Action Figures - Issue Two: Black Magic Women (18 page)

“Flank it,” Astrid calls up to me. I drop, and swing around until I’m at the thing’s three o’clock, while Astrid advances on its twelve.

Astrid waves at it, a backhanded flick. A wave of energy ripples through the air. The cloud falls apart, transforming from mist to liquid as it hits the ground, splashing like ink at the feet of a man — or something approximately man-shaped. It had to have been human at one point (it’s dressed in the remnants of a business suit), but its limbs are too long for its body, and they have extra angles, which give them the appearance of having been broken and badly reset. Mist, glowing as if under a black light, cascades off his body.

The thing’s head snaps left and right, searching for us. It spots Astrid first, then does the last thing I expect: it smiles, spreads its crooked arms, and bows low. Imagine the screechy squeal an electric guitar makes when you drag a pick down its strings, and you get a solid idea of what its voice sounds like.

“Ahhh. This pays homage to thee,” it says, “if this is correct, that this addresses the Lady of Shadows.”

“I am the Lady of Shadows, and I would know your name, demon,” Astrid says, a command that carries with it a hint of formality, “and your purpose here.”

“This name is this own,” it hisses, “but you may know this as the Soulblack, the Mind Cancer, the Eater of Order, and this purpose is this nature, no more.”

“Meaning?” I say. The demon turns to me and grins, his mouth stretching much wider than a human mouth ever could — a literal ear-to-ear smile. Oh, I am so freaking out right now.

“It wasn’t summoned with a specific purpose,” Astrid says. “Someone called it up, then cut it loose. Is that correct?”

“Not so loose this was allowed to leave this village, but aye, it is truth enough,” the Soulblack says.

“Name your master, demon.” It makes gurgling sound, like it’s hawking up a wad of phlegm the size of a bowling ball: a laugh. “I said, name your master. I would know who summoned you.”

“But this master would not be known, and by this master’s will.”

“Whoever summoned it told it not to narc him out,” I guess.

“Right. Well then, Soulblack, Mind Cancer, Eater of Order,” Astrid says, cracking her knuckles, “down to business.”

“Aye.”

It lashes out in my direction, spraying its freaky black liquid cloud stuff at me. I rocket skyward, out of the wave’s way, and fire back. More by accident than design, my shot connects. The Soulblack wails, crumples from the impact, but I sense I’m not damaging the demon; I’m damaging the man it’s using.

I feel sick.

Astrid fans her fingers. Crushed asphalt springs off the ground, spraying the Soulblack in what should be lethal shrapnel. The Soulblack flinches, startled rather than injured, then (ew) vomits its black yuck at Astrid, expelling the stuff with fire hose velocity. Astrid conjures a shield, deflects the attack, and gives me an opening.

“What are you doing to it?” Astrid shouts up to me.

“Blasting it!”

“You’re hurting it!”

“Kind of the idea, yeah!”

The Soulblack lurches at Astrid, rage twisting its face into a grotesque mockery of a human expression. It shrieks in a language unlike anything I’ve ever heard.

“Yeah, right back at you,” Astird says. “Carrie! Cover your eyes, it’s going to get bright!”

She strikes a pose, arms outstretched to the sky. The air grows brighter, as if dawn were arriving several hours ahead of schedule. My eyes adjust instantly to the change (another perk of my power, I’m assuming). Within seconds, night has transformed into day. The Soulblack screams. The mist coming off its body turns a sickly gray; its skin starts to blister, peel, char. It bellows what sounds, despite its alien tongue, distinctly like a profanity.

The Soulblack explodes in a burst of anti-light, a sphere of midnight in the middle of this impossible midday.

There’s a shape in the middle of the void. Something not remotely human.

Oh God.

“Look at me.”

It’s Astrid, but all she is is a disembodied voice. I can’t see anything but blobs of muted, mushy color floating in a sea of hazy black.

Hands, warm and a little sweaty, grasp my face, jostle my head about on the loose spring of my neck.

“Look at me,” Astrid says again, and my vision snaps back to normal. It’s nighttime again. Astrid’s nose is tip-to-tip with mine. Her stare is intense, boring into me.

“Okay,” I say. “Looking. Looking at you.”

She looks back, hard, then sighs in relief. “Sorry. Had to make sure you weren’t insane.”

“Was that even a question?” I slump back against a car, perhaps the only one in the parking lot that hasn’t been reduced to a pile of smoldering wreckage. Astrid sits next to me.

“You caught a glimpse of a demon’s true form. That’s more than enough to break the average human mind.”

“I see.”

“Yes, you did, even though I told you to look away.”

“Point of order: you never said anything about sanity-destroying true forms. You told me to shield my eyes because it was going to get bright. Should be more specific next time.” Astrid grunts by way of an apology. “Neat trick, by the way.”

“Thanks, but you gave me the idea. The Soulblack didn’t like what you were dishing out. I theorized you were generating solar energy, or close enough, so I pulled together all the ambient sunlight reflecting off the moon.”

“You...pulled together all the ambient sunlight?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Uh. Wow. Cool.”

Astrid shrugs:
shucks, weren’t nothin’
. We sit there for a minute, the silence between us taking a turn for the awkward.

“That demon. He knew you.”

“Indirectly,” Astrid says. “By reputation. I have power. That tends to attract attention, often from all the wrong people.”

“Or demons.”

“Or demons.”

Or people possessed by demons, like the poor man who had the incredibly bad luck to be picked as the Soulblack’s sock puppet. He’s lying nearby, his body contorted as though he died from a seizure so violent it popped all his joints out of place. His skin is chalky and dusty, like used charcoal. Identifying the remains may well be impossible. We may never know who he was.

“Did you ever find out who Stacy Hellfire was?” I say. “I mean, before she...you know.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. I talked to a friend of mine in the Kingsport PD; he took a look through recent missing persons reports...Moira Steenbergen. Sophomore at UMass, went missing two days before Stacy Hellfire popped up.”

“Moira Steenbergen,” I say, committing the name to memory.

“She’s on my revenge list, too,” Astrid says, “and trust me, when we nail Black Betty, she’ll pay for each and every name on it.”

“Explain something to me. What does she get out of this? Aside from chaos and destruction for the sake of it.”

“She gets chaos and destruction for the sake of it. She’s an anarchist, Carrie, she doesn’t need a reason.”

“How are we supposed to stop someone like that? If there’s no method to her madness, how do we catch her before she pulls something like this again? Or something worse?”

“That’s my job. Let me worry about it.”

“You’re not in this alone, you know. We can help. We
want
to help.”

“No offense, but you’re out of your depth here. Black Betty is playing by a different set of rules, and if you don’t know how to play the game...”

She leaves the thought unfinished, but I get what she’s saying: this is a specialized hunt, and we don’t have the right tools. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.

“Come on, kiddo, we’ve got some cleaning up to do. Night’s not over yet.” She glances up at the sky, the stars clear and crisp in the winter night sky. “Oops. Actually, it is. Good morning.”

Good morning?

I pick my headpiece up off the ground and jam it on my face. The display tells me it’s 12:50 AM — almost an hour after curfew, almost two after I promised to be home.

I am so dead.

PART TWO: CULT OF PERSONALITY

NINETEEN

At top speed, I manage to get home by one. With nowhere to stuff my costume, I strip it off, and tuck it under a big rock near my woodland launchpad. My dress is wrinkled as hell, I’m wearing my boots instead of the shoes I left in, but I’m betting Mom is going to overlook such petty details, what with her seeing me through a red cloud of maternal rage and all.

As I expected, she’s awake, sitting on the couch. She doesn’t look up from her magazine as I enter.

“Mom, I’m —”

“Go to your room,” she says. “We are going to talk about this in the morning after Granddad leaves for church.”

Well, world, it’s been nice knowing you.

I do as I’m told, without any backtalk. I’m way too tired to be worried or afraid or to start concocting a cover story. I conk out as soon as I hit the mattress.

My alarm clock reads 10:23 AM when I finally wake up. I stare at it, watch the minutes tick away. At 11:02 AM, I decide I can’t stay my execution any longer, so I head downstairs to face the shrill, screeching music.

Mom is in the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading the Sunday paper, like nothing is wrong. Again, she doesn’t look at me as I enter. I stand there for a couple of minutes. The silence is, as they say, deafening.

Hold your breath and dive in, Carrie. Nothing ventured, no one screamed at.

“Should I assume I should go back up to my room and stay there until I’m thirty?”

“You promised me, Carrie,” Mom says, her voice level. “You promised me up, down, left, and right you would be home by curfew. You promised me you would have your phone on.”

“I know.”

“Well?” She still isn’t looking at me.

“We left the dance, and we went to the Dunkin Donuts in town to grab a coffee,” I say. “We got to talking and we didn’t stop. We were having a good time, and I didn’t want it to end. We lost track of time.”

“And your phone?”

“In Malcolm’s car.”

Mom inhales, exhales, lets the bomb drop. “You’re grounded for the week. Straight home after school. No hanging out with your friends after school, no homework groups — straight home, straight to your room. Your phone and your laptop stay down here. I don’t want you IMing or texting with anyone.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

Now she looks up at me. “I’m tired of hearing how sorry you are,” she says. “I’m tired of the apologies, I’m tired of your excuses, and I’m tired of your irresponsibility. God. This is your freshman year all over again.”

The chilly attitude, I can understand. The punishment, I can accept. The accusation I’m sliding back into crappy habits I continue to regret to this day? That’s the one that hurts.

I silently pour myself some coffee, grab a package of Pop-Tarts, and retreat to my room.

Sara?
I think as loud as I can.
Any chance you’re there?

Muh. Hey
, Sara says in a sleepy thought-voice.

Sorry, did I wake you up?

Mm. Not really. Kind of. Yes.

Sorry.

No, s’okay. I should probably get up so my parents can yell at me.

Yeah, I just had my sentence handed down. Grounded for a week.

Ouch.

No, that’s fair. I can live with that.

I should be so lucky. The rest of us didn’t get home until almost two. We told our parents we hit the theater for a midnight movie.

I had a romantic post-dance coffee with Malcolm, as far as Mom is concerned.

Oh, if only. Hey, other than fighting crazy people and demons, how
did
the night go?

It was fantastic,
I say, the memory breaking through the misery to bring a smile to my face.
Malcolm was a total gentlemen, we talked all night, danced our butts off...

Awesome. At least that went well.

Until.

Yeah, until. Okay, might as well get this over with. I’ll give you a shout after I find out how screwed I am.

Okay. Good luck.

Should have saved some luck for myself, because oh, do I need it.

“Dad’s back from church,” Mom says, appearing in my doorway after a token knock. “He told me something very interesting.”

“Okay,” I say, keeping my nose deep in my book (in times of trouble,
The Hobbit
is my go-to comfort reading material). What she says next gets my full and undivided attention.

“He was talking to Malcolm this morning. Malcolm told Dad you left the dance rather suddenly, around nine-thirty or so, claimed that I called you and told you to come home. Care to tell me what this is all about?”

My brain seizes up. I can’t so much as grunt in response, much less pull a new, plausible, airtight alibi out of my butt. Mom stares at me expectantly. I stare back stupidly.

“Well?” Mom says. “Are you going to tell me where you
really
were? And why you lied to me, and to your date?”