Sonika Stories

The Sonika Stories

Includes:

Introducing Sonika

Halloween for a Heroine

Christmas in the Rain

The World of Sonika

Eilis Flynn

It’s not easy being a super-heroine

SONIKA STORIES

By Eilis Flynn

Flynn Books Words & Ideas

Copyright 2007, 2012, 2013, 2015 Eilis Flynn

ISBN: 9781370905928

Cover art and design by Dar Albert of Wicked Smart Designs

Photo by Shutterstock.com

Smashwords Edition

Includes Introducing Sonika, Halloween for a Heroine, and Christmas in the Rain. An earlier version of Introducing Sonika was originally published by Cerridwen Press. This version has been re-edited and expanded.

The short stories Halloween for a Heroine and Christmas in the Rain were individually self-published and are available individually.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission, except for excerpts used in reviews of this story.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

http://www.eilisflynn.com

Table of Contents

Front Matter

Introducing Sonika

Halloween for a Heroine

Christmas in the Rain

The World of Sonika

About the Author

Stories by Eilis Flynn

In Case You Hadn’t Guessed

This work encompasses the novel Introducing Sonika and the short stories Halloween for a Heroine and Christmas in the Rain. These three pieces of fiction make up the current Sonika stories. This version of Introducing Sonika differs markedly from the one originally published and includes new material not in the original published work.

Dedication

This is for Interlac members in memoriam; for Rover the cat, who more or less consented to being a character herein when she demanded to be petted at the right time; and for Mike

Prologue

"Velocity!"

Sounder, it’s no use, his wife whispered, voice cracking, her faint words bouncing around the rough walls of the cavern. Catching her unawares, the rockslide had knocked her down, and now her legs and most of her upper body were buried under immovable stone. The irony wasn’t lost on him—she was the fastest woman in the world, and she couldn’t move. I can’t get out from under this rubble and you can’t use your voice to help me—

He gritted his teeth. No. It couldn’t end like this! You can’t give up, Vel. We’ll find a way, he insisted.

But even as he said it, he knew.

They had no way out of this. Sounder knew it and so did Velocity. And so did the cause of it all, Gentleman Geoffrey.

All three of us are stuck, Sounder. And she’s trapped, the tall, thin man shouted across the crevice, a sneer distorting his face. Smudges of dirt nearly obscured his features, the monocle for which he was infamous nowhere in sight, probably shattered during the struggle with Sounder and Velocity. The ledge he was clinging from was barely large enough to hold him. You could get the rock off her with your voice-song, but then we would very likely die, because this area of the old mines is geologically unstable and that would trigger another rockslide. Velocity could vibrate to get the rubble off herself, but that would still bring the cave down on us. This ledge won’t hold me forever, and there’s nothing close enough for me to jump to. We’re all screwed. Nice to have known you!

Geoffrey started to laugh, a thin edge of hysteria cutting through his words. You won’t be taking me into custody, not this time, Sounder. What do you think? Care to make a wager?

Damn you, Geoffrey, Velocity said, her voice barely audible. She took a breath—and coughed. Sounder winced. That didn’t sound good. Broken ribs, maybe a punctured lung. We’re not going to let you get away, not this time. I’m going to make sure you go down!

The sound that followed was unmistakable, that high-pitched, whirring noise that filled the space in an instant. The second Sounder heard it, he knew: No, Velocity! Don’t! he shouted, but it was too late. She began to blur as she vibrated, knocking the rubble off her. And just as Geoffrey had predicted, the cave started to tremble and dust filled the air. The walls of rock began to collapse on them.

No, Velocity! Sounder shouted.

We have to try, Sounder!

He could hear the tears in her voice.

I love you…

***

Sonya Penn woke up, her eyes wet. The same nightmare, every year. I’m so sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry, Dad, she whispered.

Chapter One

The words on the gravestones had been etched over a decade before, but for Sonya, it might as well have been yesterday. She touched their names, the way she did at the beginning of her visit every anniversary: SAMUEL PENN. VICTORIA PENN.

She had considered having something else engraved—defenders of the defenseless, perhaps, destroying the anonymity by which they had led their lives—but decided against it. They had lived in secret, so they should rest in secret. She had settled on Beloved father and mother.

And that was as true now as it was then.

It’s been twelve years, Mom and Dad, she whispered, blinking away the tears. I haven’t done what you hoped I’d do, but I still help people.

Wiping her eyes, she laid a bouquet of daffodils between their plots before turning away. She walked to her battered red SUV and started the ignition, flinching when the radio blared to life. She moved to switch it off, but paused when she heard the topic and she listened as she drove.

You remember Sounder and Velocity, Ron?

Sure do, Mike. Today’s a day to mourn.

For those of you out there too young to remember, twelve years ago today our local super-heroes gave their lives protecting us from organized-crime figure Gentleman Geoffrey, who also died in that confrontation. There’s going to be a candlelight vigil tonight in Morrissey Park and if you plan to attend, go in groups. We’re told the police will be around but it’s still not safe out there.

You said it, Mike. In related news, the current crime wave has the city council calling for more police—

Sonya turned off the radio as she exited the freeway. She wasn’t going to think about it, not right now. The crime rates had been going up for the past twelve years and that wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. Right now, she had other things to worry about.

Like finding her way in the suburbs. She’d never been in the Morrissey Highlands, and she had a feeling she never would again. This was out of her zip code, definitely.

She slowed as she approached the cul-de-sac, glancing left and right, looking for addresses, of which there were few. She guessed that if you lived there, you didn’t need addresses. Surrounding her were large, sprawling, older homes from the days of gracious living—estates protected from public view by high fences and high gates. Locked gates.

This one had to be the place. Sonya double-checked the address as she turned off the engine. Wow, she muttered as she looked around.

It’s a big house, the physical therapist originally assigned to this client had told her. You can’t miss it.

Margie, you were wrong, Sonya said aloud. This isn’t a big house. This sucker’s a fortress!

And if her newest client could afford to live here, he was going to be her ticket out of crushing, lingering debt, at long, freakin’ last.

But she had to find him first, and that meant getting onto the estate.

Sonya hunted for an intercom, found it half-buried in ivy. She pressed the button. In the distance, with her sensitive hearing, she could hear the blare of the buzzer echo through the main house. No answer. Someone’s got to be home, she muttered, frowning. She pressed again. Nope.

She peered through the bars of the gates, calculating. Was the guy out of the house? Or was he peeking around the drapes? Not answering his cell phone?

For a moment, she was tempted to get back into her car and leave. There had to be some other way to pay off her aunt’s hospital bills. And besides, it was her birthday. She deserved a day off.

She was tempted. But no. Oh, hell, she muttered.

We help those who need help, her parents had told her.

Sonya took a deep breath. With a quick look around—there were only a few security cameras around the perimeter of the property, smashed and hanging useless, which surprised her in this tony neighborhood—she stepped back from the gates and stared at them, assessing. They weren’t that tall. She could do it.

She looked around. No cops, nobody.

Sonya took a running leap, scrambling for a foothold. She missed a crossbar and nearly fell, her boot making a solid thunk against the solid metal before she recovered her balance.

Shoot, she whispered, panting. She hadn’t scaled a gate in years, and at that moment, she keenly felt the lack of practice. Pick the lock or jump over?

The sound of an automobile approaching made her decide fast. She clambered to the top and straddled the gate. Right before the car came into view, she jumped down inside the property and secreted herself in the dense ivy that covered the stone walls.

The car—a black-and-white police vehicle, she noted as she peered around the corner—idled for a few seconds before it went on its way. Sonya waited until the sound of the engine died away before she headed up the long, curving driveway, moving quickly and quietly, looking around as she did.

Once she was at the house, she knocked on the heavy mahogany front door. Anybody home? she shouted. She waited a minute, then pounded some more. Still no answer.

Grumbling, she reached into her satchel and pulled out the notes she had inherited from Margie, her predecessor, about her newest client…provided, of course, she tracked him down.

Who are you, John Arlen? Sonya whispered. Five note cards clipped together, scribbled with notes about her newest client—that was all the information she had about the guy, as opposed to the usual several dozen. Who are you? All I know about you from these cards is that you won’t open the door for your appointments.

At least he was consistent. According to Margie’s notes, John Arlen was a difficult client. And even when he did allow the physical therapist in for their sessions, he was short-tempered and moody. His last therapist had given up on him, which was how Sonya had inherited him. So why, if he was willing to pay for the in-home therapy, wouldn’t he answer the door to get it?

Well, she was here to find out. He would be her client—provided, of course, she tracked him down and sweet-talked him into it. Mr. Arlen? she shouted. She shoved the cards back into her satchel.

No answer. She glanced up the side of the mansion. Three floors, not counting the basement. And some of the drapes were open. No fluttering, so she assumed he wasn’t hiding for whatever reason.

It wouldn’t be that hard to climb up and peer in, just to see if anyone was home. After a quick look around—no working cameras at all inside the property? Weren’t rich people supposed to be security-conscious?—Sonya shinnied up the drainpipe. She got to the second floor and edged her way over to the nearest window.

Nope. No light, no sign of life, nothin’.

Disappointed, Sonya made her way back to the drainpipe and slid down. She started to jump off the porch when she did something she hadn’t done very often since her parents died.

She stopped and, for the lack of a better word, she listened.

Sonya heard the boiler rumble deep within the house as it heated the rooms. She listened a little harder and heard the distinctive hum of electricity, zillions of electrons moving at the speed of light through the wiring, powering the house—she could hear it all.

And she heard something else.

A heartbeat and a high-pitched whine, in the same part of the house. Bingo.

Sonya cocked her head, listening. You could look for the noise, she told herself. The old-fashioned way.

But this way was so much quicker.

Glancing one last time over her shoulder, the way her mother had taught her, she stretched out her hand and focused.

A thin stream of light burst from her fingertips and traveled in a straight line along the side of the house. She followed the luminous flow as it zeroed in on a small window, low to the ground. Jackpot!

The glass was too dusty for her to see through, but she could hear the screech of a belting device and the heartbeat as well. She rapped on the glass.

The high-pitched whine crackled and died. She heard a muffled curse, then something being dragged across the floor—what was that, a rubber-soled walking shoe?—before a face appeared.

It was a man, and he didn’t look happy. Mr. John Arlen? Sonya asked. She smiled—looking friendly was half the battle, she figured. Short-tempered and moody he might have been, but she had yet to meet someone who didn’t respond to one of her friendly smiles.

Yes, he said, growling. He glared behind his tortoise-shelled glasses, but that also might have had something to do with his white-knuckled grip on the crutches tucked under his arms. Who are you? How did you get past the gates?

The man couldn’t be human. Her smiles were designed to melt the hardest of hearts. I’m Sonya Penn, she said, offering him her business card. Your new physical therapist? We had an appointment. And you weren’t answering your cell.

I don’t keep my phone on. And I have an appointment on Thursday. How did you get past the security system?

Today’s Thursday, she said helpfully.

He groaned. Listen, can you come back later? I’m in the middle of something. He glanced over his shoulder, at something Sonya couldn’t see.

Sorry, I’ve got a whole day of appointments lined up, she lied through her teeth. Should I come in through the front door, or would you like me to come in through this window?

He snorted. Go ahead and try.

Don’t mind if I do, she said, considering the space. The window was small and narrow, but that was no problem. Sonya grasped the edge of the casement and slipped in without effort, pulling in her satchel after her. Hello again, she said cheerfully. Shall we get started?

He stared at the window, then at her. He shook his head. I could have sworn it was too small. I—

Gymnastics when I was a kid, she cut in. Comes in handy when I have to wiggle in and out of tight spaces. She smiled again, trying her best to look harmless. She wasn’t used to smiling this much. Her cheeks were starting to hurt. How ’bout it?

He glanced at her before he looked over his shoulder again. This time she looked too.

In the dim light, she couldn’t see much—concrete walls, concrete floor. Basically a bunker. And there was something metal in the far corner. She couldn’t see any details, but that wasn’t her concern right now. So how ’bout it? she repeated. Shall we get started?

Right. He blinked. I guess.

She noticed his eyes then—gray and bloodshot. He hadn’t shaved in the recent past either, which only accentuated his features—hawk-like and grim. He was also sweating, his hair standing up in tufts. And his T-shirt was grubby.

He stared up at the window again, then looked at her, as though she were an alien. If she hadn’t been dressed for work—a plaid woolen shirt, jeans, and Doc Martens boots, her curly fair hair plaited into one fat efficient braid—she might have been insulted. But she also knew her clothing was in sharp contrast to her face—round face, rosy cheeks, big, blue eyes and most damning of all, dimples. No matter what, she looked too angelic to appear tough. Damn it.

You say you rang the gate bell?

He didn’t ask again about how she’d gotten past the gates. That was good. I knocked too, she added. You probably couldn’t hear me from down here, considering how loud that contraption is—

What are you talking about? he demanded. You can’t even see it from here. It’s—

Shoot! I could hear it. That much was true. I heard something and I thought it was coming from the basement. That’s how I tracked you down.

He closed his eyes. Too noisy. I’ll work on that.

Do that after your physical therapy session.

He groaned. Can’t you come back? I’m really busy.

No, I can’t.

Finally, he shrugged, his gaze straying to the corner again. I was busy, he mumbled. "I am busy." He shifted from one leg to the other, keeping a grip on his crutches.

At one point, he had to have been athletic. His arms were sinewy, with a hint of the grace he must have had. Despite the silver streaking his dark hair and the lines in his face, he was still a young man.

Enough. Mr. Arlen, if you ever want to walk without those crutches again, you’ve got to have therapy on that leg and that shoulder. You’re too young to be hobbling.

He groaned again. If I say yes, will you go away after the session?

Yes! She smiled as sweetly as she could. You bet. She stifled the urge to do a happy dance. Instead, she gestured toward the staircase. Shall we? Or do you want to do your exercises down here?

He sighed. Upstairs. Let me just turn off—uh, my contraption.

Sonya stepped toward the staircase, then turned back. Don’t forget to close…

She gaped. The metal contraption in the corner…she hadn’t seen one in years, and this was a lot more sophisticated than the one she’d seen as a kid, but there was no question what it was. What are you doing with an antigrav propulsion unit? That’s what it is, isn’t it?

He stopped dead. How do you know what it is?

Would she ever learn to shut up? I’ve seen pictures of the ones the scientists at MIT came up with, she said after a pause. A little lame, and not quite the truth, but it was close enough.

His eyes narrowed. Let me see your ID.

Without a word she flipped open her wallet. He peered at her driver’s license. The weight’s not right, she said helpfully.

How do you know what an antigrav device looks like? They’re not exactly the most common device around.

Sonya shrugged. I studied recent patents and their possible applications when I was a kid, she added. My parents insisted. I don’t even know if MIT’s made any progress with the device. The last thing I read was that methane power was being considered.

He was openly skeptical. Do your parents still insist?

She smiled, wistful. They died years ago. It was a wild guess.

It was a good one. But he still looked at her, clearly suspicious.

Sonya held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t ask anything else. She climbed the stairs and waited at the top as he followed, one step at a time. Once or twice she nearly reached out to help him, afraid he would lose his balance. Finally he made it upstairs, though by then he was on his knees.

The last physical therapist suggested the library for these sessions, he gasped, sweat pouring down his face.

She almost felt guilty for being able to stand. So you go up and down these stairs every day?

He braced his body against the wall and pushed up. His teeth were clenched. No. I spend most of my time downstairs. He paused, his legs visibly wobbling, almost fully standing straight. He took a deep breath.

She couldn’t stand it anymore. Do you need help?

He glared at her. Get away from me.

Good. She preferred patients who were cranky. You know, with a little therapy—

He snorted. He was finally on his feet, crutches in place again. Spare me. You’ve convinced me the only way you’re going to leave is if I do what you want, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to listen to a lot of bullshit.

Sonya shrugged. Fine. The sooner we get to the living room to do your therapy, the sooner—

Don’t have one. He closed his eyes for a second before he looked at her. No living room. This is not a house meant to be lived in, he added, with a flash of humor.

Sonya liked that. So where—

Follow me, he said, sighing. He started down the corridor, pausing on occasion to adjust his grip on the crutches.

Sonya took advantage of his slow pace to gawk. The house was even bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside. The halls, high ceilinged and broad, were lined with rich, brocaded wallpaper and old-fashioned landscapes, with crystal chandeliers and sconces lighting the way.

Finally, he pushed open a set of doors, carved of ornate bird’s-eye walnut. There’s enough space in here.

She stepped into the library and really stopped to gawk. You’re probably right, she conceded. Nice place.

Lined with filled bookcases and traditional landscapes, the room had to be the size of her entire apartment. It should have looked warm and cozy, but somehow it wasn’t. At the flip of a switch, a fire started to crackle in the gas fireplace, but that didn’t seem to cast any heat. The room didn’t inspire anyone to care, only be impressed.

She noticed some framed photographs on the marble mantel—the most inviting, most personal items in the room. What’s that? she asked, curious. She checked it out.

An older couple, both wearing thick, round spectacles, were in the photographs, the twinkle in their eyes endearing. Picking up one of the photos, she glanced at Arlen. Your folks?

Yeah, he said after a pause. Be careful with that. It’s the best picture I have of them.

Sorry, she said as she replaced it. They don’t like having their pictures taken?

They’re dead too.

Sonya winced. I’m sorry.

She got down to business, arranging him into position—and nearly recoiled when she touched him. His shoulders felt like stone.

If you don’t like taking the stairs to the basement, how about those steps leading up to the front door? she asked as she started to massage his shoulders. Good grief, he was tense. They’re pretty steep.

There’s a door out the basement. But I don’t go out much.

That she knew. Near-recluse, Margie’s cards noted. Sonya passed her hands over his back, which was ramrod straight, and then she touched his right leg. He twitched. Bend your leg. Does that hurt? she asked, rotating his ankle slightly.

No. But his breath caught.

Are you eating? Tilt your foot up.

What the hell does eating have to do with therapy?

Feeling the tension sweep his muscles again, she bent his leg a little more.

His breath caught again—not good. It didn’t hurt until you did that, he accused.

Sonya stifled a laugh. You live on pizza and beer, right?

Not beer. Well, once in a while, he amended. Mostly pizza. I get that delivered, and I don’t have to stop working.

She worked his leg, gently manipulating it as she watched him. The circles of exhaustion that ringed his eyes worried her. When’s the last time you slept, Mr. Arlen?

I sleep plenty.

You’ve got a cot down in the basement, don’t you? When he didn’t answer, she added, You’re not doing yourself any favors. Now let’s bend the other leg.

I know what I’m doing, he insisted, but a tremor ran through his words. I’m fine.

Are you? Bend your leg and hold it. Then why are you trying to kill yourself by overworking?

She watched his reaction as first the exercise and then the accusation took their toll. I’ve got work to do, he insisted. A fine sheen of perspiration beaded his neck. His heart beat faster—she could hear it practically tripping in its haste. "I don’t have time. Damn it, that hurts!"

Of course it hurts. You should have been working this leg and your shoulder since you left the hospital. How’s your arm?

That’s been a problem, he admitted.

She stopped working his leg for a moment. You’re admitting to a problem? You?

It hurts. He turned over, favoring his right shoulder. From Margie’s notes, Sonya knew his left leg had five steel pins keeping it together, his right arm had limited mobility and he needed extensive therapy on his shoulder. It didn’t help that he had to use crutches, but he refused to use a wheelchair.

Sonya would have felt sorrier for him if he’d been more cooperative. Sit up and raise your arm, please. She slipped her arm behind him to help.

He sat up. His face was ashen but he managed to raise his hand halfway to his head. That’s as far as I’ve been able to get it. But he didn’t lower his hand, he kept it there, quivering. It must have hurt like hell.

All right, she’d cut him a break. Do you want to be able to raise your hand above your head ever again?

His gaze met hers. Even bloodshot, his eyes were expressive. You know I do.

Then you’re going to do what I tell you.

Sighing, he lowered his arm until his hand rested against the mat. How long is it going to take?

Under her touch, she felt him relax. As long as it takes.

Sonya closed her eyes for a moment. My notes say you were assaulted in a family dispute, she said. So what happened?

Sonya didn’t count on his reaction.

Time’s up, he snapped, struggling to sit up. I want you gone. You can come back tomorrow.

I’m sorry, what did I say?

You heard me. Go. Leaning on a side table and breathing hard, he pushed himself up. Sorry about the misunderstanding.

Mystified, she sat back. What did I do?

Arlen didn’t answer, instead working himself into a stand.

Fine, if that was the way he wanted to play it. If you need any help with that antigrav device, give me a call, she said as she rolled up her mat.

Thanks. I can manage.

She tried again. Do you live alone?

He didn’t answer. He slipped his crutches under his arms, then gestured for her to follow him. She guessed he was making sure she left.

She gave it one last shot when they arrived at the foyer. Do you live alone?

He stopped, still facing the door. Why, are you planning on robbing me?

She stifled a smile. So you go up and down those basement stairs you’re not comfortable with when you need to? You only eat when you can’t avoid it? You know you’re cruising for trouble.

He bristled. That’s none of your business.

"The possibility of you getting seriously hurt is my business."

He turned, eyes blazing. Let me tell you about getting seriously hurt, lady. I was in the hospital for half a year, but at least I’m alive. My dad was murdered. And I’m going to get the son of a bitch responsible, with or without you!

Shit. Sonya stepped back. I’m sorry, she whispered. I just want you to get better.

Sighing, he slumped against the door. It’s been a bad day.

Just a day?

A bad year, he admitted. Now, if you would— he turned, starting to open the door.

You know what, Mr. Arlen? She touched his shoulder again.

Warm. He was finally warm—the exercise helped—and she could feel his muscles shift through the thin T-shirt.

Last-ditch effort. He needed the help and that was her job. I think you’re tired and hungry. I shouldn’t do this, but do you want to go eat? I noticed a coffee shop a couple miles down the road, in that little shopping center.

Even before she had finished speaking, he was shaking his head. Adelaide’s. Thanks anyway.

So the food’s bad?

Not at all. I used to go there—

I’ll drive, she suggested. So how about it?

No. But thanks for the offer, Miss…

He’d forgotten her name already. She wished she could feel insulted, but she couldn’t. Sonya Penn. I hate to eat alone, she wheedled.

I’ve got too much to do.

Last chance. Oh, c’mon. It’s my birthday and I don’t have anyone to celebrate it with. She could feel her face flush. But it was the truth, sad as it was.

He stared at her. She thought she had lost but then he said, Happy birthday. Will you leave me alone if I say yes?

She smiled but she couldn’t meet his eyes. Sure.

Fine. He opened the door and stepped out, covering his eyes against the weak winter sunlight. Let’s go.

Don’t you need a jacket? That T-shirt—

No. Let’s go.

John Arlen made his way down the driveway just fine on those crutches, she observed. Even given the long curving driveway had a slight slope leading down to the street, she had to hop once in a while to keep up.

They stopped at the end of the drive. Puzzled, he turned to her. Where’d you park?

The question had finally come and this time she couldn’t duck it. Sonya met his questioning gaze. Outside the gates.

He looked up the winding driveway. There was a question but he wasn’t asking it. How did you get past the gates?

She sighed and answered it anyway. I climbed over them.

Those gates are ten feet tall.

She shrugged. Fence is about twelve feet. And there was a police car coming down the street, so I had to get over fast.

I didn’t answer the intercom, I didn’t answer the door, my phone wasn’t on, and you climbed the fence anyway? There’s a door next to the gate. Why didn’t you try to come in that way? You know, force the door, pick the lock.

I was in a hurry.

He stared at her again and she thought maybe she shouldn’t volunteer any more information.

It was a quick trip down to the shopping center. He didn’t offer any small talk—he was probably wondering if she was a lunatic. She didn’t blame him for that, either. She turned on the radio.

That was a mistake. The same radio commentators were on. What about this current crime spree in town, Ron? Did you hear about the police commissioner being mugged?

I sure did, Mike. Lowell Zilber, the police commissioner for the city of Morrissey, was—

Sonya groaned. I don’t need to hear this, she muttered. She reached out to shut it off but his hand shot out and grabbed hers.

Leave it on. Sorry, he said after the news item ended. He switched the radio off. The police in this town are incompetent. We’re all too dependent on super-heroes to protect us. And we don’t have any, not anymore.

Sonya was aware of her own heart pounding. He was a bundle of surprises—she wasn’t expecting that grip. The light turned green. She tapped the gas pedal, jerking the car forward. The cops have a lot of work to do, she said, amid her own bemusement.

The coffee