Okay, it wouldn’t be that bad.
Maybe.
I’m halfway through my (by my rough estimate) ten thousandth reading of The Hobbit when I start to nod off. It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve had a nightmare, so I’m less anxious about falling asleep. I make a mental note to mention it to Mindforce tomorrow when —
Oh, right, the grounding thing.
What do I do? Skip a week? Or make up an excuse to not come home right after school — and in doing so, risk getting caught in another lie, thus undoing all the repair work I’ve done on my relationship with Mom? Decisions, Decisions...
Carrie? You awake?
Hey, Sara. Yeah, more or less. What’s up?
I think there’s been another demon summoning. I just brought up my dinner.
Oh, no...
At least this time I was already in the bathroom.
Have you heard from the Protectorate?
No, but they usually call you.
Nuts, right, they do. And guess where my phone is?
Problem: my phone is in my mother’s clutches. You have Mindforce’s number, though, right?
Good call.
No pun intended.
Heh. The brainphone goes quiet for a few minutes. Huh. Looks like the Hero Squad is off the hook for this one.
What?
Yeah. I heard Concorde in the background, and boy, he was in a mood. He insisted we stay put this time — not like we have much choice. I know my parents wouldn’t let me out of the house at this time of night.
I look at my alarm clock. It’s almost 10:30. Yeah, neither would my mom, even if I weren’t grounded, but it’s weird for the Protectorate to tackle this one without us; the last two demons were tough enough to put down with both teams in play.
Nothing we can do about it, I say. All we can do is hope for the best and check in tomorrow.
Does that mean you’re going to bust your grounding for your weekly head-shrinking session?
Hm. I guess it does.
Mom, is it okay if I stay late today for my math tutoring? I say. Oh, okay, no problem, honey, she says, you’ve made some nice progress on your grades, I don’t want to see you backslide.
And that takes care of that.
I spend the last day before vacation counting the minutes until school lets out, so I can (I can’t believe I’m saying this) go to my weekly therapy session. I’m far from alone in my excitement; focus is at a premium today, and everyone is more interested in what they’ll be doing for vacation week. From the sound of it, Disney World is going to be packed with Kingsportians.
(Kingsporters? Kingsportites? Kingsportions?)
Malcolm asks about my vacation plans. I have none, and tell him so, thinking it’s leading into an irresistible invitation, but alas, his family is also Florida-bound — annual tradition, he says. The charm of the Magic Kingdom has worn a bit thin for Malcolm in his old age, but not for his little brother, who would be crushed if his big bro stayed behind.
“Can’t disappoint my buddy like that,” Malcolm says. How could I hold something that sweet against him?
The final bell sounds. Students race out of school like inmates escaping from prison. I do not exclude myself from this description.
Today is a split training session, apparently; Mindforce says he plans to observe while Natalie runs me through some more drills. Natalie’s goals for me today: get used to switching between my force and heat blasts on command, and improve my questionable aim. I am all for this plan.
“I hope you’re ready to work, because we’re going to start pushing you hard,” Mindforce says. “This mess with Black Betty reminded me how green you kids still are. Power is great, natural talent is fine, but in the middle of a fight is not the place to discover where your weaknesses are.”
“No arguments here,” I say. “Does this mean the rest of the Squad will soon get to benefit from a little mentoring?”
“Working on it. Concorde is being...um...”
“He’s being Concorde?”
“Oh, yeah,” Natalie says.
“I think the best approach is for you to set a good example,” Mindforce says. “If Concorde sees you treating this seriously, he’ll be more likely to let us bring the others in for training.”
“Hero Squad ambassador. Got it.”
“Good. Okay, let’s get started,” he says, and we’re off to the training room.
I forego a coy, offhand inquiry, and say outright, “So, what happened last night? Another demon?”
“Yes, in Lexington,” Mindforce says. I wait for more, but neither he nor Natalie say anything.
“How bad was it?” I prod.
“Bad enough,” Natalie says.
“What did it do this time? Reanimate the dead? Spit acid? Something to do with the Ebola virus?”
Mindforce and Natalie exchange glances. They look queasy.
“It was the single most revolting, disgusting experience of my entire life, and I don’t wish to speak of it ever again,” Natalie says. “Showered for a damned hour, and I swear I can still smell it.”
I think I’ll stop asking questions now.
“We’ll brief you on it tomorrow morning,” Mindforce says.
“Minus the details,” Natalie adds. “You’re welcome.”
“Tomorrow morning?” I say.
“We’re having an all-hands meeting,” Mindforce says. “The Quantum Quintet will be Skyping in from the compound.”
“I can’t be there. I’m grounded until Sunday.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I laugh. “Oh, sure, I’ll just tell Mom I can’t finish out my punishment because I have to go to a super-hero meeting.”
“Be ready to roll by eight-thirty,” Mindforce says. “I’ll give you an out.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but I definitely wasn’t expecting my “out” to come in the form of Catherine Hannaford.
“Hello, Ms. Hauser?” Miss Hannaford says, thrusting out her hand. “I’m Cathy. Is Carrie ready to go?”
Mom, still in her bathrobe and yet to have her first sip of coffee, gawks at Miss Hannaford, looks over her shoulder at me, then back at Miss Hannaford, then back at me.
“Carrie?” Mom says. “Who is this?”
“Carrie, did you not tell your mother about the retreat today?” Miss Hannaford says, stepping inside without the benefit of an invitation. She has a plastic smile pasted on her face, her hair is pulled back into a bun, and she opens her coat to reveal a white polo shirt, which bears a colorful logo over the left breast. Normally, Miss Hannaford is on the quiet and reserved side. Now, she gives off the same vibe you’d get from an overly enthusiastic used car salesman.
“Retreat?” Mom parrots. Sorry, Mother, I’m as lost as you are.
Fortunately, Miss Hannaford nimbly fills the void. “Today’s our retreat for our student mediators,” she says, bustling over to me. “I know, weekend before February vacation, no one wants to think about working...”
“Hold on. I’m sorry, Miss...Hannaford, was it? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Miss Hannaford affects a mock-wounded expression. “Carrie! Don’t tell me you haven’t told your mother about Team Teen Reachout?” Out of pure instinct, I open my mouth to answer, but Miss Hannaford jumps back in. She plucks a business card out of her breast pocket, and hands it to Mom. “I’m the coordinator for the local chapter of Team Teen Reachout, a national program that trains high school students to intervene in crisis situations involving other teens. You know how young people hate talking to us un-cool grown-ups sometimes.”
“Oh, believe me, I know,” Mom says, eyeing the card, then me. Real subtle, Mom. “Carrie’s never mentioned this to me.”
“Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. That’s one of the things I love about that girl: she’s as modest as the day is long,” Miss Hannaford says, as though I wasn’t in the room. “She’s been a great addition to the team. A real peer leader.”
&
nbsp; “That’s, uh, nice to hear, but I’m afraid Carrie can’t make this retreat of yours.”
“She can’t?”
“Carrie broke her curfew last week. She’s grounded until tomorrow,” Mom says firmly, trying to reassert control.
“Ohhhh,” Miss Hannaford says. “This is about last Saturday.”
“Yes. She was out on a date, and came home much later than she was told to, so —”
“Oh, Carrie, I’m so sorry! Ms. Hauser, I should have called you right away to explain. We had a rather serious incident last week involving a young lady,” Miss Hannaford says softly, as if in confidence, “and Carrie was the first team member we were able to contact. Now, I can’t divulge the details to you — we do stress confidentiality, after all — but Carrie, bless her, she dropped everything and spent half the night on the phone with this girl.”
In a moment of bravura acting, Miss Hannaford shakes her head, holds up her hands, putting a slight but noticeable tremble into them, and calls up some tears to blink away.
“Oh, I dread to think of how that night would have ended if Carrie hadn’t been there,” she says, looking at me with admiration. Bravo, Miss Hannaford. Heck, I’m a little choked up, and I know this is total B.S.
“Carrie,” Mom says. “Honey, why didn’t you tell me all this?”
“Well, we instruct our mediators not to discuss their individual cases with anyone outside the program,” Miss Hannaford says. “I guess our Carrie really took that to heart.”
“Yes, no, I understand, but...oh, God, Carrie, I wish you’d said something. I feel terrible,” Mom says.
You’re not the only one. This is not the way I wanted this episode to end. I could argue I didn’t deserve getting grounded, but now Mom feels like the bad guy, and she definitely doesn’t deserve that.
“Go on,” she says, “get ready for your retreat. Punishment’s over.”
Yippee.
“I have to say, when the Protectorate runs a scam, you sure go all in,” I say from the passenger’s seat of a white van, which bears the Team Teen Reachout logo on either side — the same logo emblazoned on Miss Hannaford’s shirt, and on the small stack of business cards in her pocket.
“Commitment to the cover story is crucial,” Miss Hannaford says.
“Yeah? What happens if my mother decides to look up your nonexistent organization online?”
“She’ll find a very convincing website.”
“You guys made a website? For me?”
“Oh, no, it’s been in place for a few years. Super-teams all across the country use it. There’s an entire network of fake businesses and organizations set up for the express purpose of providing heroes with cover stories.”
“Really? Wow.”
“We did have to paint the van, however. That was for your benefit.”
“Thanks.”
“We take care of our own.”
Our own? Double wow.
“Miss Hannaford? Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. And it’s Catherine.”
“Catherine. How come you’re not part of the team?”
“I am part of the team.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean —”
“I know what you mean,” Catherine says, giving me a reassuring no harm, no foul smile. “I’m not cut out to be part of the costumed hero crowd. I thought about it, once, a long time ago. I decided I was too terrified of dying to be a good super-hero, but I wanted to contribute somehow, and Mindforce wanted someone trustworthy to be the team’s face to the general public, so...”
“You became their receptionist.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Worst. Origin story. Ever.”
Catherine laughs. “I won’t disagree. You don’t seem to share my concerns. About dying, that is.”
“Oh, no, I share them plenty.”
“And yet...”
“And yet.” A dark — dark? Try pitch-black — thought crosses my mind. I almost keep my question to myself, but my perverse curiosity is too great. “Catherine? What would happen if I were to...get killed?”
“Sorry?”
“You said super-heroes take care of their own. What happens when a super-hero is killed in action?”
“Ah.” She gets where I’m going. “Some heroes, they want the truth revealed, should something happen. They want their families to have proper closure. Others prefer to take their secret lives to the grave. For them, we have several prefabricated scenarios we can roll out as necessary. On paper,” she says with an implied wink, “a lot of super-heroes die in terrible car crashes.”
“Lovely.”
“Do you have a preference, Carrie?”
That isn’t a casual question; that’s an official inquiry. She’s asking me how the Protectorate wants to handle my untimely death.
“I prefer to not die,” I say, forcing a cavalier attitude. Catherine isn’t fooled, but she nods agreeably nevertheless.
“Sound plan,” she says.
TWENTY-FIVE
To recap: Concorde has called an all-hands-on-deck meeting of the state’s three super-teams, to discuss a series of devastating attacks by major demons, orchestrated by an insane necromancer who has thus far evaded capture, who may be building up to unleash something catastrophic, perhaps on a global level. Serious business, right?
Now picture the Protectorate’s conference room, filled with members of the Protectorate and the Hero Squad, all in costume. Now add a giant coffee urn, and platters of assorted donuts, pastries, and bagels sitting on the table. Someone actually brought a muffin basket. A muffin basket. It somewhat undercuts the severity of the crisis. It’s like I’m at a corporate board meeting to discuss stock options.
“You made it,” Sara says, pleasantly surprised.
“I’m not actually here,” I say. “If anyone, by which I mean my mom, asks, I am officially at a retreat for Team Teen Reachout peer mediators.”
“You’re where for a what?” Matt says. I give him the rundown, and instead of being pleased I’m here for the team, he says, “Miss Hannaford gave you a ride to HQ? We didn’t get a ride.”
“We didn’t need a ride,” Stuart says.
“Says you. It’s cold as hell outside.”
“I didn’t need a ride either. I got one as part of the cover story that got me out of the house,” I clarify.
“Jeez. You get rides, cover stories, training, a uniform,” Matt gripes. “How come you’re the golden child? We’re all in this together, you know.”
“Could you prioritize, please?”
The crazy-huge monitor at the far end of the room comes on. It’s the Quantum Quintet joining in via Skype — another random bit of out-of-place mundanity; two of the greatest scientific minds in the world, and they’re using a free download to communicate on a big-screen TV hooked up to a webcam. Dr. Quentin is front and center, little Farley in her lap, looking more interested in the proceedings than Megan or Kilroy. Joe sits in the background. More accurately, Joe is the background.
“All right, folks, time to get down to business,” Concorde says. “Is everyone here?”
“Hero Squad is here, Carrie just arrived,” Mindforce says, “the Entity is skulking in the corner...”
Jeez! God, give me a heart attack, why don’t you, you creepy leather freak.
“Wouldn’t kill you to announce yourself,” Concorde says. “Or respond when we call you in for a mission.”
“I responded,” the Entity says.
“We didn’t see you in Newburyport. Or Gloucester. Or Lexington.”
“That’s right: you didn’t.”
(Someone please tell me he brought the muffin basket.)
“If the Entity is done trying to impress everyone with how terribly mysterious he is?” Dr. Quentin says.
Concorde calls for everyone to take a seat, and the mood shifts; it’s time to get down to business.
“To summarize, we’ve had three incidents in the past two weeks involving — bear with me,
Gwendolyn — someone setting demons loose in Newburyport, Gloucester, and Lexington,” Concorde says. “According to Enigma, the only connection is that they were summoned using spells contained in a book called the Libris Infernalis, which is in the possession of a necromancer named Black Betty.”
Yes, people, this is my life now.
“What we don’t know is exactly what’s going on.” Concorde turns to Astrid. “You’ve been working on this, so tell us: are we looking at random acts of terrorism, or is this part of something bigger?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Astrid says. “My study of the Libris was, unfortunately, limited.”
“How useful,” Dr. Quentin drawls. Kilroy smirks. Farley giggles.
“What I can tell you is this: there is no way Black Betty’s pulling this off by herself,” Astrid says, ignoring Dr. Quentin’s dig. “The simple act of reading from the book is, shall we say, debilitating, and casting a ritual summoning of such magnitude would put any spell-caster out of commission for a few days.”
“If Black Betty has help, does that mean we need to be ready for another incident?” Mindforce says.
“We have to assume so, maybe several more,” Concorde says, “which means we should be trying to figure out how to get ahead of this, instead of running around putting out fires as they pop up.”
“I have an idea about that,” Matt says, and all the sound gets sucked out of the room. All eyes turn his way, most of them questioning, a few affronted that Matt has dared to leave the kids’ table.
“Oh, I have to hear this,” Concorde says.
“Magic is ritualized whenever the caster needs to achieve a major effect, such as tearing a rift in the barrier between worlds. A ritualized approach is necessary in order to first build sufficient power, and then focus that accumulated power to create the desired effect,” Matt says, rattling off his explanation like he was — well, Astrid. “Depending on factors such as the purpose of the spell, the complexity of the ritual, and the inherent power of the sorcerer or sorcerers involved, that buildup can take hours, even days.”
Action Figures - Issue Two: Black Magic Women Page 18