You’ll think you need to keep what you do hidden.
Maybe a secret identity if you want to fight the bad (or rob the rich...).
Maybe a publicist to spin you into mundane.
Maybe a spiritual advisor to frame you as divine.
Nah. Too nuff. Tell everyone. Most won’t believe you.
But there will be those who need to believe. Who deserve to believe.
You’ll want them to be able to find you.
The front of the hospital is a riot of noise and light, with people rushing up to me as I exit the building. These people weren’t here thirty minutes ago. Neither were the microphones.
“DO YOU CLAIM TO BE A FAITH HEALER?”
“HOW MUCH DID YOU MAKE HER FATHER PAY YOU?”
“WHAT’S THE TRICK BEHIND THE GLOW?”
There are about forty people gathered outside Baptist Medical. Ten or fifteen of them are waving iPhones in the air while a handful have tripods set up with legit cameras and press creds.
The rest of the crowd is a bit further back and looks like mostly curious normies. A few of that bunch stand out as neither curious nor normal.
I don’t know the preacher by sight, but I know his type. A faux zealot who throws collection plate money around to get tipped off about the next outrage, so he can get filmed being outraged in public.
Behind him, a slightly pudgy nurse, whose gaze adores him and rejects me, tells the story of how the ambush was so perfectly timed.
The preacher raises his voice an octave to reclaim everyone’s attention.
“MANY WILL FOLLOW THE DEVIL’S DEPRAVED CONDUCT AND IN HIS GREED HE WILL EXPLOIT YOU WITH FAKE NEWS.”
I step into the middle of the reporters and address them directly. They aren’t here for the preacher anyway. “Fake news? Don’t you good folk think Saint Peter will object to Chinese AI being used to dumb down his words?”
“That’s not...I would never...I use Grok!”
Dealing with the press is like surfing Tres Palmas. You ride the waves. Especially the ones you create. While he’s still sputtering in outrage, I point to one of the reporters who gets paid for the job.
“Timothy Tate, WSFA 12 News. Mr. Beton, some are claiming that your family practices voodoo and that you are a witch doctor.”
Thank you, Mr. Tate. I haven’t had a setup this easy since t-ball at the Y.
“My parents are both tax attorneys, which I suppose is a kind of voodoo. And I only play doctor in private. No offense, Tim, you’re cute, but not my type.”
Laughs. Good. Vipère qui rit mord pas. Charming Cass gets some time to play.
“MR. BETON!”
A thirtyish blonde in a pantsuit who’s filming through an iPhone shoots her hand into the air. She tuff. I point to her next.
“Vera Shine from the Morning Miracles podcast. Two questions: Did you heal the girl and was it with faith healing? And am I your type?”
“That’s three questions. Yes. No. And it depends if you like Midnight Miracles.”
More laughs, groans, and a blushing giggle from Vera which is as much for her podcast audience as it is for this one. Vipère en amour, aussi.
“BLASPHEMER!”
A huge blob of spittle from Father Grok lands on my cheek, undermining whatever sex appeal I’ve banked with the crowd.
“THE RIGHTEOUS WILL BE SAVED WHEN THEY BATHE THEIR FEET IN THE BLOOD OF THE WICKED.”
It’s a signal.
The first bottle arrives, popping like a gunshot on the wall of the hospital as I dodge to keep it from hitting my head. Then I dodge a second.
Most of the crowd scatters, but there are about a half dozen who weren’t surprised. Three continue throwing things at me. Three bigger ones are coming for me with blunt tools in their hands; pipe, crowbar and wrench.
I see a familiar form in Muay Thai sparring gear shoulder through the fleeing crowd on a line to intercept the tool guys. Close-cropped red hair, a sweat-darkened rashguard, fight shorts and shin guards buckled to the calves. Hands wrapped and held high fronting a mouthguard-chewing grin that’s just a tiny bit on the feral side.
I’m in for a show. I’d cut in on the dance, but I’d never be forgiven if I did.
Before he even reacts, Pipe gets a kick to the mid that folds him over, followed by a palm strike to the back of his head that rudely introduces his face to the sidewalk.
Wrench gets one swing off, connecting with nothing but air as the fighter steps inside, traps the weapon arm and lifts a straight knee between the guy’s legs.
Crowbar decides maybe he’s out of his weight class and starts backing up fast as the fighter turns to close on him.
That’s when the brick connects heavily with the side of the fighter’s head.
“ANGELIQUE!”
I sprint to where she’s fallen in the hospital’s manicured grass, as sirens announce the police and the remaining thugs make a run for it.
Her head is a mess. The brick clocked her right in the temple above her left eye and blood is pulsing out in sheets from a two-inch gash. She’s conscious, barely. Rocking gently back and forth, eyes drifting upward every time she tries to find me.
“Angelique, listen to my voice. It’s Cass. I’m going to put my hands on your face. It’s okay, it’s a friend.”
I could give a shit about the glow right now, but this kind of work doesn’t like moving quickly because of the complexity of the Art involved. So, I take my time and the nimbus stays concentrated around my hands, like I’m cupping a light bulb next to Angelique’s face.
The tattoo that starts to form is a brick, because...yeah.
I feel the trickle of wet begin above my eye. My memory of the first kick divides into near and far, sensed and felt. Stickiness clouds the lashes of my left eye and a sharp pain splits my skull as I inflict what has to be far worse pain on Wrench’s groin, watching her/me drive the knee home from twenty feet away. Then the spins start and I fall back on my ass in the grass losing my connection to Angelique.
A few seconds later our roles are reversed. She’s torn a strip off my t-shirt and is using it to staunch the blood on my forehead as she kneels next to me.
“Midnight Miracle. Really Cass?”
“You heard that huh? I was workshopping it to use with you.”
That earns a real slug to the shoulder. “Fuck me. Ooooow.”
“You just said Fuck Meow.”
Angelique’s smile says she’s fine. Better to be sure though.
“What do you remember?”
“Coming from class. Charging the guy with the pipe. Then blank tape until I saw you sitting next to me with that tattoo glowing on your palm. What did I lose?”
“A brick to the head and you unloading on a couple of lightweights.”
“Aw, Cass. You couldn’t have left me the fights? You know I like collecting scalps.”
She reaches out again to touch my forehead, this time without the makeshift rag. I like the feel of her fingers brushing my skin.
I can hear someone approaching us from behind me. “Ma’am, you want me to haul this guy away for bleeding on you?”
Angelique stays put, but looks up and squints. “If you hauled away everyone that bleeds on me, I wouldn’t have any students left, Officer Kendrick.”
Rodney Kendrick steps into view and stares down at me, both of his thumbs hooked into his belt. “You okay, Ink? Someone unhappy with their tat? Should I get my chalk out of the car?”
“No, he’s fine. Cassius has a few more quarts where this came from.”
Rodney is a regular in the neighborhood both on and off duty. Early 50s and something of a legend in the local black community for his ability to de-escalate problems when the badge is on and privately re-escalate them later when it comes off.
“Rodney, how many times have I asked you to stop calling me Ink?”
“It’s what the whole department calls you now, and you know I’ve always been a guy who doesn’t rock the boat.”
“More of a sink the boat kind guy, right?” says Angelique.
Both of Rodney’s hands go to his heart. “You wound me, Angelique! Speaking of wounds, I have a new guy who could use some off-duty polish.”
“Send him over and I’ll break him.”
“Break him in, you mean right?”
“Sure. Maybe. No promises.”
“You two take care. I may stop by your places later for statements.” Rodney touches his hat and then heads towards the front of the hospital where his men are clustered.
“Thanks for this.” Angelique takes my left hand, which is still ringed in faint light, and flips it. The tattoo of the brick is there, but visibly fading along with the glow. “But next time leave me the good bits.”
“Pas de quoi.” Ironic. She always ends up begging me to take the good bits away. The best bits at least.
Her eyes flutter a bit and it’s like a puzzle piece just snapped back into her memory. “Oh, shit, I left class for a reason. Cass, one of the neighborhood watch kids saw someone go into your flat from the back alley. They went in the way you do.”
I try to stand. It takes Angelique’s help. Then she offers more. “I’ll go with. You aren’t fit for a fight.”
“No. I’ll be fine in a minute.” It’s true. The physical effects are reduced because of the ouroboros tattoo on my wrist, linked to my twin sister. If Dahlia’s on a date, the sudden gushing head wound will be fun to explain.
It’s the double perspectives from the memories that take time for my brain to integrate. Dahlia doesn’t get those.
“Cass, I’m every bit the man you are and twice the woman. Let me help you.”
I look her in the eyes and the world swims a second, for a completely different reason. “I appreciate it, Anje, but if they’re a real threat, they wouldn’t have let themselves be seen.”
“Or they’re strong enough that it doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll be fine in the first case and I won’t risk you in the second. I’ll come see you after.”
“Fuck that. I’m coming even if I have to fight both of you.”
“Fine. You can take the inside stairs and I’ll go in my way.”
Anje will lose time unlocking the parlor and climbing the stairwell, so I’ll beat her to my third floor flat by a minute or two. The back alley of my building is empty and I don’t see anyone on my balcony.
It takes me a second to call on the sixteen tattoos I need. A combination of strength, balance and skill. They appear across my skin, do the glowing thing and then I bend my legs and leap thirty feet up and over the rail to land perfectly next to the door.
The door is cracked and the smell of sweet tobacco and burning autumn leaves transports me back a decade. I know exactly one person who smokes Black Russians.
Fuck meow.
The tobacco scent is supernaturally rich. She’s using the smoke. She’s already weaving compulsion with the Art and it doesn’t matter one bit that I know.
I step inside and my senses magnify and combine. Sight sparks scent. Sound stimulates taste. And it ALL triggers touch.
The next five seconds are an eternity that I need to escape, but never want to end.
Her legs are impossibly long and slim, wrapped in black lace gartered stockings rising to mid-thigh. She’s wearing a knife-pleated black satin miniskirt over layers of green underskirt. Her midriff is bare beneath a sheer black lace halter top stuffed with breasts so perfectly proportioned that Angelique would call them “uncanny valleys”.
Her hands, wrists, neck and ears drip with silver and emeralds. Her hair drapes down over her shoulders, jet black with jade accents mirroring the gems and underskirt. Black and green liner accents her huge gray, slightly tilted eyes. Her skin and facial structure read as Japanese, Nubian or Egyptian depending on which excites me most from moment to moment.
Her body looks 18. Her eyes look 180.
She is sitting on one of the cheap chairs at my kitchen table with a black Sobranie gold tip cigarette in one hand and a Bud Light longneck in the other. Four empty bottles are in front of her, the last survivor of the six pack still in the carton on the table.
She’s using a piece of my watermelon licorice as a straw and makes a show of puckering her black-glossed lips around the candy. She sucks out the last drops of beer, sets the empty bottle on the table and gives it a good spin.
Of course the bottle ends up pointing directly at me.
“Oh, Cassius, mon chéri. You know the rules.”
Her voice drips with the Art. She smiles, turns to face me directly, then slowly spreads her legs and leans back enough for me to see there’s nothing on under the skirt.
“Now you have to come over here and give us a kiss.”
My body almost moves in spite of me. Angelique will be here any second. I let my jump tattoos fade away. I summon back a different tattoo in their place.
The Brick. Angelique.
Now I really just want to kick her ass.
I cross my arms and root my feet to the hardwood floor of my flat.
“Why exactly are you here, Grandmother?”
Well, this is naughty. 😊 I would love to pick a favorite line but there's too many. I'm picking up "Ink Mage" and "Death Gate" vibes but the execution is really fresh. 👌👌👌
Crap a brick?