1
KAYE
The crisp autumn air pulses with a distant pounding so insistent my head beats with it, and no matter how hard I try to focus on the streets around me, it’s unavoidable. I’m loath to give up my perch high above the city, on the arched rooftop of the East Side Bank. It may not be the most comfortable of my hideaways, but it is my favorite. Not too far from the heart of downtown and with a view of the river snaking around the city of New Malcolm. When the sun sets, the water blazes with it, and the majesty of sunrise over the skyline steals my breath.
New Malcolm has more super-powered people—Supers—per capita than any other city in the Midwest. Whether born or drawn here, we are proud to call New Malcolm our home, but anytime groups of people come together, there are bound to be disagreements. There are larger consequences when Supers are involved—battles that break cities and take lives.
The boom of Supers in the sixties, seventies, and eighties nearly leveled New Malcolm and the people in it. Both heroes and villains fell victim to a hubris far beyond themselves, one no one would have survived. It was for the greater good that they hid in the decades since, and soon the world forgot all about us.
The city flourished, spurred on by steel and factories. They fill the warehouse district and dot the landscape of suburbs beyond. Then the villains resurfaced, and suddenly New Malcolm needed her heroes again.
I drop the last couple of feet from the rickety fire ladder, landing almost silently on the pavement below, knees bent to absorb the impact. My mask shifts a little, but there’s no one around to see. I stick to the shadows, moving lightly as I creep toward the source of the sound. A couple blocks further and the buildings reveal Center Creek Park, and across it, Valentine Vanall’s mansion shines like a beacon.
I can make out most of the words in “Walk the Line” by Wax Tailor and The Others. A sweet taste rides the air, somewhere between floral and fruity. The wind shakes the trees over my head as I dart along a winding trail that eventually spits me out near the monolith. My power acts almost as an extra sense, pulsing and extending around me. Grasping the energy in the air, I pull it into my chest. Instantly, the air around me stills. The treetops sway in the distance, untouched by the vacuum.
Energy is kinetic, vital, alive, and it is in all things. It stills only when I harvest it.
Cars line both sides of the street for blocks, but there’s no one around. No attendants wait to park cars for new guests or guard the door from crashers without an invitation—which is a relief, considering that’s exactly what I am as I climb the stone steps and press my palm to the cracked, leaded glass of the front door.
The warm spice of ginger and rum fill my senses, but there’s no press of dancing bodies blocking my path. No lilting laugher in the darker recesses of the foyer. Trays of hors d’oeuvres line the cushion on the red Victorian fainting couch along the wall.
Where is everyone?
The song changes to “Our Dance” by Wax Tailor as I creep through the house, spotting a masked form slumped on the floor. Then another.
“It’s a story, but that’s why I’m here. To tell you stories. So picture the scene…”
Glittering flapper dresses twinkle as their chests rise and fall, but none of them stir when I press my fingers to their pulse points. The suited and tuxedoed men lie arranged much the same way, some with cigars still lit and clutched between their fingers. I stub those out in a nearby bucket of melting ice. More bodies appear as I roam—crumpled in hallways, sprawled across tiled side rooms, and one embarrassingly slumped in a small powder room with his pants around his ass.
In the kitchen, male and female servers dressed in lingerie and heels rest their heads on one another’s shoulders. Nearby, chefs in their fine white uniforms lie nestled close to their workstations, knives and cutlery abandoned on butcher-block counters. Some sleep on benches beneath the windows, others slumped in chairs around a modest but sturdy table. Savory scents waft from pots and pans on the industrial stove and inside the large oven, steaming hot even though someone has turned the burners off.
Like breadcrumbs, a trail of sleeping revelers leads through the house. I pause in the hallway just outside a massive room with windows lining the entire back wall, where a voice filters through the music.
“My patience is wearing thin, gentlemen. Does anyone know what happens when it runs out?”
The voice is deep, almost melodic in its fullness. It echoes.
“We’ve told you everything.” I have heard Valentine Vanall speak countless times on podcasts and local news since he tookoffice a little more than five years ago, but I have never heard the Mayor of New Malcolmwhimperbefore.
The first man growls, and I chance a glance around the corner.
Four men kneel at the feet of a fifth, his long, black-clad legs stretched out as he lounges against a bar stocked with more alcohol than I can name. His suit is inky, flowing around him like a living thing, never really touching or leaving his skin. A stark alabaster mask, featureless and fresh as snowfall, rests over pale, high cheekbones and a jaw sharp enough to cut. He’s tall and languid, his musculature defined without bulk.
He lunges, seizing the mayor by the throat.
“No,” Vanall groans.
He grips his own right wrist in his left and snaps it roughly to the side. The bone pops as it breaks, muffled only by the gurgling gasp emitted from the man’s throat.
“Say it, Vanall,” the man in the mask spits in his face. “Tell me where he is.”
Vanall spits on his shoes and then a loud crack echoes around me.
“Do you know how many bones are in the human hand? I’d love nothing more than to acquaint you with every one.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand, my muscles tightening in my core. It’s impossible to tell, but it’s almost as if our eyes meet. The corner of his mouth ticks up, the point of one sharp canine glinting. My cheeks heat as I duck behind the wall.
“Olly olly oxen free,” he calls. “Come out…wherever you are.”
