Sidekick

by Auralee Wallace

  We were being robbed by the circus.

  Or wait! Maybe we weren’t being robbed at all! Maybe it was like some sort of flash mob circus!

  A group of teenagers standing off in the corner obviously thought something similar because they weren’t on the ground like the rest of us. They stood with their phones out, recording the action.

  Not wanting to look stupid, I started to get to my knees. That’s when the clown spotted them. In what seemed like slow motion, he pulled a very large assault rifle out from the back of his pants and shot a round into the ceiling.

  The teens hit the floor, their cell phones skittering across the marble tiles.

  Okay, so not a flash mob. Definitely not a flash mob.

  “Now that we’re all here, the show can begin!” the clown screamed, batting his long, pansy eyelashes.

  Everyone froze. Performers included. They all had taken on theatrical poses that pointed to the door. For a brief second, the little girl in me thought Oh, I hope it’s an elephant! Then I gave myself a mental shake and sent that little girl to her room.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the most exotic, the most mysterious, the most beautiful of the Ottoman beauties! Delilah, the Circassian Sultana!”

  Smoke swirled around the front doors. Then I heard a familiar clacking sound. A horse? Now we were being robbed by a horse?

  Oh no, not a horse.

  A woman astride a gigantic stallion emerged from the haze. I had never seen anything quite like her. She wore a black satin bustier with matching shorts and riding boots, no embellishment. Her hair floated around her shoulders in masses of dark waves—I wouldn’t have been surprised if a flock of butterflies fluttered out from the curls—and her eyes flashed beneath a black pearl headdress draped across her forehead.

  Then there were the tattoos.

  They covered her. Anchors, hearts pierced with swords, skulls, and snakes all traced a flowing web over her skin, stopping just before they reached her face.

  The slow slap of horse hoofs echoed through the bank. The woman swayed seductively with its steps, surveying all of us on our bellies before her.

  For a second, I rested my forehead on the cool marble of the floor. How was this happening? Why was this happening? I had real problems, like a landlord with glass eyeballs that matched his outfits. I did not have time for this nightmare.

  Yet here I was.

  I gripped my thousand dollars tightly in my fist then buried it deep in the pocket of my rain jacket. As long as I didn’t draw any attention to myself, I’d be fine. I just needed to wait this freak show out.

  The woman swung a long, tattooed leg over the horse’s back and slipped to the floor, dragging her hand slowly over the beast’s neck.

  She then stood at the bank’s new center stage.

  We waited.

  It looked like she wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

  I hadn’t noticed it before—what with part of my brain screaming and wringing its hands—but there was a woman huddled by a stroller, wailing. Wet, blubbery noises pealed out from her mouth.

  Once she saw that she had caught the tattooed lady’s attention she tried to gulp back her sobs, but it was too late. The Sultana came towards her, taking slow, catwalk steps until she stood inches away.

  A taut silence fell over the room.

  Finally she spoke.

  “Why so glum, chum?”

  I had never heard such a breezy, retro phrase delivered with so much seductive menace. I felt a pang. I wanted to be seductively menacing. I shook myself again. No wonder my fourth nanny’s hair went white. I really needed to focus.

  A screech of laughter suddenly tore through the room.

  I jumped so violently I thought I might have snapped my spine.

  Have I mentioned I hate clowns?

  Then the others joined in the laughter. Their deafening squeals of glee made my eardrums shudder.

  The Sultana snapped her fingers. They stopped instantly.

  She then put her fingertips under the wailing woman’s chin and guided her to her feet.

  “Now, please, tell me. Why are you crying?”

  The startled woman looked around frantically for help. I hoped I wasn’t the only one who looked away.

  “It is alright, you can tell me.” The words were soothing, but something full of acid lay underneath.

  I used the distraction to look around for a way to escape or hide. The only thing that caught my eye was a potted fern with a bald man sitting cross-legged beside it. He wore a white Nehru jacket, linen pants, and a big smile. He waved me over. Obviously he was crazy, but not scary crazy, so I scooted towards him while mentally wishing the wailing lady the best. I felt sorry for her, I really did, but there was nothing I could do.

  “Well?” the Sultana’s voice echoed.

  “My b-b-baby.”

  Oh crap. A baby? I guess that explained the stroller. It was one thing to terrorize adults, but surely the Psycho Sultana would leave the baby alone.

  “Babies,” she hissed. “I have never understood the fascination with babies.” She leaned towards the stroller and reached a hand underneath the canopy. That’s when I saw the snake slither down from her hair to her arm towards her fingers. My stomach dropped with a splat.

  Logically, I should have taken the opportunity to get moving. Everyone was staring at the unfolding awfulness, so I probably could have snuck out without notice, but it was just so terrible. I couldn’t look away.

  “Should we tell your baby the truth about this world?” Delilah asked the frantic mother. “Shall we see his future?”

  The old woman in the hood came floating forward.

  “Tell us, mother. What do you see coming for this child?”

  The old woman’s hands ran over her crystal ball.

  She mumbled something. I couldn’t hear it, but the baby’s mother suddenly fainted dead away.

  “Unimpressive.”

  I turned to the man sitting beside me, his face full of friendly disappointment.

  “I’m sorry?” I whispered.

  “She gave a prophesy of death.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Death is a most certain prophesy. Perhaps she would like to wager a guess as to whether the sun will rise tomorrow.”

  Okay, I hadn’t thought of that, but I tried to give him a look that said I knew that all along and was unimpressed that he had actually bothered to say something so obvious—but halfway through I got confused as to what that might look like and gave up.

  We both turned back to watch.

  Suddenly the Sultana swung her arms wide, swaying to some unheard music.

  “Pulcinella!” she called out.

  The dark clown toppled forward, spinning his arms wildly in a manic dance.

  “On with the show!” In sharp grabs, he pulled small sacks from his pants and tossed them into the air.

  Suddenly all the performers tumbled their way across the marbled floor, grabbing bags then heading towards the tellers. I threw my hands over my head as a muscular torso sailed over me in a violent handspring.

  “Much more impressive,” the monkish man beside me said, smiling.

  Each performer landed perfectly in front of a teller window except for the boxing pair. They were busy pushing and shoving one another for position. Then, as though on cue, each performer pulled out a gun and pointed it over the counter. The frightened workers began stuffing the bags with wads of cash. Even my red-haired menace looked mildly concerned. Well, actually, she still kind of looked like a cat was barfing on her keyboard, but she moved as quickly as the others.

  Strangely, watching them, a small part of me started to relax. It was almost over. They were going to get what they wanted, and then they would leave.

  Everything was going to be fine.

  Then, out of nowhere, a voice shouted, “You’ll never get away with this! Dark Ryder will find you! You’re just a bunch a bullies in silly clothes!”

&nb
sp; So much for fine.

  “Who said that?” the Sultana called out. Her voice sounded calm, but it carried a cold edge.

  Everybody froze, me included, but we were all probably thinking the same thing—where the hell was Dark Ryder?

  I had only been in the city a month, but everybody knew about Dark Ryder. Crime fighter. Mystery woman. Superhero. She had been keeping the city safe for nearly three decades. Nobody knew actually how she could swing from tall buildings and punch bad guys through brick walls, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was the hand that held this city from toppling into hell. Now where the hell was she?

  “Come now. Too late to be shy. Who said that?”

  The Sultana’s eyes darted about the room like a crazed bird. She had been watching the action at the tellers and missed who had asked the question, but I thought I knew. My eyes moved to a woman, probably about seventy, dressed in secondhand chic. She lay huddled to the floor like everyone else, but there was a defiant look in her eye, like she had seen too much crap to be willing to put up with any more.

  I should have gone for an escape when I had the chance. I shuffled even further behind the plant. I could tell the Sultana was losing the little it she had left. Things were about to go very bad.

  “Was it you?” the Sultana shouted, standing over a teenaged girl clutching hands with her boyfriend.

  The girl cringed. The Sultana waited for a moment then spun in a different direction.

  “Or was it you?” she said to a woman with ice-blonde hair who looked like she had just finished a martini lunch with her besties.

  Then she spun again, this time in the direction of the older lady. She walked slowly towards her, heeled boots clicking loudly on the marble floor. She stopped in front of the old woman’s head.

  “Or was it you?” she asked softly.

  The old woman still lay on the floor like everyone else, but she had her face craned so that she could look the cracked tattoo lady directly in the eyes.

  “Why won’t you answer me?” the Sultana purred, tilting her head. “Are you frightened?”

  The old woman said nothing, but stared back with the defiance of a Chihuahua guarding a couch.

  “Where’s your Dark Ryder now?” the Sultana asked.

  Suddenly she straightened and snapped her fingers again.

  The contortionist rolled towards her and passed her a gun. I couldn’t help but wonder where she’d had that hidden.

  The Sultana raised the butt of her automatic weapon high in the air, threatening to crash it down, right on the old woman’s skull.

  “I’ll ask again. Was it you?”

  The woman said nothing.

  The bald man beside me leaned over and whispered, “Someone should do something.”

  I stared back at him wide-eyed. “I don’t see you offering!”

  He shrugged.

  The Sultana’s muscles twitched. The gun jerked in the air.

  “It was me!”

  The room froze again.

  Oh crap. Did I say that?

  The Sultana turned her head in my direction slowly, like the most beautifully deranged owl ever.

  “Way to go,” I said turning back to the man—except he was gone.

  Terrific.

  I peeked through the plant and watched the Sultana walk across the room in giant steps, her hair floating around her in an angry tempest.

  Icy trails of sweat ran down my ribcage.

  Maybe if I stayed very still, she wouldn’t see me.

  “She’s right here!” a voice called.

  I looked up, but not very far.

  The bearded-little-person-lady stood a couple of feet away, finger pointed right at me.

  “Thanks a lot,” I whispered to him, trying to sound cool over my jackhammering heart. “Sure, when the old lady says something, nobody turns her in, but you’re all over me, you…you…”

  “You what?” he asked planting a meaty fist on his hip.

  “Never mind,” I said sourly.

  “No. What were you going to say?”

  “No. I’m not saying anything,” I said, still whispering, as though that would really help. “You are one big, politically incorrect trap. Even if I don’t mean to, I’m going to say something offensive.”

  “And how do you think that makes me feel,” he said shaking his head, “to never be treated like everyone else?”

  “You want me to insult you?”

  “Go for it!” he shouted, hairy arms opening wide.

  I growled with frustration. “Fine! Um…nice dress.”

  “That was pathetic.”

  “Well, I’m having trouble focusing at the moment,” I said, my last word trailing off as I zoned in on the black boots on the other side of the plant.

  “So you’re the Dark Ryder fan,” the Sultana said.

  “Um, not really. You see, I’m new in town. I’ve just heard—”

  “Oh, you’ve heard,” she said laughing quietly. “What you should have heard is that I’m the new game in town.” She walked slowly around the plant. “Maybe you can help me spread the message.”

  Leisurely she lowered the gun so that I stared directly into its barrel.

  “News of a dead body always travels fast.”

  Chapter Three

  Oh God. This was it.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the shot. Seconds boomed by in my head…but nothing happened. I cracked open one eye to see the Sultana’s face inches from my own.

  “Wah!” I shouted, scrambling back.

  Once I got a hold of myself, I recognized a very distinctive look on her face. A look I had seen hundreds, maybe thousands of times, but didn’t expect to see here.

  Recognition…and fear.

  It was the look people gave me when they realized they were dealing with the daughter of Atticus St. James.

  The Sultana licked her lips slowly. Her eyes never wavered from mine.

  “She isn’t worth it,” she said suddenly, spinning away from me.

  For a second, I remembered how to breathe.

  Then she spun right back.

  “Oh, but I forgot to thank you for your donation.” She wrenched the crumpled bills from my hand, which had somehow escaped its hiding place. “Our little spectacle only exists thanks to the generosity of our patrons.”

  She walked back to her horse waiting at the center of the bank.

  “It has been my pleasure, everyone!” she shouted out in her low musical voice. “But sadly, we must leave you!”

  Suddenly, everything happened in reverse. The performers tumbled, stomped and rolled their way towards the front doors. Even the smoke seemed to follow them.

  Then just before they completely disappeared, the Sultana turned.

  Everyone on the floor, myself included, re-cringed.

  She clapped her hands high in the air like a Flamenco dancer. The entire bizarre crew suddenly threw their weapons across the floor and then tumbled out the doors.

  A man in a wrinkled business suit slowly got to his knees and picked up one of the automatic weapons. A dazed look came over his face.

  “They’re loaded with blanks.” He looked up at the ceiling where the clown had fired. “They’re all fake.”

  Fake?

  Oh no way. No freaking way. I had just been robbed with fake guns? I was going to lose my fingers now because of some psycho circus with fake weapons?

  Any drop of fear I had left in me steamed out the top of my head.

  I jumped to my feet in flash and sprinted for the door.

  I stumbled down the massive concrete steps, blinded by pure rage. The screech of motorbikes tore at my ears.

  They were getting away!

  Where was the cavalry? The police? The ambulances? What had she done with her horse? And where the hell was Dark Ryder?

  I could feel my money screaming for me. I took off after the motorbikes on foot and ran smack into a wall of muscles.

  “Whoa! Are you okay?
” the wall asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said struggling to get around him, but large hands descended on my shoulders, pinning me to the spot.

  “Let me go! They’re getting away!” I could still make out the taillights fading into swirls of mist.

  “I think you’re in shock. Just calm down.”

  Frustration sizzled inside of me. Then before I knew it, my fist shot out, and I clocked him in the nose. Cartilage crunched against my knuckles.

  “Hey! What did you do that for?” the wall shouted from behind his hands.

  That was a hard question to answer. Two seconds into hindsight, it did seem to be a little bit of an overreaction.

  “Oh my God, I am so sorry.” I took a moment to really look at the beast of a man in front of me. My eyes travelled up, up, and then up some more. “I also can’t believe that I was able to reach your nose.”

  He was tall, at least six four, maybe five. Blond hair. Blue eyes. And yes, ridiculously muscular. He looked a little like the end result of a heated night of plastic passion between action figures. The only thing out of place was his bookish, but stylish, glasses that clashed with the rest of his superhuman genes.

  “I’m not that tall,” he said through his hands still pyramided over his nose. “And, I think, I’m bleeding.”

  Heat flared to my cheeks. “Well, you shouldn’t accost women on the street!” I shouted, moving out of the way of the people now streaming from the bank.

  “Accost? I was trying to help you.”

  “All you did was help them get away!” I yelled with a jump and a point towards the mist-filled street.

  “What were you going to do? Chase the motorbikes? You’re wearing high-heeled open-toe sandals!”

  A sudden realization came over me. Of course. He was gay. That’s why he was so muscular. And it explained the fashionable eyewear.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said more calmly. “I’m not gay.”

  Oh.

  “I have just always noticed women’s footwear.”

  Ah…he was a pervert.

  “And I’m not a pervert. I will admit high heels look good, but they seem so impractical…and expensive.”

  Huh.

  “Seriously, though, what were you thinking? Chasing bank robbers? Are you another Ryder Wanna Be?”