Catalyst: A Superhero Urban Fantasy Thrillride (Steel City Heroes Book 1)

by CM Raymond

  An old man stood before her, a mocking smile sticking out from under his white beard.

  “Hello, granddaughter,” he said. “You’re getting sloppy.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Willa pushed herself off the hard floor, her bruise screamed in protest once again. The old man didn’t offer her a hand of compassion or even a second look. Instead, he made his way to an old leather chair that could have been made during the Truman administration. Many teachers utilized tough love as a tool in the classroom. For Edwin Weil, hard-nosed discipline was both sole instrument and guiding principle.

  A moment ago, the room had been a terror-filled battlefield. Now it resembled nothing more than a professor’s office. Towering bookcases made the tiny room feel even smaller. Photographs, mostly black and white, hung haphazardly on the remaining wall space. The esteemed professor Edwin Weil—at various ages—stared back from each photo as he posed alongside famous literary figures. Ginsberg. Borges. O’Connor. Angelou. It was a “Who’s Who” of twentieth-century authors—from pulp writers to beat poets to the pop-literary.

  The most recent—and current prize possession—was a photo of George R. R. Martin taken just weeks before in Roanoke. Edwin had driven six hours simply to snap a photo with the contemporary bard. The old men could have been brothers with their matching gray beards and physiques that were earned from long days in padded chairs. Their expressions were the only difference. Martin’s smile was wide and his eyes sparkled. Edwin—even in the company of this genius—looked dour.

  “Sit,” Edwin said with a salty tone. He already had his nose buried in an open text. Willa unearthed a rickety old chair from under a stack of books. Looking for an appropriate place to set them, she squatted and placed the volumes gently on the floor.

  Her eyes scanned the shelves. Though there were thousands of books, they were ordered differently each time she visited. Once they seemed to be arranged topically, another time chronologically, and once according to the color of binding. Most of the collection was literature and poetry, but histories, biographies, even scientific studies found their places within the metric ton of paper.

  Geographical by author, she thought—guessing at the latest schema. She shook her head at the bizarre inner workings of Edwin’s mind.

  The old man set the text open on his lap, smoothed the pages with both hands, and carefully pressed a bookmark into its crease. He glanced at the pile of books Willa had just set on the floor. She noticed him grimace, though it wasn’t much different than his general countenance.

  “The Fields of Troy?” Willa asked. She swallowed a joke about wish fulfillment and him parading around as the god Ares. She tried to keep her smartassery to a minimum when visiting the fortieth floor.

  “Ah, I’m glad you haven’t forgotten your classics, even if you have forgotten almost everything else I’ve taught you.” The old man adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “I think you know why I called you here.”

  Willa understood why she’d been called, but how he knew remained a mystery. She was uncertain how Edwin knew anything that went on during her day—though he inevitably did. Much like the rearrangement of his shelves, the nature of his uncanny omniscience escaped her. Though curious, she dared not ask.

  The man coveted his secrecy as much as he denied Willa hers.

  A dozen different answers ran through Willa’s mind, though she kept each one to herself. He hadn’t really asked her a question, and besides, she knew there was nothing she could say to hold off the lecture already forming on his lips.

  “Magic has rules, Willa. From day one I had you memorize them. Repeating them over and over and over until they sank into your mind, into your bones. And yet, after a decade of training and study, you still fail to grasp them. You can perform wonders with your words, create worlds with the poetry I have taught you, yet my three simple rules elude you. You are no better than a damn freshman, failing to follow the syllabus. We do not use magic in public. We do not use our magic on outsiders. We do not use our magic to fix the world. We—”

  “We don’t use our magic at all, unless we’re here in your stuffy office.”

  “Precisely,” he shouted. “And why is that so damn hard?”

  Edwin’s breath grew heavy as his words echoed through the office. She sat there, unmoving, taking in his frustration, willing her hands not to tremble. He sighed. For all his bluster, Willa knew he could never sustain his anger. Not with her. He cleared his throat and tried to play nice. “How’s your father?”

  It didn’t work. Her eyes narrowed. “How’s your son?”

  Edwin cracked a smile. “Touché. You know he and I haven’t spoken since you arrived in the city. He denied his own potential long ago and hoped to keep you from my corrupting influence as well.”

  True, her father’s words contained little respect for Edwin. But she knew the real reason he hated this city, and it had little to do with her grandfather. It was because it reminded him of her mother.

  Willa’s mom died in Pittsburgh, and her father could never forgive the Steel City for taking away his love.

  Willa barely remembered it though—she was such a small child. Her mom had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. Loss wasn’t enough to keep Willa away from her grandfather, and from the magical training that he offered.

  “I am the master of my fate:

  I am the captain of my soul.”

  Willa barely whispered the words.

  “‘Invictus’?” the old man sighed. “I’m glad your education plumbed the depths of the English canon.”

  Though accustomed to his scrutiny, Willa still blushed at his sarcasm.

  I’m sure George R. R. Martin would approve, she thought.

  “We talked last week. He’s the same, always the same.” She looked at her watch. “Look, can we just get on with this?”

  “Why? Do you have a course to teach?”

  The old man was particularly pissy. His attacks didn’t surprise her—Willa considered it part of her training. But lately, he refused to pull any punches.

  “Master Weil, if there’s nothing you’d like to discuss, I’d like to be excused.”

  “Grandpa works, you know,” he shot back.

  “Yes, I do, Master Weil.”

  The old man shifted his weight and swiped a hand across his forehead. He never looked young—but recently old age had taken up permanent residence on his brow. “Willa, you knew full well that when you decided to walk this path it wouldn’t be easy, but you committed yourself to following my rules. Rules are not meant to confine, but to grant freedom. Only within boundaries is true freedom possible. True success.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, last semester’s teaching evals were the highest I’ve ever received.”

  He slammed his hand on the desk—an uncharacteristically violent act. “You know damn well I’m not talking about the classroom. You shattered every rule I’ve ever given you last night. And for what?”

  “For good,” she whispered.

  “Excuse me?”

  Sitting up straight, Willa pushed the small of her back against the chair and lifted her chin. His presence made her feel small. “I did it for good, Master Weil. Or at least I tried to. My student needed help—the kind of help that only my power could provide.”

  “Pedagogy is power,” the old man fired back. “Your job is to teach them in the classroom, not to save them in the streets. You’re a professor, not some part-time social worker. And you’re certainly no superhero.”

  “But what am I then?” She couldn’t keep the anger from her voice. “We’ve been given this gift for a reason. We can work miracles. Shouldn’t we at least try to do some good in this world?”

  He sat back heavily in his chair, sighed, and pulled his fingers through his fine white hair. “From the moment I saw you had power, I tried to instruct you. To lead you down the path of wisdom. I’ve trained you, not so you’d run out into the world and seek a fight, but so that you woul
d never have to. But you have learned nothing. Those who use their power to heal the world only serve to poison themselves. Last night, you didn’t save anyone. You revealed your powers to a stranger, and you almost got yourself killed. You didn’t do it for their good,” he pointed out the window as he spoke. “You did it for your own good. You were selfish and reckless, and worst of all you were stupid. What if word of your deeds gets back to The Guild? You may disregard my teaching, but at least you kept the good sense not to break their rule.”

  Their rule. NO NEW MAGIC. Edwin may have failed to convince Willa of his rules, but he managed to cement The Guild’s rule to her brain.

  The Guild, she thought. Edwin had been using this particular bogeyman to frighten her since her childhood. A mysterious group of ancient wizards who held absolute power over people like her. One thing she knew: They weren’t fans of the frivolous use of magic. To hear Edwin tell it, their entire purpose was to prevent the use of magic at all.

  For thousands of years, The Guild studied and explored the power of language. They took words of power spoken by poets, and, from the shadows, used those words to lead cities and wage wars and shape culture. All in the name of making this world a better place. All that came to a close a hundred years ago. The Guild went on the defensive and removed itself as a power of influence in this world. Instead, it devoted itself to keeping the magical community safe—and secret. As part of their retreat, they imposed an iron-clad law over magicians: No new magic. Despite her life of study, Willa had never touched magic from this century, and barely the last. Edwin introduced her to the Canon—classic poems sanctioned for magical use by The Guild. He drummed into her that the Canon was sufficient, and set up his own rules, designed, in part, to keep her far from the line The Guild had imposed.

  His fear of them seemed to rival his anger at her. Most days she doubted their existence was anything more than another form of control for Edwin to level over her, a lie designed to keep her safe. But her doubts weren’t strong enough to allow her to break that law. She didn’t know what the consequence of disobedience was, but it wasn’t a risk worth taking.

  Willa held back tears that threatened to undermine her composure. None of Edwin’s words surprised her; she’d heard them a thousand times. From the first day she used her gift to stop a bully in middle school, Edwin had been giving her the same lecture.

  Restraint. Composure. Secrecy.

  But it all amounted to the same thing. Idleness in the face of danger. Cowardice. Fear.

  “Maybe you’re right, Master Weil. But locking away the gift that you have—barricading yourself in this tower when you could be making a real difference—is an act of cruelty. I don’t care what you or The Guild thinks.”

  He looked down at his lap, eyes tired and face drawn. “I’m telling you that this course of action is not prudent.”

  She pictured the man in the ski mask again, leaping from the third story like it was nothing. The wicked smile on his face. “If wisdom calls for anything now, it is precisely this. Something is stirring—I can feel it. I can’t sit by while my student is in danger. Not when I could help. If that means I lose you as my Master, if that means I lose you as my grandfather, then so be it.”

  She stood and left the room, her words hanging in the air behind her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Brooke Alarawn sat at the foot of an enormous table. Popular legend claimed that it was crafted from dark oak harvested out of a forest in Wales—the ancestral homeland of the Alarawn family. Its wooden surface gleamed from four generations’ worth of polishing. If the table could talk, most of those in the room would be criminally indicted.

  Large, leather chairs surrounded the table, each accommodating an executive board member—all outfitted with perfect suits. Primarily men, there was a rose or two amongst the thorns. But the roses were anything but sweet.

  The room was as cold as the Ohio River in January—more from the countenance of its occupants than anything else.

  Brooke stared at them, trying to read their expressions and not liking what she found. The armpits of her business suit were damp. Perspiration was a rarity. But right now, she sweated like a socialist at the Republican National Convention.

  Glass lined the room. The northwest window granted a perfect view of the convention center—its roof sloping toward the Allegheny. Even under duress, the familiar sight took Brooke’s breath away. She imagined running at the window and jumping through it and flying to the street below. She could float down the river and disappear. The only thing restraining her was that she wouldn’t get the benefit of seeing their faces. A smile inadvertently curled on her lips.

  Opposite the windows, three large LCD screens were hung specifically for this meeting. Lavine and Hurtle telecast in from some other continent—prioritizing other on-site meetings for companies that weren’t dragging bottom. They were professional board members, pulling in five to six figures per corporate seat.

  Fong, a multinational businessman in his own right, dialed in from China. Brooke feared him most. Van Pelt—Alarawn Industries’ chairman—initially argued that Fong’s inclusion was advisory—lending support on overseas relations and opening up new markets. She suspected otherwise. His attendance indicated ulterior designs, less than helpful to her and her company.

  Their company, that is.

  Two years before her father’s death, Alarawn Industries had gone through a takeover. It could hardly be called hostile. Mr. Alarawn rolled over and gave it to them like a possum playing dead. He ceded majority control to Van Pelt and company, retaining his position as CEO, but ultimately leaving AI’s fate in the board’s hands—a board that now sought to dissolve the company against Brooke’s wishes.

  Dammit, Dad.

  He had always told her how important AI was to Pittsburgh. Its factories provided jobs for thousands, its taxes supported the community, it’s bridges and buildings were literally made with the steel they provided. Her family built this city, and, in return, this city made the Alarawn’s wealthy beyond imagination. While other steel mills closed and shipped overseas, her father refused to take their business from the city, refused to place money over the lives of their workers.

  He had always told her that Alarawns don’t back down, and they never quit. That they were more stubborn than steel.

  But in the end, he had quit. He gave in to pressure from the money men and gave up control. And now it was up to Brooke to take it back before the parasites chopped up her family legacy and crippled the city along with it. Up to her to save Pittsburgh.

  “What we need right now is penetration,” the chairman nearly shouted.

  The outburst brought Brooke back to the conference room. She bit her lip, holding back laughter.

  “Did you hear me, Ms. Alarawn?” Van Pelt asked.

  “I’m sorry, I was running numbers.” She tapped her temple. “Did you say you really need penetration? Sounds like a personal problem, not a business one.”

  The middle-aged men in the room chuckled behind their hands. Many of them loved her spunk—and a few despised the chairman.

  Van Pelt’s face hardened. “Do you think this is funny, Ms. Alarawn?”

  “Not at all.” Brooke’s body quivered with contempt. “I think this is a damn tragedy, Lance.”

  He hated being addressed by his first name, especially during a meeting, and she knew it. The man pulled on his collar, looked around the room, and then toward the large screens on the wall. “Tell us what’s on the table, Fong.” His eyes moved back to Brooke. He almost smiled. Brooke turned her eyes toward the LCD and focused on the elderly Asian man, who sat half a world away.

  He glanced at a legal pad and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “They’re interested. I don’t think they’re willing to meet our number, but if we played with it a bit, they just might bite.”

  Brooke’s perspiration returned. Every day she fought the same fight. Alarawn Industries had struggled since the mid-80s, and many of their pee
r corporations had made lucrative deals overseas, dodging the higher wages and regulations at home. Selling made fiscal sense if rising shares were the only figures that mattered.

  American businesses forgot that there’s a moral ledger too, that goes deeper than dollars and cents.

  “You’re not hawking my company like a used appliance,” she spat. Brooke’s left hand clenched her knee beneath the table. Her perfectly manicured nails left four tiny marks. “That’s non-negotiable.”

  The chairman of the board couldn’t hold back his delight. “It’s not your company anymore, Ms. Alarawn. It’s ours. And you can’t dictate terms. We have a responsibility to the shareholders.”

  Brooke had never felt homicidal, not until that moment. Instead of herself jumping from the window, she pictured throwing them out one by one. If only she could take back control of the board, she knew she could save the company. But Van Pelt and his cronies stood in her way, and he had garnered a reputation for getting whatever he wanted, no matter the cost.

  “The shareholders? You don’t give a shit about them, do you, Lance? All you care about is your own bottom line. My father, his father, and his father before him built this city. When the rest of steel tucked tail and ran like a bunch of whiny bitches, we stayed. AI always knew this was about something bigger than themselves. Pittsburgh needs this business. I can save it.”

  Brooke stood, her chair rolling back behind her. “Give me time. Project Cold Steel will work. It will reunite the city behind us, like the old days. We stood with Pittsburgh when she was down. She’ll stand with us.”

  A low murmur greeted her response. Several of the veteran board members had known Brooke since her childhood. She knew they agreed with her, but whether or not they’d confront Van Pelt was another story. All eyes turned to the chairman.