I kept my explanations short. What was there to say, beyond "my brother cursed me because I'm annoying and he died before he could undo it, so I'm essentially stuck with being a magnet for trouble until I die."
It didn't even take two sentences.
Atticus took the news in surprising stride, as though, now that I mentioned it, that did explain a few things. I tried not to feel insulted.
After utilizing his shadows to take us to one of his pre-arranged safe houses, we plotted out our next moves. While we discussed, the resolved and unresolved tensions of our kiss hung heavy in each traded lingering glance when we thought the other wasn't looking and pretended not to notice.
I hadn't expected to change his mind all at once, but I'd hoped to plant a seed of doubt and wonder that could one day blossom into something more. Eventually, he'd come to realize I really had nothing to lose by being around him, and only stood to gain the comfort of knowing I had someone I couldn't inadvertently permanently harm with my proximity.
Plus, I had a sneaking suspicion that the curse was only getting stronger. My childhood "incidents" of ill-fortune, although sporadic and annoying, rarely proved as disastrous as my more recent experiences, save for the plane crash. In the last year, I lost track of the number of times I should have died were it not for my healing. I shivered to imagine what that meant for the future.
"What happens after we dispose of the Guild?" I asked as I sketched out a barebones map of the city.
Atticus was an inheritor of great wealth and talent, but an artist he was not, so he merely indicated where different locations ought to be and sat back while I brought them to life. I couldn't draw them from memory. Despite living in the city for the vast majority of my life, half the time I could barely tell up from down, let alone general directions.
"We?" His nimble fingers drew a line over the page, detailing the river and its forking avenues. "Are you sure that's wise to throw your lot in with the likes of me?"
No adamant refusals. No condescending questions about how I could possibly help.
Instead of a response, I pressed, "What are we trying to do? If we somehow destroy the Guildhall, they'll only build another. We can't kill all the Supers, either, and even if we could, there's what? Nine other Guild branches in the country?"
"Seven."
I took time out of painstakingly sketching the large cathedral-like building that was the Guildhall to give Atticus a flat look. "Semantics. Are we really supposed to destroy all those individual power structures? That will only succeed in creating a power vacuum. Without an organized group of superheroes, supervillains will go unchecked. We'll need to put something in place to prevent that from happening."
His mouth tugged into a puzzled frown and he said, "I'm not trying to start a micro-revolution. I see no need to supplant the entire organization, so long as I can be rid of Warrick."
"Warrick?" I repeated. Who the hell was Warrick?
He nodded, a sharp, precise motion where not the barest centimeter was breached unnecessarily. "And perhaps the other Guild Elders, should they try to stop me."
Understanding at last dawned through the clouds of my confusion. "Oh. The Constable. Got it. We're using legal names now?"
"I think it's permitted when the person in question ruins your life, don't you?"
Slowly, I tore myself away from the paper to stare hard into his eyes, straight faced, because I couldn't resist. "That's why you should have told me your real identity a lot earlier. It's only fair."
CZYTASZ
Super•Villainous
Fantasy"I've been looking for you." There was an unexpected rasp to his voice, a hint of desperation. He stretched out one hand, as if to brush it across my cheek, or perhaps wrap it around my throat. Oddly enough, I didn't know which option frightened me...
