Love Takes Wing

He hissed through the air upside down, his mind whirling as it fused distance and velocity and location into a kaleidoscopic four-dimensional awareness. He extended his fingertips. He could make it. He had enough room. No need for webbing.

Extended his fingers a little more.

There!

He sailed under the railroad bridge. At the last moment before he fell away from it he caught the edge of the last girder with his fingertips. His strength and adhesion held. He kicked at the edge of the bridge to brake, then swung gently back and forth, hanging by two fingertips in an upside-down ball, looking down over traffic, out to the water.

"I love exploring new territory," he muttered. His mind uneasily wandered back to the cameras on tripods in windows, three of them, along his old route. He wondered if "they" were trying to catch him. A shiver crawled down his spine, and he hung full length, only his arm slightly flexed as his two fingertips easily held the weight of his body.

"Well, Parker, how far do you think you can push your luck?" he whispered to himself, looking across the city at night. He felt a sudden chill, and he rubbed his arm absently. "Not quite summer," he muttered. "I think I'll be getting back." He checked with his subconscious, which had been studiously timing his pulse, allowing for recalculation as his heart sped up and slowed down over his exercise, and still kept track of the time. Half past midnight. Or, if you'd rather, twelve thirty one and fifty two and a half seconds.

"Thank you," he muttered. "Just guessing on that last half second, I'll bet."

He fired off a strand of webbing and slung around, the downward rush from the bridge giving him all the momentum he needed to vault over the three story warehouse and sail through the air, not knowing where he'd come down, his senses whipping across the cityscape instantly marking leverage points, routes, web targets.

Under the black mesh over his face, Parker grinned like a madman and slowly somersaulted downwards in free fall. It may be risky to exercise in the city, but this was too damn gorgeous to give up.

Suddenly; something out of place. Parker's eyes narrowed, and instead of firing web to sling him around or up, he calculated distance to the nearest roof. Not too much of a drop, not if he bled off some momentum first. Whistling down out of the murky sky, he touched a chimney; a few bricks ripped off and he was slowed, spinning; he kicked off a wall, then rolled across a roof and popped up to his feet with his back to a wall, heart going a little faster than it needed to be.

He relaxed, paying close attention to his senses as they unreeled, looking for the strand that had tugged with something unusual in the sensory net that was always spun around him. There. Men on a roof, all dressed in black. He moved around the wall, absently climbing up on it and scooting around over a four story drop to get a better view.

Quite an operation on the roof two buildings down. A tented skylight, one panel open, a miniature block and tackle set up over it. Four men on the roof. Three dressed like cliché terrorists, the fourth with peculiar hair that swept up on both sides and a mask with round goggles. He wore an English greatcoat, and as Parker squinted at him he saw ruffles at the wrist and a bunch of lace at the throat. He blinked, and looked again.

Well, it wasn't Logan at any rate.

The cable that led down into the building was twitching and jerking like someone was climbing it. Parker popped off the side of the building and slapped into the one next door a story down, whirling around the side of the building and skimming along its edge to come up on the edge of the building with the party on its roof. He peeked up, much closer now.

The three men in black helped haul a large fourth man up out of the skylight. He went down on one knee immediately, offering a black box to the man with the greatcoat. The goggled and cloaked man stepped up and opened the box. A smile twisted his face, and Parker noticed his teeth were a bit too sharp. Reaching in, the cloaked man pulled forth a small metal disc, like an amulet or a broach.

"Well done," he hissed, and the four stood and bowed. But now the rope was jerking again; was someone else down there?

Peter angled around the building to see where they were. Looking down, he saw the sign; Arronod's Antiques and Gallery of Antiquities.

"Shouldn't you loons be robbing a diamond store?" Parker muttered under his breath. Then he casually bashed in a window with his foot and scuttled clear.

Raucous alarms blared, and steel bars crashed down behind all the windows. Parker reached the roof in time to see the cable hanging from the block and tackle get pinched as steel shutters rolled up over the skylight. He grinned.

"Oops," he whispered to himself. "A captive should give the police enough to work with here. My job is done."

He hesitated.

"Almost," he amended. The five that were getting away quickly ran across a plank hastily placed between the antique display gallery and the next building. Parker shadowed them, a dim shape on the wall.

They reached a fire escape and began to move down it, quick and efficient and without panic. Parker looked at the bottom of the fire escape and saw a stack of empty boxes in the alley blocking view of the shiny yellow cab parked under the escape. His eyebrows raised. Not bad, not bad at all. Two motorcycles behind the cab, so they could split up with the loot. This warranted a closer look.

Moving slowly and surely now, he reached the wall opposite the fire escape, moving low so he would be level with them when they got that low. Sticking to the wall with his toes and heels, he leaned his back against it and rolled his mask up to his nose. As one of the thugs scooted down the fire escape moving as fast as he could, Parker sucked on his tongue for a moment then spit a thin streak of something like saliva. It hit the man on his jacket and spattered a bit; some got on his hair, his neck. Parker smiled. Waited. The man in the cloak whirled down the fire escape. Parker let fly again with the spittle, catching him in the top of his hair where he'd be least likely to feel it.

The man abruptly halted, looking around. His eyes were invisible, unreadable beneath the ridiculous round goggles. Suddenly Parker got a chill looking at him. Maybe he was funny looking, but he was also… dangerous somehow.

Below, the five men piled into the taxi and roared out through the boxes, leaving the motorcycles. Then they merged with traffic, the taxi brazenly cutting off a sub-compact. Parker raised his eyebrows again. "They even drive like a cabbie," he muttered to himself. He shrugged. "I've done my good deed for the night. Time to be headed back."

Of course, it was just about impossible for him to get lost. He sprang off the building and whizzed home.

xXx

"Thanks for a great lunch," Peter said, pushing back from the table.

"No problem," Gwen smiled. "Want to convince me you mean it and help with the dishes?"

"Only fair," Peter said. He looked over at the brooding man who was also at the table.

"Daddy," Gwen said. "We have company." He turned to Peter. "When a case is in the papers, his brain gets rolling looking for clues so he can solve it from his armchair." She sighed, exasperated, but there was a smile in her eyes.

"Which is, of course, not very practical," the older man said. "They never get the details right. Don't even know what to look for." He was tall, and while he was no longer as solid as he had been in his younger days there was still strength in his shoulders, and his eyes were bright and keen. His white hair was combed in a style right out of the fifties. His clothes and breath smelled slightly of pipe smoke. He didn't miss much.

"What case would that be?" Peter asked.

"Now you've done it," Gwen said, rolling her eyes and standing up. "You have until the dishwater is run to satisfy your curiosity," she said. "I can't do anything about Dad, but you I can convince to drop it."

Peter smiled and looked at her father, who had raised one eyebrow but couldn't keep from smiling. "Well, Peter, turns out a handful of crooks broke into Arronod's last night about half past midnight. But there are things that don't add up in this case. The only thing that was stolen was a single display of an ancient amulet; they ignored priceless treasures that would be as easy or easier to fence to private collectors. They set up a miniature crane to get in and out, circumvent the security for that wing remotely, and then vanish into the night. They left hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of material down there, making off with one amulet that, while priceless, would probably go for no more than ten thousand." He shook his head. "They didn't even put a picture of the amulet in the paper. How is the population supposed to help?"

"They aren't," Gwen said.

"And the police," he continued, tapping the paper. "No comment, of course, but I'll bet they think this is a trial run; you know, practice, hazing if you will. A demonstration of determination and a test run for something bigger. I want to believe that, but I can't." He looked sideways at Peter. "Something very odd is going on here, and it's taking all the willpower I've got not to drive down to the scene and give it a real looking over, like the police used to before we were lulled into the belief that chemicals and equipment would do the looking for us."

"So all the burglars got away?" Peter asked casually. He got up and started stacking the plates.

"No," the older man said slowly. "Actually, there was a prisoner. A young man, late teens. Won't say a word. But that came from the station, not the newspaper. Did you think there would be a suspect captured?"

"You know," Peter said, "I always thought it was funny that they could capture a guy in the robbed store while he was holding the loot and still call him a suspect."

"Well," the former captain said with a peculiar smile, "things are not always what they seem, and it's important to give the truth time and a way to come out properly. Otherwise, the law might as well be a lynching mob." He sighed. "That happens enough as it is. Due process is one of the most important things our country has to offer its citizens and the world."

"You want to wash or wipe?" Gwen asked pointedly. Her father chuckled, and rose from his chair.

"If you kids will excuse me," he said with a smile, "I'm going to go have a pipe and mull this over."

"You do that," Gwen said. "Go mull." She shooed him out with her hands.

"Looks like I'm washing," Peter said meekly. "I don't know where stuff goes."

"Then you better get started," Gwen smiled. "Pay attention while I put stuff away. You do the dishes a lot?"

"Uh, I help Aunt May," he said. "I always do the drying at my house."

"Well, let me tell you how to do the washing right. First wash the cups, those are the least dirty so your dishwater doesn't get messed up. Then silverware, then plates, then pots and pans. Got it?"

"You bet," he said, trying to suppress a smile. Then he looked down at his buttoned long sleeve shirt. "Um, actually, can I wipe?" Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought. Can't let her see my forearms. Not yet.

She raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Afraid to ruin your manicure?"

"On no!" he simpered. "Dishpan hands!"

She couldn't help but smile. "You're such a weenie, Peter."

"Yeah," he said, "but don't tell anybody. You gonna start or what?"

She plunged a few glasses into the foamy water. "Hey Peter," she said slowly, "can I ask a big favor?"

"You can ask anything you like, pretty lady," he said.

"I feel so awkward," she said with half a smile, staring down into the water as she swirled the dish rag in the glasses. "I mean, I don't quite know how to ask this. Seems like a stupid request."

"Go on, I promise not to think it's stupid."

"Well," she said, "My mother, she's not around anymore. My grandma lives in California, about as far away as you can get. So… I don't really have anyone to celebrate Mothers Day with." She looked him in the eye. "I know it's a lot to ask, but will you let me help celebrate Mothers Day with Aunt May?"

Peter blinked.

"Sure, Gwen," he said. "If I'd been thinking, I would have asked you to. This is great! What did you have in mind?"

"Well," she said, looking down into the dishwater as she pulled cups out, plunked them in the rinsewater and stuck them on the drainer, "Today is Thursday and Mothers Day is Sunday, so I figured I'd just help you with whatever you were doing."

His mind whirled through a rapid recalculation of his finances. It didn't take long; there wasn't much to calculate. "I was thinking I'd take her to church in the morning, maybe lose a couple games of scrabble to her, something like that. I bet you could really put a shine on the event."

"We should at least cook her lunch," Gwen said. "Have you put in reservations for flowers? They might get sold out."

"I'll double check that," Peter said, nodding sagely. Maybe a small plant… yeah, and maybe he could dig up something in the park. He shrugged off that feeling and vigorously toweled the glasses.

"Oh, thanks, Peter. It really means a lot to me that you're willing to share Aunt May with me."

"Believe me," Peter grinned, "There's enough mothering in Aunt May to go around."

xXx

Peter walked down the sidewalk, wrapped up in his thoughts. Fifteen minutes to do a ten minute walk to Advanced Organic Chemistry II. He shrugged against the weight of his backpack. Lots and lots of books. Eyes to the sidewalk, he trudged along feeling half dead and not wanting to look up to see all the speed he was missing by hoofing it instead of swinging.

"Just breathe, Parker," he muttered. "Take it slow. Stay close enough to the ground to smell the roses." He glanced around. "I mean to suck the exhaust. Up there, just smog. To get the real deal, gotta be down here. Hello, my name is Peter, and I'm addicted to sucking car exhaust." He sighed. "Hi Peter." He glanced around, and felt a peculiar tug in his senses. He looked back down at the sidewalk and let his senses find the reason for him.

While his senses heightened, he thought of Aunt May. He hadn't even guessed Mothers Day was closing in. What could he do? How could he make it special? Then he smelled his spider tracer, acrid and bitter and not far away.

There. Blue car. Peter glimpsed the blue car out of the corner of his eye, and let his mind work. Nothing special about that car. Except it had been parked outside Gwen's house. And he had seen it for the first time this morning at the crosswalk four houses down from Gwen. Now it was here. And it reeked of his spider tracer. Hm.

Peter ducked into an alley and jumped at the wall. He kept his legs clear as he used his momentum to whip his hands along the wall, guiding his momentum up over the second story wall at the back of the alley. Then he tipped over and dropped, doing a backwards somersault and landed in the alley on the other side of the wall. His socks felt sticky; his feet wanted to help.

"That'll lose 'em," he muttered. "Must do chemistry. Must go to class. Must not let spider ghost get in the way of studies. Must not abandon future and education to prance about in a homemade leotard.

His senses grabbed his attention as he hopped a hedge and stood across the street from the campus.

The blue car rolled around the corner and idled in the no-park zone in front of the campus entrance. Traffic swarmed around them, and a steady flow of students entered and left the campus. Peter's blood chilled.

There. In the back seat. The glint of goggles, the silhouette of up-swept hair. Peter's senses zeroed in; the man in the back of the car still wore a great coat, but this time, around his neck; that amulet they had stolen. Peter heard a round chambered in an automatic weapon. His nostrils flared, his heart rate shot up, fever uncoiled in him, his limbs loosened, his clothes felt strangely bulky, the backpack on his back became dead weight.

They might not pursue him on campus. But if they did, they might be willing to kick up a ruckus with lots of people to get caught in the crossfire.

As if in slow motion, Peter heard the shutter trip on a camera, slide down and back up. He saw the photographer in the front seat and realized they had been following him all day, they could have pictures of the Stacys, of him…

The front seat passenger side window that faced Peter slid down, and a hand beckoned him. Looking both ways before crossing the street, Peter jogged over.

"A message," the thin faced man in the front seat said. "This is not the time or the place. We know you now. We know where you live, we know about your dad, your sister. So if you don't come to a meeting tonight they have an accident. Here." The man handed him a small square of paper with the address printed in clear block letters. "Midnight. Don't be late."

"But tonight's a school night," Peter said. The window rolled up, and Peter glanced at the back seat before the window closed. Under the goggles, the weird man was smiling.

Peter hopped out of the way as the car screeched out into traffic and around the corner. He realized he was trembling a little.

Suddenly it sunk in. "I don't have a father or a sister," he murmured, then his eyes widened. He rushed inside, up to a pay phone. No change. He glanced around and darted into the Registrar's office.

"Can I use a phone please it's real important," he said to the harried woman behind the desk as he pushed past six people in line. She gave him a cold look and pointed at the phone. He snagged it, spun it around, and grabbed the earpiece as he punched in the Stacy's number.

After three rings the phone was answered. "Stacy residence, this is John."

"Hi, Peter here. Hey," he said, and his mind blanked. How to warn him of the danger without blurting the truth? His first three lies were shot down before they were fully formed; Stacy was a smart man not easily bamboozled. "er," he said.

"Yes?"

"I just heard on the news that it's a killer day for UV, so you probably don't want to go out," he said in a rush. The registrar looked at him sideways, and a couple students in the line giggled.

"That so?" John drawled, a smile audible.

"Yeah, I gotta go," Peter said as a blush fired up through his face, "but you should stay inside and keep an eye out today. Too much UV makes people do crazy things. Okay?"

"I hear you, Peter," John said. "I think I understand what you're saying, but we need to have a talk about this later."

"Later is great," Peter said. "I'm gonna be late for class, bye." He hung up and ducked out of the office without making eye contact, followed by a burst of laughter.

"Just what I need before chemistry," he muttered, ducking his head and sprinting towards the science building.

xXx

"I hate lying to Aunt May," Peter muttered as he crouched on the roof of a building, looking up at the dimly glowing clouds. The city's light was trapped, unable to reach the sky through the clouds. Peter shrugged his shoulders, loving the feel of the mesh. "Okay, so I don't forget; I'm spending the night with Harry tonight and we're studying for chemistry. Right." He shook his head.

"So," he murmured to himself, "I have finals next week, it's a Thursday night, I haven't even started studying, and I'm gonna be on bodyguard duty. This is not good. Oh yeah, and Sunday is Mother's Day. That's just peachy." He sighed. "Guess I'll just have to take care of Mr. Goggles tonight." He pulled his mesh down over his face and dropped to the street.

The address was a squat concrete building surrounded by a twelve foot chain link fence with barbed wire along the top. Dogs roamed the fenced area. Peter grinned.

In a bound he was over the fence. Dogs bounded towards him, snarling and snapping too much to bark. In a single easy move he bounded to the side of the concrete building and clung to it. A dog leaped at him, snarling, and he swatted it; the dog flew through the air and slammed down on the ground, then sprang up yipping and sprinted away. Two more dogs jumped, and he sighed as he batted them away as well. For the moment, he had the place to himself. He dropped in the doorway and knocked politely.

The door swung open. At the far end of the room was a throne carved of wood. Upon the throne sat the cloaked, goggled figure. About fifteen thugs stood in the room, all heavily armed.

"Avon calling," Peter said.

"Come in," said a big man standing next to the throne. Muscles in his jaw flexed; he crossed his big arms.

"First, mind telling me what this is all about?" Peter said.

"We will do that when you have come inside."

Peter quickly gauged his chances of beating the snot out of everyone in the room, guns or no guns, then punching his way through the steel door to get out in one piece. Not bad odds. He stepped inside.

As he approached the chair, he looked it over. A stylized owl was carved into the back of the throne, with spreading wings. Peter tried not to smile.

"I'm here," he said to the seated figure. "So what do I call you?"

"Master," the big man said. "You will call him Master, as we do."

"Hm. No. Okay, I'll make up my own name. Nod your head when I get to one you like. Mister Goggles. The Moussed Madman. Mental the Dental. Flap the Light Fingered?"

"That's enough," the big man growled.

"I always like a selection," Peter pattered.

"Owl," came a hoarse voice from the throne. Peter's eyebrows shot up. "You call me the Owl."

"It talks," he said. "What a hoot."

Behind him, a number of rounds were chambered in various weapons through the room. Peter sighed. "Oh, come on, enough flexing and growling. Can we come to the point? I'm missing beauty sleep for this."

"The Master wishes to make your situation clear to you," the big man said. Peter looked at the Owl, seeing himself reflected in the round dark goggles. "When you triggered the alarm, when you interfered with our business you caused one of our number to be trapped."

"How do you know it was me?" Peter asked.

"The Master sees many things, knows many things," the big man said. "Do not interrupt again. The one you caused to be trapped was the Master's son." He paused for effect. "Now, beyond the reach of the Master's protection, the Master's enemies will kill his son and we can't stop them. So basically, you are responsible for the death of the Master's son."

Peter waited a moment. "You're going to kill me?" he said.

"Eventually," the big man said, his eyes hard and cold. "Eventually."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "How did you find me?" he asked. The thug smiled, but did not speak.

Something missing, something missing, Peter's senses did not find something they expected to. A shiver rolled up his spine as he looked at the Owl and his greatcoat, something missing…

"Where's the amulet?" he asked.

The Owl smiled, then chuckled, a peculiar light liquid sound. Then he laughed, and he threw his head back and gripped the throne and cackled, a sound so full of hate and malice that Peter took a step back. The other thugs in the room laughed, their eyes fixed on him as they howled, as shrieks of wicked mirth tore the night. Peter backed out and they made no move to stop him.

He fired web and whipped over the fence and into the city, but the hideous cackle of the Owl seemed to follow him into the glowing darkness of the urban night.