I expected to die facing Rain Dancer. And I was ready for it.
He wondered if that acceptance, more than anything, had shifted him away from who he’d been, and the life that Second Wind was now occupying. Heading into battle against Rain Dancer alone had been stupid, but also probably the bravest and most selfless thing he’d ever done.
He winced, not wanting to give himself more credit than he deserved. Second Wind had, in essence, been a backup plan. It was a fact that Malcolm knew must haunt his copy, and he’d never stopped to consider what the consequences of what that weight would do to a person’s mind.
But then again, Second Wind was still a version of him. There was no doubt in Malcolm’s mind that he could be trusted to faithfully continue on as Wind Runner. He rubbed his chin as he walked, suddenly wondering if that was really the case. No doubt whatsoever? Was that the truth of it?
He was walking aimlessly, and had to shift gears in order to remember what he needed to spend the afternoon doing. The previous night’s incident had left a hole not just in his shoulder, but also in his costume. He needed to replace his jacket, the black shirt he usually wore underneath it, and just in case, he could also use another pair of black pants to go along with them.
Malcolm found a clothing store, one that he didn’t usually frequent. He made his way inside, feeling a bit uncomfortable with how empty the store was. A single customer perused the aisles, while a bored clerk sat behind the checkout counter, chewing gum and staring at her phone.
He tried to act inconspicuous as he made his way to the men’s section. There, he began slowly flipping through a row of jackets, looking for one that would suit his purposes. It was the summer, and that narrowed the selection considerably.
Eventually, he settled on a black zip down sweatshirt with mock turtle neck collar. He picked out a black pair of jeans to go with them, holding the two up to his body and frowning as he considered how ominous the clothes looked.
No wonder the media is portraying me as a potential villain. I dress the part.
He slipped into one of the changing stalls and set about trying everything on. Malcolm had only been inside for long enough to zip up the sweatshirt and slip his mask on, to make sure there were no gaps, when the curtain swung open. The clerk had a suspicious look on her face, but it immediately shifted to amazement as she recognized him.
“You…” She shook her head slowly. “You’re the… Gifted Vigilante?”
“No, no,” said Malcolm, not even sounding convincing to himself. “I’m not! I’m just a guy trying on clothes!”
The girl raised a finger and pointed it at him accusingly. She was cute, though on the curvier side of it. She wore hipster horn rimmed glasses, and had shoulder length blonde hair.
“I’ve seen the news,” she said. “I recognize you!”
Malcolm folded his arms and exhaled through his nose.
“Don’t make a big deal out of this,” he said. “I have to buy clothes, just like everyone else. Probably more often, given how often people, you know… shoot at me.”
“I can’t believe this…” The girl still had her phone out, and she lifted it to get Malcolm into frame for either a picture or a video.
“Seriously, though,” said Malcolm. “It would be… tricky for me, if you made a big deal about this.”
Did that sound like a threat? Actually… was that a threat?
The girl didn’t seem to be listening. Malcolm slipped by her and started toward the store’s entrance.
“Hey!” she shouted, suddenly vocal again. “You didn’t pay for those clothes! Take them off!”
“I’ll pay for them,” said Malcolm. “Just let me-“
“No!” shouted the girl. “Take them off, now.”
Malcolm stared at her.
“I’m not taking off my mask,” he said slowly. “Just so you know.”
“The sweater, then,” said the girl.
Malcolm sighed and unzipped it. He hadn’t taken the time to put on a t-shirt underneath, and he felt the girl’s eyes roving across the muscles of his chest and stomach. The one upside to being a wanted vigilante, in his opinion, was how effectively it dissuaded him from eating out often.
“Happy?” asked Malcolm. “Now let me pay for this stuff and get out of here.”
The girl stepped in closer to him. Malcolm started to get an odd sense of déjà vu as she walked in a circle around him with the phone. He kept his face averted as she came back around to his front, unwilling to let her record a clear view of anything that could be used to identify him.
“Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills from his wallet. “This is enough to cover the clothes. Keep the change. I’m out of here.”
“Hold on!” cried the girl. “I… I can make it worth it for you to stay.”
She made a show of puckering her lips. At one time, Malcolm would have considered it. But not now. He cleared his throat, pushed the money into her hand, and hurried out of the store.
Have I grown more mature in my old age?
CHAPTER 8
Malcolm decided that the more responsible thing to do would be to buy pieces of his costumes in separate stores. He made a mental note for next time, and hurried down the sidewalk.
The encounter with the girl left him with a nagging sense of paranoia, and he decided not to head straight back to his hideout. Instead, he spent most of the afternoon walking around town, stopping at a couple of coffee shops, keeping his ears open for any hint of intel that might lead him to Multi.
It was a little past sundown when he made his way to Terri’s Tavern, Vanderbrook’s local, monster only watering hole. He’d been somewhat of a regular for the past two weeks, and the bouncer, a beefy black demon named Onyx, waved him down the stairs when he approached.
The tavern was warmly lit. It strode the line between a proper late night establishment of hazy decisions and intoxication, and a local pub where neighbors gathered to catch up on the day’s news and unwind in the company of friends. Malcolm had arrived early, and there were only a couple of sprytes and demons sitting at the bar or at tables. HE didn’t recognize any of them, and none of them seemed to recognize him.
The tavern’s owner was a knowledge spryte by the name of Scribe. True to her name, she was slightly mousy looking, and she kept detailed notes on everyone and everything that she encountered.
“I’ll have a beer,” muttered Malcolm.
“Coming right up,” replied Scribe.
Scribe recognized Malcolm, but as the Wind Runner, rather than the Gifted Vigilante. If she had any inkling to his new secret identity, she’d decided not to mention it.
She set a beer in front of him. Malcolm picked it up and took a slow sip, appreciating the quiet of the tavern. He drank slowly, mulling over the emotional tirade Second Wind had unleashed on him that morning.
Footsteps came from the stairs leading down to the tavern. Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw a woman enter. He frowned, trying to be discrete as he got a better look and confirmed that indeed, it was a woman, and not a demon or a spryte, unless she was well disguised.
She was short, with tanned skin, Asiatic features, and jet black hair done up in a tight bun. She had a nice body, trim waist, medium sized breasts, and a stellar butt. She was dressed in a tight top that left most of her taut stomach exposed, along with a pair of tight black and pink shorts that left very little to the imagination.
She took the stool next to Malcolm. He was surprised when Scribe immediately began mixing a drink, before she’d even asked for anything. Malcolm tuned his attention back to his beer, feeling the odd kind of tension that arises and pushes two strangers to make pointless small talk.
“Haven’t seen you around here before,” said the woman. Malcolm glanced over at her. She was close enough to his age to make it hard for him to guess at whether she was older or younger than him.
“I could say the same to you,” said Malcolm.
The woman shrugged
.
“I’m more of a bar hopper than a regular at any one specific place,” she said. “I’d like to say that it’s fun for me, but really, I’m just desperate for the attention.”
Malcolm couldn’t help but smile at her blunt honesty. He decided to see how far it extended.
“You’re not a spryte,” he said. “Or a demoness. How’d you get past the bouncer?”
The woman sipped at the drink Scribe had given her. It had a blue hue, and brought a slightly purple edge to her luscious red lips.
“I offered to give him a kiss,” said the woman.
The intensity of her gaze made Malcolm feel hot and bothered. He took a slow breath, willing himself to wade further into the conversation.
“Did he take you up on it?” he asked.
The woman just smiled at him.
“I know who you are,” she said.
The statement instantly put Malcolm on edge.
“I’m just a guy looking to get a beer.” He took another sip. “And maybe a couple more after this one.”
“You’re evasive,” she said. “That’s fun.”
She turned her attention back to her drink, brushing a few stray strands of black hair back behind one ear. Malcolm waited for her to say more, but knew that she wouldn’t.
She’s toying with me. But somehow… I don’t feel like this is just flirting, for her.
“Alright,” he said. “Tell me. Who am I?”
The woman licked her lips. She glanced over at Scribe, who was down at the other end of the bar, and then at the pair monsters sitting at a nearby table. She slid her stool closer to Malcolm’s, until the side of her body was pressing up against him, and he could smell her sweet perfume.
“You…” She let a hand run up his arm. “Are the Wind Runner. The champion that’s always on TV.”
Malcolm shrugged. He was recognizable enough as Wind Runner, even if he’d passed the identity over to his copy. It was something he’d gotten used to, though was a little wary about how openly he could go about the town as himself, not wanting anyone to make too many connections and discover that he’d been in more than one place at the same time.
“What would you say if I told you that I wasn’t?” asked Malcolm. “And I mean, I’m flattered that you’d think so. That Wind Runner fellow seems like quite a handsome, amazing hero. But I’m not him.”
Correction: I’m not him anymore.
“Really?” The woman’s smile broadened, and took on an almost predatory quality. “Then how did you get by the bouncer? Because obviously, you aren’t a spryte or a demon, either.”
Malcolm didn’t say anything, sensing that she was probably sharp enough to pick apart his lies.
“I’m not trying to trap you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said the woman. “I actually think you’re a force for good in the city. It’s very… encouraging, to know that there are other gifted people out there with a strong enough will to make up their mind how to use their powers on their own. You don’t exactly tow the Champion Authority’s line, now do you?”
Her hand settled onto Malcolm’s thigh. He stared into her eyes, feeling a sudden, animalistic drive to shift their conversation into a more private space. The moment was approaching a boiling point when a ringtone came from the woman’s purse. She leaned back from him, pulled out her phone and checked the screen.
“Whoops,” she said. “I have to go. I’m meeting a friend at another bar.”
Malcolm nodded.
That’s probably for the best.
“Well,” he said. “It was nice speaking with you, Ms…”
The woman laughed.
“Please,” she said. “I think we both know that it’s in each of our best interests to keep our names to ourselves, Mr. ‘Not Wind Runner’. But I do hope to see you again, when I’m not so busy.”
She leaned forward to brush off her shorts, giving Malcolm a cleavage filled view down her shirt. He cleared his throat and tuned his attention back to his beer, waiting until the woman had disappeared up the stairs before letting out his breath.
CHAPTER 9
When Malcolm finally left Terri’s Tavern, he turned in the direction of his hideout, the streets were silent. He pulled on his mask, just in case he saw anything that required his assistance, but he doubted that he would see much. It was a foggy night, and seeing anything beyond a single block into the distance was like trying to listen to music underwater.
And that was exactly why Malcolm ended up being caught so off guard. A single car pulled onto the sidewalk in front of him, blocking his way. The blue lights and siren flared for a single instance, just long enough to announce their authoritative presence, and two men jumped loose of the vehicle.
“Freeze!” shouted the one nearest to Malcolm. “On the ground!”
Malcolm was almost surprised enough to do it. It took a couple of seconds before it dawned onto him why the police were there, and how they’d found him. The girl in the clothing store had been offended enough by his rejection to call them.
That made sense. The police knowing his location, however, did not. The fact that they were there, at all, with the city government on the verge of total collapse, was ridiculous. The guns they had pointed at him… well, those did make sense, in an “erring on the side of caution” kind of way.
Malcolm dove into a nearby alleyway. Bullets roared, and sparks danced off the concrete where he’d been standing a second earlier. He fought the urge to push off into the air and use his wind manipulation to get far, far away but decided against it. He’d be an easy target for the police, even with the fog.
So instead, Malcolm sprinted down the alley. It was tempting to stand, and make an attempt at fighting, but in that scenario, he’d be accepting his role as the bad guy. The police would report back to their superiors, back to the media, and his public image would sink further into the ground.
Hmmm… In the ground. I think I just had an idea.
Another round of bullets rang through the air, one of them whizzing less than an inch over Malcolm’s head. He cut across the street at the end of the alley, pushing himself forward with his wind manipulation to make it to cover behind a parked car.
He heard the screech of tires, and knew that one of the officers was now back in the squad car. Malcolm cursed under his breath and tried to keep his head low as he ran toward another alleyway. Another shot ricocheted off a building, missing him by less than a foot.
He ducked and rolled into another dirty alleyway, and knocked over a trash can as he stood. He cringed at the commotion the can made as it rolled away, but breathed a sigh of relief as it revealed what he’d been looking for: a manhole cover.
It was far heavier than Malcolm had been expecting, and even using his wind manipulation to push from the inside up, it took him several moments to wiggle it loose. He could hear footsteps approaching. Malcolm took a deep breath, trusting that the smell and limited light conditions of the sewer would be enough to throw off pursuit.
Another gunshot roared, though Malcolm felt it, rather than heard it. The bullet tore through the same shoulder that Tapestry had shot him in, adding another hole an inch lower than his previous wound. Malcolm gasped, his head pulsing with pain as he fell forward through the open manhole.
If not for the unexpected injury, he’d likely have been able to keep himself from landing directly into the unsavory stream of refuse. The putrid liquid splashed up around him, and Malcolm knew and understood the disgusting desperation he’d been reduced to.
His shoulder aching, he crawled from the sewer onto the walkway. The new costume he’d been carrying with him was lost to the muck. His body was coated filth, and one of his shoes had slipped off, now somewhere at the bottom of the slow moving sludge.
Malcolm wanted to scream. He wanted throw fireballs against the walls of the sewer tunnel in rage, and only didn’t after remembering why the gasses involved in such a place would make that a terrible idea.
The police weren’t foll
owing him, though they must have known where he was. Malcolm tried to orient himself as best as he could and started walking. He ran his thoughts in any direction he could, desperate to distract himself from the pain of his shoulder and the shame of his life.
The police came after me, the Gifted Vigilante, and left Multi, a self-cloning suicide bomber, to do his thing.
Of course they did. The more he considered it, the more sense it made. They didn’t have the manpower to go up against Multi. And the Gifted Vigilante was rumored to avoid killing, an awfully convenient trait to have in a wanted criminal.
They must have known he was at Terri’s Tavern, and had been waiting for him to leave. Malcolm resolved to be more careful coming and going.
He followed the sewer tunnel for what felt like hours. Not knowing exactly where he was, he decided he probably had gone far enough. The sound of rushing water greeted him as he pushed a manhole cover loose and pulled himself to the surface. He looked around. He didn’t recognize the building he was standing in, but he knew by the smell where he was: the water treatment plant.
Desperate to clean himself off, he looked around. There were numerous pipes emptying their contents into a large vat in the center of the enormous room. Most of the pipes contained contents similar to what he’d just trudged through, but one, on the far corner of the room looked clean, or at least it wasn’t a suspicious brown. He figured it was rainwater runoff and stood beneath the spout.
Malcolm washed himself off as completely as he could. He had to bite his lip to keep from crying out in pain as he tried to wash out the bullet wound. Thankfully, the bullet had gone straight through his shoulder, but he would have to make sure to use plenty of antiseptic when he got home.
The pain of the injury didn’t abate with the shower. By the time Malcolm arrived back at his hideout, his shoulder almost hurt too badly for him to focus. He took ragged breaths, and let out a small, defeated cry as he landed next to the warehouse.
He ditched his soiled clothing in a disused dumpster, keeping only his mask. Back inside his hideout, Malcolm sacrificed a shirt. Ripping it into bandages he carefully applied the rest of his antiseptic and wrapped his aching shoulder. He wished he had something stronger as he shook out a couple of over the counter pain killers into his hand and washed them down with half a bottle of water.
Chaste Widow (Vanderbrook Champions Book 4) Page 4