A House of Cards  •  Act 3

Krissy thought Westerwild Gorge had been hot. She almost swooned from the heatwave that greeted her. She could feel the fire eating up all the oxygen in her body. She coughed as if that would help expel the heat, but it only further winded her. Around her stood the expiring remains of a tiny living room.

“H-hello? Hey! Where are you?! I’ve come to h-help!” Spark yelled over the laments of the fire as she spun around, peeking down burning hallways and into a blazing kitchen. She shrieked when a chunk of burning ceiling crashed down in another room.

“Hurry! Give me a sign!” Spark said. She thundered up a narrow, twisting staircase onto a landing with three doors. Her heart jumped. She could definitely hear coughing now—just barely, over the sound of her own.

“HEY! Wherever you are, I need you to—hack—sc-scream or, b-bang on something, as loud as you can!” Spark said shrilly, ducking into a bedroom and a bathroom. Three loud thuds sounded through the wall to her right.

“Ah! I hear you! Keep pounding!”

She shot back out of the master suite, and nearly collided with Vahaadi. He dodged to let her pass and followed her into a small bedroom.

Flame coated nearly every surface. It had eaten through the ceiling, exposing the pipes and beams. Spark squinted around in dismay, the air warping under her vision from the intense heat. Her eyes stung.

Nestled against the far wall stood a short wardrobe, tightly shut against the flame.

Thud…thud…thud…

Each thud was weaker than the last. Spark darted through the room and dove for the door knob, and was rewarded with a painful welt from the burning metal. She yelped and tears leaped into her eyes. She shook her hand out, hissing loudly through her teeth, swallowed hard, and reached out again, ready for the pain this time. She wrenched the cabinet open.

A little boy was coiled up in a pile of old clothes. Krissy could see that his left arm was so badly burned that bone peeked through split skin. His red face was streaked with tears and heat blisters. Spark’s stomach lurched.

“It’s OK, I got you—” she said, her voice catching with distress at the sight of his agonizing burns, but just as she moved to haul him into her arms, there was a blood-curdling crack from above.

The roof caved in.

Spark screamed and lunged to shield the boy as cinders showered them. Spark felt them biting her skin as they rained down on her back. The boy wept into her shoulder, choking on tears and smoke.

This was it, this was surely how it ended.

Yet…

“Sp-SPARK, move!” Vahaadi said through gritted teeth. Spark glanced over her shoulder in awestruck relief.

Vahaadi stood over her, barely managing to brace a fallen beam across his shoulders.  The clothing that Spark had worried would be “too warm” for him was drenched in flame. He was shuddering with pain, but still standing.

“ARE YOU WAITING FOR AN INVITATION?!” Vahaadi snarled at her in a voice raw with smoke.

Spark’s wits snapped back.

“C’mon, buddy, come here!” she said hoarsely to the child. He wrapped his arms around her, and Spark’s stomach clenched in compassion and horror at the sensation of exposed bone clamping against her shoulder. She pinned the child hard against herself with one arm and hurled a firebomb with the other to blast an opening in the outer wall. The house groaned and Vahaadi grunted as the beam sagged lower on him. It crashed down just as Spark jolted from the room.

It was harder than she expected to fly while carrying someone. She burst from the upper level of the crumbling house and let her momentum carry her toward flashing blue and red lights. She toppled to her feet and then onto her knees amidst gasps and shouts.

“P-please,” she rasped, as the tears pooled at the edges of her mask. She coughed heavily. “Please, help him…!”

The boy was lifted from her arms, and she braced her weight against the sidewalk to keep from collapsing. Her bodysuit was thinner than her normal clothes and she would have been quite cold under normal circumstances, but the cool air was blessedly welcome on her burned hand and lungs. There was urgent bustle all around her.

“She’s a superhero?!”

“This is Andrews to dispatch—”

“Are you OK?”

“Get me a mask!”

A paramedic grabbed her shoulder and eased her upright, cupping an oxygen mask to her face.

“There you go, just breathe deep.”

Spark’s head spun. EMTs were barking orders at each other while the house continued to roar and sputter. Beams in the house cracked. Firefighters shouted. Water crashed against the flames. Nearby, Spark could hear the rapid voice of a television reporter describing the scene.

Vahaadi appeared on the edge of the chaos, unnoticed. He coughed and swatted at the cinders clinging to the blackened tatters of his clothes. Though immune to the sting of flames, He felt bloated and dizzy, with a lingering pain where the beam had hit and cracked a few of his vertebrae, but already, his contract was mending the damage. The djinni let out a long breath of air, feeling his lungs clear up, and looked around to find Spark.

Instead, his eyes happened upon a figure standing just beyond the perimeter of the fire’s glow. Vahaadi’s vision at this distance was quite poor, but he would recognize that silhouette anywhere.

Sabo.

A sensation like ice water filled Vahaadi’s chest. This had been Sabo’s doing. The house fire was a trap, and Vahaadi had unwittingly foiled it.

He might have been free.

If Mr. Sabo saw Vahaadi looking at him, he made no sign. A first responder passed Vahaadi’s line of vision. By the time she’d cleared Vahaadi’s view, Mr. Sabo had disappeared. Vahaadi’s lip curled. His eyes sought out Spark again, but this time, with bitterness.

She’d survived, but only just.

Meanwhile, Spark was fighting to concentrate. She could feel her strength slipping, and she knew that as soon as she relaxed, her powers would fall away, leaving her scrawny true self for all the onlookers to gawk at. She pushed the oxygen mask away.

“Th-thank you.”

“Miss, we need to get you to the hospital—”

“Did you just fly out of that house? Who are you, exactly?” came the nagging voice of a reporter.

This hadn’t quite been the way Spark had wanted to make her public debut as a superhero—shaky, hurt, smeared with tears and cinders, cradling her burned hand—but there was no avoiding it now. Not only was there a professional news camera in her face, but all the onlookers under forty were recording the scene on their phones.

She let out a breath and stood.

“I’m Spark. And I’m here to help,” she said in a voice that was discouragingly thin.

She launched herself up into the air amid gasps and fled from the scene.

Spark couldn’t quite make it home before pain forced her to land again. She stumbled onto the flat roof of an old community playhouse, hoping its oversized façade would hide her from direct view of the street. Her own façade fizzled out, and Krissy bit back sobs as she reached for her phone to Google burn treatments.

Vahaadi’s amorphous smoke form circled around, checking for onlookers before flitting to investigate a roof access. He shimmered out of view, and Krissy heard a lock open.

“Come on,” Vahaadi urged, reclaiming his physical body behind Krissy. He cupped his arm around her to usher her toward the door and out of the cold. Krissy couldn’t even protest at how un-superhero-like it was to trespass or think to look for cameras. She was trying not to imagine how much worse pain that little boy must be in right now, while debating whether her own burn warranted a trip to the hospital.

Vahaadi led her down into the playhouse, cautiously picking their way through a clutter of props and equipment. Krissy tried to peel the oculus from her swollen finger, whimpering. Blister fluid leaked under the metal.

“I think the building is empty,” Vahaadi whispered, peering through a curtain out into the theater. A lone, bare bulb on a stand hummed in the middle of the stage, casting ghoulish shadows over a plywood forest set.

He turned and compelled Krissy to sit down on a set piece, kneeling at her feet. He cradled her hand in both of his, and Krissy felt his magic swirl over her skin, twining between her fingers and around the ring. The oculus sublimed to mist, and he pulled it away from her hand, revealing a terrible ring-shaped welt underneath. Krissy hissed and tears trickled down her face.

He conjured an old canteen from his aetherealm and dumped it out onto her hand, not caring that the water splashed his knees as it sloshed onto the floor.

His hands trembled while he worked.

She could have died.

She should have died.

His freedom had been one fallen beam away and he’d stopped it.

Silence lapsed between them while he began gently wrapping her hand with a linen bandage. Krissy’s shaky breathing began to settle. She rubbed tears and soot from her face with her sleeve.

“Thank you, Vahaadi,” she said, her voice sticky but brimming with gratitude.

He slowed. He was serving, again, without demanding a wish. This would be the perfect opportunity to trick her into asking for the burn to go away only to viciously remove her entire arm, or something comparably cruel. But instead, he was tending to her all on his own, slavishly bending over the one who kept him captive. Self-loathing bloomed in his chest, but he resumed wrapping her hand.

“Whatever thy desire, I will obey,” he said quietly.

Krissy looked over him. Though she could see no injuries, he looked far worse off than she did. His new clothes were a charred mess. Her measly little burn could hardly compare to catching a flame-sodden roof with his scapulae. And yet, he was caring for her, and she hadn’t even asked.

“There’s something I don’t get about you, Vahaadi. All the loretreaders treat you like you’re a snake that’s going to bite, but…you’re actually really sweet,” she said.

No one had ever accused Vahaadi of being sweet before.

The thought struck him dumb. She took his subservience for kindness? Was that why she was so annoyingly taken by him?

Involuntarily, he looked up to meet her eyes, so full of tenderness…and utter delusion.

He summoned a courtly smile. He was not kind, but he could certainly fake it.

“I’m your friend, aren’t I?’” he said, and he held his hand up to solicit their unique “high-five.” Krissy bit her lip and grinned, placing her unburned palm against his and lacing their fingers.

Krissy’s parents believed her when she told them she’d been playing with fireworks, but she’d gotten the lecture of her life and her dad had started researching pyromania treatments and support groups again.

Rosetta Preparatory High School was buzzing with the news of the weekends’ bizarre events: the destruction of the library, and the huge house fire in the Brookshire neighborhood. Krissy’s poker face was getting quite a workout with every mention of monsters, arson, or superheroes.

On one hand, she could hardly contain her excitement. She’d spent all her life feeling like a secretive outsider like the superheroes she so admired, and now, she was actually experiencing what it was like to pretend to just be Flint Fletcher when she knew she was really Arrowman.

On the other hand, not all the rumors were good.

Krissy was in line for lunch when she picked up on a familiar but unwelcome voice: that of Eden Jacobs, Beverly Nicholls’ right-hand human steamroller. She was sitting at a nearby table with the rest of the Hater Brigade. Beverly was distinctly absent.

“Did y’all hear about that superhero?”

“It was some kind of publicity stunt.”

“Well, if it was a setup, I don’t think it went right.”

“Yeah, that ‘Spark’ chick was a wreck.”

“Don’t you think that makes it more real, though? I mean, if they were trying to debut a new superhero for a dumb show, it seems like they wouldn’t have let her get hurt and come out coughing and spluttering. They would have given her this grand entrance.”

“Maybe that ridiculous hair got snagged on something before she could make her show-stopping appearance.”

“Ha! What the heck was up with that girl’s hair, anyway? Is she supposed to be a superhero or a shampoo model?”

“Her hairspray probably started the fire.”

Krissy bristled, but tried to force the anger down. Let them scoff. She was a superhero.

She collected her lunch and wandered out to the courtyard. Finding an isolated bench, she sat down and began flipping through news articles on her phone. Spark’s face was everywhere.

“Looks like your secret identity won’t do you any good now. Your parents will know all about your little double-life when they see these,” came a quiet, dry voice right at her ear.

Though Vahaadi had grumbled about staying invisibly and incorporeally in the aetherealm all day, he’d protested even more at getting left home. Krissy could vaguely sense him sitting beside her on the bench, looking over her shoulder at all the pictures of “Spark.”

“Nah, it doesn’t work that way. I was in disguise,” Krissy said with great surety, clumsily trying to maneuver her fork on her tray. “You’d think everyone would recognize Arrowman even when he’s wearing his glasses, but in comics, as long as you have a superhero mask, nobody can tell who you are! It’s like a mental block or something.”

“That’s ridiculous. Just because it happens that way in stories doesn’t mean it’s reality.”

“Says the magical djinni who literally came out of a book. Being able to fly and throw fireballs isn’t reality either, but you granted those wishes just fine. We’re just lucky no one’s posted any pictures of you. I don’t think your ‘Grant’ persona would pass muste—”

She cut herself off then as her gaze caught on a fresh article titled, “Spark: Superhero or Supernatural?” It was headed with an eerie photo of Spark bent over the little boy.

“What the fritz…? Vahaadi, listen to this,” she said, skipping down a few paragraphs and reading aloud:

While many speculate Spark to be the product of a hoax, the circumstances of an alleged victim have spurred rumors of a more paranormal explanation.

Video footage from multiple eyewitnesses showed an injured child rushed from the scene in an ambulance, but emergency personnel at the Sawa Memorial Hospital claim that the unidentified victim vanished during treatment.

“We had the kid all hooked up, standard procedure,” explained EMT Jason Kading. “He looked like he was breathing and everything, but we couldn’t get any readings off him. No heartbeat. Then the lights flickered and he just disappeared.”

Kading’s account was verified by five other responders, including ambulance driver Isaac Anders.

“As soon as we took off, I just felt the weirdest shiver go down my spine,” recounted Anders. “We hit Dawn Avenue, and all of a sudden I hear the guys shouting in the back, ‘he’s gone!’”  

Police have urged Rosetta residents to be on the watch for the child, believed to be four years old, and suffering from severe burns. But there are some who doubt that the boy is real at all.

“ ‘Real at all’?” Krissy repeated in disbelief. “What are they saying, they think this kid is a…a ghost?”

She kept reading.

“We’re doing everything we can to find the child, but there are so many things about this incident that don’t add up,” said detective Cassidy McClain. “This was a tight-knit community. No one seems to know who this kid is.”

Public records indicate that the house where the fire occurred has been unoccupied since it was condemned in June of 2014.

“That house didn’t look unoccupied,” Vahaadi said.

“This is crazy! It’s bad enough they think I’m a fake, but that little boy was no ghost! I held him myself!” Krissy said hotly, remembering the weight of him in her arms—the horrific sensation of his exposed bone against her shoulder.

Vahaadi rubbed his jaw. Humans were not djinn. They couldn’t just vanish like he could—except one, he remembered with a start. He squinted at the photo of the boy.

The iris of his left eye was squared, like a die.

“Hm, very strange,” Vahaadi said, careful to keep his voice measured.

But Krissy wasn’t ready to drop it just like that. “We’ve gotta get to the bottom of this. This is freaky. He could be out there—”

“Aspiring suitor incoming,” Vahaadi said.

“What?”

“Krissy!” said Anthem, materializing at Krissy’s side and waving her PurpleX notebook at her. Krissy jumped, hoping he hadn’t noticed her talking to the air. “I forgot we didn’t have Mr. Vanderhoeven today. I hoped I’d be able to catch you at lun—oh my gosh! What happened to your hand?!” he yelped when Krissy reached out for the notebook.

“Oh, haha…you should see the other guy.”

Anthem chuckled and rolled his eyes. He had a pretty nice laugh, despite his cracking voice. “OK. I walked right into that one. But, seriously, are you OK?”

“Just dandy!” she lied.

“Good,” Anthem said. Then his face fell, and he fidgeted. “Hey…can I sit with you?”

“Sure!” Krissy scooted over to give him room. He sank down beside her, looking troubled.

“Um…speaking of ‘the other guy,’” Anthem said hesitantly.

“Here it comes,” Vahaadi whispered.

“The guy from yesterday? Grant? He seems kind of…old for you. I know it’s none of my business, but, do your parents know your boyfriend is in his thirties?”

Krissy nearly choked on her chicken nugget. Vahaadi, unheard by Anthem, roared with laughter.

“Wha-pluh-hack-GRANT IS NOT MY BOYFRIEND. Gross. I’m pretty sure he’s old enough to be my dad!” And that didn’t even account for the immortality. “Or like, my great, great, great—”

Anthem flushed. “But…Thomas thought…and, and you were holding his hand and, like…touching his face and stuff,” he stammered, growing redder with each word.

Krissy looked at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean anything.” She had always been very touchy, no matter how much her therapists tried to cue her to consider “appropriateness.” What was personal space but a waste of space?

Anthem didn’t look convinced. He stared at her plaintively.

Krissy sighed, then feigned anxiety. “Look…can I tell you a secret? You have to promise you won’t tell anyone about it, ever.”

“I can’t make a promise like that if you’re in danger, Krissy,” he said, looking torn.

“No, no. It’s not like that. The thing is, I’m super safe. Uh, that is, really safe. See, Grant’s kinda…” Krissy scrunched up one eye in a sheepish expression. “…My bodyguard.”

“What?” Anthem squawked.

“Sh!” Krissy said, pretending to check for eavesdroppers. “Look, OK, my mom…she does some work for the government. The Pilates trainer thing is just a cover-up, you know? Anyway, since she deals with intel, she’s gotta make sure I’m safe wherever I go, in case ‘work’ ever catches up with her.”

“You play air hockey and Dance ’til you Die with your bodyguard?” Anthem pressed.

“I don’t have any other friends!” Krissy said, alarmed at the desperation and sincerity in her own voice. “I’ve been home-schooled my whole life because of Mom’s job. I had to beg her to let me try public school just for one year, and only if I let Grant tail me everywhere!”

Well, so much for the sincerity.

Anthem sat up ramrod straight. “Where is he now?”

“Closer than you’d guess,” Krissy said, trying her best to appear apologetic. “Staying out of sight is kind of his specialty.” Vahaadi scoffed beside her.

Anthem glanced nervously around. Krissy put her hand on his shoulder to return his attention to her. “The point is,” she plead, “If my parents hear that someone’s found out about all of this, they’ll make me move again! This is my one chance to have a normal life with normal friends. So, please…promise you won’t tell anyone?”

Anthem hesitated. Krissy could practically see the gears in his head turning, trying to grasp the possibility of Mrs. Cliffords being some kind of international super spy.

“All right,” he relented. “But, on one condition.” He flicked his gaze up to her with a sorrowful look. “Will you let me be one of your normal friends?”

Krissy gave him a charmed, lopsided smile. “Should I pinky swear on it?” she teased, offering her extended little finger. To her surprise, he firmly coiled his own pinky around hers. Her smile disappeared, flustered. Anthem let go immediately, and shoved his hand in his pocket. Krissy’s hand fluttered, as if she didn’t quite know what to do with it, and settled on swiping her bangs behind her ear.

She couldn’t see him, but she knew Vahaadi was grinning.