Action Figures - Issue Two: Black Magic Women (14 page)

“Which reminds me: how come you get private training sessions?”

Because I got maimed by a super-villain and still have nightmares about it, that’s why. Because it’s part of my therapy.

“They offered,” I say, “I accepted.”

“But why you? Why hasn’t the Protectorate offered to train the rest of us?”

“Uh, actually...” Sara says.

“What, seriously?”

“You can control your powers, Matt, I can’t, not entirely.”

We sway in our seats as the Wonkavator slows. End of the line. “To be continued,” Matt says.

Natalie is waiting for us on the platform. There’s no greeting for us, only a stony expression.

“Come on,” she says.

We’re taken to a conference room — not the small room we’ve become familiar with through our many interroga— sorry,
interviews
, but something more like a corporate board room, complete with a long, wide wooden table surrounded by high-backed chairs. No one is sitting.

“They’re here,” Natalie says, and all conversation stops. Concorde is here, as is Mindforce, Dr. Enigma, and —

“Jeez!” Matt yelps, flinching away from a dark shape standing in the corner near the door, as silent as the grave and three times as creepy. He’s tall, easily topping six feet, and dressed entirely in black: black fatigues, black military-style boots, a black leather coat that falls to his ankles, and a featureless black leather mask — no eyeholes or anything. How does he see out of the thing?

“Knock it off, Entity,” Natalie says.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” the shape says in a perfect monotone.

“My point. Squad, the Entity,” Natalie says. “Entity, Hero Squad.”

The Entity looks at us (I think), but says nothing.

“Sit down, everyone,” Concorde says. Astrid and the Entity remain standing.

“Sara, I need to know,” Astrid says, “did you experience anything last night?”

“What do you mean, experience anything?” Sara says.

“Answer the question.”

“A ‘please’ would be nice.” When she fails to receive the requested nicety, Sara says, “No, I don’t think so.”

“Yes,” I say, “when you got sick.”

“Yeah, but that was food poisoning or something.”

“When?” Astrid says.

“Midnight-ish?”

“Bad?”

“I puked. Hard. For, like, five minutes.”

Astrid and Mindforce trade meaningful looks. Astrid curses.

“Is someone going to tell us what’s going on?” I say.

“The
Libris Infernalis
is missing,” Astrid says.

A moment of confused silence follows, much of that confusion from those in the room who don’t know what the heck she’s talking about. Those of us who do know about the
Libris
, we’re wondering —

“Missing from where?” Matt says. “You said nothing was taken from any of the libraries that got hit.”

Astrid winces. “The book wasn’t in any of the libraries,” she says. “I had it.”

“Am I missing something?” the Entity says.

Concorde brings the Entity up to speed, walking him through the first incident at Bradford College, up to Stacy Hellfire’s visit to Kingsport, and on to the last (known) incident at Brown University. She lays out the theory that Black Betty was looking for the
Libris
for purposes unknown — although the Black Betty part is no longer theoretical.

“I found this in my sanctum a few hours ago,” Astrid says, presenting a small, hand-written note reading, THANX FOR THE LOAN — BAM A LAM. It’s “signed” with a kiss in dark red lipstick.

“I see,” the Entity says. “So, you’re telling us you had in your possession a book of extremely dangerous black magic, which is now missing, and is in the hands of someone both capable of and willing to use it. Do I have that right?”

Not once does the Entity’s voice deviate from a flat, lifeless drone. This guy elevates creepiness to an art form.

“You do realize the hits on the libraries were a distraction.”

“Yes, Entity, I know that now,” Astrid growls.

“What happened to Sara,” I say to Astrid, “that’s connected to the book, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t respond. “Enigma,” Concorde prods.

“What Sara experienced,” Astrid says, “what I experienced, what Mindforce experienced, what every psionic within a hundred miles experienced at midnight last night, was in response to the successful execution of a major summoning ritual.”

“Could you explain that for the muggles in the room?” Stuart says.

“The barrier between our world and the known alternate dimensions isn’t solid, it’s permeable — more like a net than a wall, and minor demonic entities like imps, the small fish, they slip through the net and into our dimension on a semi-regular basis.

“The big fish, they get caught in the net,” she continues, becoming more animated with each word, “unless they force their way through, or someone on the other side pulls them through. What Sara and Mindforce and I felt last night was the psychic backlash of that net ripping. Something came through. Something big.”

“Something someone pulled through the net using the book,” Mindforce says.

“...Yes.”

No one speaks, maybe because it sounds so completely ridiculous. Or, maybe because we’re indulging in some group denial. and no one wants to say aloud what we’re all thinking:

There’s a demon running around on Earth.

I’ll spare you the raging argument that followed, but here’s the SparksNotes version: Concorde, predictably, flipped out, yelled at Astrid for being dumb enough to have something so dangerous in her possession; Astrid countered that no one should have been able to break into her sanctum (whatever that is) to steal it; Mindforce tried to calm tempers, and get us back on-track so we could respond to the crisis; the Entity stood in the corner, said nothing, made me deeply uncomfortable.

It took a while for the Protectorate to come up with a plan of action, although I use the term “action” loosely, because the plan is little more than “hurry up and wait.” Until the demon or whoever summoned it act, there’s not a lot we can do. When they do reveal themselves, we have to be ready to go at a moment’s notice — all of us; for once, Concorde did not protest the Hero Squad’s potential involvement. Maybe he likes having other people around who feel as out of their depth as he does.

Astrid and Natalie walk us back to the Wonkavator, although they act as if we’re not there.

“I hate to defend the guy,” Natalie says, “but you know magic freaks Concorde out. Anything he can’t understand...”

“I don’t understand open heart surgery,” Astrid says, “but it doesn’t scare me.”

“You don’t understand nuclear fission either, but a nuke would scare you. That’s what magic is to him: a weapon he doesn’t know how to counteract.”

“As long as Astrid knows how,” Matt says. An awkward, telling silence follows. Way to inspire confidence, people.

“Tell me something,” I say. “If the
Libris
is so crazy dangerous, why
did
you hold onto it? Why not burn the thing?”

“I have my reasons,” Astrid says, as though that is enough to end the conversation.

“Such as? Come on, we’re going to be risking our lives over this thing. I think we have a right to know why.”

Astrid, reluctantly, nods. “Fair enough. Yes, the knowledge in that book is dangerous, but that’s not to say it’s unique. The spells and rituals might exist elsewhere, waiting to be discovered. They might be the basis for more commonly known, less potent magic. I may be powerful, but it’s a lot easier to counter dark magic if I know what I’m facing.”

I guess I can’t argue with that reasoning. Knowledge is power and all that.

“I also thought the book was safe. It’s not like I left the thing sitting on my coffee table. Black Betty bypassed half a dozen nasty wards without triggering
any
of them. That’s slick. I could count the sorcerers who could pull that off on one hand.” Astrid stops, turns to face us. “This demon isn’t going to stay quiet for long. Best we can do is move fast when it reveals itself, contain the damage, minimize the casualties.”

Casualties?

“Keep your phone on at all times,” Astrid says.

FIFTEEN

Who knew a silent cell phone could be so nerve-wracking?

The weekend passes without our phones ringing once, which may be a no-news-is-good-news situation, but I can’t help but feel that the longer nothing happens, the worse the something, when it goes down, will be.

Our one attempt at contributing to the mission falls flat. Matt, in a moment of legitimate brilliance, decides to try retrieving the book via his gloves. It’s a sound theory; we know from his session with Doc Quantum he can produce specific, unique items, but for some reason, the
Libris
escapes his grasp, rather literally. Maybe because he has no idea what the book looks like, he can’t visualize it properly. Or maybe whatever Black Betty is doing to stay under Astrid’s radar is also keeping the book hidden.

Ugh. I can understand why Concorde and Doc Quantum hate magic so much.

Monday comes, and school provides a decent enough distraction, at least aesthetically; the hallways are absolutely wallpapered with decorations heralding the upcoming Valentine’s Day dance. Hearts in white, pink, and red plaster the walls, everything is trimmed in lace, and Cupids stand watch on every classroom door. I’m all for holiday festivities, but this is overkill.

“Didn’t hear you complaining at Christmastime,” Matt says on our way to homeroom.

“That’s because it was Christmas,” I say, “which, as everyone knows, is the best of all holidays.”

“On behalf of Halloween: like hell it is, but I’m with you on this one. The dance committee went a little bonkers, and all this over a sham holiday.”

“Why is it sham holiday?”

“Because it’s totally made up.”

“
All
holidays are made up, if you think about it.”

“Yeah, but Valentine’s Day is the worst of them. The whole idea is to express love, right? Why do we need a special day for that? A special day that pressures people to shell out good money on candy and cards and flowers and jewelry to prove how much they love someone?”

“Why, indeed?”

Matt frowns at me. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” I say in mock innocence. “I’m simply thinking it could also be a day that inspires certain people to express their repressed affections for certain other people.”

“Like who?” Matt says.

Oh my God, he’s serious. “Like you, you dope.”

It takes Matt a couple of seconds to get it. Man, this kid’s thick sometimes. “Come on, I told you, Sara and I are just friends.”

“And yet, you’re obviously still pining for her.” He shrugs. “And she obviously feels something for you, otherwise she wouldn’t bristle every time you drool over another woman.”

“I do not drool over other women.”

“Oh, there’s drooling. My point is, you’re both saying there’s nothing between you, you’re just friends, but that’s not how either of you act. Tell me, have you ever actually asked Sara out on a date?”

Matt stops outside our homeroom door. “I was going to, once. It was right before her, er...you know...manifested. I’d been working up to ask her out, then she had her breakdown. After that, I don’t know. Time never felt right.”

He’s leaving something out, but I don’t push. “Maybe the time is right now,” I say. “Never know unless you try.”

“What if she says no? How can we be friends after that?”

“Matt, if your friendship with Sara falls apart after that, it’s not much of a friendship.”

I see it in his eyes: something clicks into place. Score one for Carrie the Matchmaker.

If only I could work my magic on myself.

This may come as a surprise, but I’ve never had a real boyfriend. During my Dark Period — when I shut my true persona away so I could better fit in with the beautiful people at my old school — I referred to a couple different guys as boyfriends, but that was never anything more than an empty title. I didn’t love either of them, and they sure didn’t love me; I was their arm candy, their personal hottie (and, if I’d let them, their first sexual conquest), and nothing more. In my old circle of friends, these pseudo-relationships began and ended at a moment’s notice, with the involved parties trading partners frequently. That was how much any of us truly gave a crap about one another.

Nevertheless, it’s coming up on Valentine’s Day, the first one in a few years when I haven’t been with someone, and I can’t deny I’m feeling a little lonely.

     Shake it off, girl. Valentine’s Day with a fake boyfriend is worse than Valentine’s Day with no boyfriend. Of course, the whole thing would be easier to endure if I didn’t have longbow-toting cherubs mocking me from every wall of the computer lab.

“Speaking as a member of the dance committee, I want to disavow any involvement in creating the crimson nightmare that is our school,” Malcolm says, waving a finger at a trio of Cupids ganging up on the clock like primitive hunters converging on a kill.

“Ha! You failed to stop it,” I say, “so I’m holding you responsible.”