by CM Raymond
“We need to talk.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Elijah stared awkwardly at Willa for what felt like an hour before finally stepping aside to let her in.
She stepped over the threshold and into the foreign apartment. Spartan arrangements were typical for the life of the traveling scholar, but the barren room made her feel empty. Not knowing exactly what to do, she found a seat on the overstuffed couch.
An empty bottle of whiskey and two tumblers sat on the table. A boozy remnant had congealed on the bottom of the glasses. Willa eyed red lipstick on one of them. Elijah, following her stare, swept the glasses up with one hand and walked toward the kitchen.
His phone buzzed as he re-entered the room, but he ignored it. “What are you doing here?” he asked, covering the strange burns across his body as he pulled on a wrinkled shirt.
For all the historian’s faults, he knew how to ask a good question. What was she doing here?
After finding Sean’s body, Willa fled the boathouse, trying to put as much distance between her and the river as possible. The two guards were gone—which was probably for the best considering what she wanted to do to them—and there was no evidence that she could find connecting her student to whoever had done that to him.
So she called the police from one of the few remaining pay phones in the city, leaving an anonymous tip about a murder. Then she hung up and just walked.
She pounded pavement through the night, mind barely registering her direction. She just let her feet carry her, leading where they would.
Eventually, they brought her here.
Willa had few friends, had let few people into her life. But she needed someone, anyone to talk to. And some part of her hoped that Elijah would understand.
“My student...the one I was looking for. He’s dead.”
Elijah stared down at her, his face unreadable. Doubt? Guilt? Fear? What did she expect? He didn’t know her at all, didn’t owe her anything. She considered leaving, but before she could, he joined her on the couch and gave her the most awkward hug ever.
“I’m so sorry, Willa.”
She tensed, then eased into him. The consolation was surprisingly needed, and she began to cry again, her story spilling out between the sobs.
They sat like that for a while until his phone vibrated against the coffee table. Willa jumped and pulled away. She thought about the shade of lipstick on his glass. “Sorry...for dumping that all on you. You should get that,” she said as it buzzed again.
“It’s fine,” he said, but he reached for the phone anyway. His face went pale as he read the message. He showed it to Willa. It was from Chem.
URGENT. Something’s up re: ur blood. Need to meet ASAP. Don’t dick around on this. Find the poet—she won’t answer my calls, but she needs to see this too.
Willa instinctively reached for her phone before remembering that she left it at home before heading out on her hunt.
Elijah was staring at her like he had the morning he woke up in her apartment, when she told him the truth about her powers. Willa thought he would bolt again, but whatever confusion raged inside of him, this time it was mixed with resolve.
She could see it in his eyes.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Let’s have it all out.”
“Elijah you don’t have to—” She aimed for sympathy, but her voice bordered on exasperation.
“Stop,” he said. “I don’t know what’s happened to me, but it is becoming clear that we’re connected by this. By my change. It’s time we to stop messing around and get to the truth.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
“Ma’am, you just need to calm down and think this over. We don’t know what that could do. It could be dangerous.” He glanced down at the small glass vile held in her trembling hand. The one he just delivered to her.
A single pulsating vein stood out from Brooke’s forehead an eighth of an inch. It was her tell, and it only revealed itself when she had a hand to play. Rex tried to dissuade her, but his words had the opposite effect. She wanted danger. She needed danger.
“No time to think, Rex. Just get me there. Get me there now.”
He licked his lips and stepped on the gas. “All right. But busting in there isn’t going to do a thing.”
“If what Laurie texted me is true, it’s already done. Now stop talking and start driving.”
Her assistant called her minutes ago, confirming Brooke’s suspicions. The entire board of Alarawn Industries had just shown up at PPG Tower.
It could only mean one thing.
Last night, Brooke had resigned herself to that fate—of losing her company, losing what control she had. She had made peace with it, almost felt elated by the idea.
But everything changed when she saw Elijah’s file.
Project Cold Steel was meant to save AI and give her the persuasive power she needed to turn this company around. She had trusted the historian to do his job, opened up to him in a way she hadn’t done with anyone since her parents had died.
But he betrayed her. Instead of researching her company, he was off playing Dungeons and Dragons with his friends. He was a fraud and a liar.
But he had found something of use—unlocked something strange. A new kind of power that Brooke could use. She couldn’t erase the image of the fiery creature from her mind. With that kind of power, she could save her company. Save the city. And Elijah kept it to himself.
Rex threaded the needle between two cars going the opposite direction as he sped down Stanwix Street. Horns blasted from every direction. She should have been nervous, but Brooke’s mind fixated on something else.
Someone else.
Van Pelt.
He wouldn’t listen to reason, wouldn’t listen to her pleas for mercy, wouldn’t listen to virtue. Strength was all he heard.
Brooke turned the smooth glass vial over in her palm, watching the deep blue fluid as it slid from one end to the other. A gift from Elijah, procured by Rex. She smiled. She had a new form of strength. She had seen what it could do on Mount Washington.
She would see what it could do to Van Pelt.
Rex stared at her through the rear view mirror. Something hungry on his face. But she ignored it, trusting that he had her back.
Making it from Squirrel Hill to downtown in nine minutes flat, he ran the Lincoln up onto the curb directly in front of the PPG Tower’s massive glass doors.
Without a word, she stepped from the car and toward her destiny.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Brooke Alarawn shoved through the boardroom doors with the strength of a heavyweight, startling the collection of suits inside. “Eight months. You gave me eight months—and now this.”
“Ms. Alarawn, this is a closed meeting.” Van Pelt tugged at his collar. “You need to leave before we call security.”
Brooke laughed. “Who? My security? You’re going to ask my security to come and take me away?”
A man with a soft face at the end of the table stood. “Brooke, please. Don’t make this worse for yourself. Your father wouldn’t want things to end this way.”
“Smitty, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Brooke spat at the man. “My dad would take you out back and kick your ass if he knew what you were up to.”
The man stared at an invisible dot on the table. “Would he?” the man whispered.
Van Pelt grew an inch and stepped toward her. “Your father is the one who started all of this, Brooke. He put us here to make these kinds of calls—he trusted us to make the right decisions. This is the company’s process.”
“Fuck the process. He was desperate. Desperate men make mistakes. This is my damn company, and I have time left to turn it around.”
“I’m sorry,” Van Pelt said, though it was clear that he was anything but. “We voted to amend the agreement. It was three to four. With a majority vote, the board is taking full control of Alarawn Industries. We discussed keeping you on to be the,” Van Pelt cleared his throat, “pretty face, but that was voted dow
n as well. You’ll be receiving a severance package large enough to buy the Hill District. Graciously step down, and go enjoy yourself. Have some kids, for God’s sake.”
Brooke slammed her fist on the table. Everyone—except Van Pelt—jumped. “Who was it? Who sold me out?”
The board stared blankly. She scanned the room, reading guilt in most of the faces. She locked eyes with Fong on the screen. 8,000 miles away and he still looked nervous.
Van Pelt grinned. “You need to leave, Ms. Alarawn. Really. This is embarrassing.” Van Pelt had regained his cool—as if he held a perfect hand.
“I’m not leaving until I know who voted against me. You owe me this!”
Van Pelt’s grin turned into a wolf’s snarl. “I owe you nothing, Brooke. Nothing.”
Brooke’s response was cold as ice. “You cowards.”
“It was me, Brooke. I was the deciding vote.”
A freight train ran through her head. She turned toward the slight man at the end of the table.
“Vince?” Her tone pleaded.
The man stood. His eyes glassed over. “Brooke, I have a fiduciary duty to our shareholders. I take that seriously. A duty to this company—to this city. I took another look at the books, and it was impossible. You couldn’t do it—no one could have. I wish you had that kind of power but we need to salvage what we can, and that can’t wait any longer. Fong has a deal with the Chinese that won’t last.”
Her eyes were frozen daggers aimed at her father’s best friend. “Vince, you told me you were in. You had my back.”
Vince Charles’ Adam’s apple rose in slow motion, then sank. A tear broke from a glassy eye, its trajectory halted by the wireframe of his glasses. “This is having your back, Brooke. Someday, maybe a long time from now, you’ll understand.”
Brooke scanned the room, looking at each board member in the eye. “You’ll pay for this.”
Van Pelt started to laugh. “How pathetically cliché. Just when are we going to pay, Brooke? Huh? We’ve been paying our dues for years. And all you’ve done is continue to drag your daddy’s company down. And for what? Pittsburgh?” He paused, waiting for her to look up. “Fuck Pittsburgh, Brooke. It’s just a burned-out has-been of a city. It’s finished. Just like the Alarawn family. And we’re finally laying that family to rest. You just need to take a deep breath, and calm down.”
Brooke walked toward the door and pulled it open. She stood at the threshold and stared into the hallway. Rex was standing there, waiting for her. He was the only family she had left. The only one who stood by her.
Snapping open her handbag, she withdrew the plastic vial. A blue liquid splashed about within.
Without turning around, she spoke. “I won’t calm down, Lance. In fact, I think anger is exactly what this moment calls for. After all, it’s the hottest fires that forge the coldest steel.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The IKEA clock read 7:04—almost an hour before Elijah was supposed to meet Willa and Chem at the bar. After the poet left, the afternoon had been largely unproductive. His mind, occupied by fantasy, couldn’t make sense of the facts.
He turned toward his bathroom and flicked on the harsh overhead light. The tile floor was pleasantly cool on his bare feet. Elijah took off his button-up and gingerly pulled the white tee over his head. The motion was less painful than before. Evidence that his wounds were healing quickly.
He surveyed his battered body in the bathroom mirror.
What the hell?
The most curious aspect of his injuries was the large burn centered on his upper torso. It had been healing for days, a pattern slowly emerging. Staring at himself in the mirror, its origin now became clear.
An intricate scar, a square with two intersecting ovals, was branded onto his body. It was a perfect facsimile of Thomas Alarawn’s medallion. Elijah’s stomach turned. He ran his index finger over the distinct, symmetrical design—its harsh lines aggressively displayed in the fluorescent light.
The same symbol that burned on the monster’s chest.
Elijah shook his head. Any shred of doubt left in his mind, any corner of denial he could cling to melted away.
He walked toward his nightstand with the intent of bringing his notes with him to the bar. It was time to lay all of his cards on the table and hope that Willa and Chem would do the same.
Elijah opened the drawer and reached for his file, but it was gone. Pulling the drawer from the table and dropping it on the floor, he looked back into the empty space hoping he had somehow missed it. Nothing. The historian scoured the room, desperate but unable to uncover the missing notes and the medallion.
His mind spun. No one else was in here except for...
Brooke? Shit.
He imagined what she would think, staring at his notes. Little more than the scrawlings of a madman. Would she believe him? Blame him? Laugh in his face?
The thought of her slipping out this morning without a word now filled him with dread. He grabbed his phone and opened the contacts, scrolling to Brooke’s name. The call went straight to voicemail.
“Shit.” He looked at the clock again. Brooke would have to wait until after his meeting with the professors. Maybe they could give him advice. He jumped in the shower, telling himself there was little danger of Brooke having the file.
But he knew he was playing in self-deception.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Brooke Alarawn had dominated Elijah’s thoughts on the ride across town. One moment he pictured her with the medallion, the next entangled in his sheets. It was safe to say that their relationship was more than complicated.
Turning the corner toward the bar, his thoughts transitioned from Brooke to Willa. What was she searching for in all of this? He could still see her sitting there, crying on his couch. And he couldn’t help but feel guilty. She had asked for his help, and he refused.
Now her student was dead.
It was easier when he could blame her—chalk this whole thing up to her manipulating him for her own twisted pleasure. Because if she was telling the truth, bigger things were afoot in Pittsburgh than just him and the monster that had taken residence in his body.
Elijah gave his shirt a fresh tuck before pulling open the door.
Universal bar smell punched him in the face as he stepped into the smoky haze.
Sal’s was nearly empty. Tuesday nights were generally slow, but in a college town, there was no telling how many people would skip the cafeteria in favor of cheap drink specials and greasy bar food.
Willa sat at the far end of the room, a martini glass her only companion. She pushed a lonely olive around the bottom of the glass with a swizzle stick. With her chin resting on her fist, she looked like a tired caricature of the depressed woman alone at the bar.
The image struck him, and his guilt returned.
“Come here often?” Elijah asked. He slid onto the empty stool next to her.
Black rings hung under swollen eyes. The historian could feel her hurt. The boy obviously had meant something to her. “Hey, Eli-sha,” she said, lightly slurring his name. “Welcome to the party.”
They looked out over the bar, the local sports game du jour filled the silence between them.
Elijah’s hand landed on her back and slid up and down. There was nothing sexual about it. This was a wake, not a date—and any song playing from the jukebox was an elegy for some kid he had never met.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he meant it.
“You didn’t know,” she said shaking her head slowly. “I mean, I tried to tell you, but I can’t blame you for not knowing. I’m sure waking up in my apartment and hearing me go on about magic and monsters is not the best sell.”
“Don’t forget that I was butt naked.”
“I couldn’t forget that if I tried.” She laughed, and it seemed as unexpected to her as it was to him. “I mean, your junk is literally seared into my brain.” She slowly tapped the side of her head with her index finger.
Elijah lau
ghed too, but the screeching sound of steel on tile interrupted the moment. Chem perched himself on the stool on the other side of Willa. “I guess they let anybody in here on a Tuesday night,” he said with a grin. “Sorry about Sean, Will. You did all you could.”
The smile left her face, and she went back to playing with the olive in her drink. “I just keep asking myself why? He was just some innocent kid. What did he have to do with any of this?”
“You never really know people,” he said, popping a handful of peanuts into his mouth. “Like our boy E here. What do we really know about him?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Elijah shot back. Based on Chem’s text, he assumed the man had come here to talk through whatever the hell was rushing through his veins. By Chem’s tone now, it sounded like he was trying to pick a fight.
“Oh, nothing. Except you seem to be the common denominator in all of this shit. And don’t forget Willa’s man in the mask seemed awfully interested in you. Maybe you know more than you’re letting on. Maybe you’re working with this creep. I mean, we still don’t know what made you go all Red Hulk in the first place. It wasn’t Willa’s mumbo jumbo. It wasn’t my science. But someone’s been messing with us, which means they’ve got a motive. If I was a gambling man, I’d put my money on the bad guy being the mysterious out-of-towner historian with the secret research job.”
“Screw you,” Elijah said, although he had to admit that Chem did have a point. Somehow Alarawn Industries had to be tied into all of this. But we weren’t about to concede that. “For all I know you’re the one who’s behind it all. You’ve got mysterious research of your own going on—and from where I’m sitting, you seem remarkably interested in me as well. What’s your angle?”
Chem laughed, but to Elijah, it seemed like a dodge. “Yeah, yeah, blame the black guy.”
“Wait,” Willa said, suddenly alert. The men turned toward her. She grabbed Chem’s arm as if to keep him from running away. “You said ‘us.’ What does that mean? ‘Someone’s been messing with us.’ What happened to you?”