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  DEDICATION

  To the giants no longer with us who have fired our imaginations and inspired us: Jack Kirby, Dorothy L. Sayers, Billy (Luke Cage and Black Panther) Graham, Tolkien, Donald Goines, F. Scott and Zelda, James Fenimore Cooper, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Will Eisner, Ignatz and Krazy Kat (the first interracial couple in comics), just to name a few …

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  DREAM KNIGHTS

  TRICKSTER

  THE STREGA’S LAST DANCE

  AVATAR

  ACCIDENTALLY, LIKE A MARTYR

  THE WHORES OF ONYX CITY

  PROLOGUE: SEQUINED DOOM

  ACT I: NEON-LIT NIGHTMARES

  ACT II: HELL IS ’ROUND THE CORNER JULY 3, 1998

  ACT III: PARTY’S OVER

  HEATSEEKER

  TAT MASTER

  HENCHMAN

  THE ANGEL OF LONELINESS

  THE PICKET

  SWITCHBACK - A Brief Chapter on Monsters

  AND WHAT SHALL WE CALL YOU?

  DRED

  THE EDGE OF SEVENTEEN

  IN VINO, VERITAS

  THE MESSENGER

  HOUSEWORK

  I

  II

  III

  IV.

  V.

  VI.

  VII.

  VIII.

  IX.

  ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

  COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  Copyright Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Our big thanks to agent Jacqueline Hackett, editor Eric Raab, publisher Tom Doherty, and the man himself, Walter Mosley, for their roles in making The Darker Mask happen.

  INTRODUCTION

  Do us a favor. Try on the mask. Our darker mask. Oh, this isn’t just custom-fit for some … it’s for us all. Try it. You’re ordinary, you say? Ignored? Even shunned, reviled? You’re marginalized, patronized? People see you as a novelty or a menace. You’re out … way, way out of the club. Or perhaps your bad luck, your outlandish ideas, your addictions make you do things you hate and so you’re disappointed in yourself? Fine. Try on the mask. The darker mask. Feel the electricity? It’s no accident … .

  You see, scientists say our brains are hardwired for stories. Something happened in those few ticks of the evolutionary clock between the minute we dragged our sorry selves out of the muck and mire on flippers that would become legs, and the minute somebody ceased scratching his or her ass and instead scratched two sticks together and built a fire. We gathered around that fire for warmth and comfort and to cook our meat, yeah. But something germinating in our brains also told us that the fire was our way of howling back at what was terrifying and evil and unconquerable about the night. In our first stories, told by elders and warriors and sooth-saying mothers, you could hear that testament, that howl. And howl we did, to our knuckle-dragging homies and shaggy homegirls—how we jacked the mother of all wooly mammoths or saved our baby from the leopard that ate our other kids as fast as we could squeeze them out. Soon we took that next great hard-wired step. Why talk when you can dust and paint a wall with your tale? Naturally inventing details in the retelling, or making the mammoths and ourself just a bit bigger in the artwork. Our brains told us to relish the raconteur’s skill, the artist’s vision, especially if there was dangerous stuff going down. Our brains told us we are creatures who love tales of derring-do. For surely there’s that vicarious quality to appreciate in hearing about a death-defying feat that you’re either happy to have not been part of or can’t wait to try. Real life was dangerous enough back then let alone now in this time of global warming, wars and rendition. So what to do?

  Take comfort in the darker mask, baby. Is it molding to your features now? Read on. For our brains demanded a new way of conveying and experiencing visceral tales. From the time when artful fingers scribed the first cuneiform books in what’s now bombed-out Baghdad, and artful hands inscribed hieroglyphics in the tombs of pharaohs (leaving out the number of slaves they no doubt had put to the sword and spear), to the griot of the Motherland and the epic poets and playwrights of ancient Greece and Rome—came the notion of the hero. And gods and primal spirits could make those heroes into fools and whores with the wave of an almighty hand. A tick of the clock later and our wiring eschewed the Torah and Bible and Quran for Dumas and Poe, then the “penny dreadfuls” which begat the pulp novels and muscle bound lugs with names like Conan or Tarzan which begat the suspense and thriller denizens of radio, of movie serials, comic strips and then comic books. And now, fully evolved and circuits overloaded, we have Heroes’ indestructible cheerleader (been there, done that, with Captain Scarlet, Wolverine et al.), and “Master Chief” in HALO, and eight minute webasodics for the Internet. Still, our brains crave more.

  Yet are we wired to crave only one type of hero? Look in the mirror, now that you’ve donned the darker mask, and answer that. Does a hero always have to be a do-gooder all-American quarterback or paranoid ex-drunk donning a cape or cowl or brandishing a shield? Was any dude like that the sine qua non of those first campfire tales? Hell no. The heroes in those first stories weren’t Clark Kents or Bruce Waynes or Sue Richards, with her blond extensions and perfect C-cups. They were plain old us—flawed and scared. Blind and groping. Striving not to save the world, but to save one life or to right one wrong. In the process, they save something of themselves as well. For in their adventures we find the spark that inspires us to step up, to take a stand. We’re hard-wired for that, after all. We hope the mask fits a little better now.

  And so our string of tales, The Darker Mask, is a paean to the long-forgotten storytellers at the fire, or at the cave wall, or with brush on papyrus, or with typewriter, or with pastel on rag paper. They who have influenced us, the modern writer and contemporary artist. We, the seekers of a kind of truth in fiction. Especially we who wish to give life to the stories of people who’ve been ignored, forgotten, trivialized or stereotyped. Meld this creed with the images of action and drama once captured in the dynamics of comics artists Jack Kirby and John Buscema or the grace of Wally Wood and you have the fuel for this project. These are stories of the hero, rediscovered. In this collection you’ll find humble house cleaners, anonymous civil servants, refugees and teenagers searching for their place in the world. Some of the characters our talented crew of contributors present have been born (or is that cursed) the way they are, others have had their powers bestowed upon them after a particular incident or accident, while others have willingly held out their hands to grasp the future held dear in the sparkly night.

  Be advised, these ain’t your mama’s and daddy’s super heroes. These protagonists, for the most part, are products of, and grounded in, the world we butt heads against every damn day—and they have the means to bite back. But isn’t that what we gathered around the fire to hear? And ain’t that why you put on our darker mask?

  So here we launch our pantheon of extraordinary folk—given bone and gristle in the text and illustrations by some of the best illustrators of our time: Sean Wang, Shawn Martinbrough, Jeff Fisher, and Brian Hurtt. And given blood and soul by the likes of Walter Mosley in “Picket.” Lorenzo Carcaterra opens another tale from his childhood far beyond Sleepers for the eerie avenging “Strega’s Last Dance.” Costumed and unlikely and very human heroes abound in Victor Lavalle’s “The Angel of Loneliness,” Peter Spiegelman’s “In Vino, Veritas,” and Mat Johnson’s “Henchman.” We feel the dreamlike, gothic twinge of Alexandra Sokoloff’s riff on super powers and adolescence in “The Edge of Seventeen.” Flawed souls redeem themselves in Reed Farrel Coleman’s “Accidentally, Like a Martyr.” Gritty new crusaders romp in Michael Gonzales’s “The Whores of Onyx City,” Jerry Rodriguez’s “Dred,” and Gar Anthony Haywood’s “Heatseeker.” Those who are ordinary and forgettable in our world defend us in another, thanks to L. A. Banks’s badass vanquisher in “Dream Knights,” Annie Nocenti’s monster-slayer in “Switchback,” and Doselle Young’s meek maid in “Housework.” Wayne Wilson’s hero radiates light and hope in “The Messenger.” And we come full circle to good conquering evil as chronicled upon cave walls and in the campfire songs of elders—compliments of Steven Barnes and Tananarive Due’s tale, “Trickster.” Of course your editors, purveyors of the darker mask that’s likely now part of your skin, humbly offer their stories “And What Shall We Call You?” and “Avatar”—exemplars of heroes who arise from nothing to protect us all.

  Enjoy … and rock the mask with pride. After all, it’s in your genes … .

  —Gary Phillips and Christopher Chambers

  DREAM KNIGHTS

  by L. A. BANKS

  Cassandra Hubbard pulled the collar up higher on her puffy down coat and hunched deeper into its warmth to brave the elements. Unforgiving sleet slashed at her face as she hurried to make her train to work, muttering curses as
she was jostled and bumped during the usual rush hour mayhem. Another cup of coffee was calling her name. She could barely keep her eyes open at seven a.m. As she descended the slick subway steps, she saw one. A Watcher.

  It had slithered between two people and was gone. Now she was awake.

  Glancing around and holding on to a post to be sure she wasn’t accidentally pushed over the edge of the platform by one of those things that haunted her, she waited. It was always the same. The night before the dreams came, they’d find her.

  Oblivious commuters moved up in anticipation of the train. She squeezed her eyes shut and clung tighter to the post, knowing that this was when it could happen. The point of vulnerability.

  Perspiration soaked the T-shirt and sweater she wore beneath her coat. Her gloves would slide if she were grabbed. A horrific image of being snatched by the back of her coat, wool gloves snagging against the nicked concrete, then flung at just the moment the train rumbled into the station pierced her mind. The sensation riddled her body and she fought not to scream in public. Nearly panting, she closed her eyes quickly and then glanced around again, thoroughly paranoid.

  The train screeched to a stop. The throng on the platform bustled forward. Cassandra let go of the post and dashed between the doors just as they shut.

  No one looked up as she tightly clutched a pole. In Cassandra’s eyes, the colors around her were melting and fading gray. Watchers emerged. They peered at her with their dark flickering eyes as their shadow-like, willowy bodies writhed and slithered among the oblivious passengers.

  There had never been this many before. Usually just one or two. And they had never been so aggressive as to scare her early in the day. Or in public—despite the fact that no one but she could see them. They would always arrive while she was alone in her barren little apartment or in the Laundromat. Anywhere quiet and confined.

  Cassandra began to hyperventilate as the Watchers crawled across the ceiling, along the walls, and wriggled closer to her on the floor. The entire train soon went black.

  Cassandra screamed and began thrashing when icy fingers touched her face in the dark. The lights came back on. Blank-faced passengers simply stared at her like she’d lost her mind. She bolted off the train at her stop and ran up the steps, glad to be back in the frigid weather, and then ran three long blocks to her building. By the time she reached the lobby, tears were cascading down her face and she couldn’t stop shivering.

  “Cold as a witch’s tit out there, ain’t it, Cas?”

  She nodded trying to compose herself as Fred, the lobby security guard, leered at her. Sometimes she wished that she came in with the normal eight-thirty crowd, instead of the earlier shift where she’d most often be in the lobby with him alone. Today was one of those days. All she wanted to do was get upstairs to her desk, but she knew she’d have to endure Fred’s advances until the elevator came.

  “So, how was the weekend? Do anything good?”

  “I did laundry,” she muttered, wondering how in the hell had she gotten trapped answering phones at a boring-ass box and paper supply distributor.

  “I keep telling you, sweetheart, you can do ole Fred any time.” He hoisted up his pants over his rotund belly, making it jiggle as he jumped off the stool and laughed at his own lame joke. “I got something for you.”

  He continued to laugh; she didn’t look at him, but cracked a smile. She’d give him that; he’d baited her good and she’d fallen for the line. Their routine was a ritual.

  “Your wife might have a problem with that, though. That’s the thing.”

  “Aw, what she don’t know won’t hurt her—or me … or you.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m telling you, I beat laundry any day and can tumble better than any washer or dryer.” He rubbed his jowls with a meaty palm. “Would work your little five foot seven stuff into a knot, girl—wit’ your pretty brown self. Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll remember that when I’m buying fabric softener.”

  “That’s cold, Cassie. Real cold. Why you treat me like that?”

  “Because I haven’t had my morning coffee yet, Fred. Have a nice day.”

  “You, too, beautiful.” He blew her a kiss. “I like them new braids you got, too. Bet they hang all down your back almost to your juicy behind.”

  “Thanks, Fred,” she replied flatly. “I’ll tell my stylist you approve.”

  “See, a black woman with an attitude. Why can’t a man just give a woman a compliment—y’all so mean! I love you, girl.”

  “Yeah, okay, Fred. I love you, too … but, oh, did I mention it before—that I’m so mean because you’re so married?”

  He laughed and went back to sitting on the stool behind the tiny sign-in desk that he dwarfed. “One day it’s me and you, baby.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Cassandra kept her eyes glued to the numbers and waved at him without looking back as the doors opened. Her life was already screwed up enough. What did she need with a beer-bellied, horseshoe-bald, married guy that was almost twice her age? The dental plaque in his mouth alone was enough to send her back into the streets screaming. But at least Fred talked to her. That was her building buddy.

  As long as someone saw her and talked to her, they couldn’t come. When she wasn’t invisible, they had to stay back in the shadows. She kept her body stone rigid as the elevator lumbered up to the seventeenth floor. They were getting so bad now, it seemed, and they might finally come for her at work, her only sanctuary. Sadly, this had been the only place she’d never seen them.

  Bolting out of the elevator, Cassandra rushed to her desk, glad that some routines hadn’t changed. Joe Schrader, the systems guy, was always in early like her and hunched over a keyboard, and so was Linda Duncan, one of the very harried shipping managers who didn’t really speak to anyone civilly before ten o’clock. It didn’t matter that they only muttered cursory acknowledgments, her coworkers were warm bodies in the office who would speak to her, if they came.

  A thrumming headache pierced her temples but Cassandra relaxed knowing that meant the Watchers were gone. She reached into her desk for an Aleve and swallowed it dry before going to the coffee station.

  All she had to do was answer the phones, sort the mail, route people to voicemail. She could do that. All she had to do was make it till lunchtime, and then she could find somewhere to hide and go to sleep. She’d survive till then, had for thirty years.

  Unlike her parents.

  The Watchers came for her mother in a derelict building where she smoked the rocks that would have killed her eventually anyway. They had come for her father in prison. Guards found him dead in his cell. That would never be Cassandra, not if she could help it. She didn’t care what the doctors had said about her sleeping disorders while she was a ward of the Department of Social Services. She didn’t give a rat’s ass about teachers having a problem with her falling asleep in class. She’d gotten her GED anyway, and had started night classes for a degree in criminology. Right now it was about making sure they didn’t get her while she was awake. None of the regulars—normal people—could see what she did.

  Cassandra poured steaming black coffee into the huge, ceramic mug that she always kept hidden in her desk, stirring in so much artificial creamer and sugar that it all clumped together on the top making her work hard with a red plastic stirrer to dissolve it.

  Sugar and caffeine were paramount to staying alert until it was time to escape. Some of her coworkers bitched about her always using up the stash because she clocked in before them and they offered unwanted advice about the way she fixed her coffee being a health hazard. But that was okay, she liked it like that. The regulars had no idea the things that could really challenge her life, and freakin’ artificial creamer and white sugar or caffeine didn’t have jack shit on those possibilities.

  By eleven thirty, she was practically weaving at her desk. She needed to lie down so badly. Each blink of her eyes felt like sandpaper was scratching her corneas, and if her head bounced and jerked up one more time, she swore she’d get whiplash. The space heater under her desk keeping her legs warm was like a narcotic.