Sea of Lost Souls

by Emerald Dodge

  I’d already counted four burned bodies. If the gathering clouds overhead emptied themselves on us, we’d have storm damage to deal with on top of bombs and mangled people pinned under rock and twisted steel.

  Skidding to a halt behind a cement planter in front of the ravaged bank, I crouched as low as I could and surveyed the scene. Craters and broken cars covered the wide downtown avenue. Large enough to accommodate traffic for Saint Catherine’s population of a quarter million, it was now a daunting battlefield.

  Skyscrapers loomed large above me, though they provided little shade against the late-morning sun that blazed down despite the increasingly ominous threat of a storm. The summer heat, Georgia’s defining seasonal attribute, pressed me from all sides. Not for the first time, I wished my fighting clothes were any other color besides black. I wiped sweat off my face with a gloved hand and peered around the planter.

  I’d been smart to change locations, because I could now see three of my teammates, busy climbing over wreckage. My fourth teammate, our leader Patrick, was nowhere in sight, but I knew that he’d never be far from the Destructor. At least, I thought that was the name the bomber had shouted at us over the screaming of civilians when Patrick had ordered him to identify himself.

  I’d had to suppress the urge to laugh; since when did supervillains have codenames like us? And if they were going to pick codenames, why pick one so dumb?

  The Destructor lobbed another explosive at an unseen person in the distance. Not risking a melee, I picked up a tennis ball-sized rock and waited for the right moment. A rock thrown at just the right spot would knock him down long enough for me to take him out. Between my enhanced strength, speed, and agility, I wouldn’t miss my target.

  He whipped around and looked directly at me. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice you?” he shouted as another blazing orb appeared in his hand.

  I ran, my speed allowing me to barely escape the blast. Shards of glass and stone soared past my head, and a searing burn on the back of my neck followed by a wet trickle alerted me to a fresh wound. I’d have to deal with it later.

  I dove behind a car with bloody handprints on the door. I peered through the window— he was looking my way. There was no hiding now.

  Beneath his red-and-black mask, his eyes gleamed with the anticipation of my death. For a fraction of a second I felt both insulted that he was trying to kill me and invigorated that something was finally happening, though both were stupid reactions at a time like this, or any other time.

  “Come out and fight,” he said with a snarl, another glowing ball already in his hand. “A dead little girl would brighten my day.”

  I pursed my lips, since I knew better than to correct him. If he thought a twenty-year-old was a “little girl,” then he’d already underestimated me. I needed him just cocky enough that he’d make a fatal error.

  The Destructor jumped off the armored car and sauntered towards me, bandying his fireball about as if it were a beach ball. I slowly unsheathed the knife on my belt. Just a few yards closer, and I could throw it into his shoulder with such accuracy that I could sever the nerves without damaging an artery. He’d have quite a time hurling fireballs if he couldn’t move his shoulder.

  He stopped and tossed a fireball from halfway across the street. Once more, I ran for cover.

  I was fifteen yards from the car when it exploded.

  The blast threw me into a crumbling brick wall that promptly collapsed, unable to withstand both the shockwave and my weight. I tumbled a few times and the knife sliced my leg. I lay face down on the ground for a moment. A ringing sounded in my ears. Adding insult to injury, it started to rain.

  “Battlecry, you okay?”

  I heard the words from somewhere but the flashing lights in my vision distracted me from figuring out who said them. Weirdly, my dislike of my codename was the first thing I thought of while my vision cleared. I much preferred to be called Jillian.

  The ground trembled, followed by walls of dirt and stone springing up between the Destructor and me. Earth-moving--Reid's power. It had to have been him who'd spoken. With shaking arms, I pushed myself off the ground. A sharp pain ran through my right shoulder, and I winced. Likely it was a sprain—it wasn't the first time I'd received such an injury. Fighting would to be that much more difficult for the next few weeks.

  “I’m okay.” I flashed the thumbs-up to where he stood on a levitating piece of pavement. He returned the gesture and, after straightening his blue mask and cracking his knuckles, flew away in the direction of a large car pile-up.

  Screams filled the air again. Around the earthen wall, the Destructor bore down on a group of three injured businessmen huddled against the side of an overturned hot-dog cart. Cursing, I unsheathed another of my knives and prepared to charge him.

  The Destructor threw his fireball. It sailed through the air in a perfect arc with a horrific hissing noise. The businessmen closed their eyes.

  The fireball hit an invisible wall and disintegrated into thousands of sparks.

  Patrick was here.

  He emerged from behind a pile of rubble, his inhuman fury visible even from a distance. I swallowed the lump in my throat and returned behind the dirt wall, listening to Patrick and the Destructor trade curses. Every time the Destructor attacked, Patrick shot back an enraged response and I held my breath, my whole body tensed and ready to run far, far away. But I didn’t run—I stood in my little enclave, clawing at my brain for a plan.

  Footsteps a few feet beyond my hiding place made me look up.

  Marco rushed in. “Hiding, B? I’ll join you,” he said, panting. “That guy nearly turned me into pudding and now Patrick is working on him.”

  An ugly gash marred his face, and blood dripped onto his ripped tunic. One of his sleeves had been completely torn off. He looked every inch the hardened fighter the public expected us to be, instead of what he really was: a seventeen-year-old who’d lied about his age to the police when he’d registered with the city.

  “I’m not hiding,” I snapped. “I’m planning. And don’t call him his real name right now.”

  Patrick caught the Destructor’s volleys and crushed them in psychic force fields—apparently the rain made the bombs more manageable. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he directed all his physical strength into his telekinesis. The only one of us who went unmasked, he looked even angrier than before. Rumbling thunder overhead completed the picture.

  “Planning,” I repeated, more to myself than Marco. You’re a superhero, Jillian. Do something.

  “Plan something fast. Atropos is furious that this is taking so long.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at Marco’s tone when he said our leader’s goddess-themed codename. “What makes you say that?”

  Already Marco’s presence had lifted my mood, but his words worried me.

  Instead of speaking, he merely tapped his temple.

  Ah, Ember. The team telepath had told him.

  “Great.” There was more acid in my voice than I intended. “Can you blind him?”

  Marco harnessed solar power and could redirect the heat and light. One good blast of concentrated sunlight would end the fight…although he rarely unleashed his power like that in public because of the risk of blinding a civilian or one of us.

  Marco shook his head. “No, too many people are around, and even if there weren’t, it’s too dark from the cloud cover. I’ve used so much of my reserves already cutting through rock and steel that I’m practically going cold.”

  I held the back of my hand to his forehead—he did feel cooler than usual. My heart sank. This fight was probably going to drag on for hours.

  “We need to get in the air.” I glanced up to see if I could spot my skinny twenty-two-year-old teammate on his flying pavement.

  Marco lowered his voice. “Em told me Atropos said he needed to get people out of the rubble.”

  I frowned. “Where is Ember, anyway?”

  I’m helping out with the rescue effort. Embe
r’s mental voice filled the back of my mind in the strange whisper-echo tone of telepathy. And now that I have your attention, Patrick’s got some orders for you.

  Of course he does. The rain started falling harder, which didn’t help my mood. Have you been eavesdropping on me? I hate that.

  Not now, Jill. Please. And I was in Marco’s mind and heard your question.

  Fine. What does Patrick want me to do? I crossed my arms, hoping the attitude came across.

  He says go to the top of the Bell Building and signal when you’re up there. I’ll give you the rest of the orders when you’re on the roof.

  No! No more open-ended orders. Remember last time? I got shot because he didn’t tell me a gang meeting would be going on.

  Stop being an idiot! This kind of crap from you is why he’s the way he is. And besides, the bullet only grazed you.

  I told her where she could put his orders.

  Jill, listen to me. I get that you don’t like not knowing what you’re running into, but please think of the rest of us. You’re not the only one on this team.

  My resolve crumbled and was replaced by guilt. Ember didn’t deserve my anger. Okay, fine. My shoulders sagged, causing a searing pain that took my breath away.

  Thank you. A long pause followed—she’d slipped out of my mind for a few seconds. The Destructor’s not thinking about you at all. If you act fast, you can probably get to the entrance of the Bell Building without attracting his notice.

  I explained to Marco what I was about to do, then took a deep breath. With only a glance to double-check that my way remained clear and unseen, I started the hundred-yard dash, darting behind cars, massive upturned pieces of steaming pavement, and other large items that littered the street. The weather worked in my favor; the rain acted as a curtain of sorts and the howling wind, thunder, and cracks of lightning disguised my footfalls.

  I jumped through the shattered glass doors of the Bell Building into the cool dimness of the marble lobby. Though glass and bits of marble littered the floor, it remained relatively untouched. Even the hidden speakers still worked, playing a tuneless melody that offices seem to prefer.

  A snuffling noise came from behind the reception desk, and behind it was a woman curled up next to her desk chair, weeping softly.

  “Where’s the stairwell?” I demanded, trying to project authority with sopped clothes and hair plastered to my face.

  She pointed a shaking finger to a door at the end of the foyer. I thanked her and ran to it, gearing up for a sprint up twenty-five flights of stairs.

  I arrived on the roof, panting and wincing from the burning pain in my shoulder. I stumbled to the edge and located Patrick below, a dark little figure surrounded by tiny floating items. He had moved to the top of the armored car. The Destructor was desperately trying to land a hit on him, but Patrick’s telekinesis wasn’t allowing it. Dozens of fireballs sailed through the air and dissolved into steaming, fizzling sparks when they hit Patrick’s shield.

  “Hey, Atropos! Atropos! I’m up here!”

  He didn’t turn around. The storm drowned out my shouts.

  I flicked open a pouch on my belt with an aggravated sigh, pulling out a small flare and igniting it. After waving it for a few seconds, Patrick noticed me. He shouted something to Reid. For a moment I couldn’t tell what Reid was doing, but then—

  “Oh, hell,” I breathed.

  The ground rumbled and shook. A small patch of earth sprang up under the Destructor, six feet wide but soaring hundreds of feet into the air—far too quickly for the Destructor to jump to the ground. My team hurried from their locations to the base of the tower to watch.

  Ember’s presence tickled the back of my mind once again. I picked up from him that he’s afraid of heights when he was standing on the armored car, so we’re lifting him up to throw him out of his comfort zone. Patrick wants you to give him a beat down.

  The mental image of me kicking the Destructor in the stomach over and over again while he begged for mercy flitted across my mind. That wasn’t my fantasy but Patrick’s, relayed by Ember.

  Of course. How many times had Patrick used me as the team’s muscle? Sure, Reid could control lava, Marco could harness the sun, and Patrick himself could move things with his mind. Heck, even Ember was one of the few superhumans lucky enough to have two powers, telepathy and control over animals. Our leader had made it clear to me that I was useful for my fists and nothing more. I ignored the leaden weight in my chest and geared up for the fight, my feet automatically sliding into a defensive stance.

  The earthen tower reached the roof and stopped. The Destructor huddled on it in the fetal position. Ember had downplayed his feelings about heights. He wasn’t just afraid, he had a phobia. Beneath my surging adrenaline lurked something almost like pity, because a trembling, sniveling adversary just wasn’t respectable.

  Still, I’d rather have jumped off the Bell Building than reveal my true feelings to a supervillain. I stuffed down my pity and worked my face into a steely glare.

  I jumped from the roof onto the muddy tower, my boots skidding on the wet pavement and only stopping an inch from his head. He yelped.

  “Scared?” I sneered. I lifted him by his shirt with my one working arm, the blood pounding in my ears. “Good.”

  I threw him off the tower onto the roof and then jumped after him. He scrambled backwards and held up a hand. “Don’t come any closer! I’ll—I’ll blow us up!”

  “You’d have done it already,” I said coolly. Energy manipulation like bomb-making virtually always required the Super to have working hands, so without a word I stomped on the hand clutching the ground with my steel-soled boot while simultaneously crushing the hand he was holding up with my own vise grip. Despite my pity, the crunches and his cry of anguish were highly satisfying.

  I mentally reviewed the steps I was supposed to take next. Punch, kick, maim, the usual. But this pathetic man was down, and doing anything else just seemed…mean. I looked at him while he cradled his useless fingers and marveled at the irony of someone so powerful being so weak at the same time.

  “You disgust me.” I put my hands on my hips, ignoring his sobs. “I’ve been told to kick your head in, but I think you’ve learned your lesson. The police will be here in a few minutes. Have fun in prison.”

  I turned to go to the edge and signal the all-clear. The moment my back was to him, he swiped a leg under my own and I fell.

  My injured shoulder took the brunt of the fall, and my head bounced against the ground. He awkwardly ran towards the edge. My groan turned into a growl of anger. That had been a rookie mistake.

  “Get back here!” I yelled, jumping up and blinking away white spots in my vision.

  He glanced back at me, eyes wide, his fear of heights battling his fear of me. I bridged the gap between us and grabbed his wrist just as he went over the side of the building.

  “Let me go,” he pleaded, crying again. “I can’t spend the rest of my life in the Supers’ prison! Have some mercy on a fellow Super.” His wide eyes were slick with terror, but the shooting pain in my shoulder reduced my previous pity to dust. I just wanted this disgusting man out of my sight.

  “You didn’t show any mercy to the people down there,” I replied with some difficulty, as he wriggled and pulled against me. Normally pulling a man up with one arm wouldn’t have been a problem, but the pain in my shoulder compromised my strength. A deafening crash of thunder preceded even more sheets of rain. Rivulets of water ran down my arm onto his, making my grasp slippery. A few more minutes of this tug-of-war and the Destructor would get his wish.

  Patrick says drop him.

  “Shut up, Ember!” I yelled into the storm.

  Patrick will catch him.

  Yeah, right. Powerful as Patrick was, he struggled to catch falling people—as we’d witnessed during a suicide two months earlier. Gritting my teeth and cursing the Destructor’s ancestors, I ignored Ember’s further protests and with a burst of effort pulled the Destru
ctor back over the edge. A quick punch to the temple knocked him out cold.

  He’s down.

  Adrenaline drained out of my system and left a cold creep in my veins, the same creep I felt after every mistake and poor judgment call. Though I could feel Ember in my mind, she said nothing. When the police arrived on the roof, I didn’t leave the scene until they asked me to.

  Back on the street, Patrick was surrounded by soaked teenage girls holding umbrellas and a copy of a tabloid that had done a feature on “Saint Catherine’s Heroic Heartthrob.” After signing autographs, he fielded questions from reporters. Their ability to converge at a scene just minutes after an incident never failed to amaze me.

  One particularly aggressive woman pushed her way to the front and stuck a microphone in his face. “Atropos, how did you feel when you were fighting the Destructor?”

  He ducked his head, grinning sheepishly. “Well, every fight is a thrill and a challenge. I didn’t have any time to be scared for myself, though. I’m always one hundred percent concerned about the safety of my team and the citizens of Saint Catherine.”

  Another reporter pushed his way to the front of the throng. “Atropos, our readers want to know what it’s like being the leader of a superhero team.”

  Patrick’s crooked grin made several girls giggle. “It’s the best job in the world. My team loves me, I love them, and we’re a well-oiled machine.” His eyes flickered towards me.

  Nobody else seemed to notice his momentary glare, though Ember clutched my hand. I’m here for you no matter what happens.

  The reporter referred to her notes. “Our viewers voted on our final question: any tips for prospective superhero leaders out there?”

  What a stupid question. You were born into our life or you weren’t, and leadership was for men in elder families only.

  He laughed. “Sure. Lead with a firm hand, and you’ll have the respect of your team and your city.”

  The rest of us looked on in the rain while Patrick fed the crowd his smooth replies. We made sure to never stop smiling for the public in case they looked our way, just as we’d been told for years.