Hands on his shoulders. He looked up, staring into the bare skull peering down at him, revulsion pulling his face into a grimace. The skull was talking, the jaw bone flapping without meaning or form. The skull shook, and the figure dropped onto one horribly sharp knee. The empty nostril swung into his eye line, and he shrank back again. The old taste of tequila filled his mouth. Here it comes…
"Tony! What's wrong?" the skeleton shouted − it was Jeannie. Tony felt a little relief and managed to keep his stomach contents where they were, if just for the moment.
"I don't feel so good," he said. Jeannie leaned in, Tony closing his eyes − uselessly − as he imagined the sharp ridges of her skull scratching his ear. What he imagined and what he felt were two different things entirely. Her lips brushed his earlobe, and he felt the tickle of her hair on the side of his face. He pulled away, too quickly and regretting it, but he had to look. Beside him, skeleton Jeannie looked at him with empty eyes, her surprised expression completely invisible to him.
The effort of shouting pulled the energy almost physically out of him, causing him to pause after every pair of words. His ears rang and his vision − skeletons aside − was growing shadowed at the edges. Unconsciousness wasn't far off.
"I can see skeletons. Bones, nothing else, just skulls and ribs and shit. I can't even close my eyes, I can see through my own hands. My X-ray vision has gone batshit crazy."
The jaw of Jeannie's skull rattled up and down like bad CG. Laughter. Tony burped, thankful that nobody could hear. The gin and tonic and tequila and pizza from Sherrod's was about to make an uninvited reappearance.
Jeannie kissed Tony on the cheek, the warm wet of her lips surprising him again. Her humid, hot breath in his ear told him she was alive and normal and it was just him.
"Don't worry," she shouted. "You can't expect to just know how to control everything. Some things will need to be learned!"
Tony smiled, head clearing just a little, then his mouth opened and he puked salami, cheese and tequila over Jeannie's shoes. But he felt better, and he opened his eyes, and saw Jeannie's face of flesh and blood frowning at the mess. He smiled, sheepishly, and glanced over her. There she was, black haired and black shirted. Around them, the bar was populated with people, fully clothed and full dressed. He felt better.
"Sorry."
She shook her head. "Tomorrow we're taking your feeble Big Deal pay check and going shopping for new Chucks. Roger roger?"
He nodded. She stood, shaking the worst of the vomit off inelegantly. "Let's go, party animal. And no peeking at my coccyx, promise?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Fucking hell, it hurt. It hurt so bad his vision was white at the edges and he felt the inside of his head pinging with static. He spat blood into the dirt of the infield, then swung around with his full bodyweight, good arm outstretched. It connected with something small and hard which yielded, resulting in a cry of pain that, this time, didn't come from his own throat. He managed to keep himself upright as his opponent hit the deck awkwardly. Beyond, in the dark, his accomplice lay unconscious and face down.
The victim didn't stay down. Instead, almost bouncing from the dirt in a cloud of orange dust, he dived back towards his attacker. One outstretched fist collided with the attacker's eye socket, dropping him immediately. The attacker managed to get to his knees, but the white mist in his eyes was turning red, and with every tiny movement of his face there was a nauseating scraping underneath the muscle of his cheek.
The fight paused, and without the sounds of two men scuffling somewhere near the third base of Leicester Field Ballpark, the night was silent. Concentrating, the attacker could just make out the legs of the victim walking away from him through his double vision. A moment later the legs stopped, then the man bent over and picked up something discarded in the fight. The man seemed to fiddle with it for a few seconds, then replaced it on his head and pulled the front of it down over his forehead. A baseball cap.
This was it, do or die. With the victim's back turned, the attacker removed a piece of black plastic from his belt that was shaped like a handle. There was going to be just one chance. He was left-handed, but his left arm was numb and swung like a lump of rubber from the shoulder. He fumbled with the handle for a moment, then a blue blade, almost white in what little light there was in the ballpark, materialized with a shick. The victim paused, and turned, drawing up something long and gray into a defensive posture. It looked like a baseball bat, but then it turned in his grip and shone brightly, the thin edge of the weapon disappearing into nothing.
The Cowl allowed himself a sly grin. A katana? Was that all? He adjusted his grip on the handle of the quantum knife and, holding his breath, leapt forward.
The existent/non-existent blade of his weapon passed through the sword in complete silence, entered the man's body and only stopped when the Cowl's gloved fingers hit the man's baseball jacket. The victim hissed like a deflating balloon and the Cowl rotated the blade one hundred and eighty degrees and dragged it upwards from stomach to chest. The blade met no resistance, and the Cowl had to pull his arm short so he didn't cleave the man's torso completely in half. Another twist, then another, then another, and the victim's chest and upper abdomen were divided into neat cubes which slid and squelched, soaking the ground with pints of blood in mere seconds. Finally the man dropped his sword and fell, head cracking on the rubber mat of third base, his baseball cap flipping up and off his head again to lie in the pool of blood.
So ended the secret retirement of the Flyball Ninja. The Leicester Nighthawks were going to need a new mascot.
The Cowl swore, and lifted himself to his feet. His broken arm was beginning to tingle, almost vibrate, which was something because that meant it was starting to heal already. He could move it now, just, so held it as best he could against his waist as he bent over the disemboweled victim. Just a few weeks ago his ribs had taken two nights to heal. With his powers even further gone, he had no idea how long this break would take. But at least, as far as the pins-and-needles told him, he wasn't yet down to regular, human metabolism and he wouldn't need a cast. For that fact he was grateful, because there was hardly any time left at all, not before they arrived, and there was lots still to do.
The Cowl hissed and bent double. Pain. He knew what it was, experienced it occasionally, but only in the rare event that the heavy artillery was rolled out, and then it was more abstract, an interesting sensation rather than his body's natural warning and defense system. This was different. Very different. This was pain. This was his nervous system alight with signals it had never transmitted before.
And as the Cowl was – had been – indestructible and invincible and could heal in seconds, the new sensation was all kinds of wrong. It took effort not to panic, not to scream at the sky. It took effort not to black out from the pain, but the Cowl closed his eyes and breathed, breathed, breathed, for a while.
He coughed again as he considered how, or even if, he could receive medical attention. Luckily Blackbird had trained as a doctor before shifting from medicine to physics. The problem is, he thought, she seemed to be dead. She hadn't moved since the Flyball Ninja had pitched a highdensity nth metal baseball at her. He'd been right on target, the projectile clocking Blackbird on the forehead and throwing her back at least twenty yards towards the pitcher's mound.
The Cowl knelt heavily by the body of the Flyball Ninja and reached for his dislodged cap. He flipped it over, and tugged at the lining. There, a small square of transparent plastic, a tiny blue LED glowing within. What a stupid place to hide something so valuable.
A sigh from the darkness. So, Blackbird was alive. Things were looking up. Still on his knees, the Cowl crawled from the corpse to her body, then carefully felt along her sides, her neck, her arms and legs for any obvious injury that would preclude movement. Nothing seemed to be broken, but of course who knew what internal injuries she might have sustained? A concussion at least, although her heavy mask showed only a faint smudge where the
baseball had impacted.
He turned her over, and she sighed again but did not cry out loudly, as he would have half-expected her to had her injuries been more severe. Released from under her body, her left forearm was gashed, the fabric of her catsuit ragged from where her arm had been caught by a hailstorm of tiny ninja stars. One was still caught in her suit, the razoredged flower a bright silver with the logo of the Leicester Nighthawks proudly enameled in yellow and green on the hub. The Cowl plucked it from Blackbird's arm and tossed it onto the ground.
Sliding his good arm underneath his accomplice's back, and leaning forward to rest her shoulder against his chest, the Cowl staggered to his feet, pulling Blackbird's unconscious frame across his upper body, balancing her weight on one shoulder. Satisfied that the night was still quiet, he left the ballpark at a trot, vanishing into the unlit shadows under the nearest bleachers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The first four roofs had been fine. Flat, spacious and clean. Just airconditioning units, the occasional skylight. Easy.
Tony thudded over the last one, judged the distance across the street, and leapt the next gap in a single bound. The roof he landed on was angled a little and Tony found himself crashing through a forest of metal. He instinctively covered his face with his arms as he rolled through a complex web of aerials and satellite dishes, but they didn't slow him much. He'd landed on a block of restaurants, and realized he'd crossed into San Ventura's Gaslight Quarter. The area was a pretty half a square mile of historic buildings and interesting architecture, a mecca for tourists and one of the best spots in the Shining City for eating. Tony hoped the patrons in the bars and restaurants below wouldn't be too upset now that he'd busted their TV reception.
He saw the Cowl up ahead. The bastard had stopped and was actually waiting − waiting! − for Tony to catch up. Tony couldn't see his face from this distance, but he imagined the villain smiling and letting out an extra evil chuckle, just for himself, before turning on his tail and resuming his escape across the roofs. The Cowl had something large slung over his shoulder, a man-sized sack of spoils or something.
Tony sighed. This was bullshit. He could fly. The Cowl could fly. This foot chase − albeit one across the rooftops of San Ventura − was bullshit, a cliché. The Cowl was playing with him, refusing to make an airborne escape. Tony had taken off a couple of times, but from the air it became impossible for him to spot his quarry in the night, even with supervision and infra-red and whatever. Clad entirely in a black fabric that played tricks with the eye even in broad daylight, it was easy for the Cowl to avoid his pursuer. The only option for Tony was to run, run across the goddamn roofs for who the hell knew how long. This wasn't crime fighting… or, thought Tony, the right way to start his battle with San Ventura's supervillain. It was just a game for the Cowl. Tony began to get an idea of how the cat-and-mouse of superhero versus supervillain, Seven Wonders versus the Cowl, might work. An unending conflict, more entertainment for both sides than a serious mission for justice/anarchy. Why the Cowl wanted to run was beyond him. Maybe, thought Tony with a grin, the Cowl was scared. He probably just wanted to get his bag of goodies back to his secret hideout.
Tony laughed. He'd teach that hooded prick that things were different now, that his grip on San Ventura was loosening, that there was a new hero in town who would pick up the slack left by the Seven Wonders. No, more than that. He would show the whole city exactly how much it needed the Seven Wonders (a clue: not at all).
Tony grinned under his new mask and accelerated, feeling the air parting in front of his face, carrying with it the scent of a hundred award-winning restaurants wafting from kitchen chimneys and air vents. The first night out in the costume and he had to run straight into his mark. He couldn't have asked for a better field test.
He had to pick his way carefully across the roof of this block − the whole area was divided by open-air courtyards and glass ceilings, the perfect design for hot summer evenings − but with a renewed enthusiasm to teach that sonovabitch who the new boss was he found his way forward with surprising speed. He jumped a couple of courtyards and then one of the glass ceilings, but misjudged the timing slightly, his foot missing the support beam and landing on the glass instead. He heard the glass crack, but not break, and as he hopped forward onto a studier surface he chuckled at the thought of fifty diners looking up at the sound and seeing the city's new superhero chasing his quarry. The thought tickled him, and at the next courtyard he powered higher in his jump than was strictly necessary, making a head-over-heels somersault in mid-air, and smacking down on the other side on his knee. The old building vibrated, enough to rattle some wine glasses, Tony thought. He was almost having fun.
His focus snapped back. The Cowl was gone, out of sight. Shit. Tony skidded to a halt, surveying the block in front. He was almost at the next street, at the opposite side of the Gaslight Quarter. A couple of streets farther up, the light from the street below was particularly bright and flecked with red and blue. It crossed Tony's mind that it was probably the police, but a second later distraction came as something pushed his head, at speed, into the brick of the chimney next to him.
The chimney cracked but stayed upright. Tony blinked the dust out of his eyes and cried out in surprise before finding a gloved hand at his throat and a second forming a clenched fist in his peripheral vision. Tony turned, but was pinned in place; straining his eyes to the right he saw only a black silhouette and hooded head. Something was said in a hoarse whisper, but before Tony registered the words the raised fist connected with his jaw, pushing not just his head but his entire upper body clean through the chimney. Off balance, Tony was pushed off his feet, bricks exploding around him as the chimney collapsed entirely. The rubble pummeled Tony's head, although now the hand around his neck was gone. After a few seconds, he shook his head clear and raised himself back upright, spitting the dust from his mouth. There was a hiss from nearby, and Tony looked up.
The Cowl stood, arms folded in a classic, action-figure pose that Tony suspected he might have practiced in front of the mirror. It was imposing and impressive, designed to strike fear and dread into the city's general populace.
Tony realized with a start that that used to be him.
He'd been the guy on the street running for cover when the Cowl flew low overhead, the one ducking into a shop doorway when the Cowl's sidekick Blackbird sped down the street on her motorbike, one hand on the accelerator and the other reaching back, emptying the magazine of an MP5 at pursuing police. Tony felt his heart racing and took a moment to calm. He wasn't tired from the chase, far from it, but he regulated his breathing and relaxed his muscles. There was a tight feeling in his chest, one of excitement. And, perhaps, despite himself… fear.
But things were different now. He was the Cowl's equal, he knew that from the little to-do down at the bank. Tony was prepared to do whatever was necessary to stop him. The Seven Wonders weren't prepared to neutralize the Cowl, the last supervillain on the Earth, or they'd be out of a job. Tony wasn't like that. Tony was the Justiciar for a reason. And that reason was standing right in front of him. This was it. His big moment.
The Cowl didn't move when Tony took a step forward. The naked mouth and chin under the Cowl's mask were fixed in an arrogant snarl, not dissimilar to Aurora's smirk made famous by countless television appearances and promotional material. On Aurora it was the carefully calculated expression of grim determination. On the Cowl it was the smile of an asshole who thought he knew better.
"The 'Eight Wonders' doesn't quite have the same ring to it, does it?" The Cowl's teeth shone in the dark, the flash of white matching the blank ellipses of his eyes and the only things that weren't jet black against the night sky behind. Even the famous red sigil on his chest was invisible.
Tony paused and leaned back slightly, biding his time, choosing his moment. He was going to tear this motherfucker's head off, there was no doubt about it, but he wanted to play the game, just a little. He was on the same level n
ow.
Tony – the Justiciar – straightened up and lowered his voice to match the Cowl's own theatrical growl. It seemed like a good way to disguise his real voice. And, hell, maybe it sounded pretty cool too.
"You'll have to explain that joke," said Tony. Then before he could stop himself he added: "Creep" and instantly regretted it. This wasn't a comic book show-down.
The Cowl laughed. Tony was a little surprised, as it wasn't an evil, calculating chuckle. Of course not. The Cowl wasn't evil. Nobody was. Everybody in the whole world was the center of their own life drama. Everybody was their own superhero, everybody was a good guy. It just so happened that the Cowl's "good" was the opposite of most people's. Even the tag, "supervillain", had been given to him by the news media of San Ventura. Not even the Seven Wonders had ever used that terminology. As far as the Cowl was concerned, he was the city's benefactor and savior.
Huh. Just like Tony. Except Tony knew he was right and the Cowl was wrong.
"Superheroes are regulated," said the Cowl. "Self-regulated, sure, but that means you're either with them, or against them. You're the eighth Wonder, or you're a crook like me. Which is it, boy?"
Tony balled his fists and raised himself up on his toes, ready to charge. "The 'boy' that took down the Cowl, that's who. You can call me the Justiciar."
Seven Wonders Page 16