﻿Alter Egos By Andrew Marx Copyright 2011 Andrew Marx Smashwords Edition http://andrewmarx.com This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Chapter One Spellbound Nighttime in the City of Sin. Miles from the Strip and the twenty-four hour a day action, the streets of this neighborhood are empty, people either long since in bed or working the graveyard shift at the hotels. No one is about. No one hears the baying of hounds or the sound of his screaming…Well, if he could draw a breath to scream which he can’t because he is running for his life. For a split second, he closes his eyes and prays to God that he doesn’t trip over a cactus or a fairy duster bush. Or, he realizes with a panic, he could just as easily face plant into the street. His eyes fly open and he makes his getaway. He leaps over the wood fence, gripping fence posts in both hands and hurling himself bodily over the side. He lands upside down in a heap but is on his feet and racing across the yard before he has time to feel the pain shoot through his wrist and up his arm. He wonders if that maneuver bought him any time. He runs down the side of one house, risking a glance in both directions as he breaks out into the street. He races across the road and dashes around a tree, narrowly avoiding colliding with a cactus. Every damn house in this neighborhood has a cactus, he thinks. He wipes the sweat from his brow. The mask is sopping up most of it, but his eyes still sting. He’s running out of breath. He’s not sure how much farther he can get before he collapses. His codename is Shiv and he just may be in deep shit. “How did I get myself into this mess?” he mutters. Not that long ago, his name is just Owen Clark. He is a first-year student at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas in the honors program. His parents are bursting proud of their boy, the first generation college student with stellar grades, an admittedly strange (to them!) interest in chemistry and other sciences that none of his siblings have demonstrated. But he is the youngest, and they are indulgent once he chooses a local college with in-state tuition charges. Even after his first semester, they still take his report card and pin it up on the refrigerator with a magnet. It is sometime during his second semester that he realizes his parents are lame and stops going home for dinner except when he needs his mom to do his laundry. He grows another three inches during his first year of college. He is tall enough to try out for the basketball team, but sports are never a particularly good match for him. He has a girlfriend because everyone he knows has a girlfriend, but he is more interested in sex than in sex with her. He is pretty sure she feels the same way and is glad they don’t have to talk about it. He spends more and more time reading comic books and playing video games in his room than eating dinner at the dining commons and studying. Unlike some of his friends, he virtually ignores gambling in the casinos and drinking in the residence halls. Not that he skips out entirely but he doesn’t care one way or another. Casinos and dorm parties are there when it seems convenient. He blasts through his homework assignments in a couple of hours each morning before class and spends the rest of the time in the school’s laboratories. The semester ends; his grades are a virtual lock for straight A’s. His parents have already paid for housing for the summer, tuition for the next fall. They think he’s stretching his boundaries. He thinks about sex, video games and, for the first time, the gym. This is his routine the day he meets Spyderco. Is he is swept away by a middle-aged woman with breasts the size of small planets and the soft leathery voice of a phone-sex operator? No. In fact when he first meets her, his only thought is how leathery her breasts appear, as if they have been tanned and stretched over her chest. He’s fascinated by them but not the woman they belong to. She speaks and he hears the equivalent of a tea kettle hissing. One minute, he’s not interested. The next, he can’t turn away. Against his will, he listens to her offer. Be a hero, she says. She offers him superpowers and underhanded villains to fight. She tells him that he can even go back to school next year…if he even wants to. She says this knowingly, as if assuming he will want to apprentice as a superhero for the rest of his life. He plans to say no politely and walk away. But the words that come out of his mouth are “Yes” and “That sounds wonderful” even though it sounds grueling and a waste of time. It’s June, he reasons, September is far off. He has plenty of time to play hero and still make it back for the fall term. He doesn’t ever remember deciding it’s a good idea, yet finds himself telling his parents that he has been offered a summer internship. That’s how he gets the gig. And just three weeks later, he’s running for his life, not sure if he will survive the night. He can’t see out of the eyeholes of the mask. The cloth is drenched with sweat and it keeps twisting so that his eyes are covered. It is just a black mask with his code name S H I V sewn into the forehead in white letters. He races down the street blindly now. If he can stop for one second to think, he might be able to create a weapon to defend himself and destroy the beasts chasing him. Or at least keep them from ripping him into bloody bits. That is his power, she tells him. He can create any weapon he can imagine out of thin air. More importantly, using the weapon simultaneously transforms him into a weapon expert. He knows instantly how to use it. All he has to do is concentrate to make it happen. Except he is having trouble thinking. He is too tired and feels like he’s running in circles. In fact, he is heading straight back to the main road where there may be cars and other witnesses to be torn to shreds right along with him. He can’t hear the hounds now and that worries him more than when they are nipping at his ankles. He doubts that they have broken off their pursuit, only backed off and repositioned themselves to take him momentarily. Their attack plan becomes apparent. The pack has separated and each hound comes at him from a different direction. He hears a growl immediately behind him first. He loses his balance, twisting around in midair and reaching behind his back, fervently praying for a bazooka. There is an image in his head from what he has seen in the movies. The power comes through and suddenly, he is cradling the tube on his shoulder, one hand clutching the front grip. It is unbearably heavy and he is still tumbling backwards. The hound nearest him launches into the air, its terrible fangs bearing down on Shiv. As his back crashes into the cement, he fires. The bazooka bucks, first lifting him off the ground and then slamming him headfirst against the earth. The hound flies towards him, uncannily aiming for his throat. The projectile from the bazooka hammers the hound square in the jaw and sends it flying off in a wild new trajectory, backwards end over end like a gymnastic tumbler. The bazooka rolls off in the grass and lays still. The hound collapses in the street, motionless. Owen staggers to his feet. The bazooka is forgotten, gone as if it has never existed. But it does the job it is created for. “That was my dog!” a voice screeches. A man dressed in a gown of all black appears to walk out of the darkness as if he is made from the blackness itself. His skin is dark and his hair is spiked straight up, like the needles of an irate porcupine. The man’s pencil-thin lips are frozen in a snarl. In two long strides, he stands nose to nose with Shiv. With inhuman strength, the man lifts him off his feet and pulls him close. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” Shiv struggles to say. He tries to break the man’s grip, but long, bony fingers are wrapped tightly around both his arms. The man bares dagger-like teeth. “No, you weren’t. But he has brothers. And I’m going to feed you to them.” Shiv looks around. Where is Spyderco? Then, like a beacon in the night, she appears. “Let him go, Dukkon!” a woman’s voice calls out. She is standing across the street, her body lit bright as the day. It is so bright that only the outline of her curvaceous body can be seen. The details are awash as though her body burns by some supernatural fire. Owen knows that she is wearing her usual outfit. Black spandex pants tucked into knee-high boots. A black skin-tight halter top with plenty of cleavage showing and opera gloves, studded with sharp spikes that run down the length of both arms. He can close his eyes and picture every stunning detail. “Spyderco!” Dukkon shouts. “Your illusions don’t work on me, Spyderco. Come out and face me!” “Will this work?” Shiv spits out, reaching behind his back and swinging a mallet at Dukkon’s head. Dukkon drops him, more startled than hurt, and Shiv rolls out of the way. Dukkon looks up to the moon and howls. His call is answered by hounds nearby, heading rapidly towards them. “Snot nosed brat!” he says. Shiv scrambles backwards and pulls himself up into a crouching position. His hands are curled into fists. He’s breathing heavy and ready for the next round. The hounds arrive. They flank Dukkon and pace around him in circles, growling and nipping at Spyderco and Shiv in turn. Dukkon hisses, “I’m not done with you yet, brat!” The ground shakes and directly beneath the villain, bedrock and pavement crack and break open. Boiling steam wafts from the fissure, engulfing Dukkon and his hounds. When the mist clears, they are gone. The street returns to normal, as if the road has healed itself. Shiv relaxes. Spyderco, no longer aglow, comes to stand next to him. He rubs his left elbow. “He called me a brat twice.” “He loves television,” she says. Her skin is the color of ivory. Her blond hair is shaped like a crescent moon. She has an ageless look to her. She smiles and he melts inside. He wonders what it will take to break free from her charms. “Did we win? Why did he leave?” She points to the eastern sky where the first faint purple pearls sparkle in the black firmament. “Dukkon operates on the physical plane at night. He prefers it because his hounds can’t easily survive in the daylight. The sunrise drove him off to a safe place.” The explanation is meaningless. Not for the first time, he thinks that she is full of shit. He blows some spittle from his lips and nods, “Man, that was close.” She puts a gloved hand on his shoulder. “We’re not done with Dukkon.” Quietly she adds, “And he’s not done with me.” Chapter Two The Lord’s Scribe A man, Darren M. Brasik, sits cross-legged on the rocky ground, a notepad in his lap and a pencil behind his ear. In his head, he begins to script out the opening of his exclusive feature. He starts by memorizing the details of the room. It’s a compact space, dominated by a royal throne. The floor and walls are stone and the room is stifling hot. The stones under his legs are searing his skin as if the rocks are heated from beneath. There is a single line of sweat threatening to race down his back. “But it’s no worse than Costa Rica,” he thinks to himself. “Without the bugs.” The ceiling appears to be made from packed dirt, giving the disorienting appearance of the room being upside down, as if he is looking up at the floor. A single candelabrum with four lit stems sits in the far corner. Brasik struggles to read his notes in the low light, but he doggedly continues to pen his thoughts on new sheets of paper as they flow out of him. As long as he can read them later, under better light, there’s no particular need to review them now. Just feet from him, two hounds, named Háziállastrom and Haustiereschen he learns, are sleeping side by side. Their fur is a deep, unforgiving black. It is a quality of black that swallows you into the mire and refuses to let you go. “I kind of like that,” he says to himself. He grabs the pencil and scribbles into the margins of the first page “swallows mire and don’t let you go.” The hounds are oversized creatures, nightmarish in appearance, brutal guardians of the realm. They have fangs that could macerate… “No, not ‘macerate’. Too high brow. Um, ‘tear through’.” …Tear through the flesh of humans as if it is made of paper. “Rend?” …Rend human flesh as if it is made of paper. The two are alpha males. Their sole job is to protect and serve their master, their bitch Dinasteria and her brood. Brasik glances at the man in charge, a self-styled Lord Dukkon. But as to exactly what Dukkon rules besides this six by eight room, the throne and a pack of vicious flesh-rending dogs, it is unclear. The throne is ostentatious enough to require its own ruler, certainly. The dogs may be bereft without a master, undoubtedly. But if Dukkon has any other qualifications for his lordship, he will need to outline them to Brasik sooner or later. He is a tall individual, human-looking though he claims to be something other than human, with a ladylike grace to his movements. His skin is the color of coal, except it is dusted with what looks like baby powder in the cracks around his eyes and nails. His clothing is loose and hanging limply off his body. He is beautiful and rough-looking all at once, alien and human from one angle to another. His motivations are unclear. His origins have yet to be told. Until now. Brasik writes down the word “why” without a question mark. “Human,” Dukkon says. The word is distasteful to him, Brasik notes. Some kind of pan-dimensional cultural bias, he thinks. “Write this down.” Brasik dutifully poises his pencil. “Humans,” Dukkon expounds, “are beastly, primitive body dwellers but their creative minds are commended for some good uses.” “Ghastly bottom dwellers. Got it.” Dukkon taps a single inch-long sharply manicured fingernail against the armrest of his throne, studded with brilliant red jewels. He raises an eyebrow at his scribe. “Beast-ly,” he repeats, enunciating both syllables, “Body. Dwellers.” The scribe flips his pencil over and erases the word “ghastly” and writes in “beastly.” “You speak very good English, M’lord,” Brasik says. “I studied at Harvard,” he says, shifting on the throne. Brasik peers closer. The throne looks uncomfortable, no cushion on the seat, studded with jewels along the armrest giving it a bumpy, textured surface. It appears to be carved from granite or something similar, and it shimmers like a moss-covered rock in the early morning dew. “Too wordy,” he says to himself. He erases the word dew. “Not sure that even makes sense.” To Dukkon, he asks, “How did you get into Harvard?” Dukkon raises a single, thick jet black eyebrow in his direction with the snootiness typical of a Harvard graduate. Why wouldn’t you get into Harvard? his expression seems to ask Brasik. He holds out his palm and the bitch Dinasteria comes towards him to sniff it. He pets underneath her jaw, tugging gently on her fur. “Did you apply to other colleges?” Brasik tries again. Now both eyebrows are raised in an expression of surprise. It’s feigned, Brasik is sure, as the Lord is neither surprised nor particularly interested in answering the question. “Why did you decide to live among humans?” he changes tactic. Dukkon seems more interested in this line of questioning. “To experiment. To creep beyond these four walls,” he gestures dramatically then slams his fist down against the armrest. “I am a victim of my own limitations.” Brasik is unsure what this means, but he tries to clarify, “You were bored?” Silence follows. Brasik realizes this may become a more difficult assignment than he first thought. One night it happens that Lord Dukkon visits him after bedtime in his home in the suburbs of Denver. His wife is travelling with girlfriends, leaving him to fend for the week on cold ham and cheese sandwiches and frozen waffles. But he is a writer by trade, and any time spent by himself is time to write. He collapses into bed after a manic evening of editing an essay on western esotericism and the science of religion and awakens to a brilliant flash of light that he, incongruously, perceives in his dream state as the fatal breath of a fire dragon. A sharp bang accompanies Dukkon’s arrival in a way that seems to suck out all the other noises in the vicinity leaving a deathly quiet in the bedroom. Brasik throws back the covers, vaguely planning to sprint for the window. He is relieved to see he’s wearing underwear and an undershirt. It would be a bit embarrassing to explain to his neighbors why he was standing on his lawn naked. The shirt is too short and doesn’t cover his belly. His stomach protrudes out as if planning to forage for a meal. Embarrassment is perhaps inevitable either way. He long ago stops trying to suck in his gut, now it does what it wants to. He is also barefoot, so he may not get far if he escapes through the window. Ditching the plan, he huddles under his covers and shivers. Dukkon speaks to him. He says he needs a scribe to record his life’s tale and asks Brasik to come with him. The wife isn’t back for three days, he thinks, what the hell? He yanks on a pair of green cargo pants, grabs a notepad from the nightstand and a couple of pencils, stashing the items in various pockets to use later. At the last second, he pulls a dirty red flannel long-sleeve shirt off of a chair. Dukkon leans in so that Brasik can feel his warm breath against his face. It is an intimate moment, one he tries to capture in his mind’s eye to record on paper later. He closes his eyes in his bedroom and opens them in the Lord Dukkon’s home. He is curious about the room. Dukkon offers little at first. This is “my home” and “the boundaries of my dimension” which means very little to Brasik. If this is his home, it is little wonder he is looking to move to Earth. It is drab and cramped. Brasik is a reporter, not a fiction writer, but he accepts the possibility that there are things in this world that might be outside the normally understood dominion of day to day human existence. He believes in God fervently and the existence of an afterlife, but there is room for things outside his mortal perception. So when Dukkon says, “The room is the boundaries of my dimension,” the scribe accedes this as an acceptable truth. The congruency, or lack thereof, with his own beliefs isn’t in question. Brasik settles down on to the hot stones as comfortably as he is able. It’s better, he thinks, than being burned alive by a dragon. They begin to talk. “I have been in this place for centuries of human history,” he starts. Brasik scrambles to find the next blank page in his notepad. “I never spared myself to attend to the dimension you call home. It is distant from this place…and for many cycles, remained out of my mind’s eye. But circumstance then sparked a fascination. An attraction to understanding what at a glance confused me. Physical beings in a physical realm, bound by what they can sense, afraid of that which is beyond. Wondrous to me…and monstrous. And limiting, so I thought. I sought to understand how its inhabitants lived.” He sighs and licks his fingers on his left hand, one at a time. It takes Brasik a moment to realize he’s being demonstrative. “I can taste it,” Dukkon says. “It leaves a residue. I find it intoxicating. Like a sweet confection. An unquenchable desire.” The scribe drops his pencil. “You’re addicted to humanity?” “At first, I was merely curious. Bored, as you say. I resigned to stay and learn among them. I took a human form that I wear to this day. I fully embraced a new reality and realized all the potential such a life can lead to! There were challenges. Not strictly cultural differences to bridge but inherent physical challenges related to my nature.” “Like?” “Bathroom,” he answers simply. Brasik tries putting that into a more descriptive light. He bats around his Lord “taking a shit” or “taking a dump” or “pooping” and decides that perhaps there isn’t really a better alternative. “Did you have sex?” Brasik asks. Dukkon brightens momentarily. Brasik notes that his skin actually appears to be glowing, suffused with what he interprets to be joy. As if someone lit up a light bulb behind his eyes. It is a strange illusion but the room seems far brighter. A quick glance down at his notes reveals they are not as clearly written as he hoped. The words seem to droop down the page instead of marching straight across. He wishes he had brought a tape recorder, but he’ll have to make do. “I fell in love once.” “Who is she?” Brasik asks immediately. Perhaps it is brazen to ask a lord this question, but he feels like they have established a good rapport. The room grows cold instantly as if someone swaps heat for air conditioning in an instant. The hounds are sound asleep, piled on top of each other like a stack of throw rugs. Dukkon is quiet and contemplative. His body is still, as if in death. Only the sound of Brasik’s pencil dancing across the page disrupts the utter peace. “That’s a good one,” he says under his breath and writes “dancing across the page.” Her name, Dukkon tells him, is Spyderco. A strange name for a woman, Brasik thinks. He can only imagine the kind of birth that must have inspired that name. He prefers Jane, his wife’s name, or Olivia, the name of their eldest daughter. He insists to Dukkon that she must have another name, Sally or Gretchen or Cassandra? Dukkon nods along to all this. Apparently, he is getting used to Brasik and puts up with a bit of free association the scribe brings to the conversation. “She did once, back in the time when we first met. But that name is no longer important. It no longer identifies her. She left behind the name deliberately. She is a chameleon, able to move about in a new disguise as she desires.” Brasik taps his pencil against his thigh, thinking. “M’Lord, are you in love with this woman?” The room grows dark. Dukkon is no longer smiling. His face looks flat as if his ridged features are drawing inward. Brasik thinks he has overstepped his bounds. The man, well, he isn’t even a man is he? He talks like a man and he looks like one. But these traits are borrowed, or so Brasik is led to believe, in an effort to relieve the boredom of eternity. “Oh I like that,” Brasik thinks. He’s having trouble making out the notes on his paper, the lighting in the room is now all grays and shadows. He hears one of the hounds growl and feels the hair stand up on the back of his neck. It’s distorted by the near impenetrable darkness, as if the sound is in the walls themselves and not coming from one pup. “She has something of mine. Something that once, when we were in love, I gave freely. Now I want it back.” The scribe ponders this answer, as Dukkon seems disinclined to say anything more. How long has he been here, Brasik wonders, taking notes? He’s not anxious nor hungry. He doesn’t miss his wife nor worry about his children. Will they wonder about him at work? He decides that his life can do without him for a little while longer. He curls up on the floor, putting his left arm under his head as a makeshift pillow. Then, he sleeps. Chapter Three Make Believe Owen stretches with his eyes closed, raising his arms in the air and straightening his legs off to the side. The couch isn’t long enough for his lanky body, but the cushions are comfortable. He opens one eye and then the other, finding the sunshine blinding. He sits up. “Did you enjoy your sleep? Half the morning is gone,” she says, managing to sound at once motherly and annoyed in the same breath. “Come on Spyderco, we were up until dawn!” He stretches his arms behind him, trying to unkink his back. “You’re just grouchy,” she says. “How about some breakfast? You like pancakes?” He can do pancakes. This is only the second time he has crashed at her home. It’s a nice home, a two-bedroom house in the southeast part of the city. She has a strange taste for frogs. A border of frogs lines the walls in the kitchen, and there are frog hot plates, frog cutting boards and frog statuettes. But the couch is comfy, and the place has a constant freshly baked cookie smell that he finally tracks down to a plug-in air freshener hidden behind an end table. There are some odd things. For one, he has never seen her use the bathroom. She eats, well, nibbles, but doesn’t seem to consume full meals. She hasn’t showered the two mornings he stays here, and except for a few occasions, he always sees her in full costume. For two, he’s not sure she is really much of a hero per se. She seems to have little in the way of heroic virtues on display. Mostly she’s bossy. As far as he can tell, she hasn’t made any particular overtures to saving the world or even pulling a cat down from a tree. Her motives are suspicious, and she might be crazy. They meet on the north end of campus. She is wearing a pin-stripe suit and carrying an executive briefcase. She glances briefly at the two buildings to either side, one a theater, the other a smaller auditorium, as if trying to decide which building she is heading for. He barely notices her then. He is the only other person around at that moment. It’s June in Las Vegas and the temperature is sizzling. Sane people make their way quickly from one place to another. The box office is closed, so she has no one to ask for directions. He marches by her, stuffing a half eaten pb&j sandwich into his face. But then a switch goes off in his brain. It is like someone snaps their fingers to get his attention. This woman saps off his strength and he can’t turn away. He stands casually in front of her, trying to project an air of sophistication despite being conscious of the uncombed hair, the jeans with the rip just below his crotch and a suspicious smell that he thinks is coming from him. “Can I help you find something?” he asks. She looks him over critically. She towers over most guys, he guesses, but he is only half a head shorter than she is. He waits while her eyes cover every inch of him, feeling like a prize horse being assessed for breeding value. The smell is definitely him. “I like you,” she says finally. “You do?” he asks dumbly. She is coming on to him. She wants to have sex with him? He’s intrigued by the idea even though her skin is the color of naugahyde. “I’m looking for help,” she says. Her voice has a breathy quality that holds him in thrall. There is nothing remotely attractive about her. He wants to leave but his body has other ideas. He stands rooted to the spot. She leans in. “An internship?” he squeaks. “Someone with imagination.” The words come out as little puffs of air that tickle his nose. Someone puff with puff imagin- puff ation. “Great, I’m a chemist!” He can’t stop himself from responding. She whispers, “Do you like adventure?” He shrugs, “Who doesn’t?” “Bored in school?” she asks. “Of course.” She reaches around his back and yanks him by his shirt collar so that he is bent over backwards looking up into her face. His backpack falls to the ground with a thump. It is a stirring moment. He thinks she is going to kiss him. Her hair falls over her face, strands dangling tantalizingly near his cheeks. He feels the strength of her grip holding him in place twisted like a pretzel. “Have you ever wanted to be a superhero?” she whispers to him. “Yes,” he croaks. “I can make you one,” she says softly. She strokes a finger along his cheek and he blushes. He’s thankful when she stands him upright, and he grabs his backpack off the ground to cover himself. She leaves him standing there. She takes his phone number and promises to call. At first, he thinks the offer is bogus. As the days pass, he remembers her less and less fondly. She’s old and unattractive. He can’t imagine what she really wants. But then she does call and he’s spellbound all over again. She lays out the rules for him. She is in charge. She makes the decisions. She keeps them safe (from what?), plans their training (for what?) and keeps them employed (they get paid?) Employed doing what is a question that never seems to get answered. This morning, she delivers a stack of pancakes with genuine Vermont maple syrup. He attacks the pancakes with enthusiasm while she watches him eat. “Don’t you want any?” he asks with his mouth full of delicious pancake. He doesn’t eat this much at school, but something about her pancakes makes him feel drunk. He wolfs down bite after bite drenched in syrup and slathered with butter and has to stop himself from licking the plate clean. It all tastes so marvelous that he half wonders if she has slipped drugs into his food. He feels pretty damn good. And what does she need to drug him for, anyway? “We’ll have to do something about Dukkon,” she says. “Like what?” He peers into the kitchen hoping for more, but he can’t even see any evidence that she cooked to begin with. She must have already cleaned it up. The counters are sparkling clean. There is no box of batter, a wrapper from a stick of butter or even a knife she left out. “I’ve been thinking about that. We need to shut him out of this dimension permanently. Juice?” He licks his lips. “Please. Hey, Spyderco, did you see that bazooka? Wasn’t that awesome? Really showed that dog a thing or two.” She puts a glass of orange juice in front of him. He can’t help himself. In three gulps, he empties the entire glass. “His hounds,” she says thoughtfully. “Those are like his grandchildren you know. He considers the parents to be his children. The parents don’t leave his native home without a good reason, but occasionally, he brings the younger ones to our world.” “Killed one of them,” he says. “I don’t think so. Maybe forced it back to its own dimension. Hard to use physical means to destroy a nonphysical entity.” He looks at her blankly. “How do you know all this stuff?” She goes on as if not having heard, “When you injure them, it’s like you’re disrupting the connection that allows them to move between dimensions.” She snaps her fingers. “Maybe what we need is to find a way to shut off that connection permanently. Close the door so that Dukkon can’t return here.” “And how would we do that?” Her face grows troubled. “We have to kill him.” Chapter Four Magical Problems Require Magical Solutions Owen takes the superhero name Shiv because he thinks the name sounds sharp, pardon the pun. He plays off of Spyderco’s codename, though when he asks her where the name comes from, she gives him an empty stare. She says “Bayonet” was taken, and he can’t tell if she’s joking. Spyderco is vague on exactly how his power works, and it quickly becomes evident that he wields the power best under extreme duress. Attacked by Dukkon, the bazooka is easy to come by. Attempting to shoot cans at a distance of twenty yards in a training regiment; it becomes a less elegant solution. He can’t seem to focus his gift to use it properly except when he’s scared to death. “You have to want it,” Spyderco tells him. In full costume, they drive out to Gass Mountain, twelve and a half miles north of Las Vegas and park along the Gass Peak trail. She sets him up with some simple tasks to help him learn to control his power. It’s difficult to produce a single weapon. The power is there, he feels the tingle across his forehead when he’s concentrating, but nothing happens. “I guess I don’t want it badly enough,” he says. She has him close his eyes and visualize guns and knives. He plays enough Black Ops games that he has the basic idea of what sniper rifles, pistols and sub machine guns look like. The problem is a M16 Assault Rifle seems like overkill under just about any circumstance he can imagine being in. She is kind to him. She pats him on the shoulder and tells him it takes practice. He smiles at her like a dope, knowing full well he is drooling after her but unable to react any other way. They picnic along Gass Peak trail, not far into the seven-mile trail that takes hikers to the summit of the mountain. The terrain looks jagged and rough to Owen, and neither one of them is dressed for the kind of effort the trail suggests. How she handles the rocky ground in her heels is something of a miracle, yet her movements are stylish and effortless. She hardly looks like she feels the heat and yet the temperature is stifling. Finally, she takes pity on him and they head back to the car. He has no idea if the training is a success. Owen ponders the mystery of their arrangement. It is still over a month away until he is expected back on campus for his sophomore year. He feels like this is plenty of time to determine whether he has made the right decision to stay with her. Currently he is split between the definite appeal of spending every moment at her side and the strange doubt that plagues him about her real intentions. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t like her very much. He has no one to talk to about it. He tries calling up his mom, but she is so delighted with her successful little scientist (he hasn’t been little since ninth grade!) that he can’t get anything useful out of her. Asking Spyderco outright proves fruitless. She sticks to the story of heroic adventures and epic villains, but it begins to sound like the stuff of comic books and less like anything she actually does in her day to day reality. He begins to wonder if she is simply crazy. But there is the evidence of his own senses that he indeed has new powers that she has awoken within him. He has already battled a being from another dimension and warded off his demonic battle hounds. There are, in fact, enough events of a magical nature to legitimize at least some of her story and that keeps him from fleeing. He knows, though he isn’t quite brave enough to say it yet, that this is not worth dropping out of school for. He worries that she won’t let him go. After declaring her intentions to kill Dukkon, Spyderco announces the next day that there is a man they have to seek out. “Oh really? Who?” “We should leave immediately.” In full costume, they barge out of her house. The drive is short and anticlimactic. Spyderco’s house is less than a mile south of the University. They race four blocks north and pull up into a parking lot at the edge of campus. Owen knows the corner well. The science building is mere steps from where she leads him. She finds a side door to small utility building just off the main road. The building is innocent looking, small and tucked away from the main campus. It looks like a storage shed. The handle turns and they step inside. It’s dark except for the daylight coming in with them. He sees the interior is an oversized closet. It contains rows of shelves, stacked on top of each other from floor to ceiling. The shelves, for the most part, are full of boxes and devices and various supplies that seem crammed in with no rhyme or reason. They step inside and move slowly through the aisles. “In back there,” she says. She points to a door at the far end of the room. Beyond the door is a passageway that seems to head in the direction of campus in a meandering way that confuses him as to their exact direction. The first few feet are tiled with what almost looks like discolored kitchen linoleum, but that quickly gives way to a packed dirt floor. Nothing about this makes sense to him. He manages along in the dark, keeping from stumbling over his own feet. The ceiling sags and he is forced to stoop to keep from banging his head. The trail ends at a set of bulkhead doors that are built into the ground at a forty-five degree angle. They are covered with cobwebs and speckled with dirt. Spyderco reaches for one of the door handles and has her hands wrapped around it when a buzzing starts. At first, it is quiet, like the sound of a bee passing by. It grows steadily louder until Shiv’s ears start to hurt. Spyderco releases the handle and the buzzing becomes softer. She grips it again and the buzzing returns to a painful volume. She lets go and it stops. She presses a single finger on to the handle and one sharp loud honk bursts in the air around them. “Oh screw this.” She yanks at the handle and grunts as she pulls the right side open. Shiv covers his ears but there is no retaliatory noise. She doesn’t bother with the other side. “Come on, we can squeeze through here.” She turns sideways and steps down one foot at a time through the doorway. There are six steps down below before the entry opens into a sizable space. Shiv follows. “A laboratory!” he exclaims. The room is large, illuminated by long rectangular fluorescent lamps mounted into the ceiling. The floors are white tile squares that echo beneath Spyderco’s heels. Most of the research equipment is fixed into one area. The central component is a series of steel racks mounted on to a broad table. The racks contain a series of workstations crammed one after another. Computers anchor all four corners of the table. Several laser printers are positioned across from one another and in between, there is a flatbed scanner and at least two other block-shaped monitoring devices that flash and purr with unknown purpose. Wires and cords are carefully wrapped around the components in a coordinated array. And there are other devices crammed into every available surface on the racks and on the table itself. Mounted under the base of the table are stacked black file drawers that run from one corner to the other. Behind that are two islands on wheel-mounted legs. These have small wire racks that hold every shape and size test tube, beakers and other plastic bottles containing liquid in every color of the rainbow. The collection takes Shiv’s breath away. His first instinct is to start reading bottle labels, those that have them. One island is pushed up directly against a counter with a double basin sink. The other abuts an extended table with three box components each connected by a single thick black tube. The middle component looks like a lunch box, complete with a small metal handle on its top. The right component’s only feature is a connection port to a CPU. The left side is mounted with what looks like a popcorn bowl on top. In contrast to the active and colorful tables, the back counter running along the far wall is almost immaculate. Spotless white cabinets have been built in underneath the counter. There is a single desktop workstation set up in the corner, where a man is typing at the computer while taking notes on a pad set next to him. “Indeed, young man, it is,” the man says without looking up. Calmly, Spyderco turns to him. She gives only the hint of a nod when he finally glances in their direction. Shiv is surprised to realize he knows the man. “Professor! It’s me, Owen.” He pulls off his mask to show his face. “Don’t!” Spyderco shouts. “Don’t ever take off your mask when you’re on a job. What’s wrong with you?” Rigby Yekaterina is an old man who teaches physics at the college. He is wrinkled and stooped over and wears a lab coat everywhere he goes, even when he’s not teaching. He has a reputation for being kindhearted and sharp as a tack. Students sometimes mistake his demeanor for being frail and absentminded, until they learn the hard way that he is neither. Even though he teaches outside of Owen’s field, Owen can’t wait to take a class with him. “Owen my boy. Surprised to find you here.” “Professor, what are you doing here?” “This is my laboratory, my boy, were else would I be? It’s space that I use for experiments that aren’t…affiliated with the University.” “Such a sweet and gentle soul you are, Rigby.” “Spyderco, don’t antagonize him!” Yekaterina smiles kindly at her. “It’s alright, Owen, my daughter has made a habit of being sarcastic with me. I suspect she doesn’t think of my notion of scientific endeavor as being entirely altruistic.” He waves a finger at her, “And she may be right at that. Tell me, my dear, you’re going by the name of Spyderco now?” “He’s your father?” This draws a snotty response. “Oh, close your mouth. He’s not my birth father. He’s just the man who raised me.” “Still…” She turns her back on Shiv. He sees that instead of looking at either of them, she’s taking in the entire space. What is she looking for? Some small, quiet part of him hopes that she doesn’t find it. “Yes, Rigby, I’m going by Spyderco now. Remember the name.” The Professor seems to take time to consider this. “What can I do for you? I take it this is not a social call.” He swivels the chair towards them and Shiv sees he is working with a device that looks like a metal sluice. Flared at one end, the long rectangular assembly looks padded with what appears to be strips of carpeting. Shiv moves forward to get a better look until a glare from Spyderco stops him in his tracks. “I’m here,” she says loudly, “for advice on closing a magical gate on a certain person.” “Rigby…” “Dukkon won’t leave us alone,” Shiv says. “Aaarg!” Spyderco cries. “What is wrong with you?” she yells at Shiv. “He doesn’t need to know!” “Well how is he going to help us if he doesn’t know what we’re up against?” Shiv protests. “He has a point.” “Rigby…” she warns. Rigby fusses with his sluice, tightening some hinges. It doesn’t look like he is actually doing much except stretching out the silence. Yekaterina speaks, “Magic is an ill-named concept, used too broadly in too many contexts to really evoke meaning. Supernatural might be a more direct description of that which is beyond scientific detection, although it too has cultural subtext that defeats its very meaning. Our vocabulary is inadequate to describe things beyond our understanding, yet to understand it, we must name it. Name a thing and you achieve power over it.” Spyderco stirs, but Yekaterina holds his hand up to delay her interruption. “I do not know the name Dukkon. But if he is a dimensional creature not bound by our physical laws, then he does not appear here in the flesh. Instead, he casts an illusion in order to appear human and interact on the physical plane. But it is not him. It cannot be him because, quite simply, his existence is dependent on a different set of physical rules. If you desire to keep him out of our world, I’m afraid you simply don’t have the means to accomplish such a feat through magic or science.” “Who does?” she asks. “Do you?” “I have a better understanding of the universe than you,” he explained patiently, “but even I don’t think I could create a permanent barrier to his entering our plane. Close one path and who’s to say he won’t seek out another? No, I’m afraid if you want him gone, you’re going to have to convince him it’s in his best interests to stay away. Take away the thing that brings him here, and he will stop coming. My dear, that is the best advice I have.” “Which is practically nothing,” she spits out. “Ever since I started using my powers, you’ve given me the cold shoulder.” “Your powers avail you nothing. The illusions you create are false. You never told me where you got your powers suddenly. Out of nowhere, it seemed to me. Like magic.” He’s speaking to her, but looking curiously at Owen. Spyderco looks ready to pop a cork. Yekaterina puts up a single finger as if remembering something. Then he reaches into one of the cabinets on the counter. “You might disrupt his connection to our world. I can’t guarantee it’s a permanent solution, but maybe it will discourage his return.” He pulls out a device that is shaped like a French horn, a long circular tube that opens into a wide bell at one end. On the device are three levers and a small box connected to the other end by a cord that Shiv deduces is the power source. “Try this. Aim it at him and press this lever.” He indicates the lever in the third position. “It will disrupt the magic in the immediate vicinity. All magic,” he emphasizes. Spyderco is less thankful for his help than Shiv supposes she ought to be. So he thanks the Professor even as she yanks the device from his hand. She grabs Shiv by the shirt and drags him towards the tunnel. “Owen, come see me again when the semester starts,” the Professor calls after them. Owen waves at him, until Spyderco drops him at the foot of the stairs. She climbs through the bulkhead and stalks off. Chapter Five Wish List Brasik knocks. The door is answered by an Amazonian woman, at once statuesque and misproportioned. He doesn’t mean to stare. Dukkon warns him against her charms. He explains in no uncertain terms that she has the power to bewitch the unwary, casting illusions that seem to satisfy a man’s sweetest dreams, leaving him thirsty and bereft when the illusions fade, as they inevitably do. He regrets that his notepad is stuck in his back pocket. But he has to wait to introduce himself before he can start writing again. What are his sweetest dreams, he wonders? Health and happiness for his wife and children? Perhaps a little more money in the bank? He is sure Dukkon will scold him for adding material things to the wish list. He doesn’t think asking for some extra money is really that much of a sin. It’s just wishful thinking anyhow. Yet looking at this woman, he doubts she can provide his sweetest dreams. She looks like a prostitute with a rich imagination and perhaps too large a clothing budget. She’s wearing opera gloves studded with sharp spikes, a halter top that is so tight it looks painted on and leather pants that outline her curvy figure. Altogether, he supposes if he is looking to be chained to the bed and whipped on his buttocks by a middle-aged woman, she is the one for him. But as he likes his sex vanilla and painless, he doubts he will ever call on her. They stare each other down at the front door of her house. He blinks once and momentarily sees the image of a much older woman, with sagging, veiny breasts, large nostrils, a small nose and pinched lines around her eyes. Then he blinks again and the beauty is back before him. “Who are you?” she asks. “Brasik. I’m a reporter. I came to talk to you. You are Spyderco, the superhero?” “Yes, but you knew that. Why else would you be on my doorstep to interview me?” Why indeed? It’s a question that’s obscured by the mists of… Scratch that, he can’t think of the kind of mists that might obscure his purpose. And after all, she is right. He has come to interview her, to hear her side of the story and fill in the gaps in his biography of Lord Dukkon. He is unsure of what she will be able to contribute, but Dukkon has insisted on this plan. “My…,” he hesitates, “editor assigned me to write a story on you. You know, the typical stuff, your origins, your exploits, etcetera.” “So come on in,” she says. She offers him coffee and claims there are pastries on the counter. But when she serves them, the coffee cup is filled with water and the so-called pastries are nothing more than plain slices of Wonder bread. He pulls out his notepad and sets it on the table. Spyderco sits across from him and crosses one leg over another, sitting primly while he sips at the tap water. “So Spyderco,” he begins, “That’s an interesting name. Where did you get it?” She giggles, “I saw it written on the handle of a knife.” Once she says it, Brasik admits it does sound vaguely familiar. He frowns, “Isn’t that a registered trademark?” “What do you mean?” “Well, did the company give you permission to use it?” Now they’re both frowning. He finds something comical in this moment but decides it will be imprudent to laugh. “I don’t need permission. It’s just a word.” He scribbles on his notepad the words “cease and desist.” “Did you consider other names?” “Bayonet was taken. She’s a fine lady,” Spyderco adds. He wonders what Lady Bayonet does. The name conjures up an image of Dolly Parton in The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. “I tried Switchblade for a while, but it didn’t fit me.” “Switchblade?” he says out loud without meaning to. “What is wrong with Spyderco?” He erases the word switchblade. “Nothing, nothing. Sorry. Spyderco is a lovely name. Just as lovely as you are.” She relaxes a little but still regards him with suspicion. He adds another question. “How did you get your powers?” She leans over the table. “Are you always this direct?” “Well I’m here to write your origin story. So isn’t how you got your powers an important part of that?” She sits back in the chair. “I suppose. I wasn’t prepared for this interview. Shouldn’t you have called ahead?” He may have except that he knows, even if she doesn’t, that time is short. Dukkon will arrive at sundown and Brasik is supposed to conclude his interview by then. He also knows she can kick him out at any time, but he wants to say he tried to keep her occupied. For his real intent is to make sure when his Lord arrives, that she is home. “I was born this way,” she says. He knows this is a lie but writes it down anyway. “When I was younger, I didn’t understand my powers, but I have grown into them.” She doesn’t plan to tell him the truth, he realizes. Spyderco is a normal college student like any other until the day she meets Dukkon. He sweeps her off her feet, her first real romantic relationship. Madly in love, they promise each other a future of home-buying, child rearing and dying in old age together. Except Dukkon isn’t human. He isn’t capable of impregnating her, and though he may in fact one day die, it will be thousands of years after her ashes have resoiled an 84 by 28 inch plot of grass. She finds out one day, though Dukkon doesn’t reveal to Brasik how this happens. He imagines it as an earthshaking argument. To appease her, because truly Dukkon is in love, he offers her the highest gift he can bestow. He gives her a great power, the ability to create illusions based on the wishes of others. She can draw their greatest desires from their mind and make them – temporarily – a reality. But within the time that the illusion persists, it is infallible. The only true limitation to her powers is that person she uses them on cannot know that the effects are illusory. Otherwise, the spell she cast won’t work. She delights in her newfound powers. But perhaps she doesn’t know, or refuses to understand, that those powers come from Dukkon himself. He gives a portion of his own life to grant hers more meaning. It is the ultimate romantic ideal. But something unexpected happens. Here Dukkon is less forthcoming about the sequence of events. What Brasik manages to piece together is the fact that she learns to use the powers in subtle and devious ways that the Lord never intended. Not only is she able to make others’ fondest wishes come true, but she is able to cast her own wishes into semi-permanent states. They go beyond illusion then and become borderline realities. She learns to wrap herself up in a self-perpetuating fantasy life. Physically she creates a flawless, if exaggerated, exterior. She begins to use her powers to make men attracted to her. Her demeanor becomes less mousy and more aggressive. Here, though she hasn’t yet adopted the codename, are the earliest stages of her role as Spyderco. And then, and Dukkon is clear on this point, she casts him out of her life. He returns to his home dejected, and for a non-material entity, suicidal. The desire to destroy himself must come as an awful surprise. For when he takes on human characteristics, he wholly embraces the emotional vagaries that make humans so volatile. He threatens revenge against the woman that scorns him. He watches her from afar, follows her footsteps like a shadow upon the pavement. He sees her adopt a new persona. But when the time comes for revenge, he can’t do it. His love is too great. Of course, Spyderco cannot possibly know any of this. Instead, she spins some unlikely tale of meeting a heroic crippled mentor in her teen years that trains her to use her powers for great good at a school for “gifted” youngsters. She realizes she isn’t alone and that knowledge helps her mature into the woman she is today. She sees her role now as one of the mentors, taking in those she senses have “potential” and teaching them how to grow into their roles and accept the great responsibility of their powers. “Reads too many comic books,” Brasik writes, twirling the last ‘s’ artfully across the bottom of the page. “Or maybe just the movie versions…” That she thinks he won’t recognize the amalgam of comic book stories is insulting. His assignment, besides digging into her origins which is more for his enlightenment than his Lord’s, is to investigate the possibility that she is no longer working alone. “You have a partner?” “A sidekick,” she says, “a young man who I see the potential in, you see?” He does not. “You guys are lovers?” he asks bluntly. She pushes back from the table and stands up. “That’s a rude question. He sleeps on the couch sometimes.” “Okay, okay. Just asking.” Dukkon worries that this young man is a romantic rival. Her denial may be sufficient to relieve his anxiety. She seems sincere enough about being insulted. He lets it go for the moment. He has only one more question. “And can you tell me about your arch enemy?” She glares at him. “What enemy?” “Just, I don’t know, whoever you consider to be your nemesis. Every hero has a villain.” “I don’t…” “Well what about this guy Dukkon? What’s that all about?” Her fist strikes the table like a sledgehammer and it cracks in two. “GET OUT!” she screams. Brasik scrambles from his seat, grabbing his notepad and rushing away from her. “What do you know about Dukkon?” she shouts, pushing the two table halves aside and charging at him. “Did he send you?” Brasik turns tail and races for the front door. It is four long steps and he has his hand on the handle. Spyderco reaches for him as he turns the knob and the door opens. Thank God, he thinks, just in time. Dukkon is here. Chapter Six The Lord’s Fate Dukkon is dressed in a white double-breasted tuxedo. Behind him are three ladies-in-waiting in long white gowns. Where he has found these women, Brasik doesn’t know. They appear to be normal from the face up, but he makes the mistake of looking at their hands. Just peeking out of the long lace sleeves of the bridesmaids gowns are misshapen claws with nails sharpened to pinprick points. The dresses puff out in the back and he sees the fabric undulate even as the ladies stand stock still. The Lord’s harpies have talon feet, he notes. Ringing them are the hounds, the babes of mama Dinasteria and daddy Háziállastrom. Haustiereschen is too old to mate, or so Brasik gathers from the few comments Dukkon has made. The parents have stayed back through the dimensional gate, guarding their home. Brasik has yet to learn the names of the children, though at this point they treat him with the civility of a distant cousin. Dukkon gazes upon them, Brasik and behind him a very astonished Spyderco, with an innate calmness. “One must write one’s path, the way an author scribes the words in a book. It is the journey that defines the soul,” Dukkon says. While Brasik is admiring the Lord’s introductory line, Dukkon orders him to his side. Brasik takes his place in Dukkon’s entourage. Only then does he retrieve his notepad and scribble more notes. Dukkon steps forward. He bends down on one knee in front of Spyderco and intones, “Every being in the universe is matched with a being of equal measure. Some find their match by the whimsy of fate where the cruelty of circumstance keeps others apart. You and I are among the rare jewels in heaven who have found a mate on the winds of chance. Please take my hand in marriage. I will pledge to give you everything your heart desires in the flesh and blood. You are me and anything that is mine to give is yours to have.” He stretches out his hand holding a small box. His other arm reaches and plucks the box open. Inside is a ring of such shining magnificence that Brasik cannot look straight at it. There is not much light for it to reflect in the twilight and yet it appears impossibly radiant. The brilliance brings tears to his eyes. He turns away, scribbling on his notepad. “Will you marry me?” the Lord asks. She looks dumbfounded, Brasik notes. And more to the point, there’s a hint of anger in her eyes that doesn’t bode well for Lord Dukkon. Then she does something he finds strange. She looks down at her gloved hands and examines them. Perhaps she’s wondering how the ring is going to fit over her glove? Her mouth opens and she makes a noise that sounds like… “Uuhhhhhh.” “Dukkon!” a man cries out. Brasik turns and sees he is wrong. Not a man, but a teenager. His face is covered with a mask on which four block letters are sewn haphazardly on to the cloth. So this is Shiv. He is standing on the sidewalk at the edge of the property. “You’re toast.” Shiv reaches over his shoulder with both hands and to Brasik’s astonishment, as he pulls his arms forward, a huge military tank thunders down around him, swallowing him up in the interior. The great bulk of the machine rumbles across the sidewalk. The tank’s gun swivels towards Dukkon. Thinking that Shiv is about to fire, Dukkon stands his ground. No physical armament can harm him. But either Shiv is unexpectedly clever or alarmingly stupid because instead, inside the compartment of the tank, he presses on the accelerator and charges full steam at his foe. Brasik thinks he can hear him screaming a war cry from inside. The tank maneuvers more like a skateboard than a full bore vehicle. It shifts directions barely missing the garage door and swiftly barrels down on Dukkon, knocking him over on his back. His body is flattened beneath the tread, smashed into a bloody mess on the driveway. It looks comical, like a scene from a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Brasik is disturbed. “Blood,” Brasik observes. He is surprised about the blood. Yet the effect of seeing Dukkon destroyed so utterly, so quickly is more like watching a bad movie than truly losing a friend. What is Dukkon to him? He is depressed to realize that he doesn’t much care about the Lord’s fate. It doesn’t even make for a good story. Better that they marry than this. He sighs. The tank slows and twists 180 degrees and the metal body evaporates, leaving Shiv facing the Lord’s entourage unarmed, winded and sweaty. Yet he sees the results of his efforts and cheers for himself. “I did it, Spyderco!” Then the bridesmaids are screeching in anger and the sound pelts the back of Brasik’s neck almost like tiny stingers. He wishes they would stop, but instead, they unveil enormous scaly wings that rip through the fabric of their dresses and stretch out five feet in both directions. The wings begin to beat and the hideous creatures, fully exposed, hairy and twisted, rise into the air. The hounds leap into action. Three of them range towards Spyderco, taking her measure. The other three launch at Shiv at a dead run. He takes two long steps back and reaches for a new weapon. He comes up with a scythe. “What about Scythe for a codename?” Brasik asks to no one in particular. Spyderco is too busy to answer anyway. In a blaze of movement, Shiv swivels around, swinging the scythe in a wide arc that slices into the jaw of the nearest hound as it leaps at him. But the scythe sticks and Shiv loses his grip on the weapon. The hound’s body, the scythe firmly embedded into its head, slams into its brother and together they tumble to the pavement and collapse in a heap of fur against the garage door. The other hound has timed his leap better and manages to clamp its jaws into Shiv’s right arm. Shiv cries out and rolls to the ground, trying to simultaneously kick at the hound and roll away from it. Despite flopping around, the hound seems not at all bothered by the battering he is taking and hangs on to his prey. Spyderco has her back to the garage door of her house. Three hounds converge slowly, ignoring the cries of pain from their brethren. The harpies flutter overhead, claws scratching at the air in her direction. None moves to attack first. Spyderco looks grim but unafraid. Instead, she seems determined to destroy them. Brasik has to wonder if she can do it. Shiv has found a new weapon to fend off the last of his attackers, a butcher knife. Apparently his imagination with weapons really isn’t all that imaginative, Brasik thinks. Shiv has hacked away at the creature’s neck, finally severing the head from the body. The gore doesn’t seem to bother him. The creature’s jaws are sunk too deeply into his arm to pry them off. He chooses to wear the head like a trophy. For good measure, he produces a hand gun and takes three expert shots at the bridesmaids, nailing each of them through the face. They howl at the night sky and beat their wings furiously, backing away from Shiv. The gunfire gives the hounds near Spyderco pause as well, buying her a moment’s rest. Brasik looks around the driveway. The violence sickens him. Spyderco and Shiv are efficient, merciless killers. He is shaking from the realization. “This is so awesome,” Shiv says. His jubilance is distressing. Brasik has a hard time sharing his enthusiasm for such a deliberate slaughter. Shiv admires the hound’s mouth that is attached to his arm. To Shiv, Brasik realizes, this is just another video game. Whatever Spyderco has explained about his power, or perhaps not explained, has warped his sense of reality. Living in reality, he is not. He fails to realize the implications of his attitude or understand the consequences of his actions, a realization Brasik finds to be horribly depressing. The remaining hounds are baring their teeth, ready to charge. The harpies hover overhead, screeching and flapping about. Shiv is weaponless again. And with a sinking feeling, Brasik sees that Spyderco has something in her hands. It looks like a musical instrument, a long silver tube circling outward ending in a large opening. But she doesn’t hold it up to her mouth. She aims it, not at the hounds or the harpies, but at Dukkon. For the Lord stands there physically uninjured, silently pleading with her to change her mind. The Lord has tears running down his face. For the second time, Spyderco is breaking his heart. “Stop!” Dukkon shouts, his voice heavy with sorrow. Dukkon steps forward, banishing the harpies with a single gesture. They fly off in a tizzy, probably to inflict torture on some unsuspecting soul who happens to be wandering the Las Vegas Strip this evening. Face to face, Dukkon and his beloved stare each other down. Their emotions are palpable. Spyderco is enraged, but Dukkon is at peace. They are opposites. She has fallen for beauty and illusion, he embraces truth and reality. She is a bulky woman, large limbed, tall and broad. He is thin like bamboo shoots, insubstantial like someone who will blow away with a stiff wind. Brasik writes furiously. Most of it is shit, but he can deal with his editor later. For a moment, no one speaks. Then Dukkon bows his head. “Know this. Our union is more important to me than my sense of self.” Brasik chokes back a sob. But he does not fail to miss that Spyderco’s face has hardened into a mask of anger and determination. She presses down on the third lever. For an agonizing moment, the players freeze. Then the tableau fractures. Cracks appear on Dukkon’s person, as if he is splitting apart. Something similar happens to the hounds. The cracks run from head to foot, splintering outwards over torso, across limbs and through appendages. Each being splits into many smaller selves and those components crumble into a fine powder that dusts softly over the ground. Dukkon dissolves into nothingness, banished back to his own dimension when the magical connection is severed. His hounds lose coherence and dissipate into a black mist that mingles with the night air. Brasik is untouched and Shiv is weaponless but otherwise okay. Ah Spyderco. She loses her beauty. The spell that holds together her carefully stitched illusion unravels with a terrible swiftness. She is left slouching in ill-fitting black spandex that barely contains the folds of fat around her waist. The opera gloves flap loosely beyond her fingers. Her hair is gray and dingy. The age lines on her face compress, layered thickly across her forehead and around her lips as though someone has squashed her head. “Spyderco?” Shiv asks. “What’s going on?” Brasik realizes that he almost feels sorry for the kid. He is finally seeing the woman for who she really is. The effect stretches out almost a full minute. Inside, Brasik is counting down the seconds as they tick. Outwardly he is just like the other two, frozen in time. It reminds him of trying to wake up from a dream and that feeling of being stuck between sleeping and waking. Your limbs won’t move and you are conscious even if you are not quite awake yet. He has time to ponder the question of just how much power Lord Dukkon has given her. To create an illusion so sublime that it requires a break in reality to see through it. The disruption spell falls apart all at once. Like a generator powering up, the illusion builds itself anew bit by bit. She stands taller again. Her figure becomes more slender around the waist, accentuating her hips and full breasts. The black spandex fills out. The opera gloves with tiny spikes lining the stitching pull taunt over her arms. The lines on her face smooth out. Her hair is once again blonde and luxurious. Brasik sees both sides of her. The woman she wants desperately to project and the woman as she really is underneath. He understands her in a way he never expects to. His sympathy even surprises himself. One look at Shiv’s face and Brasik realizes he isn’t the only one seeing through the illusion. What is it Dukkon tells him? The only true limitation to her powers is that person she uses them on cannot know that the effects are illusory. Then the spell she cast doesn’t work. Shiv no longer believes. Shiv steps away from her, putting physical distance between them. “I gotta go. My mom called. It might be important.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He sets off at a jog, looking back only once. Spyderco isn’t watching him go. She marches up to Brasik. He tenses, feeling her fury like a physical blow. “Thank you for your time,” he offers. She grabs his arm roughly and twists him around, dragging him on his heels towards her house. “Now you’re going to write my origin story the way I tell it. Got it?” Brasik gulps. He wonders what he’s going to tell his wife about this one. The adventures of Spyderco and Shiv continue in the novel Getaway available in print and digital editions September 2011. ### If you like what you have read, please leave a comment at http://getawaynovel.com About the Author After an 18-year writing career, Andrew Marx brought together his experience and expertise into the release of Writing a Blockbuster: A Practical and Philosophical Guide to Writing and Publishing Your Own Book. His novella Whisper in the Walls surfaced as a free digital download in May 2011. The novella is a standalone hero versus villain tale, peering deep into the core of a hero to discover the strength of the man underneath. Marx is set to publish his next full-length fiction novel Getaway in September 2011. Spyderco and Shiv were created by Reuben Liber and Andrew Marx Meet the Author http://andrewmarx.com http://facebook.com/marxmyword http://twitter.com/marxmyword Mailing List http://andrewmarx.com/contact