To my own annoyance I had stayed true to my word to Gail, maintaining some measure of punctuality in my schooling. I went to school on time, went to every css, and left on time. But all the while, my mind was elsewhere.

  How could it not be? I’d been recruited into a damn vilin crew, and all my spare time was spent on sneakily working on more gadgets and gizmos to prepare for what was to come. The cash from the Kings, at least, had helped me get some new tools to work with, giving me a better arsenal.

  And the Kings had apparently been pleased with my efforts so far. Already they had asked for more toy soldiers, and to see any other pythings I had to offer.

  Most teenagers had burger flipping as their first job. My first job was as an arms dealer.

  On Wednesday, knowing my foster parents would be te in getting home, I decided it was the perfect time to get some costume work done. All it took was a little web browsing to learn that Trimpe’s Tailoring was still in business on Seventh Avenue. To the public eye he was just a normal tailor, making bespoke suit and dresses for those who could meet his stiff prices.

  His real business, of course, was in tailoring costumes for vilins.

  There was a whole cottage industry for that sort of thing. The hero tailors operated in public, obviously, but nobody could advertise that they aided and equipped super criminals.

  The outside of the shop was the same as any other tailors. The windows filled with well-dressed mannequins, posed to highlight the quality of the clothes they were. Most would stop to examine the clothes, see the price tags attached, and promptly moved on. But I pressed on, the bell ringing as I entered.

  A sullen young man, dressed in a white shirt, grey scks and waistcoat, looked up from his magazine. “Are you... lost?” he asked.

  “I’m here to see Mr Trimpe,” I said ftly. Did he know what his boss really did? Most likely, it would be odd to hire a man and keep him in the dark about such a major facet of his business. Sooner or ter he’d find out. Even so I wasn’t about to just blunder in and ask ‘hi can you make a supervilin costume for me?’

  “Uh huh.” The young man pressed a button under the counter which caused a buzzing sound to echo from somewhere deeper inside.

  Oliver Trimpe emerged from the curtain beside the counter a few seconds ter. A plump man, he was bald as a stone with a salt and pepper beard, dressed as sharply as his assistant. He paused, staring at me as if trying to grapple with a strange sense of familiarity he felt. “Yes?” he asked. “May I help you?”

  “I’m... Jess Kirby. My father was Stephen Kirby.”

  His eyes widened, the tiny gsses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Good heavens! Come in, come in. Kevin, if anyone calls please tell them I’m out to lunch!”

  The young man returned to his magazine and gave his boss a thumbs up. I doubted they got much in the way of legitimate daytime business.

  The room behind the curtain seemed no stranger than the rest of the shop. A world filled with rolls of fabrics, half-dressed mannequins, and a litany of unfinished outfits. “Goodness,” Oliver said, hurrying along. “You were knee high when I st saw you. Terribly sorry about your father, you know. He was a good man, one of my nicest customers. The new generation of criminals, they sorely ck his honour and manners.”

  I nodded, giving him a curious look from the corner of my eye. “I imagine you know what I’m here for,” I said.

  He nodded. “Indeed. Entering the family business, as it were. Of course while I am happy to help... I cannot do anything for free. Not even for you.”

  “I’m not asking for charity, don’t worry.”

  “Good, good. Please, through here.” He stopped at a rge bck door, distinguished by the small keypad beside it. His rge fingers moved with impressive speed, punching seven digits in quick succession. The pad chimed, the light beside it turning green, while the locks noisily clicked open.

  And, as the door was pulled open, I glimpsed the world behind the curtain. A shimmering void in space, a doorway into another dimension. I’d heard of such things, liberally used by groups like the Society and ANVIL. But this was my first time seeing one up close.

  “Through here. It’s where I host all my important customers.”

  Walking through the shimmering doorway sent electric shivers racing along every nerve in my body, a tang of scorched atmosphere briefly lingering on the air I breathed. The world beyond was what I expected a vilin tailor’s workshop to look like. A vast chamber of steel-panelled walls and flooring, dominated with a myriad of workbenches that each had strange tools and implements attached to them.

  The mannequins in here were adorned in partially damaged or unfinished vilin costumes, some of them even being rather familiar to me. I saw the horned helmet of Minos on one bench, one steel horn split in half. On another was the moth-winged costume of Silkworm, said wings half burned away. And there, near the middle of the brightly-lit room, was a mannequin wearing the golden cwed gauntlets of Pounce.

  “Don’t mind these. Just a few works in progress,” he said, waving dismissively at them in passing. “Now then, I imagine you’re looking for something simir to your father’s gear?”

  “Right. I’m the new Toymaker,” I said, reaching into my backpack. I pulled out a well-worn sketchbook and flicked to a page near the middle, and handed over a pencil drawing of myself in armoured jester gear, the margins lined with all manner of notes and specifications.

  Oliver stared at the drawing for several long moments. “I wouldn’t recommend becoming an artist full time, dear.”

  I bristled a bit, my cheeks flushed. “I’ve always been more of an inventor than an artist.”

  “Indeed. Well, I can work with this. Though are you sure you want to go the jester route? Clowns are something of a saturated market with vilins, and folks may not take you seriously.”

  “Let them. If I’m being underestimated, then the people against me will lower their guard. I’m happy to be underestimated if I get the upper hand.” Dad hadn’t worried about ego, so why would I?

  “Very well. It’s your costume. Though... what about this part here?” he motioned to the boots. “These hollows you want put in?”

  “There’s a device I’ve created for the soles. Just need some space left to insert them. After that I can install the shock absorption in the pants.” I left some room in the design for some modur impnts, to be included as needed.

  Oliver nodded again. “It all seems doable. The challenge will be the armour, but I have some components for that.” He led the way to one bench and lifted up a curving pte of what looked to be bck pstic. “Armour pilfered from an ANVIL b only a few months back. Outer yer of hydrapolymer, bulletproof and resistant to energy attacks. Inner yer is a ballistic gel concoction, disperses the force of impacts. You’ll still feel bullets or super strong fists hitting you, but they won’t floor you. And the third yer is another pte of hydrapolymer. I’ll thread these components throughout the suit to give extra protection to your limbs and vitals and put the jester’s fabric over it. We’ll go with synth-thread. Very durable, resistant to bdes and fire.”

  To hear him talk like this, it was at odds with his image of a kindly, portly tailor. But the man knew his stuff, and Dad had trusted him with his life.

  “I don’t have an account with the Bck Bank yet, but...” I reached into my bag and pulled out a few of the rolls of cash the Kings had given me. “Would this do as a security deposit?”

  “I don’t normally do cash, but... I suppose I can make an exception, given who your father was.” He hesitated, lifting one roll of cash into his hand. “Not that I am against helping you, obviously, but... are you sure this is what your father would want you doing?”

  I shrugged. “We’ll never know, will we?”