Chapter 4: Bloodlines
Metropolis Police Department Headquarters
10 AM
Chief Eli Kekoa stood at his office window, watching the morning traffic flow through the streets of Metropolis. He heard a knock at his door.
"Come in."
James Harper Jr. entered, tablet in hand, his Special Crimes Unit badge gleaming under the office lights. The younger man carried himself with the same military bearing as his father, though his face bore a weariness that spoke of too many late nights chasing meta-humans through the city streets.
"You read my preliminary report?" Harper asked, taking a seat when Kekoa gestured to it.
"I did." Kekoa turned from the window, settling behind his desk. "Three damaged vehicles, a collapsed storefront, and electrical damage to half the block's infrastructure. Not to mention the sonic damage to surrounding buildings." He rubbed his temples. "The Mayor's office is already asking questions."
"With all due respect, sir, we got lucky. If Superman hadn't been there—"
"I know, I know." Kekoa picked up a framed photo from his desk—himself and his brother Neo in their dress blues. "You know what my brother used to say about costumes in this city?"
"No, sir."
"He said they're like electrical storms. One shows up, others are drawn to it. Pretty soon you've got a full-blown meta-human incident on your hands." He set the photo down. "Speaking of which, what's your read on this new Black Lightning?"
Harper shifted in his seat. "Different from the original. More aggressive. The electrical signature readings we got from the scene were off the charts—stronger than the original's ever were. And the way he moves..." Harper pulled up some footage on his tablet. "Look at this."
The footage showed Black Lightning scaling buildings with bursts of electrical energy, almost like he was riding the current itself.
"He's not just channeling electricity," Harper continued. "He's practically made of it. Lab says the residual energy patterns are unlike anything they've seen before."
"And the Silver Banshee?"
"That's another concern, sir. The sonic attacks registered at frequencies that could have killed civilians if they'd been closer. Superman seemed affected by them too—more than he usually is by sonic attacks."
Kekoa leaned back in his chair. "Do we have any leads on her identity?"
"Nothing concrete. Facial recognition was useless with that skull paint, and there's no match for her sonic signature in our database. It's like she appeared out of nowhere."
"Just what we need," Kekoa muttered. "Another mystery meta in my city." He stood up, pacing behind his desk. "I want the SCU on high alert. Double the patrols in Suicide Slum—but keep it subtle. Last thing we need is to spook Black Lightning into thinking we're moving on his territory."
"You think he's protecting it? Like Pierce used to?"
"Just make sure your people are ready. If Silver Banshee shows up again, I want containment protocols in place. And Harper?" He fixed the younger man with a stern look. "If you get a shot at bringing in Black Lightning, take it. Vigilantes are still vigilantes."
Harper stood, tucking his tablet under his arm. "Understood, sir. Though if I may..." He hesitated.
"Speak freely."
"Superman seems to trust him. At least, enough not to stop him from running away from us. You always say we should trust his judgment."
Kekoa turned back to the window, watching as emergency crews worked on the damaged power lines in the distance. "Maybe. But trust doesn't give anyone the right to play judge and jury in my city. Dismissed, Harper."
James had barely made it ten steps from the Chief's office when he heard quick footsteps behind him.
"Harper! Wait up!"
He turned to see Jamie Sawyer jogging to catch up, her dark hair pulled back in a regulation bun, Star City PD travel mug in hand. Even after two months in Metropolis, she hadn't quite shaken her West Coast ties.
"Sawyer," he acknowledged, slowing his pace but not stopping. "Something urgent?"
"Word is you had a front-row seat to the superhero showdown last night." She fell into step beside him. "Superman and the mysterious new Black Lightning, going toe-to-toe with Silver Banshee?"
James kept his eyes forward. "You know I can't discuss ongoing SCU investigations with non-essential personnel."
"Come on, Harper. I transferred here to work meta cases. At least tell me if the rumors are true."
James stopped at the water cooler and grabbed a drink, if only to give himself a moment to think. "What I can tell you is that Superman handled the situation, Black Lightning complicated it, and property damage exceeded acceptable parameters."
"That's it? That's all I get?" Jamie leaned against the wall, finishing the rest of whatever was in her mug. "You know, back in Star City, I worked with Green Arrow on cases. I've got experience with vigilantes."
"Star City vigilantes and Metropolis metas are different animals, Sawyer." James downed his water, crushed the paper cup and tossed it in the recycling.
"Maybe you're right," Jamie straightened up, "have you had a chance to look over my SCU application? I know you said to wait, but after last night, you could use more experienced hands on deck."
James sighed. "Jamie, you've been here two months."
"Two months of excellent service—"
"Two months," he repeated firmly. "Look, you're good at what you do. I've read your Star City files. But SCU isn't just about experience with vigilantes. We deal with threats that could level city blocks. Things that could rewrite the laws of physics. Things that..." He gestured vaguely upward, where the Daily Planet globe was visible through a nearby window.
"Things that require Superman?" Jamie challenged. "Because from what I hear, even he had trouble last night."
"My point exactly." James started walking again. "You want SCU? Prove you can handle Metropolis first. Learn its rhythms. Learn its people. Learn the difference between a Star City archer and a meta who can shatter windows with a whisper." He paused at the elevator. "Put in the time, Sawyer. When you're ready, I'll know."
Jamie's jaw tightened, but she nodded. "Fair enough. But Harper?" She called as he stepped into the elevator. "Next time Superman shows up at one of your crime scenes? I want more than a two-sentence briefing."
The elevator doors began to close. "Tell you what," James said, allowing himself a small smile as he put a hand in the way to stop the doors.. "Stay alive in Metropolis for six months, and I'll tell you about the time Superman helped me chase a teleporting cat burglar."
The last thing he saw before the doors shut was Jamie's frustrated grin. "I'm holding you to that, Harper!"
The arctic winds howled outside the Fortress of Solitude, but inside, all was still. Jon's footsteps echoed through the crystalline halls as he approached the vestibule, where three figures now stood eternal watch. Jor-El and Lara flanked the newest addition: a perfect rendering of Clark Kent in his final Superman suit, cape caught in an invisible wind, face bearing that same expression of quiet determination Jon remembered from his childhood.
"Hi, Dad," Jon whispered, his voice barely disturbing the chamber's silence.
He continued past the statues to the Sunstone control center. His fingers moved across the crystalline interface with practiced familiarity, activating the holographic systems. A beam of light coalesced behind him, taking shape until Clark Kent stood there, exactly as Jon remembered him—the salt-and-pepper at his temples, the laugh lines around his eyes, even the way he adjusted glasses that weren't really there.
"Jon." The hologram smiled warmly. "It's good to see you, son."
"You too, Dad." Jon ran a hand through his hair, a gesture he'd inherited from Clark himself. "I need your help with something."
"Sure, what's up?" Clark's hologram asked.
Jon took in a deep breath and sighed.
"There's a new Silver Banshee out there. I fought her last night, in an attempt to stop her from hurting Funky Flashman," Jon explained.
"Silver Banshee?" The hologram moved to the control interface, calling up historical records. "Your vitals did show significant stress last night. More than usual for a meta-human encounter."
Jon nodded. "This wasn't like fighting Siobhan McDougal, or even her previous successors. Her scream... it wasn't just sonic. It was like reality itself was warping around me. I could feel it in my bones, behind my eyes. Made my nose bleed."
The hologram's expression grew serious. "Show me."
Jon placed his hand on the interface crystal, and the chamber filled with a holographic replay of the previous night's battle. The hologram of Clark watched intently as the scene played out, paying particular attention to the moments when Silver Banshee unleashed her attacks.
"Interesting," Clark's hologram mused, freezing the replay on an image of the sonic waves distorting the air. "The frequency pattern is completely different from previous Banshees. See these ripples?" He gestured to the air distortions. "They're not just sound waves. They're more like... reality waves."
"What does that mean?"
"The Silver Banshee's power has always been tied to Celtic magic, but this..." Clark manipulated the holographic display, zooming in on the wave patterns. "This is something new. Something deeper. Like she's tapping into the fundamental forces that bind reality together."
Jon touched his nose reflexively, remembering the blood. "Is that why it affected me so strongly?"
"Possibly." The hologram turned to face him fully. "Jon, your Kryptonian DNA makes you resistant to most forms of harm, but magic has always been different. If this new Banshee has found a way to combine Celtic magic with manipulation of fundamental forces..."
"She could be more dangerous than any previous Silver Banshee," Jon finished.
"Much more." Clark's image flickered slightly. "The archives mention an ancient Celtic text that was supposed to contain the deepest secrets of the Banshee's power. Most thought it was lost centuries ago, but if someone found it..."
"That might explain why she attacked Funky Flashman's shop. She was looking for a book."
The hologram nodded. "Be careful, son. This isn't just about power levels or fighting techniques. Celtic magic deals with life, death, and the spaces in between. If this new Banshee has found a way to access those spaces..." He trailed off, his face showing the same concern Jon remembered from when he first started being Superman.
"What should I do?"
"What I would do," Clark's image smiled sadly. "Protect the innocent. Find the truth. And remember that behind every monster, there's usually someone in pain. See if Siobhan had any kids, anyone she could've passed her curse onto" He reached out, and for a moment, Jon could almost imagine he felt his father's hand on his shoulder. "You're doing good work, Jon. I'm proud of you."
Jon swallowed hard. "Thanks, Dad." He looked up at the hologram.
"No problem." Clark's image began to fade. "Tell your mom to come visit me once in a while."
As the hologram disappeared, Jon stood alone in the chamber, the only sound the distant howl of arctic winds. He looked back toward the vestibule, where his father's statue stood watching over the Fortress, and made a silent promise.
He would solve this mystery, and he would find a way to help whoever this new Silver Banshee was—not just because it was what Superman would do, but because it was what Clark Kent had taught him to do.
Lois Lane stood at her office window in the Daily Planet, phone pressed to her ear, watching a maintenance crew working on a nearby building. Even after all these years as Editor-in-Chief, she still missed being out there chasing stories herself.
"So Flashman's definitely hiding something," Jon's voice crackled through the phone. "He practically shoved me out when I started asking about the book."
"Funky Flashman hiding something? I'm shocked," Lois deadpanned, turning back to her desk. "That man's been dealing in superhero secrets since before you were born. Half the artifacts in the Batcave probably passed through his hands at some point."
"The hologram of Dad seemed worried about the magic angle. Said that this Banshee's powers are different—something about manipulating fundamental forces."
Lois sat down, pulling her keyboard closer. "And you want me to look into Tommy McDougal?" Her fingers were already flying across the keys. "You think there's a connection to Siobhan?"
"Has to be more than coincidence, right? The original Silver Banshee's brother shows up in my investigation the same night the new one attacks?"
"Could be." Lois pulled up the Planet's archives. "Though Tommy McDougal's been a model citizen since his sister's days. Runs a legitimate business consulting firm downtown, regular charitable donations, even helped fund the Meta-Human Youth Center in Suicide Slum." She paused, scanning further. "Interesting—he's also been the legal guardian of Siobhan's daughter since 2030."
"Siobhan had a daughter?"
"Aoibheann McDougal." Lois spelled it out for him. "I'm looking at a photo from a charity gala last year. She's got her mother's face, but darker coloring. Works as a mechanic in the city now."
"Can you send me everything you find? I need to track down someone who might be able to help make sense of this Celtic magic business."
Lois's eyebrow arched. "You're going to see him, aren't you?"
"If anyone knows about magic..."
"Just be careful. You know how he gets when people interrupt his studies." Lois smiled despite herself. "And Jon? Remember what your father always said about magic users."
"'They're usually fighting battles we can't see,'" Jon quoted. "I remember, Mom. I'll keep you posted."
After hanging up, Lois stared at the photo of Aoibheann McDougal on her screen. The young woman was smiling at the camera, one side of her head shaved, looking nothing like someone who'd inherited a mystical Celtic curse. But then again, Lois thought, looks could be deceiving. She'd learned that lesson a long time ago, finding out that a mild-mannered reporter was an alien superhero from Krypton.
She started a new document and began typing: "SILVER BANSHEE: A Family Curse?" The headline would probably change, but for now, her reporter's instincts were tingling. There was a story here. A big one.
"Lewis!" she called out to the bullpen. "Get me everything we have on the Meta-Human Youth Center in Suicide Slum. And see if Leia's back from her lunch break—I need her to run down some property records on Tommy McDougal's consulting firm."
The familiar energy of a breaking story hummed through her veins. Whatever was happening with this new Silver Banshee, the Daily Planet would be there to uncover the truth. Some things, at least, never changed.
The afternoon sun filtered through the open garage door of Murphy's Auto Shop, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Aoibheann McDougal lay on a creeper under a beat-up Chevrolet, the radio's classic rock barely audible over the sound of her wrench against metal.
She slid out to grab a different socket, catching her reflection in the car's side mirror. Only it wasn't her reflection.
The skull-faced figure stared back at her, blue eyes gleaming, white hair stark against black ceremonial markings. Aoibheann blinked hard, turning away.
"Not real," she muttered, reaching for her tools. "Just like the doctor said. Stress manifestations. Not real."
"Oh, but I am." The voice came from the mirror, somehow both a whisper and a resonant hum. "As real as your mother's legacy. As real as the power in your blood."
Aoibheann's hands trembled. She forced herself to look at the mirror again. "Who are you?"
The figure's head tilted, an eerily bird-like motion. "I'm you. Or rather, what you're meant to become. What you're already becoming."
"I don't—"
"The blackouts. The voices. The way sound sometimes bends around you when you're angry." The figure's mouth didn't move, but Aoibheann heard every word clearly. "Haven't you wondered why?"
Aoibheann gripped her wrench tighter. "What do you want?"
"To help. It would be easier if we worked together." The figure reached toward the mirror's surface. "The transformation is happening whether you want it or not. Fighting it only makes it more... painful."
"Yo, McDougal!"
Aoibheann startled at the voice of her coworker, Marcus. He stood in the doorway between the garage and the office, coffee mug in hand.
"You talking to someone out here?"
"Just... thinking out loud," she managed, turning back to her tools. "Working through this transmission problem."
Marcus nodded, though his expression remained concerned. "Well, Murphy wants an update on the Chevy when you get a chance."
"Yeah, sure. Give me twenty minutes."
After Marcus left, Aoibheann forced herself to look at the mirror one more time. Her own reflection stared back—black hair, normal eyes, no skull paint. Just the grease smudge on her cheek from earlier.
She slid back under the car, focusing on the familiar comfort of mechanics and metal. But she could have sworn she heard a whispered laugh, like wind through ancient stones, just at the edge of hearing.
"Soon," it seemed to say. "Soon."
Jon stood in front of a maintenance closet in a Metropolis subway station, holding up a business card that seemed to shift between gold and crimson in the fluorescent light. The Seraph's symbol flickered like a living flame across its surface. He turned the handle, and instead of mops and cleaning supplies, he stepped into a vast medieval hall. In the time it took to cross the threshold, Jon had already foregone his civilian attire for his blue, red and black Superman costume.
Stained glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling, depicting angels and demons locked in eternal combat. Modern computers and surveillance equipment sat somewhat incongruously among ancient tomes and mystical artifacts. A few young exorcists-in-training looked up from their studies, then quickly back down when they recognized Superman.
"Well, well." A smooth voice echoed from above. "The Man of Tomorrow graces us with his presence."
James Xanadu lounged on a balcony railing. His white leather jacket was adorned with golden runes, and his mismatched eyes—one gold, the other burning red—gleamed with amusement. He hopped over the balcony, dropping to the ground floor soundlessly.
"James," Superman smiled, clasping his offered hand. "You could've used the stairs, you know."
"Says the man who can fly," James grinned. "Come on, let's get a drink. Unless this is business?" He gestured to the card Superman still held.
"When isn't it?"
James led them through a door that opened into a cozy study. A fire crackled in an ancient hearth, and the walls were lined with books older than most countries. He poured two glasses of something that smelled like honey and starlight.
"So," James settled into a leather armchair, "how's the family? Your cousin still planning that trip to New Genesis?"
"Birthday's coming up first. Speaking of which, you're invited." Superman accepted the offered glass but didn't drink. "But you're right, this isn't a social call."
"Knew it couldn't last." James took a sip, his gold eye twinkling. "Let me guess—something magical causing trouble in the big city? Something your fancy Fortress computers can't explain?"
"Celtic curse, actually. The Silver Banshee."
James' playful demeanor shifted slightly. "Is that right? Siobhan's back at it again?"
"No," Superman set his glass down. "This one is different, potentially more powerful than her, even. We had an altercation in Southside Metropolis. Her screams…seemed to warp reality somehow. Made me bleed."
"Making Superman bleed." James stood, moving to one of the bookshelves. "That's not easy to do."
"Can you help?"
James ran his fingers along the spines of several ancient texts. "Celtic magic is... complicated. Especially the McDougal curse. It's tied to death itself, to the spaces between worlds." He pulled out a leather-bound volume. "But making Superman bleed? That's new. That's something else."
"My father thought it might have something to do with an ancient text."
"Of course it does." James flipped through the book. "There's always a book. Or a scroll. Or a tablet. Though in this case..." He stopped on a page covered in Celtic knots. "If it's the text I'm thinking of, this could be very bad."
"How bad?"
James looked up, all traces of humor gone from his face. "Bad enough that both my parents had notes about it in their grimoires. Bad enough that Etrigan's getting restless just thinking about it." He closed the book with a snap.
"What book are we talking about?"
James walked around his desk and began rummaging through it. "The Tim Scread an Bháis. It's a spellbook, written by an ancient Celtic mystic who sought to harness the power of the banshees themselves."
Finding no luck in the desk, James turned his attention to a box that was already spilling over with books and other objects. Superman watched as he tossed books, papers and trinkets aside.
"So whoever has it can utilize the banshee's power?" he asked, beginning to understand, finally.
"Yes and no—ah-ha!" James exclaimed, pulling out something small that he held clutched in his fist. "The book is more than a spellbook. It's a key of sorts, which can unlock abilities in those with a lucky bloodline, let's just say."
"Great," Superman sighed, suddenly feeling the urge to actually take a sip of the drink James had given him. It wasn't like it would do much for him anyway. "How do I find this thing?"
James extended his hand towards Superman and opened it, revealing a small pendant. "With this, mate." The artifact looked deceptively simple—a piece of clouded crystal wrapped in copper wire that had been inscribed with angelic script. "The story goes that the very mystic who wrote the book went on to become a rather prickly thorn in the side of the Catholic Church. This little beauty was made with a locator spell to find that tome."
Superman raised an eyebrow. "And you just have this? Why?"
James gave a sheepish shrug. "There's a possibility that I took a few things following my falling out with the Vatican." He handed the pendant to Superman, his grin now back on full force. "Now take the damn thing and find that book."
Superman stood, taking the pendant and nodding. "Thanks, James. I'll get right to it."
"Don't thank me yet." James' eyes flared brighter. "Something tells me this is going to get a lot worse before it gets better. But then again..." He walked over to his desk and picked up his glass. "That's when you have the most fun, isn't it?"
Meta-Human Youth Center
12 AM
The Meta-Human Youth Center occupied what used to be an old YMCA building in Suicide Slum, its red brick facade freshly cleaned and its windows recently replaced. A mural stretched across one wall, showing young people with various powers working together, painted in vibrant colors that stood out against the neighborhood's worn buildings.
"You know," Lewis Olsen said, adjusting his camera lens, "my dad used to tell stories about this place back when it was just an abandoned building. Said the Suicide Slum Kings used it as their base until Black Lightning ran them out."
Lois smiled, remembering Jimmy's excited recounting of that story. "Your father always did have a talent for finding himself in the middle of history being made."
"Speaking of history..." Lewis took a few shots of the building's exterior. "What exactly are we looking for here, Chief?"
"Speaking of history..." Lewis took a few shots of the building's exterior. "What exactly are we looking for here, Chief?"
"Connections," Lois replied, pushing open the glass doors. "Tommy McDougal's been one of the center's biggest donors since it opened. I want to know why."
The interior hummed with activity. Teenagers practiced power control in reinforced training rooms, while younger kids attended classes on meta-human law and ethics. Through one doorway, Lois spotted a group session for parents of newly manifesting meta-humans.
A young woman with iridescent skin approached them. Her name tag read 'Director Martinez.' "Can I help you?"
Lois extended her hand. "Lois Lane, Daily Planet. We're doing a piece on meta-human youth programs in Metropolis."
"The Daily Planet?" Martinez's professional smile flickered slightly. "We weren't expecting—"
"Just a general interest story," Lois assured her. "Highlighting the good work you're doing here."
Lewis snapped a few photos of the lobby's inspirational posters, which featured quotes from various heroes. One caught Lois's eye: "Power isn't a curse unless you let it be." It was attributed to the original Black Lightning.
"Well, we're always happy to show people what we do here," Martinez said, leading them down a hallway. "Many of our kids come from families who don't understand their powers. We provide support, training, counseling—"
"And Tommy McDougal provides the funding?" Lois asked casually.
Martinez's step hitched slightly. "Mr. McDougal is one of several generous donors who believe in our mission."
"He seems to have a particular interest in meta-human youth," Lois pressed. "Any idea why?"
"I couldn't say." Martinez's tone grew careful. "Though he does visit sometimes, talks with the kids. Especially the ones struggling with inherited abilities."
Lewis lowered his camera. "Inherited abilities?"
"Powers that run in families," Martinez explained. "They can be... complicated. Especially when they're tied to family trauma or history."
Lois watched a teenage girl in one of the training rooms practicing what looked like sound manipulation exercises. "Do you get many cases like that?"
"I really couldn't discuss specific cases." Martinez's professional smile returned. "Now, would you like to see our counseling facilities?"
As they followed Martinez, Lewis leaned close to Lois. "Think Tommy McDougal was looking for someone specific?"
"Or trying to prevent something," Lois murmured back. "Keep shooting. Especially any donor plaques or recognition walls."
They spent another hour touring the facility. Lewis photographed everything from the training rooms to the meditation garden on the roof, while Lois asked carefully crafted questions about funding, programs, and success stories. But it was only as they were leaving that she spotted what she'd been looking for—a small photo on the wall of staff appreciation plaques, showing Tommy McDougal at a fundraiser four years ago.
Standing next to him was a younger Aoibheann McDougal, looking uncomfortable in formal wear.
"Lewis," Lois called quietly. "Get a shot of that."
After they left, Lewis reviewed the photos on his camera's display. "So, what's the real story here, Chief?"
Lois watched a group of young meta-humans exit the building, laughing and talking like normal teenagers. "I'm not sure yet. But whatever's happening with the new Silver Banshee, I think Tommy McDougal's been preparing for it for a long time."
"Should I send these to Jon?"
"No." Lois started walking toward where they'd parked. "First, we're going to pay Tommy's niece a visit."
Jon walked down 7th Street, one hand holding his phone to his ear, the other clutching the pendant James had given him.
"So the book actually has a name?" Lois asked through the phone.
"The Tim Scread an Bháis," Jon replied, watching the crystal pulse faintly. "James says it was written by an ancient Celtic mystic who tried to harness the power of banshees. According to him, it doesn't just contain spells—it's more like a key that unlocks certain abilities in people with the right bloodline."
"Like someone with McDougal blood?"
"Exactly. James thinks that's why Silver Banshee's powers seemed different. She's not just using the curse—she's amplifying it somehow." The pendant suddenly flared brighter, causing Jon to stop. "Hold on, I'm getting something."
He held the crystal higher, turning slowly. The glow intensified when he faced east, toward the river.
"The locator spell's working," he told Lois. "But the signal's spread out, like the book's energy is scattered across the city."
"Or someone's trying to hide it," Lois suggested. "I just paid a visit to the Meta-Human Youth Center. You're not going to believe what we found out about Tommy McDougal and his niece."
Jon looked up at the sky, then down at his civilian clothes. "Tell me on the way. I think I'll cover more ground from above."
He ducked into an alley, quickly changing into his Superman suit. The pendant's glow reflected off his family's crest. He shot into the sky, the crystal's light guiding him east as Lois filled him in on her discoveries. The glow strengthened and faded, as if the book's energy was moving through the city like a tide.
"So Tommy's been preparing her for this?" he asked, banking around the Haven Tower. "Even though she never showed any powers?"
"That's what it looks like," Lois replied through his earpiece. "Earl said Tommy would bring her to counseling sessions about inherited powers. The pendant picking up anything new?"
Jon held the crystal out as he hovered above Centennial Park. "It's stronger over the east side, but there's something else..." He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the crystal's light pattern. "It's like there are echoes. Multiple sources."
"Could the book be in pieces?"
"James didn't mention—" The pendant suddenly flared brilliant white. "Wait. Got something."
He dove toward the river, following the intensifying glow. As he approached the old warehouse district, the crystal's light began to pulse in a distinct rhythm, like a heartbeat.
"I'm near Pier 23," he reported. "The signal's strongest here, but..." He scanned the area with his various vision powers. "I'm picking up residual energy signatures. Someone's been using magic here recently."
"Be careful," Lois cautioned. "If Silver Banshee's already found part of the book—"
"I know." Jon descended through the skylight, landing softly on the ground below. "But that's not what worries me. These energy patterns... they're organized. Deliberate. Like someone's been practicing."
"You think Aoibheann's been going there?"
"If she is indeed our Silver Banshee, then maybe." He moved towards the center of the room, the pendant's glow reflecting off a small water puddle.. "Or maybe someone's been teaching her. Either way—"
The crystal suddenly went dark.
"Jon?" Lois's voice sharpened at his sudden silence. "What is it?"
The pendant just died." He held it up to the light. "Like someone flipped a switch."
"Get out of there."
But before he could move, a familiar sensation washed over him—that reality-bending vibration he'd felt before. He turned just in time to see a skull-faced figure emerge from the shadows, her hair white as death, her eyes glowing with eldritch power.
"Hello, Superman," Silver Banshee said, her voice carrying harmonics that made the air itself shiver. "I was wondering when you'd come looking."
Behind her, more shadows moved, taking shape. Dark figures with glowing eyes, each one bearing a fragment of what looked like an ancient text.
"Mom," Jon said quietly into his communicator, "I'm going to have to call you back."