Read Online Wearing The Cape: Villains Inc. by Marion G. Harmon - Free Book Online
Authors: Marion G. Harmon
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hadn’t thought to bring civies , and wouldn’t have trusted a hotel anyway. Fortunately I had a standing invitation to crash at Restormel anytime. Seven had been one of them, more movie star than superhero, and I still didn’t know why he decided to take Blackstone up on his offer to join the Sentinels after the Whittier Base Attack decimated our ranks. I hadn’t been interested in much when he switched teams, and now I wasn’t sure how to ask.
Restormel sat in the Beverly Hills, overlooking LA. The Hollywood Knights were up north shooting for their latest movie, Hollywood Knights VI: Bloody Dawn , but the staff and accommodations were as high-class as I remembered; I showered and relaxed as well as I could, even chatted a bit with Dr. Carlson, the team’s resident physician. She’d treated me back in January when I’d come in with plasma burns after an enraged breakthrough shot me out of the sky.
At nightfall I got the call; Cornelius would meet me at Lunette’s.
And what a difference night made.
Lunettes’ was the same pale shade, but lit by tracks of silver-white LED lights I hadn’t noticed in the daytime. Its open doors let in the cool night air and spilled music into the surrounding lot. There was no club line, just a doorman who nodded some through, stopped others. Most weren’t in costume, and disappointed would-be-partiers didn’t stay around. Cars filled the guarded lot, parked and retrieved by a team of watchful attendants.
When I landed the big guy just nodded to me, light from the crescent above the door shining off a matching tattoo on his skull. Inside, the club wasn’t any brighter than it had been during the day, but I drew looks. Just like at The Fortress, club-goers looked away; I’d be “invisible” unless I talked to somebody. Orb sat at the table she’d occupied earlier, and now she had company.
Shelly popped into virtual existence beside me.
“That’s him,” she said. “And we’re screwed.”
Chapter Eight
Not all breakthroughs follow the superhero stereotypes; there are lots of other “supernatural” breakthroughs based on older myths and stories. Chakra, with her tantric magic, is the perfect blush-inducing example of the Merlin-type (do not talk to her about the source of her powers!), but there are witches in San Francisco, voodonists in New Orleans, English druids, Italian strega , Native American medicine men, Appalachian conjure-men, and enough others to fill books. And because their beliefs shaped their breakthroughs, their magic works.
Astra, Notes From a Life.
----
Using my eyes Shelly could see what I saw, and she was right. This was our guy, but not yet, if ever. We could only see his back, but his long hair was shiny in a bad way and pulled into a ratty tail. His shoulders hunched like he expected the world to smack him for no reason. He wore an old evening coat, blue so dark it looked black and glinting with light off of dozens, maybe hundreds of silver pins. All kinds of pins: award pins, logo pins, event pins, even tie and lapel pins as long as they were small and silver. If the night sky went slumming, it would look like this. Even in a club full of sweaty dancers, I could smell the odor of too many missed baths on him.
“Astra,” Orb said when I stepped out of the crowd. She held up her hand and a server took my order of a virgin cooler before I took the unoccupied chair. Her guest was even more unpromising from the front. His dark skin was an unhealthy gray, and the lines around his veined eyes aged him. I was looking at a longtime crack addict or meth-head.
He looked up from his drink, and tired eyes lit with interest. When he didn’t say anything I extended a gloved hand.
“Dr. Cornelius?”
Restormel sat in the Beverly Hills, overlooking LA. The Hollywood Knights were up north shooting for their latest movie, Hollywood Knights VI: Bloody Dawn , but the staff and accommodations were as high-class as I remembered; I showered and relaxed as well as I could, even chatted a bit with Dr. Carlson, the team’s resident physician. She’d treated me back in January when I’d come in with plasma burns after an enraged breakthrough shot me out of the sky.
At nightfall I got the call; Cornelius would meet me at Lunette’s.
And what a difference night made.
Lunettes’ was the same pale shade, but lit by tracks of silver-white LED lights I hadn’t noticed in the daytime. Its open doors let in the cool night air and spilled music into the surrounding lot. There was no club line, just a doorman who nodded some through, stopped others. Most weren’t in costume, and disappointed would-be-partiers didn’t stay around. Cars filled the guarded lot, parked and retrieved by a team of watchful attendants.
When I landed the big guy just nodded to me, light from the crescent above the door shining off a matching tattoo on his skull. Inside, the club wasn’t any brighter than it had been during the day, but I drew looks. Just like at The Fortress, club-goers looked away; I’d be “invisible” unless I talked to somebody. Orb sat at the table she’d occupied earlier, and now she had company.
Shelly popped into virtual existence beside me.
“That’s him,” she said. “And we’re screwed.”
Chapter Eight
Not all breakthroughs follow the superhero stereotypes; there are lots of other “supernatural” breakthroughs based on older myths and stories. Chakra, with her tantric magic, is the perfect blush-inducing example of the Merlin-type (do not talk to her about the source of her powers!), but there are witches in San Francisco, voodonists in New Orleans, English druids, Italian strega , Native American medicine men, Appalachian conjure-men, and enough others to fill books. And because their beliefs shaped their breakthroughs, their magic works.
Astra, Notes From a Life.
----
Using my eyes Shelly could see what I saw, and she was right. This was our guy, but not yet, if ever. We could only see his back, but his long hair was shiny in a bad way and pulled into a ratty tail. His shoulders hunched like he expected the world to smack him for no reason. He wore an old evening coat, blue so dark it looked black and glinting with light off of dozens, maybe hundreds of silver pins. All kinds of pins: award pins, logo pins, event pins, even tie and lapel pins as long as they were small and silver. If the night sky went slumming, it would look like this. Even in a club full of sweaty dancers, I could smell the odor of too many missed baths on him.
“Astra,” Orb said when I stepped out of the crowd. She held up her hand and a server took my order of a virgin cooler before I took the unoccupied chair. Her guest was even more unpromising from the front. His dark skin was an unhealthy gray, and the lines around his veined eyes aged him. I was looking at a longtime crack addict or meth-head.
He looked up from his drink, and tired eyes lit with interest. When he didn’t say anything I extended a gloved hand.
“Dr. Cornelius?”
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