CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Mr. Moonday, Part 2

"You're not going to call him, are you?" Sam guessed.

"Nope," the sales clerk agreed.

"I really do have a meeting with him, you know," Sam pushed.

“Yeah, sure,” the salesclerk raised her eyebrow at Sam, “and I’m the queen of—”

“—Mandy, what did I say about being snarky to customers?” asked a low-pitched voice that was like a dose of cool moonlight shining right into Sam’s ears.

“I shouldn’t do it because they’ll stop coming back,” the store clerk responded lazily like she’d said this line on a daily basis.

She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned at the tall, brown-skinned man in the crisp silver suit who’d just arrived within Sam’s field of view.

“Some people should stop coming back, Mr. Moonday,” she said, nodding toward Sam. “Says he’s got an appointment.”

A silver-haired man with wrinkles in his eyes and dark freckles around his Nubian nose gave Sam a grandfatherly smile.

“Mr. Shepard,” He said kindly. “An old acquaintance of mine said you’d be passing by.”

“Um,” Sam wasn’t sure, but there was something in the man’s silver-eyed gaze that seemed familiar to him, “yeah, I need a suit—”

Mr. Moonday raised a finger to stop Sam. He glanced right and then left before gesturing for Sam to come over with his hand.

“Let’s continue this conversation in the basement,” he said.

Sam followed Mr. Moonday to the back of the store where a single silver elevator was waiting to take them down into the basement. All the while, Sam racked his brain for a clue to this familiar vibe he was getting from the broad-shouldered man walking ahead of him.

“You’re wondering if we’ve met before,” Mr. Moonday guessed as he ushered Sam into the elevator. “The curiosity’s clear on your face.”

“Yeah, sorry, it’s just, I feel like we have,” Sam admitted.

“Well, that’s because we have met.” Mr. Moonday pressed [B] on the side panel, causing the elevator doors to close with a ding. “Although you probably wouldn’t remember it… you were very young then.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked as the elevator began its descent.

“Several times at your grandmother’s mansion,” Mr. Moonday said while he lowered his palm to around his thigh level. “You were about this tall back then.”

“You know Marie,” Sam realized.

Of course he knew Marie. Sam imagined there wasn’t a prominent individual in New York City who didn’t know her. They’d probably hung out during high-society events, sipping on champagne while discussing stuff that went over Sam’s head. Mr. Moonday had that vibe to him.

“I knew your father too,” Mr. Moonday added.

Sam’s throat went dry suddenly.

He hadn’t thought about his dad in a long time because he remembered his mom too whenever he did. What she became after what their family had lost, and what she’d done to his dad — these were memories Sam preferred to lock away deep inside him.

“Y-you…” Sam cleared his throat. “You knew my dad?”

Mr. Moonday glanced over his shoulder at Sam. There was a warm twinkle in his eye when he responded. “I made his suit too.”

A long moment of awkward silence followed while Sam’s thoughts drifted off to old memories of a chiseled, sun-kissed face framed by unruly dark-brown hair and teal-colored eyes that were a mirror reflection of Sam’s own looks.

Sam balled his right hand into a fist in order to stop it from shaking. Remembering his dad did that to him, and this was despite the fact that he’d resolved some of his feelings of that past tragedy only yesterday.

“How far down are we going?” he asked after he felt his ears pop.

They’d been traveling down for a long while now, and it seemed they had already gone past the city’s subway level.

“We’re nearly there,” Mr. Moonday explained. “I like to keep my workshop far away from prying eyes and ears.”

Soon enough, a chiming sound accompanied the elevator doors swinging open.

“Come on in,” Mr. Moonday said while he gave Sam another warm, grandfatherly smile. “I’m sure there will be a few things here that will catch your eye.”

Sam’s first impression of Mr. Moonday’s workshop was that he’d stepped into a sprawling labyrinth that was also a cross between a Costco and a Cold War bunker. Storage racks upon storage racks filled with wooden crates, plastic boxes, and metal cases formed neat rows along a wide, high-ceilinged interior space made entirely of cement.

“This is a workshop?” Sam asked while his eyes took in the scenery. “You’ve been busy…”

It smelled of lavender down here as well, although Sam thought he also caught a whiff of motor oil and burned rubber.

“This is my favorite workshop in the city,” he told Sam as they walked along the central aisle of the workshop. “It’s where I store my most inspired creations… and some of my more dangerous ones too.”

“You have more bunkers like this one around the city?” Sam whistled.

“I inherited quite a few from my predecessors, but this one I built myself back in the eighties when real-estate prices around SoHo dropped considerably thanks in large part to the Gorgon Calamity,” Mr. Moonday explained.

Sam had heard about the Gorgon Calamity, of course. Anyone living in New York City knew about the catastrophe that saw thousands of people turned to stone by an outbreak of horrors born from great envy.

It was an important piece of history for Sam too because that incident had also been his dad’s debut as a hero. His Mom had liked telling that story to Sam, especially the part where his dad had played a vital role in defeating an ancient horror known as the Gorgon, Euryale.

“Your inheritors,” Sam repeated. “You mean… you’re not the original Mr. Moonday?”

His host laughed out loud at Sam’s remark. It was a rumbling, unreserved sort of laugh.

“I’d be over three thousand years old if I was,” he said while continuing to walk onward along the rather long aisle. “No, the title of Mr. Moonday, just like Mr. Marsday, Ms. Mercuriusday, Mr. Joveday, Mrs. Venusday, Mr. Saturnday, and Ms. Sunday are titles passed down from generation to generation with each new inheritor building on the knowledge of those who came before them in order to continue the sacred professions that remain indispensable even to this day.”

Sam recognized the old Roman names for the days of the week which he also knew were the monikers of experts who were at the very top of different fields in the hero support business.

“The way the history books talk about you guys, I always thought you were immortals or even minor gods,” Sam admitted.

“Well, one or two of us are much older than the rest,” Mr. Moonday answered with a wink. “Ah, we’re here.”

Sam had noticed the fierce orange glow at the other end of the warehouse-like space earlier. He imagined them to be the fires from a line of furnaces installed into the back wall, and his guess was pretty accurate. Although he never would have predicted the anvil that was the centerpiece of the clearing they walked into.

Situated at the top of a series of wide steps, the anvil was silver, almost glass-like in its sheen. A glowing eta—the ancient Greek version of the letter H—was sprawled on the side of the anvil’s silver surface.

“That’s… that’s the Anvil of Hephaestus,” Sam gulped.

“Yes,” Mr. Moonday answered casually. “We won’t be using that today. We’re over here.”

Sam hadn’t moved an inch because he couldn’t believe he was staring at an actual piece of ancient history. It was the very anvil that Hephaestus—the Olympian god of fire, metal-working, and forges—had used to train the very first blacksmiths, a roster that must have included the first Mr. Moonday.

“Mr. Shepard, over here, please,” Mr. Moonday called.

His eyes drifted off to the right side and found Mr. Moonday standing next to a long metal worktable that had a conveyor belt installed behind it.

He sauntered over while wondering just who exactly the master was that he could call on someone like Mr. Moonday for a favor.

“You seem nervous again, Mr. Shepard.” Mr. Moonday sent Sam a keen, silver-eyed look. “What troubles you?”

“I, um,” Sam cleared his throat. “I don’t exactly know what I’m doing here, sir.”

“How about we start with you explaining your power set to me…” Mr. Moonday picked up the tablet on the worktable and showed the screen to Sam. It was a copy of his hero file, which included an assessment of his power and its ranking. “Since Chiron took you in as his student, I assume whatever’s written here is no longer valid.”

“Wh-why w-would you say that?” Sam asked, sounding a little too worried. It didn’t help that now was the time a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. “Do you know about the—”

Whatever Sam wanted to say next got caught in his throat. It seemed Triple-A would not allow him to reveal its existence, even to a man like Mr. Moonday. His sudden silence didn’t matter much though, for Mr. Moonday gave him a knowing look that told Sam he wasn’t so clueless about Sam’s circumstance.

“Mr. Saturnday’s students are a rare breed in the way they get uncommon growth spurts while under his guidance,” Mr. Moonday chuckled.

“Wait… what?” Sam frowned. “Master… I mean Chiron… he’s Mr. Saturnday!?”

“I supply heroes with the tools they need to succeed and he teaches heroes how to become successful,” Mr. Moonday explained, and then gave Sam his grandfatherly smile afterward. “We’re quite the tandem, he and I.”

Sam heard someone laughing in his ear. His master’s disembodied voice soon followed.

What are you getting all surprised for, lame-brain? the master snickered. I told you I was the best hero trainer out there, didn’t I?