2019.

She’d heard about it, knew it was there, sometimes even saw its blue lights glowing in the distance, but not once in her life had Gracie ever had reason to pass under the Arch of Mercy and cross the 6th Avenue Bridge. 

The Arch of Marcy served as a portal between her world — the Titan City of real people working and struggling and getting messy with life — and the strange Shangri-la of the West Titan hillsides, where those who owned everything in her world stayed  above it all, beyond the struggle. 

Yet there she was, being chauffeured — chauffeured, a word Gracie didn’t think she could even spell, much less expect to experience — across the 6th Avenue Bridge by the manservant of some unknown savior. 

Simply riding in the Zephyr was luxury aplenty. It seemed odd that something so old showed no cracks of decay. Its leather seat had to be about the most comfortable thing she had ever sat on, and it smelled fantastic. Somebody must have cared for it, continually giving it life through years of love and work. What must that be like? she wondered.

The other side of the Engleheart was lush with trees that had given away all their summer green for autumn gold, brass, and copper. They swayed above homes, each more beautiful than the one before, then entryways into private communities, and finally the foreboding iron gates of personal estates. 

At one of these, the Zephyr slowed to a stop. Stephen punched a few buttons on a device clipped to the inside of the visor above him, and the driveway opened before them. They passed a gatehouse, where Stephen nodded to the guard stationed there and continued down the drive. 

From one set of iron bars to another, she thought. 

Then the mansion came into view, illuminated by lights from below, silhouetted against the moonlit sky above, with darkness etched all along the contours of its stonework. Shadows obscured its size, and Gracie wasn’t sure if the gothic monstrosity was way bigger than she could see or much smaller than it seemed. 

There were parts of it she couldn’t understand, little pokey bits coming out here and there that probably all went by technical architectural terms. This thing here looked kind of like it came from a church and that over there from a castle, like a tower where some rich old dude would lock up his wife after she went mad.

“Holy fuck,” she muttered. 

“Indeed,” said Stephen.

As the Zephyr coasted to a stop in front of the mansion entrance, a young man came down the steps to greet them, wearing a slick, colorful windbreaker and baggy denim jeans, casual but comfy street fashion that had to come from one of the nicer stores. He kept his hair short, natural, and slightly unkempt, his beard on the verge of scruffy.

Gracie wanted to hate him, imagining how easy his life must be. Likely, he was some trust-fund asshole, except there was an unaffected, easy bounce in his stride, and the way he smiled at Stephen was not an asshole’s smile.

“Welcome back. Did you get the— ?” And then the young man saw Gracie exit as well. “I guess you did.” 

For a second, Gracie caught him checking her out but he didn’t say anything more than, “Hi,” then he extended his hand to Stephen. “I’ll take the Zephyr down to the garage for you.”

Stephen said, “Miss Chapel, allow me to introduce Mr. Daniel Cole, our house mechanic.”

Like a break-dancing robot, the young man pivoted in her direction, so the hand he had held out for keys extended to shake Gracie’s instead . “You can call me Danny,” he said.

“Gracie,” she said, declining his hand.

“Cool. Yeah,” Danny acknowledged the snub and reached back to Stephen. “Keys?” 

Keys changed hands, and Danny nodded goodbye before taking the Zephyr around the mansion. Then, Gracie followed Stephen inside.

The air sounded different around her head. Gracie didn’t need sonar to hear how high the ceilings inside were, nor how solid the walls. Just like its stone exterior, everything inside the mansion seemed built to withstand the decades, if not centuries. 

Its windows sure looked medieval enough for centuries anyway. Not a simple square among them. No, each was dagger-edged or had batwing curves, with stained glass to boot. 

The paintings and sculptures and brass candlesticks along the walls tucked away in — what were those things called again? Scones? No, sconces. That was it. Who the hell lives like this?

“I shall show you to your room,” said Stephen, guiding her up the carpeted stair. “My employer extends his apologies for being unable to greet you himself, but business has detained him.”

“That’s cool,” said Gracie, still taking it all in. 

Stephen asked, “Are you perhaps hungry at all?”

Gracie couldn’t deny it. “Kind of.” She hadn’t been able to eat all day.

“Do you hold any dietary restrictions of which I should be aware?”

“Not really.”

“Then I will  warm up something for you.”

“That’s… Thanks.” Gracie didn’t know what to expect. It wasn’t like Stephen presented her with a room service menu.

The bedroom that he said would be hers sat on the second floor. A small desk stood by the window, looking out over the front lawn. The wallpaper bore a pattern that might have been hand-painted for all she knew, with stripes of burgundy and gold with sage green leaves. Way more pillows than she could imagine what to do with had buried the bed. 

Stephen opened the closet for her. “You will find a laundry bag here. Should you wish to have your clothes cleaned, simply place them outside your door.” 

That wasn’t a service Gracie felt like making use of. She wasn’t ready to hand over her clothes to a stranger.

“And here are towels, a robe, and sandals should you wish to bathe. The toilet and bath are the third door down your left.” From his inside pocket, he pulled a card and placed it on the desk. “The wi-fi password. You will find a wireless charging device for your phone in the top drawer. If you require anything else, simply pick up the phone at your bedside and dial zero, and should you wish to make an external call, dial nine first.”

“All right. Cool. Thanks.”

“Of course, Miss Chapel.”

Yep, still didn’t like the sound of that “Miss” business, but Gracie couldn’t deny it fit the setting. What didn’t fit the setting was her.

Receiving all this direction, all this accommodation left her feeling childlike and lost. If Stephen had opened the closet door to reveal rows of doll-like Victorian dresses and told her she would be expected to wear a different one each day of the week, she would not have been surprised. This was all just that weird. 

And she’d probably do it too. She’d feel like she had to, no matter how she hated it, because, well, she had just gotten her ass pulled out of jail by someone who didn’t know her at all, and she did feel a sense of gratitude. 

But there was something about all the opulence around her. Everything from every direction reeked of money. It made her feel like she wanted to comply, which she fucking hated.

After stripping off her jacket and boots, Gracie hurled the excessive pillows to the thickly carpeted floor and started looking over the last messages she and Kristen had exchanged before it all went sideways. There were, of course, various memes shared between them — animals looking cute or stupid and often both, celebrity fails, and unintentionally suggestive news story headlines.

Kristen carried most of their actual conversations. She had so much to complain about at the restaurant, mostly the customers — their special requests to order something off-menu, complaints that came when the food they asked for arrived exactly how they had asked, and just their general expectation that she must be an idiot because she earned her money from serving them. 

Most of Gracie’s replies were a series of supportive statements. Ugh, really? Come on! She sounds like the worst…

Sometimes Kristen would have good news, like one night where she texted, Bitch, your girl just got this insane chocolate raspberry cheesecake and 2 bottles of rosé! Let’s get lit! They had enjoyed those while watching a 90s high school drama. Afterward, they took videos of themselves quoting the movie with ridiculous, exaggerated accents that Kristen had posted online. 

Remembering good times like that was painful, but Gracie couldn’t help herself, like scratching at a scab you know you ought to leave alone. 

A knock interrupted Gracie’s rumination. “Miss Chapel?”

“One second!” She leapt off the bed and opened the door to find Stephen with a rolling cart. Its tray held a bowl of rice topped with shredded meat and vegetables in some kind of red sauce. Black beans and fried plantains sat on the side. It smelled amazing, like peppers and garlic with just a hint of sweetness. Gracie’s stomach gurgled in anticipation.

“Did you just make all that?” she asked.

“No, Miss Chapel,” Stephen answered as he wheeled the cart into the room. “It was saved from tonight’s dinner — ropa vieja, a little something from my home. I hope that will suffice. When you are done, simply leave the tray outside.”

“Like the laundry bag, right. Do I… Um… Am I supposed to, like, tip you?”

It impressed Gracie that Stephen managed to smile at that in a way that didn’t piss her off, amused by the suggestion but not mocking her for it. “Not at all.”

“Ok. Well, thanks,” she said. “This is nice. I appreciate it.” The words somehow scared her to say. Was admitting that a step toward letting down her guard here?

Stephen started to but then stopped. “Miss Chapel, it is understandable that you might feel a touch overwhelmed to receive the hospitality which has been provided. But if I may offer you some assurance, please understand that everything being given you comes from those to whom much has already been given. You are not the first in this house to receive unexpected generosity from the hands that now reach to you. And like you, many of us found ourselves feeling, perhaps, undeserving at times. But we found that what we had been given was not a gift we were expected to return, like a book borrowed from the library. Instead, what is asked of us is that we make the best and most noble use of it as we can, which in some cases, may be in providing service.”

“Service?” Gracie asked. Again, the Victorian dresses came to mind.

“Service,” he repeated. “By which we extend what we have received to others who may benefit, such as yourself.” And with that, he left.

Between how hungry she was and how goddamn delicious it was, Gracie’s dinner disappeared in a blink. It eased her nerves, even if she wasn’t sure she wanted them eased, making her feel warm and soft and sleepy. It had been a very long day. 

As Gracie lay in that foreign and fantastically soft bed, she remembered a place where she stayed for a few years between running away from her parents and finding a room with Kristen. It was an East Side flophouse down by the docks near the Brennert River. Some rich college kid had bought it with family money, she heard. He rented it out cheap, never paid for upkeep, and had tenants sleep three or four to a room. Most were kids like Gracie herself, fresh off the street or from a shitty home, not able to afford much. 

Their landlord sometimes hung out there with them. He did a bit of small-scale drug dealing, and partying with him was expected. There was always one girl or another he was getting sexual favors from. Her rent was covered.

Finally, he took notice of Gracie one night and said it was a shame they hadn’t gotten to know each other better. His latest girl had just moved out. Gracie made sure she was gone by morning.

None of the vibes Gracie had gotten from anyone involved in this — not Stephen, not Danny, not Hancock who had set this up, nor Captain Villagrana who had given her Hancock’s number — gave her the sense she was being set up, and that was the hardest thing to swallow. 

What kind of people just reach out like this to a stranger? Gracie knew better than to imagine the world worked like that. If something seems too good to be true, then it probably isn’t. But she had survived by trusting her gut, and her gut wasn’t pointing out any danger. 

Not danger, no, but secrets. There were definitely secrets, superhero secrets, secrets of Titan City’s very own Scarlet Stranger. 

These were friends of the Crimson Wraith. They were helping her because of him, and he was real, not just some urban legend or comic book character, no, an actual person who actually dressed like some weird red ghost and went out on a mission to “defend the defenseless.” Who the hell does that?

Her dreams were full of wandering the halls of a jail complex, whose labyrinthine halls had become infinitely long. There was no escaping. At one point, she saw Stephen and the Zephyr through a window to the parking deck, but every door only led to more doors.

When Gracie woke, it was like she was on some alien planet, and it took a moment to refresh herself on where she was and how she got there.  Then she saw a note slipped under her door: Please notify the kitchen by phone when you are ready to take your breakfast. My employer wishes to join you.

When she decided she was ready to eat — couldn’t lie around in that strange bed forever — she made the call and told Stephen she was ready to come down. 

“Very good, Miss Chapel,” he said, “I shall lead you to the sunroom.” Soon, Stephen was at her door and guiding her down the stairs to the rear of the mansion.

Gracie’s eyes needed a minute to adjust to the sunroom’s glare. Its white marble floor reflected so much light, as if the sun shone from both above and below. Flowers and ferns hung around a small glass table with white lace tablecloth, decked with a full continental breakfast. And at the opposite end of the table, facing her, sat Stephen’s employer.

“You must be Gracie.” He rose to greet her.

What Gracie didn’t say was, “Of fucking course,” because the man standing before her, Stephen’s employer and her benefactor, acting on behalf of the man she “met at midnight,” was none other than the douchebag who had appeared at Sprang & Sons looking for books about the Crimson Wraith.