CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY-THREE

A Knife in the Dark

The chill, the kind that seeped into the bones and made one’s soul shiver caught Sam’s attention first.

The Manhattan skyline was sprawled out beneath him—a grand sight of historical landmarks that had survived throughout the centuries even against rampaging evil gods once upon a time. Something was amiss, however. The city lights which were on even in the wee hours of the early morning had gone dark except for the skyscraper directly below him. Below him—that was the other thing.

Sam was floating over a familiar building, the same one where he’d spent an entire day training to attain new abilities. He didn’t know how was floating over the Flint Consolidated headquarters though as Sam was pretty sure he hadn’t yet learned how to fly.

He opened his mouth to comment on this very fact, but no words would spill forth.

I’m dreaming, Sam realized quickly.

With this sudden realization came gravity. Not the plunge down to the Earth like Sam usually experienced, but more like he was floating down toward the Flint tower’s rooftop in a parachute. His feet didn’t touch the roof, though. They went past it, with the rest of Sam’s body falling into the building’s roof as if he were an incorporeal being—a ghost in his dream.

I guess this dream is on autopilot… but where is it taking me?

It didn’t take long for Sam’s question to be answered.

Soon enough, his feet touched down on the carpet within a spacious yet darkly lit room that was at the level of a presidential suite at a luxurious five-star hotel.

Wow… Sam whistled. You could fit my whole apartment in here and then some…

To his right, he noticed the pair of comfy white couches that dominated the room’s central space facing a collection of monitors that took up an entire wall, with all of them showing a crystal-clear picture of Manhattan’s streets.

Whoa… Mr. Flint’s hooked into the city’s camera feed… but why? And is this even legal?

It should be noted that the soft glow of the monitors was this spacious room’s only light source so Sam didn’t immediately notice that he wasn’t alone.

The sound of tinkling glass reached his ears, driving Sam to glance over his shoulder.

Mr. Flint?

With his broad back facing Sam, Marcus Flint sat on a stool by the bar that dominated the wall directly opposite where the monitors hung. He was pouring himself a glass of twenty-four-year-old Mercurius Day—a bottle of whiskey Sam himself couldn’t have afforded until recently as it had a price tag to rival his new suit.

Sam watched Marcus Flint lift his glass to his nose, a calming expression flashing across his face as he enjoyed the scent of expensive liquor.

This dream’s strangely realistic this time… I kind of feel like I’m spying on him because of it.

The lone light source on the tabletop counter caught Sam’s eye, and it drew him forward like a magnet. It was a Flint Pad. On its screen was a picture of the Trickster along with information about the villain that Sam didn’t know about.

Holy Zeus… the Trickster was originally the Jackal’s apprentice?!

The Jackal, a former gamma-level hero with the proportionate powers of a jackal, was one of Crow-Man’s old colleagues who’d been driven mad by the dark machinations of his patron, the Egyptian god of evil, Set. Deprived of his sanity, the Jackal made a mess of Brooklyn until Crow-Man, with the help of Weather Witch and Raven Knight who was still his apprentice at the time, put an end to the Jackal’s villainous crime spree. There was no mention of an apprentice in the news reports though, which is probably why the Trickster’s old sidekick persona was left to fall into the cracks of obscurity.

Is this why the Trickster hates Crow-Man so much?

He heard that Crow-Man and the Jackal had tangled again back in the Crucible before Sam and Thunder arrived to help end the prison break. He didn’t get to meet the fallen hero himself, however, because the Jackal had already been knocked out by Crow-Man by the time he and Sam reunited on the Crucible’s administrative floor.

Hold on… why is information like this—knowledge I wouldn’t know about—appearing in my dream? Sam frowned with sudden realization. Oh, gods… this isn’t just a dream, is it?

Sam glanced left and right, searching for the telltale signs of a divine presence hijacking his dreams. However, he couldn’t sense anyone apart from him and Marcus Flint, and that worried him even more than simply seeing Apollo flashing his usual apologetic grin Sam’s way.

Seriously, Apollo, if this is another one of your—

Sam’s complaint was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass, the reinforced kind of bang that suggested someone had just fired a rocket into Marcus Flint’s penthouse—and that was exactly what happened.

A cloud of smoke and ash filled up the once-stately living room, and Sam was suddenly grateful for his incorporeal form. Marcus Flint hadn’t been as lucky though. The force of the rocket’s detonation pushed him over the counter, with his back slamming against a shelf full of expensive liquor.

For a long while, fire and smoke were all that Sam could see, but despite the sound of crumbling plaster and cement, he could hear a familiar cackling somewhere to the left. Once his visibility improved, Sam’s gaze snapped toward the shattered remains of Marcus Flint’s balcony, his eyes widening at the familiar silhouette set against the pale light of the moon.

Most of the villain’s face was veiled in shadow, but Sam could never forget the light of madness he’d glimpsed within those pair of crimson eyes. Nor could he forget the wide, manic grin that used to send shivers up and down Sam’s spine.

Trickster!

Sam’s hand flew to his belt out of reflex, but he didn’t have it on him. He was dressed in the clothes he’d been wearing when he went to bed. Not that it would have mattered as Sam’s ghostly form couldn’t affect the world around him.

Styx!

“Oh, Marcus~~s,” the Trickster called in his usual singsong voice, “guess who’s come to dinner?”

Something passed by Sam’s right ear.

A feather-shaped throwing knife zipped through the air as if in response to the Trickster’s taunt. It would have hit the Trickster’s left shoulder too if the villain was just a half-second too slow twirling away from it.

“And here I thought you’d be glad to see me, old chum.” The Trickster sighed exaggeratedly. “You have been searching for me so desperately since we parted ways at that volcano resort that I had my RnR in.”

Huh? Sam’s brow creased. Marcus Flint was at the Crucible with Crow-Man?

A broken bottle of whiskey flew from behind the counter that the Trickster slapped away before it could reach his face, leaving him vulnerable to the feather-shaped throwing knife that had come right after it. The blade struck the Trickster in his left thigh, forcing the villain to gasp in pain.

“You little sneak,” the villain grunted. “I’m trying to have an honest conversation here. Not that you know what that means hiding behind your little mask.”

What’s he saying…?

In one quick motion, the Trickster pulled the knife out of his leg and sent it back to the sender, although Marcus Flint was no longer hiding behind the counter. The billionaire’s movements were barely noticeable in the failing glow of the dwindling fires.

As for the Trickster, he stepped into what little light remained in the room, revealing a form restored. Gone was the gaunt prisoner Sam had witnessed in the recording Bethany had shown him. This new version of the Trickster had leveled up, with new muscles on his chest and arms that tightened around the dark-colored skintight tactical suit he wore.

Honestly, Sam thought it was a major improvement from his old outfit; the old maroon suit and multicolored polka-dot tie. He’d grown his pumpkin-colored hair a bit too.

From his right peripheral, Sam witnessed a man-sized shadow rushing forward. A second later, Marcus Flint came flying into view with his knee raised and aimed at the Trickster’s head.

The Trickster ducked out of the way of that flying knee, but Marcus Flint was quick to chase after him with a fist that clocked the villain in the chin, forcing the Trickster to stagger backward.

Marcus Flint then performed a combination of punches and kicks that made Sam question just how well-trained the billionaire was. Even more surprising to Sam was how Marcus Flint’s movements were near-identical to Crow-Man’s.

The Trickster was no slouch though. He evaded most of Marcus Flint’s attacks and blocked the ones he couldn’t with his new and improved body. The Trickster countered when he could, although Marcus Flint was even better than the villain at dodging away from critical blows.

Hephaestus’ flaming beard, Sam whistled. The rumors that Crow-Man taught him must be true…

Their furious exchange of martial arts moves lasted about a minute before the Trickster pulled out the Greek kopis he’d used to put Red Weaver in a coma.

“You’re probably wondering—”

The villain stabbed at Marcus Flint’s shoulder, but the billionaire caught his wrist before the blade’s tip bit into his flesh.

“—How I know where you hang your cowl—”

With his right wrist caught in Marcus Flint’s lefthanded grip, the Trickster dropped the kopis so he could catch it with his left hand. He then attempted to swipe at Marcus Flint’s gut, but the billionaire was quick to block its path with his right forearm.

Marcus Flint followed that successful block with a lefthanded haymaker that the Trickster also blocked with his now-free right arm.

“Well, I’ve made some new friends,” he continued without missing a beat, “and they’re quite accomplished—”

The Trickster’s left hand snaked forward, with the kopis’s curved blade nearly slinking into Marcus Flint’s gut. Luckily, the billionaire proved to be quite the accomplished close-quarters-combat specialist, because he managed to drive the fatal blow away with a downward strike of his right palm.

“—With figuring out your sec—”

Not one to be deterred, the Trickster threw his kopis up so that his right hand could catch it and drive it down onto Marcus Flint’s shoulder, but the billionaire proved quicker in the end. He pulled away at the last second and then planted a kick into the Trickster’s chest that sent the villain tumbling over the couch behind him and onto the floor on the other side.

“I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, friend”—Marcus Flint jumped over the couch too so he could follow up that push kick with a one-two punch aimed at the Trickster’s nose—“but you’re trespassing in my home.”

Although the Trickster blocked both punches, he couldn’t dodge the second push kick that sent him smashing into the broken wall behind him, causing what remained of the monitors hanging on the wall to crash onto him.

“I suggest you leave before my security team arrives,” Marcus Flint warned. “They’re not as accommodating as me when it comes to people who threaten me.”

“Oh, I’ll be leaving… soon enough.” The Trickster picked himself off the floor and then dusted the bits of the broken wall off his suit. “And you’re coming with me.”

Marcus Flint drove his fist into the Trickster’s head one more time—and he hit something that cracked from the force of his punch, but it wasn’t the Trickster’s face. The villain’s body disappeared in a shower of shimmering sparks, the telltale signs of his usual illusion.

Several monitors—about the right number to compare with a grown man’s mass—appeared where the Trickster was only a moment ago.

Yeah, I freaking hate that substitution trick he—

Sam’s eyes widened in surprise, not because the Trickster rematerialized behind Marcus Flint, but because the billionaire was quick to turn around as if he knew exactly where the Trickster would appear next, which he must have known thanks to the glowing F-shaped rune superimposed on each of his now violet eyes. It was Crow-Man’s other delta-level power; True Vision.

An involuntary gasp escaped Sam’s lips.

Holy…

The sound of a blade sinking into flesh pierced through the veil of shock that gripped Sam’s mind.

Marcus Flint had turned around too late, and he couldn’t dodge the bronze blade that was now protruding from his side. The billionaire didn’t cry out, but he stumbled backward and would have fallen over if the Trickster hadn’t held onto the kopis’s handle.

“Trickster,” Marcus Flint growled, and it was a growl that was now familiar to Sam’s ears.

“Sorry, Crow… but you’ve got a date with a sorceress.” The Trickster twisted the dagger. “And the Trickster’s dating service never fails to make a match come true.”

No cry of pain or plea for mercy escaped Marcus Flint’s lips. He simply gritted his teeth and continued to attack the Trickster’s face with fists that were moving rather lazily through the air.

“Sheesh, you’d think a blade coated in special narcotics I stole from you would put you down quickly.” The Trickster pulled out his kopis and then he stabbed Crow-Man a second time. “Take a nap, sleeping beauty. You’ll need it for what’s to come.”

As Marcus Flint slumped forward into the Trickster’s arms, the villain let out a triumphant cackle—and that’s when Sam woke up screaming Crow-Man’s real name.