ANTHOLOGIES by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
A Brush of Wings
Cross Bones
Curious
Games in the Dark
Higher Learning
Know When to Hold ’Em
Make Me a Match Vol. 1 & 2
Making Contact
Men of Steel
Mr. Right Now
Myths and Magic: Legends of Love
Necking
Reflections of Love
Riding Double
Sandals and Sodomy
Sindustry Vol. 1 & 2
Two Tickets to Paradise
Uniform Appeal
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Copyright
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Raven’s Ruse Copyright © 2012 by Eon de Beaumont
Administrative Leave Copyright © 2012 by Ryan Loveless
Collision Vector Copyright © 2012 by Liam Grey
Behind the Mask Copyright © 2012 by Jeanette Grey
Meant to Fly Copyright © 2012 by B.G. Thomas
That Which Doesn’t Kill You Copyright © 2012 by Pearl Love
Act One Copyright © 2012 by Kim Fielding
Bulldog and Smash Copyright © 2012 by David Connor
Right Hand Man Copyright © 2012 by Elinor Gray
First Timers Copyright © 2012 by Michael G. Cornelius
Prototype Copyright © 2012 by Claire Russett
Edited by Julianne Bentley
Cover Art by Keith Dolney, keithid.deviantart.com
Cover Design by Anne Caine
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
ISBN: 978-1-61372-259-6
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
April 2012
eBook edition available
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-260-2
Table of Contents
A Raven’s Ruse by Eon de Beaumont7
Administrative Leave by Ryan Loveless27
Collision Vector by Liam Grey63
Behind the Mask by Jeanette Grey99
Meant to Fly by B.G. Thomas119
That Which Doesn’t Kill You by Pearl Love159
Act One by Kim Fielding189
Bulldog and Smash by David Connor203
Right Hand Man by Elinor Gray245
First Timers by Michael G. Cornelius277
Prototype by Claire Russett291
A Raven’s Ruse
JACK Bremstone skipped down the steps of the Trimmer and Trimmer Advertising Agency where he worked as a graphic designer. Jack was leaving work early to prepare for his best friend Dippy Jones’s annual Halloween party. Dippy’s real name was Fresno but he’d hated it forever and only answered to his nickname. Jack, being a huge fan of comics and action movies, thought Fresno Jones was a fantastic name and fully intended to use it one day in one of his own comic books. He couldn’t understand how Dippy could possibly think “Dippy” less embarrassing than “Fresno.”
Jack smiled and loosened his tie before he reached the last step, happy to be free of the artifice and triviality of his day job. Jack read comics religiously, but his real passion lay in creating them. Though he hadn’t actually had anything published, he’d been printing books on his own for years and selling them in local shops and at comic conventions. His job creating superficial crap for local businesses paid the bills, but he knew it wouldn’t be his career.
Jack slipped on a pair of red-tinted goggles, obscuring the hazel-struck-with-green of his eyes. His almost-black hair was swept up and away from his forehead to be acceptable to his bosses, the Trimmer brothers, Jackson and Johnson. It seemed as though everyone in his life had great names but him.
He dragged his fingers through his hair, messing it up just-so as he straddled his partially refurbished Vespa. The little scooter was his pride and joy. He and Dippy had repaired it over a number of years during which Jack was forced to ride the subway with a buttload of weirdies and creepers that insisted on engaging him in conversation. He had scrimped and saved to buy parts for it, and it wasn’t perfect now but it would be some day, and it got him where he needed to go. Jack turned the key, depressed the ignition on the new electric starter he’d recently installed, and turned the throttle. The mostly silver Vespa sputtered but didn’t start. Got him where he needed to go, he thought, and added aloud, “Most of the time.” Jack wiggled some wires and cables, double-checked the fuel hose, and gave the old girl a kick for good measure before he tried the ignition again. This time she started right up with a purr, and he smiled and patted the speedometer before he made his way home to get ready for Dip’s annual party.
This party would be unlike any of Dip’s previous celebrations. Jack knew Kris from IT would be there and Kris was beautiful. Jack had admired the slim, sharply dressed young man since he was hired a year and a half ago. Kris Hampton was not like any of the other slovenly, stereotypical Information Technology crew. He was always impeccably dressed, his straight, blond hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail that terminated just between his shoulder blades. His deep amber eyes smiled out of skin that wasn’t besmirched by acne. On the contrary, it was smooth and looked silky-soft. Jack was positive that Kris’s customary sweater vests concealed a fantastically sculpted frame. His attitude was the antithesis of his IT contemporaries as well. Whenever Jack called with a question, Kris was eager to help. The other IT guys, especially Ray, were frustratingly condescending. Before they would even say hello they’d ask, “Have you tried turning it off and back on again?” Kris always offered his undivided attention, his tone warm and kind.
Jack had wanted to ask him out for so long, but it was common knowledge that Kris refused to date within the office due to some past unpleasantness he’d experienced but never spoke about. Jack was finally confident he’d convince Kris otherwise. Last Halloween, Jack discovered something about Kris, and he’d worked diligently all year to ensure that this Halloween Kris would be forced to take notice of him. Kris had a huge crush on the city’s masked vigilante: the Raven. No one knew who the Raven was and the poetry wasn’t lost on Jack. He was counting on Kris’s crush on this comic hero-like character to bring the two young men together.
JACK slid his key in the lock and entered his apartment. He placed the bottle of rum he’d picked up on his way home, sheathed in a brown paper bag, on the kitchen counter. Jack slipped his tie over his head and peeled the dress shirt from his torso, revealing a dark gray T-shirt with the classic X-Men team emblazoned across the chest. He replaced the dress shirt on a hanger in the closet before he entered his work room. It was really a second bedroom that contained his art supplies, a drawing table, and a sewing machine. The walls were plastered with alleged pictures of the Raven cut from newspapers, some fan-art Jack had printed off the internet, and various video captures from YouTube. Jack regarded them with satisfaction as he moved to the room’s closet and pulled open
the sliding door.
Within the closet was a homemade dressmaker’s dummy that Jack had fashioned from his own torso using packing tape. The dummy wore the consummation of an entire year’s toil and research. Dozens of websites speculated about the hero’s motives, weapons, and costume. Jack had bookmarked every one. He caressed the culmination of his research and construction, from the black leather cowl with its black metal beak and armored forehead plate to the black armored boots with their matching gloves, clawed with similarly armored plates to imitate the talons of a bird. Jack had doled out the extra expense to duplicate the fabrics, fire retardant and Kevlar, needed to mimic the Raven’s own costume. He examined the pouches of his replica utility belt. The pouches weren’t quite as equipped as the real thing, but there were many useful bits and bobs in the belt nonetheless.
The Kevlar base of the suit was a deep charcoal gray with the stylized accoutrements, including the armored Raven symbol on the chest. Jack had chosen the weapons to store in the pouches. He’d researched how to make pepper bombs, tear gas, and other useful, compact offensive and defensive weapons. He’d spent at least two months on the grapple gun, downloading blueprint after blueprint until he found the perfect combination. He recalled his first trial and almost plummeting to his death before the bloody thing finally fired. Jack lamented the lack of some of the more high-tech gadgets the Raven was purported to possess, like the lenses in his cowl that allowed him to see in both pitch black and infrared wavelengths. Jack just didn’t have the financial resources for that. He also realized it was really just an elaborate cosplay to earn his crush’s attention, though as with all things artistic and creative, Jack wasn’t one to half-ass a project, and here was proof.
Jack walked back to the kitchen, retrieved a glass from the cupboard above the sink, and opened the rum. He poured a healthy shot in the glass and grabbed the bottle of Diet Rite—chosen for its unique absence of aspartame among diet sodas—out of the fridge, topping off his drink. It was always diet soda lately, which was more proof of his dedication, because for the last six months Jack had forced himself to stick to a strict diet and exercise regimen so his body would be worthy of the Raven’s costume. He sipped his drink as he drifted through his apartment with posters of anime characters on the walls and various action figures, statues, and other comic related memorabilia on the numerous shelves and surfaces. He stopped to admire his little collection of Scooby Doo fast food toys. He’d visited McDonald’s every week for five weeks to collect them but refused to indulge in the Happy Meals, much to Dip’s delight. Dip wasn’t dieting at all and yet somehow remained a sensible weight.
Jack finished the last of his drink as he entered the bathroom. He hadn’t eaten dinner and the alcohol went straight to his head. He sat the empty glass on the counter next to his Spider-Man electric toothbrush and peeled off his T-shirt. Jack proudly admired the sculpted flesh beneath. His body wasn’t built for muscle but the diet and exercise had refined and defined Jack’s physique. He was particularly proud of his abs and the V of muscle just below them. That workout DVD he’d ordered off the television had been worth it. He slipped his pants off and then his boxer briefs. Jack stood in front of the mirror and traced his muscles with his hand. His penis began to stiffen expectantly, and he considered pleasuring himself for a moment, before he trotted out to the kitchen with his empty glass to check the time. The clock on the microwave read six forty-five, but Jack knew that meant it was actually six fifteen, and Dip’s party started at seven. He decided he didn’t have time to jerk off but he did fix himself one more drink before jumping in the shower.
A FULL, faintly orange moon shone in the late October sky as he stepped to the edge of the roof of the Crispin Arms apartment building and surveyed the city, his city. He’d been working toward this night for the better part of a year, and though this wasn’t the first time he’d donned the suit, it produced a perceptible thrill, an odd fluttering in his stomach as he judged the distance between this roof and the next. An unseasonably warm wind blew dead leaves like nature’s confetti, billowing his cape and urging him onward to his goal. The smells of wood fires and scorched pumpkins drifted up from the normally quiet neighborhood. Beneath the mask, his jaw was set and determined. He flexed his taloned, black-gloved hands, and the leather creaked delightfully. He felt the power in his muscles as he flexed them, grinding his left heel into the tar and debris of the rooftop.
He turned, his midnight-black cape, scalloped to resemble the wings of a bird, swishing satisfactorily behind him. He walked to the opposite edge of the apartment building, breathed deeply of the autumnal, cinnamon-scented air, spun and dashed across the roof. He reached the edge, leapt and let fate and the warm October night embrace his hurtling form. He watched the edge of the Crispin Arms recede, replaced by the ground far below, before the roof of the neighboring building rose to meet his feet. Discomfort replaced his satisfaction as he landed awkwardly and tumbled.
“Aw, shitballs!” Jack cried as he grabbed his barking ankle in the thick, pointy-toed boot. He’d had the boots commissioned with thick armor plates over the shins and feet that resembled the scales of a bird. The leather, the armor, everything was flat black to blend in with shadows and not reflect light. It all had to be perfect. An hour ago it seemed like it was: so perfect that it inspired him to climb the stairs from his apartment and visit the roof of his neighbors’ building. Damn, Jack thought, as he stood and tested the ankle, happy to find it wasn’t too injured. I hope this doesn’t make me late for the party.
Jack hardly limped as he walked across the roof to the fire escape. He blamed the third rum and diet soda for his foolishness as he descended the metal steps. Jack rode the last ladder to the ground and slipped off, letting it retract. He could go out to the main street and hail a cab, but he knew this alley would bring him out a block north of Dip’s house. Dippy’s parents were both lawyers, and so Jack’s friend wasn’t forced to settle for a one- or two-bedroom apartment like he was. Jack whistled the Munsters theme as he stalked down the alley, his ankle feeling normal once more.
He knew it was probably psychological, but Jack felt more powerful in the costume. He strode deliberately down the alley, his back straight, the warm breeze pulling at his cape. His hazel eyes scanned the alley and the bordering yards and parking lots. Jack balled his hands into fists as he traveled toward Dip’s house. Though it might sound crazy to anyone else, he really wished someone would mess with him. It might be the rum in his otherwise empty stomach talking, but Jack was pretty certain he could finish some shit if someone decided to start it.
As if in answer to his unspoken wish, Jack heard someone scream at the end of the alley. He could see cars passing on Dip’s street just beyond where the scream erupted. Jack’s heart raced, and without thinking, he ran toward the sound. The parking lot near the alley’s end was dark. The street light had been broken, making it the perfect place for some random scumbag to wait. Jack wished for the Raven’s night vision as he squinted into the shadowed recess. As his eyes adjusted he saw a young man in a hoodie struggling with a woman who could’ve been a secretary at his advertising firm. They fought over her purse.
“Just give it up, lady,” the attacker growled.
“No.” The woman refused. “Help! Someone help!”
“That’s it, bitch. I’m through bein’ nice,” the kid in the hoodie said, and Jack saw the flash of metal as the purse-snatcher pulled out a knife.
“Hey!” Jack called, and realized he had no plan. Hoodie looked at him. Jack tried to appear as heroic as he could. “Release that citizen!” Jack cursed himself in his head. He sounded more like the Tick than Superman.
“Oh, thank god!” the woman yelled, relieved. “The Raven! You’re in for it now, asshole,” she told her attacker.
“I can take it from here, ma’am,” Jack told the woman. She ran out of the parking lot onto the main street where Jack noticed a crowd of pedestrians had gathered to watch the altercation. Jack puffed out his chest, e
ncouraged by the audience. “Put your little knife away, son, or this will go very badly for you.”
“Go, Raven!” someone in the crowd yelled, and Jack blushed irrationally under the Raven mask.
“Fuck you, bird-boy!” Hoodie spat.
“Wrong answer,” Jack said, and punched the palm of his left hand with his right fist. He stepped further into the lot and he heard the scrape of gravel from his left. He looked and a second Hoodie appeared. Three more Hoodies joined the first two, and Jack began to doubt his ass-kicking competence.
“Kick the shit out of ’em, Raven!” his faceless admirer barked. Jack gritted his teeth with a renewed determination.
“Is this supposed to scare me?” Jack growled. “A bunch of pussies in black hoodies?” he asked them. His mind raced over the Raven’s enemies. “I’ve beaten Captain Killface. Do you really think you can take me?” Two of the Hoodies glanced at each other before their courage collapsed and they took off. Good, Jack thought. That just leaves the original Hoodie and two of his buddies. I like these odds.
“Get ’im,” Hoodie One told his cronies. No one moved. The silence was thick and oppressive. Jack watched the trio, searching for a signal that one of them would attack. The Hoodie on the left shifted his weight. Before he could take a step, Jack leaped through the air and grabbed the kid by his sweatshirt, allowing his momentum to propel him against his target and forcing him to the ground. Jack punched the hooligan in the face, knocking him out. He stood very slowly.
“Who’s next?” he asked in his best gravelly Batman voice as he reached into his belt for one of the pepper pellets. Both Hoodies charged him and he broke the capsule as he dove out of the way. The pair of Hoodies coughed and hacked in the cloud of pepper gas. Jack laughed. Too easy, he thought. He ran up and kicked the original Hoodie in the groin. The young criminal grunted, dropped his knife, and crumpled into the fetal position. “That’s what you get, bitch!” Jack yelled at the Hoodie as he kicked him a second time, his entire focus on the bastard. He reeled as the forgotten Hoodie punched him. He stumbled and shook off the disorientation.
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