Jokers Wild

  Hiram dispatched his desserts in short order, washed them down with just the quickest taste of wine, and pushed back his chair. “Pardon my haste,” he said to his dinner companions, who were eating more slowly, savoring every bite. “As the host, I have certain duties, though I hate to leave such delightful company even for an instant.” He smiled. “Please don’t rush off, the evening is just begin­ning.”

  Hiram drifted from table to table, smiling at the guests, inquiring about their dinners, accepting the compliments with a gracious smile.

  Mistral, holding court at her table near the balcony doors, said her father would undoubtedly be pleased to know he’d been one of the ice sculptures. “We could hardly leave out Cyclone,” Hiram told her, “even if he does miss far too many of these affairs. Living in San Francisco is really no excuse, and you can tell him I said so.”

  Hiram hardly recognized Croyd, who was looking around anxiously for the dessert cart, still two tables away. Next to him, Fortunato sat like a man in a dark shroud, and seemed to take no part in the dinner conversation that swirled about him. Hiram considered stopping by the table and giving him a reassuring word, but the look in those dark eyes beneath his massively swollen forehead seemed to forbid it.

  Cap’n Trips had spilled a cup of herbal tea in the lap of Frank Beaumont’s date, and was mopping at it ineffectually with a napkin, apologizing profusely, so Hiram was spared the necessity of learning about the dangers of processed sugar.

  Wallwalker and the Harlem Hammer were talking together intently. When Hiram asked how their dinner had been, a curt nod from the Hammer was all the answer he got. Rahda O’Reilly, a petite red-haired lady who had been known to metamorphose into a full-grown Asiatic elephant with a startling capacity for flight, thanked him in a charming Indian accent. Fantasy had deserted the minor play­wright who’d accompanied her, and was flirting with the Professor. Digger Downs had snuck in somehow, and was off in a corner by the window, interviewing Pulse. Hiram frowned, gave a signal, and two of Peter Chou’s security men escorted Digger firmly toward the elevators. A man who could heat a pot of coffee with his bare hands tried to give Hiram a job application, and was directed to Chock Full O’ Nuts. Ladybug reminisced fondly about the year they’d served a gigantic baked Alaska in the shape of Jetboy’s plane.

  Jay Ackroyd looked as though he was about to rupture and die. “I’ll never eat again,” he promised solemnly.

  Hiram dropped down in a vacant chair next to Jay. “Things seem to have gone very well,” he said, relieved.

  A dessert cart made its way between the tables, but nobody seemed to be in charge of it. Not that it mattered, Fortunato didn’t eat sugar, meat, or preservatives if he could help it.

  It was one of the biggest disappointments the wild card virus had brought him. All his senses had gotten ridiculously sharp. The weird thing was that natural odors, even wet dogs or decaying vegetables, didn’t bother him much. It was only the man-made smells—bus exhaust, insecticides, fresh paint—that irritated him. He’d even given up cocaine years ago. Now when he needed an altered state he used grass or mushrooms or fresh coca leaves.

  He’d have preferred an altered state at the moment. Hiram had put him at the same table with Croyd Crenson, which was not itself the problem. Croyd had been a valued customer for years. The problem was Croyd’s date. In a mas­terpiece of bad timing, Ichiko had set Croyd up with Veron­ica.

  Veronica smiled and laughed and hardly touched her plate. Fortunato knew her good mood was nothing but bullshit and heroin buzz. He was glad he had both Cordelia and Croyd to separate him from her. She’d ignored him all the way through dinner, and her hand was in Croyd’s lap enough that Croyd didn’t pay attention to much of anything else. Except Cordelia, who’d gotten his attention right away.

  Croyd was looking good—thin, tanned, high cheek-bones, nice smile lines. Fortunato didn’t ask how long Croyd had been awake, but he suspected it was already several days. There was an amphetamine brightness to his eyes. When it played out he’d sleep for days or weeks and wake up with a new look and a new power.

  His power this time had something to do with metals. His knife and fork kept going limp in his hands. He would concentrate and they would stiffen up again. He and Veronica spent a lot of innuendo on the subject, and before long Cordelia had joined in.

  Fortunato had eaten some of the salad and asparagus and let the rest of it go.

  “Listen,” Croyd said as a white-jacketed waiter switched his dinner plate for a clean one. “Do you think you could refigure my bill to include this one too?” He had one arm around Cordelia.

  “There’s a problem there,” Fortunato said. “Cordelia isn’t on the payroll. At least not yet.”

  “Oh,” Croyd said. “I wouldn’t want to cut in.

  “It’s not like that,” Fortunato said. “You could say we’re sort of auditioning one another.”

  Croyd looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to mistake you for . . . uh, a professional,” he said to Cordelia. “If you’d like to come to my place after, though, we could have a couple drinks and horse around. No strings, you understand. I wouldn’t ask you to do anything you didn’t feel up to. I’ve got a hell of a stereo in this pad down by the waterfront where they don’t care how loud I play it . . .”

  Suddenly there was a piece of cheesecake on Croyd’s plate. Fortunato didn’t know where it had come from. He glanced quickly around the room and when he looked back Croyd had added an apple cobbler and a slice of chocolate pie.

  Something was badly wrong. Fortunato stood up. Various aces had moved to the balcony, and through the plate-glass window he could see Peregrine and Water Lily talking, their heads close together.

  He couldn’t seem to think. He leaned forward, palms on the table, and shook his head. The desserts. Where were the desserts coming from?

  Think, goddammit. Pastries don’t move themselves. That means somebody’s moving them. Somebody you can’t see. Is there anybody you know of that you can’t see?

  “Shit!” The huge round table was between him and the balcony. He grabbed the edges and hurled it out of the way, Croyd lunging futilely for his desserts. He was two steps away from the glass doors when Water Lily screamed.

  There was about a half second of silence and then everything went to pieces. Modular Man charged the balcony, shouting, “Get away from her!” His body began to crackle with energy. Croyd lifted his hands like he was trying to channel his power. It didn’t work. As Modular Man swept by them the radar dish inside his dome went limp and he veered off and crashed helplessly into a wall. He hit hard. The impact must have scrambled something because he be­gan firing off smoke and tear-gas grenades.

  That was when the lights went out. In the first second of darkness Fortunato heard the unmistakable sound of a trumpeting elephant.

  He blinked his eyes and let what light there was come to him. In another second he could see, dimly. The air was full of noxious gases so he stopped breathing.

  Water Lily was on the balcony, her back to the rail. It started to rain all around her, and in the outline left by the falling water he could see the Astronomer reaching for her.

  It was Kid Dinosaur and the park all over again. He fought to get to her and his muscles strained against an invisible force that made him seem powerless. “No!” he shouted, “goddammit, no!” as Water Lily rose into the air and spun around and hurtled off the edge of the balcony into darkness.

  It was reminiscent of antiwar marches. The wet handkerchief across the mouth and nose to filter out the worst effects of the tear gas. The clouds of billowing smoke eructed harsh gags, coughs and screams.

  Roulette shoved someone aside, making for Tachyon. She had seen him enter, focus on the balcony, move forward, but she had lost him when the lights failed. An ace let go with a burst of flame. Shading her eyes with a hand, she scanned the crowd. Modular Man struggling to his feet, a screaming woman, and Tachyon revealed against a backdrop of drifting smoke.

  Tear
s streamed down his face, and his chest heaved as he struggled to hold back the coughs. His chin lifted as if he was steeling himself for some ultimate effort. Radiance flared about the Astronomer’s wizened body as the blow from Tachyon’s mind tested the limits of whatever power animated him.

  Then Modular Man blew up.

  Pieces of burnt steel and plastic shrapneled through the restaurant. One jagged chunk, still trailing a rag from the creature’s uniform, struck Tachyon full in the forehead, and he went down, his face a mask of blood.

  Screams tore from her throat, and she fought her way to the alien’s side. Don’t be dead! Don’t be dead! But she was uncertain whether the mental cry arose from anguish over his loss, or anger at being cheated.

  She dropped to her knees, and clutched his limp form to her breast, his blood staining the front of her white gown. Tearing the napkin from her face, she pressed it to the pumping, jagged cut. The tear gas raked at her throat and eyes, and she began to weep. Her tears rained down on Tachyon’s face, leaving pale rivulets in the blood.

  Water Lily’s last scream still hung in the air. The restaurant was in complete chaos. Pieces of Modular Man spun harmlessly off Fortunato’s force field. He watched random winds tear through the room as Mistral tried to clear the smoke. Some idiot with flame throwing powers tried to light the place up but only succeeded in setting the curtains on fire. Hiram ran toward the balcony, clenching his fist, shouting, “No! No!” Entire tables floated in the air and hung there, the aces who had lifted them not sure where to throw them. Someone ran upside-down across the ceiling. The noise of smashing china was almost continuous, almost loud enough to drown the sound of vomiting.

  The Astronomer turned hazily visible on the balcony and bowed toward Fortunato. Jane, Fortunato thought, would still be falling. Peregrine had turned toward the rail to go after her. The Astronomer took her by the arm and tried to throw her to the floor.

  She was clearly stronger than he realized. She gritted her teeth and went to one knee, and with her free arm she reached across and clawed for the Astronomer’s eyes. His thick glasses fell to the concrete and blood ran down his cheeks.

  The Astronomer smiled. His tongue flicked out and caught a drop of his own blood. The glasses rose by themselves and settled back on his face.

  Fortunato took all the power Miranda had given him and centered it at the Manipura chakra at the center of his abdomen. A weird groaning noise came out of his throat and he pushed the prana, the pure energy, out of him and at the Astronomer.

  It shot out of Fortunato as a glowing blue-green sphere the size of a softball. Fortunato pulled his arms back, fingers spread, his eyes stretched wide open. The prana bored through the lines of power surrounding the Astronomer and turned them inside out. From concentric circles they shrank to crescents, all on the far side of his body.

  The little man’s hold on Peregrine’s arm began to slip. Peregrine whirled on him, slamming one knee into his crotch and breaking his nose with the palm of her right hand. Blood spurted from the Astronomer’s face.

  As soon as she was loose Peregrine dove over the side of the balcony, her wings beating furiously. The Astronomer spat at her and then turned back to Fortunato.

  The little man’s eyes were dead. The same eyes Demise had, the same eyes as the dead boy in the loft. The Astronomer had become Death itself, mindless, brutal, inevitable. You can run, the eyes said, but I will find you.

  And then the Astronomer was gone.

  The mass of aces wedged into the doors untangled like a slowly waking octopus. Mistral scrubbed at her tear-drenched face, raised her arms above her head, and sum­moned a breeze. The brisk wind whipping the choking fog into streaming white tatters seemed to free people from the horrified stasis that held them. There was an undignified rush for the door. More than a few remarks about “con­tacting my lawyer” hung ominously in the air, but Hiram seemed too distracted to notice. He continued to peer anx­iously at the railing over which Water Lily and Peregrine had vanished. Somewhere a woman was crying, a horrible whimpering sound like an animal being tortured, then a man’s voice called out desperately for a doctor. Unfortu­nately the only doctor available was out cold on the floor.

  There came a thundering, rushing sound like a thousand swans taking to the air, and Peregrine, Water Lily cradled in her arms, landed lightly on the balcony, and glared about her. Hiram gave an inarticulate cry, and lunged forward. Gasps and murmurs of relief rippled through the remaining guests. Both women were drenched by the unending water that poured off Water Lily, but it did little to dampen the angry, darting hawklike glances that Peregrine cast about the room.

  Her eyes met Fortunato’s, and the fury faded from her face. The tension remained, her slender body vibrating like a plucked violin string, but it was not the tension of flight or fight, it was . . .

  Roulette felt the blood rush to her cheeks as attraction flowed like waves off a powerful magnet between Peregrine and Fortunato. Perhaps it was a function of her power, or only an example of her disturbed mind, but the musky, heady odor of sex seemed to lay over the demolished room.

  Hiram, treading with a light, fastidious gait through the carnage, stepped to Fortunato’s side. “Well!” he gusted. “That was an uninspired mess. Virtually every ace in New York, and he makes a monkey of us all.” His head poked accusingly at Fortunato, but the black was oblivious. “Thank God I was able to reach Lily. If she hadn’t been light as air, Peregrine could never have reached her in time.”

  Fortunato grunted, but his eyes remained locked on Per­egrine, who stood with an arm absently about Water Lily’s shoulders and stared back.

  “This was one time my power proved to be—”

  Fortunato walked away, and Peregrine, abandoning Water Lily, met him halfway.

  “Fortunato, for God’s sake! I’m talking to you! Can you trace him?”

  The pimp pulled his gaze away from Peregrine. “If I could trace him would I have let this happen?”

  Hiram spread his hands helplessly. “Then we must try to locate his lieutenants. Someone must know of his plans.”

  Roulette pressed a hand to her throat, felt the pulse throbbing there. She stared resolutely down at Tachyon’s pale face, fearful of Fortunato’s piercing eyes. She lifted the blood-soaked napkin, and swabbed at his face, but it only made it worse. The bloody wad fell from her hand, and she stared, mesmerized by the blood staining the pale skin of her palm.

  “Hiram, fuck off.”

  A stifled noise, rather like steam being vented from an engine, rose from Worchester. The burly ace seemed on the verge of apoplexy.

  “I intend to do something.”

  “Please don’t. I can do so much better without you.”

  Fortunato tucked Peregrine’s arm beneath his, and walked swiftly away before Hiram could respond to this latest insult. The winged ace threw Hiram an embarrassed, apologetic look.

  Water Lily was safe. Fortunato filed that away and went to look for Croyd and Veronica and Cordelia.

  He found them behind one of the overturned tables. Croyd had rescued an entire Chocolate Death and they were eating it with their fingers. When he saw Fortunato his smile went away.

  “I really fucked up with Modular Man,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Fortunato said. “As long as you’re all okay.”

  “We’re fine,” Veronica said.

  “I’m going back to his place,” Cordelia said. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  “It’s fine,” Fortunato said. “But I don’t want you on the streets alone tonight. If anything should happen, Caroline will be home early. Call her and have her come get you in a cab.”

  “Yes, o sensei,” Veronica giggled. They got up and headed for the elevators, Croyd with one arm around each, Cordelia with the cake in her free hand.

  Fortunato turned back to find Peregrine staring at him. She’d been trying to calm Jane down, getting drenched in the process. He saw her break off in the mid
dle of a sentence. He started toward her, broken glass and china crunching under his shoes.

  Everything had faded into shadow except for her. She was tall and powerful and flushed with excitement and Fortunato wanted her. Drained as he was, weak as he was, he could feel her heat all the way across the room. Hiram tried to say something to him and Fortunato got rid of him, not even conscious of the words he used.

  He stopped in front of Peregrine. She was breathing heavily, like she’d been running. “The party’s over,” Fortunato said.

  “Yes.”

  “Can we go somewhere?”

  “My Rolls is waiting downstairs.”

  Fortunato nodded. They walked to the door, side by side, her hand just resting on his arm.

  “Wait!” Hiram said to Fortunato, coughing. His eyes were still watering from the tear gas. Fortunato glanced at him for a second, his mouth tight, and swept past, with Peregrine on his arm. Hiram stood helplessly, looking at their backs as they went through the wide double doors.

  They were by no means alone. A steady stream of peo­ple were headed for the elevators, many still coughing, stumbling, holding onto each other, eyes red and sore. Chrysalis was among them. She stopped to thank him. “I’ve had a few lively evenings at the Crystal Palace,” she said dryly, “but nothing quite like this.” Fantasy staggered past with a cut on one cheek and her gown in ruins, and paused long enough to threaten him with a lawsuit.

  Mistral had swept the last of the smoke and gas out into the night, then climbed onto the stone banister and leapt off into the darkness. Her cloak filled like a parachute as she climbed up toward the stars. As his friends and guests rushed for the door, Hiram Worchester surveyed what was left of Aces High. Tables were overturned, glasses and plates scattered and broken. The dessert cart the Astronomer had been pushing lay on its side, and panicked feet had ground slices of chocolate mango pie and amaretto cheesecake into the carpet. Several people had left their dinners behind in pools of vomit. In one spot the carpet was still smoldering, and there was a hole in the wall that looked as though someone had made their own exit into the night. At least four windows had been shattered; broken glass was everywhere. One of the chandeliers had come crashing down. Ly­ing beneath it, unconscious, was a full-size Asiatic elephant. The ice sculpture of Peregrine was entirely wingless now, and the one of Dr. Tachyon had been knocked over and was melting slowly into a puddle.