by DD Barant
“Jace is fine.” I glance around me. “This is an impressive place.”
“Oh, this is just the foyer. Some nice pieces in here, but the specialty galleries are really something to see—though I’m afraid I can’t show them to you.” His smile becomes apologetic. “But I will try to answer any of your questions.”
“Fair enough. I guess I should start by saying that the ‘Special’ in ‘Special Agent’ means I’m from an alternate reality, one without thropes or pires. I didn’t know a whole lot about comic books there—except that Hollywood seemed to like turning them into popcorn movies—and I know even less about them here.”
“Well then, you’re in luck. I happen to know quite a bit about comics—both in this world and in yours.” He chuckles at the look on my face. “It’s not that odd, really. Comics in this reality are a conduit for powerful magics, including those that facilitate contact with other universes. And comics from your world have always concerned themselves with multiple realities—since the late 1950s, anyway.”
“The 1950s. My boss said something about that being when comic books were declared illegal here?”
Neil nods. “Oh, yes. The Seduction of the Innocent murders. Terrible business… but also responsible for all this.” He indicates the whole room with a sweep of his leather-clad arm. “This was built by comic book magic. You understand how most magic works here?”
“Yeah. It’s all based on animism—the principle that all things, living or unliving, have a spirit inside them.”
“Correct. There are different schools, but the two main ones are based on African sorcery and Japanese Shinto. In your world, Shinto is mostly a religion based on ancestor worship; here, it became an active magical system. On both worlds the Japanese call the spirits that live in everything Kami. And a magical book encoded with illustrations of spells—”
“—is a Kamic book. Got it. But why illustrations instead of just words?”
“It’s the nature of animism. A picture is a more literal representation of an object than a word, which is an abstract symbol. And animism is largely the magic of objects.” He walks over to the right-hand wall and points. “Take a look at this.”
I get closer and study what he’s talking about. It’s a black-and-white page from an old comic book, dealing with a junkie trying to shake down a young woman—his dealer, apparently—for drugs. When she doesn’t produce them quickly enough, he threatens to stab her in the eye with a hypodermic.
“True Crime Number Two,” Neil says. “May 1947. The story was called ‘Murder, Morphine and Me,’ written and drawn by Jack Cole. Published in both your world and mine—though here the morphine was cut with garlic—but with very different social consequences.”
“How so?”
“A man named Fredric Wertham recognized the inherent power in such images. On your world he was a doctor, a psychiatrist, who campaigned against the influence of comics; here he was a low-level shaman who saw mystical possibilities in the form that had never been explored before. He tried to get a job at True Crime, but was unsuccessful. Eventually he got himself hired by EC Comics, which primarily published fantasy and science fiction at that time. Wertham convinced them to launch a much darker imprint.”
Neil pauses. “I can’t show you any examples of Seduction of the Innocent, unfortunately; they were all destroyed. Only three issues were produced, but they were truly… outstanding works. Horrifying, of course, but that was their point.”
“So they were horror comics?”
“I suppose that’s as good a definition as any. They dealt with murders, murders of the most inventive and disturbing kind. The thing was—though no one knew it at the time—they weren’t fiction.” Neil smiles at me again, a gentle smile that makes the room a little colder, and I’m suddenly very glad I have my gun with me. “Wertham was taking the blood of his victims—lycanthropes, mainly—and adding it to the ink of the printing presses. When the comics were read, they completed a sort of mystical circuit, one that he was able to draw a great deal of power from. It was very clever.”
“Yeah, they always think they’re clever. How’d he get caught?”
“That’s the truly fascinating part.” Neil takes a few steps forward and stops in front of another framed piece of art. This one is a full-color cover, depicting a group of brightly costumed superheroes battling a bunch of guys in hooded cloaks. The banner across the top reads THE BRAVO BRIGADE and it’s dated October 1956.
“Only a single issue of this came out, despite the fact that more copies of it were printed than any other previous comic. It was sold for a penny less than other comparable titles, though I’m sure they would have given it away if they could. But paying for something gives it power; magic is one of the original transactions.”
I study the cover. “This is the Bravo Brigade fighting Wertham?”
“Wertham and his cult, yes.”
“Tell me about them—the Brigade, I mean.”
“Six members.” Neil pointed at each of them in turn. “The female lycanthropic pirate is the Sword of Midnight; the glowing Roman gladiator is the Solar Centurion; the pire in the cloak covered with arcane symbols is Doctor Transe; the black woman in the tribal outfit riding the flying Zulu shield is the African Queen; the golem monk is Brother Stone; and the brass golem in the cowboy outfit is the Quicksilver Kid.”
“Interesting bunch.”
“The authorities fought fire with fire—sympathetic magic with sympathetic magic. In the comic, the heroes defeat Wertham and destroy his cult. In reality—this one, anyway—Wertham simply vanished. But there’s more to the story than that.”
“How so?”
“Even before the murders, there were people doing research along similar lines. The government came to us for help in stopping him—some of the founders of this club consulted on The Bravo Brigade—then decided we were too dangerous to be allowed to continue unchecked. We’re tolerated, as long as we keep to our own little community, but comics are no longer published on any sort of large scale. We have to make do with what we can glean from other realities—which is rather lucky for you, isn’t it?”
I frown. Neil is charming and likable, but his sunglasses are very, very dark—I can’t see even the outline of his eyes. It’s a little disconcerting.
“Hang on,” I say. “If the government used the same kind of magic to fight Wertham, does that mean the Bravo Brigade actually existed?”
“That would seem to follow, wouldn’t it… the supernatural races have their myths and archetypal heroes, Jace, just like yours does, but ours are more secretive; they live in the shadows of the past rather than the glare of history. But whether the Bravos were legends personified or simply imitating them, they were more than images inked on paper. They were actual people, with real power—though their true identities remain hidden.”
“Saladin Aquitaine. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“I’m afraid not. Who is he?”
“The victim in the case I’m here about.” I describe the body and how it was found. “I recognized the outfit from a comic book character in my own world, but I have no idea what the green skeleton or the electricity means.”
Neil nods, his expression thoughtful. “The Flash. Interesting. Several versions of the character have appeared over the years, but this particular iteration sounds like Barry Allen. His first appearance—in October 1956—marks what most comic historians consider the start of the Silver Age.”
“That’s the same month the Bravo Brigade comic came out.”
“So it is. As to the electrified skeleton, I believe it’s referencing the origin of the character—Barry Allen supposedly gained his abilities when a lightning bolt hit a shelf of chemicals that then spilled all over him.”
Green skeleton equals chemical reaction? I’d have to see if Eisfanger pulled any chemical traces from the bones. “Okay, how about parallels to this world—was there a Flash comic here? Are there any members of your club that have a fas
cination with the character?”
“The original Flash was named Jay Garrick. His character had more or less faded from the public eye by the time Barry Allen was introduced; if any of the other club members have a heightened interest in either of them, I’m not aware of it.” His voice is just a touch cool; I suppose I can’t really expect him to inform on his friends.
I try another approach. “You said comic—uh, Kamic book magic was used to contact other universes. Does that include travel between them?”
He hesitates. “In theory. It’s rarely done, and requires a great deal of power.”
“Like the kind of power Wertham had?”
“Yes. The actual process is called a crossover spell. But it requires a powerful focus—something like the Cosmic Treadmill.” He smiles.
“A treadmill? The body was found draped over a treadmill.”
“Oh? I was joking, actually—the Cosmic Treadmill was a plot device frequently used in the Flash comics. When powered by someone running at super-speed, it allowed time travel—and crossing over to alternate worlds. There was even a well-known comics editor named Julius Schwartz who wound up meeting some of the very characters he oversaw.”
“Wait, I’m confused. An editor from my world met characters from a comic book universe?”
Neil moves on to the next piece of art, examining it like he’s never seen it before. “Perhaps… that’s the thing about comics, you see. They deal with so many different levels of reality, all of them intersecting on the printed page. Parallel worlds, Asgardian gods, shapeshifting aliens; angels and demons and robots from the future. Somewhere in that kaleidoscopic mix, the line between what really happened and what was merely imagined becomes blurred… and magic can sometimes erase it altogether. Maybe what happened to Mr. Schwartz was just a story—and maybe it wasn’t.”
The gentle cadence of his voice is hypnotic. Okay, the concept of using a treadmill to jump from one universe to another is absurd, but for just a second I have visions of running back home. I’ll have to make sure Eisfanger goes over that treadmill with every forensic tool he has, magic and otherwise.
“The fact that the victim was skeletonized is intriguing as well,” Neil says. “One of the major themes of the Silver Age was transformation. The enemies of the Flash—and there were many—changed him into all sorts of things: a wooden marionette, a living mirror, even a human lightning bolt. But I can’t recall one of them turning him into a skeleton.”
He glances down at his watch. “You’ll have to leave now. One of our other members is on his way, and he wouldn’t be pleased if he knew I was talking to you.”
He pulls a small, dark blue candle from the pocket of his leather jacket. “Here. I’m afraid you can’t come back here, but if you have more questions and you need to get in touch with me, simply light this just before you go to sleep.”
I take the candle. “What is this, a mystic version of the Bat-Signal?”
“Something like that. It’ll let us communicate on another plane of existence—much more secure than a cell phone, and with a great deal more bandwidth than e-mail.”
“So it’s like telepathy?”
“Not exactly—it’s a type of magic called oneiromancy. You’d best hurry—Warren can get extremely cranky.”
I’m halfway up the stairs before I can remember where I’ve heard that term before. Oneiromancy. Dream magic. I half expect the exit to dump me out in a completely different place, but I’m still under the Fremont Street bridge. No sign of Warren, but he’s probably using a completely different entrance to get to the same place. Charlie’s waiting for me in the car, a standard-issue dark blue sedan that the Agency thinks is inconspicuous. “How’d it go?” he asks as I get in. “Any leads?”
“Maybe. Let’s head back to the Aquitaine place.”
“Why? Forensics guys have already picked it clean.”
“It’s not the crime scene I’m interested in.” There are still cops posted at the door, but the body, the treadmill, and anything else of significance has been taken down to Eisfanger’s lab. I turn on every light in the apartment and prowl around, Charlie dogging my heels. “You take the living room, I’ll take the bedroom. We’re going to search it again, this time from top to bottom.”
“What are we looking for?”
“Well, a Batpole would be nice, but I’ll settle for a pair of long underwear and a cape.” That gets me a blank look. Of course, Charlie doesn’t have to work real hard to accomplish that; impassive is his middle name. “You’ll know it when you see it, okay? And it’ll probably be well hidden.” We get to work. Searching a pire’s home is like trying to read a book with every third word blacked out; there are certain things they just don’t do, certain things they never use. For instance, male pires rarely own underwear. No boxers, no briefs—commando all the way. Why bother with an extra layer when you don’t sweat or excrete? Hell, some pires actually get by with nothing but a coat of paint, like a car.
I find it, believe it or not, in the closet. Just casually hanging there, between a nice cashmere sweater and a tweed jacket—I probably looked right at it last time and thought it was a bathrobe. I pull it out and yell, “Charlie! C’mere!”
He’s there in an instant, moving as quickly and quietly as a tiger. He eyes what I’m holding up and shakes his head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re really not much of a summer dress kind of woman.”
“This isn’t a dress, it’s a robe.” I trace one of the mystic sigils embroidered on it with a finger. “Saladin Aquitaine was more than just a geologist with a talent for finding diamonds—he was one of the Bravo Brigade.”
“It’s just a treadmill,” Eisfanger says.
I glare at him from the other side of a worktable littered with parts. “I can see that. What I want to know is, does this particular treadmill have any particular mystic significance?”
Eisfanger looks trapped halfway between confused and wary. “You think this is a… magic treadmill?”
“Sure,” says Charlie. “And get a move on, will you? We’ve got Satan’s Conveyor Belt waiting to be processed.”
I give my partner a look that could blister skin. Too bad his is made of plastic. “Don’t use that tone with me,” I say to Eisfanger. “You’ve got all kinds of weird-ass magic thingies here—why not a treadmill?”
“Well, it’s esoteric enough,” he admits. “I mean, I’ve never even seen one outside of a lab.”
“Where I come from they’re a substitute for running outdoors.”
“But—”
“Don’t make me explain it, all right?”
He shrugs. “In any case, I’ve gone over every component, and none of them is mystically charged in any way. They were all a little bored, actually; the machine used to belong to an NFL franchise, was used for testing. It’s been dormant for at least six weeks.” He picks up a gear and examines it critically. “I’ve already contacted the team. They say they got rid of some old equipment a few months ago—I think our killer got it from the dump.”
“No prints?”
“No. And according to the machine itself, the last person to actually use it was Tyrone Bates—starting quarterback for the Memphis Lunar Knights.”
“I hear he’s got a hell of an arm,” Charlie says. “But I doubt if he’s much on calling up lightning bolts.”
“How about the skeleton?” I ask. “Postmortem just came back.” Eisfanger picks up a beige file folder and hands it to me. I open it and scan the first page. “You were right about the calcium being replaced by copper… and they found traces of silver just where you thought they might.” Eisfanger nods, allowing himself the smallest amount of smugness. I read more, and frown. “Lightning strike confirmed, origin pending. No other chemicals found.” The only other thing in the report that seems unusual is Aquitaine’s date of birth: 1152. “He was eight and a half centuries old,” I say. “Even among pires, that’s pretty impressive, right?”
“Sure,” says Charlie. “But
these old-timer cases can be a real pain. Pires that ancient have enemies older than the country they’re living in. And the older the pire—”
“The craftier and meaner, I know. So you think the killer’s another pire?” Charlie shrugs. “Maybe yes, maybe no. Packs have been known to keep blood grudges going for generations, and thropes live about three hundred years anyway.”
“Terrific.” Even if I caught the killer, it would be like a fruit fly trying to convict a redwood. Come dance on my great-great-granddaughter’s grave when you get out. “How about the robe?” I say. “Ah. Now that’s much more interesting.” Eisfanger beams and leads us over to another table where the robe is spread out. There are no crescent moons or stars among the symbols woven into it, but there’s no doubt the runes are arcane; they almost seem to pulse with power. “At first I thought this was just a really good replica of a Doctor Transe costume,” Eisfanger says. “That was before I started running tests. I—I think this is the real thing.” He sounds embarrassed. “I mean, I think Saladin Aquitaine was Doctor Transe.”
“You know about the Bravo Brigade?” He scratches the bristly white stubble of his hair. “Well, sure—but they were called ‘mystery men’ back then, not ‘superheroes.’ Everybody had a copy of that comic when I was a kid. Not for long, though—the government recalled them, said there was some kind of health problem with the ink. Silver contamination, I think. They bought them back for twice the cover price.” That more or less dovetailed with what Neil had told me, though he hadn’t mentioned the cover story—
I guess he assumed I’d already heard it. “So tell me about Doctor Transe.”
“He was their sorcerer. Large-scale animist stuff—he could talk to thunderstorms, mountains, oceans.”
“Can’t other animists do that?”
“Sure, but not like Transe. He could condense time, for one thing—a conversation with a geological feature that would normally take years, he could do in minutes.” Which would explain his success as a surveyor. “How about oceans or weather patterns?”