Wearing The Cape: Villains Inc. (10 page)

He slapped the table, making me jump. “Hermetic magicians call it
Assiah
, and it’s like the orange peels here. Just the skin of reality. Inside that is
Yetzirah
, the astral plane, the dream plane, the place our
minds
are. Inside that is
Briah
, the iconic real, home to all the faces of divinity we know and crammed with every afterlife and mythic place we can imagine. Inside
that
is
Atziluth
, the
hyperion
realm, the home of the Source, the Prime Mover, capital G God. All energy emanates from the Source. When it reaches
Briah
it divides into the thirty-six emanations, the
decanic
energies that mix to continually re-create
Assiah
, the world we eat and crap and get high in.

“Me? I saw it
all
. The Event greased me right through
Yetzirah
, through
Briah
, and right into
Atziluth
where I saw the
freakin
’ face of God. And He spoke to me. Just three Words, three of the thirty-six Words used to speak the world into being, one for each
decan
.”

He popped an orange slice in his mouth, grinning maniacally.

“And you know what? I can’t forget them. Can’t say them, either, not one. Don’t know what would happen if I did—they’re realer than I am. And I
can’t stop seeing the world for what it is.
Except when I’m high of course.”

I didn’t know what to say. He shrugged, popping another orange slice.

“Is any of that real except to me? Don’t know, don’t care. Still think I can help the great Blackstone?”

With no reason to stay in LA, I retrieved my bag from
Restormel
and flew out. Shelly ghosted alongside me, but we didn’t talk much. She promised to look some more; maybe she’d missed something, another future lead we could pursue. I only half-listened. I hadn’t thought the trip through on the flight out—had kept myself from thinking about it, really. But now I detoured south of my LA-Chicago flight path, heading for the Bear River Mountains and Atlas’ cabin. When Shelly realized my destination she said goodnight and switched off.

In the middle of the cleanup from the Big One, just before the Whittier Base Attack, Atlas and I spent three nights there. I told his parents about it after the funeral, and I think it helped, a little, because they gave me the cabin. They had their ranch in Texas and had never been up there themselves; it had been John’s “Fortress of Solitude.” I’d thanked them, but hadn’t been able to go back.

Now I descended on the luxury-cabin, tucked in a mountain valley between ridges and surrounded by pine and aspen. Even without a moon, my super-sight let me see just fine by starlight. Finding the key, I unlocked the front door and dropped my bag in the entryway.

And took a deep breath. Now what?

“I could replay for you,” Shelly said quietly, popping in beside me.

I shrieked, spun around.

“Don’t
do
that!”

“Sorry! I just— Your neural implant was up and running by then, so there’s a complete recording of your trip in the Anarchist’s files. It’s locked, but if you want I can get it. You can see…”

“
No.
” I covered my eyes, light-headed. I wasn’t going to scream at Shelly. I wasn’t.

“No. That’s…nice,
Shel
. Maybe in fifty years.”

My breakthrough had forced me to abandon all my adult plans. I was still a college freshman, but I didn’t have time to experience college life. Instead of club and sorority activities, after-school parties and rooming with the Bees, I trained and patrolled. But I got Atlas. Trained as his sidekick for three months, fought beside him, fought
with
him. And made new plans. Until the attack.

I blinked determinedly.

“I’ll be okay, but thanks for the offer. See you at home?”

She nodded uncertainly and disappeared again.

I took another breath, and realized it didn’t hurt. I’d have to thank Shelly—she’d broken the moment, and now I knew what I’d come for. I stripped off my mask, gloves, and boots, then found the linen closet and pulled out the horse-blanket we’d used together the first night. Going back outside, I climbed to the elevated back porch, stripped the cover off the outdoor couch, and stretched out. The stars were different than the winter stars of January, but just as bright.

I could smell John in the blanket, and it got a little wet, but my dreams were beautiful.

Looking at the old comic-book superheroes, Batman had a secret lair from which he could monitor the world and particularly his beloved Gotham City, but Superman had an impregnable fortress hidden as far away from the rest of humanity as it could be and still be on the same planet. A secret base of operations vs. a
hideway
.

Dr.
Mendell
,
On superhero psychology.

Capes are a pain in the butt, which is why most capes don’t wear them. Mine are made out of some kind of patented silk-synthetic mix that’s cool and shiny but fairly resistant to damage. Apparently they’re not resistant to being slept on; I forgot to take it off last night, and woke up tangled in cape and horse-blanket. The horse-blanket was less wrinkled.

I’d had no plans last night, but I did when I opened my eyes. Back in January, when Atlas and I returned to Los Angeles I’d left behind all the civilian clothes I’d bought just for the scandal-inducing getaway. I’d optimistically anticipated a lot more time spent here. Now the mountains were green with spring, the meadows covered in wildflowers, and I had the day free.
Two
days if I blew off class for once.

Going back inside, I showered and changed into cargo shorts and a pink cotton
cami
with
Bow to the princess
written in white sparkles. Bouncing down the stairs, I almost screamed when I ran into Artemis coming up from the cellar.

“Morning, Hope. So what kind of coffee did Atlas stock, anyway?” she asked.

“I— What? The who?”

“Shelly thought you might need some big-girl talk, and I got to test Vulcan’s new carrier drone. He designed it to drop Galatea, but I stepped out a few thousand feet up and floated down. Thought I’d let you sleep.”

She’d changed into a civilian version of her
daysuit
—skintight and covered by sailor pants and a long-sleeved turtleneck sweater. She had the gloves and mask ready, but with the bay-window curtains drawn she was fine inside the cabin.

“Thanks? I… Coffee?” I pulled in my scattered thoughts while Artemis stood there, completely unconcerned at having invited herself to join my getaway. “Just canned stuff.”

She smiled, held up a bag. “I came prepared.”

Being a vampire limited Artemis to a liquid diet, so she’d become a lover of all things drinkable. Coffee, hot chocolate, wine, beer, coolers,
ale
, even ice-cream (frozen liquid after all). She could brew coffee that made gourmet baristas cry, and I’d kill for her chocolate concoctions.

Ten minutes later, the kitchen filling with the brain-melting aroma of hand-ground bean, Artemis threw herself into a chair.

“So?” she said. “Why is Shelly worried about you?” Birds sang outside, wind rattled the leaves, and my super-duper hearing picked up the soft step of a deer. Two? A doe and her fawn? When I focused I could hear the wildlife around the cabin, but I couldn’t hear Artemis’ heartbeat. Because being dead, she didn’t have one. And though she hadn’t inherited any of the traditional vampire phobias from the psychotic and delusional breakthrough who’d “sired” her, naked sunlight would burn her like a blowtorch. But she sat across from me, up in the daytime and far away from her safe urban haunts.

“Hey,” she said. “Little Miss Sunshine can’t go watery on me.”

I sniffed and wiped my eyes.
 
“And fiends of the night shouldn’t be up past their bedtimes. You still haven’t told me where you’ve been.”

She’d disappeared right after the public funeral for Atlas, Nimbus, and Ajax. All Blackstone would tell anybody was that she’d been “helping the DSA with an investigation,” and although she’d texted a few times she hadn’t spilled any details.

And she’d stayed strictly nocturnal since getting back two weeks ago. We hadn’t resumed our weekly outings to The Fortress, and we hadn’t really talked. About
anything
. I’d thought she’d been avoiding me. Which I could understand, since I
had
almost gotten her killed.

She read my face. “Hey. You didn’t drag me along—I volunteered, remember? Hell, I owed the Anarchist big-time. If that meant going into a daylight fight, my biggest problem with the way it turned out is I didn’t get a chance to shoot anybody. Not even a little.”

That surprised a laugh out of me.

“Better,” she said. “Want me to shoot a few
newsies
for you? Just a little?”

“
Aagh
.” I clutched my hair, sliding down in my chair. “Just a little. You’d think they’d leave me alone.”

“In what
bizarro
alternate world would they do that? After the Burnout scandal with all those underage ‘sidekicks’ last year? And we’re talking about Atlas, the Great American Hero? You can’t just show your birth-certificate, so the tabloids can claim you’re jailbait, and you’ve got to admit that the ten-year age difference between the two of you made it look a bit
squicky
.”

“Nine! Nine years! And I thought you were all for it.”

“I was. When you’re in The Life you carpe the diem when you can. I didn’t know Atlas well, but Blackstone didn’t even blink at the thought of you two. Chakra wouldn’t have cared if one of you was a duck, but if Blackstone had thought it the least
hinky
he’d have warned you away from it.”

“Then what did I do wrong?”

“Disappearing with Atlas for three days? With
his
rep? You’d have done better to run off to Vegas. Getting married by Elvis would have been nothing.”

“We were engaged, and
nothing
happened!”

“Great title for your autobiography.
Nobody’ll
buy it.”

I moaned.

“This conversation is undoing my therapy.”

“Really? You killed how many Bad Guys in LA, got tortured by a sadistic nut-job and waxed him too, and
this
is what you talk to Dr.
Mendell
about?”

“I don’t talk to her about LA. Or Reno. Not since she certified me for duty.”

“Coffee’s ready.”

She got up and poured, then did something arcane with the cans and packets she’d brought. English cream. Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Other stuff. She never asked what I wanted, but I always wanted what she made.

“So what were you doing Blackstone wouldn’t talk about?” I asked, blowing on mine. Habit: I could have drunk it boiling.

For a moment she looked really, really dangerous, like an evil Snow White.

“Let’s just say the ‘vampire’ population of New Orleans has declined. On that note, good news: I’m not contagious.”

“You can’t make other vampires?”

“Nope. Not without psycho-
Vlad
to empower me, anyway. And since he’s ashes floating in Lake Michigan…”