I kept my explanations short. What was there to say, beyond "my brother cursed me because I'm annoying and he died before he could undo it, so I'm essentially stuck with being a magnet for trouble until I die."
It didn't even take two sentences.
Atticus took the news in surprising stride, as though, now that I mentioned it, that did explain a few things. I tried not to feel insulted.
After utilizing his shadows to take us to one of his pre-arranged safe houses, we plotted out our next moves. While we discussed, the resolved and unresolved tensions of our kiss hung heavy in each traded lingering glance when we thought the other wasn't looking and pretended not to notice.
I hadn't expected to change his mind all at once, but I'd hoped to plant a seed of doubt and wonder that could one day blossom into something more. Eventually, he'd come to realize I really had nothing to lose by being around him, and only stood to gain the comfort of knowing I had someone I couldn't inadvertently permanently harm with my proximity.
Plus, I had a sneaking suspicion that the curse was only getting stronger. My childhood "incidents" of ill-fortune, although sporadic and annoying, rarely proved as disastrous as my more recent experiences, save for the plane crash. In the last year, I lost track of the number of times I should have died were it not for my healing. I shivered to imagine what that meant for the future.
"What happens after we dispose of the Guild?" I asked as I sketched out a barebones map of the city.
Atticus was an inheritor of great wealth and talent, but an artist he was not, so he merely indicated where different locations ought to be and sat back while I brought them to life. I couldn't draw them from memory. Despite living in the city for the vast majority of my life, half the time I could barely tell up from down, let alone general directions.
"We?" His nimble fingers drew a line over the page, detailing the river and its forking avenues. "Are you sure that's wise to throw your lot in with the likes of me?"
No adamant refusals. No condescending questions about how I could possibly help.
Instead of a response, I pressed, "What are we trying to do? If we somehow destroy the Guildhall, they'll only build another. We can't kill all the Supers, either, and even if we could, there's what? Nine other Guild branches in the country?"
"Seven."
I took time out of painstakingly sketching the large cathedral-like building that was the Guildhall to give Atticus a flat look. "Semantics. Are we really supposed to destroy all those individual power structures? That will only succeed in creating a power vacuum. Without an organized group of superheroes, supervillains will go unchecked. We'll need to put something in place to prevent that from happening."
His mouth tugged into a puzzled frown and he said, "I'm not trying to start a micro-revolution. I see no need to supplant the entire organization, so long as I can be rid of Warrick."
"Warrick?" I repeated. Who the hell was Warrick?
He nodded, a sharp, precise motion where not the barest centimeter was breached unnecessarily. "And perhaps the other Guild Elders, should they try to stop me."
Understanding at last dawned through the clouds of my confusion. "Oh. The Constable. Got it. We're using legal names now?"
"I think it's permitted when the person in question ruins your life, don't you?"
Slowly, I tore myself away from the paper to stare hard into his eyes, straight faced, because I couldn't resist. "That's why you should have told me your real identity a lot earlier. It's only fair."
He stilled down to the smallest joint in his littlest finger, unmoving until my serious expression cracked.
"Sorry." I laughed, repeating, "Sorry, that was mean. It was funnier in my head."
His eyes crinkled with mild amusement, not exactly at what I'd said, nor the obvious lack of tact, but more charmed by my own awkward laugh.
"You figured it out alright on your own, and it's not as though there is no truth in the sentiment," he admitted, shrugging in that understated way of his. "Curious that the worst thing to happen to you is the best thing to happen to me. Still, I wish I hadn't put you through so much. I wish there had been a better way."
Pushing myself to my feet, I circled around where our map-in-progress lay spread out on the floor, stopping when I stood behind him, my hand falling to rest on the back of his wood chair. "All's well that ends well?" I suggested, ignoring the glaring fact that not everything had ended yet, and things still had every opportunity to end poorly.
I hadn't meant for a kiss to happen, initially only intending to wrap my arms loosely around his neck in a show of comfort, but by then we were so close, and he angled his head just so, gazing at me like I lit the stars in the sky.
It was easy to fall into him. For him. With him.
I didn't fear the fall. It was exhilarating, a feeling I never came close to encountering before. The fall couldn't kill me.
The end might, however.
*~*~*~*~*~*
I thought over our conversation for several days while we finalized our plans.
Possibly as a consequence for the damage he'd already caused, Atticus hoped to keep casualties to a minimum. Thrust the Constable from power and then run off on our merry way into supervillain retirement, never to be seen again.
At the churning, bitter rage boiling beneath my skin whenever I thought of the Guild getting off so easily, I discovered that I had a hunger he lacked. Only complete ruination, a tearing out of the toxic foundations the Guild was built upon, could sate me. The guilt of their crimes spread further than simply the Guildmasters. All the Supers had to know, to some extent, the shadier dealings going on. If they abandoned Nightshade and locked up my grandfather, surely it also happened to others, lost to record.
In vain, we tried to work through whatever block Atticus had that prevented him from using all his gained powers whenever he pleased. He described the situation like a series of locked doors sealing his powers out of reach on the other side. Everytime he used his powers, he had to jiggle each door knob until one turned at random.
When I pointed out that doors could be broken down, he didn't seem to find my input exceedingly helpful and the matter got dropped.
Atticus snuck out for a few hours each night to gather supplies and intel, on the easier days with the added ease of mobility from his ability to move with and blend into the shadows. Despite my entreaties for him to skip when he only had ice or telekinesis to fall back on, he went anyway. He wanted to feel productive. Useful. I did, too, although we both agreed I, in particular, couldn't risk being caught out in public. Hostages were, generally speaking, not allowed to go on casual strolls through the neighborhood. Should I be caught, awkward questions would ensue.
As October passed into late November, my melancholy sunk its claws deeper, driven by the guilt of missing my dad's birthday. We weren't the sort to place heavy emphasis on birthdays, yet it still stung, knowing he had no idea if I was safe, and that to tell him risked everything.
Atticus and I debated the best time and place to surge on the Constable. We quickly ruled out ambushing him while he slept, because, although Atticus had managed to sneak in and out of the Guildhall once before, to do so again was made far more difficult in light of the fact that they now knew Shade had made it past their many security measures intended to keep him away. They had undoubtedly ramped up security since then.
On the other hand, waiting for the Constable to stumble into our laps left too many things up to chance, if it ever happened at all, so we settled on holding out for his next major public appearance during an ego-patting award ceremony for services rendered nearing the Christmas holiday. While I didn't enjoy having to live in limbo for weeks on end, waiting for the fateful day to arrive, I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little relieved by the delay.
Due to the unpredictable nature of Atticus's powers, we crafted up three different scenarios for how we'd get our hands on the Constable. In a perfect world, Atticus would have his shadows, and be able to slip in and out after doing the deed without undo danger. Things would be far more tricky should the ice or telekinesis be present instead, so we stole blueprints for the building and planned for every contingency.
That wasn't the only reason for my relief, however. It was Atticus himself. He practically glowed with wellness, each day healthier than the last as he healed himself against the havoc his foreign abilities wreaked on his tired body. I didn't tell him, aware my concern only fell upon deaf ears, but I earnestly wanted him fully recovered before we made our move. The longer we waited, the better off he would be.
Sitting alone with my knees up to my chest after a month of cohabitation, back pressed against the chill wall, on the single mattress Atticus had managed to steal a few days prior, I apprehensively watched the rising dawn light reaching through the window, stretching golden tendrils to distant points of the room. By noon, exhaustion compressed my brain and my eyes watered and stung when I closed them. By the next nightfall, I knew.
Atticus wasn't coming back.