Batteries of enormous lights mounted at the tops of skinny but incredibly high towers cast a cold, harsh light over the Hanjin Shipping Lines cargo transfer terminal. Even so, the rows of warehouses just outside the terminal's perimeter fence- which was three meters high and topped with razor wire- were dark shadows lit only by the very occasional and rather forlorn looking street lamp. Thus it was with some concern when the security guard in the armored booth overlooking Gate Four noticed a shadowy figure coming across the street. The guard reached for his phone but hesitated. It was just a single person. Even if the fellow decided to get nasty there wasn't anything he could do on the outside of the fence. If he did get nasty, then there would be a reason to call in a mobile unit.
The figure stopped, looking up at the security booth. It wore a long, black leather coat and a fedora pulled low over its face. Odd getup for someone on foot in this part of town in the middle of the night. The guard's hand moved toward the phone again.
A black gloved hand lifted the brim of the fedora and the stranger's face became visible. He was a cat, specifically a Siamese. Dark, coffee brown fur on his ears and muzzle faded into a light coffee with cream on the rest of his head, accenting his bright, blue eyes. He shook back his coat, revealing the long hilt of a Japanese katana, wrapped with black thread and inlaid with mother of pearl.
"Bugger me!" the guard exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "It's Katakana Kat!" He grabbed the phone-
Because he had been watching the man in black the guard had failed to notice as the door of the booth opened silently. He did hear a sharp snap as a taser fired; after that he heard nothing. His entire body spasmed violently as eleven thousand volts coursed through it; he knocked his chair over with a crash and fell to the floor.
Another feline stepped into the booth, of a type sometimes called Russian blue. He possessed a pelt of solid, dark gray that under bright light looked blue but in semidarkness faded to invisibility. He chuckled to himself, securing the guard's hands with his own cuffs. "Poor boy," he said in a thick, Slavic accent. "Surely you must realize that where Katakana Kat goes, Cat Burglar can't be far behind." He pressed a button; security locks withdrew and the gate swung open. Katakana Kat turned and waved; a dark painted van sped down the street and pulled into the driveway. Cat Burglar sprinted down to it.
"Good work, Vyacheslav," Katakana Kat said as he climbed in through the van's side door.
Vyacheslav Soborin, also known as Cat Burglar, laughed out loud. "You deserve the credit, Daitakerou. He was so hypnotized by you I could have taken his underwear. We now have-" he consulted his watch, a solid gold Rolex with diamond movements- "twenty six minutes and forty-two seconds."
The van entered the yard. Two of Daitakerou's men rode in front, wearing Hanjin dock worker overalls. Four more, similarly dressed, rode in back. They were a varied lot: an English bulldog, a Newfoundland terrier, a Bhrama bull, a pair of Rotwielers who were brothers, and a Kodiak bear. One quality they all shared was being large, powerfully built individuals. They really did look like they could be wharfies.
The van stopped near the foot of a massive crane and the crew bailed out. Daitakerou walked along a line of half a dozen containers, inspecting them carefully. "This one," he pronounced, slapping it.
The bear used a pair of bolt cutters to remove the seal. Using his picks Vyacheslav had the padlock open in less time than its rightful owners probably could have done with a key. The Rotweiler brothers pulled the doors open. Crates wrapped with blanket filled the container; the last two consisted of a long one standing on its end and a shorter one laying on its side. Daitakerou looked at the shipping label on the smaller crate- then paused, his gaze shifting to the larger.
"What is it?" Vyacheslav asked, glancing nervously at his watch. They hadn't the time to mess around.
"This is the one," Daitakerou pronounced, indicating the larger crate.
"But-" the bear protested.
"Are you arguing with me?" Daitakerou demanded. His hand strayed toward the hilt of his sword.
"No, no," the bear protested quickly. He'd seen Daitakerou in action; that sword could be out of its sheath and through a bloke's neck before you could blink. "All right, you nobs! Get moving!"
Despite its size the crate didn't seem to weigh much; the crew picked it up and loaded it in the truck without difficulty. Vyacheslav frowned; he would have expected it to weigh more. "Are you sure about this, Daitakerou?" he inquired, as tactfully as possible.
"Yes," Daitakerou replied in a tone that brooked no argument. Vyacheslav shrugged and took his seat; If it wasn't the right crate he was perfectly content to let Daitakerou explain it all to the Boss.
When the van returned to Gate Four it still stood wide open with no security in sight. In spite of his misgivings Vyacheslav grinned. Piece of piss, as the locals would say.
Several blocks away the van stopped again. The Rot brothers replaced the van's plates with a new set. After leaving the port area the van got on the Wellington Urban Motorway. In Johnsonville they pulled off onto city streets, wandering for a while to shake off pursuit. Finally they stopped in front of the Calico Cat, a nude dance club that, according to the sign, was closed for repairs. Even so, the front door opened even as the van came to a stop; in very little time the stolen crate had been carried inside. To all appearances the place really was a dance club; a bar ran along one wall, opposite a stage with three brass poles. Small tables filled the floor except for a cleared space at the center.
Six people waited. Though as varied as Daitakerou's crew only one really mattered: Mr. Paul-Constandinos Ulysses, also known as the Big Bad Wolf. He stood as tall and powerful as any of his thugs, even in his impeccably tailored white on white suit. His hoary pelt and steely eyes brought to mind the wolves of the Siberian steppes, who would not hesitate to make a meal of a person if they could catch one. He was the only thing Daitakerou Sotohoji feared and it was at his command that this robbery had taken place.
Only after taking careful note of each member of the group did Mr. Ulysses look at the crate. He walked up to it and around it, studying it from every angle. "And what," he began in a deep, rumbling voice, "the fuck is this?"
"It's what you asked for, Boss," Daitakerou replied. He didn't sound very confident, though.
"Is it." Mr. Ulysses' heavy brows drew together like monsoon clouds gathering on the horizon. "Open it."
Pry bars were produced and applied. The front of the crate dropped off with a crash and a flurry of wood shavings. It contained a brightly painted, intricately decorated Egyptian style sarcophagus.
"Does this look like a gold statue to any of you?" Mr. Ulysses demanded, thumping the front of it with his finger. "This happens to be a sarcophagus. In other words, a box in which dead bodies are stored. Which is perhaps fortunate. Unless some of you can explain- quickly- then I predict that you may be in need of one. Soon."
"But-" Daitakerou swallowed. "I checked the manifest numbers! This was the one!"
Mr. Ulysses tore the label from the crate and held it up. "No it isn't," he replied. "Besides, Daitakerou, you knew what you were supposed to get. You should have known the minute to picked it up that it wasn't the right-"
The sarcophagus swung open.
In less than a heartbeat a dozen weapons were drawn. Pistols, knives, and in one case a sub machine gun. Even Mr. Ulysses held a nickel plated Desert Eagle. "Well, bugger me," he said, stepping aside to give his men a clear line of fire.
The sarcophagus did not contain a linen wrapped mummy. It did contain a body, and a rather attractive one at that: a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, possessing a most enticingly voluptuous figure. Her pointed muzzle, tall, sharp ears, and fluffy tail resembled a fox's, though she looked significantly taller and more powerfully constructed than was typical for that breed- and her fur was black. Not dark gray like Vyacheslav's but the impenetrable black of obsidian. She wore a white gown that clung to her hypnotic curves like a second skin and hung down to just below her knees. A collar made of interlocking gold plates hung around her neck; it stretched from shoulder to shoulder and lay over the tops of her enormous breasts. Golden bracelets hung around her wrists and ankles. A golden circlet rested on her head; a snake-head device with green gems for eyes arched from the front of it.
"What the-" Vyacheslav began.
"What indeed," she said, her eyes snapping open. They were gold, as brightly so as her jewelry. Her voice sounded throaty, with an almost purring quality. She stepped out of the sarcophagus.
Everyone opened fire at once. With dozens of bullets ripping through it the crate topped over with a crash.
"Stop!" Mr. Ulysses bellowed. Instant silence fell. The strange woman still stood. A gaping hole chewed in the front of her gown left her nipples bare. Her flesh looked utterly unscathed, as if the bullets had simply passed through her.
Daitakerou's sword flashed out of its sheath, the blade nothing but a metallic blur in the air. As it came down to spit the woman's skull in half it froze, only a few centimeters from her skin. Daitakerou's whole body quivered with tension but he could not seem to move any more than if he'd been encased in concrete. The woman raised her hand and made a flicking motion; everyone except Daitakerou and Mr. Ulysses flew back as if a bomb had gone off. The woman stepped around Daitakerou and walked up to Mr. Ulysses, heedless of the fact that his Desert Eagle pointed unwaveringly at a spot precisely between her eyes. "Can we quit with the guns already?" she asked. "They're Hell on the wardrobe." She tugged at the front of her gown for emphasis.
"What the fuck do you want?" Mr. Ulysses demanded in a voice as jagged as broken glass.
"If I wanted to kill you or your men, I'd have done it," the woman replied. "What I want is exactly what you want, Paul-Constandinos Ulysses. Wealth. Power. Sex." She chuckled. "I aim to help you get those things and by extension get them for myself. And have a little fun along the way." She looked him up and down in a frankly admiring fashion. His brows twitched; Though on the down side of middle age he wasn't a half bad looker. Still, he wasn't used to women looking at him that way, at least not so brazenly.
"All right, then. Who the fuck are you?" Mr. Ulysses looked the woman over. "And what?"
"To answer your second question first, I am a jackal," she pronounced, raising her arms and pirouetting gracefully. "The people you now call the ancient Egyptians associated us with death because we liked to hang around tombs and graveyards. But we were not drawn by the smell of carrion, as were our wild counterparts. Oh, no. We were drawn by the smell of riches that the deceased would take with them to the afterlife." She grinned, her teeth startlingly white against her black face. "At night we broke into the tombs and carried away what of the loot we could. In one of the tombs was treasure of an entirely different sort: knowledge. The notes of a great wizard."
"If he was so great," Mr. Ulysses couldn't resist asking, "Then why was he dead?"
"Because he'd mastered the secrets of this world, and sought to master the next," the woman replied. "And, following the prevailing custom of the time, he had his great works buried with him. Where I uncovered them. And learned from them. How to draw into myself the spirit of Bast, which made me young and beautiful." She laid her hands on her hips and slid them upward across her belly, cupping her breasts and thrusting them forward. In spite of himself Mr. Ulysses found himself looking at them. Rarely had he ever seen such huge- they spilled out of her hands- and yet perfectly formed mammaries, with large, clearly defined nipples. And he had seen quite a few. "The sprit of Anpu- whom you call Anubis- made me the color I am," she continued. "And, since he guards the way between this world and the next he makes me immune to your weapons. The spirit of Aset- Isis- gives me access to long lost secrets of mystic power, whispered into her ear by Ptah, creator of all things." She spread her hands; inky black shadows with bright, golden eyes oozed from the room's corners and edges, flitting across surfaces like bats in the night. "Lastly, the spirit of Sekhmet makes my eyes as they are." She narrowed them; they seemed to gleam with a strange inner light of their own. "Being the goddess of violence, bloodshed, and revenge, she also gives me tremendous strength... and, incidentally, the skill to use it." She gestured; the bear rose into the air and settled on his feet. She grabbed his arm and turned, laying it across her shoulder.
Mr. Ulysses smiled. He'd done some wrestling in his youth. Even if this woman were much stronger than she looked there was no way she could-
As casually as bending over the woman threw the bear over her shoulder. When he hit the floor it shook. "Herendeth the thru'penny tour," she pronounced, dusting her hands. "I am Daughter Night. For more personal interactions-" she gave Mr. Ulysses a smoking look- "you may call me Zalika Corby."
Mr. Ulysses wasn't moved. "There are men of power all over the world," he pointed out. "You could offer your services to any of them if all you wanted was money and power. What do you really want? That made you come to me?"
For a long time Ms. Corby and Mr. Ulysses stared at one another. But the Big Bad Wolf had not become one of the most feared crime lords in southeast Asia by being weak of will.
"I want Super Collie," Ms. Corby announced.
For the first time Mr. Ulysses smiled. "Very well, then," he agreed. "I think that we can do business. In fact, I think that it will be a pleasure to work with you, Ms. Corby."
Ms. Corby grinned, a wild and feral expression. "Oh yes. It will be. Most assuredly."
"For starters, is there perhaps something you could do about this-" Mr. Ulysses gestured at the fallen men- "mess?"
"But of course." Ms. Corby knelt by each man, resting her fingers lightly on his forehead. A golden glow would flicker momentariy around her hand and the man would blink and sit up, apparently unharmed. "Aset happens to be the patron of healers, as well as the goddess of magic, knowledge, motherhood, and-" she grinned- "lesbians." She gestured at Daitakerou; he un-froze suddenly, completing his swing and whirling. He didn't try to attack but he didn't sheathe his blade either.
"It's all right, Daitakerou," Mr. Ulysses said, speaking quietly but firmly, as if to a child. Daitakerou glared for a moment- at Zalika, not Mr. Ulysses- then put away his sword.
Mr. Ulysses pulled a cell phone from inside his jacket, flipped it open, and dialed. "This is Paul," he announced. "Send the cars. And an extra, we have a guest." He put the phone away. "Vyacheslav, see that everything gets cleaned up."
Vyacheslav's ear twitched. "Okay, Boss," he grumbled. As if I were some damn janitor. And after it was Mr. Katakana Kat who screwed up in the first place. He kept his thoughts to himself, though. It was worth a man's life- or more- to argue with the Big Bad Wolf. Mr. Ulysses was big and, when he had a mind to be, very, very bad.
Cleanup didn't take long. The crate, sarcophagus, and anything else damaged by gunfire went into the delivery van. It and everything in it would be disposed of. Finally a car pulled up.
"It's been very... interesting meeting you, Ms. Corby," Mr. Ulysses said as he and Daitakerou walked to the car. "My people will take you to a safe house and attend to your needs. We'll speak again soon. Ta."
"I don't get to ride with you?" Zalika pouted. "Don't you trust me?"
"Implicity," Mr. Ulysses replied. "I have absolute faith that you'd do whatever is in your best interest, including betraying me." He pulled the door shut and the car drove away.
"Hrmph." Zalkia stamped her foot and waited. In due course another car arrived. She continued waiting until the driver came around, opened the door, and handed her in. "Where are we headed?" she asked as the car pulled away.
"Mr. Ulysses will tell me," the driver replied. He was a rat, with a black face but white hands. In due course a phone rang; he picked it up. "Yes? I understand. Right away, sir." He hung up.
"Well?" Zalika demanded.
"We're going to a safe house in Wellington," the driver replied. Zalika bored holes in the back of his head with her gaze but he would say no more. After a while she looked out the window but there wasn't much to see at night through the heavily tinted glass.
"I hear New Zealand's a nice place to live," Zalika commented.
"Climate's nice, economy's fair," the driver replied. "Currency's a little weak right now but the scenery's wonderful."
"And not overrun with super heroes, like some places," Zalika added.
"Except Super Collie, of course."
"Super Collie, yes." Zalika's eyes narrowed. "And her Mystic Staff of the Shepherd, which gives her all her powers." She glanced up. "I've done some research. Enough to believe that I can use the ancient secrets to channel the spirt of the staff into myself. Then I would be Super Collie." She chuckled. "Or maybe I should call myself Super Jackal. What do you think?"
"Well- I'm sure it's not my place to say, Ma'am."
"Of course." Zalika reclined, lifting one leg and placing her foot on the seat. The hem of her gown rolled back, revealing her crotch. "Stop the car."
"I'm sorry, Ma'am. I have orders." Nevertheless, he kept glancing in the rear view mirror.
"I expended a lot of energy tonight and I need to recharge it," Zalika said, slipping a hand between her legs and rubbing. "I'd expected to satisfy myself with Mr. Ulysses but you'll do fine. Stop the car." Her eyes seemed to flash.
The car wavered, then drifted over to the left shoulder of the motorway and came to a stop. "Now get out," Zalika ordered, removing her circlet and collar and setting them on the floor. As he complied she wriggled out of her shredded gown. Now completely naked, she opened the back door and waved him over. "Take off your trousers," she directed. His hands quivered slightly as they undid his button and fly; his face was slack as he stared- not at her voluptuous body, but at her terrible, gleaming eyes. His trousers fell around his ankles. "Briefs," she added. His thumbs hooked under the waistband and let them drop. "Hmm." She leaned forward, closely inspecting his nether regions. "A bit disappointing, but we can fix that." She took his male organ in her hand; light like pale yellow flames flickered around her fingers. The chauffeur grimaced as if in pain but did not pull away. His member expanded to half again its original length and thickness. "That's better," Zalika exclaimed, curling her fingers around it and jerking him in. The door slammed behind him.
Motorists happening along that stretch of road in the wee hours of the morning might have noticed the limo rocking back and forth. Far more noticeable, though, were the eerie flashes of strangely colored light that could occasionally be seen even though the heavily darkened windows.
"If she's Egyptian," Daitakerou wondered, "Why does she have an American accent?"
"She never said she was Egyptian," Mr. Ulysses replied. "Only that she had gained power from Egyptian deities."
"That container came by ship from Port Sahid," Daitakerou continued. "She couldn't have been in it the whole time, could she?"
"Who knows?" Mr. Ulysses shrugged. "Speaking of which, why did you chose that particular carton, Daitakerou?"
Daitakerou took a breath, trying to mask his nervousness. Mr. Ulysses had been very calm about the whole affair, even reasonable, and it was terrifying. He only got that way when he was working out how to solve a problem- and didn't take a genius to see that one of his problems was Katakana Kat. Nor did it take a genius to guess how he was likely to solve it. "I... when I looked at the carton I just... knew it was the right one. I couldn't say how, but I was absolutely sure."
"Hmm." Mr. Ulysses leaned back in his seat. His limo was taking a roundabout way back to Wellington, giving the two men plenty of time to talk. "It seems there's more to Ms. Corby than meets the eye, or what she's told us. Hardly a surprise. If her little demonstration was a true indication of her power then there's a real chance she could defeat Super Collie." He smiled briefly. "Which leaves us with the question of how to get rid of Ms. Corby after she gets rid of Super Collie. Don't worry, Daitakerou, I don't blame you for what happened. I think Ms. Corby took unfair advantage of you. Which, unfortunately, means I can't entirely trust you. Therefore I'm sending you on a mission. I want you to go see some of your friends in Japan. You know which ones I mean."
Daitakerou nodded, his eyes hardening. "I think I know what you want me to ask, too."
"Yes. I want to know if any of that ancient Ninja sorcery will help us deal with this Daughter Night."
A bright new day dawned over the fair city of Wellington and the populace happily went about their business- with one particular exception. Constable George Kremmin had been dragged out of bed at a most obscene hour and packed off to the Hanjin cargo terminal.
"He was standing right there!" The security guard pointed out into the street. His voice quavered; he was a Corgi and- at least at the moment- just as nervous and excitable as that implied. "It was Katakana Kat. There's no way I could mistake it. Then- I blacked out."
"He was hit by a taser," the medical examiner said, indicating a bruised looking spot on the back of the guard's shoulder.
"Hmm." Constable Kremmin turned slowly, surveying the scene. He was a bulldog, and in truth not nearly so phlegmatic as that suggested. It did mean that his squat frame was far more powerful than his otherwise dumpy appearance might suggest. He walked around behind the guard booth. The lock on the door showed no sign of damage; it had been opened with a key or picked with consummate skill. Containers filled the terminal, sometimes stacked as many as four high, but at least two meters separated them from the perimeter fence. Kremmin walked along the gap until he reached a place where the fencing had been cut and folded back. Two officers crouched on the pavement outside; they's laid a sheet of what looked like tinfoil on the sidewalk and attached electrodes to its corners, which in turn connected to a bulky electronic device. The intruder had used patch cables to bypass the anti-tamper wires in the fence before cutting it.
Kremmin flipped open a cell phone and dialed. "Inspector," he began, "It was definitely Katakana Kat and Cat Burglar. Katakana Kat kept the guard looking at the street while Cat Burglar broke into the booth, neutralized him, and opened the gate. No, no fingerprints. We have a good impression of a vehicle tyre track, a few partial foot prints, and I have some people sweeping for fibers." He nodded. "Yes sir. I'll be right there." He returned to the gate and got into one of the parked patrol cars, which he drove into the terminal. He arrived to find a large and diverse group clustered around the burgled container. Quite a few of them seemed to be Hanjin executives and administrators, bemoaning their loss to nominally attentive officers. A smaller number of constables seemed to be occupied mainly with keeping the crime scene clear of spectators.
Inspector Tekukuni Samson stood out from both groups. He was a whippet, tall and scarecrow-lean. He affected a long trench coat regardless of the weather. He paced and smoked constantly; whenever he finished a cigarette he'd drop the butt and crush it under his shoe without missing a step. "We know what happened," he said as Constable Kremmin walked up. "Now all we need to do is fond out why. Such as why Katakana Kat would break in to a container full of ancient Egyptian artifacts and take the one that's least valuable."
"What was taken?" Kremmin inquired.
"A mummy."
Kremmin glanced toward the source of the voice and had to restrain himself from doing a double take. The speaker was a young woman in a cream yellow blouse and a nut brown tube skirt. She was an Abyssinian; the golden brown of her fur seemed to be a subtle blending of the colors of her clothing. Prominent tear markings accented her large, yellow-gold eyes. The clothes themselves perfectly accented her slender but firm and compellingly curved body.
"Constable, this is Doctor Cymbeline Lathasar, who was to receive these artifacts on behalf of Te Papa," Inspector Samson said. "Doctor, Constable Kremmin is one of our top men."
"At your service, Ma'am." Kremmin doffed his cap and bowed. It gave him an excuse to look away from those captivating eyes. Yes, his wife had divorced him and returned to Bristol. Frankly he never did understand how she could have left the vibrant beauty of New Zealand for drab, dreary England. Perhaps that's why they were no longer married. Even so, Dr. Lathasar looked young enough to be his daughter even if it weren't against his principles to date clients. He'd seen too many good officers ruin themselves that way.
"The mummy was bulky, and despite its book value, difficult to fence," Inspector Samson said. "While right next to it is a solid gold sphinx." He patted the smaller crate. "If nothing else, it could be broken up and sold as bullion. Then there's all sorts of gold and jewels among the rest of the collection. They knew what they wanted; the collection wasn't rifled. But why, of all things, the mummy?"
"Was there anything special about this mummy?" Kremmin inquired.
"Only from an archeological standpoint," Dr. Lathasar replied. "He's not a king, though he was quite wealthy. Egypt may have banned exports of mummies but so many were produced- and exported during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries- that there's something of a glut on the market these days."
"Then there's something else about it that's valuable, something we haven't seen yet," Inspector Samson pronounced. "Katakana Kat isn't a two bit thug. Somebody spent a lot of money to get in here. Unless they took the mummy by accident, It's gotta be worth something. We find out what and we have it. Kremmin, I want you to work with Dr. Lathasar."
"Yes, sir." Kremmin nodded. "Doctor?"
"Why don't we go to the museum?" Dr. Lathasar suggested. "I don't have much information with me. This was all so... sudden."
"Yes." Kremmin nodded, thinking of the call that had dragged him out of bed. "Do you have a car, Doctor?"
"Yes. Right over here."
Moments later they left the yard. "Where did these artifacts come from?" Kremmin inquired as they drove around the harbor toward the Central Business District.
"A newly discovered tomb in the Valley of the Kings," Dr. Lathasar replied. "Which is odd, because it's clearly not a royal tomb. Frankly there wasn't much treasure, not like King Tut and some of those. But there were a lot of writings." She fell silent for a moment. "Constable..." she seemed to be debating with herself. "This may sound crazy-"
"I've dealt with a lot of crazy things in my life," Kremmin replied. "Whatever you say, I will treat it with utmost gravity."
"Okay." Still, Dr. Lathasar drove for a while before continuing. "I think this person was a powerful priest, or wizard, or something. I've translated some of the texts. They read like... spells. They speak of calling... forces. And bending them to one's will. To the best of my knowledge the mummy hasn't actually been examined. But it might be worth quite a lot to some with an interest in the... arcane."
"I see." Kremmin's expression revealed nothing of what he thought. "Why are the artifacts being sent here?"
"A tit for tat," Dr. Lathasar replied. "Dr. Selig Columbarnus, who discovered the tomb, received some money from the New Zealand government. He agreed to send his artifacts here for study and display."
"Where is he now?"
"Still in Egypt, as far as I know. I haven't heard from him since we made the shipping arrangements, which was more than a month ago."
Kremmin nodded. He seemed to be in deep thought but he watched Dr. Lathasar out of the corners of his eyes. She wasn't acting like she realized that she'd just made herself a prime suspect. No matter; whatever she was hiding- though she hadn't lied outright she hadn't told the whole truth- he would find it out, sooner or later. In some respects Constable Kremmin was very like a bulldog.
"You want to what?" Mr. Ulysses demanded, turning away from the windows. His penthouse apartment looked out over the Terrace and Wellington's financial district. As such it was fantastically expensive real estate- which, of course, was why he chose to live there.
"Rob a bank," Ms. Corby repeated. She seemed utterly unconcerned that Mr. Ulysses started to glower. Vyacheslav, on the other hand, tried very hard to pretend that he didn't exist. Conversations like this were known to end with people dying.
"Why?" Mr. Ulysses flexed his fingers. In particularly egregious situations he was known to take matters into his own hands- literally- rather than calling in an assassin.
"What better way to persuade Super Collie to present herself?" Zalika wanted to know, taking a sip of her champagne cocktail and crossing her legs. A snugly fit tube dress of purple silk that gleamed like mother of pearl replaced her tattered gown. A comparatively modest silver necklace set with canary diamonds replaced her golden collar.
"You presuppose your ability to defeat her," Mr. Ulysses pointed out.
"You doubt me?" Zalika demanded, haughtily tossing her head.
"So you defeated some armed thugs." Mr. Ulysses dismissed it with a flick of the wrist. "Hardly in the same league as Super Collie."
"Oh, come on." Zalika batted her eyelashes. "If I fail it doesn't cost you anything."
"My men go to jail," Mr. Ulysses pointed out.
"Then pick ones that are expendable."
Mr. Ulysses snorted. "You think you can do a bank job with a crowd of random drongoes you get off the street?"
"I can," Zalika declared. "They don't have to be good. All they have to do is obey. Which, after I've had some time to work with them, they will. Oh, yes they will." Her eyes gleamed with a maniacal joy that was, to Vyacheslav, almost as unsettling as Mr. Ulysses' glare.
"All right. What do you need?"
"A bank, and when best to rob it," Zalika began. "Transportation. Three gunman, whom I will train myself. And costumes. I have a list." She drew a piece of paper from her cleavage, since her gown had no pockets.
"Vyacheslav." Mr. Ulysses nodded toward the list.
With some trepidation Vyacheslav took the paper- and found himself gazing down into the chasm between Zalika's breasts. A man could get lost in there, he found himself thinking. Zalika smiled warmly at him, as if to say why don't you come on in and find out?
Vyacheslav backed hastily away. He didn't know what was going on between Ms. Corby and Mr. Ulysses and had no desire to find out by jumping into the middle of it. Not to mention that he kept seeing that polar bear hit the floor like a ton of bricks. He'd decided it wasn't his policy to sleep with women who could break him in half without working up a sweat. As such, only as he was turning to go did he think to actually look at the list. When he did he stopped and did a double-take in spite of himself.
"Is something the matter, Vyacheslav?" Ms. Corby purred, if one can imagine a canine doing such a thing.
"Ah-" Vyacheslav forced himself to look away from Zalika's captivating eyes and seemingly bottomless cleavage. "Sir-" He faced Mr. Ulysses- "have you seen this list?"
Mr. Ulysses took the list, looked it over, and handed it back. "Is there a problem?" he inquired.
"Ah-" Vyacheslav swallowed. "Um, no sir." He hurried to the door but couldn't resist glancing back as he opened it.
Zalika reclined diagonally across the couch. "So tell me," she began, lifting one leg and sliding her foot up near the opposite knee. As she did so the hem of her gown rolled back along the top of her thigh. If she wore underwear- which Vyacheslav doubted- someone standing in front of her would have seen it clearly. "Are you as big and bad as they say you are, Mr. Wolf?"
Vyacheslav hastily closed the door. He had the feeling that he'd escaped just in the nick of time.
At ten minutes past four on a sunny Friday afternoon the Farmers and Merchants Bank was doing brisk business. Individuals wanted to deposit their paychecks or get folding money for the upcoming weekend. Businesses were depositing weekly receipts. All of the teller windows were manned, the cash drawers full, and more on hand in the vault if required. Given that, it was perhaps no great surprise when four armed persons burst suddenly into the lobby. One of them raised a pump shotgun, charged it, and shouted "All right! Everybody down! This is a stickup!"
Utter silence fell. All eyes turned toward the four intruders but no one moved to comply with the shouted orders. Bank patrons and employees alike stared in gape-mouthed shock at the robbers, or more specifically their outlandish costumes. Three of them- all men- wore nemes headdresses, postiche beards, shenti kilts, and sandals after the fashion of ancient Egyptian kings. Their decorations included heavy gold bracelets and ornate belts studded with gold and semi-precious stones. The rest of their bodies, except only their eyes and mouths, were swathed in linen that exuded a faintly herbal smell. Their weapons, on the other hand, were entirely modern: pistol gripped shotguns whose metal parts were non-reflective black.
The fourth member of the party was female, clearly so since her substantial bosom was bared to public view. She wore what looked like a white tube dress, which conformed closely to the shapely curves of her body but only started just below her breasts. Around her wrists and ankles were gold bracelets and around her neck a gold collar that reached from shoulder to shoulder. Unlike her companions, who were clearly feline in spite of being completely covered, she was a canid. A black jackal mask covered her face, though against her similarly black fur it was hard to tell. Her eyes, even through the mask, were shockingly bright gold.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the inconvenience," the woman began in a voice that was clearly feminine but still carried strongly. "However, since so many of our tombs have been pilfered and our treasures taken, we thought we'd return the favor." She waved her men forward.
The bank's security guards shook off their paralysis. In a flash one drew his pistol and leveled it. The woman glanced at him and gestured minutely with her left hand; he went flying arse over teakettle as if clotheslined by the most vicious wrestler that had ever been. He landed in a heap, his jaw twisted at an unnatural angle. Blood drained from his mouth, pooling on the marble flooring. Because the woman's attention had been diverted- and because her thugs made no move to intervene- the other guard managed to get his gun out. When he saw what happened to his companion he fired; now the patrons began to scream and fall to the floor, but for a woman standing behind the robbers' leader it was too late. She spun and fell, clutching the side of her chest just under her right arm.
"My turn." The jackal woman held out her hand. The second guard yelped as he suddenly catapulted toward her, as if being dragged by his pistol. It landed in the woman's grasp; she wrenched it out of the guard's hands and kicked him in the face, sending him sprawling backwards.
"Empty the cash drawers, now!" one of the robbers bellowed, vaulting up on top of the counter, dropping a sack in front of the terrified teller. "And no funny business! If you try to slip anything in there but money I'll blow your fucking head off!"
Another robber ran to the bank's front door and locked it. The third moved among the patrons, cursing at them and occasionally kicking them if they hesitated to obey. Seeing that everything was under control the jackal woman knelt and took a ring of keys from the guard's belt and used them to unlock the metal grate over the vault entrance. The actual door stood open, its workings visible through a glass cover on its inner face. She beckoned, and the cart loaded with ready cash rolled out of its own accord. The robber who'd locked the front door now began working the patrons, rifling their wallets and purses. He didn't bother with watches or jewelry; he took only cash.
"Well, well, our little party is nicely under way," the jackal woman declared as she paced about, her sharp eyes seeming to take in every nuance of what was happening. "Now we have but to wait until the guest of honor arrives, whereupon the real fun will begin." She rubbed her hands together gleefully.
"Miss Braithwaite?"
"Yes?" Esmerelda glanced up from her computer screen to find a skinny, somewhat weedy young man standing before her desk. His ill-fitting white shirt and lumpish grey pants looked clean but probably hadn't seen starch or an iron since leaving the factory. His Navy blue tie had been repeatedly stained and improperly laundered. He seemed to be some sort of rodent, with a long, pointed face, round ears, and prominent incisors.
"I brought you a flower," he continued, proffering it with a trembling hand. It looked like a crudely-made cloth rose he could have bought from a street vendor on the way to work.
"Why thank you, Erdin, that was sweet," Esmerelda said, smiling warmly.
Erdin's face lit up with transcendent joy as if he'd just been touched by the Grace of God and his whole body quivered as if he were about to burst into song. "Oh, thank you, Esmerelda! I'll just put it here on your desk-"
"No, that's okay-" Esmerelda began but it was too late. As Erdin tried to place the flower on the corner of her desk his shaking hand brushed and upset a plastic holder full of pens and pencils. He made a desperate grab for it, in the process sweeping a vase full of white silk roses onto the floor- where it shattered- and knocking over a tall commuter mug, releasing more than half of an extra-large double latte. The wave of pale brown liquid washed across Esmerelda's blotter and the neatly arranged stacks of paper and office supplies around it. The high back of her computer's keyboard diverted the flow across her mouse pad, which displayed a beautifully photographed scene of Lake Tekapo. Finally it cascaded over the edge of the desk, splashing the front of Esmerelda's Navy blue blazer and tube skirt.
Erdin froze as if turned to stone, his face locked in an expression of unspeakable horror. Gradually the paralysis wore off and he began to stir-
Esmerelda leapt to her feet and caught Erdin's wrist in an iron grip. "Erdin," she said in a voice that was not loud but would brook no possibility of disobedience, "Go to the supply cupboard. Get a sponge, a can of spray cleaner, and a roll of paper towels." She released his arm; he almost fell down in his haste to go and nearly collided with one of the cubicle partitions because he couldn't look away from her eyes, normally so gentle and expressive, now hard as stone and snapping with a terrible light. He could not have been more frightened if she'd suddenly metamorphosed into a chimera. Once he was out of sight Esmerelda slumped, blowing out a huge sigh, surveying the wreckage of her carefully ordered world. It wasn't Erdin's fault; he couldn't possibly understand how long it had taken to carefully position each one of those pens and pencils-
Somewhere an electronic device beeped out the opening bars of "God Defend New Zealand." Reaching into her jacket Esmerelda pulled out her PDA, which also acted as an e-mail terminal and a display pager. A new message had a arrived: "Egyptian priestess and three mummies robbing Farmers and Merchant's Bank." The incongruity of it was such that for a minute or so she could only stare. Of all the messages she'd received that had to be the strangest.
Esmerelda shook her head. Strange or not it was a call to action that required her immediate attention. She slipped the PDA back into her pocket and turned away but after a single step she froze, clenching her hands to keep them from shaking. In her mind she could hear the mess leering at her. Go ahead and go, it whispered in an oily voice. See if you can go set the world straight knowing you left me here!
When Esmerelda spun on her heel to face her desk her lips were drawn back from her tightly clenched teeth, her eyes narrowed almost to slits. If Erdin had seen her just then he probably would have wet himself in terror. Fortunately the expression passed as she began arranging things and cleaning up as best she could until Erdin came back with the supplies.
"Where the Hell is she?" the Egyptian priestess demanded, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. All the money had been loaded into sacks and stacked in the middle of the floor. Bank patrons and employees had been sorted into three groups and herded into corners of the building, watched over by one each of the mummy henchmen. The Armed Offender's Squad had arrived some time ago, clearing away bystanders and surrounding the bank with a cordon of armed officers who peered over their patrol cars, weapons drawn. "Three thousand years in a tomb, two months on board ship, and now this," the woman continued. "Bloody Hell!"
A phone rang. The woman who'd been shot picked it up; her chest was bound up with linen borrowed from the mummies. "Hello?" she asked in a somewhat tremulous voice. "Okay." She held out the receiver. "Um... miss? It's for you. It's the police."
Still muttering, the priestess marched over and snatched the phone. "Hello? Wellington's finest? I've been waiting for you to call." She spoke in a bright and cheery tone, as if greeting a dear, old friend. "I'd like to tell you my demands now. Don't interrupt." Quick as a wink her voice became as cold and hard and glacial ice. "I have at my disposal sixty three hostages. Think of it as sixty three potential corpses. One for each time you interrupt. One for each of your inconsequential concerns. One for each time I ask for something and you tell me it can't be done. One for each time I ask for something and it fails to materialize. One for any time I have even the slightest reason to suspect that you aren't being straight with me. Now listen closely, this is the important part. Don't interrupt. Your total obedience buys you sixty three warm, breathing bodies. What your disobedience buys you is bodies, warm perhaps but not breathing. It buys you blood and brains splashed on the ground by a blast of buckshot. It buys you not a bank but an abattoir, filled with the stink of death and a floor slick with blood. To make sure you understand we will now have a lesson." She snapped her fingers and pointed. One of the mummies hauled a middle aged man to his feet, frog-marched him to the bank's front door and slammed him spread eagled against it. The mummy stood to one side, masked by the door frame, the muzzle of his shotgun socketed against the side of the hostage's head. "I grant you permission to speak," the priestess continued. "I advise you to consider carefully before you do. What's that?" She grinned. "Of course. You may call me Daughter Night. Now I will tell you my demands. Are you ready? Good. First, we've been waiting here for rather a long time, so I want you to give us twenty large Canadian bacon and sausage pizzas and ten cases of Foster's. I understand how difficult it can be to get deliveries during rush hour so I'll allow you forty five minutes. If you're late I'm afraid it'll all go to waste because dead people don't eat. Thank you for your consideration. Good bye." She hung up the phone.
"If that doesn't get her, nothing will," Daughter Night muttered as she resumed her pacing. "What does a person have to do to stir up a super hero around here? Send out an engraved fucking invitation? Good God!"
"There." Esmerelda carefully set the last pencil in place. Everything was as it had been before: blotter and mouse pad replaced, all damaged papers re-printed and neatly stacked, keyboard and mouse carefully cleaned. The silk roses had been put away for the moment because Esmerelda hadn't a vase to replace the broken one. Her blazer and skirt were on their way to the cleaner's; she wore a backup set she kept in her filing cabinet for just for just such an emergency. They'd required some touch-up with the travel iron, also part of her emergency supplies. A coffee stain on her chair had refused to come out so Erdin was fetching a clean one. She'd given him detailed instructions as to the model, style, pattern, and color; all he had to do was search through inventory until he found one.
For the umpteenth time Esmerelda pulled out her PDA and reviewed her messages. The robbery had developed into a hostage crisis. Where the Hell was Erdin and that chair? Damn, damn, damn. She didn't have time to waste; she could only hope that Erdin would leave the chair and not try to straighten anything up. Still, it took an effort of will to turn away and march briskly to the stairwell. One level up was another landing and a small door leading to a roof access; Esmerelda opened it with one of many keys on a large ring. Once inside she closed and re-locked the door, then fished out a small pendant hanging inside her blouse. It looked like a tiny silver hook hanging on a finely made chain; she slipped it off, holding the pendant above her head clasped tightly in her hand.
"By the mystic power of the Shepherd, I am transformed," Esmerelda whispered. All at once a bright, silvery light shone between her fingers; the pendant grew suddenly into a hook-headed staff. Her clothing shimmered, melting and reforming. Now she wore a blue bikini style top and bottom trimmed with gold, a long blue cape held by a golden clasp, and high-heeled blue jackboots also trimmed with gold. Large golden bracelets circled her wrists and a larger one her left thigh. Esmerelda herself looked fundamentally the same as before: a tall, voluptuous but firmly constructed Sheltie collie woman. Yellow-gold fur covered most of her body, except for snowy white on her front and the insides of her arms and thighs. A retainer held her silky, nut-brown mane in a tight bun; when she pulled the retainer loose and shook her head her tresses spilled down to the level of her shoulder blades. Lastly she removed her glasses; they and the retainer went into her boots. She stretched, arching her back gracefully. Being Super Collie was, in many ways, much easier than being Esmerelda Braithwaite. Much less to worry about, for one. Beating up crooks was, for the most part, a very straight forward affair. At times she wished she could be Super Collie all the time... but super heroing didn't pay the bills. If only she'd been the only child of an eccentric millionaire-
No matter. There were criminals to be caught. Super Collie lifted the upper trap door and peeked out. No one in sight. She flung the door open; spring returns caught it and flipped it back. Long before then Super Collie was gone; at that point if anyone had been watching all they would have seen was a blue-gold streak flashing away across the rooftops.
"Damn, damn, damn," Daughter Night muttered as she chewed on a slice of pizza, glancing at a large clock hanging near the vault. "Frankly, I'm tempted to just take the money and leave." She popped a can of beer and guzzled it down. The hostages were more spread out now, sitting on the floor in small clusters around open pizza boxes. Quite a bit of the beer was gone already; at Daughter Night's insistence empties were arranged in neat stacks.
"This beer is warm," a voice called plaintively.
"Don't push it!" Daughter Night snapped, whipping her head around.
The bank doors exploded out of their frame in a spray of shattered glass and twisted metal. Then there came a noise as sharp and stunningly loud as a thunderclap, as if lightning had struck right in the lobby. Pizza and beer flew everywhere as people scrambled for cover but it was Daughter Night who received the brunt of it. Her half-eaten slice of pizza vaporized in a spray of goo that splashed across her face, neck, and shoulder. Her mask broke in half and the pieces spun away. The beer can leapt from her hand, skipping from the counter behind her and clattering away across the floor. She slammed backwards hard enough to rattle the mouldings, then slumped forward in a heap. For an eternal instant no one moved or spoke; only the fizzing of spilled beer broke the silence. All eyes turned to the incredible figure standing proudly just inside the doorway.
"Well?" Super Collie demanded, looking around the lobby. She stood on the balls of her feet, holding her staff in both hands, horizontally in front of her. "Are you lot going to give up now or do we have to do this the hard way?"
A ragged cheer erupted from the hostages. It broke the spell, though; the three mummy gunmen whipped their shotguns up-
Super Collie swung her staff like Babe Ruth going for a home run. It telescoped to nearly three times its original length, striking the weapon from one of the robbers' hands and knocking him spinning. In the same instant she looked the other way and barked. It was the sound that had struck down Daughter Night; the robber flew backward, his weapon and headdress spinning away, his costume torn off in a shower of tattered linen. He lay where he fell, blood oozing from his mouth and nose. Only the third robber got off a shot; it caught Super Collie right across the chest, knocking her backwards. But even as the storm of pellets struck her skin they vaporized in a spray of silver light. As he charged his shotgun for another shot Super Collie leapt to her feet. She closed the distance in the blink of an eye, nothing but a blurred streak to the amazed spectators. Fortunately for the robber she stopped before crashing into him, slapping aside his shotgun with her staff while landing a vicious uppercut with her other hand. His headdress flew off and he fell in a heap, his jaw hanging at an unnatural angle and blood soaking the linens around his face.
"We'll have none of that, thank you very much," Super Collie declared, tossing the shotgun away and dusting her hands. "Now, all you people get up and move toward the exit in an orderly fashion-"
Daughter Night's eyes snapped open. With her left hand, which lay out in front of her, she made a flicking motion. The air in front of her shimmered as if with heat haze; Super Collie flew off her feet and smashed headlong through the bank's front window. Her staff, which she'd set in the crook of her arm, clattered to the floor.
"Ssscore!" Daughter Night exclaimed, leaping to her feet and reaching for the staff. It quivered, then leapt through the air into her hand. At that instant Super Collie came streaking through the front door, shoulder down as if she were about to check the tie-breaking score attempt in a world championship match. Daughter Night started to move but wasn't fast enough; she caught the tackle head on. Reaction sent her flying through the counter, smashing a gaping hole in it as she went. Super Collie didn't give her a chance to recover; even as Daughter Night struggled free of the overturned desk against which she'd fallen Super Collie leapt into the gap, drew a deep breath, and let fly with a bark unlike anything yet heard. Everyone that was still standing dropped flat, clasping their arms over their heads. Desks, counters, and furniture along or beside the line between the two women leapt into the air and blew apart. Every window in the bank blew out of its frame, showering the streets outside with glittering shards. Daughter Night hit the wall so hard that she left an impression of her body in it. Super Collie waited a moment, then walked over and nudged Daughter Night with the toe of one boot. She wasn't faking this time.
"I'll take that, thank you." Super Collie retrieved her staff. "I don't know what you thought you were doing with it. Well, you'll have plenty of time to think about it while you cool your heels in the pokey." She moved briskly to the front door and waved. Spectators cheered; police left the cover of their vehicles and hurried forward. Super Collie stepped aside and leaned on her staff, beaming happily. Another crime thwarted- and this time with only moderate property damage. She hoped the bank had Super Hero Insurance.
"First a container full of Egyptian artifacts gets broken into, now this," Inspector Samson declared. "Rather much of a coincidence, don't you think?"
"Yes, sir," Kremmin replied. Especially as Dr. Columbarnus seemed to have disappeared. Several weeks ago- the last tine Dr. Lathasar had spoken to him, as a matter of fact- he seemed to have simply dropped off the face of the earth. Interpol was running an investigation but it could be weeks or more before anything turned up.
Samson stopped pacing and looked through the one way mirror. The four would-be robbers sat on benches in the interrogation room; the mummy gunmen slumped in poses of varying dissipation and despair, as one might expect from captured criminals. Daughter Night, on the other hand, sat up straight with her arms crossed over her chest and one leg over the opposite knee. Her eyes flicked back and forth as if she could actually see through the partially mirrored glass. And though the criminals were in custody, questions still remained. The mummy costumes, while cleverly made, were fake; the various components could have come from any number of local shops. Daughter Night's accoutrements, on the other hand, were apparently authentic. Her collar and bracelets, for instance, were made of real gold. But none of the items matched up with what had been taken from the shipping container. On top of that, none of the robbers had said so much as a word. Finger prints had matched each of the mummies to a minor criminal; on Daughter Night herself no records of any sort seemed to exist- a fact which Kremmin in particular found most perplexing. Even if she'd never been arrested before a black jackal with golden eyes wasn't exactly inconspicuous. He couldn't believe that she'd just appeared out of nowhere-
"I've never seen such a tight-lipped bunch," Samson muttered. "Usually that sort's more than happy to rat out their buddies."
"Yes, sir." Kremmin had watched it all. Samson had tried everything short of truncheons and rubber hoses to get the robbers to talk, all to no avail. Through it all Kremmin's suspicion had grown into certainty: the three mummy henchmen were more afraid of Daughter Night than they were of the police. Even the certainty of spending a goodly part of their lives in jail hadn't persuaded them to speak.
"What about you, Kremmin?" Samson inquired, cocking an eyebrow. "Any progress with that cute doctor?" His expression left it very much open what type of progress he had in mind.
Kremmin cleared his throat. "I've learned a great deal about Egyptian mythology and burial practices," he began, to pin the conversation firmly to the track he wanted and steer it decisively away from the one he didn't want. "I've also learned that there seems to be a great deal of mystery surrounding these particular artifacts. Ever since the tomb was discovered there've been problems. Talk of curses, disputes over ownership... no less than three mysterious deaths, and now Dr. Columbarnus himself is missing. The Royal Museum in London and the Smithsonian in Washington both put in claims, then suddenly backed off for reasons that are unclear. Te Papa got them because Dr. Columbarnus was desperate for a sponsor. He sent Dr. Lathasar to keep things smoothed over as much to handle the details."
"Interesting how that gives her the perfect alibi," Samson mused. "She couldn't have been involved, she was on the other side of the world."
"Indeed," Kremmin agreed. "But she did make all the arrangements for shipping the artifacts here. And the Egyptian government did approve the export with unusual speed. Dr. Lathasar knows far more than she's telling. In fact, all I'm waiting for is-"
As if on cue Kremmin's cell phone rang. "Kremmin speaking," he answered. The ghost of a smile flickered across his face and there came gleam to his eyes Samson had come to know well. The old bulldog had a scent in his nostrils. "Yes, thanks, I'll be right there." He put the phone away. "A matter has come up in the Lathasar case... which will, I think, answer all our questions. By your leave?"
"Of course, Constable, of course." Samson bowed.
"Thank you, sir." Kremmin practically skipped as he left.
Samson grinned. Kremmin would never become an inspector himself but a smart investigator would never hesitate to use him. He was like a weapon; you aimed him at a target and let him go. More often than not he found the mark. With his attention focused on Kremmin, though, Samson didn't notice Daughter Night grin broadly, stand up, and turn to face the wall. While he lit another cigarette her outline blurred and softened, as if she were going out of focus. She then stepped into the wall, which rippled slightly like the surface of a pool. Her clothes fell in a heap on the bench she'd just occupied. All Samson knew was that when he looked up she was gone. His jaw sagged, his cigarette slipping from his mouth and falling unheeded to the floor. "Bugger me!" he screamed.
Darkness had long since fallen over the Central Business District and most of the museum staff had gone home for the night. Cymbeline Lathasar remained at her desk, located in the corner of a large, otherwise deserted office. She ran the last stack of papers through the document shredder, then started opening drawers in her desk and filing cabinet. She came up with an assortment of odd artifacts, all clearly Egyptian and almost all made of gold. She loaded them into her briefcase along with a thick bumf full of papers and several exceedingly old looking parchments. She closed and locked the case and handcuffed it to her wrist.
"Calling it an evening, doc?" the guard at the staff entrance said as Cymbeline hurried up.
"Yeah." Cymbeline set her briefcase on the counter. Unlatching it one handed was tricky but she managed. "Everything's all right," she said, looking the guard straight in the eye. There might have been a strange flicker in her eyes just then, or perhaps it was just a trick of the light.
The guard stared for a moment at the artifacts, parchments, and the big folder clearly marked "Museum property- Do Not Remove." He blinked, then nodded. "Okay, Doc. See you tomorrow."
"Thanks." Cymbeline nodded and hurried out. She tried not to run but couldn't resist glancing furtively about as she crossed the parking lot. Maybe she was going to make it after all-
"Going somewhere, Dr. Lathasar?"
Cymbeline yelped and leapt back, fishing desperately in her pocket with her free hand. A pair of constables appeared at her sides, catching her arms before she could produce whatever she sought. A dark shadow emerged from between two parked vehicles, resolving itself into the squat, powerful shape of Constable George Kremmin.
"Constable, I'm sorry I misled you and I'd be glad to explain but we need to leave now," Cymbeline began in a tense, frightened voice.
"I certainly hope you can explain," Kremmin continued. "I've had my men watching you. As soon as I learned that you'd purchased an overseas ticket I knew it was only a matter of time before you rabbitied. I'm terribly sorry, Doctor, but it is my sad duty to inform you that your are under arrest-"
"Can't this wait?" Cymbeline nearly shrieked. "We have to go now! Before- before it's too late!"
"And have your lawyer get you off on a technicality?" Kremmin glowered in a way that had made hardened criminals quail in their boots. "I think not." He drew a breath to continue-
"Shoulda listened to the chick, Kremmie boy," another voice declared. "Now it is too late."
Kremmin whirled, drawing his pistol. As a constable he technically wasn't supposed to carry a weapon but he'd worked with the Armed Offenders Squad often enough that no one begrudged him the affectation. A shadow emerged from between two cars but even though downtown Wellington was hardly dark even at night it stayed a shadow. Except for the eyes, gold and shining like the vent holes in a furnace. "Daughter Night, I presume," he said, thumbing off the pistol's safety.
"Got it in one, dog boy." Daughter Night moved sideways into open ground. She seemed to be completely naked; her black color made her a blot of negative space against a dimly-lit background.
"You realize of course that I'm going to have to arrest you," Kremmin said, the muzzle of his pistol tracking the spot where the center of her chest would be. "In addition to your other crimes you're now guilty of evading justice."
"No I'm not," Daughter Night replied. "I'm not guilty until declared so by a jury of peers. Which might be difficult to find in this day and age." She started forward, directly toward Kremmin.
"Stop," Kremmin commanded. "Or I'll be forced to shoot you."
"Go ahead," Daughter Night replied. "See what it gets you."
Kremmin licked his lips. He'd been in gun battles and once or twice he'd shot at fleeing suspects. He'd never shot in cold blood, though. Now he would be shooting a naked, unarmed woman who wasn't even resisting-
Two of Kremmin's men drew their truncheons. They moved in with the weapons held high, ready to strike if Daughter Night resisted.
"No!" Cymbeline exclaimed. Kremmin flinched and almost fired-
Quick as a wink Daughter Night dropped and spun, sweeping first one then the other of the officers with her outstretched foot. Even as they fell she bounced to her feet, kicking the first in the side of the head. Kremmin heard bones break, and not in Daughter Night's foot. He fired; his bullet struck a scratch in the parking lot surface and howled away into the night. Kremmin blinked; he knew the bullet had passed right through the center of her chest. He couldn't have missed at this range-
Daughter Night kicked backwards, catching the second officer under the chin. He went down and stayed. She hopped forward and grabbed Kremmin's forearm; he yelped as he felt his bones grate together. Her fingers gripped with a strength far greater than what a woman of her size and build should rightly possess, crushing his arm like the jaws of a vise. She jerked him off his feet, stepping and turning; for an instant his world cartwheeled crazily, then the ground came up and landed a sledgehammer blow on his back. The night sky seemed to light up with shimmering pinwheels and sparklers.
"Back!" a voice shouted. Kremmin became aware that Daughter Night stood over him, her shapely ankle right in front of his face. His pistol was gone; his hand clasped empty air. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out but only two people remained standing: Daughter Night and Dr. Lathasar. The latter held something in her outstretched hand that sparkled pale yellow in the dim light.
"Your pretty baubles aren't going to help you this time," Daughter Night growled, baring her teeth and stepping forward.
Dr. Lathasar spoke something in a language Kremmin didn't know and had never heard. The device in her hand glimmered; it might have been a momentary reflection from brightly polished gold, but Kremmin couldn't bring himself to believe it. The glitter had been too much in character like pure sunlight and it was dark. Daughter Night screamed and reeled back, throwing up an arm to shield her face as if Cymbeline had lit a magnesium flare.
"This isn't just some pretty bauble!" Cymbeline exclaimed, marching forward, her hand thrust out in front of her. "This is the power even you can't overcome!" Daughter Night cowered on the ground, arms clasped over her face, whimpering. "You thought I was helpless so you came after me without recharging! Well, you're not the only one who can call on the spirits of the ancient gods!" She kicked Daughter Night viciously in the ribs. "Crawl back into your hole if you can't stand the light, jackal!" She aimed another kick but it never landed. Daughter Night blurred and melted away into the ground. After looking around for a moment Cymbeline slipped the talisman back into her pocket. "Come on, Constable," she said, taking Kremmin's arm and trying to pull him up. "We have to go. I was only able to drive her away because she's weak. Once she recharges she's gonna come after us with a vengeance."
Kremmin groaned. His spine felt like he'd been broken on the rack. In his youth he'd been undefeated champion of the precinct wrestling team but that was more years ago than he cared to remember. Still, getting up seemed less painful that having Cymbeline tugging on his arm, which felt like it had been nearly wrenched from its socket. He shambled forward, leaning heavily on Cymbeline for support. As they walked she reached around him and fished his keys from his pocket; he noticed in a distracted way but didn't react because the fog of pain in his mind blocked out other concerns. "Which car?" she asked. He nodded to one of the unmarked cruisers parks parked discreetly nearby. Cymbeline fed him into the passenger's seat, got behind the wheel, and pulled out. At what Kremmin felt was an excessive speed she turned onto Cable Street, then up Tory to Vivian. From there they left the city on the Wellington Urban Motorway.
"I really am sorry about everything that happened," Cymbeline said as she drove. "I didn't want to lie to you but I didn't think you'd believe me if I told the truth. I guess it doesn't matter now."
Kremmin groaned. Sitting up in the cruiser's seat wasn't any less painful than laying on hard pavement. He suspected he'd pulled a muscle in his back, possibly several. Every little jounce of the cruiser's suspension sent rivers of agony coursing through his tortured flesh.
"I'll help you as soon as we get some distance between us and Daughter Night," Cymbeline added.
Next thing Kremmin knew, Cymbeline was pulling off the motorway at Waterloo. The sharp pain in his back had faded to a dull, burning ache that was somehow even worse. Cymbeline stopped in the parking lot of an all-night diner and opened her briefcase. Taking something in her left hand she whispered words in her strange language. Kremmin gasped; flickers of silvery light leapt like flames around her fingers as she gently stroked his shoulder. He sighed; her touch felt like cool water quenching the burning pain of his body. For a moment he lay there basking in the sensation, flexing his arm experimentally. It seemed as good as it had ever been, possibly better. Then he started, eyeing Cymbeline suspiciously. With the pain gone other concerns reasserted themselves. She held, he noticed, a golden artifact comprised of a round disk about the size of a coaster with S-shaped attachments on either side of it, forming curved horns sticking off the top. "What is that?" he demanded.
"This is a talisman of Isis, goddess of magic, love, motherhood, and healing, among other things," Cymbeline explained. "I called upon her spirit to enter you and heal your injuries."
Kremmin didn't respond immediately. As incredible as it sounded he couldn't argue the fact he wasn't hurting and his body seemed to be functioning quite normally. "What was that thing you used on Daughter Night?"
Cymbeline put away the talisman of Isis and dug out another. This one consisted of a simple disk with an eye inscribed upon it. A vertical bar and one angled to the right protruded from the eye's bottom, like the lower half of a capital R. "This is the Eye of Ra," she explained. "It has the power to destroy undead and other creatures of darkness. It can't kill Daughter Night because she's protected by the spirit of Anubis, who is Ra's grandson. But because she is undead, it hurts her."
Kremmin blinked. "Undead?"
"Like vampires or zombies," Cymbeline clarified. "The Eye of Ra is like a cross, only better. The fire of His eye burns them like sunlight."
"Yes, yes," Kremmin cut in shortly. "How is Daughter Night undead?"
"She belonged to a family of grave robbers," Cymbeline replied. "They found the tomb we got the artifacts from and broke into it."
Kremmin frowned. "She found it before you?"
"Yes. About three thousand years before. The tomb wasn't for a pharaoh or a great lord, it was for a priest or wizard. He'd laid a powerful curse on it; when Daughter Night entered the burial chamber her body died but her spirit was trapped. Her family sealed it up again for fear of the curse, leaving her inside. Three thousand years later Dr. Columbarnus found the tomb and opened it; he noticed the old disturbance but thought nothing of it. It's not unusual for tombs to have been opened and pilfered in antiquity. Grave robbers have been around for as long as graves. Anyway, the wizard's curses had worn off but somehow Daughter Night had taught herself sorcery. When Dr. Columbarnus entered the burial chamber Daughter Night entered him. She absorbed his spirit and took over his body. The person you met, who calls herself Daughter Night, is actually the fusion of two people: Dr. Columbarnus and the ancient grave robber. The body she's in now is actually Dr. Columbarnus', re-shaped into its present form."
"How do you know all this?" Kremmin wanted to know.
Cymbeline shuddered. "I was there. I barely escaped with my life."
"How did you lean how to use these artifacts?" Kremmin gestured at the briefcase.
"Everything in the tomb was... highly charged," Cymbeline replied. "While Dr. Columbarnus puttered around I found myself drawn to this." She raised the talisman of Isis. When I touched it... the spirit of Isis entered me. It was trying to warn me about Daughter Night, but... I didn't assimilate it quickly enough."
Kremmin frowned. "Daughter Night let you load all this stuff up and ship if off to New Zealand without a word?"
"Actually, yes. She wanted to get away from Egypt for some reason. She has powers to fiddle with people's minds; The spirit of Isis kept me from being affected but I played along as if I were. Once she was safely on board ship I flew ahead; I figured I could use the time to figure out a way to deal with her." Her shoulders slumped. "But I couldn't. Then her sarcophagus gets stolen and now she's loose."
"If you have the spirit of Isis, why can't you just fight her?" Kremmin wanted to know.
"It doesn't work that way. The prime vector of Isis is love; there's nothing in her spirit that grants you power for combat. The spirit of Ra would do it but I'm nowhere near strong enough to command it. If I tried to call it into myself it would, it would burn me up."
"What about Daughter Night?"
"She has four spirits in her," Cymbeline explained. "Isis, Bast, Anubis, and Sekhmet. Anubis makes her immune to bullets, allows her to walk through solid objects, and read people's thoughts. Isis allows her to influence people's thoughts, create illusions, and move things with the power of her mind. But Sekhmet is the one we have to worry about. That's where she gets her incredible strength and skill in combat. The vector of Isis is love, Anubis is compassion, and Bast is pleasure, but Sekhmet is vengeance. After being locked in a tomb for a few thousand years she's got a lot of pent up anger- and the more she calls on Sekhmet the more Sekhmet's rage will fill her, until she goes nuts and starts destroying everything."
"What about Bast? And what did you mean about her having to recharge?"
"Bast is, among other things, goddess of sex and sexual pleasure," Cymbeline continued. "Daughter Night calls on the spirit of Bast while she's having sex and it recharges her power. Bast is also an aspect of Sekhmet; they fit together like Yin and Yang. Ra is the father of all the spirits, and He can take away their power, but his vector is duty. Since I'm not a priestess who's dedicated her life to Him and His teachings, He won't give me His spirit except in little doses. By itself it's not enough to overcome Daughter Night, not at full power."
"I see." Pieces of the puzzle fell together in Kremmin's mind. "What sort of man would Daughter Night find it most advantageous to have sex with?"
"One whose masculine properties are strong," Cymbeline replied. "Big, powerful, handsome... an Alpha male, who commands fear and respect. Or a woman; those Egyptian goddesses go both ways. A woman whose feminine properties are strong. Beautiful, loving... who protects and nurtures."
"Hmm." Kremmin tapped his chin. "Now I see why she came here. There are two people in New Zealand who precisely fit your descriptions. One is Mr. Paul-Constandinos Ulysses, also known as the Big Bad Wolf. A powerful man, both physically and politically. An underworld king who rules by fear and greed but who manages to stay enough on the edge of the law that we can't do anything about it." Kremmin smiled grimly. "And, of course, Super Collie."
Vyacheslav stepped out of the private elevator and looked around Mr. Ulysses' suite. There wasn't anyone in the front room so he moved to the door of the master bedroom. After more than merely a moment's hesitation he knocked.
"In a moment!" someone called from inside. Vyacheslav stepped back and waited. Eventually the door opened and Mr. Ulysses came out, dressed in a florid red dressing gown. Vyacheslav suppressed a gasp; the Boss looked terribly haggard.
"I swear, that sheila's gonna bonk me to death," Mr. Ulysses commented, stretching mightily. "Oh, but what a way to go." He grinned wickedly.
"Is she, here now?" Vyacheslav asked, unable to keep the anxiety out of his voice.
"No, she went back to the safe house." Mr. Ulysses flexed his arms, then rubbed his back. "Fix me some brekkie, won't you Vyacheslav? Right now I could eat the ass end out of a dead rhino, God's truth."
Vyacheslav hurried into the kitchen. Rather than waste time cooking he threw together two sandwiches: a large one for the Boss and small one for himself. He wasn't particularly hungry but it seemed impolite not to eat. Despite its excessive size, Mr. Ulysses gobbled it down in quickly and in a decidedly wolfish fashion.
"I was wondering," Vyacheslav ventured, nibbling on his own sandwich. "Ms. Corby's plan didn't exactly turn out."
"Yeah, but it's no skin off our butts," Mr. Ulysses replied. "Now she has a better one."
"Oh?" The Boss seemed to be in an expansive mood; Vyacheslav decided to take advantage of it.
"She's got it sussed that Super Collie's powers are tied to that staff she carries," Mr. Ulysses explained. "Take away the staff and she loses her power. But you just can't just pick it up; that's what went wrong at the bank. Super Collie has to consciously choose to give it up."
"And how does Ms. Corby figure to get Super Collie to do that?" Vyacheslav wanted to know.
"Simple." Mr. Ulysses picked between his teeth with the tip of a fingernail. "Seduction. And if that doesn't work, extortion."
Some women might spend half an hour picking the right lipstick for a big date. Esmerelda was not one of them. Unerringly she selected #16, Cherry Blossom Mist. It was right there, step #39 on "Date with John Dress Procedure Alternate C (Rev 2.1.6)." The color blended nicely with her eye shadow (#05 Passion Pink, Step #37 on the procedure). To prepare for this auspicious evening she'd begun with a full body trim, shampoo, and rinse (#0C Orange Mango Blast, "To Give Your Coat That Tropical Shine") followed by a perm that fluffed up her mane and left it hanging in tight ringlets. Her ensemble for the evening consisted of a peach colored long sleeve blouse with pleated trim, a matching tube skirt, high-heeled pumps, and a leatherette handbag. Once she finished Esmerelda glanced at the clock hanging by her dressing able. Five minutes ahead of schedule; excellent. Plenty of time to meet John by the gallery (with an error factor of eighteen minutes figured in since he was notoriously lax about schedules) and make it to the restaurant for dinner. Then off the movies. They'd be back at Esmerelda's flat by twenty-three hundred... and it would be time for "Unscheduled Intimate Activities" for the rest of the night. She allowed herself a shiver of delight at the prospect. What with the demands of work- and super-heroing- she didn't get to see John nearly as much as she'd like-
When the opening bars of "God Defend New Zealand" trilled out Esmerelda froze. She gripped the edge of the dressing table until her knuckles turned white. "No!" she exclaimed, shaking her head. "Not tonight! Oh please, not tonight!" But she couldn't help it. She fished out her PDA and took a look at it. After a moment she put it away and got out her cell phone. No alternative but to call John, cancel the date, and hope she could schedule another one. One thing was for certain, though. In return for forcing her to give up "Unscheduled Intimate Activities," some criminal was going to get a drubbing he'd never forget.
As New Zealand's largest city Auckland was never precisely a sleepy place, but late on a Sunday evening found the usual bustle decidedly subdued. Except for one specific area, around the intersections of Victoria and Federal Streets. Police had cleared several blocks; gigantic search lights probed upward into the night sky, painting the north face of the SkyTower in harsh, cold light. News and police helicopters buzzed about like moths around a candle. The object of all this attention couldn't even be seen from the ground; only in the telephoto eyes of news cameras could it be seen that a woman sat on the railing just outside the observation deck windows. A picnic basket rested by her side and she waved to the helicopters as they went by, apparently unconcerned with the fact that two hundred meters of empty air lay between her and the cold, hard ground. She looked something like a fox except for her color; her jet black fur contrasted sharply with her dazzlingly white evening gown.
Chief of Police Charles Moose stood in the middle of a blocked section of Victoria Street, looking upward with narrowed eyes. People who'd never met him generally expected him to be a moose and were shocked to find that he was, in fact, a rat. "What is she doing up there?" he demanded aloud.
"For the moment, just sitting." The chief's adjutant was a pretty young mouse; even with her cap she came only to his shoulder.
"What about those Government people?" Moose demanded.
The adjutant glanced over her shoulder, noting a large official car pulling up to the blockade. "I think they've just arrived."
Two people got out of the car, both in Army uniforms. After some quiet words they were allowed to pass the barricades and moved briskly up to Moose. "Good evening," the older and more brightly decorated one declared. "I'm Colonel Bathsfield of the Civil Defense Unit. This is Captain Wilkes of the Special Anti-Super Villain Squad." The colonel was a rhinoceros, massively built and a bit saggy around the edges, peering out through thick lensed spectacles. Captain Wilkes was a spotted hyena, lean and powerful.
"Charles Moose, chief of police," Moose replied. "This is my adjutant, Sasha Brisby."
"Is this person in fact a super villain?" Captain Wilkes wanted to know.
"She matches the description of one Daughter Night, a person who just this last Friday tried to rob a bank in Wellington, but it turned into something of a cock-up. Other than her appearance, though, we haven't any specific proof that she's the same person. Except for one thing: she wants to talk to Super Collie."
Colonel Bathsfield glowered. "I don't care for super heroes," he growled. "They purport to uphold the law but by their very nature they operate outside of it. And what if one decides to go rogue on us? Where are we then, hmm?"
"Super Collie is popular," Miss Brisby pointed out.
"Only because-" Colonel Bathsfield began, then bit it off and turned away to gaze balefully at the officers patrolling the street. Moose found himself wondering if the colonel had been about to say something along the lines of because she's a cute chick.
Another vehicle pulled up to the barricades and two people got out. Almost immediately a cheer went up from the spectators; that blue and gold costume- what there was of it- could not be mistaken. Super Collie paused to smile and wave; the crowd roared even louder and camera flashes flickered like distant lightning. Finally the pair came up and joined the group.
"Thanks for coming, Super Collie," Moose began. "I know it's a bit of a ride up from Wellington."
"Glad to be of service," Super Collie responded. She smiled but Moose couldn't help thinking that her bonhomie seemed just a bit forced. Well, in all probability super heroes didn't care to be dragged out on a Sunday night any more than police officers did.
Moose turned to the second person. "Inspector- Inspector-"
"Samson," Miss Brisby put in.
"Samson. Thank you." Moose shook hands firmly.
"Is this Daughter Night you've got here?" Samson asked. A cigarette bobbed in the corner of his mouth. Miss Brisby wrinkled her nose.
"She hasn't exactly given us an ID but she matches the description," Moose replied. "A black jackal, full figured, with golden eyes."
"Is she dressed in Egyptian clothing?" Super Collie asked.
"Not specifically, no," Moose replied. "She did ask for you by name, though."
"Well, then I guess I'd best get up there," Super Collie commented, glancing upward.
"Chief, I think you should let our squad back up Super Collie in this," Colonel Bathsfield said. "They're standing by and ready to go." He turned to Super Collie and smiled ingratiatingly, though the glint in his eye looked anything but friendly. "No offense, Super Collie, but if anything happens to you we have to see if we can look after ourselves, don't we?"
"Yes, I suppose so," Super Collie allowed, somewhat uncertainly.
"Ah, Colonel, as precarious as this situation may look, so far nothing dangerous has happened," Moose jumped in quickly. "I of all people appreciate what the Special Anti-Super Villain Squad is all about but I wouldn't care to risk escalating things."
"Not to worry," Colonel Bathsfield assured. "My men are highly trained. They're only along as backup; unless things go south you won't even know they're there."
"Well-" Moose began.
"Excellent," Colonel Bathsfield cut in, rubbing his hands together. "Captain, ready your men."
"But-" Moose protested.
"Now now," Colonel Bathsfield reproved. "People in top levels of the Government are interested in this, Chief. Top levels." He nodded knowingly.
"All right," Moose muttered.
"Good!" Colonel Bathsfield clapped his hands together. "If you need me I'll be at the SASVS command post."
"If you come with me, Super Collie, I'll introduce you to the squad," Captain Wilkes invited.
"Thank you." Super Collie fell in beside him, with Inspector Samson trailing behind.
"Just what we bloody need," Moose growled under his breath as he turned away. "A bunch of bloody Government wankers sticking their noses into things. I wonder what the colonel's top men will have to say if they pick up the morning edition and find themselves reading about a spectacular super hero battle in the SkyTower! Just the thing to kick off the tourist season!"
Approaching the SkyTower's massive foundations Super Collie found herself craning her neck upward. From almost directly below the tower took on an entirely new aspect, utterly unlike the views from across town one usually saw. The mass and size of it hit home in a particularly visceral fashion; she found herself wanting to run away, to get out from under it.
"I hope your trip up from Wellington wasn't too bad?" Captain Wilkes inquired
"I'm sorry?" Super Collie blinked and shook her head. "No, it wasn't. We flew up in a charter jet." Better than running, at least, she added to herself. Which she could have done and probably arrived no less fatigued. Inspector Samson could not sit still, not even in a cabin too small for pacing. Being deprived of tobacco for an hour and a half merely added petrol to the conflagration.
Instead of going to the SkyTower Colonel Bathsfield led the group into the Sky City lobby and down into the casino's utility levels. Finally they arrived at the bottom of the parking structure. Super Collie gasped; A pair of massive troglodytes guarded the doorway. Their grotesquely squat bodies and thick, simian arms meant their hands nearly touched the ground even when they stood completely upright. Their dome shaped heads sat directly on their broad shoulders without a neck and sported no features at all other than a glassy, Cyclopsian slit in place of eyes. At two and three quarters meters in height they loomed over the visitors.
"Amazing, aren't they?" Colonel Bathsfield said, smiling expansively. "ZX3000 Powered Battle Suits, manufactured locally under license from Mitsubishi."
"I heard that the Sony CombatMan 2800 got a better write up," Samson commented.
"It did, but the price is rather dear and there's some questions about the cost of long term maintenance," the Colonel replied, unfazed. "As far as that goes, I'd rather have the Stark Industries WarMachine XLR. Getting it through bloody Yank export restrictions is about worth you life, though." He spat.
Captain Wilkes walked to the rightmost of the two machines and pulled a lever attached to its massive thigh. With a faint whine of servos it crouched, leaning forward and putting its hands on the ground. Its back clamshelled open, revealing a fighting compartment that looked like it would fit its operator as snugly as his own skin. The captain stripped off his tunic, handing it to an assistant who folded it and put it away, then climbed up and settled himself inside. The back shut behind him and the suit straightened up.
"Believe it or not, the suit is actually quite flexible and dexterous," Captain Wilkes' somewhat tinny voice said from somewhere in the vicinity of the suit's head. The suit bent over and executed a perfect hand-stand. "For this mission we'll be carrying standard load-out: twenty millimeter auto-cannon and our own custom built Anti-Super Power Electronic Warfare Module." The suit picked up a weapon that looked like a standard folding-stock assault rifle but was huge, built on a scale with the suit itself. Next came a large backpack bulging with odd protuberances. Instead of having straps it mated directly to lugs on the suit's back. It's weight and bulk caused the suit to lean forward a bit, making it appear hunchbacked.
"Oh my," was all Super Collie could say.
"Captain Wilkes and Sergeant Harris will back you up, Super Collie," Colonel Bathsfield said. "Of course we have every confidence in your ability to handle this situation... but if the inconceivable should arise, don't hesitate to give a shout. Both the men and their machines are the very best New Zealand has to offer." His chest puffed and his eyes fairly glowed with national pride.
"Isn't all this rather excessive?" Samson wanted to know.
"Is it?" Colonel Bathsfield inquired. "Especially in light of that incident at the Farmers and Merchants Bank?"
"In spite of what anyone might think," Samson replied tightly, "No one was seriously injured."
"Shouldn't we be going to see what Daughter Night wants?" Super Collie ventured.
"Of course we should," Colonel Bathsfield replied before Samson could speak. "The sergeant's done suiting up, so if you'll follow me?"
The service elevator running up the center of the SkyTower's support column did not, as did the passenger elevators, give a stunning view of the city as it rose. But it would support the weight of the battle suits, which the passenger elevators would not.
"We'll wait in the mezzanine, Ma'am," Captain Wilkes said as the group exited the lift. "Daughter Night is out there, on the upper observation deck level." He pointed toward the north stairwell. "Don't worry if you can't see us. We're patched in to all the news cameras. If anything happens, we'll know."
"Thanks." Super Collie smiled fleetingly, then hurried up the stairs. The captain was polite and doing his duty as he saw it but his presence altered the situation profoundly. Daughter Night was already an unknown quantity; bringing in the SAVS just stirred even more chaos into the mix. Super Collie hated chaos. The irony of feeling that way and being a super hero wasn't lost on her; at times it seemed her intervention created more disorder, not less. But the alternative was to stand back and do nothing.
A chill wind blew through the observation deck. Two of the glass panels had been removed and the prevailing westerlies came through the gap at a stiff clip. Just to the right of the gap Daughter Night sat at the tower's northmost extreme, the edge of the spoked rim protruding out from the gallery floor. She turned and gestured for Super Collie to join her.
Super Collie moved to the gap and hesitated, licking her lips. To her immediate right one of the in-floor windows looked straight down. She liked to think of herself as not being afraid of heights but the cold wind snapping at her cape only emphasized how very close to the edge of nothing she really was. The flat top of one of the rim spokes reached out from center of the gap, forming a path wider than the top of a balance beam, but in the event of a misstep the dismount would be killer. Super Collie swallowed and took off her cape; Daughter Night showed no sign of coming in so there was no alternative but to go out. Using her staff for balance she stepped out over the void.
"I was beginning to wonder if you'd show," Daughter Night commented, taking a pair of sandwiches from her hamper. "Tuna?"
"What do you want?" Super Collie demanded. She didn't trust the footing. "And why do we have to meet here?"
"Here we can talk without being pestered," Daughter Night replied, taking a bite of her sandwich. "And, I freely admit, since our first meeting didn't exactly go well, I wanted a spot where you'd be less inclined to jump to conclusions."
"You're a villain," Super Collie snapped, somewhat more brusquely than she'd intended. "Why shouldn't I jump to conclusions?"
"Being a super hero makes you the final arbiter of right and wrong?" Daughter Night inquired.
"No, nothing like that," Super Collie replied apologetically. "But you did rob a bank."
"I wanted to meet you," Daughter Night replied. "I couldn't think of any other way to do it. You super heroes aren't exactly listed in the directory."
"I suppose so," Super Collie allowed. "Then why did you want to meet me?"
"I think that you and I have something in common," Daughter Night said. "Something profound and precious."
"We have nothing in common," Super Collie insisted. "Other than having powers, perhaps. I don't use mine capriciously!"
"Really." Daughter Night smiled knowingly. "Do people like what you do?"
"Yes!"
"Come now. I've done my homework." Daughter Night turned, bringing one leg up and planting her foot on the rail so she could face Super Collie more comfortably. "There's a certain reporter about. Goes by the name of Squid Vicious. I've read some of his work. He seems to have made it his career to embarrass you. Like that incident in Nagasaki."
"That's wasn't my fault!" Super Collie blazed. "The Ministry of Super Being Relations made me wear that stupid sailor scout getup! How was I supposed to know my natural invulnerability wouldn't protect it?"
"And yet, after tripping and skidding for half a block on your face, who was there to snap a photo of you as you picked yourself up?" Daughter Night inquired. "Of course it wasn't your fault. The costume couldn't take the strain while you were super-running and a heel broke. But what does the world see? You, picking yourself up off the street with a dazed expression on your face, the entire front of your costume stripped off, and not a super villain in sight. That's probably the only time in his miserable life Mr. Vicious ever broke a story globally. Even now there's uncensored versions of the photo on the Internet. If someone did that to me I'd be sorely tempted to string him up by his own intestines."
"I'm not like that," Super Collie snapped.
"But you've thought it," Daughter Night insisted. "You've dreamed about force feeding him every copy of every salacious story he's ever written about you. And you enjoy thinking it."
"I do not!"
"That's a lie and you know it. On top of it, you know things would run more smoothly if you allowed yourself a freer hand. All it would take is a little common sense. A commodity which seems in precious short supply among the doofuses in the Beehive who claim to have everything under control. So you bite back your feelings and do what they say is right even when you know it isn't."
"For society to work there has to be law and order," Super Collie insisted.
"Obviously," Daughter Night replied. "But tell me this: what makes others more qualified to lead? You spend all your time fighting crime and actually dealing with the problems facing your country. But do they listen to you? I rather doubt it."
Super Collie's eyes narrowed. "I know what you're trying to do. Sure society's messed up, but me forcing my will on it isn't the way to make it better. People are better off with me fighting for justice."
"But are you?" Daughter Night countered. "I'm flattered to think that you made yourself up to come see me but I doubt it's so."
Super Collie said nothing. That particular comment struck rather close to home.
"While you're out fighting crime and righting injustices, who's looking after your needs?" Daughter Night continued. "The people you protect? Not hardly. They thank you for saving them, then bad-mouth you behind your back. They hate you."
"They don't!" Super Collie exclaimed, scandalized.
"They do," Daughter Night insisted. "They hate you because they fear you. They fear you because you're powerful." She clenched her fist; yellow light like flames flickered around it. "The proof of their fear is none other than our dear friend Squid. If you were loved people like him wouldn't be allowed to do what they do. Not like illegal, but people would refuse to buy the rags he publishes in. They do sell because people want them. People want them because it's comforting to think of you as a costumed bimbo. The alternative is to recognize your power- and to do that they have to recognize their own weakness." She picked up the hamper and set it on the opposite side so she could scoot right up next to Super Collie. "I'm not a villain, Super Collie. I don't enjoy making people suffer. But I've been where you are. People hate and fear me because I'm powerful. They marginalize me because I'm not a meek, subservient female. They try to use me for their own greedy purposes. You could very easily have ended up like me. And me, I think I might even enjoy being a super hero... but no one's ever given me a chance." She took Super Collie's hand, lifting it to her face and licking it tenderly. "You and I do have much in common. We're opposite sides of the same coin. As alike as sisters." She scooted closer, so their thighs pressed together. "As close as lovers."
Colonel Bathsfield sat by a bank of electronic gear set up to monitor the powered suits but he kept the corner of his eye on Inspector Samson. The colonel was getting tired watching the man pace and already a scattering of discarded cigarette butts marked his path. Bathsfield predicted a heart attack or an ulcer some time in the next five to seven years, if not sooner.
Samson halted when his cell phone rang. "Hello?" he snapped. His eyes widened in shock, then his whole face hardened. "Kremmin? Where the Hell are you? What happened-" he fell silent. "Yes. Yes. Yes. As a matter of fact, she's up there right now." Again his eyes widened in shock; his latest cigarette fell unheeded from his lips. "Good Christ!" he swore, spinning to face Colonel Bathsfield. "We have to stop this! Super Collie's in danger!"
"Um- I don't- I mean- I have a boyfriend," Super Collie protested, edging away from Daughter Night as hurriedly as she dared.
Daughter Night snorted disdainfully, scooting along to keep Super Collie from escaping. "What mere man could possibly satisfy your desires? Unless he was a super hero himself... and then he'd probably start treating you like a servant, existing only to serve his wants."
"But- um-" Super Collie stopped when she realized she was scooting past the opening in the observation deck windows. "I don't mean to be rude but I don't go... um... that way."
"Have you ever tried?" Daughter Night inquired.
"Of course not!" Super Collie snapped.
"Why?" Daughter Night wanted to know. "Because you really don't want to? Or because you've swallowed the lies of the parochial patriarchy, who wants to keep you locked in a prison of shame so you won't discover the depth and breadth of your own sexuality? Because if you did you might stop being nothing but a walking sex object, existing only for the pleasure of men?" Daughter Night licked her muzzle in a highly suggestive fashion. "I think there's more to you than that. You have feelings, needs. In your heart of hearts you lust. You crave a lover you don't have to coddle, either his delicate ego or his fragile body. Someone who really understands what it means to be Super Collie... and isn't afraid of it. Someone who can show you what it means to be a fully expressed sexual creature but still a woman. And..." Daughter Night reached over, gently cupping and caressing Super Collie's breast. "The fact that I'm bad excites you. Because, somewhere under that goody two shoes armor you put up around yourself, you want to be naughty."
Super Collie quivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold wind. Physical threats to her person she could deal with easily enough; they could be faced and either overcome or evaded. She sensed that Daughter Night was launching a subtle attack but she hadn't the faintest idea how to counter it. Worse still, each and every point had landed. Being good was a terrible amount of work... and people didn't appreciate it. Squid Vicious was only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. In the face of that having an affair with Daughter Night was dreadfully tempting, even if only as a way of thumbing her nose at the Squids of the world. Then too there was the chance, however remote, that Daughter Night might be turned to goodness. Her powers would be useful in fighting crime... and it would be nice to have someone to talk to, someone who did understand the rigors of being a super hero... or more specifically, a super heroine. John was a dear fellow but he didn't know that Esmerelda Braithwaite was really Super Collie... and that itself put a terrible strain on their relationship. She did have to be careful with him; he wasn't very secure with having a beautiful girlfriend and the Mystic Power of the Shepherd didn't completely leave when she transformed back into Esmerelda. It wasn't at all inconceivable that she might injure him in a fit of passion. Whatever else Daughter Night might be she was strong, emotionally and physically. Super Collie opened her mouth-
Daughter Night suddenly looked over her shoulder. Super Collie felt it too: a minute vibration transmitted through the structure of the tower. She twisted around just in time to see the first of the power suits come storming up the stairway, taking the treads four at a time. She didn't know which it was but it carried its weapon shouldered and ready. Glass that could withstand winds of up to two hundred klicks exploded in a shower of fragments, pulverized by a stream of twenty millimeter shells. Adjacent panels vibrated from the muzzle blasts, as terrifyingly loud as thunderclaps. Super Collie screamed, her voice lost in the general cacophony. Instinctively she reeled away- and stepped off into space. As she fell she spun, swinging her staff. The hook telescoped out- and just barely managed to catch one of the spokes. Super Collie's teeth chattered uncontrollably as she swung in the open air two thundered meters above Federal Street.
Another burst of twenty mike-mike roared out into the night, the phosphor tracers at the base of each shell leaving bright green streaks through the air. Daughter Night slashed her arm as if throwing a Frisbee; windows all along the deck exploded from their frames and the power suit flew back as if struck by a freight train, landing with a crash that shattered the wooden decking. One mailed fist clenched convulsively and a burst tore a line of ragged holes in the observation deck's roof. A second suit leapt from the stairwell, four long probes extended from its ASPEW backpack. Daughter Night slashed at it; the air flickered and rippled as if through badly warped glass and the suit slid backward about two meters but the corona of strange, blue-white energy radiating from each of the probes like Saint Elmo's Fire seemed to be doing its job, preventing her from getting a good grip. She used both hands, her lips drawn back in a snarl of exertion. The suit started forward, arms up before its face like a man struggling against a strong wind. Bits of glass and decking lifted up and blasted at it like wrack driven before a hurricane. And yet inexorably it continued forward, gradually closing the range.
When Super Collie was sure her fingers would obey she pulled herself, hand over hand, up the shaft of her staff. Daughter Night screamed, the air around her flickering with pale fire. A few tatters of cloth hung over the tops of her breasts; otherwise she was completely naked. The other suit had picked itself up and extended the probes from its ASPEW module but the force field kept flickering out.
"Please, wait!" Super Collie shouted as she struggled onto the observation deck. She could feel the floor vibrating under her, as if in response to an earthquake. Her words were lost in the roar of helicopters, the crackling of the ASPEW pack, and the shattering of wood and glass.
Suddenly Daughter Night leapt, somersaulting through the air and landing on the roof of the gallery. The suit spun, thrusting out one hand. Searingly bright actinic discharge flashed into the darkness like a bolt of lightning, missing her by less than half a meter. But as it turned the suit stepped right on the clear floor panel. It was strong but not that strong; the pane burst out of its frame and the suit crashed down on its side. Its weapon flew out into the darkness. Only its leg through the view port hole kept the suit from following it. Two of the probes from the ASPEW pack were bent almost double; the crackling force field flickered and vanished.
From inside the gallery Super Collie couldn't see Daughter Night but she noticed air shimmering around the fallen suit as it began to lift. It grabbed the edge of the deck so that as it was upended its legs fell across the spoked rim instead of plunging into the darkness. Blow after blow fell across the mechanical fingers until they began to deform, but its grip did not weaken. The other suit surged to its feet, charging forward and firing into the ceiling.
Super Collie gritted her teeth. There was no quick way up onto the gallery roof except from outside. She leapt out onto one of the spokes, balanced for a moment, them leapt onto the roof. Her staff was already swinging though she didn't precisely know where Daughter Night was. Daughter Night seemed to have known Super Collie was coming; she stepped backward, passing through the aluminum facing on the base of the communication mast. The end of Super Collie's staff rebounded from the metal, leaving a dent.
After waiting a moment to see if Daughter Night would return Super Collie slid back down to the observation gallery level. "Dear, dear," she muttered, surveying the damage. Windows blown out, decking ripped up, ceiling fixtures hanging in ruin. "Nothing good's going to come of this, I'll warrant."
"Sir?" Vyacheslav called. "Mr. Ulysses?" But the suite appeared to be empty. Gritting his teeth, he moved to the bedroom door. The Boss and Zalika had to be in there. But good God, it was almost five o'clock in the afternoon-
As Vyacheslav lifted his hand to knock the door opened. Mr. Ulysses looked back at him with rheumy eyes, yawned, and smacked his lips. Vyacheslav was shocked beyond words; Mr. Ulysses' dressing gown hung loosely on his frame like a towel tossed over a clothes rack. His fur looked as dull and gray as his eyes; he seemed to have aged ten years. Vyacheslav opened his mouth to comment- then looked past Mr. Ulysses into the bedroom. Zalika lay on the large, circular water bed, propped up on her elbows. Her figure looked as full as ever, her coat so silky it almost gleamed. And she looked at him, her intense, golden eyes seeming to see straight through into his soul.
Vyacheslav stepped aside as much to break eye contact as to make way for his boss. "Sorry to bother you, sir, but I thought you'd like to know that Daitakerou is back from Japan."
"Excellent, excellent." Mr. Ulysses moved to the kitchen and began pulling stuff out of the cooler. He didn't bother fixing anything, he just started eating. "Tell him to hang on until tomorrow. And tell Harold to have the car ready. Zalika and I are going 'round Courtenay Place this evening for an art show." He grinned with something like his usual wolfish self. "We're going to see if we can't pick up a little something."
"Exactly what are we looking for?" Mr. Ulysses demanded. He wore his white on white suit; Ms. Corby, on his arm, wore a matching silk tube dress with ruffles on the shoulders.
"Honestly I can't say," Zalika replied as she glanced around. "When I last met Super Collie she mentioned a boyfriend. Something about her keeps me from reading her thoughts but when we talked about him some strong impressions came through. Nothing I could really explain intellectually but enough to convince me that we should find something here."
"Hmm." Mr. Ulysses looked around. Tuesday evening apparently wasn't a great time for the art scene; only a handful of people wandered about, looking with what seemed only marginal interest at the paintings, photos, and sculptures. What really bothered him was that he and Zalika, in their formal clothes, stood out like hogs at a sheep mustering among the people who were at best young professionals and at worst almost beatnik. Yet no one paid them the slightest attention, not even the gallery owner who should be fawning obsequiously on a couple with such obvious potential to be wealthy patrons. It wasn't like they were invisible; people would look, then turn away as if what they saw just didn't mean anything. He knew Zalika was doing something but he still felt naked and vulnerable. "I hope you find it soon," he muttered, almost a growl. "This is the fourth gallery we've visited."
Zalika froze suddenly. Mr. Ulysses glanced around quickly, fiddling with his lapel. It gave him an excuse to keep his hand near the butt of the pistol he wore in a shoulder holster. Nothing seemed to be wrong, though- then he grinned when he noticed what Zalika was looking at.
Back in one corner of the gallery was a painting of Super Collie. She was frozen in an incredibly dynamic action pose, running down a city street. Only her head showed clearly and it had been rendered in exquisite detail, showing her face set in an expression of fierce determination so vividly lifelike that one could almost hear her panting. The rest of her was increasingly motion blurred; her hands and feet were fans of translucent color. The cityscape behind her also blurred, as if the scene had been shot with a camera panning rapidly to keep Super Collie in frame. And yet the background was clearly recognizable: the land side of Cable Street, looking toward Mt. Cook.
Two people stood near the painting, speaking quietly to one another. On the left was a young man, a cocker spaniel with fine, beautifully golden brown fur and large, wonderfully expressive eyes, dressed in a black short sleeved sweater and matching slacks. Facing him was a young woman, a white French poodle, delicately built and nearly a head shorter than her companion. Her tightly curled fur was styled in traditional poodle fashion; she wore a pale gray blouse and a matching pleated miniskirt.
"I know it's a bit of a break from my usual stuff but the idea came to me suddenly while I was looking at Rain, Steam, and Speed by Turner," the man was saying. "Super hero pics aren't really in vogue right now but I couldn't help it. I guess you could say I've got a bit a soft spot for Super Collie."
"You and every other young man," the girl tittered, winking obsequiously. The man smiled self consciously. "Seriously, though," she continued, "I'm glad you brought it. Maybe it won't ever be a big commercial hit but it's a beautiful painting. Your love just- just shines out of it. After you become rich and famous they'll auction it at Christie's for three million dollars."
"I wish." He hung his head in embarrassment at the praise but his smile broadened.
"That's him," Zalika pronounced, quietly but with finality.
"Surely you're not suggesting we just walk over there and grab him?" Mr. Ulysses inquired. The gallery might not have been full of people but it was hardly the place for a kidnapping.
"As a matter of fact I am," Zalika replied, gliding over to the couple. Mr. Ulysses found himself unable to tear his eyes away from her buttocks, sliding sensuously under the material of her gown. Zalika Corby may not have been overtly muscular but beyond a doubt her body was as finely crafted as Daitakerou's sword and every bit as much a weapon of deadly potency.
"Good evening," Zalika said as she breezed up. The man and woman started as if she'd suddenly appeared out of nowhere, yet gave no indication whatsoever that they noticed Mr. Ulysses, standing only a couple meters away. For his own part Mr. Ulysses found himself smiling as he watched the couple's reaction. The young man looked first at Zalika's face- then, almost as if his eyes were moving against his will, his gaze dropped to her bosom, belly, hips, and legs, then came back up. His expression was of stunned incredulity, as if he couldn't quite believe what he saw. The young woman did almost exactly the same thing, looking Zalika up and down, but her reaction was far different. She seemed almost to collapse in on herself, withered by Zalika's raw sexual power, cowed by her own comparative inadequacy. Whatever else he might think of Ms. Corby, Mr. Ulysses respected and admired the consummate skill- and ruthlessness- with which she pursued her goals.
When Zalika wrapped her arms around the young man, dipped him, and kissed him passionately Mr. Ulysses almost laughed aloud. The poor boy's whole body quivered as if it were about to turn liquid and drain out of Zalika's arms. When she returned him to his feet he would have collapsed if she hadn't propped him against the wall. Then she turned to the woman, pinning her with a gaze like a viper's. With her left arm Zalika caught the young woman across the shoulders and thrust her against the wall hard enough that nearby paintings rattled. With her right hand Zalika reached up under the woman's skirt, now using the weight of her body to hold her in place, then jerked back her head and kissed her fiercely. The woman struggled meekly, emitting small muffled sounds. But when Zalika released her she made no sound, no attempt to escape. Her knees buckled and she slumped to the floor.
"Take them," Zalika commanded, glancing back over her shoulder and licking her fingers.
Mr. Ulysses was chuckling as he caught the young man around the chest. Though reasonably tall he wasn't very heavy and he made no attempt to resist. Mr. Ulysses grabbed the girl and hauled her bodily to her feet; she was tiny and delicate and he was far from weak. She couldn't seem to stand on her own so he tucked her under his arm. Out at the curb the limo waited; Harold opened the door and Mr. Ulysses tossed his burden in like so many sacks of grain.
"Do we really need them both?" Mr. Ulysses asked as they all rode away.
"Hmm..." Zalika studied the young woman thoughtfully. "I don't think so. Just him. The girl..." She gave Mr. Ulysses a knowing smile. "Do what you like with her. She won't remember in the morning. At least, not enough to give the police anything useful. Think of it as my gift to you for being so considerate." She gave him a peck on the cheek.
Now Mr. Ulysses did laugh. Having his way with the poodle would be a pleasant diversion but what really amused him was thinking of that gentle young man in the grip of Zalika's tender mercies. The poor dumb bastard couldn't begin to imagine what he was in for.
John awoke with a start, his eyes snapping open suddenly. For an instant he wondered what could be wrong; he was in bed-
But not his bed. Not even his own bedroom. He lay sprawled on a king sized single with white sheets and a pale green coverlet. It sat in a small room with hardwood floors, plain white walls, and no other furnishings. Curtains covered both windows, admitting light but blocking the view. A sudden biological need drove John to throw back the covers-
And reveal that he was naked as a jaybird. With no sign of his clothing on the bed, in the room, or even under the bed. Nor in the attached bathroom, a very small affair with only a toilet, shower, and sink all in very close proximity. He relieved himself and returned to the bedroom.
Unless he intended to climb out through a window there was only one other way out. He opened the door and stepped out-
-Into what might have been the front room of a two or three bedroom flat or the upstairs of a small to medium sized house. He couldn't tell; he couldn't see a door or stairs because everything except the door he'd come through was covered by gauzy, pastel colored draperies. A number of expensive looking Oriental carpets covered the hardwood floor; piled on them were soft, intricately embroidered cushions. In the middle of it all stood an enormous bed dressed in firey red silk. Laying on it was- a woman. She had sharply pointed, fox-like features and a voluptuous, full figured, and not at all fox-like body. Not to mention that every part of her was midnight black except her eyes, which shone like brightly polished gold.
"I- I- I-" John gobbled, groping for the door, turning suddenly and colliding painfully with it.
"Don't be embarrassed," the woman said in a deep, sexy voice. "I wouldn't invite a young man into my boudoir if I didn't expect him to stare." She lay on her side, head propped on one hand. Now she rolled languidly onto her belly, stretching her arms out in front, lifting her tail, and looking back over her shoulder. Her breasts bulged out from beneath her torso.
"Err... uhh..." John's mouth worked; he swallowed convulsively.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"John," he replied. "John Palmer."
"I'm Zalika." She rolled onto her back, gazing at him over the rise of her breasts. The only reason she could see over them was because they fell to either side, leaving a gap between. Even her nipples- large, well defined, and prominently erect- were black.
"Um..." Now that he'd started looking John couldn't tear his eyes away. His body reacted to the stimuli; self consciously he covered himself with his hands.
"Don't be embarrassed," Zalika said gently. "You think I'm beautiful. You want to have sex with me."
"Ah-" It seemed pointless to deny, especially as he was butt naked and sporting a stiffy so hard it hurt. "I... have a girlfriend," he muttered.
"What's her name?" Zalika rolled onto her side, back to John, and drew up her legs.
"Esmerelda." John stared at Zalika's buttocks. They were large, fleshy, yet perfectly formed. Her vulva was a slash of pink against her black on black skin and fur.
"Is she pretty?" Zalika asked.
"Yes."
"Do you have sex often?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"She works. It's... hard to find time when we can be together."
"That's a pity." Zalika slipped a finger between her thighs, rubbing herself. "If you were my boyfriend, I'd have sex with you all the time."
"I-" John turned away. "I... I'm sorry, Zalika. I can't do this."
"Why not?" Zalika didn't sound the least bit upset.
"I... Esmerelda's been so wonderful to me. I'd feel like... I was betraying her."
"How noble." Zalika sounded like she really meant it. "You must love her very much."
"I do." John leaned against the door frame, but even the sharp wood digging into his flesh couldn't banish the captivating vision of Zalika's buttocks. "Where would I ever find another woman like her?"
"You're handsome, gentle, and loyal," Zalika replied. "Women would kill to have a boyfriend like you."
"Really?" John looked up.
"Absolutely. I know I would." An odd smile flickered across Zalika's face, there and gone before John could react. "It's touching. You want so desperately to please her, but you're not sure you can." She slipped a finger inside herself; it went in with a soft shlurp. "Let me teach you, John. I can show you how to please her. You might say I'm something of an expert on the subject. Have you tried different techniques? Positions?"
"Yes, but..." John took a step toward the bed. "I mean... how many different ways to have sex are there?"
"As many as the mind can imagine," Zalika replied. "For example, do you have anal sex with her?"
"Ag-" John's eyes goggled; he retreated a step. "No!"
"Why not?"
"Well- She's not- I mean-"
"You mean you never had the courage to ask her," Zalika interjected. "You don't know she wouldn't enjoy it."
"But-"
"It's perfectly healthy if you take a few basic precautions," Zalika continued. "And quite stimulating if you know how to do it. Half your pelvic nerve endings are in your anus. A lot of women claim not to like it, but that's mainly because they've had bad experiences or their partners don't know how to make it fun. And you want to do it, John. You want it so much you can taste it."
"Um-" John took another step forward.
"Come now," Zalika admonished gently. "If a lady asks you to sodomize her, surely it's not gentlemanly to refuse?"
"Ah-" John took another step. Intellectually Zalika's reasoning sounded spurious. To another part of him, whose desires and concerns were of a much simpler, more straightforward nature, it made perfect sense.
"If you're asked later, you can always claim it's not really intercourse," Zalika said with a chuckle. "Or better yet, tell the truth. That you did it to learn how better to pleasure your lady friend."
John took another step.
"That's better." Zalika extended her leg, catching his penis between her toes and pulling him close. "The first step, as with any sexual encounter, is to prepare. Pick up that tube you see by your right foot."
John knelt, picking it up. "What is it?"
"KY jelly. The anus isn't self lubricating. Put a little on your left index finger and smear it around the hole. Then take your other hand-" she caught his in one of hers, guiding his fingers between her legs from the front. "You get the idea. Your lady will agree to anything at all if you apply yourself diligently." She stiffened, drawing a sharp breath as John's fingers set to work. "Good, good. Very good." She sighed heavily. "Now... go in with your left hand. Gently, gently... the sphincter has to be... persuaded to relax." Her eyelids drooped, narrowing her eyes to slits. "Yes... All the way in. Both hands. Good. Good."
John felt Zalika quivering, the rhythmic tensing and relaxing of her muscles. His lips drew back from his teeth, less a smile than a reaction to the tensions he felt building inside him. His cock was so hard it ached.
"Now," Zalika gasped. "Put it in!" She thrust her pelvis at him. John freed his left hand, grabbing her thigh just above the knee, using it and pressure with his other hand against her crotch to guide her into position. He leaned forward, pressing the head of his penis against her sphincter. It yielded suddenly, his shaft sliding in until his pelvis stopped against hers. He switched hands, holding her leg with his right and probing her vulva with his left. His first tentative strokes slid smoothly; he'd added enough jelly. He gasped as Zalika clenched herself tightly around his shaft. Hot pleasure burned away his doubts and concerns; he started pumping, slowly at first, then faster and faster-
"Slow down!" Zalika restrained him with a hand on his hip. "Don't be... in such a hurry. Draw out... the pleasure."
John forged ahead at a slow, steady pace, exhaling sharply at the end of each stroke. As he drew out Zalika clenched her anus tightly and he'd gasp. It went on and on; time ceased to have any meaning- until John felt the pressure of orgasm building rapidly inside him, on the verge of bursting out. He sped up; he couldn't help it. In the moment of release he jammed himself against Zalika, arching his back, shuddering and groaning as every muscle in his body seemed to clench tight. That too went on and on, pulse after pulse, until he was utterly spent. He groaned, slumping forward over Zalika and gasping for breath. He felt like he'd shot about a liter.
"My, my," Zalika murmured, stroking John's head. "If that's what you've got in you, I'm surprised Esmerelda ever lets you out of bed." Gently she levered him off and sat up. "Come on now, darling. Time to clean up." She slid off the bed, pulling him to his feet.
"Uh?" Afterglow fogged John's mind with warm, fuzzy pleasure.
"There are bacteria in the lower intestinal tract that, while quite happy there, can put up a ruckus if introduced to other areas, such as the mouth or vagina."
"Urm?"
"We're not done yet, not by a long shot." Zalika steered John into a large master bathroom. It had a huge enamel bathtub with a wrap-around curtain and a gigantic shower head. Zalika turned on the water, adjusted it, pushed John in, then joined him.
"W- w- what's that?" John stammered as Zalika produced what appeared to be a hot water bottle with a long hose attached.
Zalika giggled. "You mean you've never seen an enema bottle before?"
"Ack-" John stumbled and almost fell out of the tub.
"Oh, calm down," Zalika admonished. "It's not for you. Unless you want to try it, of course." She filled it at the shower head, then hung it from a hook on the stand pipe. "Be a dear and put this in, won't you?" She handed John the nozzle.
"Um..." John stared at it in horrid fascination.
"Now now, you've put plenty of other stuff in there, surely this isn't so bad," Zalika said, waggling her bottom at him.
"Ah, okay." John cautiously inserted the nozzle. Nothing happened while the bag drained but he couldn't tear his eyes away.
"Pull it out," Zalika directed. "And stand back."
"Huh?" John blinked, then yelped as water sprayed out across the fronts of his legs.
"Sorry." Zalika tittered. "Couldn't resist. Now..." she lathered her hands with a bar of soap. "Time to get you cleaned up." She grabbed John's penis, squeezing and massaging it.
"Oh- uh... ohhhh..." John gaped. Zalika was big for a woman, as tall as him and probably as heavy. Though unquestionably feminine her hands were large and, he discovered, powerful. In a few minutes his tool was not only clean but stiffening up, too.
"There." Zalika stepped aside to let the water rinse John clean. "Now we're ready for stage two of your instruction." She shut off the water. "Out." No sooner had he stepped out of the tub when she pushed him against the tiled wall. From the wash stand she fetched two objects. One he recognized: a tube of KY jelly. The other was an ivory rod about twenty centimeters long and about two and a half in diameter. Its surface had been intricately carved with intertwined figures. One end flared out slightly, forming a stand; the other resembled a flower bud with leaves.
"Since I let you put your thingy in my bottom," Zalika said, smearing KY on the rounded tip of the rod, "I think it's only fair I get to put my thingy in your bottom. But don't worry." She chuckl