The Dragons of Heaven (2 page)

He blinked, then reached down and helped me up, supporting my weight when I leaned into him. We maneuvered me into the passenger seat, and I struggled with the seatbelt until he had returned to the wheel. He steered us back towards the city proper.

“Where would you like me to take you?” he asked, reminding me why I kept him on retainer. It's hard to put a price on pragmatism.

“Home. But I believe your offices would be wiser. I still have an affidavit to give, after all.” The Citizen Vigilante laws in California were particularly strict about such things, and I wasn't going to be the one to spoil what little legal protection people like me had left. The corporate-sponsored heroes could afford to be lax; I could not.

Jack fell silent under the pretense of navigating the streets through the dark and the fog. Water beaded on his windshield, not enough to use the wipers, just enough to annoy me into wishing he would.

“Are you sure the emergency roo–”

“I'm sure.” My head had cleared while I waited for his arrival. I was in pain, but my confusion was gone, replaced by anger. Jack's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He frowned and said nothing in the most pointed manner possible. I relented. “I'll have Shimizu look me over after we're done. Promise.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“That is the point of an affidavit, so I'm told.”

“That wasn't what I was talking about.” He waited. When I didn't offer anything, he tried again. “I take it the bust didn't go well?”

“It didn't go at all. Lao Chan wasn't there. Just some boys with delusions of gangsterhood.”

“And you hurt yourself how? Falling off a rooftop? Please tell me we're not going to have to sue the city for not maintaining a safe climbing environment.”

That startled a chuckle from me, and pain shot through my chest. I cringed and prayed that no ribs were cracked. Jack spared me another concerned look, but the issue of hospitals had been settled. He returned to glaring at the road.

“Sorry,” I said when the pain had receded. I looked out the passenger window. We were heading into North Beach, where Jack lived. He preferred to work out of his home, away from the large downtown firm he worked for. We passed the Pagoda Palace, one of Lao Chan's many holdings, and a guilty reminder that Jack was involved whether I liked it or not. As much as I might want to protect him from the worst, he deserved to know what he was getting into.

“Lao Chan wasn't there, but he knew I was behind it. He left me a message.” Jack arched a questioning brow. I sighed. “He blew up my motorcycle.”

Jack's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “Why? Why just your bike?”

“He didn't have time for more would be my guess. He had to move his operations quickly. Finding my bike must have been chance; he seized it as a warning of opportunity, to let me know I've gone too far.”

“You've interfered in his business before. What makes tonight any different?” Jack asked. He pulled in to a tiny garage at the base of a twee little townhouse, indistinguishable from the line of Victorian townhouses that ran the block. The garage door rolled open, the entry so narrow that he came within centimeters of scraping the sides of his car.

I used the excuse of levering myself out of the car to avoid his question. The truth was, I didn't know. It would have been just as easy to detonate the bike after I was on it, or pick me off while I was dazed from the explosion. I'd been left alive, when Lao Chan had no reason to do so. It was too convenient to be luck.

The garage door closed behind us. I let myself into the house and climbed the narrow staircase to his downstairs office area.

Jack had spent a lot of time restoring the Victorian elegance of the interior. The light from several wall sconces warmed the woodwork and the antiques that lined the entry. The beveled glass on the front door at the head of the hallway showed his name in reverse: Jonathan Q Wentworth III, Esq.

Jack's mostly-geriatric clientele preferred this blurred divide between service and friendship. But then, I suppose I wasn't any different. Poor Jack. He was in no way the kind of person who should have to deal with my kind of person.

And yet, he opened the door to his study, ushering me through when pain would have left me leaning against the newel post. I made my way to his most comfortable armchair.

My hat band was a circle of iron pressing into my skull. I tossed the fedora to the floor and released the shadows I used to obscure my face. My head still pounded like it was trapped in a vise. I ran my hands over my head, tearing out pins and ripping off my wig. A thin, nylon cap landed next to my fedora. My red hair remained tightly braided against my scalp, but the pounding in my skull was receding as the worst constriction was removed.

Jack leaned against the closed office door, an irritated frown on his face. He crossed his arms. “All right. We're safe. What the hell is going on, Missy?”

I slumped in the armchair and out of my role as Mr Mystic.

“Fuck if I know, Jack.”

T
hen

Nobody becomes an adventure hero by accident. For me, it started with a revival showing of
Big Trouble in Little China
at the opening of the rebuilt Pagoda Palace in North Beach.
Big Trouble
ranked as one of my favorite movies of all time, and I roped a crew into going on the strength of my enthusiasm. Who can pass up the chance to see Kurt Russell as Jack Burton? Plus, spunky Kim Catrall. Yowza!

The reopening of the Pagoda was event enough in its own right – the victory of San Francisco eclecticism over the demands of encroaching gentrification and civil engineering. That didn't stop the new owners from trying to cash in on Argent age nostalgia. A local acrobatic troop from Chinatown entertained the crowd out front, and the mezzanine gallery boasted a small exhibit on the Chinese experience in San Francisco, courtesy of the Chinese Museum of Culture. It was a flavor display, not a formal curated collection, but the cases still boasted sturdy alloy locks. The mingling audience overshadowed it all. Costumes ran the gamut of characters from the film, including a bevy of girls in cheap cheongsams and green-tinted contact lenses, and at least one sewer monster. The Pagoda looked like an extras casting call for Kung Fu Action Cinema.

My crew – a motley collection of buskers, burners, and struggling artists – hadn't gone to cosplay lengths. We spent our lives standing out, so none of us felt compelled to hog the spotlight tonight. We were here to see the film, revel in the spectacle, and pepper our conversations with our favorite snippets of dialogue. We arrived early enough to secure two rows of seats, and we perched on them in every way except the one they were intended for as we waited for the film to start.

I sat on the back of my chair, my battered Docs planted on the arms, and tossed quips in broken Cantonese with Andrew Han. He wasn't part of my street-performer crew – we studied gung fu at the same
kwoon
in Chinatown – but he was the only other person among us who spoke Cantonese, so I was helping him show off. It worked like gangbusters. One of my contortionist friends, Vess, perched half on Andrew's lap, coaxing him to teach her naughty foreign phrases. What can I say? I make a damn fine wingman.

Andrew's new popularity left me on the social fringe. I shifted on my seatback, gauging the conversations nearby to find one I could nudge into, but I was at the end of the aisle, and my options were limited. A pretty little gothic Lolita sat alone across the aisle from me. Her black-on-black brocade frock coat was a snappy fashion choice, but she looked a little lost and more than a little lonely in the crowd.

She caught me looking and gave me a nervous smile. I couldn't leave her hanging. I smiled back. “Cute outfit.”

“You like it? Thanks.” The soft twinge of the Midwest in her accent threw me for a moment. Shades of Mike from
Fargo
. The pause turned awkward, and the girl looked away. I'd been performing half my life; putting myself out there had become habit, but I knew what it was like when you didn't quite know how to talk to strangers. I twisted on my seat back to face her.

“And I totally covet your boots.”

She propped them on the seat in front of her so we could both admire them better. “I got them custom. They're my favorites. Really comfortable. They were my gift to myself for finishing my residency.”

“You're a doctor?” She didn't seem the stethoscope type, except maybe as part of a steampunk ensemble.

“I'm in public health. I volunteer at the free clinic on Post.”

“That's pretty hardcore.”

Her boots hit the floor with a soft
thump
, and she straightened back up. “Well, I don't know about that. I just started, so I haven't done much yet. And I don't think they're going to be throwing me any parades back home.”

“Where's home?”

“Oskaloosa, Iowa.” She grimaced in apology.

Well, that explained the accent. The name sounded familiar, but it took me a moment to place it. “Isn't that Skyrocket's hometown?”

“Hence the lack of parades for me. When a town has a real hero, they don't have much love left for bleeding heart activists like me. Besides, I kill babies. Crack babies. With AIDS. Real heroes don't do that.” She spoke like she was quoting – like she was relieved to be kicking that hometown dust from her creepers. She shook her head and offered another smile. “I'm sorry. You're not an Ace fangirl, are you?”

Loaded question, that. I pretended nonchalance and gave her the response I would have given six months past. “Me? Naw. You won't find many around here who are.”

“I think that's one of the weirdest things about being on the coast. Back home, people go crazy over Skyrocket. He polls more popular than the local sports teams, except when they're winning. Out here, I've met folks who haven't even heard of him.”

I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. “Do you think they're relevant anymore? The Argent Aces? I mean, they had their place fifty years ago, but things have changed.”

She looked down, fingers plucking at the brocade of her coat. “I don't know. I complained a lot back home, but Oskaloosa wouldn't be the same without Skyrocket. Out here, you just don't need the Aces in the same way.”

“Well, it's not like we're completely without heroes in San Francisco,” I pointed out. “There's Mistra.”

“Who?”

Her question deflated me; I shrugged as if it hadn't. “Some new Ace. She started showing up about six months ago.”

“Bully for her, going up against Mr Mystic's legacy like that. Not too smart, picking that name. This city loved that old man. Whoever she is, she should get a new alias and a better PR firm.”

I checked my exasperation. She had no notion she'd just rubbed a raw nerve. “But there you go! That's the problem I was talking about. Either the heroes are corporate shills or they're outdated and out of touch. Sure, this city loved Mr Mystic back in the Argent Age. You know why? Cause he supported McCarthyism and Japanese internment camps! He was so gung-ho American that he wanted to kick out anyone who didn't fit his definition.”

“I thought he was a Brit.”

“Who became a naturalized citizen,” I countered. “Converts make the worst fanatics. The only reason this city loves him so much now is because everyone thinks he was a closeted homosexual.”

“Well, wasn't he?”

I choked on my denial. The world knew Mr Mystic was Mitchell Masters, and it knew he'd disappeared a few years back. I couldn't say anything without revealing I might know more. I vented my frustration with a huff. “I don't know, and I don't think it matters. It doesn't negate the other things he stood for. Are those the only options? Sell out to almighty dollar or carry on a tainted legacy?”

“I don't think it has to be like that. Take Skyrocket. The old one was a white supremacist. I've seen pictures of him from before World War II, shaking the hand of the local Grand Dragon. But my cousin dated him for a while – the new one, not the old one. I got to meet him a few times, and he was really something. He's changing what Skyrocket stands for. People treat each other better, knowing he's around. He's not just living out some Forties American Dream with the race and sexual politics swept under the table. It's more like he encourages people to embrace what the Forties wanted to be. That's what I think adventure heroes can offer. They're… inspirational. You know, like one person
can
make a difference.”

I blinked. I'd spent the past six months polling everyone I knew for their views on adventure heroes and got disillusion across the board, but there was something in her earnestness that echoed my own yearning for a less complex world where what you did mattered. I cocked my head. “Who are you, masked woman, advocate for uninsured patients and underappreciated Aces?”

She laughed and reached a hand across the aisle. “I'm Shimizu. Gail Shimizu, but I go by my last name 'cause I hate my first.”

“Missy. And I don't use my last name for pretty much the same reason. Sorry if I got a little intense on you.”

“Hey, don't apologize for being passionate. In my line of work, I don't see enough of it. Apathy is worse than any supervillain.”

The lights flickered and dimmed.

“And that's my cue to shut-up.” I slid down to sit properly in my seat and slanted her a rakish grin. “Are you ready?”

“Ready?” she growled, though there was laughter in it. “I was born ready.”

The lights cut out, the screen flashed to life, and I sat back, happy to escape to the easy Good vs Evil of Jack Burton's Chinatown.

O
ur group scattered
after the film. We lost Shimizu to the specter of work, but she gave me her card and made me promise – with a minimum of arm-twisting – to show her around all the best secondhand stores. The rest of my friends split three directions on where to grab food for the film postmortem. I would have joined Andrew and the dim sum crowd, but it was late, and I had other obligations. I waved them farewell as they tromped off in the direction of the Dragon Gate, then I slipped into the alley behind the theater.

The alley was typical of San Francisco: bright, upscale shops not a block away, but here all was dank and urine-scented, with homeless people nesting in stoops. The emergency exit was just as I'd left it – rolled up bit of cardboard keeping the latch from fully catching. I slipped inside and used my pinkie to pry the cardboard free so some keen-eyed employee wouldn't notice it and decide to look for intruders.

There were plenty of shadows backstage for me to manage a quick costume change. If I was determined to continue with this idiotic crusade, I was going to have to figure out a better way to handle the costume issue. Or else not go out with friends on a “work night”.

Checking to make sure the house was empty, I shrugged on my backpack and crept up the side aisle. With each step I took, I slid a little more into the shadows. I hated this part and approached it with all the trepidation of a swimmer entering cold water.

No. Not cold water. Slimy, leech-ridden, eel-infested waters. That's what shadow felt like to me: a living thing wrapping about my limbs like it would devour me if it could just get a firm enough grip.

I shuddered at the thought and shook a little too free of the shadows' grip.

“Hello?” came a voice from the projection booth. The silhouette of a head obscured the window. I pressed back deeper into the shadows, pulled them about me like a safe blanket, let them test and taste me, just so long as they obscured me from the curious projectionist.

The head disappeared, and there came the sounds of laughter and ghost noises.

That was fine. Let them think the strange flicker in the shadows was a ghost, if it would make them leave more quickly. I slipped out of the house and into the lobby.

A few more employees gabbed at the concession stand with the last stragglers of the audience. They didn't notice me as I skimmed along the front doors and into the free-standing box-office. Just another shadow of a car passing by outside.

It was the best vantage I could hope for. I couldn't hang about outside. My quarry had been watching the theater for a week and would have a good notion about what belonged and what didn't. With the police scaring the street people into the alleys, I was in the not-belonging category.

I crouched in the box office, searching Washington Square across the way. There. She was just a shadow among the trees, leaning up against a burned out park lamp, but I had an affinity for seeing into shadows. She wore her dark hair pulled back into a thick plait that hung past her waist. Her face was like a mask, all sculpted features and arched dark brows. Somewhere in Mumbai, a Bollywood casting director was crying that this woman had chosen a life of crime instead of superstardom. Her black clothes stood out in a dark blot against the softer shadows of the park. On previous nights she had been settled onto a bench, drinking some steaming liquid from a thermos, but tonight she stood tense and ready. My waiting was over. Whatever she was planning, tonight was the night for it. I settled in and waited for her to move.

A few months ago, if you'd told me I was going to be charging around at night spying on nefarious characters and foiling heists, I would have laughed my ass off. Granted, until now the best I'd managed was to stop a few muggings and one impromptu dog-fight, but none of this had been part of my life plan.

You wouldn't know that to see me now: running around in a costume, using my shadow powers for the greater good. That Shimizu girl had put her finger on it: rail against the Citizen Vigilante laws all you wanted, there was something deeply satisfying about going out and making a difference in the world.

The thrill warmed me against the damp of the night as I prepared for my first encounter with the kind of crime that adventure heroes were meant to fight. Finally, I was doing something worthwhile with my gifts.

The interior theater lights went out, and to my left came the clunk of locks and the murmur of people chatting as the manager and staff closed up for the night. As they disappeared into the BART tunnel down the street, the woman in the park stirred, lifting a pair of binoculars the size of opera glasses. Green lights flashed along the top edge. The binoculars were digital, some kind of night vision. I ducked lower and held still. It meant I couldn't see what she was looking at, but better not to be seen myself. When I poked my head up again, the space by the lamppost was empty. I scanned the trees, the shadows that were pierced by the headlights of each passing car, but the seconds ticked by and I couldn't spot her. With increasing unease, I pressed my cheek to the box office window and scanned the street for any sign of movement; still nothing. Dammit, how had I missed her?