Calon hesitates, then shrugs. “Why not?”
I ask, “Is this going to turn me into a frog?”
Calon doesn’t laugh. She turns to the Goblin. “Is it?”
“I don’t think so,” he says. He looks me up and down. It occurs to me that the Goblin cast that self-repair enchantment on my costume, and that now, said costume resides in my slimewear bra. If the Goblin can sense his own magic, he might realize this normal-looking girl in a red dress is actually the awesome heroine Ninety-Nine.
But if he knows, he doesn’t let on. He just says, “I haven’t tried this batch of whisky on humans. But I doubt it will do anything grievous. And it tastes very good.”
If I were smart, I’d tell him No thanks. But since I’m the stupidest smart person on the planet, I say, “Hit me.”
* * *
THE GOBLIN HOPS DOWN from his stool and disappears into a back room. Calon’s grip on my arm has loosened enough that I can turn to check out K and Lee again.
Definite signs of engrossed conversation. I don’t even know if K has noticed me. I wish I had Spark-o-Vision so I could tell if Lee is enthralling K with magic. But as far as I can see, any enthrallment is purely hormonal.
K, K, K, you have got to get over your infatuation with Darklings.
Meanwhile, Pig Dude has finally worn out his welcome. Reaper moves in on the boar and says something I can’t hear. I can’t even read Reaper’s lips; skulls don’t have any. I assume he’s doing the “That’s enough, sir, move along.” Gotta be polite—the were-boar may be dangerous and/or somebody important—but Reaper’s clearly laying down the law. Pig Guy gives Reaper an angry look but grudgingly shuffles off and out through the blinder wall.
Reaper turns back to the gun case, but all is well. The glass isn’t even smudged.
Uhhh …
Uh.
Why isn’t the glass smudged? Pig Dude’s snout was definitely wet and pressed directly against the case. I cast back my mind; yep, I can clearly recall moisture glistening on porcine nostrils.
Fuck. It was just an illusion. Magic? Or maybe Cape Tech. Whatever Pig Dude actually looks like, his nose wasn’t damp at all.
« Dudes,» I transmit mentally, «we’ve got a ringer. Guy who looks like a were-boar. He just left the third floor and is heading down the stairs. »
« You think it’s Diamond? » Miranda asks. « Or Robin Hood? »
« Whoever he is,» I say, «he spent a long time scoping out the bazooka. »
« I’ll stay with the gun,» K says meeting my gaze from across the room. « I’ll watch it while you investigate. »
I’m tempted to grumble. What K means is that ze’ll cozy up with Lee while I chase a pig in a poke. At the moment, K and Lee are sharing a sofa and having a heart-to-heart. If it were anyone else but K, I’d think ze wouldn’t notice a full production of Cats in the room, let alone someone trying to steal the bazooka. But I trust that Spark-o-Vision will show K what’s happening, no matter how focused K’s normal eyes might be on Lee.
I turn to Calon Arang. “Gotta go walkies.” Calon is holding me loosely enough that I slip from her grip. If I headed for K and Lee, Calon might grab me again, but since I aim myself toward the stairs, she lets me go.
She knows I’ll be back. The Goblin is fetching a glass of Scotch with my name on it.
* * *
ALL HELL WOULD BREAK loose if I sprinted to the stairs—drunk Darklings don’t like to be jostled. Besides, I’m wearing high heels. Ginger Rogers notwithstanding, I might break my neck if I run too fast. There’s also the problem of Gator Glaive standing just outside the blinder wall. If I burst into sight at high speed, she might summon her weapon and bisect me. At the very least, she’d grab the scruff of my neck and demand, “What’s the hurry?”
So I move at an outta-my-way-I’m-gonna-puke velocity. I know this speed to perfection, even without my superpowers. I puff my cheeks and press my fist against my mouth. Gator Glaive jumps a bit as I bustle through the blinder, but she’s not a stranger to people in my apparent condition. She gives me a wary reptilian eyeball, maybe wondering why I’m running downstairs instead of using the washroom on the third floor. But she’s not so suspicious that she’s going to venture into my spewing line of fire. I hurry unimpeded down the stairs, until I reach the second floor.
« Anyone on floor two? » I ask through my comm ring. I don’t see the were-boar, but he could have disappeared into the crowd. The club is massive; the second floor alone can host two simultaneous weddings.
« I’m on the east side of the floor,» Grandfather answers. « No were-boar here. »
« I have the west side,» Invie reports. « I do not see a were-boar either. »
« Hold position,» I say. « I’ll keep going down. »
« I’m on the ground floor,» says Miranda. « But I can’t reach the stairs very easily. The crowd is getting agitated—there’s a whole load of ghosts that are freaking people out. I think the spells on the invitation cards are weakening. »
« Awesome,» I say. And she’s right. As I peel down the stairs, I see ghosts flickering in and out of existence. Ghosts with burns and ghosts with grotesque injuries. A couple of were-beast ghosts seem actually on fire, with their fur engulfed in flames. A great big Newfoundland dog wanders past me, and I swear I can feel the brush of its body.
The sensation makes me cringe. Feeling a ghost is exactly as creepy as you’d think.
So it’s no surprise that human guests are scurrying away. Even Darklings are disconcerted. The closer I get, the more my skin starts to crawl. « Keep an eye on the spooks,» I tell Miranda. « If the spell on the invites fails completely, this’ll get ugly. »
« I see the were-boar,» Shar announces. « He’s just arrived in the basement. »
« On my way,» I say. « Don’t do anything rash till I get there. »
Silently, I add, Then I’ll do something rash enough for both of us.
* * *
SHAR SAYS, «THE WERE-BOAR is heading toward the back. He’s in a hurry. »
« Maybe he’s just heading for the washroom,» Miranda says.
« There are washrooms on every floor,» I reply. « No point running from the top floor to the basement. »
« I can’t read his mind,» Shar reports. « It’s like nobody’s home. »
« Could it be a robot? » Miranda asks.
« I don’t know,» Shar says. « I’ve never encountered a robot. »
Miranda says, « Any robot convincing enough to pass for a Darkling must be made by a Spark. That means trouble. »
« Not necessarily,» I say. « If I had a robot that looked like me, I would totally send it to memorial services. And to any other event I wanted to skip. »
Note to self: make a robot, so I don’t have to go to class.
Miranda says, « K, can you use Spark-o-Vision to see if it’s a robot? Look inside and see if it has gears. » Pause. « K? K? »
« I’m here,» K says after a pause. « But the third floor is surrounded by a blinder wall. I can’t see out at all. »
I consider suggesting that K step outside of the blinder so ze can look at the boar. But no. One of us should keep an eye on the bazooka, in case this is all a diversion to draw us away.
« The boar isn’t heading for the washrooms,» Shar says. « He just went through a door marked “private, no admittance.” »
That’s not good. On the one hand, the Transylvania Club is only a fest hall, so a private-no-admittance room is probably just a janitor’s closet. On the other hand, no Darkling would make a beeline cuz he wanted to grab a mop.
By now, I’m rushing through the crowd in the basement. I can see Shar ahead of me—her spangled outfit sparkles in the candlelight. I can see where she’s heading, and because I’m stronger and faster than she is, I catch up just as she reaches the door.
She whispers, “Should we get into costume?”
I look around. My hurried push through the crowd attracted attention, so lots of peo
ple are staring. “Let’s stay in civvies,” I whisper back. “But be prepared to throw up a force field the moment we’re through the door.”
Shar nods. I tap the door latch once with my fingertip, just in case it’s electrified or cursed. Nothing happens, so I grab the latch and push the door open.
It’s an ordinary utility room, with a furnace, two water heaters, and numerous doorless cupboards full of cleaning supplies. No sign of the were-boar; however, the room has a fire exit he might have gone out through. The exit has a sign saying an alarm will go off if the door is opened, but so what? Half the time, those signs are lying—either there isn’t an alarm at all, or else it is always turned off so the janitor can go outside for a smoke without raising a ruckus. Even if the alarm is turned on, those things are child’s play to disable … especially for Sparks or Darklings with inhuman powers at their disposal.
« What’s happening? » Miranda asks.
« Nothing,» I reply, «everything looks calm. » Then I grimace, realizing I’ve jinxed the whole ball of wax.
And yep, here it comes. A voice out of nowhere announces, “Good evening! I’m called Diamond. Welcome to my evening’s entertainment.”
* * *
I’VE HEARD THE VOICE before—most recently inside my head when Diamond gloated about hacking our comm rings. But back before Christmas, I listened to similar words. The last time we fought Diamond, he left a prerecorded soliloquy that explained his master plan and defied us to stop it.
Déjà vu all over again.
“This is just a minor gig,” Diamond says, “so don’t expect anything elaborate.”
Over my comm ring, I ask, « Are you hearing this? »
« Unfortunately, yes,» K answers. « It’s coming over the club’s sound system. »
« A few people are running for the exits,» Miranda says. « Others look as if they think it’s joke. »
Invie says, « Sensorium is tracking the source. He’ll have a location soon. »
“Since I’m recording this in advance,” Diamond continues, “I don’t know if this gun they’ve found is really one of mine. But I doubt it’s genuine. More likely, some social climber in the Canadian law-enforcement community is trying to draw me out with trumped-up goods. That’s extremely foolish—just ask the All-Stars. Attracting my attention is never wise.”
« The broadcast is coming from the basement,» Invie says. I already know that. I’ve been searching the utility room and I’ve found a weird attachment stuck to the furnace. The furnace itself is just a sheet-metal box with ductwork feeding to the upper floors. One side of the furnace has a conventional control box for setting the temperature on each floor, but beside the box is a papery mass that looks like a giant wasp nest. Thin black tendrils run from the nest into the control box.
I rack my brain for explanations. I can see that the furnace burns natural gas. Diamond could easily set off a gas explosion, but that’s far too pedestrian for a Mad Genius. Even if the recording said not to expect anything elaborate, a guy like Diamond wouldn’t stoop to a mundane kaboom.
But the thing that looks like a wasp nest? Eek.
Shar joins me in front of the papery blob. “Should we try to rip it free before something happens?”
I say, “The moment we touch it, I bet we’ll set it off.”
“We won’t have to touch it,” Shar says. “I can use telekinesis.”
“Whether you touch it with your hands or your powers, disturbing it will send the shit into the fan.”
All this time, Diamond’s voice has prattled on. It’s his usual schtick: Darklings are parasites who must be obliterated, and if ordinary humans die, too, well, fuck ’em for being squishy. Gotta give Diamond credit for not using the eggs-omelet metaphor, but maybe he used it a long time ago and doesn’t like repeating himself. Anyway, he’s frank about his indifference for shedding human blood. I think his primary goal truly is to eradicate the Dark, but given a choice between a scheme that only kills Darklings and one that massacres a lot of humans, too, Diamond tends to pick Plan B.
Which is why I’m leery of touching the wasp nest. But I know bad things will happen whether I tamper with it or not. This is a clusterfuck waiting to happen, and I’m sure it won’t wait long.
As Shar and I hesitate, an All-Star streaks through the door. It’s one of the Blackmire twins. They’re a fortyish brother and sister who share a single androgynous body. The body is strong and fast and capable of flying. Supposedly, when Missy is in control she revels in brute strength, while Maxim is more about fi nesse; but WikiJools tells me it’s just PR, invented by a company that makes Blackmire action figures. Which one controls the body doesn’t actually matter, because both are thoughtless hotheads who revel in smashing things.
Like wasp nests. Apparently.
Team Blackmire whooshes in, and faster than a speeding bull in a china shop, they rip the nest off the furnace. I don’t even have time to say, “Wait.” Just zoom, grab, yank, and the deed is done.
After which, no surprise, the air is full of wasps.
Big wasps. Little wasps. Babies. Goliaths. There are hundreds of the buggers, and I have no doubt they sting. Super-poisonous stings, and maybe with extras, like they set you on fire or drive you mad. These wasps were created by Diamond; I’m sure he made them killers.
But the swarm clearly hates Blackmire more than Shar or me. Blackmire stands there with tattered wasp-nest remains in zir hands. The wasps seem smart enough to put two and two together—they engulf Team Blackmire in a stinging frenzy that buzzes as loud as a scream. I have no idea how tough Blackmire’s skin might be, but even if ze can shrug off the stingers, it’s hard to ignore a horde of insects stabbing your eyes and crawling up your nose. Howling with fury and pain, Team Blackmire zips out the door.
Crashes. Shouts. The sort of sounds you’d expect when a super-strong Spark blunders blindly through a crowd while surrounded by raging insects.
This’ll work out so well.
« We’ve got bees! » Miranda yells over her comm ring. « They’re coming out of the heat vents! »
« Actually, they’re wasps,» I correct her. « They belong to the same taxonomic order as bees, but you can tell difference by—»
« Shut up! » K snaps. « They’re on the top floor, too, attacking everyone. »
« Including you? » I ask. « Or did you go stony? »
« I can’t Zirc out here, too many people are watching,» K says. « But I’m fine. Lee sprouted gigantic wings; she’s flapping up a wind to blow the wasps away. »
« I’ve raised my force field,» Miranda says. « I had to switch to Aria, but I hope everyone else was too busy hiding from wasps to see me change. »
Shar says, « Maybe Ninety-Nine and I should change, too. »
« Don’t do it,» Miranda says. Or should I call her Aria? « The moment I changed, the wasps zeroed in on me. They can’t get through my force field, but they’re trying super hard to sting me. »
Shar says aloud to me, “Could Diamond program the wasps to attack people wearing costumes?”
“Not costumes,” I say. “But Diamond might have engineered the wasps so they target Darklings and Sparks.”
“Then why aren’t they going for us?” Shar asks. “We aren’t in costume, but we’re still Sparks.”
I say, “Maybe it’s connected with Shadows and Halos. Diamond has somehow keyed these wasps so they only attack people who emit an aura.”
“So if we don’t change, the wasps will leave us alone?”
“Knowing Diamond,” I say, “the wasps prefer to attack people who have auras … but they’ll sting the fuck out of anyone.”
Almost all the wasps that emerged from the nest have left the room, chasing after Blackmire. A few, however, must have lost the scent, because they’re coming for Shar and me.
I whack one out of the air with my purse. It’s like hitting a very small baseball; I knock the insect into the side of the furnace, but that only makes the wasp angry. I hit i
t a few more times until it finally falls to the ground. Even then, I have to grind it hard with the sole of my shoe. I push down with my full weight to make sure it’s good and dead.
Another wasp goes for Shar. Violet light extrudes from Shar’s forehead and captures the wasp in a thread-sized lasso. After a moment, the thread lets go and the wasp flies straight into the flame of the furnace’s pilot light. It hovers in the flame for at least five seconds before it succumbs to the heat.
Meanwhile, three more wasps buzz in. They plunge toward Shar’s head, aiming at the precise spot on her forehead where the violet strand came from. I guess wasps take it personally when someone mind-controls their sister to make her self-immolate.
None of the wasps comes for me. I move to Shar’s side and help her stave them off, beating up another wasp with my purse as Shar deals with the other two. Instead of burning them, Shar uses telekinesis to grab the pair. She stabs the stinger of one into the other, then vice versa. The poisoned jabs cause instantaneous death, but five seconds later, more wasps show up.
“Where are they coming from?” Shar yells.
“Teleportation?” I suggest. They certainly aren’t coming from the wasp nest. The ruins of the nest seem empty. I think the nest on the furnace was merely intended to attract attention when Diamond started speaking. The actual source of the wasps is elsewhere.
The point on Shar’s forehead starts to glow again. I snap, “Stop using your powers! It attracts them.”
Shar snaps back, “But then I’ll get stung!”
She’s right. And even though Shar is a Spark, I don’t know if she’ll survive a sting. As best I can recall, she hasn’t taken a hit since she got superpowers. She’s always protected herself with telekinetic barriers. Since it’s never been tested, her skin could be tougher than rhino hide. But probably not; and if the wasps are as bad as I think, a single sting could be lethal.
“Fuck,” I say, as I fend off the wasps that are trying to sting her. I drop my purse and grab the nearest two, one in either hand. I squeeze as hard as I can, and feel their exoskeletons crunch in my fists.
But I also feel their stingers stab my palms. Pain explodes through my hands.
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