by Lisa Mangum
“Opher,” he said through clenched teeth. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and every breath was a struggle as he allowed his strength to flow into the trees. “Kill it.”
The younger druid shook violently, and he took unsteady steps toward the bound creature. The werewolf’s growl made the leaves vibrate. Opher paled and froze midstep. He looked at Anteus with wide eyes. His lower lip quivered, and all color drained from his face.
The monster’s muscles tensed, and Anteus felt cracks forming in the wood. The trees screamed in his mind. His arm shook from the effort of keeping the branches in place.
“It really wants to rip out our throats,” Anteus managed. “If you could do something to prevent that, I’d appreciate it.”
Opher nodded, practically tripping over his own feet as he stumbled to the wolf. He delivered a weak slash.
Anteus feared the attack hadn’t even made it through the fur, but then a thin trickle of blood ran down the beast’s chest, passing over some of the branches.
A howl escaped its throat, and Opher dropped his weapon. He fell back. The werewolf roared, and the trees’ cries of pain tore at Anteus’ mind. The earth trembled and wood splintered. With a lurch that sent pain shooting through Anteus, the werewolf broke its bonds.
Its cry of triumph reverberated through the fog. It took a lumbering step toward Anteus, but he lacked the strength to do anything. He prepared himself to die, but suddenly, the werewolf’s form rippled.
Off to one side stood Opher, his arm extended toward the beast and his face twisted in concentration. For a second, Anteus thought he’d actually do it, but when Opher had transformed the unicorn, he’d had all the power he’d invested in the land for years. Now, all he had was the strength of his own will.
The werewolf closed its eyes and growled. Its form solidified.
Opher raised his other hand.
It was an empty gesture. Two hands wouldn’t increase the power of the enchantment, but the werewolf didn’t know that. Its eyes widened, and fear flickered across its face. A heartbeat later, it had disappeared into the woods.
Opher ran over to Anteus and knelt down before him.
“Are you alright?”
Anteus was breathing heavily, and it took several seconds before he found his words. “We failed.”
“We …” Opher took a deep breath. “We could go after it.”
Anteus shook his head. “I’m exhausted, and you can’t do much more than annoy it. We need to inform the council to prepare for war.”
Opher closed his eyes and a tear rolled down his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
He helped up Anteus. Before they left, Anteus touched the trees that had held the werewolf. He closed his eyes and endowed them with what strength he could, hoping it would be enough for them to recover from their wounds. Each of the trees swayed against the wind in a gesture of thanks.
A single leaf tumbled from one and brushed Anteus’s nose. He caught it before it disappeared into the fog, and his fingers felt the sticky blood on it. He looked up. One of the branches was little more than a splintered remnant, but Anteus remembered the shallow wound Opher had inflicted and the blood that had dripped onto one of branches. He held the leaf out to Opher.
“Maybe not.”
They rushed back to town as quickly as they dared. Opher’s door creaked as they pushed it open. The silence in the air carried an eerie calm that seemed at odds with the gravity of the situation.
Opher held the leaf covered in werewolf blood in his left hand and began to chant. The blood emitted an angry glow, and Anteus heard roaring in his mind. The runes around the box glowed and the horned potato vibrated. Opher shook, sweat streamed down his face. He went to one knee but held his arm toward the potato. The horn began to hum, emitting a soft white light that flowed into the potato. The skin rippled and writhed. A heartbeat later, it stilled.
“I can’t.” Opher’s breathing was labored and his voice was strained. The light from the werewolf blood began to fade as its power waned. “It’s taking everything I have just to hold the enchantment. I can’t unravel it.”
They locked eyes and Anteus nodded, extending his hand. He had precious little power to give, and lending strength druid to druid didn’t work the same way as offering strength to the trees, but Opher was so close. Even a fraction of power might be enough.
Opher took in a sharp breath. Strength flowed out of Anteus. He closed his eyes; he could feel Opher’s struggle. Even their combined powers fell short. Opher held the spell in his hands, and Anteus sensed the flicker of a thought. Their power wasn’t enough to undo the transformation, but with Anteus’ added power, Opher could snap its link to the unicorn. It could work, but the enchantment would need a new host.
“No.” Anteus’s voice was barely a whisper. His eyes opened, and he tried to rise, but he didn’t have the strength. Opher was lost in his efforts.
The potato bounced in the box. Its skin bulged, and Opher began to shrink. His arms and legs shriveled, and his face flattened. The potato bounced out of the box and grew, sprouting violet hair as its round form melted away.
A few seconds later, Opher was gone, and in his place sat a potato. A shadow fell over it. Anteus looked up.
In the light of the blood moon, the unicorn’s purple fur seemed to shimmer. Its eyes were deep blue pools that he could lose himself in. It inclined its head and touched its horn to Anteus’s heart. Images of flowers blooming and a sunrise flashed through Anteus’s mind as strength returned to his body. He bowed his head.
“Prince Ekel,” he said. “Forgive us. Druid Opher tried to protect his people the only way he knew how.”
The unicorn inclined his head, and Anteus heard a voice in his mind. “He saved me.”
“What?”
“It is a terrible thing to take a life. Few unicorns can do so and survive.”
“But you have soldiers. We worried your transformation would lead to war.”
“I said few, Human, not none. Our warriors sacrifice much to defend us.” He looked at the potato. “I owe him more than I can repay. First, he stopped me from killing. Then, he cured my mind.”
“The vampire ash,” Anteus realized. “He said he felt something. I never considered he was affecting your mind.”
A tear flowed down the unicorn’s long face before falling to the ground. It made a peculiar musical sound when it hit, and the note lingered in the air. “I would help him if I could.”
“He took the curse on himself,” Anteus said, “and no magic can heal wounds that were self-inflicted.”
The unicorn inclined his head. “Precisely so, but there is one thing I can do. I can complete the transformation.”
He waved his horn, and light erupted from the potato. The ground shook once, then all was still. Ekel walked out without another word.
Anteus gasped when he stepped outside. A wave of green flowed outward from the house, restoring the grass to life. Flowers emerged, and crops sprouted in the nearby fields. Anteus knelt and ran his fingers through the grass. Power coursed through the field—all the power Opher had invested in it, restored.
Ekel didn’t look back as he walked into the woods and the sun peeked over the horizon. Dawn spread across a land that lived again.
***
The Girl with the Artist’s Eyes
Nathan Barra
I had given up on subtly glancing at my watch an hour before, about the same time I’d sweat through my red-and-white Comic-Con staffer’s shirt. ¿Dónde estás, George? I thought, as I paced across the washed-out carpet that marked the entrance of the Olympia Convention Center’s basement Exhibitor’s Hall. Please, make good on your promise.
Having bolstered myself with thoughts of Papi, I had braved the labyrinth of the black-cottoned souk, searching through books and buttons, crafts and comics, collector’s pieces and geeky paraphernalia until I found a Makoto Shinkai art print. Papi loved his work, and Shinkai was a guest at the Con. If I could get away fifteen minutes early and haul
some serious tail, I could, in theory, catch the legend himself after a panel and beg an autograph.
Elbow-to-eyebrow crowds were a tradition for the Saturday of Olympia Comic-Con. Though record-breaking attendance was good for the Con, all wasn’t so bueno for the chica too broke to buy a full Con pass. Papi had offered to cover my convention pass in apology for not being able to make it this year, but I had refused. Being the door guard for the Exhibitor’s Hall on Con Saturday was a rough gig, but I had grown out of being his geeky little princess who drew her own comic books for fun. I wanted to work for my own way, even if that meant keeping the crowds from congealing and blocking the flow of the convention’s financial heart’s blood.
Truth was, he needed the money as badly as I did. Yeah, I had double jobs as a barista and at the art store, but Papi had the new baby my stepmother had given him. Perhaps, in hindsight, I should have caved and let Papi, or my oldest friend, George, pay my way.
When I heard the sound of a large, angry dog barking behind me, I nearly wet myself. As I spun to face the beast, I threw a hook kick where I estimated its head should be, but only managed to stagger George. He was tall, with the mesh of unwieldy limbs and budding muscle that signaled an end to his growth spurt. He was a ginger, except for his pale amber eyes, which glistened with mixed amusement, and to my pride, pain. “What was that for, Catalina?”
“For being a jerk,” I said, punching his shoulder for good measure. “You know how I feel about dogs.”
He grinned and straightened, rubbing his hip. “For sure, but that’s what makes it fun, chica.” He dodged my next smack and bent to pick up his phone.
It had only been a sound clip. My heart still raced though. “I hope you broke your screen.”
“Hey, no need to be hateful.” Standing, he pocketed the phone and held out his fist. “No hard feelings, eh? Especially since I am relieving you early and all.”
Rolling my eyes, I obliged him, bumping fists. “Of course not, mi hermano gringo.”
“If you would pardon me, Citizens,” an unfamiliar voice interrupted, “but I am seeking Stan Lee.” He put the same emphasis on the name that a medieval knight would have used for “my lord” or “the king.” It wasn’t the sort of reverence one heard in the modern day.
“Of course you are,” I said, turning. “And how can we help … you?” At first glance, he was a man in need of a great deal of help.
Standing in a dramatic pose, the man’s costume was an abomination. It had been made from two main materials, spandex and a shag rug, with a color palette inspired by a neon purple highlighter and the contents of a can of Mountain Dew. The tops of his black wading boots were wrapped in furry, purple shag. A pair of furry briefs fashioned from the neon rug topped plum-colored spandex bike shorts with a green stripe down the sides. A violet Under Armour shirt clung to a body that wasn’t meant for formfitting materials.
His faux leather belt bore a giant brass buckle emblazoned with the monogramed letters “PU” in a toxic green lacquer. He had dyed a wig to wear as a mane, atop which he had tied a burnished ivory horn that looked to have been bought at a Renaissance festival to drink ale and feel manly.
Glancing at George, I saw the blank expression he wore when trying really hard not to laugh.
He shrugged. “There’s no wrong way to do costuming.”
“There are limits to ‘cosplay and let cosplay,’ George,” I whispered back.
“I am the Purple Unicorn,” the man proclaimed. “Defender of Peace and Justice.”
“Right,” I said, not seeing his Comic-Con badge. “This is a paid event. You can only come in if you have a badge.”
The man fished for a lanyard tied to his belt. “Of course. Your diligence is admirable.”
Scanning his badge, I asked, “You’re Walter Sams?”
Holding up a finger to shush me, he winked. “I can neither confirm nor deny the Purple Unicorn’s secret identity.”
“Right,” I said, drawing out the word. I accessed the Comic-Con scheduling app on my phone. “Well, Mr. Sams—”
“Please, the Purple Unicorn.” He lowered his voice. “You aren’t very good with the concept of a secret identity, are you miss?”
I decided not to argue. “Well, um, Mr. Unicorn,” I said as George made choking noises. “Stan Lee is scheduled to be at his photo booth for the next hour. That’s in the twenty-five hundred block.” I gestured. “Go in through these doors and take a right.” Looking at him with a straight face, I added, “The furry track is in the north building, second floor. You know. In case you’re interested in that sort of thing.”
“I thank you for your assistance,” the unicorn said in an artificially deep voice.
“Wait a second,” George said. “Why, exactly, are you looking for Stan Lee?”
I sighed and rolled my eyes as I elbowed my friend. “Why are you encouraging him?”
“Because, Catalina,” he said with gravitas. “The world must know.”
“I am going to be an Avenger,” Sams declared.
“An Avenger?” George repeated.
“Indeed,” Sams boomed. “I spoke to Stan Lee in San Diego, and he said that his people would get in touch with my people. Then, when I got home, I remembered that I don’t have people yet and so I must meet him in person. Again.”
“Did you wear that costume?” I asked skeptically.
“That’s understandable,” George said, shushing me.
Walter Sams was gawk-worthy, but the stream of attendees into the hall had shrunk to a trickle. I ignored a man in a full Guy Fawkes- V for Vendetta getup in favor of the men who sauntered behind him. They were a group cosplay, a dozen men dressed in black tactical gear with the red-and-white patch of Umbrella Corp on their shoulders.
“Hey,” I shouted, “you guys hold up for a second.” The props they carried caught my eye. Their realism, when combined with the face-concealing gas masks, made me uneasy. Most of the guys ignored me and held up their single-day badges as they streamed past.
“Cool costume,” I said, cornering one of the cosplayers. “Those guns look really real, though. Has someone from Con security cleared those? The props inspection table is upstairs.”
Nodding, the costumed attendee pointed to the zip tie that locked back part of the prop, and then to the pale blue plastic band stamped with “OCC Security” wrapped around the grip. I had thought this year’s bands were green, but I wasn’t positive. The staffer’s orientation had been long and mind-numbing, a thousand regulations and details condensed into an hour. This year could be blue again; it was hard to keep track.
The guy waited to see if I would take issue, watching me through the windows of his gas mask, but when I heard George call my name, I let him pass. If security had vetted the prop, it should be okay. “Go on, and enjoy your con.”
Nodding, he swaggered into the hall and disappeared into the crowd.
Turning back, I found George holding his phone out to me. Alas, the screen wasn’t broken. “Hey, chica! Can you take a picture with me and the Purple Unicorn?”
I snatched the phone and backed up as they posed. Glancing at the time on the display, I saw that my window to catch Shinkai for an autograph was closing. I hurriedly snapped the picture and handed the phone back. “Gotta go.”
“Wait!” George said. “Can I borrow one of your Sharpies? Do you have a purple one in your backpack?”
“I do. Wait, why?”
“I want the Purple Unicorn to sign my chest.”
Sams looked thrilled at the notion.
“Give it a rest, tontito,” I said as I rushed towards the escalators. Rounding the corner, I nearly ran into a man in a maintenance uniform erecting a barricade. “Hey, what’s this?” I demanded.
The man shrugged, looking bored. “One of the safety alarms tripped, so we need to shut down the whole bank of escalators for an inspection.”
“In the middle of Con Saturday? Are you serious?”
“How many of you people have been
up and down these escalators today?”
“Ten of thousand? Maybe twenty?” I guessed.
“Right. Makes this alarm a bit more important than your nerd party. Sorry, lady, you’ll have to wait. The escalators are down for maintenance until further notice.”
Fuming, I turned and rushed back towards the Exhibitor’s Hall, passing George and the Purple Unicorn taking a selfie. It was best to ignore them. There were elevators were tucked into a recessed corner by the hall’s entrance. As a Comic-Con veteran and a staffer I knew they were there, but few others did. Not as fast, but they would have to do.
As I approached the hall’s entrance, I glanced at the projector screens mounted on the far wall of the Exhibitor’s Hall. They scrolled leisurely between upcoming convention events and sponsors’ logos, oblivious of my hurry.
I wish I had the time for the Zombie 5K Fun Run/Shamble. I thought. Next year.
I froze as the screens went black, followed a heartbeat later by the lights. The reverberation of thousands of voices escalated into cries of startled annoyance.
“Seriously? It’s just not my day!” Growling in frustration, I pulled my phone from my pocket to use as a light and started toward the doors to the hall. If no one controlled the situation, the irritated crowd could stampede. Shinkai would have to wait.
I had only taken two steps when the screens flickered back to life, bathing the hall with illumination. All the projector screens, which before had been set to different channels, now displayed a single gray scale image. The words “Stand by for a Public Service Announcement” bracketed a circle with a rotating bar. Bold numbers counted down from five each time the bar passed the twelve o’clock position.
At zero, the screen went black and then came to life with a flare of color.
Two men stood in Stan Lee’s photo booth. The man in the Guy Fawkes costume held a knife to Mr. Lee’s throat. The trickle of blood meandering down Stan Lee’s neck meant the blade was real. It shouldn’t have made it past security.