by C. C. Ekeke
“Presley flirting and playing hard to get is great,” the Korean boy exclaimed when Hugo explained the dilemma. Simon, with his Bruce Lee bowl cut, wore a vintage Ninja Turtles t-shirt with large headphones slung around his neck. “Meaning…she probably likes you.”
In the middle of the court, eight Songs cheerleaders moved and writhed seductively.
“Presley likes me?” Hugo snorted. That didn’t make sense. “LOL, no!” She had this give-no-fucks attitude about everything, including him. “Why would she like me?”
Simon glared at Hugo with surprising exasperation. “Are you serious?”
Hugo leaned away from his friend’s strange reaction. “That’s why I’m asking.”
“Oy vey.” Simon shook his head with melodramatic pity. “When you aren’t kicking yourself in the balls, you’re a cool guy to hang with.”
Hugo appreciated that. “Thanks.” But Simon only said this because they were friends.
“Plus,” Simon raised a finger, glancing at the Song leaders. “Have you seen you in a mirror lately?” He poked Hugo’s chest. “No homo, but you’ve become a tall drink of Samoan Swagger.”
Hugo threw his head back and laughed, knowing Simon was joking. “Not sure about that.”
His friend nodded. “I’m very sure. You’re getting so much attention from girls around campus, female teachers included. It’s not just the height and the muscles.” Simon gestured animatedly at Hugo. “You look twenty-five.”
The Samoan agreed with him there. “Fine.” Titan’s powers seemed to have aged him overnight. Did this mean he was aging faster? “I wonder,” Hugo lowered his voice so only Simon heard, “how I’ll look at age twenty-five.”
“Asian Rule of Aging,” Simon replied with confidence. “We’ll look like this until we’re fifty-nine and a half.”
Hugo knew this rule well. “And when we hit sixty?”
“We age straight to eighty-five,” both friends said at once.
“So, by sixty,” Hugo realized, “I’ll be the same while you’ll resemble a toddler-faced grandpa?”
Simon’s reaction was stony. “Fuck. YOU-GO.”
The two chuckled, until Hugo grew distracted by the Song leaders shaking to a grooving Knocks track. He bopped his head to the beat, mesmerized by Taylor von Stratton’s sublime derriere. How had Hugo never noticed the amazingness of Taylor before?
“Why are we at a cheerleader practice? Not that I mind the view,” he added. Hugo did mind the gym smell, thanks to his hypersensitive nose.
Simon bashfully nodded at the instructor.
Hugo followed his gaze. “Oh, right.”
The instructor was Grace Misawa, their friend and fellow sophomore. She was a stunner, no matter what she wore. Today, it was green track warmups with an open jacket and a cropped top, and a sideways Dodgers cap atop curtains of wavy dark hair. Grace was always juggling fifty different jobs. Today, she was an assistant dance instructor for Songs while the adult coaches handled some emergency. Simon was understandably in love with Grace, like many boys in school. “You asking her out?” Hugo asked.
Simon gave a limp shrug. “Maybe.” He quickly found the ground more interesting. “Why you pressuring?”
“G-Mama’s the coolest girl you’ll ever meet,” Hugo replied at the obvious answer. If Grace wasn’t like a sister to him, he would’ve dated her. “Like the Fonz but a girl.”
“What if she says no?” Simon asked, unsure. “I don’t wanna look stupid.”
“Then she says no. Better you know how she feels, instead of waiting until she calls you a loser to all her friends,” Hugo blurted out, unable to catch himself. Dammit.
Simon frowned. “Where’d the pep in this pep-talk go? And the Brie-free zone?”
“Sorry. Still bitter,” Hugo apologized sheepishly. Even after cutting Brie El-Saden out of his life, her brazen disgust for him remained an open wound. But Simon didn’t need to hear that. Hugo forced on an encouraging smile. “Ask Grace to Fall Fling.”
“I’m sure she already has a date," Simon countered. "And my parents are on my ass about my Japanese culture obsession.” His face reddened. “If they hear I like a Japanese girl…”
Hugo wasn’t touching those issues, so he went a different path. “Your parents don’t have to date her!”
Simon nodded. “You’re right. I’ll grow some balls eventually.” The pair stood as the Songs cheerleaders were finishing practice. “When are we choosing a codename? It’s been weeks now.”
Hugo fought down a cringe. Simon remained hell-bent on him becoming a superhero. But Hugo’s desire kept diminishing. Wearing a costume and using his powers had seemed fun at first. But the toll of being a hero, the responsibility to protect so many, and the risk of failure? Hugo had never considered all that until fighting the Accelerator. That superhero lifestyle killed Titan long before Lord Borealis did. Hugo didn’t want that. And there was Lady Liberty’s warning if he continued. Hugo opened his mouth to tell Simon that superheroing was on hold. Until he heard light, rhythmic footfall approaching. Hugo recognized their owner instantly.
“My Paso Robles favorites,” Grace Misawa stated, dancing toward them.
“Simon.” She high-fived him. “Your dance mix for today’s practice is so bomb. Obvs.”
“Thanks, milady.” Simon bowed for some reason. He always did nervous shit around Grace.
“Boges.” She grooved closer, running appraising fingers across Hugo’s spiky hair. “Your hair’s looking extra Malalou today.”
Hugo furrowed his brow, confused. “Uh…thanks?” Making his last name an adjective? A very Grace maneuver.
She kept shimmying into his personal space, forcing him to backpedal. “Show these cheerleaders that Samoan Swagger on the dance floor.”
Hugo chuckled. “I knew that phrasing had Grace written all over it.”
Grace kept dancing and spinning forward with rhythmic elegance. “If these girls saw you dance, they’d be clawing each other’s eyes out to climb you.”
Maybe last year. Hugo appreciated Grace’s efforts. But he was done with dancing after Dad’s suicide. Another open wound. He glanced at the Songs cheerleaders chatting and gathering their bags. Taylor von Stratton, a leggy blonde with sleek curtains of hair, bit her lip suggestively while sizing Hugo up. Huh…
Hugo focused back on Grace, walking backward as she grooved forward to the music. “You know I don’t dance anymore.” He found himself up against a wall, trapped.
Grace stopped, visibly disappointed. “That’s a loss to dance floors everywhere.” In a flash, her disappointment vanished. “Later, boys.” She glided back to the cheerleaders.
Simon stared after her like a deer in headlights, clichéd as that sounded. Hugo had been that way about Brie. At least Grace wasn’t a two-faced asshole.
But Simon wouldn’t act. Too much fear and cultural baggage. So, Hugo acted for him. “G-Mama.” He caught Grace by the arm, leading her to Simon.
By his horrified face, he had deduced Hugo’s plan.
“Simon wants to ask you something…about the Fall Fling.”
Grace brightened.
Simon looked ready to murder his best friend. Hugo smirked, mouthing, “You got this.”
Simon cleared his throat twice, a bundle of fidgety nerves before speaking. “Grace? Wanna go—?”
“Louder, Mr. Han!” Grace requested.
“Sorry,” Simon spoke up. “Grace, wanna go to Fall Fling with me?” He glanced at Hugo. “And Hugo?”
Grace frowned. “Como se whatnow?”
Hugo facepalmed at Simon’s faceplant. He was screwing this up.
The Korean boy rambled out an explanation. “I mean, you’ll be my date…if you want. Or we can go as friends.” He gestured at Hugo to take the spotlight off himself.
God, this was embarrassing to watch.
“But Hugo doesn’t have a date. So, three of us—”
“Sure,” Grace interrupted, winking and pointing. “As your date. And if Bogie do
esn’t find a date, I know one will find him.”
Simon gawked. “Sweet.”
Grace clapped. “Super sweet. Lates.” She twirled and headed back to the cheerleaders still in the gym, an extra spring in her strut.
Simon looked ready to float up into orbit. “That just happened.”
“Pretty much.” Hugo felt beyond pleased, despite Simon nearly screwing it up. “Thank me when you and Grace are married with tons of babies.”
“Ick, babies.” Simon shuddered in disgust. “Where you wanna eat?”
Hugo shrugged. “Beach Bum Burger. I wanna try their new cheese and avocado burger.” The phone buzzing in his pocket no longer startled him. He could turn the volume up or down on his super hearing, usually keeping it at normal so he didn’t go bonkers. He saw an alert from Avngr, the go-to mobile app for superhero news. Hugo read the update, and ice flooded his chest.
Simon was equally alarmed. “You seeing this?”
“Yeah,” Hugo said, rereading the update. Lord Borealis’s trial got moved up to the end of next month. Meaning he’d be charged sooner. Titan hadn’t been perfect. And Hugo enjoyed the powers he now wielded but would give them up in a heartbeat if it meant getting Titan back. His heart still ached at Titan’s absence.
“Good,” Hugo stated with a smile. “This time, you don’t escape justice.”
The world had grown darker, thanks to Lord Borealis. The sooner he got punished, the better.
Chapter 6
Quinn waited on the chosen street corner at the Junction's edge. She cared little for the run-down location, pulling her blue peacoat tighter around herself to ward off the chill. Five minutes till one in the morning. Worst-case scenarios flooded her brain. She carried pepper spray in her purse. Would that be enough?
Then she heard the soft vroom. Quinn whirled around. The motorcycle pulled up, sleek, jet-black with matte-finished armor. Quinn’s attention locked on the rider. The dark trench coat billowed out behind him, covering a lean and panther-like build covered in grey body armor. Quinn gaped at the smooth black mask covering his whole head. The only visible features were two unnerving blood-red eyes, pupil-less and glowing, drilling through Quinn’s brain.
She stood transfixed and triumphant, her faith rewarded.
The vigilante called Geist was real, and helping her find Titan’s real killer. Quinn reminded herself to breathe.
Not breaking eye contact, Geist handed her a helmet. “Get on,” he ordered in guttural tones.
Quinn’s body hastily replied before her brain caught up. She sat behind Geist, hugging his rock-hard waist. Then the danger she was heading into registered. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” Geist growled.
They raced off into the night. Quinn clung to Geist—GEIST—for dear life, asking herself the question that should’ve come up last week. “What did I get myself into?”
Fifteen minutes later, Quinn crouched beside Geist in some shadowy alleyway, still astonished.
The Midnight Son of San Miguel is real. She had soooo many questions, none which were relevant now.
Geist was shorter than Quinn expected, maybe six feet or so. He was closer to sinewy than brawny. But when her arms had been wrapped around his waist on the motorcycle ride, Quinn felt cast-iron muscles beneath that trench coat. Or was that his costume/light armor? She could tell every story about his fighting prowess had to be true. His trench coat was three-quarter length, its lightweight fabric another layer of protection. And his mask, constructed of durable non-metal material, protected his face. All that added to Geist’s intimidating mystique.
“There,” he growled, pointing at a bar’s well-lit backdoor.
A young man exited, slim and shaggy-haired, carrying two large trash bags.
Quinn squinted in recognition. “Herman? The bartender from Paragon’s?” she whispered, not expecting to see him again. “I’m surprised he’s still alive.”
“Killing him is too messy,” Geist replied brusquely. “He has friends.”
Quinn glanced at him. “Herman’s disappearance draws too much attention.”
“It’s why I took so long updating you,” Geist continued as Herman tossed the bags into trash bins. He turned to reenter the bar. “Had to track his schedule. Find an opening. Like tonight.”
“Why are we here?” Quinn whispered, heartbeat accelerating.
The vigilante rose. “Answers.”
Despite rumors of Geist’s vaunted intimidation, Quinn harbored some doubts. “Seraph made him talk with the Purity Stare,” she said. “What do you have? The fear of God?”
“Fear of me.” Geist’s whisper cut like a jagged knife.
The words shivered down Quinn’s spine. “Right,” she murmured.
As Herman closed the door, Geist burst into a sprint. Quinn swallowed a gasp. The vigilante reached the backdoor in seconds, trench coat rippling out behind him like a cape. Quinn had never seen someone non-powered move that fast. Even under the yellowish light, Geist remained wrapped in shadow, seeming to drink in the illumination. Fascinating…and troubling.
Geist held the door open just enough, beckoning Quinn forward with a nod. She followed as fast as she could run, squeaking in fright. Besides a few passed-out-drunk vagrants sprawled nearby, the alleyway was empty.
Once Quinn reached the door, Geist slipped inside, a shadow fleeing the light. Quinn hoisted the heavy door open and entered to hear shuffles of movement, then Herman’s screams.
“Oh no,” Quinn groaned. She scurried through dim hallways reeking of beer and liquor and vomit, reaching the open barroom.
Quinn’s heart flipflopped at what she saw. Geist pinned the thrashing bartender atop the wooden bar stand, choking him one-handed. Despite Herman’s large frame, the vigilante held him down easily. Thank goodness the window blinds were closed.
The gagging barkeep was beet-red, reptilian eyes bulging as he clawed desperately at Geist’s mask. A piston-like fist to the gut drove the fight out of him.
The casual brutality staggered Quinn. “Geist!” She rushed forward to pull him off.
The vigilante shoved her away with one hand. The reporter stumbled back, almost falling over.
Geist glared her down while maintaining his chokehold.
“Ask him.” An unspoken or else underscored the harsh command.
Fear seized Quinn. This partnership was a mistake. But who knew what would've happened had Geist interrogated Herman alone?
“Herman?” she inquired, voice quaking. “I have some questions. An innocent man’s life depends on it.”
Herman shook his head, red-faced and weeping. “You don’t understand what’ll happen,” he gasped, “to people I love.”
“Worry about your fate,” Geist snarled, driving three rapid-fire jabs into Herman’s stomach.
Quinn squealed while the barkeep shuddered and coughed. “Geist!” She clutched her kinky-haired head.
“I told her,” Herman gasped through a wheezing cough. “Borealis was too drunk to even walk straight.”
“Was he alone?” Quinn asked hastily. The sooner she finished, the sooner Geist released him.
But Herman, the idiot, remained silent.
“Make her ask again.” Geist leaned over him menacingly. “I dare you.” Even with a mask, ferocity radiated off him.
“Initially, he was alone!” Herman sputtered. “Until a huge Borealis fan came and bought him drinks, begging for stories of his heyday.”
“Was that the first time this guy hung out with Borealis?” Quinn continued.
“No.”
“When did it start?” Geist growled, relaxing his chokehold somewhat.
“A few weeks before Titan died,” Herman exhaled gratefully.
Quinn exchanged a look with Geist. This “fan” targeted him? “How did Borealis leave the bar that night?”
“I helped him,” Herman admitted.
“Then what?”
The barkeep frowned up at the ceiling, clearly deciding his
next words.
That earned him another vicious body blow. “What. Happened. Next?” Geist roared.
Quinn nearly jumped out of her shoes. She turned frantically to Herman. “Answer! Please!”
Herman coughed and shook his head. “I can’t...remember. I helped Borealis out and…someone else took him. Can’t remember who. Everything’s…fuzzy.”
Geist’s glowing eyes narrowed, startling Quinn again.
“If you’re lying…” she warned, for Herman’s safety.
“I’m not!” Herman blurted out. His face purpled from Geist’s chokehold. “I know someone took him, but…I’m drawing a blank.”
Geist prickled. “Then I’ll beat it out of you…” He raised a fist to strike.
Herman cringed.
“Stop!” Quinn had seen enough. She grabbed the vigilante’s cocked arm. “This makes sense.”
The vigilante whipped his head around, red eyes glittering. “How?”
Quinn struggled not to pee with fear under that glower. “When Seraph and I grilled him, someone blocked her Purity Stare.” She shook her head, dazed from this line of thinking. “Maybe a telepath is involved?”
Geist lowered his cocked arm. “Meaning the same telepath altered his memories.”
Quinn nodded. “I don’t think he knows anymore—”
Geist raised a gloved finger to silence her. She was about to object.
“We have company,” he growled. “Behind the bar.” The vigilante shoved Herman off the bar onto the barkeep side.
Quinn scurried around and ducked behind the structure.
Within moments, several footsteps powerwalking forward caught her ears. A minute later, she snuck a peek from behind the bar to see eight homeless men. How they’d entered, she had no clue. The vagrants circled Geist, wielding an assortment of crowbars, knives, and baseball bats. Quinn’s stomach crawled into her throat. I didn’t close the door properly, she fretted. Now they were going to kill Geist, Quinn, and Herman, then rob the place.