Superheroes in Prose Volume Eight: Magic With a C

by Sevan Paris

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Quote

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Epilogue

  Back Image

  Will Return

  Superheroes in Prose

  Volume Eight:

  Magic With a c

  by Sevan Paris

  Story Consultants

  Michael Booth

  and

  Cindy Paris

  Copyright © 2014 Sevan Paris

  All rights reserved.

  Kindle Edition

  “The secret of real magic lies in the performance.” — David Copperfield

  PROLOGUE

  I answer the door before my guests have a chance to knock.

  From the other side of the doorway, the Sayer known as Poet grins and nods. Her hands rest in the pockets of her slim-fitting, black trench coat. A bright red scarf wraps around her neck once, leaving both of the long ends to dangle at her knees. “Ms. Mystick,” she says. “It’s been too long.”

  “Likewise.” I step to the side and gesture her into my home. “Please.”

  She steps inside, closely followed by the Sayer Mariachi. His boots and spurs make clop-chinks on the hardwood as he pulls at the strap over his shoulder, adjusting the Spanish guitar to a better position. He nods at me, eyes slowly taking in the freshly hung paintings of the Crusades on the walls of my foyer.

  Braille, the former Ward, enters last, wearing nothing save beige cargo shorts. His large muscles are taut, rippling with tension underneath the multicolored Magickal tattoos that cover nearly every trace of exposed skin. Several flakes of snow melt and streak down his bare head.

  I lead the three of them across the Swirling Rug of Dagon and stop at the bottom of the staircase. “I trust your journeys were uneventful?”

  “Why are we here?” Braille says in his deep voice.

  I slowly turn and place my hands on my hips, right where my costume meets bare skin. Braille’s eyes quickly raise away from my midsection.

  “Be mindful, Braille.” Poet says. “Mystick is one of our most powerful; she deserves far more respect than your tone carries.”

  Braille turns to Poet, fists clenched. “I do not have the time for pleasantries or any other other such nonsense. There is a war going on out there! One that we are quickly loosing!”

  Mariachi steps closer to the pair of them, hand on his guitar.

  Poet’s five foot frame forces her to turn her head up, looking Braille in the eyes. “There are two things a Sayer will never waste: time or words. Your suggestion that she would do both is insulting.” She says something under her breath, and her eyes begin to glow. “And I do hope you are about to insult me next.”

  Mariachi slides his guitar down to his hip and steps between them. He leaves his left hand off the neck, the equivalent of leaving a sword half-sheathed.

  I raise my hands, palms facing them. “All of you, please … Braille’s anger is justified.”

  They turn their wide eyes and raised brows to me.

  “But,” I raise an index finger, “Poet is correct as well. I do not waste words. I am merely appearing to do so for the express purpose of evoking an emotional response from each of you. To be more specific, a response in line with your character.”

  Braille’s lips tighten. “A test. To verify we are who we appear to be.”

  I incline my head.

  Mariachi lowers his guitar. Poet steps back.

  “Why?” she says. “A Sayer cannot deceive.”

  “No, but they can easily have others deceive for them, both in appearance and action.”

  Braille crosses his arms. “Your manipulative nature has yet to leave need for deception.”

  Poet fixes him with a dangerous look.

  “Perhaps,” I say, “But at any rate, I have asked the three of you here this night for a purpose.”

  “Which is?” Braille says.

  “To slay Macabre.”

  ***

  Sensing my presence, the large door to my upstairs study creaks open. The massive bookcases lining the walls are mostly empty and pulled towards the room’s center, exposing as much brick as possible. A single window sits in the far wall, its circular ledge clumped with melting snow. Light slants in from the full moon hanging over Prose, shining through the mists of the room’s one specter-like occupant. Fixed around her forearms, the Bands of Continuous Containment hold her crouched to the floor. The gold cuffs keep her from moving more than several inches in any direction.

  Pink looks up at us as we enter, eyes brimming with hatred. “So, you can like afford a place with a dungeon or whatever, but you can’t afford cable?” She pulls at the gold cuffs with her cloudy pink hands. “I mean, if I’m gonna die, I could at least spend my last night finding out who else Ted Mosby isn’t gonna marry.”

  Braille leans a shoulder against the brick wall. “You actually have a dungeon. I’ve seen it. If you have a prisoner, why is she not there?”

  I point at the brick walls. “The nature of this room provides a means to an end.”

  Braille looks at the wall and then quickly takes his shoulder off it.

  “Why?” Poet says, voice brushed with remorse. “Why are you doing this?”

  “We have lost a significant number of Sayers to Macabre,” I say. “I intend to lose no more. Pink was created through Macabre’s Magicks. I intend to exploit those Magicks by using a Lifelink spell. And I need your help to do it.”

  Pink watches Braille, Mariachi, and Poet as carefully as I do, as desperate for an ally as I am: Braille crosses his arms; Mariachi steps closer to Pink; Poet looks at the floor.

  I take two gentle steps in Poet’s direction. “The more Sayers he kills, the more Magicks he absorbs. Especially if those Sayers don’t have Wards to keep their Magicks safe.”

  Wards … normally, when Sayers are killed, their Magicks go to the person responsible for their deaths. Wards primarily serve as contingencies should that happen. The Magicks go to them, and they then become guardians of that power until selecting a new Sayer. They’re given the ability to generate Magickal shields and melee weapons capable of defending against and penetrating most Magicks. The resourceful ones are just as powerful, just as dangerous, as most Sayers. And many of them will oppose what we need to do. Feverishly.

  “The Wards are the problem though,” Braille says. “And the other Sayers are going to abhor this. And us. Probably just as much as they do Macabre.”

  Poet gestures in the direction of Pink. “The Wards and other Sayers are part of the problem.”

  “Of course,” Braille says. “I didn’t mean this course of action—”

  “ ‘Course of action’?” Poet’s eyes widen. “We’re talking about murdering an innocent person!”

  Braille paces through the window’s moonlight. “We are talking about saving millions—billions—of other lives!”

  “We’re talking about both,” I say in a level voice.

  Silence.

  Mariachi walks back over to us, the moonlight reflecting off the gold patterns embroidered into his black coat and pants. He points at himself, Braille, then Poet and makes a circling gesture.

  Poet’s eyes return to the floor. “He’s right. That’s why you asked the three of us. Mariachi and I don’t have Wards. And since Braille is a Ward that no longer has a Sayer—”

  “I am not simply a ‘Ward that no longer has a Sayer’,” Braille’s chest swells, “I am a soldier of Magick.”

  Poet sighs, then abruptly looks at
me. “Wait, what about your Ward? Tommy Rivers?”

  “He is reaching out to as many Wards as time permits and then they’re placing themselves into hiding. I gave him explicit instructions not to tell me where.”

  “Well, what about her?” She points at the doorway.

  Braille and Mariachi turn and see Ember standing there, arms crossed and leaning against the door frame. Her rose-red hair hangs from underneath the hood of her thin black jacket.

  Braille whirls back, jabbing a finger at me. “No! Not her! She has spent months, foolishly squandering her former Sayer’s Magicks. She may very well be the reason we are loosing ground to Macabre. I will fight, but not along her side!”

  Ember steps into the room, irises flaring with an orange glow. “You prefer to get in a fight with her? Cause that’s where this conversation is headed.”

  Braille’s eyes flash and then burn the same color as Ember’s. A glowing kitana hums to life in Ember’s right hand …

  I step into their eye-line, palms facing each of them and whisper a shield into place. It crackles to life with a shimmer of yellow energy. “Ember is here because I asked her to be, Braille. Her part of this plan is no less vital than yours. And furthermore, without Ember, Pink wouldn’t be here. Unharmed at any rate.”

  From the floor, Pink scoffs.

  Braille’s eyes hold Ember’s for a long moment before he blinks away the glow. I turn to Ember.

  Her mouth tightens into a line. “Whatever.” She throws the sword at the brick wall; it disappears the moment after leaving her hand. The brick wall ripples, and she raises her eyebrows at it.

  Poet looks between Ember and Braille nervously. “Forgive me for asking, but how did you get Pink here anyway? Macabre’s Magicks gave her the ability to possess people. You would’ve had to lower your guard to secure the Bands of Continuous Containment.”

  I whisper the shield away and lower my hands. “Her abilities were either taken away or modified by the Super known as Galaxy.”

  “The Super that defeated Liberty?” Braille says, impressed.

  I nod. “Ember temporarily bestowed Eldritch’s Magicks to him.”

  Braille slowly turns a dangerous look in Ember’s direction.

  Ember squares her shoulders. “Try it—see what happens.”

  “We’re past the blame, Braille. But it is as much my fault as it was hers—if you are to continue to confront Ember over it, you will either be forced to confront me first or to leave my home.”

  Silence.

  “How did he do it?” Poet says. “What did Galaxy say?”

  I risk a glance at Ember and raise my voice, just slightly. “His exact words, according to Pink, were ‘you can’t just ride around in somebody’s body whenever you like.’ I believe that now she can only use her abilities on those that Galaxy wishes her to use them on.”

  Ember’s eyes narrow.

  I make a wave of dismissal. “But it is of little consequence. The bands will keep her in place. And Ember is standing guard should Pink somehow manage to free herself, by some ability Macabre gave her and I failed to account for.”

  Ember steps closer to Pink, brow furrowing with guilt. Pink makes a brief moment of eye contact before making a dramatic show of turning her head away.

  I focus my attention on the others. “If we are to do this, it has to be tonight. Already steps will be put in motion from various groups to stop us.”

  Mariachi takes a large step in my direction, straightens his back, and then nods.

  Braille crosses his darkly inked arms. “I am with you too then. Macabre is a wrong that should have been righted long ago.”

  “Me too,” Poet says. “But there is going to be fallout from this. You gotta plan for that?”

  “I have a perspective,” I turn to the door. “Come downstairs, and we’ll discuss the specifics of—”

  “You guys are the smartest dummies I know,” Pink says.

  As one, we turn and face her.

  “You’re not even thinking about Galaxy in this scenario anymore, are you?” Her words leave through a curled lip.

  Braille walks to Pink and crouches. “Why should the actions of one lone Super concern us?”

  Pink huffs. “Uh, maybe because he’s not just a ‘Super,’ Mr. Creepy Coloring Book Person? He’s, like, a Superhero? And I’m not talking about the douch-y Liberty kind. I’m talking about the real deal. And the whole damsel-in-distress stuff?” Pink jerks at the bands. “Kinda their thing.”

  “As … regrettable as our actions will be, they’ll prove necessary,” Poet’s words are low and tense. “For the whole world, for all of existence. And we save both using the rules of Magick.”

  Braille nods. “Something that has proven alien to him. He will not know how to navigate his way to our defeat. Or to your rescue.”

  “Yeah, gee, huh …” Pink says. “If only he had one of the smartest guys in the world to help him with that stuff.” Her eyes dart back and forth. “Oh wait …”

  “Gabe Garrison does have access to some rather … fortunate resources,” I look at Ember. “But he is young. Which means he is easily distracted.”

  After a long silence, Pink looks up. “You’ve seen him fight. But you’ve never seen him shoved into a corner. He gets ruthless. And he shoves back—hard.”

  “…. She’s right,” Ember says. “Galaxy does this hero stuff full throttle. We shouldn’t count him out.”

  Braille stands. “These are meaningless words. Used by an indecisive Ward and a terrified girl.”

  Pink gives the room a cool grin. “Do I seem terrified to you?”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gabe!

  “Bwa!” I jerk awake on Casa’s couch, foot knocking over a stack of books to my right.

  “And I just re-stacked those,” Casa says. He slowly turns the yellowed pages of a large book. The fireplace’s crackling logs cast twitching shadows across his ruffled salt and pepper hair.

  I advise moving as little as possible. We’re still suffering from the effects of the jewel that treacherous female had affixed to her belt buckle.

  The world slowly swirls back in, carrying with it all kinds of recollective suck: Ember’s phone call asking for my help. Her coming over. Her zapping my powers away with some sort of Magickal thingy. And then her taking …

  I stand. “Pink!”

  The world churns, mixing glow of the fireplace with Casa’s grey blazer and the walnut of the mantle. I fall back to the couch cushion, suddenly very aware of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my stomach.

  “Taken.” Casa turns another page.

  Two hours ago.

  “It was Ember,” I say. “Probably Mystick too. And Ember had something, like a green stone—it took all of my powers. And it feels like I’m about to hurl …”

  Never looking up, Casa holds up the flaring green jewel between thumb and forefinger.

  “Jesus—what is that? Like the kryptonite to my Superman or something?”

  Casa’s eyes narrow at the book. “Or something. ‘The Prinimat Jewel … believed to be commissioned by Vladimir Dzhunkovsky for the purpose of assassinating the infamous Super known as Grigori Rasputin. When it’s within a couple of inches of skin contact, it robs …’ ”

  I swallow, trying to ignore the puke-flavored burn in the back of my throat. “Well? Come on, permanent kind of rob or the non-permanent?”

  Silence.

  “Casa!”

  “It may surprise you to learn that your hysteria isn’t making the interpreting of this Russian text any quicker.”

  The room seems to spin faster. “How can you be so calm?”

  “One of us has to be.” Casa turns a stiff page. “ ‘The Prinimat robs Supers of their abilities—blah, blah, blah—oh, here we go: The powers will revert back to the Super when’ … huh. Well, that’s easy enough.” Casa carefully places the jewel on the mantle.

  “What? What’s easy enough?”

  He shuts the book and then promptly sl
ams it on top of the jewel. A burst of green light winks through the living room, followed by a gush of wind.

  Casa looks at me. “Better?”

  Our powers are returning, slowly but surely.

  The hint of vomit in the back of my throat fades. I swallow the rest of it away and nod.

  Casa grabs a bourbon off the top of the mantle and unscrews the lid.

  “She had someone else … maybe a couple of someones, but I never saw them.”

  Casa takes a swallow. “You were right: it was Mystick.”

  “You do have cameras in your apartment.”

  “I’d hardly be a paranoid eccentric if I didn’t.”

  I move to the edge of the couch cushion. “I don’t understand why Ember would do this. To me.”

  “She wouldn’t. Not from what you told me about her. And not if what you said about the Magicks that Eldritch used to choose her as a Ward were accurate.”

  “My previous state of unconsciousness says nay.”

  “Human nature says otherwise. And, for that matter, so do I. There is more going on here than I know and than you think. We don’t have all of the pieces to the puzzle yet.”

  “Fine, I’ll dig up some more.” I stand and take a few small steps. Confident that the floor isn’t going to spin out from under me, I walk to the door. “I know where Ember was staying, so I’ll go—”

  “Not alone, you’re not.”

  Hand on the door knob, I turn to face him. “Casa, this thing with Ember is personal.”

  “That’s what makes it so dangerous. Why would she do this ‘to me.’ That’s what you said.”

  “What are you talking about? What was I supposed to say?”

  He laughs, eyes widened. “Oh, I don’t know: How about why would she do this to Pink? The person she kidnapped? But your ego’s got you so distracted—”

  I take two wide steps towards him. “This isn’t about ego! This is about P—”

  “The hell it’s not! We’re not talking about Magick with a k right now! We’re talking about magic with a c!”

  I turn away. “Think we’re dealing with something a little more complicated than trap doors and abracadabra.”