The Prospects (Book 2): Nothing Poorer Than Gods (9 page)

“Don’t wallow in self-pity, darling. It’s not attractive.”

“What about you? Aren’t you a villainess?”

Portia inspected her nails. “I’m something beyond that. There’s not a word for what I am yet. You see, the world is changing. Soon there will be no more heroes and villains.”

“What do you mean?”

The woman with a bone-spike mohawk rolled against their log with her arms wrapped around a biker.

Portia and Candilyn slid down the log. On the other end, the turtle-shelled woman lit a thick blunt in the fire and puffed furiously.

Portia looked away in disgust. “Let’s go somewhere quiet.”

Portia lit her flashlight and led Candilyn into the woods. On the way they passed the leader of the Vandals, who stood perfectly sober with a Taser his hand. She took Candilyn’s hand and said, “Not this one.”

The two women walked through the woods. “Where are we going?” asked Candilyn.

“Somewhere more serene.”

“It’s got to be better than where we were. Those girls suck. And those biker-guys have beards are older than me. But I don’t want to get lost in the woods.”

In the faint moonlight Candilyn saw a small tent at the edge of a meadow. Portia shone her flashlight inside. “Here is where I’m spending the night.”

“Neat,” said Candilyn.

“Take it in. Crickets, clean air, clear skies, stars above, soft grass below. It’s easy to forget we live in a world with places like this.”

“Yeah, my family tried camping, but we got kicked out of the state park. Turns out, other campers don’t know what ‘sharing’ means.”

“Well, you can share my tent.”

“Cool, but there’s only one sleeping bag in there.”

“I know.” Portia put her hands on Candilyn’s hips.

“Hey, stop.” Candilyn stepped back. “Thanks for everything, but I’m not into girls.”

“I guess I misunderstood.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that there is something about you I find extremely attractive.”

“Really?”

“Maybe it’s your wit, or your innocence, or the nobility you showed sacrificing yourself for your family, or something so unique it defies description.”

Candilyn shifted her feet. “Well …”

Portia caressed Candilyn’s arm. “Or, maybe, because like me, you always feel this universe wasn’t made with you in mind. That you spend years dreaming of a moment of solace, of peace, of feeling like someone somewhere wants nothing more than you, a kindred spirit to hold close to her heart so for once you want to be no one but who you are and nowhere but that moment.”

Candlyn quivered. “Uh, actually …”

Portia withdrew her hand. “But, no, that can’t be it. A woman like you must have many lovers.”

“You’d think that, but ...”

“I’ve been rejected before. I’ll survive. I always do.”

“Hey, you’re cute and everything …”

“It’s sad that it ends like this. We could’ve made each other happy.”

“Wait a minute, I didn’t mean …”

“Go play with the drunk girls and bikers. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“It’s … this feels weird but I don’t want to go back there … I don’t know what to do.”

Portia looked up to her. Her delicate face glowed in the pale moonlight. Her breath made small clouds in the crisp air. “Do what feels right. You owe yourself nothing less.”

Candilyn stroked Portia’s hair.

Portia responded with an open-mouthed kiss.

As the sun rose, Candilyn traced the outline of Portia’s tattoo with her fingertips. “What kind of spider is this?”

“It’s a
portia fimbriata
.”

“What’s that?”

“A spider that preys on other spiders.”

“How? Does it make bigger webs?”

“It uses deception, disguises, and elaborate traps to get what it wants.”

“That is so cool.” Candilyn rubbed Portia’s sacral dimples. “Can we do it again?”

“Aren’t you the insatiable one?”

“I don’t know what means, but can we?”

Portia’s smartphone played Chopin’s Polonaise. She grabbed it and pressed the button. “Everything went smoothly.”

Candilyn rolled to the other side of the tent. “Stupid phones.”

Portia said into the phone, “We have five ready for pickup. I’m keeping one, the one from Poughkeepsie … I have my reasons. What other jobs do you have? … A hacker within twelve hours? It’s a tight deadline … I didn’t say no, but … that much? You must be desperate, Handler … excuse me, The Handler … I don’t know what you have in mind, but as long as you pay I’ll do what you want.” She hung up.

“What was that about?” asked Candilyn.

Portia checked her text messages. “Nothing you would understand. Now, my insatiable one, let’s …”

A deep voice echoed through the meadow. “Is this a bad time?”

Portia slid out from under Candilyn and grabbed her shirt. “Not at all. I’ll be right out.”

Candilyn asked, “Who’s that?”

“The leader of the Vandals. We have business to discuss.” Portia slipped into her slacks and climbed out of the tent barefoot.

Candilyn watched Portia walk up to the burly biker.

“The truck is coming up the logging road on the other side of the mountain,” said the Vandal’s leader. “It’ll be here real soon.”

“How are the girls?”

“Passed out and wiped out. They won’t be any trouble”

“And Brahma Mama?”

“The police found her corpse five miles in the opposite direction from the van and are searching around there.”

“I didn’t plan on using her, but we needed a red herring and she practically volunteered.”

“So, about our agreed-to payment?”

“I’ll transfer the money to your account before noon, plus another five thousand for your efficiency. Your men can help themselves to anything leftover from the party.”

“Appreciate it. We’ll load the girls into the truck.” The Vandal’s leader extended his hand.

Portia shook it. “It’s great working with professionals. Is my car in the agreed-to location?”

“Right at the GPS coordinates you gave us. Gotta say, it felt weird covering a Porsche with a tarp and branches.”

“As long as it starts, I’ll be happy.”

The Vandal’s leader went back into the woods as Portia returned to the tent.

“What was that about?” asked Candilyn.

“Your lips are for kissing, not asking questions. Get dressed, we have to leave.”

“What’s happening to the other girls?”

“You heard me say they’ll be a part of an upcoming war, right?”

“Aren’t you leading them?”

“I’m a recruiter, not a general. The Handler will pay a million for them, and if I can get a superhacker I’ll get two million more.”

“I know a superhacker, but he’s a real dick.”

“Who?”

“His name is Vijay, or Asura.”

Portia checked her text message. “That’s one of the names the Handler is paying an extra million for. Where is he?”

“Last I heard, he was in North Brother Island. You know, the jail for supervillains.”

“If we get him, we’ll have enough money to spend the rest of our lives living like queens in Fiji. Just you, me, white beaches, ocean sunsets, and fresh mango juice.”

“We?”

“If you’d rather stay here, I’ll send you a postcard.”

“Hell, I always wanted to go to Japan. I mean, I know we just met, but if you’re inviting I’m coming.” Candilyn grabbed her purple bodysuit and white bands.

“Your costume doesn’t work,” said Portia. “The crazy clown thing is passé. Do you have any other clothes?”

“This is what I wore when I got arrested.”

“We’ll go shopping on the way to New York. And you need a new supervillain name, something spider-related so we can make our relationship public. Let’s go with Venusta.”

“But Zany is what I am. Venusta? I don’t even know what that is.”

“It’s a colorful long-legged spider. A perfect fit.”

“Can’t I stay Zany?”

Portia tilted Candilyn’s chin upwards. “Do you want to be with me or do you want to be alone again?”

“With you. I may never go straight again. I mean that in two ways.”

“Then be who I want you to be.”

“I’ll be anything you want as long as you don’t leave me.”

Portia kissed her cheek. “That’s what I want to hear.”

Trista’s sack-covered head bobbed furiously as Malone pulled her handcuffed arms into the hotel room.

“Hurry up,” said Puca after another coughing fit. “I’ll watch the lass. Help Slick Shadow throw the agent in the bathtub. We’ll set the scene, I’ll teleport us out two at a time. Flayer’s waiting in the alley with a van.”

Malone drew his silenced pistol and pointed it at Slick Shadow’s head. Slick Shadow didn’t have time to assume his liquid form before Malone fired. The ink-black monster dropped.

“What the bloody …” Before Puca finished her sentence Malone put his pistol’s silenced barrel less than an inch from her eye.

Trista spread her arms. The unlocked handcuffs fell to the floor. She ripped off the sack, smirked, and stared into Puca’s other eye.

Puca felt a cold chill rush beneath her skull. The words
I control you now
popped into her head.

“How …” Puca got out before Trista shut down her brain’s speech centers.

I couldn’t sleep. All I needed was eye contact to make him mine.

Puca thought,
You straight up murdered Slick Shadow
.

I don’t feel bad about it. He disfigured my friend.

The Handler’s voice in Puca's earphone said, “What’s going on?”

Puca said, against her will, “Everything’s right as rain. A maintenance person came in. Malone plugged him with no mess. We’ll clean up and be on our way.”

There was a long pause. “What happened to your accent, Colleen?”

Talk in your real voice.

Puca coughed, tightened her lips and said, “Ah tought yeh said yeh wanntid meh ta spake Ainglish.”

“Your helmet’s vital signs monitor shows a spike in your brainwaves.”

Trista searched Puca’s memories. Most of them were bomb schematics interrupted by images of explosions, drinking too much at pubs, and verdant Irish landscapes. She drew back and zoomed through the thoughts until she found the part of her mind that controlled her teleportation ability.

Puca’s hands trembled as she pointed at Alex’s stomach. She couldn’t stop Trista from forcing her to send a stream of sub-tacyonic particles into Alex’s stomach to change the vodka and sleeping pills into something that passed through time and space in an instant.

Alex groaned an instant after a pile of white mush and half-digested bites of red meat appeared next to Slick Shadow’s rapidly liquefying corpse. “Damn clam chowder.” He rolled over and passed out.

A jolt of electricity forced Trista out of Puca’s mind. Puca tore her helmet off.

A loud but tinny voice from the helmet said, “Puca, get out!”

Puca pointed at Malone. With a pop and a whiff of green smoke they vanished.

The Handler’s voice came through Puca’s helmet. “I hope you can hear me, Trista Gianni. I don’t know how you got the upper hand, but thanks to the battery-powered surge projector I planted in Puca’s helmet I broke your psychic link.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the Handler. You are an important part of my plan.”

“No, I’m not a part of your anything.”

“You don’t understand …”

“You tried to kidnap me and murder my friend.”

“I’m trying to save the world. If you would let me explain …”

“A few crimes to save the world? I fell for that before. The Idea Man was more convincing.”

“I am not the Idea Man, Trista. He wanted to enslave humanity. I want to liberate it.”

Trista saw Alex’s smartphone on the nightstand. She picked it up and saw the security screen in front of the picture of Alex, Emily, and Calvin.

She slapped Alex’s cheeks. “Come on, wake up.”

Alex’s eyes half-opened. She made a psychic connection and skimmed his memories until she found the security code. It was the same as Calvin’s birthday, or the day she and Alex met.

The Handler said, “Please, Trista, allow me to explain.”

“You hire villains, mutate children, and murder innocent people. I want nothing to do with you.”

“I am a modern Prometheus. I want to end humanity's oppression at the hands of titans. I fight for the future, and that is the only thing worth fighting for. But if we stay on opposite sides thousands, maybe millions, will die. Swapper understands. You remember your old friend Swapper, right? She’s on my side.”

Trista entered the security code and flipped through the contacts until she found Stormhead. She pressed the call button.

The Handler said, “You’re sending a cellular signal. Please don’t do that. Anyone else who gets involved will have to die.”

Trista heard a standard pre-recorded voicemail message. She hung up and looked through Alex’s contacts. The MAB? No, Mr. Griffin said the CIA infiltrated them. Emily? What could she say? Charlene – Lady Amazing? Her old mentor was comatose in a deformed body.

“No new calls. I hope that means you’ll cooperate. Flayer will be there in a few minutes to pick you up. He can fight blindfolded. You won’t stand a chance against him.”

Trista flipped through Alex’s recent calls. Right below Emily’s name at top of the list was Agent Breugnon’s number. Trista pressed the call button.

After two rings a sleepy voice answered, “Hello?”

“Agent Breugnon, please help me.”

“I thought this was Agent O’Farrell’s number”

“Some villains tried to kill us. They drugged Agent O’Farrell. I don’t know if he’ll live.”

“Where are you?”

“The Hilton on Dalton Street. Room three-fourteen.”

“Stay where you are.” The call ended.

Trista picked up Alex’s service pistol. She never held a gun in her own hands before. It felt heavy and unwieldy, far less awkward than it did when she felt it in Alex’s or Malone’s grasp.

The Handler said, “Agent Breugnon isn't making any phone calls. No one will save you.”

She saw a sheet of paper with Alex’s forged handwriting on it that read: “I’m sorry. I tried to be hero, but I failed. I couldn't even be a good husband to Emily or a father to Calvin,” followed by a scrawled signature. She tore it to pieces.

“I heard paper ripping,” said the Handler. “I assume you found the fake suicide note. Allow me to explain. Agent O’Farrell’s snooping could ruin years of planning. I wanted to give him a peaceful, easy exit that would give closure to his family and his teammates. But if you want him to live, that would be an acceptable condition of your surrender.”

Alex moaned. Trista noticed he wore only boxer shorts. She wrapped him in a hotel bathrobe and slapped his cheeks until his eyes fluttered. “Stay awake. I don’t know how what chemicals are in your system, but please don’t die.”

Alex slowly grinned. “It’s one of those dreams.” His hands moved up Trista’s hip.

Trista pulled free. Alex rolled off the bed and fell asleep before he hit the ground.

Over Alex’s heavy snoring Trista didn’t hear the whine of a tiny saw cut through the outline of the door’s lock. She didn’t know how close Flayer was until he kicked the door open.

Flayer’s scarred face sneered as the whips slithered out of his trenchcoat's sleeves with a mechanical hiss. The scent of oil and metal filled the air.

Trista fired Alex’s pistol. The recoil knocked the gun out of her delicate hands.

Flayer lashed his chains. She ducked into the space between the beds and landed on top of Alex.

Alex rubbed her lower back and murmured, “We’ve got to quit meeting like this.”

“Stop it!”

Flayer’s whips slid across the bed and knocked the pistol aside.

The window shattered. A teenage boy in a white-and-red bodysuit somersaulted through the broken glass and stood in the black puddle left by Slick Shadow’s body. “Everyone, hands to the sky.”

Trista ducked and raised her hands.

Flayer whipped at him. The boy flipped and landed next to the TV set.

Before Flayer could attack again a dark blue shape glided behind him with blinding speed. Trista didn’t realize it was a man in a silver-lined tricorn hat and a long dark-blue coat over a skintight suit until he rammed a stun gun into Flayer’s spine.

Flayer collapsed and convulsed. His flailing copper whips shredded the bed. The man in a dark blue coat jumped on his back.

A coiled whip tore out of Flayer’s coat. This one hit the man in a dark blue coat and knocked him back. He sent two whips into the doorframe and pulled himself back into the hallway, where he got on his feet and ran away.

“He’s escaping,” said the boy in red and white.

“Let him go,” said the man in a dark blue coat. “We’re here for Agent O’Farrell.”

Trista stared into the man's masked eyes. She got glimpses of a childhood spent in a lavish mansion, a man in a business suit being gunned down and falling onto a podium, the warm blood pouring from holes in his white shirt onto a boy’s hands, years of intense physical and mental training with only vengeance in mind and a photo of a homely woman in a maid’s outfit burning as a white flame pushed her out of his mind.

“Stay out of my head,” said the masked man.

“Sorry,” said Trista. “I had to make sure you were a good guy.”

“What are you, dense?” said the boy, “Are you retarded or something? Who the hell do you think he is? He’s the goddamn Midnight Rider!”

“Easy, Liberty Boy,” said Midnight Rider. “I hope that’s Agent O’Farrell on the floor.”

Alex moaned “Agent O’Farrell” as if answering the phone.

“We were attacked,” said Trista. “Someone …”

The Handler interrupted. “You are an interesting character, Midnight Rider.”

Liberty Boy pointed to Puca’s headset. “Who is that?”

“I don’t know how Agent Bruegnon got a call to you without my knowing it, but I contacted everyone in your rogue’s gallery,” said the Handler. “The Puffin, Marotte, Femme Feline, Half-Face, Feathertop, and so many others. Tell me, if I told them the exact room you were in and offered ten million dollars for your head, plus another five for Liberty Boy’s and five more for Trista’s apprehension, who would get there first?”

“Who are you?” asked Midnight Rider.

“That’s of no concern, Wayne Penobscot.”

Liberty Boy gasped. “Holy shitsnacks! How does he know your secret identity?”

“If you don’t walk away right now, everyone will know by sunrise.”

Midnight Rider said, “We aren’t abandoning a government agent and a girl in danger. Liberty Boy, take her and head north. I’ll take Agent O’Farrell south. You know where to meet.”

Liberty Boy took Trista’s arm. “My motorcycle is on the street. We’ll climb out.”

Midnight Rider put Alex over his shoulder. Alex got a close view of the superhero’s insignia of a man riding a horse silhouetted against a yellow moon. “This dream is getting weird.” He closed them again.

“Why is he so drowsy?” asked Midnight Rider.

“They drugged him,” said Trista. She pointed to Alex’s badge and pistol. “He’ll want those.”

Liberty Boy drew a grapple-gun from his utility belt and fired it into the wall. “Hold on.”

Trista wrapped her arms and legs around Liberty Boy’s back. He rappelled down the building, stopping every five feet to bounce off of a window.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve done this with heavier … holy Christ on a crack pipe!”

The second-story window in front of them shattered when three bullets whizzed past Trista’s ear. Someone squawked, “Shoot lower. We need the girl alive.”

Liberty Boy swung into the unoccupied room. Trista caught a glance of a short fat man in a white tuxedo surrounded by gun-toting men in brown turtleneck shirts on the sidewalk.

“That’s Puffin and his thugs,” said Liberty Boy. “My bike is behind them.”

“I’ll handle this.” Trista peeked out the window and made eye contact with a thug who held an Uzi. It only took a second for her to take over his mind and make him open fire on the other thugs’ legs. Most of them fell before they could return fire. Puffin waddled away, squawking in terror.

“Nice one.” Liberty Boy climbed out the window and used a series of parkour jumps to land on the ground. He held out his arms. “I’ll catch you.”

Trista said a quick prayer and jumped. He caught her and gently put her on her feet.

Liberty Boy threw a moon-shaped flash-bang grenade at the wounded goons. Before they recovered, he and Trista were on the motorcycle and speeding down Dalton Street. Liberty Boy’s narrow bike weaved through oncoming traffic, missing the oncoming cars by inches.

Trista held Liberty Boy so tightly her knuckles turned white.

A manhole in front of them popped open. A huge monster with green crocodilian scales leapt out and roared.

“It’s Green Monster,” said Liberty Boy.

Trista stared into Green Monster’s yellow reptilian eyes and hit him with all the psychic energy she had left. The creature clutched its head as Liberty Boy steered around him.

The narrow winding streets and city lights gave away to Franklin Park’s trees and foliage. She didn’t have enough strength to scream when Liberty Boy drove directly into a hill. She didn’t stop until after the motorcycle went through the hologram of solid dirt and into a smooth tunnel.