The Collector? Was this guy a comic book villain? He had the gimmick down pat, but no costume... meh. Minus five, for lack of effort.

I'd heard of the Collector, of course. Everyone in the Nightside has. But I had thought he was either a small-time guy or some group working under the same name. A single guy with so many toys in his possession, and he only used them to get more stuff? Really?

John Taylor seemed to know him, though. Did they have some history? And, more importantly, was this really the future? And if it was, did the Collector really own a time machine?

I didn't believe time travel was impossible, not anymore. Well, I'd never really believed it was impossible-if it was, why would the Sixth Law exist?

But to time travel so casually, and without magic? Just to get something? The Gatekeeper would have pitched a fit, I was sure. But then, the White Council as a whole would have been appalled by the Nightside's nature and existence in general. If they had existed here, that is.

Hell's bells, can't believe I've started to miss the Council...

"Heard that one before, Collector," Taylor said. "Why are you here?"

The Collector looked past Taylor, at us. At...me? No. At Stark.

God, if he was here to take Stark away from us, I'd pay him just to keep the guy wherever he stored his stuff.

It wasn't that I disliked Stark, as a person. Well, I did, but like repels like, and all that. Stark made me think of what I could become if I let the Winter Mantle take over me. I shuddered, and it had nothing to do with the cold of this wrecked city.

No, it was what he did. Stark saw nothing wrong with murdering people he had a grudge against, or who just happened to piss him off. I'd seen his work, and heard the stories. He didn't have a problem with stealing, either, especially stealing cars.

A few weeks ago, when I was still making a name for myself in the Nightside, I bought a car from a dealer who'd owned me a favor at the time. Not an old car, to prevent it from falling apart in the presence of a wizard, like my Blue Beetle back home.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

No, this had been a sleek, modern car, enchanted so it was strengthened by my magic rather than destroyed by it.

And while I was away on a case, Stark had stolen it, somehow getting past the wards and protections, and crashed it while chasing one of his targets on a bounty hunt.

Asshole.

Why my car, anyway? He hadn't even apologized. In fact, this mess I was currently into was the first time we'd talked, and then only out of need. I hadn't especially enjoyed it.

"Not for you, Taylor," the Collector said, interrupting my train of thought. Right. Stark. What could he have that this weirdo would want?

"Careful where you're looking, pretty boy," Stark said with a smirk." My balls are down here."

The Collector frowned. Yeah, no way he wanted Stark himself. Something he had, then.

"Sandman Slim," the Collector said, and Stark's smirk turned into a scowl. "You have something you do not deserve, and which I want. Which I need, actually."

"My ravishing good looks? Sure. If you just wait, I'll flay my face off, just for y-mhhhpphh!"

Suddenly, the Collector held some sort of wand or rod in his hand, and was pointing it at Stark. It was golden, covered in azure circuit patterns, and looked high-tech. I couldn't sense any magic from it.

But what had happened to Stark? He had been talking, and then...

I turned to look, and couldn't help but gasp, despite myself. Stark's mouth was gone, replaced by smooth, blank flesh, like he'd never had a mouth. The Mantle eagerly snarled inside me, overjoyed at seeing a rival mutilated like this. I mentally stomped down on it. No, dammit. I wouldn't take joy from something like this.

I turned to the Collector, staff raised and a  Forzare spell prepared. "What the hell have you done to him?"

To my left, Jason Wolfe raised his monstrous gun. Chris covered his arms with aura, Suzie took aim with her shotgun, and Taylor glared at the Collector, hands in his white trenchcoat's pockets.

"Mphhph!" Stark managed to draw out. He held up his left hand. In his right was a black knife whose appearance alone set my teeth on edge.

What came next was even worse.

Eyes gleaming with amusement, Stark placed the knife's tip against the blank expanse where his mouth had been. Then, he began cutting. In seconds, he cut away enough to expose bloody teeth. Then, when the flesh tried to fuse together once more, he cut more, leaving a Glasgow grin on his face. The flesh didn't try to seal itself now. Maybe he'd scared it.

So, the wand had not erased Stark's mouth from existence. It had just fused his lips together.

'Just'.

"Nobody shuts me up, fatass," Stark grinned bloodily at the Collector. "If you were hoping to cut off my hoodoo, I'm happy to disappoint you."

The Collector looked a little green around the gills. He was not the only one. "There's no need for further unpleasantness, Mr. Stark. I just want something you have. Your Key."

Before I could ask what the hell he was talking about, Stark's grin widened. "Oh, only that? Sure. You're lucky I've always got it with me..."

He dug into one of his trenchcoat's pockets. The Collector smiled, one hand outstretched, as though Stark would throw him whatever Key he wanted.

Then, something gray flashed through the air, and the Collector screamed.

It happened so fast: one moment he was standing, smiling confidently, the next he was writhing on the ground, clothes in tatters, skin flayed. He shrieked bloody murder for several seconds, then disappeared in a flash of light.

Stark chuckled, drawing attention back to him. In one hand, he was holding what looked like a thick grey, barbed whip, covered in blood and pieces of skin stuck on its cruel barbs.

"Fucking moron," Stark laughed breathlessly. "Did he think I carry the Key in my pocket?"