Death Blows

by DD Barant

  I look around, trying to focus through the shock, looking for options of my own. What I see is—

  All the madness that da Vinci’s managed to hide.

  It’s not the Batcave, it’s not the Fortress of Solitude. It’s a nest. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, everything’s been coated in layers of overlapping comic book pages, a crazy quilt of brightly colored images that cover every surface, firmly glued in place. It’s not just the walls, either—I can see the outline of a desk, several chairs, a large bookcase, and a globe. The whole room looks like it was attacked by some kind of mutant wallpaper virus, one that’s been festering and growing in the dark; the layers are so thick in places that the right angles where the walls meet the floor and ceiling are now gentle curves.

  The only things in the room that have escaped the paper are a few pieces of equipment, including a workstation atop the covered desk. That, and the brass cowboy bolted to the far wall.

  “Right,” I say. “The cavalry is already in custody. Outstanding.”

  The Quicksilver Kid nods at me, which is about the only part of his body he seems able to move. “Ma’am. Sorry you got dragged into this.”

  “I’m used to it. Happens so often I’m thinking of getting scuff plates mounted on the backs of my shoes.”

  “Have a seat, Bloodhound,” da Vinci says.

  He motions to one of the encrusted chairs, and I reluctantly perch on it. “Boy, this day is just full of firsts. Never thought I’d be sitting on Superman’s face—”

  He backhands me, almost casually. It knocks me right off the chair and makes my ears ring. I can taste blood in my mouth.

  “Do not blaspheme in this place,” da Vinci says. “I will not allow it.”

  I take my seat again, slowly. “Right. Exactly where are you going with all this, Shelley? You’ve got the Bravos’ weapons—well, four out of five, anyway—but your partner’s dead and you’ve completed the sequence you set out to. What’s supposed to happen now?”

  “I would have thought that was obvious. The characters have gone through their paces, the plot has unfurled. Now it’s time for publication…”

  He takes one of the silver throwing knives from his bandolier, crouches, and stabs it into the floor. It goes in all the way to the hilt without so much as a sound. He moves a few feet and does so again, talking as he works. “This is what gives the ritual power, you see. Unlike the first Bravo Brigade comic, the one that ended the industry here, this story line will be published on another Earth. Your Earth, Bloodhound. I will use the Sword of Midnight, boosted by the energies of the Balancer gem, to cut a hole not just in time but across dimensional boundaries. It will focus on a writer from your reality as a conduit, and my story will be read—not just by a few members of a secret society, but by thousands. And in reading it they will complete an occult circuit, conferring a great deal of occult power to me.”

  He’s rammed five of the knives into the floor in a rough circle, and now he’s tying the end of a slender white rope threaded with silver around the haft and hilt of one of the knives. He runs the rope in a line to another of the knives, loops it around the haft, then across to another one. In a minute he’s formed a pentagram; he finishes by running the cord around the perimeter to form a circle, then tying it off where he began. Almost immediately, the silver wound through the rope starts to shine with an unearthly light.

  “Lie down in the center of the circle, please,” he says. “You can do it willingly, or I can beat you into submission first.”

  Neither choice holds much attraction. I consider attacking him—I still have my scythes—but I could only use one, and he’s got the speed, the reach, and the annoying tendency to take away my vision and my limbs. I grudgingly comply.

  He adds me to the pattern, tying my ankles and my one wrist. “Looks like you’ve hit a snag,” I say as he pins my stump down with one hand. “You’re out of extremities to attach things to.”

  “Yes,” he says, “but I have two more knives.”

  He drives the blade through my wrist and into the floor. It hurts a lot worse than losing the hand did, and I scream—more out of anger than pain, believe it or not. “I am through with having sharp things rammed through my body,” I hiss.

  “I don’t think so,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact. “I still have one more knife…”

  He stands up. “But I was in middle of some rather delicate preparations when you arrived—the Balancer gem must be attached to the hilt of the Midnight Sword, and that requires tools from my studio. I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t worry, you won’t bleed to death; I’m sure I missed the artery.”

  He turns and heads up the stairs. I hear him lock the door behind him.

  “If you’ve got a plan,” the Kid says, “now might be a good time to crank it up.”

  I try my bonds, and am rewarded with a bolt of unbelievable pain and absolutely no movement. “My partner, snoozing on the floor,” I gasp. “Did he say or do anything before the darts got him?”

  “Yeah. He tried to pry me off the wall first—that didn’t go so well, but he loosened my one arm up some. Then he pulled out a rattle and a pouch of some kinda dust, started shaking them around and muttering. He was over by the computer tapping away when the darts got him—came out of a slot in the wall, over by the bookcase.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Just one thing: Tell Jace they’re unlocked.”

  “You’re sure? Unlocked?”

  “Maybe not. I wasn’t really paying attention, seein’ as how the situation didn’t seem particularly dire.”

  I was beginning to think “deadpan sarcasm” was a genetic trait among lems. “Why aren’t you dead, anyway?”

  “Ain’t it plain? He needs someone to pin this all on. Two lems working together won’t be hard to sell, not when they’re both dead. You’re gonna wind up with one of my knives in your heart—prob’ly the same one they’ll find in my hand. Don’t figure I’ll be in any shape to say different.”

  Unlocked. Did he mean the files on da Vinci’s computer? If so, I don’t see how that information is going to do me much good. What else could be unlocked—doors, windows? I try to think like Eisfanger, to see the world how he sees it. I’d sent him in to gather information, to find out anything that could give us an edge, and if he said something was unlocked that something has to be important.

  And then, I have it.

  “Kid. Tell me everything your knives can do, and make it fast.”

  “They cut or penetrate damn near anything. Not time, the way the Midnight Sword does, but spells or magic or anything that’s been enchanted. Once they stab into something, they become part of it. Only one that can pull ’em free is me, so you’re pretty well stuck—”

  “Maybe not. Tell me how you get them free.”

  “Grab and pull, how else—”

  “No, no! Tell me what goes on in your head when you’re doing that. Don’t you concentrate, or think in a certain way?”

  “Hmm. ’Spose I do.” He’s quiet for a second, and I suppress the urge to scream at him to hurry up. “It’s sorta like—thinking about opening my hand at the same time I’m actually closing it.”

  I turn my head, stare intently at my impaled wrist, and try to feel my missing hand. Try to remember what it feels like to squeeze, to feel my fingers gripping something solid. Send that down my arm, to wherever my missing five digits currently reside—and then think about the opposite, relaxing my hold, spreading my fingers wide.

  Nothing happens. But when I give an experimental tug, my arm lifts off the floor easily, leaving no hole behind in the papered floor. The knife drops from my forearm as I lift it, sliding from my flesh with no sensation at all and thumping to the floor. My wound immediately begins to seep blood at an alarming rate.

  “How the hell did you do that?” the Kid asks.

  “All the Brigade’s weapons were keyed to their respective owners. In order to use them, da Vinci had to unlock them—but that means any
one can use them.”

  Okay. I’ve got one bleeding, handless arm free. Way to go. I’ll be out of here in no time.

  I fumble at the knife with my forearm, and manage to get it closer to me than before. Now what? I can’t pick it up with a nonexistent hand.

  My hand does exist, though, just not at this moment. It’s still connected to me, like a long-lost daughter that’s moved to another state and never writes. I just have to find a way to get her to visit… and then, in a flash of counterintuition, I see the solution. I fumble with the knife, getting it onto my legs and then wedged between my thighs, blade up. I concentrate on the blade being as sharp as possible—and then I slide my stump past the cutting edge, repeating the motion that severed my hand in the first place.

  My hand reappears. It’s a little dusty, but otherwise unharmed.

  “Good thinking,” the Quicksilver Kid says. “You cut through the spell that sent it off in the first place—”

  And then we both hear it. The door at the top of the stairs, unlocking.

  I grab the knife and cut the rope holding my other wrist. The knife severs the cord like it was made of cheese, but doesn’t do so much as nick my skin; it’s like the blade knows what to cut and what not to.

  The door opens. Golden light spills down the steps.

  I lean down and free my feet with one quick slash. In another second he’s going to be able to see me. I jump to my feet and dash for the wall the Kid’s bolted to, hoping I can free him as quickly as I freed myself.

  Footsteps on the stairs. A sharp inhalation of breath. Any second now a blast of concentrated sunlight is going to turn me into ash…

  But what I hear instead is the solid whump of one body slamming into another, followed by the crash of both onto the floor at the foot of the stairs.

  Da Vinci is facedown, with an angry thrope on top of him who’s doing his best to claw da Vinci’s head off. The armor is protecting him from the worst of it, but he’s dropped the Midnight Sword. It juts upright from the comic-paneled floor, the Balancer gem glowing where it’s mounted across the hilt.

  For a second I think the thrope is half mummy, some kind of were version of a wrapper, but then I realize the bandages are more than just cosmetic.

  It’s Dr. Pete.

  I have no idea what he’s doing here or how he found me, and I don’t have time to worry about it. The knife shears through the bolts pinning the Kid to the wall as easily as they did my bonds, and in a few seconds I’ve got the lem down from the wall.

  Light and heat flood the room, and suddenly the air is full of the stink of burning fur. Dr. Pete howls in pain, dives to the floor, and rolls to put out the flames. The Kid grabs his knife from my hand.

  Dr. Pete has managed to put himself out, but now the floor itself has caught on fire. Da Vinci gets to his feet, looking around for his sword. I can’t let him get to it.

  No gun, but I still have my scythes. I pull them, snap out the blades, and put myself between him and the sword. I know exactly what he’s going to do, so I’ve got my eyes tightly closed when he triggers the sunburst, the world going bright scarlet behind my eyelids. My scythes are basically eskrima batons with knives sticking out of them, and I don’t need my vision to turn the area immediately in front of me into a very dangerous place to be.

  Unfortunately, da Vinci’s a better fighter than I expected. He drops to the ground, staying below the pattern of strikes I’m weaving, and kicks my legs out from under me. I go down hard on one shoulder and lose one of the scythes.

  Which is the opportunity the Quicksilver Kid’s been waiting for. With me out of the way, he’s got a clear shot. He pitches his one knife straight at da Vinci’s heart.

  Too bad Dr. Pete picks that moment to lunge. The knife punches into his back, missing his heart and spine but embedding itself in his shoulder blade. He ignores it and swipes at da Vinci’s eyes, snarling like a chain saw.

  Three on one, and all he’s got is the armor. That, and the home-field advantage…

  Another flare of light, but this one is much more contained; Da Vinci blasts Dr. Pete in the chest with a beam of focused light, one that throws him backward across the room. He slams into the Kid, who’s bending down to grab another knife from the floor, and momentum carries both of them into the far wall.

  I spring to my feet, but Da Vinci’s faster than me. He leaps, grabs the sword, and has its point against my throat before I can counter with the scythe. Time seems to stop.

  “Nobody move,” da Vinci says. “Bloodhound, drop your weapon.” He seems quite calm, not even angry. From the corner of my eye I can see Dr. Pete and the Kid, both crouched in the corner. The Doc looks like he’s signing something to the Kid, but the angle’s all wrong and I can’t read it. Neither can da Vinci—I’m in the way. The flames are starting to spread and the air is getting smoky.

  I drop the scythe. “If you’re going to skewer me,” I say, “Do it now. I’d prefer to go out on my feet.”

  “No,” he says coldly. “I’ve changed my mind, Bloodhound. You’ve cost me the shield and caused me a great deal of trouble. I think the best solution to this problem is that you never came to this reality in the first place.”

  “What?”

  He smiles without humor. “The Midnight Sword can cause temporal effects, but with the Balancer gem adding to its power it can do much more. I’m sure you’ve heard the term retconning in your research into comic books? It means ‘retroactive continuity’; it refers to changing a character’s past, unmaking their history so that a new, more interesting one can replace it. I’m going to sever the cusp that brought you here. You’ll wind up back where you belong, with a head full of mixed-up memories of a place you’ve never been, of relationships you’ve never had. It’ll probably drive you insane… but maybe not. You’re better equipped than I to judge.”

  I wonder if he’s right, or just crazy himself. I wonder if I can stop him… and if I even want to.

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen, myself,” a voice says. It’s coming from the top of the stairs, and it’s a voice I recognize.

  The voice is Dr. Pete’s. The thrope standing there isn’t him.

  His hair is longer, shaggier, and black instead of brown. There’s a gray streak down the middle that I recognize. He’s dressed in black jeans, a black leather jacket over a bare chest, and combat boots. He looks like Dr. Pete’s twin brother.

  “Hey,” Tair says. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Who are you?” da Vinci demands.

  “Me? I’m an innocent bystander. Okay, the innocent part is definitely open to interpretation—”

  “Explain, or I’ll kill her.”

  “Short and to the point. Okay, let’s see: Somebody stole my life. I was doing just fine, business was good, and suddenly everything changed. People didn’t know me. The ones that did know me had some crazy ideas about who I was and what I was about. I did some checking around, and guess what? It was him.” Tair points at Dr. Pete, crouched in the corner and growling. “I don’t know how or why, but he’s not only stolen my life, he’s twisted it. And I want it back.”

  He starts to come down the steps, very slowly and deliberately. “I thought maybe I could just scare him into leaving, but that didn’t work. Then I thought I’d just kill him—but for some reason, I can’t. Some kind of magic stops me from even trying, though some friends of mine did make a pretty good effort. And then, tonight, he comes tearing out of the hospital his bosses have him stashed in, and heads out to an industrial plant that’s on fire. I follow him, and after sniffing around the fire for a while he comes here.”

  He’s halfway down the stairs now. “Thing is, I know this place. Never been here before, but it feels real familiar. And the closer I got, the more I felt some kind of pull, like I’m supposed to be here. Anyone care to explain that?”

  I realize I was wrong about Tair looking like Dr. Pete’s twin. He’s younger than the Doc, his body language more aggressive.

&n
bsp; “Stop where you are or I’ll open her throat,” da Vinci says. Tair stops, and his gaze flickers to me. “Yeah? Why should I care—” And then things happen very quickly. The Quicksilver Kid bolts to his feet. He’s got his hands clasped, with one of Dr. Pete’s feet braced in the middle. I’ve seen lems throw a lot of things, but this is the first time I’ve seen one toss a thrope. Dr. Pete hurtles through the air like a furry javelin, obviously trying to grab me and get me out of harm’s way.

  Da Vinci swings the point of the sword away from my throat. And through Dr. Pete’s chest.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The force of the impact drives it all the way through and out the other side. He hangs there for a second as the sword and his entire body lights up with crackling, scarlet lightning—and then, he vanishes.

  The look on Tair’s face isn’t what I expect. Fear, triumph, even contempt were all options I would have thought possible—but what shows up is realization. Comprehension.

  “Well, well, well,” Tair says, a smile starting to spread on his face. “Happy birthday to me…”

  Da Vinci hasn’t just murdered Dr. Pete. He’s murdered his history, just like he was planning to murder mine.

  There’s only one thing I can think of to do. I grab the wrist of da Vinci’s sword arm and throw my body against his chest. He’s a lot stronger than I am, but I have leverage; as long as I can keep his arm extended he can’t get all stabby on me.

  Which doesn’t mean he can’t flash-fry me, of course. Agony screams through both my already burned hands as he heats up, and my jacket starts to smolder where it’s in contact with the armor.

  The Kid has another knife in his hand, but I’m in the way again. “Throw, damn it, throw!” I yell.

  Tair is abruptly in front of me. “Hey, bright boy,” he says. “You forgot to wear your visor.” He jabs da Vinci in the face, his hand a blur.