1 Chapter 1

1

The Sinister Sorcerer’s cape caught the wind. Fluttered. Wreathed his flying form with imposing eerie green. That well-practiced supervillain laugh rattled buildings and sent a matching shiver down Ryan’s spine. The two of them hovered across from the Golden Gate Bridge and watched each other, trapped in a mutual mid-air stand-off.

The Sorcerer waved a hand. Storm clouds gathered. Rain pelted the world. A screech of threatened metal rose up from below.

“Don’t you dare,” Ryan told him, “there are people on that bridge—” and caught his balance amid wind and pointed a finger. Lightning flashed. Electric as his current, pun intended, superhero name. He was having second thoughts about going with Beacon. Too on the nose. Better than being the former Lightning Kid, Captain Justice’s teenage sidekick, though.

“Ow,” said the Sinister Sorcerer, who at home went by Holiday Jones or Holly or occasionally that person who left yesterday’s dishes in the sink; he jerked a foot out of the way, and glared. “You’re not supposed to actuallyshoot me!”

“It’s verisimilitude!”

“Big words from a former sidekick—”

“Getting a little toointo the role, aren’t you, did you forget who tied you up yesterday—”

“Both of you behave,” said John’s calm voice across their earpieces, “or no one’s getting to tie anyone up tonight. Holly, menace people without hurting them, please. Ryan, don’t shoot Holly in the foot, that’s either obviously purposeful or ridiculously awful bad aim. And let’s wrap this up soon, because the other Masters of Terror are starting to wonder whether they should leave the Terrible Tower and help. I’m hearing the calls out to henchmen, and you won’t let me out there to even the odds.”

Strategic. Experienced. Practical. John always had been the best, or at least most traditionally trained, among them. Good at plans and staging fake-but-believable battle scenes.

“Sorry,” Holly said immediately. He even visibly meant it. Sincerity behind the curling green and silver of his mask. In that elegant English accent. In those big anxious hazel eyes.

Which meant he was perilously close to dropping the whole supervillain persona that kept them informed about the Masters of Terror and secret plans to be foiled. Ryan sighed, but only internally. Holly, at nineteen, was nine years younger than his own twenty-eight, twenty-five years younger than John, and arguably more clever than both of them, but far less experienced as far as actual on-the-ground strategy. And more emotional, particularly when afraid he might’ve done something wrong.

There were reasons for that, of course.

Holly, continuing to apologize, went on, “Never mind, Ryan, you can shoot me, it’s fine, I heal fast—”

“I’m not going to seriously shoot you! I love you, you moron.” Ryan considered this phrasing, added, “You know what I mean. Sorry, John. And I love you too.” The rain got into his hair. Flattened it in black spikes over his face and the corner of his mask. He still wasn’t sure about the gold and dark grey color scheme, but at least he’d successfully argued for sleek and simple and functional over fanciful and ornate. He likedsleek and simple and functional.

He spared a second to glare at Holly, who was managing to float serenely between raindrops and stay dry. Definitelya Sinister Sorcerer. Charming his own personal weather.

“You’re both idiots,” John said, “but you’re my idiots. I’m making lasagna for dinner. We could all use the comfort after this. Ryan, shoot Holly, please.”

“I’m not—” An invisible hand, courtesy of one of Holly’s mystic rings of power, flipped Ryan upside down. The hand dangled him over rain-pummeled waters, out above the bay. This was not a good feeling. “Thank you verymuch, now I feel extramenaced—”

“I do have a plan,” John observed mildly. “If you both would shut up and accept the benefit of my age and wisdom. Holiday, you’re supposed to be attacking the bridge and demonstrating your utter rage at the foolish complacency of humanity, not wasting time on a former sidekick who should be beneath your notice—sorry, Ryan, you know I don’t mean that—”

“I know,” Ryan said, doing a flip back upright with the aid of a lightning-bolt and momentum. The reminder would’ve stung, and from someone else it still would, but John trusted him. He knew that. In his bones. In his soul. “And also, for the record, your age and wisdom are what got you stuck at home recovering from a lungful of Doctor Dread’s poison compound. Are you using the inhaler we got you from Moon Labs? Go lie down. Don’t make dinner. We can pick something up after this.”

Holly had started throwing cars off the bridge, being careful to select only the abandoned ones. Fleeing citizens, not privy to this information, shrieked and scurried and dropped belongings.