Contents
Black Magic Woman
Copyright
Black Magic Woman
A Black Knight Chronicles Short Story
By John G. Hartness
“You know I hate this crap.” I muttered as we walked through the sliding glass doors of the convention center.
“You know I don’t care.” My partner, Greg Knightwood replied.
“And why do we have to buy the special preview tickets? They’re like twice as expensive as the day passes.”
“Did you forget the key thing about a day pass? They’re only good during the daytime. These sneak preview passes get us in at night. And since we burst into flame at the first touch of sunlight, I thought coming to the convention at night would be the better choice.” My portly partner had a point. As bloodsucking creatures of the night, we weren’t even nodding acquaintances with sunlight anymore, so evening hours were the only hours we could come to a comic book convention. Unfortunately for me, this one offered evening hours.
“Quit your whining, you lost the bet, you pay the price.” Greg said with a grin as he swept his cape theatrically through the air. My rotund business partner preceded my into the exhibit hall with a flourish of black velour, latex and poor taste. Signs proclaiming “Welcome to Heroes Con 2011!” festooned from the rafters, and thousands of other costumed uber-nerds swarmed the aisles of the largest comic book convention in the Carolinas. I carried Greg’s backpack, which, while nearly empty at the moment, promised to be bulging at the zippers and testing the very limits of my supernatural strength by the time he finished raiding the discounted trade paperbacks and quarter bins at the various comic vendors scattered throughout the thousands of square feet of exhibit space. I sighed and followed him around, turning my head to catch my first sighting of the obligatory Slave Princess Leia cosplayer roaming the show.
“You’re right, pal. This might not be so bad after all.”
“Put your eyes back in your head, she’s too young for you.”
“I’ve been dead since the 90s, of course she’s too young for me. But just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I’m dead, you know?”
“I don’t even want to think about the lack of logic running through that sentence.” At least, that’s what I thought he said, but I couldn’t really tell. Because at that moment my partner had hit his knees right in the concrete aisle and started to dig through the floor boxes at Walkin’ Willie’s Comics, burying his head in the long box labeled “50% Off Golden Age.” I watched his sizable rump wiggle in happiness like a spandex-clad overweight puppy for a minute then shook my head and went over to the nearest t-shirt vendor.
I was poking through the dazzling array of stupid Star Trek pun t-shirts on display and looking for a Doctor Who “Fighting Time Lords” shirt when I smelled something. Not the usual mix of B.O. and bad burritos that I’ve grown accustomed to after years of being dragged to geek fests by Greg, but something wrong. I looked around, but couldn’t figure out what was setting my vampy-sense tingling. Before I had a chance to investigate, a shrill scream from the next aisle over drew my attention.
I rounded the corner to see a scrawny fanboy sprawled across the floor, Mountain Dew soaking his Chuck Taylor hi-tops and back issues spilling from his backpack. Standing above him, a geek’s wet dream in black spandex, stood Detective Sabrina Law. Attractive in street clothes, Sabrina was rocking the greatest undercover outfit I’d ever seen. I stopped short at the end of the aisle and just gawked at her, brown curls tied back in a sleek ponytail, double hip holsters each sporting a pistol, with knee-high buckled boots, a tank top that threatened to lose its structural integrity at any moment, and a pair of shorts that would have gotten her expelled in my high school days.
She glared down at the drooling dork in front of her and growled, “Watch the hands, termite.”
I chuckled a little as I walked up to her, extending my arm. “Ms. Croft, how nice of you to make an appearance.” I lowered my voice and leaned in closer as she took my elbow. “Don’t shoot him, you don’t want to deal with the paperwork.” She gave me a long look, as if considering just how much paperwork would be involved in shooting a pervert at a comic convention, and then holstered her gun.
“Good idea,” I said. “And what in the world are you doing in that costume?”
“You think you’re the only one to ever lose a bet to your idiot partner?”
“Well, yeah. I kinda did. But now I think I need to thank him.” I gave her legs another approving look, and trust me; there was a lot to approve of. Sabrina punched me in the shoulder, but not hard enough to make me stop staring. Come to think of it, I don’t think humans can hit hard enough to make me stop staring at her legs. “So what’s your payoff? I have to carry all the comics he buys. What is he making you do?”
“…”
“Sorry, couldn’t hear that bit. And I have the ears of a bat.” Literally.
“I have to enter the costume contest.”
“I do owe him a thank you. But why did you let him pick out your costume?”
“I didn’t.”
“You mean you own this stuff?” My eyebrows were living somewhere around my hairline by now, and we had stopped dead in front of another booth. Sabrina pulled me out of the lane of traffic so at least we weren’t keeping the poor vendor from making a living. But judging by how fast I heard his heart beating when she walked past, he didn’t mind if she stood there all night.
“Yes, I own all this stuff. It’s mostly just workout gear, with a couple of holsters and motorcycle boots. Come on, it’s not a big deal. Besides, if I’ve got to enter the contest, I might as well try to win.”
“Makes sense, but you don’t wear stuff like this when we work out.”
“How much exercise would you get if I did?”
“You don’t really want me to answer that.” She punched me again, and we started looking for Greg. We found him still buried to the shoulders in old Superman and Batman back issues, with a sizable stack of purchases stacked on the floor beside him.
“You know I’m only carrying the one bag, right?” I said as we walked up. He turned around and looked up at us. Well, looked at Sabrina, to be precise. He looked up, and up, and up until finally he made it all the way up to her face. I was impressed. I thought he’d faint before he scaled the entirety of Mount Hottie, but he made it. He handed me his comics silently and kissed Sabrina’s hand.
“I swear that was the best game of poker I’ve ever cheated at.” He mumbled. I snorted, trying to hold it in, but failed and collapsed into gales of laughter at the look on Sabrina’s face.
“You…you cheated?”
“Yeah, I totally stacked the deck. Never play cards with a guy who can move faster than you can see. But God, it was worth it.”
“You know I’m going to kick your ass for this, right?”
“If you promise to wear those shorts I won’t even resist.”
I chimed in at that point. “If you wear those shorts, I’ll take his place!”
“No need for chivalry, partner. I did the crime, I’ll do the time.” Greg grinned.
Sabrina just threw her hands up muttering something about boys as she walked off to withdraw from the costume contest. I could feel the judges’ hearts breaking from all the way across the convention. Greg paid for his comics, and I put them in the backpack I was carrying, as promised. Sabrina rejoined us a few minutes later in an oversized Captain America t-shirt, much to the disappointment of every male in a ten-block radius.
We wandered the con for an hour or so, picking through the dollar bins, getting a few of Greg’s prized issues autographed by the artists and picking up some of the cooler independent stuff on display. We stopped for a while to
watch a local artist paint a portrait of Domino holding a Deadpool teddy bear, and I picked up an autographed Neil Gaiman print at the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund booth. We chatted with several of the webcomics creators, especially the Capes n’ Babes guy, because his strip has werewolves and vampires in it. What can I say; we’ve got a soft spot for our people. We were heading to the exit when we saw Shelton, the organizer of the convention, kneeling in an aisle with a tearful little boy.
“What’s wrong, Shelton?” I asked as we walked up. Shelton owned one of the coolest comic shops in the city, and Greg and I’d spent more hours and allowances than we cared to think about over the years. Shelton still looked almost like he did then, just a little more grey on top. We never asked how he stayed so young-looking, and he did us the same favor. I was almost certain there was nothing supernatural about his appearance, but just almost. And our youthful vigor certainly wasn’t the result of clean living. Or living at all, for that matter.
“This young fella here has lost his dad. I’m going to go make an announcement.”
“We’ll take care of him while you do. This is our friend Sabrina, she’s a police officer.” Greg directed that last part to the kid, who looked at us with wide eyes. I wasn’t surprised. After all, Greg was wearing a lot of spandex and a cape, and Sabrina looked to be only wearing a big t-shirt, but she did produce a badge from somewhere in her costume. I was dressed normally, at least for me, in a leather duster, jeans, boots and a Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill t-shirt. The kid was about eight or so, blonde with big blue eyes. I heard Shelton’s voice come over the loudspeaker, but nobody rushed over to claim the kid. Then I smelled it, the same scent I’d caught earlier. I still couldn’t place it, but knew that it didn’t come from any of the local nerds. That scent was definitely non-human.
“You smell that?” I asked Greg.
“Dude, did you…” He muttered back.
“No, not that. The other smell. And that wasn’t me!”
“Oh, yeah, that smells weird. What is it?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked you, now would I?”
“I don’t know, every once in a while you like to be the smart one.”
“No, Gregory, I am well-adjusted to being the good-looking one while you are the smart one. Now do you know what that smell is?”
“No, but I can follow it.” And he did just that, wandering through the aisles in a seemingly random pattern that somehow felt anything but random. I motioned for Sabrina to stay with the boy and set out after my partner. Greg’s sniffer is so much better than mine it’s like comparing a bloodhound to a water buffalo with a head cold, so I just followed him until we came to a locked door well away from the rest of the convention. Greg looked back at me, I shrugged, and he reached over and yanked the knob right off of the door.
“That solves the pesky lock issue.” I said, opening the door and peering inside. I fumbled around for a light switch for a second, and then flipped on the fluorescents. It was an ordinary storage closet, about ten feet by fifteen feet. The only thing out of the ordinary was the guy passed out on the floor. He looked to be nearing sixty, white hair, a little jowly but in decent shape. I reached down and shook him gently. He jerked awake with a cry, pulling away from me and scooting on his butt to the wall.
“Leave me alone!” He yelled, but his voice came out thready, like he hadn’t had anything to drink in years.
“Hey fella, are you alright?” I asked, holding up both hands so he could see I was unarmed. That’s when I realized I wasn’t just making a show of it, I was really unarmed. I don’t usually go out without at least a small pistol strapped to my ankle, but the convention center had rules against that sort of thing, and a metal detector could have made my life very uncomfortable, so I left my guns at home tonight. All I had on me was a pocketknife, and I was pretty sure Greg was in the same boat. Suddenly I paid the old man a lot more careful attention.
“Brian?” He asked when he could finally manage to speak again. “Where’s Brian?”
“Who’s Brian?” I asked in my best I have no idea what’s going on tone of voice.
“My son. Blonde hair, about eight years old. I brought him to his first convention. Where is he? Where am I? What am I doing here?”
He was getting more and more agitated, so I helped him up. “I think your son is right out here, but aren’t you a little old to have kid his age?”
“What do you mean? I’m thirty-eight.”
“Dude,” Greg said gently. “You’ve gotta be at least fifty-five, maybe sixty.”
“No way! Here’s my license, I’m thirty-eight years old! I know kids your age aren’t the best at telling age, but you should be better than that!” He pulled out a wallet and showed us his ID. It did indeed look like him, only twenty years ago. Weird thing was, that license didn’t expire until next year.
“Greg, this dude’s our age.”
“No I’m not! I told you…”
“Shut up.” I put the force of my will into my voice, and his mouth snapped shut so quickly I was worried he might have bitten off part of his tongue. I didn’t see any blood, so I stopped sweating it. I passed the license over to Greg, who examined it minutely.
“Looks real.”
“Yeah, and we’re not exactly the poster children for looking our age.” Since we’d died in 1995, right out of college, and still looked twenty-ish instead of the nearly forty we really were. I waved a hand at the muted old dude and waved him over. “Look, uh..Dave,” I said, checking his license to get his name. “Something funky is going on here. I know there’s a costume contest and all, but you look like you’ve been hit with some serious old man makeup.” His eyes got big as I talked.
“I’m guessing from your reaction that you don’t know anything about what my partner is saying?” Greg asked.
“No, what are you guys talking about? And where’s Brian? Where is my son?” He was starting to yell now, and if he really had been aged twenty years in twenty minutes, that couldn’t be good for his blood pressure.
I thought frantically about how to calm him down before we had to deal with security when I had an idea. “Sleep.” I said, throwing enough mojo at him to stop a charging rhinoceros. He slumped to the floor, and I quickly caught him and eased him down into a sitting position.
“What are you doing?” My partner asked furiously.
“I’m buying time. Now can you fire up your super-sniffer and get back to chasing that weird scent? It’s all over this dude, but it’s not his. It’s like whatever smells funky spent a lot of time with our victim here.”
“And whenever it was done with him, he was old.”
“Yeah, exactly. So unless we want a whole lot of prematurely golden age geeks out there, we’d better find whatever did this, and fast!” Greg started sniffing around the storage room like a bloodhound until I smacked him on the back of the head.
“What was that for?”
“Whatever did this isn’t in here, moron! Try outside, maybe?”
“Oh yeah.” He led me back out into the exhibit hall, trying to look subtle as he sniffed the air repeatedly.
Just as he locked onto a scent, a voice came over the loudspeaker announcing the beginning of the costume contest. “Come on!” I started down the aisle without even waiting to see if Greg was following.
“How do you know it’ll be at the costume contest?” He said, panting to keep up with me. Okay, he was panting more out of habit than anything else, since we don’t have to breathe, but he panted like a sled dog in Aruba anyway.
“One - because everyone will be at the costume contest, so that’s where the food will be. Two - because there’s no better place for a hideous life-sucking monster to hide than in the costume contest. Now hurry up!” I poured on the speed and made the length of the convention center in about eight seconds. The contest was in a big ballroom, some distance from the dealer hall, so I sent Sabrina a text telling her where to meet us.
Greg and I skidded to a stop at
the door to the ballroom, trying our best to look nonchalant. “Don’t worry, fellas, the hot Catwoman costumes haven’t even started yet,” offered the pervy guy in a Silent Bob trenchcoat at the back of the room. I shot him a dirty look and started to make my way to the front of the crowd, annoying no small number of fanboys and video camera-toting momma’s boys who had traded their one weekend of the year out of the basement to come to the costume contest. There were the usual contenders - the juvenile Slave Leia we’d seen earlier, a cavalcade of Batman villains all working the scene together. One guy went deep into the comic book backlist and pulled out an Ambush Bug costume, much to Greg’s delight. I will admit to a glance or two at the Black Cat and Harley Quinn costumes, but it took me only a few seconds to lock onto my most likely target - a statuesque blonde in a toga with a slit in the leg that went about half a mile past decency, and a golden circlet glittering on her brow.
About half a dozen con-goers were following her like she was dropping ice cubes in the Sahara, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes continually scanned the crowd, looking for something but obviously not finding it in the gathered nerd herd. I waved Greg over to me and pointed, trying to get close enough to her to get a whiff of her scent. Greg breathed deeply, then nodded to me. “That’s her. Or she’s it. Or whatever. You know what I mean.”
“Yep.” I moved to intercept the woman, but her eyes locked on me as I approached and she waved an arm negligently at her sycophantic followers. Suddenly they transformed from sappy loverboys to a half-dozen angry humans, all focused on yours truly. I did the best duck and weave I could, trying to avoid hitting any of them. They didn’t make things easy on me, throwing their own punches and trying to wrestle me down to the ground. I shoved a couple of them back and got a good look at the men attacking me, and what I saw made me gasp. I could see them aging almost before my eyes. I glanced back over to Nightmare Barbie, and saw that she was getting obviously stronger and more beautiful as she drained the life from the men attacking me.
3.5. Black Magic Woman Page 1