Chapter 18

“Storm the Master Marathon, I’ll fly through.
By flash and thunderfire, I’ll survive.
(I’ll survive, I’ll survive, I’ll survive, I’ll survive.)
Then I’ll defy the Laws of Nature and come out alive!
Then I’ll get you!”
-Queen, “The Seven Seas of Rhye“

By noon, the media was reporting that Contessa Helena de San Finzione’s condition had changed from “Serious” to “Fair.” The donor liver had gone on to someone who needed it, and she was expected to recover in time. The man who’d received the organ, which had been on standby in case she’d needed it, made local newspapers as “The Man with A Liver Fit For A Contessa.”

Images played of the Candlelight Vigil outside the hospital the night before. Followed by video of Contessa Maria starting to address the nation before hearing of the bomb and telling them that she had better things to do than address them.

Helena smiled at her and turned off the television, her only company now that she’d sent Julie Equals back to the castle. The morphine was still flowing through her system, but she was lucid now, which she needed to be for this meeting. The two Ultimados standing guard outside her door saluted Generalissimo Hernando Ramirez; coming down the hall with the Prefect of Police and the Minister of Intelligence. Ramirez returned the salute and instructed them to guard the end of the hall until they were done.

She stuffed Propappou’s smoking jacket under the blanket before they entered. Ramirez asked how Helena was feeling.

“Doped up enough to enjoy daytime TV, but not so much that we can’t talk now.”

Once the door closed behind them, the Minister of Intelligence took a device from his pocket and walked around the room, checking it. He declared it free of listening devices or cameras, and La Contessa nodded.

The three men gave their reports. Ramirez shared the information that Allaine had gathered as well. Helena took it all in, sharing her own thoughts; omitting that they’d come to her in what she was choosing to call “a dream,” for the moment.

“Your friend is pretty astute, Ramirez. Whoever is behind all of this is throwing us a bone here. We have no choice but to follow his bread crumb trail; he knows we can’t and won’t stop looking for him. With the ‘Jimenez was a crazy stalker’ story, we get the media off our backs while we do it.”

“So, we are dancing to his tune, Contessa?” asked the Prefect.

“It’s that,” Helena responded. “Or we all get to talk to cameras about what’s taking so long on ‘Day 178 of The Hunt for The Real Mastermind.’”

The Prefect nodded.

“I shall have my men smash up some alarm clocks, grab some demo charges from SWAT. That should be enough to sell the mad bomber angle.”

“I like your anti-science literature idea, too, Ramirez,” Helena mused. “Ooh! Make it Anti-Vaxxers! Fucking smug soccer moms, endangering children.” La Contessa composed herself. “Now, I’m afraid the other matters we have to discuss are above your clearance, Martin. I’ll leave you to your evidence-planting.”

The Prefect saluted and left. As a precaution, the Minister swept the room again.

“Now,” La Contessa said, turning to Ramirez. “Miguel and his people are all right?”

“Si, Contessa. They had retreated to a safe distance before the explosion.”

“That’s a relief. As soon as they’re able to, I need them to get back to the project. It’s more important now than ever that we know the truth about Springheel.”

“What about the Morgan angle,” the Minister of Intelligence asked. “Should we have the wife and children detained?”

“No,” Helen replied. “When I can travel, I’d like a word with them. Put them under discreet protective surveillance, though. This guy plays with innocent lives. And He thinks he’s clever. If we move too quickly, he might get spooked and burn the trail, and them with it. Going with his cover story will make it seem like we’re admitting his insane genius. It’ll buy us some time while he gloats. Or whacks off. Or composes his taunting letter, or whatever he’ll do to celebrate. I certainly can’t do anything overt until my friends leave.”

“Agreed,” Ramirez replied. “If Springheel means this much to him, and he does not believe he is enough steps ahead of us, he would certainly try again while they are in the crossfire.”

“Yes, and this won’t be the end of it,” Helena asserted. “He attacked me to prevent me from looking into Springheel. To kill me before I consulted experts about it. The attack on the Ministry afterwards means one of two things: Either he knows it’s NOT real and didn’t want them finding out, or he knows it IS real and didn’t want them finding out. If he didn’t intend to kill me, he certainly intended to pique my interest. In that, he has succeeded.”

Princess Susan of Bailey sang out another cry of glory for Good Sir Knight Troilus as he thrust into her again and again, demonstrating the same savage ferocity with which he’d slain the fearsome dragon Chadwick. Again, and again, she sang his praises as she took every last inch of his mighty lance into her weeping pool of gratitude.

Princess Mesmera lay sleeping beside them, too tired from her long night’s visit to the Plague Center with the Evil Queen to join in their revelry. But she most lasciviously gave her good blessing to their sport before retiring, so Good Sir Troilus and Princess Susan carried on, soft mewlings coming from Princess Mesmera’s lips as she watched them and made movements beneath her royal blankets until sleep came for her.

Princess Susan cried out in triumphant joy once more as her Good Sir Knight’s shaft found its target yet again, and an explosion of glory was shared by both. As they collapsed onto the bed, there came a knocking at the chamber. Covering themselves in the royal blankets, Sir Troilus bid the entrant welcome.

Jeanne, the servant girl, brought in Princess Susan’s washing from the night before. She gazed upon Princess Susan, Sir Troilus, and the slumbering Princess Mesmera in the bed for a moment.

“Ah, Quel Français,” the servant girl softly said with a smile. She said other words, but neither Princess Susan nor Sir Troilus knew the language of the Franks; and Princess Mesmera was in deep slumber. However, they knew the names of Contessa Maria and Good Sir Stavro, and since the Frankish word for “brunch” was also “brunch,” they deduced her meaning and thanked her.

She took her leave as Sir Troilus held his fair lady and stroked her hair for a while before murmuring some words to his lady love. Reality itself slowly shifted, until Susan Bailey was playing with Troy Equals’ hair in response.

“Yeah,” she said to him softly, remembering that Julie Equals was sleeping next to them. “Better in the morning.”

Memories came to both of them. Things Julie had told them before settling in to watch and finger herself to sleep, but that they could wait until they were done to remember: That Helen was awake and that Troy may have a fight getting Propappou’s smoking jacket back from her. She’d been scheduling a meeting with the Generalissimo and some people when she finally kicked Julie out of the room, but was probably up to a visitor afterwards.

Julie also relayed the message to Susan, asking that she stay by Maria until Helen came home from the hospital. Susan agreed without hesitation.

Since Julie had gotten to bed sometime within the past hour, they decided to let her sleep, showered, and got changed. Susan only had three outfits with her. She’d worn the blue dress when she arrived at the castle, and that only left her a clubbing dress, jeans, and a t-shirt; none of which said “guest of The Countess” to her. Troy suggested the blue dress for brunch.

“If Maria can spare you for a couple hours,” he told Susan as he put on his school clothes, making him look to Susan, except for missing the glasses and pens in his pocket, like an accountant about to grab his briefcase and kiss her before calling her ‘honey’ on his way out the door to his 1950s sitcom office, where they just manufactured ‘Business.’ “I can take you to the Marketplace. Some big name clothing stores, great comic and sci-fi shops; we might regret not taking Helen up on the ten grand.”

That thought made Susan pause. She plopped down on the bed, remembered that Julie was still sleeping, and saw that her part of the bed hadn’t moved at all. The thought “Just like those commercials with the bowling ball and the wineglass...” threatened to take her head over before she remembered what had been weighing on her since she realized it on the plane here.

“Troy,” Susan asked plaintively. “When I signed that thing for the passport, I became one of Helen’s subjects, didn’t I? Like, do I have to call her ‘La Contessa’ now or get thrown in her dungeon?”

Troy leaned forward and gave her a little kiss on the tip of her nose.

“She’s closed the dungeons.” He paused. “I know better than to ask why. And you’re still an American; you’ve got dual-citizenship now. She can give you orders, but you can refuse them. Plus, I get to figure out all-new tax stuff for you.”