. Good luck.”

  Before Wraith Knight could ask what I meant, I waved my hand. Now that I was on board the ship, and technically within the bounds of my embassy, my power lashed out and slammed into my minion, knocking him off the platform and into empty air.

  I watched him fall back through the broken crystal dome and into the nest of pissed-off vampires and vampire hunters.

  “You know,” Sophia said, as she came to stand next to me, “with your power still in him, he has a chance for survival.”

  “Very good point,” I said. “I don’t want him to start a new life with advantages and privileges. What kind of father figure would I be? Thus, I, Jackson Blackwell, the Shadow Master, rescind my power upon Wendell Dench, the former Wraith Knight.”

  As I spoke the words, I felt a portion of my power flow back into me. For the crimes of doubting me, I had sentenced Wendell to live, or die, by his own hands, surrounded by the creatures he loved so much. There was a beautiful dark symmetry to the idea, one that was too perfect to ruin with words.

  Sophia, on the other hand, had no such compulsion for reverence.

  “So, it’s late and I’m hungry. Is there a Taco Bell nearby that’s open?”

  Chapter Thirty-One and a Half

  Where I Ponder Wendell’s Fate

  Yeah, I left Wraith Knight to die. Get over it. The man constantly doubted me. Not to mention how he spoke to us in the carriage a few chapters back.

  I mean, what kind of boss am I if I allow such conduct in a work environment?

  That’s right, a bad boss. And I am the #1 Boss. The coffee mug Sophia got me our first year in business together proves it.

  But to be fair, I only dropped him from a dirigible that had been retrofitted from a submarine. And we were what . . . a hundred feet or so above the manor? I mean, I don’t know at exactly what point I rescinded my power. So there was a very good chance he still had his armored form when he hit. If we assume that, then there was an even better chance he survived the fall. Granted, he wouldn’t be feeling too plucky. Sudden stops after a lot of acceleration straight down tend to do that.

  Then my power left him, turning him back into plain old Wendell Dench. Now, one could argue that when I first met him in the comic universe, he was a slightly empowered supervillain who was using the Shadow Master name. At night he was slightly stronger and tougher, and it was currently night. So, again, he had a fighting chance.

  No, wait—pretty sure once he signed his soul over to me, he forsook being a citizen of that universe and therefore access to that superpower. I’d need to double check the contract, but I recall something about Y’olly making sure every soul-binding contract had some form of forsaking wea
seled into the fine print. You know, to keep potential employees from going rogue.

  So, best case scenario: Wendell was now flat on his back, in a lot of pain, with at least a few broken bones and a concussion. All around him were very angry vampires who had no doubt fought off the human hunters. Vitalia Grace was there, but she was woefully outnumbered, and she didn’t know him. And to be frank, she didn’t like me very much, so knowing he was an employee of mine—correction: former employee—meant she had no reason to offer him aid.

  So yeah . . . Wraith Knight’s probably dead.

  I may feel bad about it later, but at least it’ll give Myst a chance to shine. Remember how integral she was in the last book? Now she’s had what, a few lines of dialogue and nothing really important to say? That’s not fair to her. So with one fewer mind to juggle, this should get better.

  I promise.

  Well, that’s not true. You’ve already bought the book and we’re easily sixty-three thousand words into this bucket of suck. So, you’ll take what I give you and like it. Think of my efforts to you as literary welfare. I do as little as possible real work, and you consume this crap, wishing you had something better.

  With that settled, let’s move on to the next chapter. In this one, Lydia confronts my ex-girlfriend, and we get closer to Evie!

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Where We Cast a Spell, Admit to Being Bested by a Vibrator, and Pull a Fast One

  Across the tranquil nighttime sky, the Zenith Umbra lazily drifted over the rolling hills of Horreich’s empty countryside.

  Blissfully silent from the ramblings of an overeager armored nerd, my remaining team and I assembled the artifacts for the summoning and binding ritual. Deep in the hold of the ship, I checked and double-checked the ritual site, ensuring each rune, glyph, and sigil was in proper place. Sophia would correct me here and there, pointing out weak spots of the binding spell. Once we were all satisfied with our efforts, and once I got the nod of approval from my djinn-turned-secretary, it was time.

  “Are you all ready?” I asked, setting a copper brazier in the middle of the site while sprinkling in the essential nightshade and herbs.

  Both Lydia and Myst nodded and took their spots outside the incredibly complex geometric pattern inscribed on the floor.

  “Sophia,” I said as I took my spot, “if you will.”

  “You got it, sir. Everyone, remember: Branwen is a high god. She will say anything, do anything, to break free. The binding spell is reliant on your will and your faith in yourself. You must remain strong and stay in your positions while I take care of the rest.”

  “We understand,” I said, exchanging glances with the other women. “Do it.”

  Sophia nodded, lit a match, and threw the flame into the center of the ritual site, lighting the contents of the copper brazier. As the flames grew, each archaic symbol flared to life, glowing in various iridescent shades of red, gray, black, and purple.

  “We summon you, High Goddess, Branwen, The Raven Goddess,” Myst said first, reciting the first line of the incantation. “By the power of your kin, we call to you.”

  As the words left her mouth, the air grew colder. Static electricity built around us. In the center of the summoning site, small surges of purple-black electrical discharges crackled.

  “We bind you, Queen of Darkness and Suffering,” Lydia continued. “Through our will we hold you.”

  Cold, wet winds from the howling ether suddenly blew through the Zenith Umbra. The air smelled of rotted earth and old blood. I could feel the pressure building, like something coming, yet refusing to appear.

  “We command you, oh Tormentor of Sanity,” I said, pushing the power of my embassy into the summons. “By our combined faith and purpose, we bend you to our will. Thus say we all . . .”

  “Appear,” the three of us said in unison. While Lydia added under her breath, “You child-stealing slut.”

  Both Myst and I looked at her.

  “What? Am I wrong?”

  I looked over at Sophia, who was thumbing through an ancient flesh-bound tome as she walked away from the summoning site.

  “Nothing in here says you can’t add to the spell,” she shrugged as she left. “So, it should work!”

  “It has been a long time, Jackson.” The smoky voice of Branwen, Queen of Ravens, rumbled through the ship.

  One moment the summoning site was empty, save for the burning brazier. And with a thunderous boom of dark lighting, the High Goddess manifested in all her gothy glory.

  Branwen appeared as a tall woman with flawless copper skin. Her hair of raven feathers was held back by an elegant silver circlet with a single onyx in the center. Her alien eyes took in the sight of us with unblinking intensity. She wore a dark purple leather bodice over a black, thigh-length silk shirt with matching black leather pants. Her cloak was made of the finest red silks emblazoned with her crest.

  And in her hand was my goddamn autographed Blu-Ray of Young Frankenstein.

  The High Goddess looked at me the way a bird of prey looks at its food, then snapped the case in half. She tossed the pieces at my feet.

  “I heard you were looking for this?”

  I looked down at the box. Branwen made sure she broke it right where Mel Brooks’s signature would have been. I pursed my lips and held my resolve.

  “Hello Branwen,” I said, maintaining my composure. “Where is my daughter?”

  “Straight to it then?” the goddess asked with an amused smile. “But you haven’t even introduced me to your lovely wife yet. My, isn’t she . . . ample.”

  “Try eating a steak once in your life, you scrawny--”

  “Hon,” I interjected. “Let’s not taunt the imprisoned goddess of revenge.”

  “Lydia, dear, you misunderstand,” Branwen purred, “I simply find it fascinating that someone like . . . you were the one to domesticate Jackson.”

  “Someone like me?” Lydia asked, more harshly than she should have.

  “Yes, someone so . . . plain,” Branwen said with a heavy condescending tone, then a look over at Myst. “Now she would be a worthy mate for my former bedfellow.”

  I rolled my eyes. “’Wen, no one is biting at your attempts to make us leave our spots.”

  “I’m close,” Lydia muttered.

  Ignoring my volatile wife, I continued. “Evie. Where is she?”

  “Such a lovely child. So powerful, as I’m sure you’re aware. Imagine what I could do with her? Imagine how I could shape such a being?” Branwen said, then looked directly at Lydia. “Imagine what I’ve already done.”

  “That’s it!” Lydia said, pulling her knives, but I held out my hand.

  “Stop! Don’t leave your spot. Stay focused,” I pleaded. “Evie is counting on us.”

  “Then do something other than make small talk,” Lydia hissed. “Before I do.”

  “What’s the play, boss?” Myst asked as her hands shifted forms into talons.

  “Yes, Jackson. What is the play?” Branwen mused, regarding Myst before looking back at me. “Other than holding me, what can you do? Hmm? You’re a minor god. Even with all the power of your humble, little, flaccid . . . embassy, the worst you can give me is a headache.”

  “I’m empowered by this embassy,” I said, ignoring her penile taunts, “as are Lydia and Myst. We can stay here, unmoving, indefinitely.”

  “Then let us settle in.” Branwen smirked as she looked over at Lydia. “Shall I tell you of the time when Jackson and I made love atop a mountain while fifty thousand soldiers died on the battlefield below? The thrums of their war cries and beat of their drums was the rhythm of our passion. As the battle climaxed, so did we.”

  Lydia narrowed her eyes. “You’re going to have to do better than that. To be honest, that sounds . . . boring.”

  Branwen smiled. “He said loved me.”

  Lydia’s eyes quickly darted towards me. “What? You told me you’ve never said that to anyone. That before me, you didn’t believe in love or attachments.�
��

  “She’s trying to anger and divide us,” I said.

  “Did you say it?” Lydia asked, pressing the issue.

  “I was younger and in the throes of . . . post-coital bliss,” I sighed, dodging the question. “Young men often say very stupid things after they--”

  “Blow their wad?” Myst offered.

  “Colorful,” I said.

  Myst shrugged. “After our first time together, he said all kinds of stupid things.”

  Lydia giggled. “Oh, and that face he makes right as he--”

  “Are we really talking about this?” I said, pointing towards Branwen. “Now?”

  “I know!” Myst said with a chuckle. “That squinty eyed thing his does with the overbite face? Oh, it’s too adorkable.”

  “I’m the goddamn Shadow Master. I am not adorkable!”

  “Has he gotten any better?” Branwen asked. “When we were together, he was . . . impatient.”

  Lydia and Myst exchanged glances. Myst pursed her lips. “He . . . well. He is very . . . um, what the word?”

  “He tries very hard,” Lydia said, affecting the tone of a teacher who doesn’t want to tell a parent their kid sits in the corner eating glue.

  “Yes, let’s go with that,” Myst agreed. “He does try very hard. Enthusiastic, even.”

  “Oh, enough of this shit,” I said, storming over towards Lydia and Myst. As I left my station in the ritual, the glowing runes and symbols flickered and blinked out.

  “Both of you know damn well women and men’s sexual needs are different,” I said, pointing at the two women. “Have I ever shied away from the use of a marital aid? Or been so full of hubris that I refused to listen to either of your needs? No, I haven’t. In fact, I embrace them. And I am always in the moment. So instead of picking on the guy in front of the other woman for humor, how about we focus on the task at hand.”

  Both Lydia and Myst stared at me in wide-eyed disbelief.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Not now,” I said, waving off the now-free Branwen.

  “I knew one of you would break and leave your spot,” my ex-girlfriend and vengeful high goddess said. “I just didn’t think it would be you.”