Seven Wonders (9 page)

  The target turned into the alleyway. The Cowl was practically invisible in the night to most people, he was sure of that, and he also knew that the target was a frail seventy year-old man with bad eyes and bad hearing. As far as the old man was concerned, the alley was empty.

  And besides, while the Cowl had declared the man a no-go for the gangs, he knew that someday, one day, he'd need the information he carried, locked in his elderly mind.

  Were the Seven Wonders stupid, or just arrogant? Both, probably. The whole purpose of these protectors of knowledge was that their secrets would be kept from the Cowl. The ease with which he'd taken the bank manager had proved that perhaps the Seven Wonders really were that stupid. The Cowl had known about the "vaults" for years, the living strongboxes, entrusted with individual elements of a single secret. He imagined the superteam scrambling in a blind panic as the bank job went down.

  The Cowl allowed himself a smile. All too easy.

  The second "vault" was just feet away. Despite the heat of the night, the elderly man was wrapped in a heavy woolen overcoat, black homburg pulled down tight. He wore glasses with thick plastic rims that were probably new in 1963. His cane was a thick walking stick, the expensive kind, fashioned out of a single natural shaft of wood. The Cowl could see the grain and the knots of the branch that were left in the surface as a decorative touch, and was pleased to note his supervision was still in operation.

  The man passed by, walking slowly but not shuffling. The Cowl observed his movements. He was old, sure, but seemed in good shape. The coat was filled out, the shoulders straight, the head up if it weren't for the deep tilt of the hat. The walking stick was being used for the intended purpose rather than just for show, but aside from the slow pace, he looked like a rather spry elderly gentleman. Something like an ex-boxer, or maybe someone who had served his country in an overseas theater back in the day.

  The Cowl pushed himself off the alley wall, allowing his cloak to fall away. Although he knew he'd be silhouetted by the light streaming into the alleyway's entrance behind him, his costume would still keep him featureless and dark. And if the man were to turn around, there was nothing wrong with a touch of fear instilled by the sweeping shadow of San Ventura's resident supervillain.

  Immediately the old man in front of him stopped. The Cowl stood still, completely silent. It occurred to him that perhaps another reason why the vault was untouchable was because, perhaps, he wasn't
just
a regular old man. Although he knew about the failed attacks, how various members of the Seven Wonders would appear as if by magic as soon as their secrets were threatened and fight off any attacker, other stories of dead gang members and failed muggings crossed the Cowl's mind.

  He dismissed them. Mr Ballard had just been a man, after all. And while there were more than enough retired superheroes in the world, the whole purpose of the vaults was to hide the information
out
of the reach of those who may be tempted to use it.

  The Cowl smiled again. Even the Seven Wonders themselves probably didn't know about it, mindwiped by that stuck-up bitch, Bluebell. Hide the secrets in the city, mindwipe everyone so not even they can remember anything about it, but leave a latent post-hypnotic suggestion to protect the locations at all costs.

  Although…

  The old man shuffled. Still the Cowl didn't move.

  Although none of them had shown up at the bank. Maybe the Seven Wonders were sleeping on the job.

  Or maybe they had an eighth member, that mystery speedster. The Cowl frowned again. He'd have to look into that. First things first…

  "I figured you'd try it sooner or later, boy." The old man coughed, clearing his throat wetly before continuing. He didn't turn around. "Didn't figure on it being so damned long, though. You got some patience, I'll credit you that. I guess that's part of why you're in charge of this otherwise mighty fine city." He turned slowly until he was facing his ambush, then switched his walking stick over to his other hand.

  The old man harrumphed. His accent was deep, molasses-dipped, each word drawn out like an oil painting. He wasn't a local. Alabama perhaps. Somewhere south-east.

  The Cowl took a step forward, stopping when the old man raised his stick up and pointed it directly at him.

  "Now hold on there, fella," said the old man. "You might be faster than a speeding bullet and stronger than a locomotive, but even you might want to think twice afore you do anything you might regret in the morning."

  The Cowl swept his cloak behind him, intended to intimidate, but the old man just laughed drily. The Cowl stepped forward again, annoyed.

  "I extracted the secret from the first vault without much trouble," he said. "What makes you so different?"

  The old man placed his stick back on the ground and leaned on it as he ran a hand around the rim of his hat. "Oh, I'm plenty different, no mistake. Each vault is different, y'see? The first was hidden. Well, you found him right enough, sittin' pretty in the bank. Me, I'm hidden in plain sight, but my secret is what you might say a little more important, so the heroes didn't just give it to no one. You ever heard of Death's Head Angel?" The old man paused, expecting a reply.

  The Cowl didn't have time for this. It was a snatch-and-grab, in and out. "The Black Angel? Superhero from South Carolina. Missing in action twenty years now. And?"

  The old man laughed drily again, like his throat was full of grit. "The Black Angel. Haven't heard that one in a while. It started as an insult, you know, until I claimed it for myself. You're right, I was active in South Carolina, but I never went missing. I just… retired and relocated. Seems even an old man is useful for something."

  This information was new, and the Cowl had been quite, quite mistaken. The old man − the second of the Seven Wonders' walking "vaults" of knowledge and data − was a retired superhero. Death's Head Angel − the Black Angel − running a laundry on Bull Street.

  The Cowl took a deep breath. No problem. He knew about the Black Angel. He was more powerful by an order of magnitude and thirty years younger at least.

  The fact that he was missing a range of superpowers crossed his mind, but he dismissed it. Even so, the Black Angel was an old man. His skin would tear like dry leaves. The Cowl didn't need superpowers to take him on.

  "Ah, I figured on that," said the old man.

  The Cowl blinked behind the lenses in his mask. What, the Black Angel was telepathic now?

  "I'm an old man and my powers are fading fast, that's the truth," the mark continued. "You could kill me with a mean look from that mask o' yours." The old man stepped forward, removing his glasses and carefully tucking them into the top pocket of his overcoat. He waved the stick again, punctuating each point with a jerk of his gnarled hand. "If it weren't that your powers were a-fadin' too. Am I right? You ain't as fast as you were, you ain't as
strong
as you were. You can't even fly." He laughed, shaking his head and leaning back on his stick. "Hell, you'll still kill me, but listen to me, boy. This isn't going to be easy. Consider it first, and if you stay true to your decision, then so be it. The Black Angel retired and went missing years ago. I'm just an old man mugged in an alley. Nobody will miss me. But sure as hell I'll make it difficult."

  "Enough!" The Cowl couldn't help the outburst, but fought to control the irritation. How did the old man know what was happening to him? He was a superhero entrusted with a secret, so perhaps he was still in touch with the Seven Wonders, even if the superteam didn't actually remember doing it.

  But did they know about his powers fading? The Cowl sucked on his teeth. He'd been right. They must be responsible for it. He clenched his fists.

  The old man sighed, looking to the ground. "Well, there's your decision then. I hope the secret is worth it."

  The old man ran forward, stick raised like a club. He didn't cry out or say anything else, his face fixed with a firm, purposeful expression. The Cowl immediately crouched, timing a punch that would snap the man's head from his shoulders. The Black Angel came into range, stick above his head, and then he let out a yell.

  The Cowl's fist flew forward, but was met by the downward curve of the walking stick. The wooden shaft flexed alarmingly, the impact forcing the Cowl's arm downwards and throwing him forward off balance. A stab of pain shot through the Cowl's shoulder as bones jarred together in the joint, but after a second he put it out of his mind and tried to swing his other arm around. But the Black Angel had kept moving and the Cowl's fist whistled past his head. The old man ducked left and brought the stick down and out to his right, then pulled it back with both hands like he was a champion rower.

  The stick's shaft slipped between the Cowl's legs, twisting them and sending the supervillain sprawling forward. As his cloaked back presented itself, the Black Angel spun and threw out both his legs, balancing on his walking stick with superhuman agility as he ploughed both feet into the small of the Cowl's back. The Cowl bent in the wrong direction and cried out in pain as the force of the kick propelled him through the air to the far end of the alley. A large yellow dumpster, already pitted and dented, took the brunt of the impact, collapsing around the Cowl like baking foil as he crashed into it.

  The Cowl slumped downwards and hit the ground, but his cape was pinched in a tear in the dumpster's side. He grabbed it and yanked the fabric free, but it took two strong tugs.

  Dammit. Not good. His strength was borderline normal. The old man had been right, it was going to be difficult.

  But not, by the Black Angel's own admission, impossible. He'd known the Cowl would be able to beat him. The key was to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  The Cowl stood and tasted something sour on his lip. He ran his tongue over his bottom teeth, discovering with surprise that his mouth was filled with a liquid that wasn't saliva. It was… blood?

  OK. Blood. There goes the invulnerability.

  The old man was on his knees at the end of the alley. He was completely out of breath, and was forcing his walking stick into the pavement as he tried to pull himself up. His laugh was still dry but much weaker now.

  "Now that's something I haven't had to do in a long, long time. I have to say that while I know you're going to kill me, at least you do me the honor of letting me go out fighting. Perhaps the time has come after all."

  The Cowl ignored him and conjured a fizzing orb of plasma between his hands, the alley suddenly illuminated with brilliant white light. He grew the energy ball in his hands like a balloon, noticing that the light had dazzled the old man while his own mask had instantly compensated. The Black Angel was standing now but looking down, holding both arms in front of his head to shield himself from the light.

  "Goodnight, Gracie," said the Cowl, throwing the ball of energy toward his enemy like a World Series baseball pitcher. Even before it had reached its target, he began to walk forward, ready to claim his prize.

  The plasma ball exploded, early. The Cowl stopped and his mask struggled this time as the alley was enveloped in a rainbow flash of light. As the remnants of the energy crackled against the damp brick walls of the alley, he could see the old man standing straight with the walking stick held in both hands, like a batter, the shaft smoking from where it had hit the plasma ball. The old man had his eyes closed but was smiling.

  The Cowl couldn't help but laugh. He had to hand it to him. Even nearing, what, eighty, the Black Angel was a class act. The fight was beyond him and it was starting to show, but he kept it up and would battle until his last breath. Just like a superhero.

  But every second that passed was time for him to recover, and this had already taken far longer than the Cowl had hoped. As the old man stood there and wheezed, the Cowl charged forward. His fists flew, left, right, left, right, left again, cracking the Black Angel's jaw and cheekbones. The old man was thrown backwards, each successive punch tossing him higher into the air, each left and right hook arcing blood in either direction, spraying the already wet alley with hot liquid.

  But the old man didn't fall. As soon as his feet touched the ground he stumbled backwards and, to the Cowl's surprise, ducked the final punch then jabbed his own fists in a sharp uppercut against his attacker's chin. The Cowl cried out in surprise and hit the alley wall, pins and needles crawling over his whole face and neck. He blinked to clear the spots and saw the old man shambling forward, zombielike in the half-light, blood dripping thickly into the shadows.

  The Cowl pushed off from the wall to renew the attack, but each punch was blocked with a forearm or an open hand. In the near-darkness of the alley, the two scuffled like prize fighters, a mix of boxing, martial arts and no-rules brawling as the Black Angel made his final, glorious stand. For every hit that landed on the Cowl, the Cowl managed to get four into the Black Angel's body. Bones cracked audibly on both sides, but the old man took the worst of it. Finally he swiped drunkenly for a gut-punch, but the Cowl eased back out of range. With the old man's head bowed, he pummeled downwards with both hands, striking the Black Angel between the shoulder blades. There was a
crack
, and the old man slumped, leaning forward against the Cowl's stomach.

  The Cowl kicked a knee up, throwing the old man off him, and stepped back. Acid-sharp pain coursed down his side, and he leant forward, cradling his damaged ribs with both arms. There was more of the unfamiliar metallic taste of blood in his mouth, and looking down he saw exposed flesh underneath tears in his costume, dark and slick with more blood. The Cowl hadn't had a fight like that in… in
ever.

  The old man twitched on the ground and, slowly, stood up and arched his back, like he'd just finished his warm-up and was ready for round two.