by Milo James
"Do you dance?" he asked, a small smile tickling his face. His teeth were small and precise and too white.
"No." Yes, Clay thought, but refused to voice it.
"I can show you," the Glamour Man said. "We all can dance."
Clay resisted with all his might, his feet wanting to shuffle, wanting to move. He could have Cassie, have everything the Glamour Man offered, unspoken. But for a price.
"What will it cost me to dance?" Clay asked. The words were like cold water, dousing the fervor in his own body.
"Ah, well. Everything has its price. Magic demands power, and dancing requires energy. The price is as it has always been–your energy for the dance. For the magic."
Cassie floated past, as if to emphasize the terms of the bargain. Clay didn't really understand, except at a basic level. But it was enough.
"No deal." It hurt to say it, but he steeled himself.
"As you wish," the Glamour Man said, and he held out his hand. Cassie skipped past, taking it into her own, and they resumed their dance. Clay watched as they edged toward the encroaching forest, and then, as if a conductor had signaled the end of the song, the music stopped, and they were gone. Like they never existed at all.
Clay had lingered until dark, but they didn't return. Cassie was never seen again.
~
"Hello!"
Clay waited, calling out to the Glamour Man in his aged voice, demanding he return. Little Clay sucked on a pacifier–not the contented, peaceful suckling of a healthy child, but the tired, desperate tug of the sick. Of the dying. Ever since the diagnosis, Clay couldn't help but think that way, couldn't help but see death on the horizon. He would change that, one way or the other, tonight.
Except, nothing was happening. Clay stood, listening for the orchestra, but all was silent, other than a few song birds in the trees. Ninety-one years old, and still a fool. He wondered what would have happened, had he danced that day, seventy-five years ago. It would have spared Little Clay from his doomed existence . . .
The Glamour Man appeared, not so much walking from the trees, but rather popping into existence from nothing. He wore the same suit, the same swirl of color, and his features continued their metamorphosis from swarthy to innocent to roguish. Clay looked down, disoriented.
"You've returned." The Glamour Man's voice was deep, and Clay's very bones reverberated.
"Yes. For trade."
"Trade? I don't bargain."
"You owe me. For what you took. For stealing Cassie."
Clay looked up, and the Glamour Man was smiling his small, frightening smile.
"She was not yours to give."
"No, but it cut me up just the same." Clay felt tired, small. He was too old, too used up for this. Too late.
"Perhaps it did. Perhaps it did." The Glamour Man paused, and Clay heard the soft tinkle of music on the breeze. "Do you still refuse to dance?"
"Dance? I'm too old to dance."
"Age is irrelevant. Energy is important. Deals require magic, magic requires energy. Do you want to make a deal, Clayton Earnest Dunning?"
The music grew louder now, an infernal waltz that crept into Clay's soul. His feet shifted of their own accord.
"Yes," he said, staring into the Glamour Man's eyes, blue-then-green-then-violet. "I want to deal."
~
It was past dusk when Clay shuffled out onto the porch of his old Cape. Fireflies zipped by, and the scent of mountain laurel was in the air. For seventy-five years, Clay had wondered what happened to Cassie that night, so long ago. It had been a tough situation for awhile–Cassie's disappearance was the talk of the town, and Clay expected to take the blame. But Cassie, it turned out, had many suitors, and no one knew she had snuck away with Clay, and so he had survived to live his life, a happy, if unimportant existence.
Tonight had also been tough–his grandson Tom and Tom's wife Hannah were furious, returning home to find Clay and Little Clay missing, thinking the worst. When Clay returned they pounced, snatching the child away and berating Clay for his lack of common sense.
But only one thing really mattered.
"Little Clay looks different," Hannah had said. "He has such good color, almost as if . . ." Tom had consoled her then, not wanting her to give in to wishful thinking, to the fantasy that Little Clay would live, would overcome his death sentence.
But Clay knew he would, and soon they would understand as well. He'd made a deal. The Glamour Man took energy, but he could also give it back. He had healed the boy.
The music began just as Clay was about to doze off, and he started. The Glamour Man stepped out from out of the scarlet oak that lined the small back yard. He was not alone.
Next to him was Cassie, his Cassie, still young. Still stunning. Still dancing. There was something beautiful about that, but something frightening as well. Something wrong.
The Glamour Man held out both hands, as if in benediction. "Ready to dance?"
Clay rose. He wore his only suit, an old-fashioned linen one. His dancing duds.
"Ready to dance," he said, and as he shuffled toward the Glamour Man and his lost love, he felt the years slipping away, even as he realized he would dance forever.
Whether he wanted to or not.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Michael Pignatella lives in Connecticut with his wife and two children. His short fiction has appeared in or is scheduled to appear in such venues as Plasma Frequency Magazine, DarkFuse, Nameless, Strange Critters: Unusual Creatures of Appalachia, and One Buck Horror. His story "Remember the Face of Your Son" received an Honorable Mention in The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror 2008. Reach him through his blog -- portablemagicblog.com -- or Twitter: @mpignatella.
Bitter Remedy
By Krystal Claxton
I'm lousy in broad daylight. I spent my formative years learning from the best in the Conference how to remain hidden. To move with fluidity and silence through a city, like a cloud in the night sky.
Unfortunately it was not night, I was not hidden, and I could not fly.
I stood with my shoulders hunched, hands spread as I watched the young villain standing in the road. He was bigger than me, most were, and he watched me with a certain satisfaction in his brown eyes. A smirk budded on his maskless face. He had me where he wanted me.
That was the thing about being a healer. When you didn't have a partner and your knife was shining merrily in the sun on the ground behind the villain, people tended to think you were helpless.
"I didn't catch your name," I stalled so pedestrians could clear the area. It'd been a long time since Nevils Borough had suffered a superhero fight and their flight-responses were atrophied.
The villain's mouth split in a broader smile, revealing neat rows of perfectly white teeth. "The Crimson Number."
Well, that explained the red costume with the white number "two" splashed across his torso and bleeding down onto his thighs. "You know that doesn't make any sense, right? The number on your costume is white. Your jumpsuit's red."
His posture deflated a little.
"Plus, you know if you're in this for a long-term career, I don't think the number two is a great choice." I scrunched up my face; the gold mask that keeps my identity hidden was rigid against the expression. "I mean, aside from it labeling you as second best, you know it's also a euphemism for–"
Crimson Number launched himself across the pavement with an angry grunt, his fists held out like battering rams as he closed the space between us in the blink of an eye.
I felt my ribs crack and caught a glance of my own gold-clad legs folding upward as his punch knocked me into the air. I lifted my head, flattened my back, and spread my arms to absorb the fall. The brightly-painted wall of Sour Sallie's Smoothie Shack stopped me with a solid thud.
So then, Crimson Number had a touch of Hyper Speed–just a touch, since I'd seen him coming–and a bit of Super Strength–but only a bit, since I was still alive and not liquefied against the restaurant wall.
That
explained how he'd managed to disarm me and toss me into the street before I'd spotted him. He was too young to realize the touch of power he had wouldn't get him very far as a villain, unless he was extremely clever. But he'd just robbed a bank in the middle of the day without so much as a mask to hide his identity, so he wasn't on the bright side.
Crimson Number discarded the backpack with the cash from his heist and sauntered toward me while I struggled to get to my feet.
"You know, I thought Bitter Remedy was a pretty stupid name too, but as least I have manners and didn't say so."
His red, laced-up boots thunked heavily against the pavement. Was he really coming within arm's reach?
"The thing I don't understand," he continued as he stopped, towering over me, "is why this neighborhood has been overlooked by the other villains. I mean, when I was hunting for a place to announce myself to the world," he gestured extravagantly towards his impressive physique, "Nevils Borough just screamed out to me."
He gripped the gold fabric of my costume at the shoulder and pulled me upright. I gasped. It was like daggers slicing from my ribcage to my toes.
Over the years I'd grown familiar with the sensation of going into shock, of my internal organs rupturing. My vision blurred, my breathing sharp and shallow, but I had to stay alert, had to make it home to my son.
"What was the Conference thinking?" His other hand wrapped around my throat. Squeezed. "Assigning you?"
I focused on his bare palm against my uncovered neck. I was still conscious. I still had time.
I called my power from the well in the center of my chest. It stretched outward, like a flexing muscle, building beneath my skin, tightening under Crimson Number's palm.
He smiled. Too elated at strangling me to notice the subtle aches and pains that would be blossoming in his neck. Blood pounded in my temples as his eyebrows twitched. He cleared his throat. His eyes watered. His smile faded as his teeth gritted tight. His grip loosened. His knees wobbled.
He tried to let go, to break away, but it was too late. I gripped his forearm with both hands, peeling his sleeve up to touch the skin on his arm with the palms of my hands.
My power surged down both arms and Crimson Number dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. The crushing pain in my chest faded to pinpricks, and at last, I took a deep, luxurious breath. Crimson Number's eyes grew wide as he realized he couldn't do the same.
I let him collapse face-up on the sidewalk. "Next time, do a bit of research. Just because I'm a healer, doesn't mean I'm harmless."
By the time the sirens announced the police, Crimson Number was turning an angry shade of violet.
Still, he managed to choke down air. I held onto some of the injuries–it was worth it to spare a life. Crimson Number was so young, probably not even finished with high school yet. Maybe the villain reform program could rehabilitate him.
~
The local news blared through my tiny apartment when I finally made it home from escorting the police to the rehabilitation center six boroughs east. Conley didn't look up as I dropped my keys on the kitchen counter. The tube TV cast weak, blue angles over the orange glare of dusk pouring through the living room window. I flopped onto the second-hand couch that divided the two rooms.
Conley was perched in front of the TV watching me, as Bitter Remedy, fly across the screen; a golden blur that rag-dolled against Crimson Number's attack. The voice over announced: "Veteran superheroine, Bitter Remedy, fatally injured during Nevils Borough skirmish."
I leaned past my son to switch off the broadcast. The sounds of the downstairs neighbors cooking dinner pressed into the apartment.
"You know they're just trying to get ratings," I said to the back of his head of brown spiral curls.
In his sullen, nine-year old way, he shrugged.
"They're wrong. I'm not fatally wounded. See?" I held up my arms in a "ta-da!" gesture. Forced a smile despite the sharp reminder that my ribs weren't quite healed.
He twisted around to face me, his eyes bloodshot. "You were so fatally wounded. If the bad guy hadn't gotten so close, you–"
"Would have been fine."
"Didn't look it."
"Well, it looked a lot worse than it was."
"You couldn't even stand up!"
"Conley," I warned in The Mom voice, "please do not raise your voice."
He glared at me instead. His eyes dark and perfect. His brown skin glowed in the evening light. His nose an adorably round button. He had my high cheekbones but that's about it. I couldn't look at him without trying to cobble together what his father's face must look like.
"What if I order a pizza tonight?"
"I'm not four. You can't just make it better with pizza."
I let out a noisy breath. "What do you expect me to do? Watch him rob the bank? This is my neighborhood. I have a responsibility to our citizens. To the Conference." To you, I didn't say.
He straightened, looking ready to pounce. "Other heroes have partners."
"No. We've had this conversation. Partners are dangerous. They get in your life. Figure out your secrets. Know your identity. And then they turn villain."
"Maybe if it was someone you trusted." The statement was too calm. His eyes locked onto me like a kitten's on a grasshopper.
"I've been a member of the Conference for twelve years. I know a lot of heroes. There isn't one I want as partner."
"If you would teac–"
"Absolutely not." I hadn't mean to sound so harsh. "Conley, there are federal laws against under-aged sidekicks. Besides, you don't have powers."
He looked away. "I might have powers. If we start training now, I could be ready to help you," he gestured at the TV, "the next time you really need it."
I rubbed both hands over my face. I'd had a double shift at the diner, then the fight, then the trip to secure the villain. I was ready to be done. "You've got another ten years before any powers you have will manifest."
"Some people get powers young."
I slapped my hands against my knees and fixed him in a glare. "I will not have my son out in the streets battling villains when he's supposed to be in school."
"But–"
"I've worked hard to make this a safe place for us. I requested Nevils Borough specifically because I knew it would be quiet. Because I knew I could defend it on my own. Today was a fluke–a fluke that I handled like the trained professional I am. I do not need help."
I took a breath. Tried to soften my voice. Ran the back of my fingers over his cheek. "I'm sorry that you had to see me fight today. But that doesn't mean you get to waste your time heroing.
"You know–you might not ever get powers."
He huffed and started to protest, but I continued over him, "It may seem like something you want now, but if I had my say, you would be normal. And live a long, happy, normal life."
~
I climbed my patrol route across rooftops and fire escapes, inhaling the distinctive nighttime aroma of summer in the city: baked asphalt, soured sewers, thick humidity, and a faint lingering of charcoal barbeques. It smelled of home and with my injuries healed things were back to normal.
When I neared the only full-service bank in Nevils Borough I saw a slight, shifting shadow. My heart skipped a beat. Most people would have dismissed the wavering night, but I recognized the Light Manipulation instantly.
He wasn't visible per se, but I could tell he was perched on the rooftop across the street from the bank. I doubled back around to approach him from behind, walking lightly across the flat roof. Neighboring buildings towered a story or two overhead.
"Out for a walk?" I asked when I drew near.
"Most people don't notice me," Glint said as he stood, dropped the shadowy concealment. His black bodysuit hid any distinguishing feature except for an emblazoned red "G" on the center of his toned chest. The stretchy black fabric covered his head, leaving the vague imprint of a face beneath.
"I guess that makes me special." I'd cocked a curvy hip. It
would be easy to fall back into the old pattern with Glint.
"Remy," he said, "It's been a long time."
I crossed gold-covered arms over my chest, resolving to control my body language. "Yes. It has. What brings you to Nevils Borough?"
He inclined his head toward the street. "Right now, I'm waiting for someone to start robbing your bank so I can intervene."
My brow furrowed, pressing uncomfortably against my rigid mask. When Glint knelt by the edge of the roof, using the knee-high parapet as cover, I joined him.
He gestured with one long, gloved hand. "There in the alley–been loitering for twenty minutes, avoiding the cameras there and there."
"Who is it?" I asked.
"I can't tell," he said.
"You don't know?"
"Not yet."
"Then what were you doing here before you noticed them?" I didn't try to hide my annoyance as I squinted into the night. The suspect wore a skintight suit beneath their long, ill-fitting coat, but they stayed out of the yellowed light cast by streetlamps.
Glint was staring at me when I turned my attention back to him. "I wanted to talk to you about what happened with Crimson Number."
I let out a dismissive snicker that was too loud and then compensated for it by using an unnecessarily soft voice. "Then you're wasting your time. Go home." I made for the fire-escape.
He called after in a hushed voice, "What about the bank robber?"
I whispered, "Go home."
On the street, I waited at the hard edge of a shadow for the would-be robber to make a move. Felt Glint's presence materialize behind me. "I do not need your help."
"That's not what it looked like on the news last week."
I turned to face him. "Have I ever come to any of your towns and critiqued your work? Ever? In ten years?"
He had no answer.
"Look, I've got this. Please just go back to wherever it is you're working now." I didn't say that I knew he was partnered with Pascal's Wager upstate. Didn't want him to know I kept tabs on him.
Glint's body heat radiated into the space between us. His clean scent tinged the night air. The urge to lean into him, to press my bare palms against his mesh-textured suit, rose up from a place ten years past. I tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go without stepping into the light.