3.5. Black Magic Woman

Contents

Black Magic Woman

Copyright

Black Magic Woman

A Black Knight Chronicles Short Story

By John G. Hartness

“You know I hate this crap.” I muttered as we walked through the sliding glass doors of the convention center. 

“You know I don’t care.” My partner, Greg Knightwood replied. 

“And why do we have to buy the special preview tickets? They’re like twice as expensive as the day passes.” 

“Did you forget the key thing about a day pass? They’re only good during the
daytime
. These sneak preview passes get us in at night. And since we burst into flame at the first touch of sunlight, I thought coming to the convention at night would be the better choice.” My portly partner had a point. As bloodsucking creatures of the night, we weren’t even nodding acquaintances with sunlight anymore, so evening hours were the only hours we could come to a comic book convention. Unfortunately for me, this one offered evening hours.  

“Quit your whining, you lost the bet, you pay the price.” Greg said with a grin as he swept his cape theatrically through the air. My rotund business partner preceded my into the exhibit hall with a flourish of black velour, latex and poor taste. Signs proclaiming “Welcome to Heroes Con 2011!” festooned from the rafters, and thousands of other costumed uber-nerds swarmed the aisles of the largest comic book convention in the Carolinas. I carried Greg’s backpack, which, while nearly empty at the moment, promised to be bulging at the zippers and testing the very limits of my supernatural strength by the time he finished raiding the discounted trade paperbacks and quarter bins at the various comic vendors scattered throughout the thousands of square feet of exhibit space. I sighed and followed him around, turning my head to catch my first sighting of the obligatory Slave Princess Leia cosplayer roaming the show. 

“You’re right, pal. This might not be so bad after all.” 

“Put your eyes back in your head, she’s too young for you.” 

“I’ve been dead since the 90s, of course she’s too young for me. But just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I’m
dead
, you know?” 

“I don’t even want to think about the lack of logic running through that sentence.” At least, that’s what I thought he said, but I couldn’t really tell. Because at that moment my partner had hit his knees right in the concrete aisle and started to dig through the floor boxes at Walkin’ Willie’s Comics, burying his head in the long box labeled “50% Off Golden Age.” I watched his sizable rump wiggle in happiness like a spandex-clad overweight puppy for a minute then shook my head and went over to the nearest t-shirt vendor. 

I was poking through the dazzling array of stupid
Star Trek
pun t-shirts on display and looking for a
Doctor Who
“Fighting Time Lords” shirt when I smelled something. Not the usual mix of B.O. and bad burritos that I’ve grown accustomed to after years of being dragged to geek fests by Greg, but something
wrong
. I looked around, but couldn’t figure out what was setting my vampy-sense tingling. Before I had a chance to investigate, a shrill scream from the next aisle over drew my attention. 

I rounded the corner to see a scrawny fanboy sprawled across the floor, Mountain Dew soaking his Chuck Taylor hi-tops and back issues spilling from his backpack. Standing above him, a geek’s wet dream in black spandex, stood Detective Sabrina Law. Attractive in street clothes, Sabrina was rocking the greatest undercover outfit I’d ever seen. I stopped short at the end of the aisle and just gawked at her, brown curls tied back in a sleek ponytail, double hip holsters each sporting a pistol, with knee-high buckled boots, a tank top that threatened to lose its structural integrity at any moment, and a pair of shorts that would have gotten her expelled in my high school days. 

She glared down at the drooling dork in front of her and growled, “Watch the hands, termite.” 

I chuckled a little as I walked up to her, extending my arm. “Ms. Croft, how nice of you to make an appearance.” I lowered my voice and leaned in closer as she took my elbow. “Don’t shoot him, you don’t want to deal with the paperwork.” She gave me a long look, as if considering just
how much
paperwork would be involved in shooting a pervert at a comic convention, and then holstered her gun. 

“Good idea,” I said. “And what in the world are you doing in that costume?” 

“You think you’re the only one to ever lose a bet to your idiot partner?” 

“Well, yeah. I kinda did. But now I think I need to thank him.” I gave her legs another approving look, and trust me; there was a
lot
to approve of. Sabrina punched me in the shoulder, but not hard enough to make me stop staring. Come to think of it, I don’t think humans can hit hard enough to make me stop staring at her legs. “So what’s your payoff? I have to carry all the comics he buys. What is he making you do?” 

“…” 

“Sorry, couldn’t hear that bit. And I have the ears of a bat.” Literally. 

“I have to enter the costume contest.”

“I
do
owe him a thank you. But why did you let him pick out your costume?”

“I didn’t.”

“You mean you own this stuff?” My eyebrows were living somewhere around my hairline by now, and we had stopped dead in front of another booth. Sabrina pulled me out of the lane of traffic so at least we weren’t keeping the poor vendor from making a living. But judging by how fast I heard his heart beating when she walked past, he didn’t mind if she stood there all night.

“Yes, I own all this stuff. It’s mostly just workout gear, with a couple of holsters and motorcycle boots. Come on, it’s not a big deal. Besides, if I’ve got to enter the contest, I might as well try to win.”

“Makes sense, but you don’t wear stuff like this when we work out.”

“How much exercise would you get if I did?” 

“You don’t really want me to answer that.” She punched me again, and we started looking for Greg. We found him still buried to the shoulders in old Superman and Batman back issues, with a sizable stack of purchases stacked on the floor beside him. 

“You know I’m only carrying the one bag, right?” I said as we walked up. He turned around and looked up at us. Well, looked at Sabrina, to be precise. He looked up, and up, and up until finally he made it all the way up to her face. I was impressed. I thought he’d faint before he scaled the entirety of Mount Hottie, but he made it. He handed me his comics silently and kissed Sabrina’s hand. 

“I swear that was the best game of poker I’ve ever cheated at.” He mumbled. I snorted, trying to hold it in, but failed and collapsed into gales of laughter at the look on Sabrina’s face. 

“You…you cheated?” 

“Yeah, I totally stacked the deck. Never play cards with a guy who can move faster than you can see. But God, it was worth it.” 

“You know I’m going to kick your ass for this, right?” 

“If you promise to wear those shorts I won’t even resist.” 

I chimed in at that point. “If you wear those shorts, I’ll take his place!” 

“No need for chivalry, partner. I did the crime, I’ll do the time.” Greg grinned.

Sabrina just threw her hands up muttering something about boys as she walked off to withdraw from the costume contest. I could feel the judges’ hearts breaking from all the way across the convention. Greg paid for his comics, and I put them in the backpack I was carrying, as promised. Sabrina rejoined us a few minutes later in an oversized Captain America t-shirt, much to the disappointment of every male in a ten-block radius. 

We wandered the con for an hour or so, picking through the dollar bins, getting a few of Greg’s prized issues autographed by the artists and picking up some of the cooler independent stuff on display. We stopped for a while to watch a local artist paint a portrait of Domino holding a Deadpool teddy bear, and I picked up an autographed Neil Gaiman print at the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund booth. We chatted with several of the webcomics creators, especially the Capes n’ Babes guy, because his strip has werewolves and vampires in it. What can I say; we’ve got a soft spot for our people. We were heading to the exit when we saw Shelton, the organizer of the convention, kneeling in an aisle with a tearful little boy. 

“What’s wrong, Shelton?” I asked as we walked up. Shelton owned one of the coolest comic shops in the city, and Greg and I’d spent more hours and allowances than we cared to think about over the years. Shelton still looked almost like he did then, just a little more grey on top. We never asked how he stayed so young-looking, and he did us the same favor. I was
almost
certain there was nothing supernatural about his appearance, but just almost. And our youthful vigor certainly
wasn’t
the result of clean living. Or living at all, for that matter.

“This young fella here has lost his dad. I’m going to go make an announcement.” 

“We’ll take care of him while you do. This is our friend Sabrina, she’s a police officer.” Greg directed that last part to the kid, who looked at us with wide eyes. I wasn’t surprised. After all, Greg was wearing a lot of spandex and a cape, and Sabrina looked to be only wearing a big t-shirt, but she did produce a badge from somewhere in her costume. I was dressed normally, at least for me, in a leather duster, jeans, boots and a
Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill
t-shirt. The kid was about eight or so, blonde with big blue eyes. I heard Shelton’s voice come over the loudspeaker, but nobody rushed over to claim the kid. Then I smelled it, the same scent I’d caught earlier. I still couldn’t place it, but knew that it didn’t come from any of the local nerds. That scent was definitely non-human. 

“You smell that?” I asked Greg. 

“Dude, did you…” He muttered back.

“No, not
that
. The other smell. And that wasn’t me!” 

“Oh, yeah, that smells weird. What is it?” 

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked you, now would I?”

“I don’t know, every once in a while you like to be the smart one.”

“No, Gregory, I am well-adjusted to being the good-looking one while you are the smart one. Now do you know what that smell is?” 

“No, but I can follow it.” And he did just that, wandering through the aisles in a seemingly random pattern that somehow felt anything but random. I motioned for Sabrina to stay with the boy and set out after my partner. Greg’s sniffer is so much better than mine it’s like comparing a bloodhound to a water buffalo with a head cold, so I just followed him until we came to a locked door well away from the rest of the convention. Greg looked back at me, I shrugged, and he reached over and yanked the knob right off of the door. 

“That solves the pesky lock issue.” I said, opening the door and peering inside. I fumbled around for a light switch for a second, and then flipped on the fluorescents. It was an ordinary storage closet, about ten feet by fifteen feet. The only thing out of the ordinary was the guy passed out on the floor. He looked to be nearing sixty, white hair, a little jowly but in decent shape. I reached down and shook him gently. He jerked awake with a cry, pulling away from me and scooting on his butt to the wall. 

“Leave me alone!” He yelled, but his voice came out thready, like he hadn’t had anything to drink in years. 

“Hey fella, are you alright?” I asked, holding up both hands so he could see I was unarmed. That’s when I realized I wasn’t just making a show of it, I was really
unarmed
. I don’t usually go out without at least a small pistol strapped to my ankle, but the convention center had rules against that sort of thing, and a metal detector could have made my life very uncomfortable, so I left my guns at home tonight. All I had on me was a pocketknife, and I was pretty sure Greg was in the same boat. Suddenly I paid the old man a lot more careful attention.

“Brian?” He asked when he could finally manage to speak again. “Where’s Brian?” 

“Who’s Brian?” I asked in my best
I have no idea what’s going on
tone of voice.

“My son. Blonde hair, about eight years old. I brought him to his first convention. Where is he? Where am I? What am I doing here?” 

He was getting more and more agitated, so I helped him up. “I think your son is right out here, but aren’t you a little old to have kid his age?” 

“What do you mean? I’m thirty-eight.” 

“Dude,” Greg said gently. “You’ve gotta be at least fifty-five, maybe sixty.” 

“No way! Here’s my license, I’m thirty-eight years old! I know kids your age aren’t the best at telling age, but you should be better than that!” He pulled out a wallet and showed us his ID. It did indeed look like him, only twenty years ago. Weird thing was, that license didn’t expire until next year. 

“Greg, this dude’s our age.” 

“No I’m not! I told you…”

“Shut up.” I put the force of my will into my voice, and his mouth snapped shut so quickly I was worried he might have bitten off part of his tongue. I didn’t see any blood, so I stopped sweating it. I passed the license over to Greg, who examined it minutely.