October 12th, 2014

  Timber Hollow, United States

  Having powers was awesome—awesome in a way no one ever seemed to talk about. It wasn’t some fshy, life-changing revetion. I didn’t suddenly become the coolest guy in school, nor did I flex my newfound strength into wealth or status. To everyone else, I was still just Greg. Greg the loser. Greg the wimp. Greg the “Red Bastard.”

  I still got picked on. I still got called names. But now? Now, it barely bothered me. Mostly. On some small level, it still stung, but more than anything, it was funny. Like I knew some cosmic joke they didn’t. Because I did know something.

  I knew that if I wanted to--if I really wanted to--I could just say “screw it” and kill them with a single punch. Something about knowing that made everything different. It made all my problems seem small–conquerable.

  I suppose that’s why my most recent hurdle was so frustrating.

  It had been a month since I got my power, and from the moment I realized what I could do, the next step seemed obvious: become a cape. Anyone with powers did it. The ones who didn’t? Few, far between, and total losers.

  The only problem? The costume.

  I loved costumes. I could tell you what year it was by looking at a cape's outfit. The materials, the stitching, the color palettes—I ate that stuff up. But making one myself? Turns out, I sucked at it.

  I knew it was hard to make a costume. Everyone did. But like most people, I only knew it anecdotally. Now, after a month of trying, I knew it firsthand.

  I started on my costume the day after Lycan’s Rampage—the media’s name, not mine. Thanks to that psycho, I had more free time than usual. The hospital was overwhelmed, even more than normal, which meant Mom was there nearly every waking hour.

  Which, I know, sucks and all, but it worked out for me. I had way more time and way fewer questions.

  Normally, if Mom saw me rummaging through old clothes and dusty sports gear, she’d at least ask some questions—maybe even the right questions, despite her total disinterest in cape culture. But after everything that happened, I’d apparently earned some post-trauma leeway. Instead of questions, all I got were pitying looks and offers to help.

  So, thanks to Lycan deciding to murder a few dozen people before getting his butt kicked by Stormcloud, I had nothing stopping me from making my hero costume. Nothing—except my complete inability to actually make one. Or a vilin costume. I tried that too.

  A hero’s outfit was one of their most important assets. Above all else and without words, they announced who you were. Sure, if you were powerful enough, you could stroll around in a trash bag and still be a legend. But not everyone had that kind of luxury. I certainly didn’t. Not yet, at least.

  A good costume did more than just make you popur. If a criminal saw you as weak, they’d treat you as weak. But if they perceived you as strong? Half the time, you wouldn’t even need to prove it. I’d practically written essays on cape forums about how every tiny detail of a costume mattered.

  Too bad knowing that didn’t mean I could make one. And my habit of tearing apart bad designs online? Yeah, that didn’t help either.

  But good costume or not, I couldn’t wait any longer. There was a burning need to use my power, not for something grandiose like justice or systemic change, but simply for the sake of it, to crystalize the change I went through.

  And so, unable to make a good outfit but unwilling to wait, I found myself here, walking the streets at night looking like—almost—anybody else.

  Covering my upper body was an old leather jacket slightly too big but not loose enough to swallow my hands. My legs were protected by bck denim built for manual bor, tough enough that even my kitchen knives struggled against it.

  The only thing that marked me as a cape was the hockey mask I’d spray-painted bck. The one and only custom part of my outfit.

  It wasn’t fshy. It wasn’t impressive. But it was enough to be recognized as a cape.

  Nobody wore face masks anymore—not even on Halloween. Too many people had been jumped, mistaken for a cape, or had the MRU called on them for it. These days, a mask was a statement. A decration.

  And tonight, it was mine.

  But even walking down a public street with my mask on full dispy, I wasn’t worried about a team of heroes swooping in. Not here. This was the crap part of town—or rather, the crappiest. A dead husk of industry left to rot by the coast, its warehouses and abandoned businesses too worthless to sell. Now, they just collected dust. And the desperate.

  The only people out this te weren’t the types to call the authorities. Druggies, dealers, or homeless with their heads down—I didn’t have to worry about them making a fuss.

  Still, I kept my head on a swivel as I traveled the sidewalk for what I did have to worry about—a dirty bde wielded by someone with more drugs than sense. And that’s when I saw it.

  Or rather, her.

  I was crossing an alley, doing the sensible thing and checking for muggers, when I spotted a figure leaning against the wall. A small piece of paper dangled zily from one hand.

  It took me a second to process–I even looked away before my brain caught up and snapped my head back in shock. My body reacted before my mind, throwing me into cover with all the grace of a falling trash can. I cpped both hands over my pstic mask as if that would somehow undo the noise I’d made.

  Heart pounding, I took a few calming breaths and risked a gnce back into the alley. No movement. No sudden charge from a cape ready to tear me apart.

  I was in the clear.

  But I wasn’t done.

  Luckily for me, the adjacent alley had a fire escape. Rusty, loose in pces, and creaking under my weight, but most importantly, climbable. I hauled myself up, careful to move slowly, and tiptoed across the gravel-coated rooftop until I reached the parapet. Making sure to be extra quiet, I crouched down and leaned forward, looking down into the alley.

  From this vantage point, I was almost directly above her and slightly behind. The dimness of tonight’s moon meant I’d have to wave my arms around or start shouting to be noticed–not that I was stupid enough to do that–but it also meant it was hard to see.

  This close, I could see her figure, just enough to tell she was female and not much beyond that. Her outfit was bck. Not just dark, but the kind of bck that swallowed light, straining your eyes if you stared too long. Her hair, tied into a ponytail that reached her shoulder bdes, was the same shade—maybe even darker, to the point I could see it because of how dark it was.

  There wasn’t much to go off to identify her, but there was almost enough. Feeling vindicated by my obsession with capes, I squinted, focusing on her arms and legs. If I hadn’t been looking, I never would have noticed them, but I was looking.

  Bdes.

  Small, sheathed knives lined her outfit, their handles ending in a single metal ring—just big enough for a finger to slip through.

  And that was all I needed to confirm my guess.

  Lady Nyx. A vilin, if not an infamous one. She worked for the Old Blood—one of Timber Hollow’s gangs and arguably its strongest. Not much was known about her. She rarely appeared in cape conflicts and was even more rarely recorded, the only sign she was there being her bdes littering the scene.

  Her presence here raised a question. The mystery of her powers and role in Old Bloods raised more.

  Was she scouting? Testing the waters?

  We were in the Docks—a stretch of no-man’s-nd between the territories of the two rgest gangs. It wasn’t uncimed because it was too crappy for even the gangs to want it. No, it was because it was in between the territories of the two rgest gangs, and whoever decided to reach out their hand to snatch it would find themselves missing an arm to defend their sides. A single spark could start a war.

  So what was she doing here?

  My gaze flicked to the piece of paper in her hand. A note. Based on its creases, folded twice—once vertically, once horizontally. Too far away for me to read, the words too small. I leaned forward, as if closing those few inches would somehow bring crity—

  Cold metal kissed the back of my neck.

  “Don’t kill him,” Lady Nyx said, still staring at the note. Not once had she looked up during my entire surveilnce. Something only an amateur wouldn’t notice.

  I felt a sharp prick, like a particurly rge mosquito decided to have a nibble. Slowly–almost creakingly–I turned my head to look behind me, my breath hitching as I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  A man.

  No. Not a man.

  It looked human, but every inch of its form was cd in full pte armor—except the metal wasn’t steel. It was wispy, shifting like colorless ink dissolving in water, its entire figure wrapped in a monochrome haze. In its hands, a spear of the same strange material, at least as tall as its wielder, yet held effortlessly in one hand to hover over my neck.

  I gulped, the movement making me fear my Adam’s apple would scrape against the bde despite it being against the side of my neck.

  I wasn’t ashamed of my terror. I wasn’t proud of it, either, but in this instance? It was only natural. This thing—whatever it was—had no hesitation. No mercy. Because it couldn’t. It wasn’t human. It had no flesh, no soul. It was a construct. A tool. A weapon.

  And I knew its name.

  The Eternal Retinue. Or part of it. I didn’t know how medieval stuff worked, but I did know it was a projection—a manifestation of someone’s power.

  And not just anyone.

  Its creator was a cape every Hollowan knew by sight. One of the most feared men in the city.

  And if he could see through his creation, that meant he was staring at me right now.

  The thought sent a shiver down my spine, and I instinctively turned back toward the alley—expecting to see Lady Nyx still there, watching.

  But she was gone. Only trash and scattered debris remained.

  “Why shouldn’t I kill you?”

  I turned back–and the inhuman facsimile of a knight was gone.

  Instead, Lady Nyx stood before me, a dagger held casually in one hand.

  The added lighting from the being on the roof gave me a better look at her, but somehow, she was still hard to see. Her entire form—her hair, her bodysuit—was so dark it felt like a void, swallowing the light around her. I didn’t know if my eyes were pying tricks on me, but in some spots, shadows seemed to reach out, swaying like tendrils below her.

  Still, the added crity let me pick up details that no blurry online photo could ever capture. Her armor was segmented and almost pstic-like in appearance but moved smoothly with her body. Beneath it, bck cloth covered every inch of her skin, shielding her from both sight and the creeping chill that began to appear this time of year.

  But I couldn’t ogle her forever, and if the way her grip tightened over her dagger, I was already trying her patience.

  Think. Say something!

  “U-uh…I’m, uh, a big fan?” I said haltingly, unsure and timid. Weak. My fists clenched at the thought, something I immediately undid when I felt her gaze sharpen on them. Like a coward. Like I was still powerless.

  “Because you’re a…fan?” She repeated, her raised eyebrow not needing to be visible to know it was there.

  “Uh, yes. I mean–correct.”

  A long, quiet moment stretched between us before she let out an exasperated sigh and lowered her dagger. Not sheathed—just lowered. Dismissively.

  “If you want to join up, go be a nuisance in Old Town. I don’t handle recruitment.” Her tone was ft, her words final. She turned, already walking away, as if the idea of me attacking her wasn’t even worth considering.

  She was leaving, walking away without a fight–no harm done, no threats even issued. There was no better outcome than this. So, I should have stayed quiet, right?

  “I’m not joining your gang!” And yet I just had to open my mouth.

  Lady Nyx froze.

  “I’m not a vilin!”

  A long, slow breath escaped her, audible even from where I stood. Then, finally, she turned back toward me.

  She looked me up and down as she stepped closer, and only then did I realize I had stood up at some point. And yet, as she stopped just an arm’s length away…

  She was still taller than me.

  …She was short.

  "That," she said softly, her dagger held low and casual but no less threatening, "was the wrong thing to say."

  But then—before she could eviscerate me and toss my body into the bay—

  The sun rose.

  At eleven at night.