And It Arose from the Deepest Black (John Black Book 2) (24 page)

1

Pip jumped, and at first I thought she meant to follow after them, chasing down Jake and the last Gorgol. But after a moment she stopped and bent down to retrieve something from the rubble surrounding Sigma’s body.

Her hand.

Then she turned back toward me with a face as dark as the most powerful sandstorm, blacking out the sun.

“What the funky hall was that?” Pip said, turning toward me with her hand in her hand. You know, literally.

And, by the way, she didn’t say
funky hall.

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I —”

“That’s it?
I don’t know?
” I got the distinct impression that if she hadn’t needed to use one hand to hold the other, she would have been pointing her sword at me. Somehow, she’d already recovered the weapon, and its hilt was poking up from the scabbard on her back.

Bobby felt the obvious tension. “Come on, guys. Relax. Let’s talk about this.”

Pip turned on him. “Relax?
Relax?
Did you see what he did to me?” As if Bobby hadn’t noticed, Pip gesticulated with her hand. The detached one. And as she did, the hand started to… melt. At the same time, the stump of her slashed forearm stretched outward, growing. Pip just stared, baffled and stunned by what her body was doing.

“Put them together!” I offered. She took a moment to comprehend, but complied. No argument there. Pip didn’t want to be a one-armed bandit for the rest of her life.

Like a clay sculpture that could make and unmake itself, the two parts of Pip’s arm rejoined, melting back together. At first, the form was loose and inhuman, but after a few moments the normal shape asserted itself. She wiggled her fingers, right as rain.

“So, everything’s fine now, right?” Bobby offered with a weak smile.

Pip’s newly rejoined hand balled into a fist. “No, Bobby. Not right at all. Look at him,” she said, nodding toward me. “He stands there and apologizes, but what’s changed? He’s not sorry.”

“Come on, Pip —” Bobby started.

“No. No way. I’m not being played for a fool by
him
anymore. Even if he is sorry, what does it matter?” The old Pip was back, the one who didn’t like me one bit. “I don’t trust you,
Black Swor
d
.
” She spat the name at me. “I never have. And now I know why.” Despite her words, she hadn’t ratted out my true identity to the listening helicopters above. I should have appreciated that. Somehow, though, it fueled my fire. “You’re too strong,” Pip said. “Too strong for even yourself to deal with. And when you let the power out, who knows what’s going to happen. That’s why I don’t trust you. Because you can’t even trust yourself.”

Don’t trust me? Fine.

Won’t even say my name? Fine.

Once the fire was lit, I didn’t know how to put it out. No, that wasn’t quite right. Once the fire was lit, I didn’t know how to stop pouring gasoline on it. “Either you’re with me, or you’re against me,” I muttered.

“What did you say?” Pip asked.

“You need to leave. Now,” I said, louder.

“Hey, Johnny…?” Bobby whispered, trying to interrupt the full-blown fight he saw coming. He moved to put a hand on my shoulder, but I sloughed it off.

Pip scoffed. “
I
need to go? Who exactly do you think you are?” Still she wouldn’t say my name. I knew it was the respectful thing to do, but damn, it pissed me off.

“I’m someone who’s telling you to go. For your own sake. And
now
.” I puffed up, full of myself. Where was this anger coming from? From me. But why? It was as if I was standing in a cloud of toxic gas and there was no way to get a breath of clean air.

Pip pulled back, eyes wide, and Bobby mirrored her surprise. “Yo! Calm down, buddy,” he said, looking toward my right hand.

The hand that held my belt. Well, the thing that was sometimes my belt and sometimes stretched into a weapon. Just as it was in the process of doing at that particular moment.

I knew I was doing it again, but I couldn’t stop myself. The bloodlust had taken me, once more. Standing there next to the still-warm body of Gorgol Sigma, something was deeply wrong with me. Something I couldn’t control.

Rather than back down, I let it happen. Hell, maybe I even encouraged it. My belt completed its transformation back into the sword-spear, but at least I had the consideration to keep it low by my side. I don’t know what might have happened if I’d raised it, but I suspect there would have been no going back, ever.

Pip stood ready to fight. And I think I was ready, too. I think I would have fought Pip, right then and there. How far? I don’t know. There was a dead Gorgol at our feet, many times Pip’s size. Let’s just say that self-control wasn’t my strong suit, not then. Picturing Pip lying dead next to Sigma wasn’t hard to do.

I might have done it. Except for Bobby.

Even through the haze — no, the complete whiteout — of my anger, Bobby was my friend. And at that very moment, he turned on me.

By choosing sides.

Well, by choosing
a
side.

A side that wasn’t mine.

Bobby silently moved to stand next to Pip, striking a ready pose that echoed hers. I couldn’t see his face through the mask, but his eyes told me enough. His deadly serious eyes. “Enough, Johnny,” he said.

“You, too?” I was livid. Probably someone in your life has told you not to make important decisions when you’re angry. My dad had told me that countless times. I guess I was sometimes a hothead as a little kid, too. I mean, who isn’t? What kid doesn’t raise Cain whenever they don’t get their way? But this was different. I was too old for tantrums and irrational decisions, like
Fine, if asparagus is for dinner, then I’ll never eat dinner again! EVER!
Nonetheless, I made an irrational decision.

I pointed at them, one at a time, with my free hand. “So be it,” I said. “You go your way and I go mine.” As simply as that, I started to walk away. But, of course, my lunatic self thought that one last parting shot was required. “And don’t bother following me!” Like Bobby or Pip were desperate to hang out with me after such a display of pompous stupidity.

So, with that, I set off on my own.

This sounds symbolic, perhaps even romantic, as if our intrepid hero must venture into the wild to face his demons alone, only to come out stronger and better for it.

Not so.

Leaving the farmyard, I found the road, turned right, and kept going. My belt was once again just a belt, so I threaded it back around my waist, a pseudo-scabbard for my pseudo-sword. I didn’t even know what direction I was heading. There was no pathway of personal trials ahead, no clearly defined process to become a better me. Just walking. It dawned on me some minutes later that I was essentially lost. Where the hell was I going, and what the hell was I going to do?

I figured the smartest thing was just to go home, but the easiest way to do that was in Bobby’s parents’ car. Any guesses whether Bobby was willing to give me a lift at that time? Yeah, no.

Damn
.

“Don’t decide when you’re angry,” I heard my father’s voice say in my head.

Now you tell me. Just be quiet, Dad.

Frustrated, I spied a large rock by the side of the road and used my mental powers to send it flying. It randomly careened into a hapless, innocent mailbox, crumpling the metal and knocking it from its wooden post. I was one of the most powerful humans on Earth, and here I was, reduced to mailbox baseball.
Oh, he got all of that one, folks! It’s going, going, gone!
Far from impressing myself or providing any solace, the hurtling mailbox just made me feel more like an idiot.

An idiot alone.

“
Black Sword, can we talk?”
A woman’s voice, slightly distorted, came at me from an amplified speaker.

No, no. I was worse than an idiot alone. I was an idiot on display. The
thump-thump-thump
of the helicopters had become so familiar that I’d simply ignored it, forgotten they were even there, despite the fact that they weren’t ignoring me. I turned around, my mask blessedly hiding the flushed, chagrined look on my face.

Good lord, they’re calling me
Black Sword
. And I just answered to it.

They must have been surprised that I would stop at their call. Or maybe they were just terrified. After all, they had just become the focus of a seriously dangerous and unstable person. The kind of person who severs his friend’s hand and kills giant monsters. With a belt. Black Sword. Me.

There was a pause, and I almost walked away once again, until the speaker crackled and the woman spoke again. “This is Meg Branson, Daily 8 News. The world would like to hear from you, Black Sword. Can we land and ask you a few questions?”

“Can we land?” Did I now dictate where and when aircraft could land?
Of course, they’d seen me defeat two giant monsters. I suppose manners were in order. No need to piss me off, right? I was simultaneously smug with self-importance and embarrassed at the stupidity of it all.

But if I sat for their questions, they’d just ask who I was and what I was doing. Of those two questions, I only knew the answer to one. And it was the one I wouldn’t, couldn’t, answer.

An image sprang to life in my mind, the recollection of Holly fading out, overwhelmed by the paparazzi.

And the image of my mother’s bloody nose.

What would happen if I brought all that down on my family again?

Whether I let Holly be crushed by a Gorgol or permanently incapacitated by exposure to cameras and shouting jerks, was there a difference?

As Meg Branson called out several more times, I just turned and continued down my own personal road to nowhere.

2

After about 30 minutes, I came to truly respect Daily 8 News reporter Meg Branson. Why? Because she had about a million percent more scruples than her counterparts at the less reputable media outlets.

The helicopters swirled. Soon there were, by my offhand count, five.

Dwayne Pidgeon from ZZT TV made the first cash offer for an exclusive interview. And yes, I thought it was hilarious that a guy named Pidgeon was flying behind me. He also said his offer was for “a limited time,” like I was buying steak knives from the shopping channel.

Other offers came, blasted toward me from trailing choppers. I tried to ignore them, but all of a sudden I realized that I had something more than just superpower.

I had earning potential.

I could be a made man.

So how would that feel, selling myself to the highest bidder? Was there any future in paid interviews? I suspected not. Once the tabloids’ attention shifted to something new, my bank account would be as empty as my street the day the paparazzi up and left.

As I mulled this, not actually considering the offers but considering how unreal it all was, there came another voice from behind me.

“Black Sword, this is Mark Simeon from Banner Productions.” I knew the name, and suspected what was coming. “We know you have a lot of offers for interviews, and we know many of them are offering to pay you quite a bit of money.” The loudspeaker crackled off for a moment, and there was only the competing
thump-thump-thump
s of the helicopters. “This is what Banner can offer you: respect for your privacy — no questions about your identity. In fact, no questions at all. We only ask to follow you around, to shadow you, 24/7, for a period of no less than three weeks. You’ll star in your own reality show, and you can even name it, pending approval from our lawyers and marketing team.” Inside my mask, I rolled my eyes and kept walking. Respect for my privacy that involved being on camera every waking moment? Right. “We know it’s an imposition, Black Sword, so we’re prepared to offer you zabba glabba glab.”

I froze.

No, of course he didn’t say
zabba glabba glab.
But he did say a
really
large number.

Holy shit, that’s a lot of money. Like, never-work-in-my-life, take-care-of-Holly, let-Mom-quit-her-job money.

I stood there.

“I see that I have your attention. Good. Shall I come down there so we can discuss the details? Iron out a contract and start working together?”

It was the voice. Something about Mark Simeon’s voice was just too excited. Too
greed
y
.

“If something seems too good to be true…” Once again, my dead father’s voice spoke inside my head.

“It probably is,” I said out loud. And my feet decided for me. I started walking again.

The offers kept coming, but none as lucrative as the one from Mark Simeon and Banner Productions. It was a struggle not to go back and giddily accept their money, and maybe I was the world’s biggest fool, but that’s what I did. Or didn’t do.

I shunned the possibility of becoming the world’s richest, most famous freak. But it wasn’t as simple as just me selling me. I would be selling my family, too.

Really hoping I wasn’t making a big mistake, I realized I somehow had to ditch the helicopters, or else I knew I’d cave. If night came and I was still wandering aimlessly, I’d probably sign with the first offer of a place to sleep.

How does one elude five helicopters simultaneously? I was alone and walking down a country road with alternating bands of cornfields and pine forests. Obviously the forests were the better option, but it wasn’t like I could just duck in and they would give up. I needed a better plan.

So I stopped walking and turned around. “All right, everyone!” I yelled. “I’ll consider your offers, but on my terms. I need you all to land, so we can discuss things face-to-face!” Realizing I was in a mask, I sheepishly added, “Well, sort of.”

It didn’t take long for them to comply. They were too eager, too ready to cash in. The helicopters slowly jockeyed for position, then landed, spaced out along the flat, straight road. From each one, a person or two jumped out and began to approach me. Some wore the professional attire of the real news media, others the more casual look of producers or celebrity journalists.

It wasn’t enough. I needed
everyone.

“Wait!” I held up a hand and, to a person, they all froze. In their way, each one was afraid of me. That’s who I’d become. Someone the world feared. I lowered my hand and tried to look peaceful, to the degree that a monster-killing superhuman in a black mask can. “Wait. I need
everyone
out of the helicopters. Pilots, too. And power them down.” That was enough to rouse plenty of suspicion. But what choice did they have? For the pros, it was the story of a lifetime. For the others, a heck of a lot of money. After a bit of hedging, they all did as I asked.

In the end, nearly 20 people approached me. Pilots, reporters, camera operators, and some others, maybe producers or interns or who knows what?

I waited. They walked toward me in a loose semicircle. I knew exactly what I had to do. The people with the cameras were first.

Switch off
. I pushed the idea into their minds, and one by one they complied, lowering their cameras. For a moment, the others were baffled. As quickly as possible, I sent the message to every man and woman before me. A message not unlike the one Petrus must have sent throughout that police station when he found me.

Slee
p
.

And they did.

In their nice suits and their casual jeans, they sat down gently — I didn’t make them fall over like Petrus had done with the cops — and curled themselves up for sleep.

Within two minutes, my world was finally silent and I was free to do what I wanted. Giving each person a last nudge to ensure they wouldn’t wake up for some time, I turned and stepped between the nearest pines, leaving the road, and heading for who knows where.

There’s no way that will ever work again. Fool me once
, I thought.

The smell of pine sap filled each breath, and the only sound was my feet whooshing through the carpet of brown needles. Still, I knew the forest wasn’t endless, wasn’t someplace for me to hide forever. I knew I had to change my appearance, so I could somehow melt back into society.

The first thing to go was the damned mask.