Wonder City Stories

Jubilee

It was my first time running the android avatar that Larentia Canis had built me in a crowd, but I was going to by damn be AT Ruth's birthday party, not just watch it on a camera.

She was somewhat awkward to handle at first, no matter how much practice I'd had running her in my home. I called her Metro because Larentia, in a fit of whimsy, had recreated the android from Fritz Lang's Metropolis, with the feminine body and helmet-shaped head and deco styling, only with a dark copper finish. I was sititng in my long distance chair, wearing the control coronet. I was also drugged to the gills. Metro also had all sorts of electronic filters that affected mental powers, but the meds brought me down to a level actually manageable by those filters. I had full physical sensation, just as if I were there, without the mental onslaught of the people around me. I was just me, walking around on the hot sand beach of the remote island where everyone had gathered.

I spent a little time enjoying the feel of the sun warming the metal of my skin and the smell of the ocean and hot sand.

Of all the (few) people who knew me, Suzanne Feldstein found me first. "Renata? Renata Scott?" she said, a brown-haired, middle-aged white woman peering into Metro's eyes inquiringly.

"That's me," I said through Metro's speakers, and offered a hand. "Glad to meet you in the flesh, Suzanne. Well, flesh and metal."

Suzanne shook my hand vigorously. She was dressed in a yellow-floral-print sundress, and the sun was already starting to redden her shoulders. "I'm so glad you could come. C'mere, let me introduce you around some."

And so I met Simon, and he was just as fine in person as he was on camera, and if possible, sweeter. "Ms. Scott!" he said, shaking my hand. He was wearing a blue muscle shirt with "TEAM SIMON" on it in block letters and loose black shorts. His hair and Van Dyke were sharply trimmed. "I'm glad to meet you! Oh, I'm glad Mom did such a good job on that android body; it's really gorgeous."

How could I blush at a compliment meant for his mother's handiwork? Don't ask me. "Your mother has been very generous and kind to me over the years. This is only one example."

"She's like that," Simon said, then he stepped back and gestured to someone. "And here's someone who's been wanting to meet you too. Ira, this is Ms. Scott."

"Please," I said, shaking the old man's hand, "both of you, please call me Renata."

Ira beamed at me. He was wearing a big straw hat, a yellow polo shirt, and khaki shorts that showed his pale knobbly knees. He was a little thin and stooped, but otherwise looked younger than his 83 years. "I'm honored to meet you, Renata. You did such a bangup job that night, though I can't imagine it was easy."

"You did a pretty good job yourself, sir," I said.

"Ira," he corrected me.

"Ira," I said, wishing Metro's smile wasn't so very... scary, and that Larentia's attempt at the overlay projection (a la Maria's duplicate) hadn't failed so spectacularly. Someday, I'd be able to smile at people too.

Suzanne, I realized from her movements and her half-empty drink, was already more than a bit tipsy. She reached out and snagged the arm of a mousy, bespectacled white woman in jeans and a t-shirt. "Watson, Watson, come meet Renata."

So there was an orgy of introductions conducted by Suzanne, who was adding every moment to her "sheets to the wind" quotient. I met Watson Holmes, Megan Amazon, Ivy and Malik Canis (each holding a squirming puppy they introduced as belonging to their sister Jasmine -- I wasn't entirely sure what they meant by "belonging", given that the puppies were exclaiming my name delightedly), Ana Hernandez, Flo and Ebb Starr, the Silver Guardian (who was an old friend of Suzanne's apparently), and Sekhmet of the Gold Stars, and... a lot of other people whose names I'd heard but who I'd never met "live" before.

I was glad to be drugged to the gills, honestly. It was the largest crowd I'd been in for over 20 years.

Simon finally, kindly, as the afternoon advanced alarmingly toward evening, led Suzanne off to the buffet tables, saying, "We'll catch you later, Renata," over his shoulder. He winked at me, the little devil.

Left to my own devices, I made my way from the beach, where I'd been trapped by the introduction nexus after arriving there via the teleport link, up toward the line of umbrellas and beach chairs where I spotted Gloria Revelle's lean, solemn face peering around periodically. I figured that wherever Gloria was, Ruth was likely to be.

I was right. Ruth was ensconced in a thronelike wooden beach chair with some colorfully umbrella'd adult beverage in an enormous glass in one hand, grinning like a fool up at me. "You did make a gorgeous thing there, Larentia," she said, glancing up at Larentia, who was standing nearby. Ruth carefully balanced the glass on the arm of the chair, and got up to hug me. I saw Sophie reach out and steady the glass behind her, just as Ruth got me in a careful bear hug.

I leaned Metro's chin on her shoulder and enjoyed the various sensations of a solid, muscular, warm human body in my arms. I loved Ruth for many reasons, not least because for her, hugging one of her friends manifested in an android body was hardly the oddest thing she'd done in the past five minutes. "You look so much better than you did last I saw you, Ruth," I said.

"I feel so much better, Rennie," she murmured, not letting me go yet. "You helped give me back my baby. I won't forget that."

"Hell, Ruth, you gave me my life," I said, not willing to let go, feeling like I'd been in the desert for 20 years and was just getting a small sip of water. It had been so long since I'd touched a human being, and I can't actually remember when I last hugged someone without immediately being inside her or his head. "I'm glad to give something back. I mean, what do you get the most powerful para on Earth for her birthday anyway?"

We laughed, and finally stepped back a little, but our arms lingered around each other's waists. Ruth gestured around, saying, "You know Gloria, of course."

I shook hands with Gloria, and was amazed to actually see the woman smile. She had a little lopsided smile, with a mostly closed mouth, and I noticed that she had a bit of an overbite -- I suspected that might be why she doesn't smile more often. "Gloria, thank you for everything you've been doing lately with the chef roster. The variety has been really wonderful."

"I thought we could use some new blood in the kitchen," she said in her deep voice and blunt MidAtlantic accents. "You're my lab rat, you know. These are all chefs I try out on you before using them for catering and events."

"Glad to be of service," I said. "Delicious service."

"Here's Olivia," Ruth said, drawing the Fat Lady into the circle. The Fat Lady was wearing a remarkable gauzy white dress that drifted dramatically on the breeze and looked just right with her complexion, and her sleek black hair was caught up under an extravagant white sun hat.

"Renata, I've heard so many good things about you," Olivia said, turning her famous dimples and dazzling smile on me.

I confess to feeling just a little overwhelmed and, well, fangirlish, so I think I managed to mutter something polite and possibly gushed about loving her work before Ruth sicced Sophie on me.

The girl had some of the most intense dark eyes I've ever seen, and even though I technically shouldn't have been able to sense a damned thing about her, I could feel the wheels of her mind turning and turning. It was almost like I could see and feel the clockwork moving through those remarkable eyes. That's what you get from the intimate connection of stuffing someone back into her head, I suppose. There we were, caught in mid-handshake, staring into each other's minds, I think, for what felt like a piece of eternity, before we both shook ourselves and she said, "I've been wanting to thank you for everything you did."

I shrugged. "There were lots of folks who did more than I did."

"Yes, well," Sophie said, flashing a grin. She reached behind her and dragged another white girl her age foward. This one was brown-haired and utterly average in terms of looks and overt charm, but I recognized her.

"Pacifica," I said, shaking her hand. "Glad to meet you outside your head."

She smiled shyly, pressed her lips together and hunched her shoulders a bit. "I'm flattered you remember me, Ms. Scott."

"Renata," I said, thinking, Girl, how could I possibly forget you? Aloud, I added, "Your arm seems to've healed up nicely."

"It's still stiff," she said, "but Sophie makes good healing accelerators. Even if I did have to spend time in tank full of blue goo. Why was it blue, anyway?" she added, turning to Sophie.

"I didn't want anyone eating it," Sophie said.

"No one would eat that, it smelled too bad," Nereid said.

Sophie grinned. "You'd be surprised..."

There was a loud crack of lightning overhead, and everyone tensed. Ruth looked up quickly, then rolled her eyes and said to Sophie, "Didn't you give that child an invitation?"

Sophie shrugged. "I did," she said, "but she always prefers to crash." I thought I picked up just a bit of mischief there, as if, perhaps, she'd had some idea in advance.

High above us was a flying stage, limned in neon and flashing lights against the twilit sky. It slowly lowered until it was hovering just above the ocean, with the spectacular painted clouds of sunset sprawling out behind it. Myriad small, hovering robots levitated from the stage and sprang into formation in the air, turning colored spotlights onto the platform. A backdrop of enormous metal struts extruded from the back of the stage, arching up into Gothic points and then blooming into weirdly delicate curlicues that suggested tentacles, or possibly fruit.

"What the hell is that?" Sister Power said, as though she knew exactly what the hell it was but was a bit afraid of the answer. She crinkled a smile at me, her dark brown face highlighted by a glorious mane of silver hair. I'd forgotten how old she was; she'd gotten her start in the 1970s, so she must be in her 60s by now.

Ruth massaged the bridge of her nose. "It's Sophie's little friend. You remember her, Imara. The one who started a band in college. Calls herself Gogo."

Sophie snorted at this description.

An enormous grinding noise silenced us all and a pillar rose up from the middle of the stage. It appeared to be girdled with a bank of steampunk consoles and quite a lot of flashing lights. The grinding noise stopped, and then, in a burst of music, it flew open, revealing a young white woman whose top was dressed in a silver jumpsuit, and whose lower half was a kickline of seven sets of robot legs. A drum line started. She leapt down to the stage with surprising agility for someone with fourteen legs, and subtle instrumentals started up. She started to declaim in a deep voice that was projected to several points around us.

People keep saying it's the end days,
Skynet's won, we've run the maze.
In the center is Room 101:
Can we boldly go when all is done?
All the things I tried to save
Are just putting flowers on a mouse's grave.
Game over, man, and everybody dies
And there's nothing to eat but lies, lies, lies.

"I do believe," Gloria said, "we are about to have a concert."

"Oh, god help me," Ruth said, taking the umbrella out of her drink so she could swallow it faster.

A robot guitarist, keyboardist, bassist, and drummer emerged from the surface of the stage, apparently fused to their instruments. I noticed the drummer had long hair so it could swing it back and forth. All of them were silver-skinned, like Gogo's jumpsuit and legs, but with gold accents. Gogo strutted down to the front of the stage (there's a lot of strut in seven sets of robot legs), seized a microphone that was dropped from above by one of her ubiquitous flying drones, and burst into song with a crash of music.

I won't be just a worker in the heart machine
I'm going to see the light of day.
I'm going to crack the world's shell is what I mean
Put on my wings and fly away.

Everyone asks me am I bad witch or good
Or one of the genetic elite
But I am telling you I'm Lilith's Brood
And we have never known defeat!

We're from Ultima Thule
And we include me and you.
She's the hero we need
Cause she makes us heroes too!

"Oh, no," Ruth groaned, and finished her drink.

Sophie looked contrite. But only a little. Nereid was watching Gogo with her mouth hanging open. An attractive androgynous Asian person appeared over Nereid's shoulder and raised inquisitive eyebrows at Sophie, who said defensively, "It's not my fault!"

Just living day to day
Learn to rise up and say
She's the hero we need
To sing Hero of Heroes today!

She's the Ultimate test!
In her Prometheus rests,
She's the hero we need
Because we give her our best!

I was pretty amazed at the dancing you could do with fourteen legs in perfect unison. At the end of the first chorus, backup dancers also melted out of the stage. I felt distinctly upstaged when I realized that they all looked just like my android body, except in silver. Talk about embarrassment for wearing the same outfit to the party.

"Hey," Larentia said faintly. She patted my shoulder apologetically.

Gogo spoke into her microphone again.

At Yoshiwara's we'll dance and fight
Always alone in the night,
But reaching out, touch hand to hand,
Galadriel or Servalan.
Is the Slayer really born this way?
Or Sleepless walk both night and day?
Or maybe we'll stand up and see:
You have no power over me.

Sister Power said, "None of this makes any sense. What the hell is a servalan?"

Sophie started laughing helplessly into her hands.

The music kicked up again.

For some reason, Gogo threw her microphone into the audience. Then, with a satisfied little smile, she leaned back and another one sprouted, or seemed to sprout, out of her chest. She grabbed that one and kept singing. I noticed a middle-aged black woman, oddly wearing a suit on the beach, making her way through the crowd with purpose in her eyes. She didn't even flinch at the volume of the music. I nudged Ruth. Ruth looked over. "Marilyn, heeeey, girl!" she said, waving her hand. I wondered idly how many of those giant glasses of booze Ruth had already consumed. The woman, who I now recognized as Marilyn Henderson, lawyer to paras, arrived in front of Ruth with a grim little smile on her face. "Interesting entertainment." "It's not what I would've chosen, true," Ruth said. "But the girl's got a good heart." "And is showing a great deal of leg," Marilyn said with a glance upward. "What're you doing, wearing that penguin suit here on the beach?" Ruth said. "Take that jacket off and set a while." Marilyn straightened her shoulders in an ominous way that made both Gloria and I tense up. "Ruth Thomas, I am here to give you some important paperwork." Ruth laced her fingers together and placed them under her chin. "At my birthday party." She didn't make it a question. "Yes," Marilyn said. She whipped a folder out from under her arm and extended it to Ruth. "It couldn't wait." Gloria's thin form had risen up and arched in a predatory fashion, inclining very slightly toward Marilyn. Ruth sighed and took the folder.

We'll come down like angels on Tokyo And we don't need roads where we're going. At the end of the world can you tell me where And in what way the time is flowing? I can build my friends but I can't build you A place for opossums to call their own. But don't look back, don't blink I'm telling you It's dhoom again but we are flown! A hero right through Like flying snow in bamboo She's the hero we need Cause she makes us heroes too! Take my ansible call 'Cause it's for one and all She's the hero we need Cause she makes us stand tall! She won't be suppressed Or sent into the West She's the hero we need Because we give her our best!

Gogo chose that moment to distract us all with another spoken piece.

We need a hero that's worth our while
Whether Wonder Woman or Trio-style
So put on your clothes, or dye your hair
And sing electric grandmother
From Alderaan to Whileaway
The winning move is not to play.
They tell us we're beyond the pale
Bionic-made or automail,
Whether you are you or me
Virtual or karakuri
Rise up and greet Red Dawn today
Like Nauscicaa we'll fly away;
To Iskandar we'll fly away;
On ships that sing we'll fly away.

And she then started singing again.

Ruth looked back down at the folder in her hands, heaved another sigh, and flipped it open. I have never before seen Ruth stunned. I'm not sure anyone has. Her whole body jerked and her eyes went wide and she stared fixedly at the papers. Then her hands began to tremble, and Gloria snatched the folder away before those tiny muscular tremors could reduce what she was holding to paper pulp. Sophie had moved to stand at Ruth's shoulder, and I noticed her giving Marilyn what I sensed was a conspiratorial and questioning look. Marilyn's smile widened incrementally. The thing about Ruth is that she is the most powerful para in the world. And so the fact that none of us saw her move is just not that surprising. The look on Sophie's face changed to triumphant delight as Ruth threw her arms around her, though. "You two!" Ruth roared, only locally drowning out Gogo's band. "You two!" she said again, apparently at a loss for other words. "What's going on?" asked Imara, peering curiously over Gloria's shoulder. Gloria said, mock-grumpily, "That girl finally pulled her head out of her ass is what's going on." Sophie said, breathless with embarrassment and her mother's embrace, "My adoption papers. I signed them."

She's returned from the blue And Zaha'dum too-- She's the hero we need Cause she makes us heroes too! Dark Lords big and small We will spit on them all She's the hero we need Cause she makes us stand tall! Stand tall, stand tall, stand tall Stand tall, stand tall, stand tall Stand tall, stand tall, stand tall...

Gogo's army of tiny flying robots, which looked, I noticed, like dragonflies, chose that moment to shower us with her new album.

Larentia caught one and so did I. The cover was a brown-skinned woman's arm, reaching up as if to pluck a fruit from a tree, but the fruit was a giant oval containing a twisty, maze-like structure. To give Ruth and Sophie a moment of pseudo-privacy, Larentia began to read from the cover. "'Mitochondrial Eve,'" she said. "I like the title."

I overheard some people passing nearby. One of them said, "I liked her second album the best, 'Amazon Women and the Space-Time Continuum'."

The other said, "Oh, I haven't heard of that one."

"It was back when she was Gogo and the Gadgettes," the first said, and they drifted out of hearing.

"'My Mother's Positronic Brain,'" Larentia read from the track list bemusedly. "'Dear Mr. Heisenberg.' 'Cyborg Manifesto'?"

I skimmed down the list myself. "'Bad Chemistry,' 'Soylent Blue,' 'Love Me and Despair'."

Gloria said, with a roll of the eyes, "Anyone else get the feeling that child is trying too hard?"

Nereid, who I had forgotten, said wistfully, "She looks like she's having fun."

On stage, Gogo had swung into her well-known song, "A Robot of One's Own."

The well-tailored Asian person to whom I really needed an introduction said, "There's a dance floor over there, Pacifica. Would you care to join me?"

Later, around the time that Sophie was finishing up her guitar-playing on-stage with Gogo (oh, yes, she'd just happened to have her guitar with her), I overheard Suzanne saying to Watson, "Is this your work? Remind me never to piss you off!"

I looked over and saw Suzanne showing Watson her StarPhone. Watson frowned down at it, clearly puzzled. "No," she said after a moment, "that's not my work."

Suzanne noticed Metro looking her way, so she turned the display toward me. "'Aloysius MacCready, legally 93 years old,'" I read aloud, "'has been arrested on a charge of second-degree murder and multiple charges of armed robbery, among other offenses. MacCready was processed for a temporal displacement grant upon his return to this dimension, and had disappeared from his stated address. More in-depth analysis of historical records found that in 1932, he participated in an armed robbery of a bank for African-Americans during which he pistol-whipped a bank teller. The teller, 26-year-old Norman Jefferson, later died of the head trauma.'"

"I know the statute of limitations doesn't expire for murder," Suzanne said. "And the temporal displacement laws extend the limitation for the armed robbery charges. But the witnesses must all be dead, so how can they prosecute?"

Watson skimmed more of the article. "They had eyewitnesses who knew MacCready by name and appearance, and who gave depositions identifying him. So with that in hand, they could use the Stefanopolous Laws."

Ana had looked over from her conversation when I started to read, and now she spoke up with, "I think I've heard of the Stefanopolous Laws, but I've never been sure what they're about."

Suzanne said, breezily, "Watson'll have to explain. I'm too drunk. But they involved a vampire."

Watson quirked a smile. "Andrei Stefanopolous was a vampire who was a repeat spree killer. He was notorious in Europe in the late 1700s and early 1800s, and then he moved to New York City. They caught him after a rampage through an Italian and Greek neighborhood in the 1880s, but of course, there weren't para-ready prisons then, and he escaped to go underground again. He resurfaced in the same neighborhood 1952, and the grandchildren of the original people victimized went to the police with the photos from the 1800s and their own photos of him in the neighborhood, begging police to pick him up. They didn't -- all the original witnesses were dead and it seemed like too much trouble and besides, there weren't many people who actually believed in vampires at that point. So then he went on a much wider-spread killing spree."

"Oh, yes, the Vampire Murders," Ana said. "That's all in the college para history books."

"Yep," Watson said. "And after they caught him and the Gold Stars imprisoned him, the story broke that the police had refused to pick him up and why. So the Stefanopolous Laws were passed in a hurry to cope with immortal or temporally displaced violent offenders."

"Technically," a sleek, black-haired, white -- very white -- man said, sliding easily into the conversation and gently twirling his black parasol, "it is for the long of life, not the immortal. Because no one is truly immortal, yes?" He had an eastern European accent and what had to be a hand-tailored white linen suit. He was also the only person I'd ever seen wearing a Panama hat on whom it looked stylish.

Watson nodded and waved a hand of acknowledgement. "You're the authority there, Zoltan."

"Zoltan," Suzanne said in that floppy-headed drunk way some white women have, "it's night time. Why are you carrying that parasol?"

"Ah, dear lady," he said, "to protect against the bites of sharks."

"Oh," Suzanne said, blinking.

"Not to mention robots," he added, "and other undesirable things that fall from the sky."

"So what will happen to this MacCready anyway?" Ana pursued, having produced a StarPhone of her own and apparently searching for the article.

"He's being held in prison," Watson said. "Apparently some anonymous person provided the police with both his DNA and a single-use scanner to locate it, because he has para powers that enable him to avoid direct detection." She looked up and past the dance floor and nearest buffet table toward a line of well-occupied comfortable chairs.

I glanced in that direction and saw Sophie sitting there, with Nereid on her lap, chatting with Simon and Ivy.

"Who could've supplied a device like that?" Ana pondered, frowning at her phone.

Watson and I looked at each other, then back at Sophie. Sophie noticed our regard and gave us a smile and a little finger wave, as if she knew exactly what we were thinking.

---

Note from the Author:

Apologies if the table format didn't work well for you -- I optimized for what I thought would be a usual sort of view.

Gogo's song was written as a winter holiday present for me by my multiply-gifted, brilliant, beautiful, magnificent wife. I had been banging my head against how to do it, and then she volunteered. I don't think I've ever seen quite so many SF&F references packed into one place so effectively, and I think it also works beautifully as a pop song. (And yes, Lady Gaga DOES exist in the Wonder City universe, so Gogo IS in fact purposefully referencing her.) See this document (PDF) for most of the references.

Also, in case you're interested, the full track list for Gogo's new album, "Mitochondrial Eve", contains:
My Mother's Positronic Brain
Mitochondrial Eve
Dear Mr. Heisenberg
Cyborg Manifesto
Les Guérillères
Bad Chemistry
Soylent Blue
To Milton, Love, the Monster
Ultima
Love Me and Despair
The Doom Song
I Can't Be Having With This
Bonus Track: Schoolhouse Rock Mashup (feat. "Sufferin' for Suffrage")

---

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Snapping His Superfingers At All Man’s Trumpery Ideals

Megan wasn't sure why they were at the Tower of Fortune, but she'd long since learned not to argue when she saw that particularly grim and determined look on Watson's face.

The elderly Mr. Minamoto, resplendent in his Chinese garb, opened the door and smiled benificently at them both. "May I help you?" Then his gaze focused more tightly on Watson. "Ms. Holmes! It is a pleasure to see you again."

"Thank you, Minamoto-san," Watson said. "I was wondering if your employer might have a few moments to talk to me."

He studied her for a moment, then said, "My esteemed employer's consulting hours just finished, but I expect that he could be convinced to speak to such an eminent detective." He motioned them into the house, and said, over his shoulder, "Besides, I can hold his tea hostage until he does."

"Much appreciated," Watson said, winking back at Megan.

Megan tried to move quietly, but the walking cast was quite substantial, both with its own weight and the weight of the electrical stimulation unit that Professor Canis had sent her. So she clomped in a subdued fashion, and most of the noise was consumed by the Persian carpets. Unfortunately, she forgot to duck her head and so set the crystal chandelier ringing energetically. She tried desperately to quiet all the component parts with her big hands while Watson and Mr. Minamoto watched her, amused expressions on both their faces.

"Sorry," Megan mumbled.

Mr. Minamoto shook his head, shrugged (as if to say, "Not my place, don't much care"), and led them slowly up the blindingly white marble staircase. At the top, he tapped on the brass panel on the massive carved wooden door. As before, Megan could hear a pleasant chime in the room beyond.

The plate glowed and the door unlatched, and Mr. Minamoto bowed them through, retreating down the stairs before his employer could notice that he had more guests, not his tea tray.

Megan had decided since her last trip here that Professor Fortune looked rather like a 1970s troll doll, with crazy white tufts of hair and a round belly. The only differences were the little round gold glasses and the expensive silk suits he tended to wear under his gold-embroidered royal blue cloak of office. She had to give him credit: he only looked surprised for a fraction of a second, and if she hadn't been watching for it, she'd've missed it.

"Ah, ladies," he said genially. "Ms. Holmes, Ms. Amazon, what a pleasant surprise."

"I expect so," Watson said.

He looked like the failed pleasantry exchange put him slightly off-balance. "What can I do for you today?"

Watson smiled in a way that Megan could read as predatory, and said, "Tell me, Professor, when did you acquire the Marshall Building?"

Professor Fortune looked perplexed. "I'm... not sure what building you're asking about. I've owned a lot of real estate in the area."

"The Marshall Building," Watson said, "where an unidentified young woman's body was found last summer, just before demolition of the building."

"Ah, that," he said, apparently on firmer ground. "Sad case that, sad case."

"I understand you attempted to determine her identity?" Watson said.

"Yes," he said, sighing, "yes, I did. There just wasn't enough aura left to her for identification."

"It's a shame you didn't decide to share her identity then," Watson said, ambling around the room, examining items on some of the shelves and tables. "It might have given her sister some relief. Sadly, her sister passed away early this year."

"What... do you mean by this?" the Professor said, turning on the spot to keep Watson in view.

"I mean, Professor," Watson said, "that you knew who she was all along, didn't you?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said.

"No?" Watson pulled a volume off a shelf and flipped through it. "Isabelle Pierce. She was a young para woman who had lived in the Marshall Buildling. But she went missing during World War II, during the summer of 1943."

"Well, that's nothing less than I'd expect from one of our greater detectives," Fortune said, his face tightening into a mask.

"She'd been partly merged with the stone by someone who had the power to turn insubstantial. Interestingly," Watson continued, turning the book to better see something on a page, "there is no record of any para with the power of insubstantiality being present in Wonder City -- or, in fact, on the Eastern seaboard -- during the summer of 1943. All of them had been drafted and were fighting overseas."

"Fascinating," Fortune said, still watching her.

Watson reshelved the book and turned to face him. "No, really, Professor, what is really fascinating are multiple accounts of you being able to turn yourself and others insubstantial. Accounts that ceased to appear in any newspapers or para diaries after the summer of 1943."

Fortune stood very still, very straight, his hands clasped behind his back. "What are you suggesting, Ms. Holmes?"

"I suggest, Professor," said Watson, striding slowly closer to the man, "that you purchased the Marshall Building in early 1943, according to city records, in advance of the completely premeditated murder of Isabelle Pierce by means of your spell of insubstantiality. As building owner, you then had authority to brick up that particular portion of the basement so that her body would not be found until the building was demolished. A demolition you ordered last year, to take place after an architectural review you also ordered." When she finished, she stood very nearly nose-to-nose with him, both unflinching.

"You do your parents credit, Ms. Holmes," Professor Fortune said.

"Thank you," Watson said without an ounce of sincerity. "The thing of it is, Professor, I can't determine a motive. Would you care to enlighten me?"

"To save the world, of course," Fortune said, drawing himself up to his full height so he could look down at Watson. "You saw it in action yourself. The girl was a key player in stopping the machine that would have ended the world as we knew it."

"So you committed cold-blooded murder 67 years ago?" Watson said, honestly appalled. "Because you foresaw that she would be important in saving the world?"

"I would do it for nothing less," Fortune said haughtily.

"You know what?" Watson said, looking at him over her glasses. "I don't think that's nearly good enough reason. You murdered one woman and nearly caused another one to lose her life."

"And what do you propose to do about it, Watson Holmes?" Professor Fortune asked, smiling. "Denounce me in public? Call the police? You have no proof."

"I have your confession," Watson said.

"Hearsay," he said with a snort.

"In front of a witness," Watson said.

He glanced over his shoulder at Megan and visibly dismissed her. "Is that all? In the end, it's none of your business, Holmes."

Watson laughed. "'It's every man's business to see justice done,'" she said, in such a way that Megan knew she was quoting. "And every woman's too." Watson gave a little smile and walked past him to the door, gathering Megan to her side with a glance.

As Watson reached the door, Professor Fortune said, "I could burn you both down where you stand," his voice trembling only slightly.

"But you won't," Watson said, opening the door and gesturing Megan through. "Because I didn't need the legal sort proof to suggest reasonable doubt to Carolus Lew, Deliria, the Outsider, the Equestrian, Lady Klotild, or Madame Destiny." She shot him a winning smile. "And I understand that the Mystikai have their own form of determining guilt, and their own form of justice, which is probably more appropriate to this situation than the mundane sort anyway. Have a nice day, Professor." And she pulled the door shut after her.

---

Note from the Author:

I admit to a small amount of cheating in the style of Doyle to keep quite all the pieces of this mystery from you, though I did give you a few breadcrumbs. Sorry 'bout that. But Watson insisted. :)

Let's stay up high! Vote for WCS!

Death's Dinner Party

"So here we are, at Death's door," Watson said.

Megan crutched up the front steps of the narrow Victorian townhouse.  "Do you really have to roll out the puns?  I'm nervous enough."

"Puns relax everyone," Watson said, shifting aside as Megan gained the porch.

"Why did she pick the name Death anyway?" Megan said a little irritably.

"I suspect she didn't want to be 'Bree' and got tired of being 'Harry'," Watson said.

"'Harry'?" Megan said.

"Big sisters are cruel," Watson said, and rang the doorbell.

Al opened the door, his Apollonian face breaking into a bright smile as he recognized them. "Death!" he shouted over his shoulder. "They came!"

"Of course," Watson said, vaguely indignant. "I said we would."

Al raised an elegant eyebrow. "You've bailed before. C'mon in."

"More of my sister's adventures in action?" Death asked as she arrived in the front hall in time to see Megan maneuvering awkwardly under the low lintel.

"What, you think my adventures are inherently violent?" Watson said, following Megan in.  

"I grew up with you," Death said.  "Do you need to prop it up while you're sitting?"

Megan smiled lopsidedly.  "Yeah, if that's not a problem."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure we can find something to fit the bill around here." Death gave Al a significant look, and he slithered past Megan and hurried down the hall. "We're not far from dinner, so let's get you set up in the dining room."

There were three women standing in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen, but Megan didn't have attention to spare for them until she was settled in the large, reinforced chair at the end of the table and Al had brought a burgundy paisley-upholstered ottoman in and helped her get her leg onto it. Then she looked around. Watson was greeting the women with mild familiarity, and they all turned toward Megan when she looked up.

"Megan Amazon," Death said, waving a hand in the appropriate directions while she fussed with something at the vast mahogany sideboard. "Denny Silver, Vivian Chen, and Mack Janetsdottir."

Mack reached her first, a big, square, sixty-something white woman with short iron-gray hair, a weather-worn face of wrinkles, and a firm handshake. "We've been seeing your name in the papers," she said in exactly the rough, butch tones Megan had expected. "You do good work, kiddo."

"Thanks," Megan said.

Denny was an androgynous white woman who might be in her thirties, forties, or fifties, face smooth of most wrinkles and her short dark hair just starting to show threads of silver. She wore well-tailored grey trousers, a white men's dress shirt, and a patchwork vest made from sari material. "Yes, definitely," she said as she shook Megan's hand, then gestured down at the cast. "A badge of honor."

"Heh, well," Megan said, rubbing the back of her head with her left hand. "I'm not so sure about that."

"Pish, and also tosh," said Vivian, a curvy Asian high femme in a sequined little black dress and purple-toned eyeshadow and nails that highlighted one lock of her short black hair that was also purple. Her handshake was warm and thorough. "Still, I admire modesty." Megan was too distracted by everything else about Vivian to try to guess her age.

"Food!" Diarmid bellowed from the kitchen. He emerged, wearing pretty much what Megan saw him wearing before except that this apron read "Kiss the Cook or Make Him Cry." He was carrying a giant platter full of a large roasted bird of some sort -- Megan thought it was too small to be a turkey and too big to be a chicken. This was set at the head of the table, and then he hurried back out, returning moments later with a vat of mashed potatoes. Al followed with a heaping bowl of salad greens and pecans and goat cheese. Diarmid cycled back to the kitchen and appeared again with a bowl of steaming green beans.

Everyone settled down at the table, Watson at Megan's right and Vivian at Megan's left, Mack beyond Watson and Denny beyond Vivian. Death sat at the head of the table, Al on her left and Diarmid on her right.

"We don't say grace or anything in this house," Death said, brandishing a large, undoubtedly sharp knife and a large metal fork. "But it is the weekend of Beltane, so let's all think sexy thoughts or something while we eat."

"Mm, food and sex!" Mack said. "My favorite conflation."

"Better than Death and taxes," Watson said.

Death smiled at her mirthlessly and began carving the bird. Just a little vengefully.

"So, um, what do you all do?" Megan said politely to the trio of unknowns as they waited for the food to start getting passed their way.

"I'm a locksmith," Vivian said. At Megan's glance down at her remarkably sparkly fingernails, she grinned. "I have to take the polish off when I work," she said, mock-mournfully. "For some reason, people don't take me as seriously as they ought to. Besides, they chip like a chipping thing." She passed a hand over the shoulder of Denny, who was distracted by mashed potatoes. "She's a professor of high-energy physics at Wonder City U."

"I am, possibly predictably, a professor of women's studies," Mack said, winking at Vivian, "at the same eminent institution. And an anthropologist."

"Oh," Megan said.

"How about you?" Vivian said, serving herself salad.

"I'm, um, still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up," Megan said sheepishly.

"Meanwhile, she's doing construction gofering," Watson said.

"Thanks," Megan said to Watson through slightly clenched teeth.

"No prob," Watson said, clearly delighted with her self-appointed role as cattle-prod to the guests.

"Well, you gotta keep body and soul together, right?" Mack said, grinning in a way that threw all the lines of her face into relief. "I painted houses all through college and grad school, when I wasn't off in exotic places studying exotic brown people like everyone wanted me to. It was good money, and it was completely different from writing my dissertation."

"Where did you do your diss work?" Megan asked, mostly politely.

"Palau," Mack said. "In a tent on the beach."

"Sounds nice," Megan said.

"Can't get that kind of gig these days," Mack said, a little mournfully. "But, you know, you really couldn't back then either," she added cryptically. "So I do women's studies instead. I like the people."

"Neat," Megan said, at a loss for anything else to say. Fortunately, the parade of food came through. In a few moments, she had a heaping mound of buttered mashed potatoes, balsamic-dressed salad, green beans in lemon and parsley, herbed chestnut stuffing, and dark, juicy slices of poultry meat. She took a forkful of the meat and exclaimed, "This is fabulous! What type of bird is it?"

"Goose," Diarmid said, working on his salad. "And thanks, it's my grandmother's recipe."

"Except she usually made it for Christmas," Death said, adding pepper to her green beans. "I persuaded him that it fit any time of year."

"I save it for holidays, though," Diarmid said, leaning over to give Death a peck on the lips.

"So, Watson," Denny said, breaking the silent feeding frenzy that had ensued. "Death tells us you were behind that big newspaper splash about the serial killer."

Watson shrugged, slicing her meat into smaller-than-bite-size pieces. "It was just a bit of research."

"Aw, c'mon," Vivian said, "it's got to be more than that."

"Have the police confirmed that the camera kid was the serial killer?" Mack asked. "And not the TV kid? Or someone else?"

Watson shrugged. "They went to the cameraman's apartment and found quite a panoply of evidence. Maps of the city with certain areas highlighted. A scrapbook of newspaper articles and prints of blog entries about him. Most incriminatingly, a lockbox with items taken from the victims."

"'Items'?" Al said, his voice a little strained.

"Some of them were jewelry, like Yanaye Smallwood's missing locket," Watson said, "or the Steel Man's grandfather's watch. Others were... fragments. Like Dani Williams' false fingernail with the rhinestone set in it. Nothing entirely gruesome, like body parts, but certainly souvenirs. And I'm pretty certain they'll find that the things they couldn't identify from here will be found to belong to the Pittsburgh victims."

"Wow," Vivian said.

"What was the killer's name, anyway?" Denny said. "I haven't seen it yet."

At the other end of the table, Megan saw Death and Diarmid exchange an unreadable glance.

Watson fiddled with her wine glass, smiling mirthlessly, for a moment. Then she said, "You know, I'd rather not say." She looked up and glanced around at everyone at the table. "People get so hung up on the killer's name, and we tend to forget the victims' names in all the mess."

There was a bit of an awkward silence, but Mack nodded and turned to Watson, extending her hand. Watson blinked at the hand in surprise, then slowly took it. Mack shook her hand firmly, then turned back to dinner, changing the subject by asking Death how business was doing.

It took Megan most of dinner to understand from both comments dropped in conversation and body language that Denny, Vivian, and Mack were a threesome like Death and her boys. Well, actually, Megan corrected herself, not at all like Death and her boys. Because there was a vibe to Death's relationship where both Diarmid and Al were clearly lower on the power pyramid than Death herself. With the three women, there was a playful, familiar back-and-forth that had nothing to do with their relative ages (Vivian was possibly younger than Denny, who was clearly younger than Mack) nor the butch/femme/whatever dynamic.

Megan also noticed Watson watching everyone at the table. She could almost see the gears turning in Watson's head, snapping everything into pattern after pattern faster than lightning, finding the most likely ones and rejecting the others in ways that made her seem almost telepathic sometimes.

Death was keeping an eye on Watson too. Megan thought that Watson would have been a very hard older sister to have.

Dinner was a lovely thing, but Megan was drooping by the end of it, unable to do justice to the cherry and apple pies Denny had baked, or even to the chocolate shortbread Vivian and Mack had made. Her leg was throbbing, and she was thinking fondly of the bottle of painkillers she'd confidently left on her nightstand.

"I'm sorry, folks," she said, crutching back from the bathroom, which had been an exercise in cramming herself into a very small space in order to pee. "I think I'm just done for the night."

Watson stood up instantly, laying a hand on her arm. "I'm sorry, hon. I should've noticed you were wearing down. Did you remember your meds?"

"No, and that's one of the problems," Megan said, grinning sheepishly at the solicitous group who were all getting up and gathering around. "I guess it's true that the narcotics make you stupid."

Everyone was gratifyingly kind and concerned, and shook her hand and Watson's. "Let me know if you need a cane or something made to size," Diarmid added.

"Well, I'm glad you made it," Death said, trailing after them into the foyer. When Watson turned to her, she said, seriously, "Really glad."

Watson seemed taken aback by this, but got her face under control quickly. "I'm glad we came," she said.

"So am I," Megan said.

"Come over again soon, huh?" Death said, looking at them over the edge of her glasses and smiling.

"Yeah," Watson said. "Yeah, we will."

The sisters looked at each other for a long moment.

Megan nudged Watson forward with her elbow, and Watson, to her credit, did go ahead and hug Death. It was kind of cute, Megan thought, the way Death's eyes got so big at the gesture.

Once the two of them were safely ensconced in Zoltan's VW bus, the Divine Sarah, Megan said, "You two," in a tone of disbelief.

"What?" Watson said, skillfully guiding the van along back streets toward Marigold Lane. "I hugged her, didn't I?"

"When was the last time you hugged her?" Megan said, trying to stay chatty and ignore the sharp stabs of burning pain she got with every jar of the car.

Watson thought a moment. "Our parents' funeral."

Megan let that sit in silence for a moment, then said, "I'm sorry."

"No," Watson said. "You have a point."

They pulled into the driveway, and Watson stopped to help Megan out, rather than wrangling with the garage. Both of them frowned to hear raised voices from the garden, and hurried that way.

"Is there something wrong with your hearing?" G was almost-shouting. "I said no. And I also asked you to get out of here. Do I have to get the police to eject you?"

They came around the corner of the house and found G in her shirtsleeves and jeans, tending a sizable fire in the fire pit, a sooty poker in one hand. There was a cardboard box on the ground next to her, and Megan noticed the corner of a frilly blue curtain hanging out of it. G was addressing a young white man in a polo shirt and khakis, his dishwater blond crewcut mussed by his hand running through it repeatedly.

Zoltan was standing in the shadows on the back porch, watching.

"I'm just asking for... for a little something," Dr. Insight said more than a little desperately. "That little locket she wore. Anything."

"And I said no," G said. "There's no locket, by the way. Nothing she wore was real. Like her."

"She was real!" he shouted. "Stop saying she wasn't!"

G very deliberately set the poker pointfirst in the ground and stepped up to him. "I'm going to say this very slowly. She was a ghost. She wasn't a full person. She was a piece of a person left over after a terrible crime."

Dr. Insight ground his teeth audibly. "Gwen was a person!"

G flushed brick-red with rage. "Don't you get it? That wasn't even her name. IT'S MY GODDAMN NAME THAT SHE STOLE."

Dr. Insight reeled back a few steps. G advanced.

"She stole my name," G said, her voice dropped to a growl. "She stole my body. She stole my apartment. She lost me my girlfriend, and nearly lost me my job. She was a crazy shred of a person, a parasite that tried to kill me and take everything that was mine." She poked him in the chest with one finger. "Nothing that she brought into my home leaves it except to burn. Nothing. Because the Meteor you knew was a thief and a would-be murderer and doesn't deserve to have anything left of her."

Dr. Insight took another step back, then turned and started to walk out of the yard. He came up short when he saw Megan and Watson. He hesitated a long moment, then started to turn back to G.

G watched him for a moment, her lips pressed together tightly, but when he opened his mouth to speak, she said, voice harsh in her throat, "And you were a lousy fuck."

He went stark white, then his eyes opened wide in horror. Dr. Insight turned and ran out of the garden.

G watched him go, then looked at Megan and Watson. Megan remembered to shut her mouth.

Watson said, elaborately casual, "Want a hand?"

G shook her head. "This is something I need to do."

Watson nodded. "Come up for a drink after," she said, then turned and guided Megan back to the front of the house.

They watched Dr. Insight's car cannoning up the lane, and Megan said, in a low voice, "Can someone even apologize for something like that?"

Watson shook her head and shrugged.

---

Note from the Author:

I'm late, but, um, better late than never?

Remember to vote for WCS!

L’appel du vide

"Now you," Sator said, glancing over his shoulder. "Megan Amazon, shatter yourself." I had to drop filters in place as Megan took a magical blast that went straight through her invulnerability, ran up every nerve ending, and back down, spasming all the muscles in her arms and legs. Meteor got an accidental punch to the nose from Megan, one that knocked her backward to sprawl on the floor.

On another "channel," I apologized quickly to the Wonderful House kids and dropped them out of the link entirely: Tom was in the ambulance with Brandon on the way to the hospital, Jeshri and Lizzie and Eartha were talking to the police and the Gold Stars.

Block her motor nerves, Watson said tightly. Do it now!

She was right, the spell wasn't stopping, and Megan was apparently strong enough to overcome her own invulnerability, judging from some of the pain I was reading. I stopped everything anomalous that was happening in her motor cortex and knocked her out. She dropped limply to the floor.

Meanwhile, Simon's shape swarmed up to human form (naked) and lunged for Brainchild. His hands couldn't touch her, but he managed to catch the glass fragment -- presumably magical -- that her spirit was standing on. There was a stab of pain as the razor edges of the glass sliced into his hands. Brainchild was stable for just a second, then her spirit turned and tried to grab onto the glass, as if she was being sucked into the funnel by some secret wind.

"Oh, let her fall, child," Sator laughed. "Let her fall and see my century-old plan come to fruition at last!"

Nereid hit him with a firehose blast... of blood. While he sputtered at the mouthful he'd got, she stared at her hands, and I could feel the hysteria welling up amidst her panic.

It's not permanent! the Equestrian snapped at her. It's just this place doing it to you. Do it again!

I can't help her! Simon exclaimed, gripping the glass that was slippery with his own blood and trying to pull it away from the machine without losing Brainchild. She's going to fall!

Meteor! Ira snapped. You're a spirit when you're not in that girl's body. Do something.

The Equestrian and Maelstrom were attacking Sator again to distract him. Nereid, to give the girl credit, pulled her shit together and added her geysers of blood.

Meteor hesitated. I'm not sure I can, she said. Can't Renata help her?

I can't reach her mind, I said. I've tried. And I'm not spiritually telekinetic anyway.

Meteor, you have to save her! Suzanne nigh-shouted. You're her only hope!

Feeling Meteor peel out of the body she was possessing was like nothing I'd ever felt: like someone burning their skin off, and then being totally without pain because there were no nerves any more. Her spirit leapt out of the woman -- G, Watson told me -- and threw herself across the mouth of the black abyss just as Brainchild slipped off the glass. Brainchild hit the "surface" that was Meteor and bounced off her onto the floor.

Meteor said to me, I only ever wanted to be a hero, before her grip slipped and she was sucked into the void, her mind sliding too far away for me to reach.

G staggered backward and fell over Megan. I apologetically seized control of her motor functions, got her ass up, and walked her out the door.

One less potential victim in that room. Go me.

---

Note from the Author:

Because I'm mean, here's a new challenge for Team Commentariat: 15 commenters get you a third new episode on Saturday!

And remember to vote for WCS!

Definitely a Boojum

Where the fuck did he go? Megan said through the link.

This way! Simon said, and everyone paying attention could smell slightly scorched spandex and male sweat, with a number of overtones none of them could identify, but I could feel Simon's translation: fear, rage, hope, desperation, frustration.

Meteor shrank down to about ten feet tall so as to follow Simon, since she'd lost her aerial view of the killer in the shadows almost immediately.

Down this street? Megan said, skidding around the corner after the much tighter cornering of the wolf. But this is...

Sator's, Watson said. He's gone to Sator's. Don't you remember him?

For the second time that night, Megan had a bitter taste of memory that I had to filter and poke her out of. C'mon, girl, no time for expository flashbacks, I said.

They paused outside the door of Sator's, which was neatly closed. Simon listened.

"Sator! Sator!" Camerabro was bellowing, moving away from them into the store.

"What is it?" came an irritated reply, and I could feel, via Watson and Megan, that it was Sator's voice.

"It's all gone to shit," Camerabro said. "Instead of just the kids and the dog, there was a spandex ambush."

I could hear Megan thinking, NOT spandex, very loudly. Meteor shot her a hateful look.

"And so you've come here expecting what exactly?" Sator said, and his voice was a silken-smooth growl.

"Enough power to get you what you need!" the cameraman said. "You wanted one more soul. I can get it for you. But first I need what you promised me."

"Were you followed?" Sator demanded.

Meteor started forward, but Simon said, No, wait, and kept listening.

"Damn you, give me what you promised!" the killer shouted. Then he moderated his tone: "I'll go get a soul for you. Three souls. Six souls. I'll bring them all to you! There are so many girls out there in this city, so many with soft throats and powers that bounce off me. I can kill them all."

"Were you followed?" Sator said.

"I'll bring you more souls than you can count," the man said, "just give me what you promised and I'll go out and get them for you."

Sator said, his tone hard as diamond, "You brought them here, you fool, you hopeless excuse for a human. And now I shall have to kill them myself."

"I'll do it!" Camerabro shrieked, and the shop was oozing the scent of terror now. "I'll take care of them...!"

"I don't think so," Sator said, his voice matter-of-fact. "I only need one soul, and yours is as good as any."

I didn't have time to shield myself much, but I managed to shield everyone else in the link from the mind-searing death that went with the most horrible scream Simon, Megan, Meteor, and I had ever heard torn from a human throat.

---

Note from the Author:

YES! You all did it! If you do it again (ten comments), I'll post a THIRD new episode on Saturday!

Vote for WCS!

Secret Identities Hide Many Things

"Move!" Megan hissed, springing to her feet and starting to run.

She felt more than saw Meteor catch up with her and whisk her into the air by catching her under the arms. She managed not to flail her suddenly relativley tiny size-32 feet in the air while this happened.

It was a matter of three giant strides across the park (she'd have to beg Ladybird to come out to fix the crushed bushes and snapped-off trees) and Megan was back on the ground.

Simon's empty trouser legs barely protruded from a fist-sized hole punched in the ground. The shredded sweater was nearby. A giant golden wolf crouched, snarling, between the housemates and the newcomer who was rising to his feet, a white man in midnight blue spandex and a billowing, hooded black cape.

A horrified shock of recognition rocked Megan back on her heels. Fuck! I know him!

Really? came Watson's interested query, over the flurry of other inquiries.

I met him my first day in town! Megan said, blank with horror as the man turned his sparkling, if somewhat sinister, large-chinned smile on the crowd. He was chasing the Merlin. Oh my god. Oh my god. I handed the Merlin to him. He said he'd been after him, and I just handed him over. I as good as killed him!

FOCUS! Renata's mental command poked Megan straight in the adrenal glands. Angst later, girlfriend, she added, a little more kindly.

The man had spun to face Megan and Meteor, and just seized Meteor's ankle and tossed her partly into the air, off balance. Meteor shrank rapidly as she fell, and she dropped with a crash into a copse of trees and boxwood hedges. He turned to Megan.

He had been trained to fight, somewhat. He knew how to throw a punch, for instance. Megan's arm registered a significant impact as she blocked -- she guessed that Watson's Class 5 estimate might be a little low.

Unfortunately for him, she'd been trained better.

When he skidded to a stop, shoring up against the lamp post recently vacated by Brandon, Simon pounced on him. The man twisted away, rolling to his feet. Simon's flashing teeth caught and tore off the hood and cape, leaving his face exposed. His eminently recognizable tiny eyes and birthmark shared space with a bleeding scrape across his cheek where one fang had scored him.

"Bro?" Brandon said hesitantly. Events had apparently confused him.

The cameraman's eyes narrowed and he slapped something on his belt. The camerawoman, Eartha, yelped and dropped her rig as it sparked vigorously.

The streetlight flickered briefly, but the hardened Wonder City infrastructure held.

"No more film," he said, sneering. "Just you all, dying."

"God, I've wanted to do this forever," Lizzie said, and, raising her arms toward him, dumped a vast red explosion of energy into the killer.

---

Note from the Author:
And I've been SO eager to post this, so THANK YOU ALL for commenting!

I believe it was interleaper who remembered the very first person Megan met in Wonder City. (Correct me if I'm wrong...) Good memory, indeed!

The comment incentive will return next Tuesday!

Vote for WCS!

Half the Victory

"So you asked me to beg, borrow, or steal Friday off," Megan said, looking down at the top of Watson's mousy-brown head, "because you wanted to spend the day in bed?"

Watson stirred drowsily. She was stretched full-length on Megan -- a position Megan had found many of her lovers preferred -- with one ear to Megan's chest. "I find," she drawled, "that I think more clearly when I'm relaxed, don't you?"

"Well," Megan said, running her fingertips over Watson's pale skin, "yes, I suppose so. What time are we supposed to be there?"

"First rendezvous at 11:30 near Sator's," Watson said, rubbing her cheek against Megan's ribs. "I thought that at the very least, we might be able to get Meteor into Sator's afterward."

"Oh, good thought," Megan said. "She agreed? You doublechecked?"

"Yes," Watson said. "For the twelfth time. After that, Renata's link comes up, the foursome walks alone to the park, and you and Meteor head to your post."

"Where will you be?"

Watson traced strange patterns around Megan's breast. "Mission control," she said, after a moment.

"Where's that?" Megan reached out to pet Madame Blavatsky, who had appeared on the edge of the bed and was staring at them with her usual slightly crazed look.

"Mary Sue's All-Night Diner," Watson said, "on French Street."

"I hope the coffee's good," Megan said, shivering as Watson started to do something else in the same region.

"Well, the company will be, at least," Watson said.

"Company?" Megan said, startled out of the pleasant sensations.

"Suzanne and Ira Feldstein, of course," Watson said, returning to her distraction technique, which muffled her voice somewhat. "They were part of the investigation. They deserve to be involved."

"Suzanne wants to be close in case something happens to Simon," Megan translated.

"Well, yes," Watson said. "One can't blame her, really, given what happened to the last young man she got involved with."

"Hm?" Megan said, not really interested.

Some time later, Watson's cell phone emitted a series of avian whoops, which Megan knew meant one of her myriad alarms. Madame gave the pile of papers that concealed the phone an evil look and vanished.

"Time to go," Watson said regretfully, peeling herself off of Megan.

"So how do you think he's going to disable the cameras?" Megan asked as she pulled on her underwear.

"I don't think he will, necessarily," Watson said through the grey long-sleeved t-shirt she was pulling on. "You know the notorious yen for media attention that many serial killers have. I think this one has been frustrated by the lack thereof until recently. He wants to be someone, you know?"

"But if he were going to," Megan said, pawing through her accumulation of laundry for her most supportive bra. Few things more distracting than flopping around while running to a fight, invulnerable or not.

"If he were going to," Watson said, hopping up and down to cram herself more effectively into her jeans, "I should think that he would have created or acquired a device to emit an electromagnetic pulse. Like, perhaps, the body netting worn by the Green Eel. Or the stunner carried by the Jellyfish. They could be altered by someone with sufficient skill or knowledge."

"And he could do it himself or hire it done by any of the gizmodders in the city," Megan said, shoving her legs into her own jeans.

"Yes," Watson said, pausing to pet Evason, who had wandered in to see what the ruckus was about. "Shit, I forgot to mention to Renata about Meteor."

"You forgot something?" Megan said, buttoning and zipping her jeans and wondering if she should stop downstairs for the crappier, torn-up jeans instead.

"Yes, I forget things from time to time," Watson said, tucking in her t-shirt and reaching for a flannel. "Particularly when I let myself get distracted by the mental sensation of a cat's whiskers brushing against me repeatedly. It's no good knowing that it's her restraining herself."

"Speaking of cats," Megan said, pulling on her t-shirt, "you know Jazz has been peeing on the papers in your study, don't you?

"Yes," Watson said resignedly. "He doesn't care for his new home. I'll clean it up soon."

"Zoltan will go spare if it gets into the wood of the floor," Megan said, pulling on her own flannel. It did not, happily, match Watson's, she noted. The day they'd both worn Campbell plaid flannel on a date was kind of embarrassing. "If we're not dead, I'll clean it up tomorrow."

Watson made a noise that could have been agreement or one of her distracted-thinking noises, then said, "My sister has invited us to a Beltane Feast on Sunday. Just her and the boys and some of their friends."

"No rampaging nude in the bushes?" Megan said, feeling a little strange about this very domesticated sort of discussion. She was much more comfortable with discussing supervillains and imminent death, and she wondered what that said about her. More material for Pearl, she thought with a sigh.

"They wait for me to leave before starting that," Watson said. "I'm known to be a prudish old fogey." She located her glasses and flashed a grin at Megan. "You can stay if you want."

Megan snorted. "You spent the day reminding me what I'd be missing if I did that."

"So I did," Watson said with a smug little grin. "C'mon, let's go."

---

Note from the Author:
Everyone prepares for conflict in their own ways, and Watson is a bit of a hedonist. Besides, you know Megan would have otherwise been sitting somewhere alone, stewing.

I am, believe it or not, still working on the last two short stories I owe. (Those of you who followed the lengthy production of my monster Utena fanfic, Archimage, at least will believe me, I hope.) Zoltan's story is threatening to become a miniseries, I'm afraid. We shall see what happens. Pearl's story is starting to shape up, but I'm being a little careful, because I don't want to write a whole story and have to scrap it like I did with Hel. And now I've got an idea for a story involving Brainchild. And another possibly-Pearl-related story idea cropped up as well. It's all very complicated, on top of the totally non-Wonder-City SF serial I keep contemplating.

The Oil of Refined Politeness

A trio of cowbells clonked unharmoniously as Watson led Megan through the small shopfront door under a handpainted sign proclaiming that this establishment was known as "The Mirror Crack'd." A wave of thick, powdery incense hit Megan straight in the sinuses, and so she didn't see the dangling ceiling display of maces and morning stars until the last moment. Some of the spikes grazed her scalp through her short hair despite her heroic ducking.

"Careful," Watson said, mouth twitching.

They moved through the store, and Megan spotted a large wooden corner display case containing what appeared to be handmade swords of a variety of what she thought of as European shapes. Around the case hung chain mail shirts, vests, bras, and other, even less likely forms of body covering. A number of glass cases took advantage of the excellent light from the front windows to show off smaller pieces of chainmail, as well as a number of different types of jewelry in silver, copper, and gold. A coffin was propped rakishly on the inner wall of the room, and a tuxedo-and-top-hat-clad skeleton semi-reclined inside. Another set of glass cases full of wood crafts, jewelled hairpins, and other expensive-looking items comprised the sales counter. A doorway next to the coffin led into the next room.

"Well," said the woman seated behind the counter to Watson, "I haven't seen you for a dog's age."

She was a few years older than Megan, pale-skinned and artificially black-haired, her long hair swept into an elegant updo and pinned in place with a pair of steel hairsticks. She wore a knee-length three-quarter-sleeved black dress with a moderate amount of lace at the bustline and the sleeves, and black stockings underneath. Over the dress, she was wearing a dark purple silk underbust corset, and she clutched a matching dark purple knitted shawl around her shoulders. She studied them through a pair of rimless octagonal glasses. Her lips were adorned with extremely red lipstick.

"Megan," Watson said, still with that hidden smile, "this is my younger sister Death."

Death stood up and politely shook Megan's hand, her fine-boned hand vanishing in Megan's rather larger one. "I'm glad to meet you, even if my big sister doesn't bother with context."

"We live in the same house," Megan said, opting for simplicity over exact truth.

"Not the latest girlfriend?" Death said, with a sharp look that reminded Megan uncomfortably of some of Watson's apparent ability to see completely through one.

"Um," Megan said.

"I have some questions," Watson said, adjusting her own wire-rimmed glasses almost fastidiously.

"Don't you always?" Death said, settling back onto her chair. "And you never seem to want to visit me at my house. What's up?"

"Been reading about the murders?" Watson said.

"You can't go to any local social networks online without tripping over them," Death said. "So I suppose."

"The latest victim was starting up as a pro domme," Watson said.

Death put her head to one side thoughtfully. "What was the name?"

"Dani Williams," Watson said. "A Wonder City University senior. She was majoring in medieval literature. She was using 'Olivia' as her pseudonym, according to my research."

"Don't recognize either name," Death said, "but I've been retired for a few years. Diarmid may know her; he's got friends in the pro scene."

Megan felt suddenly out of her depth, and looked more closely at Death. She'd been a professional? Megan thought she didn't look the type. But then Megan realized she didn't know if there was "a type" anyway.

"Is he in the smithy?" Watson said, turning toward the doorway.

"Yeah, you know where it is," Death said, then glanced at Megan. "You may not want to go down there. Really low ceilings. My husbands are only six-footers and they regularly cosh their heads on the beams."

Megan nodded vaguely, watching Watson disappear. Left with the Awkward Conversation, she turned to Death with a smile that was just short of a rictus and said, "So. Self-chosen name?"

Death's mouth quirked to one side. "Actually, it's one of my middle names."

"What's the first name?" Megan said, momentarily forgetting her resolution never to pry about these things.

"Harriet, I'm sorry to say," Death said.

"Could have been Mycroft," Megan said.

"No," Death said, "our mother made sure we had workably feminine first names. Living in that wacky house with Watson, are you?"

"Yes," Megan said. "That is, not with Watson. My apartment's on the first floor."

"Is the ex still living there?" Death said, lacing her fingers together around one of her knees and watching Megan closely.

"My ex? Oh, um, Watson's ex. Um. Actually, both our ex. If that's even a proper sentence construction," Megan said, abruptly becoming aware that she was babbling.

"Close enough for government work," Death said. "Bonding over your broken hearts?"

"Something like that," Megan said, trying to figure out a polite way of saying It's none of your damned business to Watson's -- her girlfriend's? -- sister.

"Well, if you decide to dump her, do me a favor and do it cleanly," Death said. "None of this dragging out for a month or more, trying to figure out if things are over or not. 'Kay? Her detection skills aren't so good at that sort of thing."

"Sure," Megan said, wishing Watson would come back.

Her wish was granted while she was still trying for a new topic of conversation. Watson emerged from the doorway, followed by a tall, broad-shouldered black man in t-shirt, jeans, and leather apron.

"Hi!" he said, extending a scarred and calloused hand to Megan. "Diarmid MacBride," he added, voice a pleasantly resonant basso.

She shook his hand, raising an eyebrow at the name. "Megan Amazon."

He winked at her. "Heard of the Black Irish? I'm the Black Scot."

Diarmid then leaned over the counter and kissed Death briefly. He was a massively muscular man, thick-bodied and bearded, his head shaved bald. Megan suspected that he loomed even when he wasn't trying. Death returned the salute and swatted at where he'd put his hand on the glass counter. "I have to clean that," she said.

"That's your job, woman," he said, but the tone was light. Megan thought perhaps he was closer to Watson's age than Death's.

"I'll remind you of that later," Death said. "Was this shiftless hunk of meat any use, Watson?"

"He told me some possibly useful things," Watson said.

"Like the fact the woman in question was trying to fly on her own without any wings," Diarmid said. "Vanessa was telling me about her, saying she was being a typical stupid kid about the whole thing. Like thinking all she had to do was pull an outfit together and buy a riding crop and she could be a domme 'cause she spanked her boyfriend a few times."

"Do you have a picture of her?" Death said to Watson. "I might be able to tell you if she ever bought equipment here."

Watson plucked a photo from her pocket and handed it over the counter. As Death frowned over it, the door clonked. Diarmid, Watson, and Megan glanced in its direction.

A tall young white man with a profile stolen from a Greek bust plucked a black top hat off rumpled black curls and gave the assemblage an ironic bow. He hung the hat and his fine woolen greatcoat on the antique hall tree tucked behind the skeleton and strolled over, smoothing his exquisitely tailored Victorian pinstriped suitcoat and arranging his gold watch chain. "What fun am I missing?" he said, kissing Diarmid.

"Oh, just one of Watson's cases," Diarmid said, patting the younger man's rear absently. "Al Kostas, Megan Amazon."

Al had long, sensitive musician's hands. "The pleasure's all mine," he said, smiling a Greek god smile up at her.

"Quit flirting," Death said without even looking up. "She's Watson's."

Megan blinked. Watson stifled a laugh. Al looked chagrined. "Sorry," he said to Megan. "Habit."

"She came in here about three weeks ago," Death said finally. "Do you remember her, Al?"

He kissed her as he took the photo. Megan felt a strange pang -- she never seemed to get involved with anyone who did this sort of casual affection.

"Ye-es," he said after a moment. "She was the one that picked up a couple of how-to books and was looking at floggers. She bought the purple sparkly one you made last fall."

Megan sort of casually tried to peer into the other room. Floggers? How-to books?

"Yeah, you had to help her," Death said, scowling. "I remember now. I had to chase that obnoxious kid from that TV show out of here. The camera hit one of the displays."

Megan and Watson exchanged glances. "Blond?" Watson asked.

"Yeah. Blond frat boy type," Death said. She raised both eyebrows and stared at her sister. "I gather that's an important clue?"

Watson grimaced. "Could be."

"Need to work on your poker face," Death said.

Watson shrugged and shook her head. "I suspect it will never be good enough for you, dear sister. We should be on our way."

"Of course," Death said. "You know, you could come over for dinner sometime. Bring her," she added, nodding at Megan.

Watson gave them all a measuring look. "Next Sunday?"

Death blinked in surprise. "Uh, sure. Yeah. Definitely."

"See you then," Watson said, herding Megan toward the door. Megan waved at the trio before ducking out the door. Diarmid grinned and winked at her again.

Megan tried to order her thoughts so she could ask a useful question. Brandon? Floggers? How-to books? Retired pro domme sister?

"Didn't scare you off, did they?" Watson said after they'd walked a block.

"Scare me off what?" Megan said, her head still spinning.

Watson stopped and turned to Megan. She reached up, grabbed Megan's jacket, and hauled her down. "Me," she said, and kissed Megan hard. There. In the middle of the street. Well, sidewalk.

Megan staggered back a step into the wall when Watson let her go, and managed to say, "Uh, no."

---

From Ye Olde Author:
Missed 50 comments in June by three! So CLOSE! (Alas, akycha's comments don't count toward the total, in case you're counting at home.) I will find a way to thank you all this month. And it kind of turns out to be for the best, since I'm going to be out of state, doing a big family birthday party for my parents part of next week and the week after.

We'll continue the comment incentive in July: if I get 50 total comments from readers in July, I will post twice weekly through August. As before, if you all post 75 comments, I'll post twice weekly through September too. Get up to 100 comments, the twice-weekly postings continue through October.

I will add more double-posting possibilities: if you post a chunky review of Wonder City (and link it from one of the WCS posts), I'd count that as 5 comments. And if some folks were to create a full-blown TVTropes page for Wonder City, I would count that as 25 comments. *whistles innocently*

Conversations Are Always Dangerous

As Megan opened the outer door of Sator's, someone erupted from within, shoving past her and slamming into her hard enough to make her take a step backward. She looked after the white man in the grey hoodie and jeans, baffled and annoyed, and he shot a vicious glare over his shoulder at her. The close-set eyes and the strawberry mark across his forehead combined with the square-cut jaw and blond hair to ring all her bells for recognition.

She was about to mention this to Watson, but Watson pushed past her into the store, forcing her to follow. When the door was shut behind them, she said, "Watson, that was... I don't know his name, but he's Brandon's camera guy."

"I figured," Watson said. "He matched your description. He didn't knock it out of your hand, did he?"

"No," Megan said, displaying the small, wrapped package. "I'm glad he didn't run into you, though. That collision probably could've dislocated your shoulder."

"Interesting," Watson said, glancing through the window after the man's retreating form. "But currently irrelevant." She gestured Megan on through the shop.

Megan always noticed new items when she picked her way through Sator's, but the older items never seemed to move or change. Today, the highlight of the Sator's Thing-Spotting was a wolf pelt thrown negligently over a set of carved wooden canes in an umbrella stand decorated with Egyptian gods. They proceeded straight through the more crowded rooms into the relatively spacious back room.

"Ah, ladies," Sator said, emerging from behind the purple velvet curtain. His wild white hair seemed even wilder than usual, sticking out at odd angles, though his muttonchops were as impeccable as his white buttondown shirt and grey trousers. "So good to see you again."

"We've brought it," Megan said, a little abruptly. She caught an unreadable glance from Watson for that.

"Excellent!" he said, smiling his charming little mad scientist smile. He swept the purple curtain back and bowed them into his consultation room.

As Megan set the package on the table, Sator said, "You are certain she looked into it?"

"Yes," Megan said. "I saw Meteor stop in the hallway and look into it to check her hair. She was annoyed and made some disparaging comment about our landlord swapping out the mirrors."

"He'll be crushed," Watson murmured.

Megan grinned. She recalled finding Zoltan while he was dusting the public areas, skull-and-crossbones kerchief covering his hair, an apron covering his clothes, and an enormous feather duster in hand. "Do you mind if I swap out the mirror in the hall?" she had asked.

"What for?" he said, eyebrows peaking.

"It's, um, a magic mirror," Megan said. When he looked even more disbelieving, she said, "Look, you've noticed that G hasn't exactly been around lately, right?"

Zoltan nodded, flicking some dust from a bronze statue of Mercury.

"Watson and I are trying to... G is possessed by this ghost, see, and so we've gotten someone who's willing to help us de-possess her, but he needs information."

"So you propose to set your information-gathering trap in my front hall?" Zoltan said.

"Um. Yes."

"Well," he said musingly, neatly removing a cobweb from a high corner, "if G does not work, I am likely to have a non-paying tenant soon, yes?'

"Yes," Megan said. Not to mention a completely different tenant, she didn't add.

"I do not, on principle, have objections to ghosts, you understand," he said, running the duster over a line of leather-bound books on the hall shelf. "I have known some charming ghosts. Though none of them were particularly smart. If I am not wrong, though, this ghost has been taking our friend out on dates in a most inappropriate fashion, yes?"

"Yes," Megan said through gritted teeth.

"Well, then," Zoltan said, smiling sunnily and yet somehow... pointily, "I say that the heterosexual agenda needs foiling." He gestured her toward the mirror.

"Watson told me to tell you that you probably don't want to look into it," Megan said, having replaced the usual mirror with the dark mirror, still shrouded in blue silk. "Unless you want someone knowing more about you than you probably want them to."

"Excellently perceptive advice from the excellently perceptive Ms. Holmes," Zoltan said. "I vanish into the depths! How long will it be up?"

"Until I see her use it," Megan said.

"Very well," he said, and disappeared down the basement stairs.

When Megan was paying attention again, Sator had uncovered the round, dark-surfaced mirror and was gazing into it. Watson was watching his face intently.

"A sudden death," Sator said. "A violent death. A planned, intentional death."

"Planned?" Watson said softly. "Fascinating."

"Yes, it is very clear," Sator said, turning the mirror a little to the left. "A man, I think. And a definite stink of magic."

"Oh, that would explain it then," Watson said cryptically.

"She passed over any number of hosts," Sator said. "She was waiting for a woman with para powers."

"Any para powers would do?" Watson said.

"Yes, I think so," Sator said, giving the mirror a half-turn to the right. "Though some might work better in gestalt with the ghost than others."

"Anything else?" Watson said.

"She has no particular defenses against magic," Sator said, sitting back in his chair and casting the silk over the mirror again. "In fact, she is quite vulnerable as a magical being. I believe that if you can get her into the store, I can deal with her before she has a chance to react poorly."

As they left the shop, emerging into the sharp, raw, early April evening, Watson said, "That was enlightening."

"Was it?" Megan said, frowning.

"You're distracted," Watson said. "Still fretting about what Pearl told you?"

"Yes," Megan said. "I feel like way too many of my friends are in stupidly dangerous situations. Apparently, not being in spandex doesn't matter if you're in Wonder City."

"True enough," Watson said. "Though I can't decide which is worse: a serial killer that might possibly be on the set of It's a Wonderful House or a single person's life being blotted out by a crazy ghost."

"They're both horrible," Megan said. "And I can't do much about either."

"Well, you can warn Simon, at least," Watson said.

"I have to wait until his day off and get him somewhere private," Megan said. "Before he goes gallivanting off with Suzanne."

"Bring him up to my place," Watson said. "I have some toys that will pick up most bugs that might follow him. And the cats might spot others."

"Have you figured out any possible suspects?" Megan said, gesturing inquiringly at a little hole-in-the-wall Turkish restaurant on Staybird's Main Street.

Watson nodded and they went into the restaurant. "I've been doing a little research, and I fancy I've found one or two people it might be, assuming that our mega-telepath didn't just manage to pick up someone strolling nearby. Which, of course, for her could be anywhere in a thousand-mile radius."

"You'd think a woman with that sort of power would be able to gauge the general distance from which she was hearing the thoughts." Megan said.

"Hmm," Watson said as she examined the menu. "Yes, well, with great power comes the need for a great deal of control, which can work against you. By the bye, I'd like to walk past the Wonderful House while we're in the neighborhood."

"Okaaay," Megan said, looking up from her contemplation of delicious-sounding lamb dishes. "Any particular reason?"

Watson looked up at her, blinking through her wire-rim glasses. "Oh? No. Just want to see the lay of the land."

"Not going to crawl over their front yard with a magnifying glass?" Megan asked, tapping Watson's knee under the table.

"Nah," Watson said, smiling. "I'm sure all this sleet has interfered with my clues anyway."

---

From the Author:
Clues! Some clues! Won't say for what, of course, but there are definitely clues.

Comment incentive in June: if I get 50 total comments from readers in June, I will post twice weekly through July. As before, if you all post 75 comments, I'll post twice weekly through August too. Get up to 100 comments, the twice-weekly postings continue through September.

Wild Ghost Chase

Moonstone and Milkweed was a very bright store, with everything painted in soft pastels and lit with track lighting. There were comfortable (non-Megan-sized) chairs and low bookshelves in the middle of the store, and the walls were lined with built-in shelves. All the shelves were genteely lined with books whose spines were in bright pastel tones. There was a square cashier's island in the middle of the store, and the island walls were made of jewelry cases. The cases were, of course, filled with crystal necklaces, earrings, bracelets, wands, goblets, tiaras, and less recognizable objects.

"I don't have a good feeling about this one," Megan said out of the corner of her mouth.

"We shall see," Watson said. "Remember, one can get information in the least likely places."

They drifted apart in the silence that was occasionally punctuated by the sound of raindrops, the trill of an Andean flute, or a soft drumbeat. Megan wandered over to a neat announcement board that looked heavily policed, given the orderly way the cards and notices were attached. There were no advertisements with tearaway phone number strips at the bottom, as they'd seen in Holy Moly. Instead, there were neat little business card holders made of copper wire and beads, and the business cards bore logos that resembled chakra designs, mandalas, or dreamcatchers. Megan gravely perused advertisements for past life skills coaching, macrobiotic catering, kundalini yoga, and global awareness activist daycare.

"Can I help you?" a thin, blonde, white woman said, emerging from the beaded curtain to the back of the store. She gave Megan a wary glance and turned a tentative smile on Watson.

"I'm looking for some help with something," Watson said, leaning on a jewelry case that held crystal birthstone guardian angel pins.

The woman gave her elbow a disapproving look and said, in an ever-so-slightly less serene tone, "What sort of help?"

"A friend of ours," Watson said, "has encountered a negative entity that is influencing her to make poor life decisions. We were hoping to find someone to help her with a cleansing."

The woman pursed her mouth. "We don't have anyone who does cleansings any more. The owner feels that people call these negative entities to themselves, and they have to learn the lessons that these entities bring them. Then the entities leave them to go on with their lives."

Megan snorted, causing a set of rainbow spinners near her to twirl and the woman to start in alarm. Megan could practically feel all the hidden cameras in the room focusing on her brown self.

Watson leaned another elbow on the jewelry case, directly over the chakra-toned jewelry set in 14 karat gold, and said, "If one were to want to, say, enter into a conversation with the entity, to clarify those lessons, where would you suggest we ask?"

The woman made a helpless little gesture with one hand, nearly knocking over a shelf of glittery angel statues. "We don't do that sort of thing. If I were you, I'd ask at the Egyptian Tea Room."

"And where would that be?" Megan said, watching with something like vindictive glee as the woman twitched again.

"Staybird," the woman said, and made a gesture that actually knocked one of the smallest statues off the shelf. She squeaked in alarm, and the fuss she made over cleaning it up effectively ended the conversation.

Watson collected Megan with a glance and they met at the door. "Staybird," Watson repeated. "It's not that big. We can probably find it."

Megan said sadly, "I bet G knows where it is."

The last Megan saw of the woman was a glimpse of her through the glass door of the shop. She was standing behind the counter, holding a bundle of sage -- wrapped in red thread -- in one hand and an incongruous purple lighter in the other, trying to get the lighter to work with the desperate air of a chain smoker in need of a nicotine fix.

They caught a cab -- one of the Wonder Cabs, built for people taller than Megan, more buses really -- and were let off a mere 30 minutes later on the Victorian main grind of Staybird.

The Egyptian Tea Room did not have a bulletin board.

What it did have was five small booths of carved wood, canopied in purple velvet hangings. Megan was quite sure that at least one of them was an actual confessional that had been transported from some Roman Catholic church or other. The curtains were drawn back from the two booths closest to the entrance, and Megan saw with astonishment that they were each furnished with a round Victorian end table and three antique chairs upholstered in purple brocade. On each table was an old-style candlestick telephone neatly placed on a lace doily. What for? she wondered. In case the dearly departed wanted to ring up with next week's lottery numbers?

This store had no background music. It was full of a muffled silence, enhanced by the fake Turkish carpets on the floor. One glass case held Tarot card sets, and behind the counter were displayed several varieties of Ouija boards. A hand-calligraphed sign read, "Please ask about our artist-made Ouija boards," and a smaller sign said, "Catalog of select antique Ouija boards available." Next to an old brass cash register was an ornate silver candelabra with three white candles in it, all lit. The store was already well-illumined with indirect lighting, so Megan had to assume this was just for mood.

The woman behind this counter was brunette and white, wearing a white blouse whose collar reached her chin and a long black skirt. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe bun. She looked up from the book she was reading and gave them a small smile. "How can we help you today?" she inquired.

Watson, as usual, moved to engage. "We're trying to find someone who can help a friend of ours."

The woman put her head to one side, very slightly, and looked interested. "Is this friend among the living?"

This may have caught Watson by surprise, because Megan was sure there was a moment's hesitation before Watson said, "Oh, yes, yes, she is. But she's having a problem with someone who's not."

At this point, Megan turned to explore the rest of the shop. There was a high shelf -- just eye level for her, actually -- lined with rather good reproductions of Egyptian gods of various types. She inspected one particularly striking Anubis, a Bast statuette that the Metropolitan Museum had made famous, and the usual multi-colored, winged Isis. At the end of the row of statues was a golden goddess, arms outstretched to the sides, with a scorpion on her head. Megan thought she remembered it from a book about the Tutankhamun exhibit she'd read as a child.

The woman behind the counter said, "That sounds like a fairly serious difficulty. If you like, you can browse our list of people who offer services."

When Megan glanced over, she saw the woman pull a book from under the counter. It was an ornate leather-bound album with an elaborately tooled and gilded cover that read, "Photographs," in an unmistakably Victorian script. She set it gently on the counter, and opened it facing Watson.

For the next ten minutes, Megan peered over Watson's shoulder as the older woman pored through the listings that were fastened into the album (in lieu of photographs). Finally, bored of the Madame Berengerias and gypsy mediums, Megan drifted away. She sidled over to one of the open booths and picked up the receiver of the phone, idly curious to see if it was wired in. A distant, tinny man's voice said, "Come here, Watson, I want you."

Bemused, Megan held the phone out and said, "Watson, it's for you."

Watson looked at her with raised eyebrows. "What?" she said.

The woman behind the counter stared at her with round eyes. Then she laughed, covering her mouth with her fingers. "It's a recording," she explained. "You know, the words that Mr. Bell is supposed to have said when he invented the telephone."

Watson chuckled and closed the album. "I noticed a small listing for a shop called 'Sator's' that mentioned ghost removal. Can you tell me anything about them?"

"Oh, they're not far from here, just around the corner," the woman said. "I've never heard of anyone actually going there, though." She frowned slightly and said, "'Ghost removal' sounds a little... modern. We prefer to work with the dearly departed."

"I see," Watson said genially. "Well, thank you for your time."

"We're always here," the woman said, "and seances every Thursday night."

Megan eyed another high shelf behind the counter. It was filled with tambourines, trumpets, and other odd objects. She wondered vaguely what they had to do with the business.

They found Sator's without too much difficulty. It was down a narrow alleyway between an Irish bar and a former bank, and had a plain sign in Roman lettering. The door was locked and the grate pulled down over the front window.

"Damn," said Megan, attempting to peer through the glass of the front door. All she could see was an overstuffed bookcase, which at least looked hopeful.

"I have the phone number," Watson said. "I guess we'll have to make an appointment. Let's go. It's almost time for us to meet with Madame Destiny."

---

From the Author:
I managed to post the second post during the week! I'm sorry for the tardiness; it's been a fairly awful week. I hope you enjoy this episode, despite the late hour.

I have to thank my wife for her help with this, and her cheerful willingness to take a daytrip to Salem, MA, to research magic, new age, and related shops. None of the shops depicted here are modeled directly on any real shop in Salem. Aspects of many Salem shops, as well as shops I knew years ago in other cities, are integrated into these fictional shops.

Wonder City Stories has been nominated for the Rose & Bay Award! Monday is the last day for voting on the Patron category, and on the first wave of the Fiction category. Check out all the nominees in all the categories here. I'd love for you to vote for WCS. And please do consider voting for Dave or Lucid (I mean aerynvale or badfaun!) in the Patron category.

I'm posting twice weekly during February. Thank you for all your comments! I love them!

Vote for us at Top Web Fiction! We fell down the listing some! Help! Sinking!