Super.
Mandy looked down at the man's ashes, all that remained of the former Chief of Police. “That was murder.”
“Pretty much, yeah.” I stared at the flames as they died down. “I'm sorry I didn't clear it with you ahead of time.”
“I don't mind you killing people plotting global genocide,” Mandy said, putting her hands on her hips. “That's about the limit of what I'm comfortable with, however. Don't take it as a blanket permission to start killing people.”
“I'll bear that in mind,” I said, making a mental note not to tell her about all the other people I'd killed.
“I can't believe famed radio commentator Dick Gleeson is evil,” Amanda said, her voice chipper and full of naivety. “I mean, he's a radio commentator. If you can't trust the Fourth Estate, who can you trust?”
It took me a second to realize she was being sarcastic. “Ah. There may be hope for you yet, young padawan. Being a smart-ass is the first thing you have to learn as a supervillain.”
“I'm a superhero,” Amanda corrected me.
“Sure you are,” I said, turning around to head to the mansion. “I dub you Merci-Lass.”
Chapter Twenty
Where I Explore the Castle from Hell
“I am not Merci-Lass.” Amanda wasn’t amused by her new appellation.
I smirked, walking towards the Douglas family mansion front door. “Well, we can also go with Merciless Girl, Lieutenant Merciless, Mandy Merciless, or Kid Merciless. I'm flexible.”
Mandy reached down to the ground where the skinheads abandoned their weapons and picked up a pair of Colt .45 automatic pistols. Lifting the two weapons up, all trace of her pain vanished. Somehow, Mandy had managed to suppress it under a sea of determination. “If we’re going to fight more zombies, I should get some upgrades. How do I look?”
“Amazing,” I said, worried my wife was embracing the hard-edged path of superheroism a little too quickly.
For years, I'd taken it for granted that superheroes didn't kill and supervillains did. A lot of the public tried to shame them for this, saying the world would be a much better place if Tom Terror was executed by Ultragod or Mister Chaos was stabbed in the head by Guinevere. They never quite made the connection that if they wanted these individuals dead, they could do it themselves through the courtroom or themselves. Superheroes tried to hold themselves to a higher standard and got called to task for not lowering themselves to the depths of everyone else.
The thing was, the world was getting darker again. Most of the Nineties had been filled with superheroes willing to kill, inspired by Shoot-Em-Up and the Extreme's example. Those days had never truly left us. It was estimated more than half of the Society of Superheroes had killed under some set of circumstances or another, even if their official policy was to not. I couldn't condemn them for it but it seemed more and more, the world was trying to put the Anti in front of every hero out there.
I bore some responsibility myself.
I needed to figure out a way to encourage my wife, Douglas, and any other heroes I met to stay away from this path. If that required sparing Nazis and crazy doomsday cultists, ugh, so be it.
Cloak was silent then said, “I am proud of you, Gary.”
“Thank you.”
“Your wife is tenacious,” Angel Eyes observed, watching her as she strode past Diabloman. “She didn't even look at me when I was speaking to her.”
I took a moment to look at Angel Eyes, reevaluating him. Honestly, he looked like hell. His suit, the one which probably cost more than the Greek national debt, was in tatters. His gorgeous hair was caked with mud, no longer possessed its overwhelming beauty. Even his posture had changed, losing its superhuman grace. Angel Eyes looked tired. Worse, he looked beaten.
It occurred to me that Angel Eyes was an immensely lonely man. He was immortal, which meant he didn't have much in the way of prospects for long-term commitment. The Greek Gods weren't exactly paragons of fidelity. Angel Eyes was also the sort of man that men and women would instantly fall under the sway of, meaning he didn't have many peers. I doubted the man had any more than a handful of friends. I'd feel sorry for him if he wasn't an immensely rich and powerful douchebag.
“Yeah,” I said. “My wife is awesome that way. I don't know why she loves me but she does.”
“If I could kill you to take what you have, I would do it. I hope you realize that,” Angel Eyes said to me, his voice threatening.
“Yeah,” I said. “Also realize that I have the Reaper's Scythe now and I'm pretty sure that will kill immortals.”
Angel Eyes looked like he was debating testing that theory then shrugged. “Perhaps you might be a worthy opponent for Mandy's affections, after all.”
I smiled, realizing Angel Eyes didn't get it. Even if I got jealous and sometimes had doubts, love wasn't a competition. I hoped Angel Eyes would learn that. Otherwise, well, I'd have to kill him and that would require whole hours to get Mandy to forgive me. “May the better man win.”
“How generous of you,” Angel Eyes said. “I accept your concession.”
“Yeah, I'm totally killing you after this,” I said.
“We shall see,” Angel Eyes said.
Heading up to the door, I took in the front of the mansion. The exterior was illuminated by Angel Eyes's illusionary flame, allowing me to see all of the castle's details. The door was an impressive double-door wooden edifice with gargoyle-shaped knockers and no doorknobs. A large stone family crest was built into the wall above the doorway, incorporating a pair of crossed swords and a skull. It made me wonder if the previous owners of the mansion had been pirates.
“Seriously, I want to know if all of the architects in this city went to the same school or belong to the same agency. If so, the first thing I'm doing after all of this is burning down their place of business,” Cindy muttered, pulling on the door knob. “It's locked. You want us to knock it down?”
“I'll handle it.” Turning insubstantial, I walked through the door. With that, I entered into the main hallway and immediately found myself surrounded by hundreds of ghosts.
Literally, hundreds of ghosts.
The main hallway was a two story chamber with two spiraling staircases on either side of the chamber, heading up to the second floor. The place was dark but had a soft illumination from the dozens of spirits standing on them and on the marble tile floor. They glowed like little fluorescent light bulbs, most of them translucent with only a small number as physical looking as the little girl had been.
They were dressed in a mixture of outfits, ranging from the 1930s to the Modern Era. To my disgust and horror, at least half of them were adolescents or teenagers. There were kids holding bloody newspapers as if they were killed hocking them on the street, a girl in a poodle skirt with her throat slashed, and a boy holding a 1980s-era Nintendo game controller with a bullet hole in his head.
I surveyed the scene. “Well dammit.”
Now, by this point, I had become somewhat jaded to ghosts. I'd encountered only a few but I had the basic principle down—restless spirits hanging on despite the fact that they had a better afterlife waiting for them on the other side. At least, you know, if they were good. I had no idea they could exist in such vast numbers.
“This is going to hurt. Brace yourself.”
“What do yo...gurk!” I said, before being immediately being washed over by agony beyond measure.
Encountering the little girl had nearly killed me, my 'spook senses' feeling like a heart attack encountering one eighty-year-old ghost. Here, it was like being shot in the chest, repeatedly. I didn't know why I didn't sense them through the door but I fell to the ground, grabbing my throat as if I was being strangled. The pain was excruciating, like nothing I'd ever experienced. It was the Reaper’s Sense, a horrible gut-wrenching feeling which occurred when I was surrounded by ghosts.
“Mandy...” I choked out, falling over and feeling my head as the world's most severe migraine began.
�
�Gary, you have to hold on. You're feeling the pain of these restless spirits pouring onto you. It's all in your mind. If you absorb too much of it, they'll drag you into the Place Between with them.”
“No,” I said, reaching into my cloak and pulling out the coin Death had been giving me. “I'm not going to die like this.”
Rubbing the coin, it transformed into a scythe and I braced myself against it. Climbing up the wooden shaft, I leaned on it for dear life as the pain continued. It was agonizing, beyond words, as if a lifetime of horrible deaths were crammed into every single moment I drew breath.
“I am Merciless! The supervillain without mercy!” I shouted, slamming the end of the scythe into the ground, cracking a marble flagstone. In the distance, I swear, I heard a crack of thunder. Instantly, the pain vanished.
“That was probably not a good idea.”
“Why?” I said, gasping for breath.
“The Reaper's Scythe is recognized by all ghosts instinctively,” Cloak explained. “You've drawn everyone's attention.”
“What?”
I noticed there were over a hundred pairs of ghostly eyes staring at me. All of the spirits, which had been standing there motionless before, were now turned to me. All of them had regained the light of comprehension, more than a few of them growling at me as if I was dinner.
“Dammit,” I grunted. “Why does this shit keep happening to me?”
“Because you're a terrible person.”
“In a way, that's comforting.” I leaned on my scythe for support. “It makes the world make a kind of perverse sense.”
A ghost dressed like John Travolta in Grease, all slicked back hair and leather, pulled out a switchblade and advanced on me. “Kill you, kill you, kill you.”
“Back off, John, I loved you in Pulp Fiction but I am not in the mood.
I considered using the scythe on him but I could already see several dozen other ghosts advancing towards me. In a few minutes, it would become open season on supervillains. I wasn't about to dump that problem on my henchmen.
So, I decided to improvise.
Sticking my fingers in my mouth, I blew on them. The whistle was loud and shrill. “Alright, you damn dirty spooks, it's time for your annual evaluation!”
“Oh this, I've got to hear.”
“As a duly appointed necromancer and psychopomp of Her Majesty, the One True Death, also known as the Hot Chick Who Looks Like My Wife, it is my duty to reap your souls. You have been derailed from the Circle of Life, which is not just a song from The Lion King. It now falls upon me to correct this grave, no pun intended, imbalance. Please note that if you have any objections to this, you can file a complaint at your local divinity's gateway to the underworld. The gateway to hell is under Omegamart. Seriously, I've seen it.” I spoke so fast I didn't know what I was saying.
Which happens a lot to me.
The ghost dressed like John Travolta paused, along with a large portion of the other spirits. “What?”
“I'm here to help you move on,” I said. “Free you from your eternal imprisonment in a painful half-life. You know, all the stuff that makes being a ghost awesome. Heaven is great and if you're a bad person, well hell has its perks too. I hear they've traded in the fire and brimstone thing for nonstop television and sex. They get more recruits that way.”
“You're the Grim Reaper's agent?” A female ghost dressed like a hippie asked, having a hole where her heart should be.
“Obey the Merciless Scythe!” I shouted, slamming it down on the flagstones again. That got everyone's attention. Even the ghosts advancing on me were stopped, looking more confused than anything else. “Now, I need a quick summary of what is keeping you tethered to the mortal plane.”
“Pardon?” A bald ghost a mustache and horned rimmed glasses asked. He had no visible wounds but was the most problematic to look at, mostly because he was naked. Damn, that was a cruddy way to die.
“Dude, imagine some clothes.” I looked away. “Tell me why you're here.”
The bald ghost looked down at his naked form and squinted, a pair of suspenders, striped shirt, and suspenders appearing. He looked like an accountant now. “Wow, it worked!”
“Of course it did,” I said. “I have the Merciless Scythe. Anyone want to answer my question?”
The hippie, thankfully, answered. “We were all sacrifices for the Brotherhood of Infamy's rituals. They invited us here, tortured us, sacrificed us, and bound our spirits to the castle’s walls. Professor Weird tried to help us but he was forced to sell the mansion due to lawsuits from the Falcon Corporation.”
I squinted at her. “That just begs for further explanation but I'll leave it alone. Okay, I'm your answer. With this scythe, I'm going to send you all on your way.”
“You're going to kill us?” the hippie said. “Again?”
I had to wonder what everyone was thinking outside. Did they think I was having trouble with the lock or did they think I'd been eaten by whatever was lying on the other side of the door? It was hard to tell. I had to reassure the horde of spooks that I was on the level, though. You know, before they ate me.
“No,” I said. “I'm going to use my scythe to sever your ties to the Earth and allow you to move on.”
“That's not going to work,” Cloak said. “In fact, I find this whole thing you're doing despicable.”
“Any volunteers?” I hefted up the Reaper's Scythe.
None of the ghosts volunteered immediately, most looking at me like I was a crazy person. I can't imagine why.
Finally, the one who looked like John Travolta threw aside his switchblade. “Do me first.”
“Okay, close your eyes and think 'ascension.' It's as easy as dying. You know, unless you had a horrible and violent death. In which case, it's quite a bit easier.”
The ghost closed his eyes and I swung the scythe beside him, striking the ground. The ghost opened his eyes and stared down at his body as he faded away. “It's working!”
“Oh yeah!” I said, watching him disappear. “Who ya gonna call!”
“I have no words,” Cloak said. “At all.”
“Dumbo's magic feather,” I thought at Cloak. “If these guys think I can make them ascend, I can.”
“That's... brilliant,” Cloak replied, seemingly unable to believe it. “I'm disturbed you came up with it.”
“Who’s next?” I called out.
Dozens of ghostly hands shot up and I went to work, sending one spirit after another to the Great Beyond.
About six or seven ghosts in, a head popped in through the back of the door. It was Amanda Douglas, my unknowing sidekick. “Gary, are you okay?”
“Sorry, ran into a little spook trouble. I should have it dealt with in about five minutes.”
“Uh, okay,” Amanda said, surprised at the scene before her.
Amanda's head turned to a ghost in a nightgown, a long trail of blood flowing down her front. She stopped cold, her gaze focused with a haunting intensity I couldn't put into words.
“Mom?” Amanda said. “They killed you too?”
Her father had murdered her mother.
Oh God.
Chapter Twenty-One
Where I Therapist for a Bunch of Ghosts
I looked between the two. “Oh crap. This is going to be one of those awkward family moments, isn't it?”
Amanda shot me a look which could have melted steel. You'd think a twenty-something girl who was five-foot-two at best would be less intimidating. It didn't help the ghost she identified as her mother gave me the exact same look.
“Sorry,” I said, raising my palms as I let my scythe rest on my shoulder. “Really.”
“It's... alright.” Amanda stepped through the front door. Her insubstantial frame moved with a dancer's grace.
“It is? My, you're forgiving.”
“Mister Karkofsky, could you leave us alone for a minute?” Amanda’s mother asked, giving me a sidelong glance.
“Alright.” I couldn't begin to imagine w
hat Amanda was going through. It was bad enough losing your family. To discover your mother had been sacrificed on an altar somewhere to the Brotherhood of Infamy's evil god? Possibly by your father?
It was unforgivable and he was bound to her cloak. That would make for some rather dreadful conversations.
“Sure.” I gestured to a spot across the ghost-filled front hall. “I'll be over there, harvesting souls.”
“Thank you,” Amanda said, showing a remarkable maturity for her age. “You're a good man, Gary Karkofsky.”
“No, I'm not,” I corrected, looking at my costume. “Right, Cloak?”
“I've looked into his soul. He's at least sixty-two percent evil.”
“You're quipping to someone who can't hear you.”
“I know. I think being linked with you has finally driven me insane,” Cloak grumbled. “Do you think Ms. Douglas will be alright?”
“Not at all,” I said, turning to the ghosts and walking to the other side of the room. “Finding out your family has been murdered is pretty damning. I should know.”
“So do I.”
Turning to the rest of the ghosts, I noticed they were all looking at me with expecting gazes. I guess when all of them were waiting for rescue from a permanent state of hellish limbo, it was important to keep your attention focused on them.
“You might want to help them move on. You know, if your plan works beyond the testing stage.”
Clearing my throat, I addressed the assembled spooks. “Okay, I want everyone to form two single-file lines. There's to be no shoving, no punching, no complaining, and if you're a kid don't worry I'm going to kick the ass of whoever did this to you.”
That brought a smile or two from some of the ghosts around me. Once the ghosts formed into lines, I started swinging around my scythe to send them on their way. I didn't know what I'd do if it ever stopped working but, at least for the first six or seven, it seemed to be continuing on like before.
Swinging a scythe was a lot harder than it looked, however, and I was exhausted by the time I'd claimed my twelfth soul. Even singing, “Don't Fear the Reaper” didn't make the experience any less tiresome.
The Games of Supervillainy (The Supervillainy Saga Book 2) Page 17