Brooke bit her lip. “I do. And in fact, if you’re feeling better, I brought this along for us to share.” Brooke pulled a brown paper bag out from behind her back. “We’ll call it a rain check for you running off on me.”
“I can feel good enough for that any day.” Elijah smiled. “Let me guess. Malbec? You seem like a Malbec girl. Definitely not Merlot. Nothing white.”
“Presumptuous,” she said as she stepped passed him and moved into the apartment. Brooke slid the bottle out of its brown bag. “But inaccurate. Jameson’s a family favorite.”
“Sheesh. Last time I had Jameson was at my brother’s bachelor party. I don’t remember much of that night.”
“You have a lot of those?” Brooke asked as she took a seat at the dining table.
She glanced around the apartment, appreciating the simple yet tasteful furniture. One of her employees did an excellent job at styling the place, but its elegance seemed ill suited for the current occupant. If it weren’t for the books scattered around the room, it would be hard to tell that Elijah actually lived here. It lacked any personal furnishings—a hotel that Elijah would soon check out of.
She placed the bottle on the table. “I know I ordered some shot glasses for this place. Why don’t you be a good boy and go fetch those?”
“Sure thing.”
Brook watched Elijah cross the room. His body nearly shuddered with each step.
The sound of glasses clinking came from the kitchen. “You really want to do shots or do you want a tumbler?”
“Whatever. I’ll follow your lead,” Brooke said.
“I’m doing rocks.”
“In that case, I won’t follow your lead. I’ll take two fingers, neat.”
Elijah crossed the open floor plan into the living room. He grabbed a seat on the overstuffed couch and placed the drinks on a steel and glass coffee table. Brooke passed up the recliner for a seat next to the historian. She crossed her left leg over her right in a practiced moved that exposed a healthy amount of thigh.
Her move always worked. Elijah’s eyes were glued on her body, a body earned through hours at the gym. Leaning forward, she grabbed her glass. Her posture, combined with a loose-fitting top, offered an ample view. She noted that Elijah took full advantage of it.
This is going to be easy.
“So?”
“So, what?” Elijah asked. His eyes snapped to attention.
“What the hell happened? Other than our little role-play the other day, I haven’t heard from you in over a week, and now I see you’re even more beat to shit than last time.”
Beads of sweat welled up on Elijah’s forehead. He wiped them with the back of his hand. “Oh, you mean my limp?”
“I mean your limp, your face, the fact that you can’t stand up straight. Yeah, I think that’s where it starts. Does Pittsburgh have some sort of fight club I don’t know about?”
“I fell down the steps,” he said. His answer lacked the confidence bred from honesty. And lack of confidence would inhibit Brooke’s plans for the evening. She would have to compensate by being assertive enough for the both of them.
Brooke took a long pull of the triple-distilled nectar. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. Wincing as the first shot burned its way down her throat, she rubbed her hand up and down her thigh. “This is going right to my head tonight.” She returned the empty glass to the table. “And, I don’t think you did.”
Elijah nearly choked on his drink. His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“I think I know what happened last night.” Brooke edged closer. She moved her hand from her own thigh to Elijah’s. With blood-red lips half an inch from his ear, she said, “I know what you are, Elijah Branton.”
Elijah shifted, and swallowed loudly enough for the neighbors to hear. He finished his drink without taking his eyes off her.
Brooke poured herself another round. “More rocks, Doctor?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Elijah laughed. “So, what are you doing here?”
“I was worried about you. You were mumbling incomprehensibly, falling all over yourself. It was quite a scene, Elijah.” She paused. “I told you when we first met, I take care of my employees.”
Brooke didn’t believe in using sex for business—at least not exclusively for business. Her last relationship ended several months ago, and preoccupation with the fate of her company precluded much in the way of youthful mischief. Although she would never admit it, the truth was that she was lonely. While he wasn’t her usual type, Elijah had a certain thing about him that she was drawn to. Plus, he seemed to have lost some weight since arriving in the steel city. She anticipated enjoying this evening. And if their activity between the sheets unraveled the mystery of Elijah’s transformation, it would kill two birds with one stone.
Brooke rose to get more ice for Elijah’s glass. She felt the effects of the whiskey setting in as she stood.
Elijah has to be feeling something.
Intentionally bumping into the coffee table, she covered her mouth and constructed a half-ditzy, sorority-girl giggle. His living room was her stage, and Elijah joined in the charade. He rubbed his face with both hands. “Nice. I’m glad the whiskey isn’t just affecting me.” A toothy, buzzed grin lingered on Elijah’s face.
“I’ll be right back. I need to get your rocks off—I mean out.” She snorted. “And go take a leak—I mean, powder my nose.”
Brooke closed the bathroom door behind her. After a brief pause she flushed the toilet for effect, then ran the sink to create some cover noise for her snooping. The historian had little to hide. A box of condoms was tucked in the back of the cabinet under the sink—as if he were a teenage boy hiding them from his mom. She checked the expiration date and shrugged. In the medicine cabinet she found an unmarked pill bottle. The pills were unfamiliar to her but she guessed that they were medicinal. Elijah didn’t strike her as the kind of person to use recreationally. His mind seemed too precious to him. She closed the mirror and pocketed one of the tablets.
If tonight’s a bust I’ll get Rex to figure out where these came from.
Returning to the couch, she sat closer, nearly on top of Elijah. She took his drink, and finished it herself. Licking her lips, she smiled.
“So, tell me about the change.” She poured him another.
“Look, I don’t know what you think you saw…”
“I saw you. I saw what you did.”
Elijah just stared at her. He was processing, but she didn’t know what. “The truth is this: I don’t really know what happened at the restaurant. We ordered that appetizer; after that everything is a bit of a blur. I remember so little. Things kind of came in and out.”
“In and out?” She grinned.
Elijah ignored her. His face got hard. “Everything was so confusing. Frankly, it scared the shit out of me. The next morning I woke up—beat to hell—with burns all over my body.”
Brooke assessed the injured man. She found herself warming to her interrogation, but her mark seemed genuinely upset. If she pushed too hard she risked suspicion. And if he shut down, it would ruin her other plans for the evening. She weighed her odds, then opted for the most promising course. She leaned in.
“All over your body? I’d like to see some proof.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Of course he didn’t believe us, would you?” Willa sipped her caramel latte. She seemed tired, like she had just run a marathon and had another on the next day. Chem on the other hand could not have been more energetic. He had finally made a breakthrough with Elijah’s blood and felt confident that success was near. He hated leaving the lab, but Willa was insistent on meeting. The shop was packed, but they got a small table positioned under a Jackson Pollock clone.
“Not a chance. I’m still skeptical, and I saw him change with my own eyes. We need to make him believe. He needs to see the change.”
“How do you propose we do that, Percy?”
Chem ignored the use of his prop
er name. She was the only one around here who called him that, and he couldn’t tell if it was endearing or just plain annoying. “It’s already done.”
He pulled out his phone and brought it to life. His hand was still bandaged from the burn he received the other day. A grainy video of the melee on Mount Washington filled the screen.
“A burning metal creature in Pittsburgh. Someone from the restaurant must have filmed it. But it’s not very clear and doesn’t show Elijah. He’ll probably write it off as another scam.
“I guess we’re going to have to rely on his deductive reasoning skills,” Chem said. “This video plus his burns plus our testimony equals proof.”
Willa smiled. “The question is, does he want to believe?” She paused, taking in the room. “How did you subdue him, anyway?”
“The wonders of science, darling.” Kiva Han was a good place to meet. The indie rock playing over the speakers and the din of conversation, mixed with the grinding of coffee beans, provided cover for their own conversation. “It’s nice that one of us specializes in something useful.”
Willa broke into laughter. “No offense, Percy, but I’m pretty sure my poems were quite useful last night. In fact, if it weren’t for those lines, you would’ve been in some serious trouble.”
Chem couldn’t help but smile. “Speaking of doubt, I’m not saying I believe your story either. You definitely had some effect on him, I’ll give you that much. But magical poetry? That’s some grade-A bullshit right there.”
She leaned back in her chair, a quizzical look on her face. “And a giant metal creature tossing cars? I’m sure that fits perfectly within your scientific worldview.”
“Ha-ha—touché. That thing was…paradigm-altering, to say the least. But I’ve been analyzing his blood and I’m sure there’s a physical explanation. It was that analysis that provided me with the solution I used the other night. Basically—in words a liberal arts person can understand—I made a cocktail that was essentially morphine mixed with a compound I’ve been working on.”
“What compound?”
Chem hesitated for a moment. His project had been his secret for five years now. But something about this poet made him want to reveal all. Her earnestness was rare. And if there was any truth to her magical abilities, then Chem was sure it wasn’t a truth she shared often. He felt compelled to reciprocate.
“I think Elijah’s transformation was the result of biological tampering. The next big scientific breakthrough won’t be computers, or robotics. It will be the ability to shape human DNA. We’re on the cusp of something huge, and its applications are nearly endless. Longer life, enhanced mental acuity, defense against disease—not to mention weapons. Human bioweapon systems. That’s what I’ve been working on.”
Willa’s brows rose. “Hold on. You want to create monsters like that thing?”
“Monsters are in the eye of the beholder. And I want to behold him. But, not like what we encountered the other night. Whoever did that to him, they injected him with something powerful, beyond what I’ve ever seen. The problem with Elijah right now is that there’s no control. When he turns he has no idea what he’s doing. I’m trying to configure a way to not only create the transformation, but also include a stabilizing component that will give the transformed subject control over their mind and body. The power is limitless if I can just figure it out. Think of the good that we could do with that kind of knowledge.”
Will stared into her empty cup. Chem assumed she was picturing him as some sort of Frankenstein. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
Shit. Here comes the “man was not meant to meddle” speech.
Instead, Willa gathered her things and shoved them into an oversized handbag. “I have to get to class. Are you going to show him the video?”
“Um, yeah. I’ve been trying to get a hold of him. Willa, I…”
But he didn’t get a chance to finish his statement. Willa rose and walked away.
****
Chem watched Willa weave through the busy shop. Her dress swished as she moved. He finished his coffee and sat, alone.
Damn poet. This is why science is a solitary affair.
He turned his attention back to his composition pad. To the unsuspecting observer, it would look like the crazy writings of a mad scientist. But to him, it held a secret truth, waiting to be uncovered. He thought about the Magic Eye books he used to love as a kid. Maybe if I cross my eyes, I’ll be able to look through this mess and see the hidden schooner.
“I want in.” Chem looked up, his reverie interrupted as a teenager in an ugly sweater pulled out the chair, still warm from Willa. “You can’t shut me out. I saved your butts last week.”
“Our butts? Really? Kid, you have to stay out of this.” Noticing Sean’s prying eyes, Chem flipped his book closed. “Listen, man—it’s Sean, right? There’s some serious shit going down. You’re out of your league. Take my word for it, you need to back off.”
Sean leaned back and crossed his hands on the table. Defiance filled his eyes. “Why? Because I’m young? Really?”
Chem leaned over the table, his face just inches from the undergrad’s. “This business we’re in—that metal monster—it’s for the varsity team. You’re JV. You interested in helping? The best thing you can do is stay out of our damn way. Keep poking your nose in here and you’re going to get it cut off. Which would be bad, but I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it. The worst-case scenario is you get someone else hurt—maybe even your professor crush you’ve been stalking around the city for the last year.”
Sean’s face burned lobster red. “I have powers.”
“No shit? What? You can annoy the hell out of bad guys?”
“I can see people’s powers—their auras.”
Chem sighed. I’m surrounded by lunatics.
“Fine. You have powers. A lot of good that’s going to do when the walking heap of burning hell comes back. You’re going to what, read him his fortune? Get your head out of your ass. This isn’t a damn comic book.”
Sean’s eyes burned through Chem’s. They were locked in a middle-school staring contest. The chemist thought the undergrad might cry. The boy finally stood, pushing the chair back with a squeal that drew looks as he ran out of the café.
Two for two on the old tact meter. Nice work, Chem.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Three Jamesons deep with a drop-dead gorgeous woman sitting on his lap, Elijah Branton should have felt better than he did. Calling the night bizarre didn’t do it justice. It was outright mythical. Brooke’s appearance at the apartment was unusual, but now she came onto him like a sailor who’d just pulled into port. Between the memory loss, the wounds, and a drinking session with Pittsburgh’s number one socialite, it was shaping up to be the strangest week of the historian’s life.
Brooke Alarawn’s leg was draped over his lap. Her hand pressed against his chest. The spot throbbed. Chem had given him some kind of cream, which seemed to help speed up the healing. But he refused to take the pills, no matter how much pain he was in. Despite Willa’s story, he still didn’t trust the chemist.
She leaned in again. Elijah could taste the whiskey on her tongue. Any man in his right mind would have reveled in the experience. But he was a creature torn. Half of him wanted to carry her to his bedroom and see what the young CEO was made of. The other half felt revulsion. Her very presence caused him to feel a deep-seated disgust. Both emotions danced just beyond the reach of reason.
He pulled back.
“Does it hurt?” Brooke asked looking at his chest. She mistook his distaste for pain. “You’re grimacing.”
Elijah wondered how much he could tell her. The story—as much as he knew of it—would paint him as a madman. But she seemed to know something about what was happening to him and he didn’t want her to leave. “Not too badly. The doctor gave me an ointment. It’s been helping.”
Brooke undid his buttons. Peeling back his shirt, she surveyed his ravaged chest. “Shit. That look
s nasty. What doctor did you go to?”
“Just some guy I met in Oakland.” Elijah shifted Brooke’s weight and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jeans. “Join me for one and I’ll tell you the rest of the story.”
She repositioned her body and placed her feet on the floor. “You don’t smoke.”
“You’re background check was that good, huh?”
“The best,” she said with a smile. “OK, just one.”
The three-by-five balcony was modest, but afforded a great view of the city. The blue lines of the David H. Lawrence Convention Center fluttered a few hundred yards away. Elijah leaned against the wall and inhaled the Marlboro.
“Need to work on your form—you look like a thirteen-year-old girl.” Brooke took a deep drag and held it. She blew it out over the balcony railing.
“Well, you’ve got it down.”
“Old habits,” she said. “And if I get hooked again, I swear I’ll make you pay.” She spun the liquid in her glass. “But there ain’t nothing like a glass of mid-shelf whiskey and a smoke. That’s for sure.”
Brooke stood looking out over the city. Her profile was perfect.
“You know what those blue lines are?” Brooke asked, pointing at the bright blue lights that swept up the arcing roof of the convention center.
Elijah watched the lights. “Diodes, LEDs, or something?”
Brooke closed her eyes. “The depression deepened to the sound of voices chanting that prosperity was just around the corner, the country was fundamentally sound. In the face of unparalleled catastrophe the rich and powerful lacked even the decency to keep silent.” She opened her eyes and locked them on the historian’s. “It’s Thomas Bell, Out of this Furnace. Mostly propaganda—of course—but a beautiful fiction. That blue light isn’t static. It’s actually the scrolling text of several famous Pittsburgh authors. I much prefer Dillard’s American Childhood.” She paused. “This city, it loves deeply. Those blue lights are a textual monument to our creative past.”
Steel City Heroes (Book 1): The Catalyst Page 14