Comic-Con Adventure

By Gretchen Schloesser

“Er’Rets,” I repeat for the third time.

The woman next to me, clearly imitating an over-the-top princess in her bejeweled blue-and-white dress, runs her fingers over the plaited strand draped over one shoulder. “It’s pronounced ‘Air-ruhn-dale’.”

“I’m not a simpleton. I know the kingdom from which I hail.” My father’s the head diplomat for Prince Oren and has visited every province on the continent. In my attempt to capture the elusive thief, Hezeek Dremel, a touch to the firestone talisman on his belt opened a portal, and I followed him to this unfamiliar land.

The princess’s eyes rove over my attire with an upturned lip. “And that’s a pretty basic Kristoff costume.”

Another woman with a reddish-orange wig pokes the first woman. “Leave him alone, Jules. My friend’s brother says his singing is bar none. You know we need a good baritone.” She turns to me. “Chris gave you the info to Venmo me for your ticket, yeah?”

“Venmo?” I do not know who Chris is, nor do I understand the ticket they’re querying about, but I need to act as the locals do to bring Hezeek in for a reward.

The blonde sighs. “You’re one of those ‘stay in character’ types, aren’t you?” She tosses her braid over her shoulder. “Let’s go then.”

I follow the two women and someone else masquerading as an oversized snowman. To say this new place is strange doesn’t begin to cover it.

Sheer visual overload assaults my eyes as I follow the trio into an oversized building with floor-to-ceiling windows held up by metal beams, with colorful banners arching across the top proclaiming “Comic-Con” in bold letters. Sunlight streams through the large windows, sending dappled rays onto a white granite floor so reflective it would make my mother proud. However, the building is also illuminated by some sort of magic, with glowing orbs hanging from the ceiling. Although the structure is nothing like I’ve seen before, I can’t help staring at the people. One man walks by, his skin, hair, and face entirely green, with purple cut-offs as his only clothing. Some individuals saunter past with masks on their faces and skin-tight suits covering their bodies. I avert my eyes as a woman with more skin than clothing poses in front of a crowd, a golden whip in her hand and a crown upon her dark hair. Royalty in this country is quite different than what my brother Ryn has shared about working for Prince Oren.

How am I ever going to find Hezeek?

I exhale slowly and use my bloodvoicing ability to creep into some minds.

This vest is itchy.

Ugh, I can’t believe she’s wearing the same costume as me!

My gaze scans to another crowd at the far wall.

Where’s the bathroom?

Whoa! That broadsword looks real.

Homing in on the last comment, I see someone about my age standing by a heavyset man clothed in a tunic and thick trousers with a sword in his hand. A small group stands around him, admiring the blade.

As he turns, a glimpse of his face reveals a mottled red birthmark on his jawline.

Got you now, Hezeek.

I rush toward the circle of onlookers. This may be an easier arrest than I anticipated.

“Hey! Where are you going?” a shrill voice calls from behind.

Over my shoulder, I reply, “Be right back,” and ignore the blonde princess’s grumblings.

My fingers feel for the metal cuffs in my pocket. Still there.

As I fake a nonchalant approach, Hezeek spots me, and his lips curve into a smarmy grin. “Zaivar, what a nice surprise.”

The crowd parts as I stride forward. “Hezeek.”

He raises his sword, the blade pointed toward me. “You may have found me, but I’m not going in, huntsboy.”

A shrug of my shoulders lets the insult roll off. “Just here to admire your blade like everyone else. Almost looks real.”

The emeralds on the hilt glisten in the sunlight, and the intricate design on the blade would take even the most skilled artisan a year to perfect. Nothing I love more than some good goading about a stolen sword.

“You think this is fake?” He puffs out his chest. “Why don’t you come a little closer and find out?”

I hold up my hands, palms out. “I’m no swordsman.”

Hezeek appears to ponder my statement, then thrusts forward. I leap back, and he chuckles. He sheaths the sword at his hip. “Run along now. I’ll wait for a real huntsman to show up.” As though defeated, I turn, then pivot back. Hezeek bolts. He shoves his way through the crowd, only to find he’s nearly cornered himself. He glances at his aisle of escape at the same time I do. He dashes behind individuals in a long queue, putting them between us, and I lose my line of sight.

“I won’t go back to Oren’s dungeon,” he says, his words loud and taunting, even against the cacophony of voices.

“Wanna bet?”

A set of stairs behind me leads to the second story, and I dart up the steps, getting just the advantage I need.

Hezeek inches past the crowd, nearing the entryway.

If he makes it to the doors, he’ll be gone for good.

I use my dagger to cut through the string holding the banner to the railing, mentally apologizing to whomever took the effort to hang it. I fist the fabric and wait until Hezeek pauses, looking behind him. I vault over the railing.

“Look out!” someone screeches as I whiz through the air.

Bystanders jump to the side. Hezeek flips around moments before my boots make contact with his chest. I grab the amulet before he attempts another portal escape, then make quick work of securing his wrists in metal cuffs.

“What a great stunt,” someone says behind us.

As I tug him to his feet, applause rings through the building.

I grin and give a little wave. “This one’s for you, Ryn.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gretchen Schloesser is a mathematician turned mama and writer. When she’s not playing with her kids or answering, “Why?” for the hundredth time, she enjoys going on adventures with her family and finding humor in all aspects of life.

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