Circle of Salt

     The night was clear, the streets were loud, and the view was beautiful. I could see the entire neighborhood, the ocean, the bridge, even Alcatraz in the far distance. A divorced woman in her forties who jumped between rooftops in a showgirl devil costume would never be everybody’s favorite, even if she did a good deed now and then. Madam Satan can’t win.
     There were few feelings as good as gliding. My cape stiffening when I catch the wind, using the subtlest of movements to change direction, landing using only my feet. Tonight, the breeze was good, and I soared. I thought of the improvements I’d made to my costume over the years: a sturdier cape, warmer fabric, and more room for gizmos and gadgets. It was still bright and glittery, with a fabulous pair of horns.
     For a few weeks, I’d been tracking reports of criminals using “green fire” that couldn’t be put out. Something like napalm, I thought. A tip from one of the green fire’s unfortunate victims lead me to a certain building. Observation and information-gathering were as important for what I did as strength and speed. I’d been observing the comings and goings here for a while, and knew they kept to a routine: people came up to the roof, always one at a time, and a big guy with a face like a cinderblock came out and took some money. Then the customer went inside a separate door. A few minutes later, a satisfied schmuck, carrying a bag or a briefcase or holding a long jacket real close, skipped down the sidewalk.
     I was so fixated on watching Cinderblock Face do his everyday business that it took me too long to notice I wasn’t alone on the opposite roof tonight. I cautiously approached, hoping to scare my visitor off, when he spun around to face me.
     “Hold it!” he said. He wore a long coat, a hat, mask, and gloves. The mask and gloves were in a matching blue-green color. The hat and coat were black. He had two holsters on his hips and a belt with all sorts of other tools. It took me a while to realize who I was looking at.
     “Mr. Nighttime?” I said. It was a question, but I knew: This was Mr. Nighttime, the most famous of the “mystery men,” the old school generation of vigilantes that emerged during the Depression. Just like me.
     He hesitated, hand still on his gun. The pause felt awfully long. I wanted to reach for mine, too, to make a point: You’re not the only one with toys, baby boy. But I didn’t.
     “You’re a brother mask, I take it. Well, sister…” he said. He let his hands go, and his coat flapped closed again.
     “Something like that,” I said. “You’re famous.”
     “Regretfully,” he said. He folded his arms over his chest and looked me up and down like he was sizing up a used car. Then, a flash of recognition in his eyes, visible even with the mask on.
     “Madam Satan, right?” he said.
     “The glittering horns gave it away, huh?” I said.
     “Funny we should meet like this.”
     “Funny how?” I said, still a little suspicious.
     “Well, I’m here tracking some merchandise from New York. That’s my hometown.”
     “I’d heard. Now you’re in my town,” I said.
     “‘Hometown’ is an interesting word. I’ve had a lot of homes over the years, but have I ‘felt’ at home? A question for the poets,” he said.
     “Is this is really what we’re talking about? I’ve met plenty of vigilantes over the years and ended up working together, fighting, fucking, whatever. But a little chit-chat and some philosophical mishegoss isn’t what I usually expect,” I said.
     He winced while I spoke and then his face broke into a smile. I narrowed my eyes.
     “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “It’s nice to hear some Yiddish, especially on the west coast. Listen, I’m sorry. It’s how I am. I reflect. I think, I reflect, I talk. Action only comes when strictly necessary.”
     “That’s fine, but… are you investigating the building across the street? Your merchandise?” I said.
     “That’s right. Guns. Lots of guns, and ammo, too. Not sure where it’s headed, but it goes through New York. A big risk, I should think, driving it across country, which is why I think there’s something bigger,” Mr. Nighttime said.
     “But why come here? You must have all manner of allies and agents. You could have even called me, since you seem to know me by reputation,” I said.
     “I could have, but… I don’t know the ins and outs of this particular pretzel, so, before I undo any knots, I need to gather information,” he said.
     “Impressive. You know, you were one of the reasons I got into this game,” I said.
     “Really? That’s swell, really, it is,” Mr. Nighttime said. “It’s been a long road.”
     “You sound so melancholy, for a legend,” I said. “You’re the poster boy for vigilantes getting results. I wish I had your numbers. People respect you.”
     “Maybe,” he said. “Sure, I’ve done some good. But it might be nice to spend a day not worried about what’s going to come around the corner, that the next case I look into, the next guy I try to take down, won’t end me.”
     “Before you did all this, did you not worry? Because in my experience… we’re all a little touched in the head,” I said. “Normal women don’t dress up like carnival devils and stop bank robberies, but I did. Still do.”
     Mr. Nighttime started to pace back and forth, in the small contained area behind a rooftop vent where they were hiding. “I guess I was always neurotic. Ever since I was a little boy, I worried constantly about what others thought of me. That evolved over time into a sort of hyperawareness of any situation. I trained my mind and eventually my body in the ancient art of blending in.
     “Have you ever heard ‘Look like you’re supposed to be there’? It does work, almost every time. I got into a POW camp that way in Alsace in ’42. I picked up enough German to get by, I stole a uniform… same old story.
     “Sometimes I still worry what people think. But living a multi-pronged life like I do, there’s no one who knows the whole truth of what I am, not even me. I always keep a little piece hidden away for later, like a midnight snack. I guess I’ve been talking a while,” Mr. Nighttime said.
     He had been. I didn’t mind listening, but you start to get real cold when you stand still too long.
     “Do you worry about what I think?” I said.
     “Well, of course… I’m very concerned with the opinions of women. Women generally have good judgment. If they like me, it shows I’m doing something right,” Mr. Nighttime said. His gloves were a cerulean blue velvet, and starting to fray. I wondered how many replacements he’d had over the years.
     “And, you know, you run this town. I’m sort of on your turf,” he said.
     “You’re on my side,” I said. “I’m not territorial. I’ve been doing this a long time, now.”
     “Could I ask how long?” he said.
     “Since… ’29,” I said.
     “Twenty-four years,” he said, with warmth and admiration.
     “Sure as sugar, sweetie,” I said. We laughed together at that one. He was nice. I liked nice.
     “That’s almost as long as me. I first went out on a cold night in 1927. It was almost Christmas. I just walked around in my costume. Got a couple of dirty looks. Foiled one mugging and found a lost dog,” he said.
     “Oh, my. On my first night… well, my first proper night, after the nonsense on the airship, nothing happened at all. For the best, probably. I had time to work on my gliding and my moves,” I said, demonstrating my quickdraw, finger not on the trigger.
     “Trigger discipline,” he said, noticing immediately. “Some of these new kids don’t know what they’re doing when they handle a gun.”
     “Some know all too well what they’re doing,” I said.
     “I dealt with a disturbed gunman in New York… god, the things they’re doing to us. The military, the corporations. People want that bright shining future, and then, when they don’t get it…” Mr. Nighttime said, trailing off with a haunted expression.
     “You’re a radical, I take it,” I said.
     “You’re not?” he said, almost offended.
     “I didn’t say that. Is there room for woman with opinions in your revolution? Because in my experience, communists and capitalists want the same thing from me,” I said.
     “Madam Satan… well, you’re right, of course. There’s room in my revolution, meaning me personally,” he said. “I don’t belong to any organized group. Any club that would have me as a member… you know the lines.”
     “I’ve heard them delivered by a few of the great voices,” I said. “You’ve never joined a team? Those are catching on…”
     “Ah. You do follow the news. Helios and friends certainly changed things for everyone in our line,” he said. “I’ve done plenty of team-ups, and there was an aborted attempt at a team just after the war. A lot of the mystery men back then thought it was a hell of an idea, but we couldn’t coordinate. We weren’t friends, and we certainly didn’t know how to be co-workers. Plus, we weren’t being paid. It was a mess.”
     “Who with?” I said, wondering if I knew any of them. It was the first I’d heard of it.
     Mr. Nighttime rubbed his eyes under his mask. “A lot of the big East Coast names. Zennick the Zorceror, Ember Stone, Dash Douglas, the Hyena… I was sort of an afterthought, honestly. I knew Zennick from some business back in the day, and he invited me. A lot of egos, as you can imagine,” he said.
     “Did this group have a name?” I asked.
     “‘The World’s Policemen’,” he said. “I never liked it.”
     “Vigilantes who love cops don’t last,” I said. “Or they get co-opted. Anyone in this game who trusts the system at this point…”
     “Some of them are the system,” he said. “Douglas is high up in the government now.”
     I made an exasperated noise. “What about the rest?” I said, nosy, and curious. It could be hard to keep up with the “news,” so to speak, without an inside source. It was all pretty hush-hush.
     “Zennick is still doing it. Getting old and slowing down. I thought he and Ember would maybe get married, but she’s down in LA. The Hyena… now there’s a character. I think he’s still at it,” Mr. Nighttime said.
     “Leaving the… what is it? Bite marks?” I said.
     “Fake bite marks, he’ll hasten to tell you. That’s his trademark alright. Still, a little grisly for my taste,” he said.
     “We must be nuts,” I said. “How long do you think you’ll do it?”
     “Me? Probably until I bite the big one,” Mr. Nighttime said. “I’ve thought about picking a new identity and retiring, but I know I’d get antsy. I’d blow it.”
     “I’ll need to stop, eventually. Unlike Helios and whoever else, I’m just an ordinary woman. I’ve already suffered my share of broken bones,” I said. I felt the ache in my shoulders.
     “In that case, why don’t we go down swinging?” he said. “We’ve been watching this hideout for how long. I bet you we can take ‘em, if we’re smart.”
     “I don’t intend to go on a suicide mission just because I’m menopausal,” I said. He winced a little at that. Men.
     “Of course not… remember who you’re talking to,” he said. “They don’t necessarily know me out here. I can get in the door and we can take care of things one guy at a time.”
     “You always know just what to say,” I said.

* * *

     We waited until Cinderblock Face went back through the door. Mr. Nighttime secured a tight line to the opposite roof with a grappling hook. I wondered how many times he’d done it before.
     “I’ll cut my line at the end, you bring it over, okay? I can’t tell you how many of these things I’ve lost,” he said. He slid down the tight wire rope and landed with a roll. He gave me the “OK” sign and I did my part, reeling in his wire and attaching it to my belt. I got back into my little duck-blind hiding spot, and waited.
     Cinderblock came through the door doing his usual routine. I flipped and floated over, gliding on my cape, feeling free and beautiful again. By the time I landed, Mr. Nighttime had a gun to the goon’s head.
     “Okay, big guy. Let’s go in slowly. My associate here doesn’t mess around,” he said.
     I pulled my own gun from the holster. The metal was scuffed and worn and I remembered when I taught myself how to repair it.
     We were like a couple of old friends, walking in to the hideout side-by-side. We went down a flight of stairs and had Cinderblock knock on the door.
     “It’s me…” he said, not hiding his situation all that well. We heard the door being unlocked from the other side, and in we went.
     “Nobody move or he gets it,” Mr. Nighttime said. “I don’t wanna do it, but I will. I’ll kill every one of you bastards.” I believed him. The crew of goons had guns of their own — in fact, they had crates and crates full. That confirms it, then. They pointed them in our direction, but nobody flinched, yet.
     “Is that who I think it is?” said a voice from the back of the room. “Make a hole. I want to see them.” The goons shifted to the side, and revealed a short, young-looking man with bare feet and ratty clothes. Not the typical gang boss look, I thought. As we got closer, I saw his ears were unusually pointy, and he had tattoos all along the visible portions of his arms and legs. He was wearing a heavily-frayed suit jacket with no shirt underneath. If not for seeing him in this context, I would have pegged him as a farm boy from the sticks.
     “Mr. Nighttime. And some bimbo,” he said, in an annoying, know-it-all voice. “I guess we’ve been visited by the local do-gooders, boys! What should we do? End their suffering?” The gang laughed. That pissed me off enough that I could feel my finger itch.
     “You know me, but I don’t know you,” Mr. Nighttime said. “If we could have the pleasure.”
     “No,” the little prick said. “Just think of me as a trickster, the kind who will swoop down into your stupid little life and destroy you just because you said one word out of place.”
     “Sorry, I don’t believe in fairy tales, child,” I said, aiming my gun directly at him. Fuck it. If we’re in this situation anyway, why not?
     “Oh oh oh! Slow down, woman…” said the trickster. “Do you really think you scare me? With two words, I could turn the three of you into hamburger. You’d look like a pile of pitted cherries after my boys were done with you.”
     “You would have done that already, if you were gonna,” I said.
     “Uh, yeah,” Mr. Nighttime said. He sounded less confident than me. “So, why haven’t you?” Keep him talking. Good strategy.
     “Oh, you amuse me,” the trickster said. “I mean, what do you think you’re doing? You’re not going to kill me. Best case scenario is a bunch of dead goons, and two dead idiots.”
     “You keep talking about your men that way, and they might not be so loyal. Imagine what he says when you’re not around!” I said, raising my voice. Some subtle body language indicated I was at least heard.
     “They’re loyal because I’ve got the very best shit around,” the trickster said, his shoulders slung low. The look on his face was lascivious, threatening, and insufferable. “Show ‘em, Charlie.”
     He gestured to a goon near him, a guy with sharp features and a scarred chin. He pulled a shotgun out of a crate. It was shiny metal and looked new, but the design was odd, with a cocking lever underneath. I hadn’t seen one like that outside of western movies. Scarface loaded a shell with a bright gold casing into it, pulled the lever, and fired at the concrete wall to his left.
     A plume of bright emerald flame emerged from the barrel, and hung in the air for seconds before slowly drifting to the ground, still burning. It stayed on the ground, crackling, before one of the other goons came over and took a long while to finally stomp it out. The sound of the gun was unusual, too. Instead of the usual crack-bang, it sounded like an inrush of air, like a plane flying overhead, and no ringing afterward.
     “Green fire,” I said, almost to myself. I looked at Mr. Nighttime, who looked stunned.
     “Nobody else has guns like this. Well… nobody did, before I started selling,” the trickster said. “Now there’s quite a few on the streets of San Francisco. And who knows where they’ll end up?”
     “Why?” said Mr. Nighttime, sincerely.
     “For the money,” I said.
     “Hah! Shows what you know, girl. No. I just told you: It’s a laugh. I wanna play a trick on the whole goddamn world. So I whipped up a few guns that could shoot some old-school enchanted fire… or maybe it’s just a special chemical reaction, one any idiot with a chemistry set could make. I’m not going to tell you,” said the trickster. He looked thoroughly pleased with himself.
     “Fine, fine,” I said. “Let’s figure this out. No one has to die. All I want is these guns off the street. I’ll even let you go free, but maybe my companion disagrees.” I looked over to Mr. Nighttime.
     “No, that could work…” he said. His eyes looked to the brim of his hat as he mulled it over. “What do you want? I mean, okay, you want to disseminate these things… you’ve got a few out there. And we could even let you keep… let’s say a crate. And destroy the rest,” Mr. Nighttime said.
     “We most certainly can not—“ He put a hand up in a “stop” gesture, and I gritted my teeth. God damn men really were all the same. Capitalists, communists, criminals, vigilantes.
     “What do I want? You know what I want, old-timer?” said the trickster. He walked a step closer to get right in Mr. Nighttime’s face. “I want to imprison you like the devil you are. Wrap you up and seal you away in a circle of salt, so you can watch the whole world change, while there’s nothing you can do,” he said, while gesturing with his hands. I couldn’t tell if those were part of an incantation of some kind or just a flourish.
     “I’ve watched the world change a lot, and there was nothing I could ever do,” Mr. Nighttime said. “You think I’d let all this happen if I could? The Holocaust? The atomic bomb? Segregation? Look around, kiddo. If vigilantes really mattered, everything would be different.”
     “If you don’t matter, why the hell do you keep doing it? What makes you get out of bed every morning, your back aching, your hands trembling? Why bother?” the trickster said, sounding genuinely interested.
     “Why do you do what you do?” Mr. Nighttime said.
     “I’m good at it,” said the trickster. A sincere answer, if a deranged one.
     “Same here. I’m still alive. I’ve been shot, burned, beaten, blown up, and I’m still standing. I guess there’s a reason for it,” Mr. Nighttime said. “It’s what we do.”
     “Even your mind games are tired, two-sides-of-the-same-coin crap. You’re played. You’re a hack. You’re dead in the water. I might as well let you go, you and your bimbo,” the trickster said. I should have killed him just for that.
     “Quiet, child,” I said. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”
     “Oh, yes, I do! Two decrepit old fools in Mardi Gras costumes!” the trickster said. “I could kill you. But I’d have to cover it up… and you’re both smart enough to have told someone, maybe even a cop, where you would be tonight. They’d have reason to investigate. I sell guns and do magic, I’m not a master criminal.”
     “Boss!” said a goon on my left, in an offended tone.
     “I guess you didn’t tell that to the hired help?” I said, trying to get under his skin.
     “They’re in denial. Maybe I am, too. A mystic gun-runner is kind of a laugh,” the trickster said.
     I kept my gun pointed at the crowd of henchman, not sure where we were going with all this.
     “What you want is some fun in your life,” I said, thinking. “You don’t care about the guns. Give those to us, go free, and we’ll… maybe we can do something for you.”
     “We’ll pay,” said Mr. Nighttime.
     “What?” I said, turning to him. Had he lost his marbles?
     “We’ll pay! I mean it. I can write you a check, made out to ‘cash’. You can go to the bank first thing in the morning.
What do you want? Ten thousand? Twenty? You and the goons go, we keep the guns, and the hideout. Live to fight another day,” Mr. Nighttime said.
     “Why would I ever believe you? A check? You’re delusional,” the trickster said.
     “You can call my accountant. He never sleeps. He’s like Allen Dorfman for Mount Olympus,” he said. The trickster’s eyebrows shot up. I wondered which half of that simile he was more impressed by.
     “Charlie. Phone,” the trickster said. A black phone with a long cord was delivered. “Give me that number, please.” Mr. Nighttime did, and he dialed.
     “I got a guy here who says if he writes me a twenty-thousand dollar check, made out to ‘cash’, it’ll clear tomorrow morning. Tell me it’s BS,” the trickster said, in that little weasel voice of his. In a way, it was a brilliant plan. In another, it infuriated me. The idea of someone like this walking away not only scot-free but with a massive windfall?
     The phone call continued for a while, with mostly murmured sounds of agreement or recognition on our side. We waited. I could feel sweat run down my forehead and my neck under my costume.
     The trickster hung up the phone and handed it back to Charlie. He stared at Mr. Nighttime for a while, and then me. He looked around the room.
     “Okay, old-timer. Checkbook,” he said.
     Mr. Nighttime looked at me, and I understood without words. I turned on my heel and pointed my gun at the trickster’s head.
     “Don’t move,” I said. “Your guy will go free.” Mr. Nighttime relaxed, after many minutes, and Cinderblock almost collapsed.
     “You know, that won’t work, anyway,” the trickster said, looking at me.
     “I don’t believe you,” I said.
     “How about all the guys leave,” Mr. Nighttime said. “Then I write the check.”
     The trickster looked at my gun, pressed into his temple, and then waved his hands through the air.
     “Everybody out. Meet me at O’Shea’s after midnight,” he said.
     “You sure, boss?” said the goon with the scar on his chin. Cinderblock had already made his way for the door. I guess the stress got to him.
     “Yeah, yeah. What’s the harm?” the trickster said.
     “I just hate these do-gooding losers,” said Scarface. “We got these great guns and we could make ‘em go up in fuckin’ smoke…” He was holding one of the green fire shotguns, hands sweaty.
     “Don’t do anything stupid,” the trickster said.
     “You’re gonna give it all up after one fuckin’ phone call? I need this fuckin’ money! I don’t live in Fairyland, you know?” Scarface said. “God damn… hands up!”
     He spun towards me and cocked the lever on the front of the gun.
     “Oh, shit,” I said, and dove to the floor as a jet of eldritch fire roared above me. I rolled out of the way just in time for my cape to light up.
     “Madam!” said Mr. Nighttime, moving to stamp out the flames on my cape. Before he could, another goon socked him in the face. We were doing this now, it seemed. I fumbled for my belt to pull at the miniature fire extinguisher, and blasted it on my cape. I had to empty the whole thing just to stop the flames from spreading to the rest of my costume, and it was still burning. I smacked at stray embers in vain, before detaching the cape from my shoulders altogether.
     “Goddammit! My cape!” I said. “Now I’m really angry.” I spun around with gun in hand, looking for something to fire at, a target that, if hit, would help our situation. Most of the goons had fled the scene when things got hot. There were three left, and the boss. Mr. Nighttime was fighting one of them hand-to-hand, while trigger-happy Scarface was cocking the lever of his gun again and aiming at me. I should have fired. I’d killed a few people, but not many. I was glad killing didn’t come easy to me, but it would sure help, some of the time.
     I spun out of the way and pulled one of the other goons toward me so he ended up right where I’d been standing. Scarface didn’t have the hesitation I did, and he fired. The same roaring green fire as before but now, I watched it consume a person. He screamed like every nerve in his body was burning. I was turning to blast Scarface when the trickster stepped in, seemingly trying to break up the fighting.
     “You little bastard,” I said. I pointed my gun at his head again and squeezed the trigger. This time, it was second nature. Blood shot out over the floor and he fell down. I heard another shot behind me, and the third guy tipped over onto his burning friend. Mr. Nighttime approached the pile and shot the still-screaming burn victim, too. Scarface ran. Got a little too hot, I guess.
     “That could have gone better,” Mr. Nighttime said.
     “I’ll say,” I said. I felt sick.
     “You feel sick?” said a groaning, straining voice from my left. The trickster stood up, clutching his head, and I watched the hole fill itself in. He spat a bullet onto the floor.
     “I told you it wouldn’t work, sweetcheeks,” he said. He cracked his neck one way, then the other. “What a goddamn waste of my time. And some good goons. Well, one of them was a fucking idiot. Just like you two.” He sighed. I almost wanted to shoot him again just for sport, but that was definitely not in line with the vigilante code.
     “Your men decided to be violent, and I think you know why,” Mr. Nighttime said. “You arm people with weapons like this, they’ll think nothing of killing.”
     “Oh, please. You’re going to lecture me on the sanctity of life?” he said.
     “I’m not lecturing anything. But you’ve lost a fair amount of leverage here. If that check hasn’t burned, I suggest you take it and run,” Mr. Nighttime said. He sounded confident, which was more than I could say for myself.
     “Heh. Sure. Why not? If it doesn’t clear, though, my next project is going to be torturing you two and anyone you know. Hell, even if it does clear. Maybe you’ll learn a lesson about making deals with monsters. I’m not sure you’ve ever learned a thing in your life,” the trickster said. “Goodbye, idiots!”
     Somehow, that was that. The makeshift funeral pyre beneath us had already started to reduce the bodies to ashes, so we let it burn. I turned to Mr. Nighttime with a disapproving look.
     He looked back at me, cycling through guilt, defensiveness, uncertainty, and apologetic sadness. “I understand, those aren’t your methods,” he said. “I’m a guest here. I’ll let you have the room, if you want, even the guns if that’s your preference, and any trouble that he causes—“
     “You didn’t even source these guns! He said he built them, but do you believe that?” I said.
     “I do,” he said. “I don’t have much awareness of the magic side of things, but it checks out. There’s a few types like this around, and this kind of scam is in their purview.”
     “And you gave him a nest egg for the next one,” I said. “I think you should leave.”
     “As I said, the hideout is yours, if you—“
     “I meant San Francisco.”
     “Oh,” he said.
     “I don’t know what you think I’m in this for, but it’s not to bankroll criminals,” I said. “Or to kill men — even bad men — without any kind of resolution to the underlying problem. I could shoot criminals all day long. It won’t matter. You know that.”
     “I was being pragmatic,” he said. “I told you, I think. The money barely matters to me and anyone with the ability to make these guns barely needs it. Now, that problem is solved. And we have all the more chances to catch him, again.”
     “You mean I do,” I said. “You were just leaving.”
     “I understand why you don’t approve,” he said. “But now the rest of the guns will stay off the street, and the little guy’s operation will have to start over. That’s a win, in my book. Like I said… I’ve been at this a while. And I’ve never changed the world. Just nudged things away from the edge of the cliff. If you ever see it my way… I wouldn’t mind working together again. You’ve got great instincts.”
     “Not always,” I said.
     Mr. Nighttime had a sad look on his face. “Next time, let’s talk about our biggest regrets. I’ve got some doozies,” he said.
     “So do I. Now if you’ll excuse me… I have a hideout to redecorate,” I said. He tipped his hat to me, and walked out the front door.

* * *

     I was in the process of figuring out who owned the building when I learned it had just been sold. The number of the new owner was the same number Mr. Nighttime had given the trickster to make his persuasive phone call. If he was my landlord, I was guaranteed to see him again. The prospect rested uneasy in my mind, rolling around like a missing marble
     I redecorated the place — turned one wall into a staging area for my costume and gear, including a new cape. Another became a map of the city with my case files neatly labelled. I decided I’d call the place “the Ninth Circle,” if anyone were to ask. I sealed the green fire guns up behind some cement, hopefully never to be used. I spent more and more time there, even when I wasn’t adventuring.
     I thought about calling my old boyfriend, Harold — or calling it quits. I wondered if anything I’d done had made a real difference in the world, or if Mr. Nighttime was right, and nothing we did really mattered. I wondered if I was cut out for a world where “Satan” wasn’t just a name I used, but something real, where hellfire was just another weapon in the criminal’s arsenal. I thought about how much one person could accomplish, all on their own. I thought about how the Ninth Circle had room for a few more people. Room enough, maybe, for a team.

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© Jess Umbra, 2026
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