Stiletto appeared in the open doorway of Strategos’ office like a dark ghost—not there one moment, there the next. Only a lifetime of experience kept the headmaster from jumping up from his desk in startle.
Stiletto stood framed by the doorway, making no effort to go inside. Her suspicious green eyes swept Strategos’ office like a cop’s hunting for a concealed killer.
The headmaster’s office was perched within the highest tower of Prometheus Academy, directly beneath one of the mystic orbs that cloaked Villains Island in a protective stealth field. The workspace had an air of old-world authority and grandeur. Rare books lined dark wooden shelves, and a world globe from a bygone era rested on an intricately carved pedestal. The room was bathed in a gentle light filtering through stained-glass windows, casting vibrant patterns on plush rugs that added a note of hominess to the cold stone floor.
Strategos sat at the Resolute Desk. The famous piece of furniture had been a gift from Queen Victoria to U.S. President Rutherford B. Hayes, and subsequently had been the centerpiece of the White House’s Oval Office for generations. The so-called Resolute Desk currently featured in the Oval Office was a cunning replica. The one Strategos sat behind was the genuine article, a gift to a former headmaster by Potemkin, who had smuggled it from the White House during her infamous impersonation of President Gomez.
On the stone wall behind the Resolute Desk hung one of the five original paintings of Napoleon Crossing the Alps. This masterpiece was also stolen, with a reproduction in the original’s place in Versailles. Like the Resolute Desk, the authorities had no idea the reproduction was a fake.
Conspicuously absent from Strategos’ office was a computer or anything with an electronic brain more complicated than a calculator’s. All his records were kept either in the vault hidden behind the large Napoleon Crossing the Alps painting, or in the heads of Strategos and his secretary. Keeping sensitive information computerized in an institution full of criminally-inclined, tech-savvy young minds was beyond foolish.
If there was one thing Strategos was not, it was foolish.
As Stiletto continued to survey Strategos’ office from its threshold, her probing eyes had the same patina of cheekiness they always did, like she was remembering a dirty joke. The rest of her looked the same, too—she wore a fusion of a ninja’s robes and a knight’s armor, including a black hood and face mask that only left exposed her green eyes and that ridiculous radioactive-red hair. A dagger was on her belt and a katana was strapped to her back. They were but a hint of how well-armed she was. Strategos knew Stiletto was practically a walking armory. He had never seen her pull a tactical nuclear warhead out of the folds of her outfit, but if she someday did, he would not be surprised.
Out of the corner of his eye, Strategos saw his elderly secretary Mildred Rottingham sidle soundlessly up behind Stiletto and stop a few feet away from her, awaiting instructions.
Her back to Mrs. Rottingham, Stiletto spoke for the first time.
“Tell your septuagenarian flunky to stop skulking behind me,” she announced cheerfully, “or she’s going to meet her Maker a few years ahead of schedule.”
But Mrs. Rottingham didn’t move. It wasn’t until Strategos gave a slight, almost imperceptible head shake that his secretary withdrew, disappearing from view.
Apparently satisfied that Strategos’ office was not full of bogeymen ready to waylay her, Stiletto closed his door, locked it without asking—Damn her eyes! Strategos thought—and strutted over to the Resolute Desk. It was always this way with her—she strutted, she glided, she padded, she undulated . . . sometimes, when she was feeling particularly puckish, she skipped. She never simply walked like a normal person. It was beyond annoying.
As was the way she plopped heavily into the chair before the Resolute Desk, sprawling in it like an insolent teenager.
“You summoned me, oh wise and mighty liege?” Stiletto said, her green eyes sparkling.
Strategos tried to keep his mounting irritation under control.
“Yes, I summoned you. Two days ago.”
“I’ve been busy.” Stiletto propped her feet up on the edge of the Resolute Desk, nearly knocking his pen cup over as she swished them back and forth like metronomes. Strategos moved the cup back to its proper spot. Everything in his life had its proper spot. He abhorred the untidy and unpredictable; it was one of the reasons why he wasn’t fond of the school’s Stealth Division head. “I’ve been catching up with girlfriends over mimosas,” Stiletto added, “getting my nails done, shopping for lingerie . . . you know how it is.”
Strategos stared at her swishing feet.
“Put your feet down,” he ordered.
“Nah. I’m more comfortable this way. That new lingerie I bought is riding up my lady bits. I think I got the wrong size. Don’t you want your guest to be comfortable? What kind of host are you, Arthur?” Despite his many resources, Strategos had never figured out how Stiletto had learned his real name, the one on his birth certificate, the one not even his wife of over thirty years knew. He thought he had buried his birth name so deep that it had burned up in the Earth’s molten core.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Strategos met Stiletto’s insolent eyes.
“Remove your feet,” the headmaster said, “or I will remove them for you. Permanently.”
Stiletto’s feet froze, as did the rest of her, like a snake poised to strike. Her normally liquid green eyes were suddenly hard as emeralds.
“Do you really want to do this now?” Her perpetually amused tone was gone. “Bastion’s not here to protect you. The door’s locked. No one can save you in time, not even your AARP henchwoman. Do you actually believe you can take me all by your lonesome?”
Strategos held her hard gaze. “There’s one way to find out.”
The two stared at each other for several long beats. The threat of violence hung in the air like thick fog.
Then, just as suddenly, it dissipated. Stiletto laughed merrily, dropping her feet to the floor.
“I’d forgotten how fun you are, Arthur. We really should have these tête-à-têtes more often.”
She sat up straight and folded her hands in her lap demurely, her eyes dancing again. “How may I serve you today, my lord?”
Strategos reached for a manila folder on his desk and opened it, pretending to read its contents. In reality, he had studied it so often, he practically had the file memorized. He was buying time until he trusted himself to speak without his voice cracking. He knew the Angel of Death might have just brushed his shoulder. Due to Stiletto being immune to his Unreal power, he never could be sure how far he could push her. But he had to put her in her proper place from time to time. If he didn’t, she would run roughshod over him and the rest of the school. More so than she already did, that is.
Strategos finally looked up from the file, thinking he had let Stiletto cool her heels long enough.
“Maximilian Blackwood,” he said.
“Who’s that?” Stiletto replied.
Strategos wanted to fling the file at Stiletto’s head. He knew she knew exactly who the boy was. She was toying with him. He fought to keep his annoyance out of his voice. “Maximilian Blackwood is the young man you recruited from Rebel County, Mississippi.”
“Blackwood . . . Blackwood . . .” Stiletto snapped her fingers. “Oh yes. I remember now. Opie. You calling him Maximilian threw me for a loop. And there’s nobody here but us chickens, so let’s call a spade a spade—I abducted him.”
“Indeed you did. The question is why.”
Stiletto shrugged. “Why not? Seems like a nice enough kid. Smells a bit like biscuits. I like biscuits.”
“We don’t recruit students for their aromas. Or their pleasantness. As you well know. Students are only brought here involuntarily when they possess a unique skill or ability beneficial to our objectives, when they are potential threats whom the Hero Academies might mold into formidable adversaries, or when they are wild cards whose unchecked powers could wreak societal havoc without the structured guidance we provide. None of those exceptions apply to Mr. Blackwood.”
“I’m well aware of what the school’s charter says about conscripted students, Arthur. But you’re forgetting the charter also says a direct descendant of the school’s founder can use her discretion to recruit any additional students she sees fit.” She batted her eyes at Strategos. “I think I have my dear old great-great-great-grandpappy’s eyes, don’t you?”
“Your discretion is to be exercised in consultation with the headmaster.”
“Consider yourself consulted.”
“Mr. Blackwood is not a good fit for Prometheus Academy.” Strategos shook Blackwood’s file. “His psych evaluations make that abundantly clear. Temperamentally, he’s better suited for one of the Hero Academies. And not even they want him according to your own report on the boy.”
“I’ve got a good feeling about him,” Stiletto said. “He’s going to make a great Villain. I’ve learned to trust my gut. It hasn’t let me down yet.”
“Mr. Blackwood is occupying a coveted spot in the incoming class that should go to someone more deserving. Someone more amenable to our view of the world.”
“You mean your view of the world.”
“My view is the school’s view. And vice versa. I will not have this boy at my school. And that’s final.”
“You’re so cute when you put your foot down,” Stiletto said.
“Blast you, I mean it.”
“And I mean it when I say I see a lot of untapped potential in Max. It’s disappointing that my very own headmaster doesn’t trust the judgment of one of his most respected Division heads.”
Stiletto put the back of her gloved hand up to her forehead like a ham actor. “Oh, the humanity!”
She shook her head in mock sorrow.
“Arthur, maybe I should resign in light of your lack of confidence in me. Or maybe you should resign for not trusting the heir of the founder of this noble institution. Either way, it’s clear that one of us must go.
“Tell you what let’s do—let’s put the matter before the Board of Governors,” Stiletto said. “Let them decide who should stay and who should go. Golly, I wonder who they’ll pick. Me, a fellow Governor who’s a member of one of the most storied Villain families in history? Or you, a johnny-come-lately who’s little more than a hired hand? The help, as those of us who are your betters might have called you in a franker, less PC time.”
Stiletto tapped her chin thoughtfully.
“Hmmm, a tough call, that one. I’m on pins and needles to find out how the vote will turn out.”
Strategos didn’t need to use his powers to run simulations on what the result of the vote would be. He’d done it days before. The results had always been the same.
“Mr. Blackwood may stay,” he said grudgingly.
“Really?” Stiletto slapped her palms on the Resolute Desk in delight. “You don’t mean it? What an unexpected change in attitude. How wonderful! It warms my heart that two old friends can resolve their differences so amicably. Really renews one’s faith in humanity, you know?”
Stiletto stood.
“Well, if there’s nothing else to discuss, my liege, I’ll be on my way. I’m late for a hair appointment. These lustrous locks won’t dye themselves, you know.
“Oh wait—I almost forgot.”
Stiletto leaned over the Resolute Desk, put her face close to the pen holder, and screamed at the top of her lungs. Strategos wanted to cover his ears.
Then she straightened, winked at Strategos, and turned away. Strategos stopped her with a question.
“What’s this business with Blackwood really all about?” he demanded. “What game are you playing?”
“Game?” Stiletto’s eyes glittered giddily. “Why, hopscotch, of course. It’s my favorite. Toodles!”
Stiletto hopscotched to the door, flung it open, and bounced out. Strategos heard her giggling in the antechamber where Mrs. Rottingham’s desk sat.
“Why are you rubbing your ears, Mrs. Rottingham? An earache? You poor dear. You should turn down the gain of your hearing aids.”