The Steel City Heroes Box Set: A Superhero/Urban Fantasy Collection (Books 1-3)

by LE Barbant

Excelsior!

  "Try not the Pass!" the old man said:

  "Dark lowers the tempest overhead,

  The roaring torrent is deep and wide!

  And loud that clarion voice replied,

  Excelsior!

  "Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest

  Thy weary head upon this breast!"

  A tear stood in his bright blue eye,

  But still he answered, with a sigh,

  Excelsior!

  "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!

  Beware the awful avalanche!"

  This was the peasant's last Good-night,

  A voice replied, far up the height,

  Excelsior!

  At break of day, as heavenward

  The pious monks of Saint Bernard

  Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

  A voice cried through the startled air,

  Excelsior!

  A traveller, by the faithful hound,

  Half-buried in the snow was found,

  Still grasping in his hand of ice

  That banner with the strange device,

  Excelsior!

  There in the twilight cold and gray,

  Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

  And from the sky, serene and far,

  A voice fell, like a falling star,

  Excelsior!

  “Excelsior,” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Everything about the bed—the sheets, mattress, and pillow—felt foreign. Its smell was alien. His body ached and his eyes were crusted closed with a century’s worth of sleep. Prying them open, Elijah found himself in a wholly unfamiliar place.

  The late morning sun peeked in through a tiny window, dimly illuminating his surroundings. The room was relatively nondescript: simple dresser, simple mirror, and a small bookcase—shelves sagging with the weight of its contents. The volumes were a mix of old and new.

  The door of the room was ajar, just enough to peer into an adjoining kitchen. A figure, distinctly female, cut across his line of sight. She had dark hair, wore sweat pants and a long-sleeved form-fitting tee. Maybe he had gone out on the town and gotten lucky enough to wind up here. But his body screamed as he shifted in the bed. If it was coitus, it must have been some freaky 50 Shades action. Peeling back the sheets, he found himself naked. The consideration of nocturnal activities returned, if only for a second. His body was bruised, worse than it had been before. Elijah rolled up onto one elbow, groaning.

  The door to the bedroom eased open, and his mystery host appeared.

  “You?” he asked, his voice rising an octave.

  “You look terrible,” Willa said.

  Elijah shifted, trying to find a less painful position. “Well, fuck you very much.”

  “And, as charming as ever.” The woman looked down at his exposed crotch. “You mind covering up there, champ. I had my fill last night.”

  Elijah blushed, realizing that his twig and berries were dangling on his leg. “Wait. We didn’t…?”

  Willa laughed, putting her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, not my type.” She paused. “You did try to kill me, though, so we have that going for us.” She paced across the tiny room toward the dresser. Laying her slender fingers on a pile of clothes, she said, “These should fit you. I don’t think he’s coming back for them. There’s a toothbrush and towel in the bathroom. Get cleaned up and then we’ll have story time.”

  She turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Elijah said. “Did you say I tried to kill you?”

  The woman grinned. “Pretty sure you did, champ. Lucky for you I was in a good mood.”

  She left her battered guest alone with his bewilderment.

  ****

  The hot shower helped Elijah to feel only half-dead. He considered it a good start. A small container of foul-smelling cream with a note, written in what Elijah assumed was Chem’s erratic handwriting, balanced on the sink. He rubbed the ointment on his burns and felt immediate relief. There was also another bottle of Chem’s painkillers. Elijah grabbed the medicine but decided against taking any. He wanted to know what the hell was going on.

  Gingerly, he pulled on the stranger’s clothes. The flannel was baggy around the shoulders, but fit well enough. The jeans required two cuffs. Apparently Willa’s ex-boyfriend was quite a man.

  Elijah limped his way into the living room. He found Willa on the couch with an orange cat and an open book.

  “A single writer surrounded by her cat and books? Cliché much?”

  Willa closed the book and set it next to her on the sofa. Petting her cat, she said, “He has his uses, unlike most men—present company included.” She grinned, taking off the edge. Willa stood, letting the cat drop to the floor. “Let’s get you some breakfast. You’re going to need it.”

  ****

  Elijah, wide-eyed, pushed the eggs around his plate as Willa concluded her account of the previous day’s events. Any semblance of an appetite had vanished. The story was told straight-faced and lacked any hesitation.

  The historian stared in disbelief.

  “Let me get this straight,” Elijah said. “You want me to believe that last night I turned into a seven-foot metal monster and terrorized a neighborhood on Mount Washington.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that if it weren’t for you, Chem, and some lovesick undergrad, I could have laid waste to the city of Pittsburgh.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And, after a sprawling fight, you and the chemist got me drugged up enough to carry me off the streets and back to your apartment—all the while dodging the police—where I woke up butt-naked and sore as hell?”

  “I know it’s unbelievable.”

  “Honey, it’s not unbelievable, it’s fucking nuts. Why are you doing this?”

  Willa’s brow furrowed. “Doing what?”

  The sincerity in her voice was striking.

  “Why the hell are you messing with me? You get your kicks out of this or something? ‘There’s a new guy in the city, let’s drug him, beat the hell out of ’im, and brain-fuck him.’ That’s sick.”

  “Elijah, you have to believe me.” Willa’s voice was steady.

  The historian dropped his fork and stood. “Bullshit. It’s impossible. Scientifically, experientially, metaphysically, and…and…theologically.”

  This drew a smile. The magician raised her brows. “Didn’t peg you as the religious type.”

  “You should be locked up.”

  “Just call Percy.”

  Elijah crossed his fingers on the nape of his neck and squeezed. “Kiva Han,” he said. “It’s all coming together. That’s where your sick plan started. Just so happened that I ran into you there, and there was Chem too, all buddy-buddy. You two do this twisted shit all the time, or was I your first go at it?”

  “What? Set what up? We didn’t set anything…”

  Elijah’s mind raced. Anger filled him—old-fashioned, self-interested anger.

  He looked for something to throw. “I want you, Chem, and your tag-along to stay away from me. You understand? Consider this a citizen’s restraining order.”

  Willa’s face turned blood red. Her hands balled into fists. As she watched Elijah head toward the door, her lips started to move. The verses spilled across the room.

  “Thou who stealest fire,

  From the fountains of the past,

  To glorify the present, oh, haste,

  Visit my low desire!

  Strengthen me, enlighten me!

  I faint in this obscurity,

  Thou dewy dawn of memory.”

  Elijah stood still with his hand on the knob. He didn’t look back, but he also didn’t advance. Flashes of fire and steel rose in his mind. He pictured Willa, cowering on the ground, one hand pointing in his direction.

  “You felt that, didn’t you?”

  “Felt what?” Elijah asked with hesitancy in his voice.

  “You’re not the only one with powers.”

&nb
sp; The historian turned. His face was pale—and sad.

  “What are you doing to me?”

  “I’m helping you remember. My words did that. Well, strictly speaking, it wasn’t my words, but I have a power, Elijah. I’ve never seen anything like what you did last night, but your abilities aren’t exactly unique. There are a few others like us, able to do things that most only see in movies and children’s stories. For me it’s the ability to speak and have my words shape the world.”

  “You can control my mind?” Elijah didn’t try to hide his incredulity.

  “Not mind control. But certain words have power, and I can tap into that power in a way most can’t.”

  Elijah shook his head, trying to make sense of this bizarre situation. “Well, I’d be lying if I told you that’s an easy pill to swallow.”

  “I understand, believe me. This is all going to take time. But when you feel ready, I want you to come talk to me.” Her eyes were glassy. “You’re going to need us. And it seems that we are going to need you as well.”

  Hardness spread through his face. His bottom lip quivered. “I’m leaving” he said abruptly. “But if you think I’m buying your witches and warlocks bullshit, then you’re sick and stupid.”

  The door slammed as he stormed out of the apartment.

  *****

  When Elijah was a child, his mother had a small decorative pillow with the words Home Is Where the Heart Is stitched across it. Even then, Elijah hated truisms. They reflected a mind unable to deal in nuance, a capacity that Elijah usually felt confident in. But after the events of the morning, he wasn’t so sure. Since his reason wasn’t working, Elijah defaulted, relying instead on the moral aphorisms of his youth. Elijah knew where his heart was—in the library. And his ass found its way to the seat of his third-floor cubicle.

  He pulled a volume from a pile and sighed. Few things brought him more delight than losing himself in the stacks. He hoped the familiarity of this place would center him and that the research might help him forget his deranged encounter with psycho poet.

  Pain shot down his arm as he moved the book. The burning had subsided, thanks to the chemist’s ointment, but the deep ache was still there whenever he exerted any energy, and he refused to take the painkillers. He had no desire to wake up in some bathtub with his liver missing.

  He ran his hand over his chest to feel the scab that had already started forming in the direct center.

  Pushing the pain out of his head, he flipped open the tome and starting shuffling the pages, front to back. A picture sat on the border of his memory—Elijah knew he had to find it.

  Several texts in, Elijah came across the photo he was looking for. Thomas Alarawn, Jr. stood proudly, his new mill looming behind him, a strange medallion hanging from his neck. Ignoring the steel magnate, Elijah focused instead on a group of steelworkers congregating to the side. For some reason, Elijah felt that he knew the men staring back at him. Reading the caption, he scrawled their names in his notebook.

  One after another, Elijah combed the Internet for any mention of the Alarawn employees—marriage ceremonies, war records, obituaries. Some history nerd with more time on his hands than imagination had scanned one of the now-defunct Pittsburgh papers into his computer and perfectly archived it on a site called Yinzstory.com.

  Simunek, the first name, was a single man—survived by none. The second, Arno Baracnik, left behind a daughter Lida and two sons—Hudok and Jozka. Elijah navigated to a new tab and searched the children’s names. There were hits for two of the three—both of them living in the South. Most likely, Baracnik chased job prospects below the Mason-Dixon line following the steel crash. Elijah grimaced.

  Finally, he got to Vaclav Novak. He left behind a wife and an only child—a daughter named Jelana. He applied his Google-fu to the keyboard, and found a phone number for the girl, who was now an old woman. His hands shook as he tapped out the number. Following three rings, a tone beeped and a message indicated the number was no longer in use.

  “Shit,” he said, too loudly for the library.

  Rubbing his temples, Elijah turned back to the open tab and searched: Croatian Clubs Pittsburgh.

  Bingo.

  He dialed, hoping this part of the haystack would contain a needle—the needle that might start to unravel the mystery of the Alarawn Dynasty and his own recent events.

  ****

  The air was crisp, and the foot traffic was light for a weekday afternoon. “Historical Research Methods I” commenced in eight minutes. If Elijah was lucky, he would get there late enough that the students would have given up on him. The only good thing about being an adjunct was that the kids only had to wait two wags of a puppy’s tail before they could officially ditch the class.

  Teaching always got in the way of his research, which was one of the greatest reasons he resented the responsibility.

  Turning, Elijah slammed directly into a young undergrad.

  “Sorry, man,” Elijah mumbled—though he wasn’t.

  “Dr. Branton. I need to talk to you.”

  Elijah pushed his glasses to the top up the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  The student cleared his throat and stuck his hands into his pockets. “Let’s just say we, ah, ran into each other last night.”

  “Yeah, sorry. But really. What can I help you with?”

  Elijah ran through the mental database of faces and names acquired since he had arrived in the Steel City. This one was not ringing a bell. Nevertheless, a ball started to form in his gut. Anxiety swept over his body, and he was clueless as to its source.

  “I was there.”

  “Excuse me,” Elijah said.

  “Last night. I was there on the streets of Mount Washington.” The kid paused. “You have no idea, do you?”

  An image of Willa came to mind. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have me confused with someone else.”

  “Like hell I do.” The student pulled up his shirt to expose an enormous purple and black bruise that spread across his torso. “I’ll remember the thing who gave me this until my dying day.” He grinned. “I know Willa. We stopped you from tearing apart the neighborhood last night. You’re not the only one with…abilities.” There was another pause. The kid looked down at his shoes.

  Elijah pushed his hand back through his hair. “Stay away from me. And tell her the same. I don’t know what you people are into, but this is sick.”

  Elijah walked past Sean, knocking him with his shoulder as he marched toward his classroom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The walk to the lab was typically a slow amble. Some did yoga, some meditated, some even read sacred texts—he walked. A mild pace allowed the thirty-five-year-old chemist a chance to process, to unwind, clear his head. But for Chem it was more than that. Although he never articulated his process explicitly, Chem held a tacit yet unyielding belief that the lab was a place of science—for verification, mental rigor, and solid fact. For reality. These mundane aspects of a researcher’s life were vital for effective scientific investigation. But true science required more than that. Creativity, wonder, and desire—these things might skew one’s perspective, might cause one to misread a lab report or inflate an analysis, but they were necessary for meaningful discovery. Chem’s walk to work gave him the chance to dream.

  But the day after the events on Mount Washington, he quickened his steps. A man-turned-monster had torn the dreams from Chem’s mind and used them to destroy a small neighborhood. The researcher spent his night mulling over what had actually happened, trying to make sense of the impossible.

  Elijah’s turning changed everything. For three years, Chem had spent all available time trying to do the unfeasible, to bring that which cannot be into existence. It was his raison d’être, his glorious project, his manifesto. But progress was slow. Funding remained elusive, his theories and grant proposals were the laughing stock of the academy. He had reached too many dead ends and was running out of options.
The previous night renewed his hope. Future possibilities were born.

  He barely noticed his burnt hand, physical evidence of the encounter. His mind was entirely preoccupied by the image of the metal man.

  The monster had all of the right attributes. Its massive size and strength was the core of what Chem had been trying to develop in his manipulation of HGH and other chemicals. But on top of that it also had a steel-like exodermis that was presumably impenetrable—though he would have to test that. The molten-metal skin constituted a blend of density and malleability perfect for sustaining impact with minimal damage. The fire inside of the creature could even conceivably be directed outward. Clearly, it was a weapon of great value.

  Gnawing at the back of his mind was a singular question: Who created it?

  Every phenomenon had a cause. Every cause could be dissected. A dissected cause can be replicated. This was the foundation of science. This was his job.

  Someone had not only beaten him to the punch but surpassed his most ambitious projections. And it pissed him off. He wracked his brain trying to come up with who it may have been. There were certainly some nerds at Carnegie Mellon who were working on similar tests. Some covert, private operation was possible but unlikely. A government project gone awry? None of these answers satisfied him, but it was clear that someone had won the race. He was left in second place—kissing his sister.

  His one advantage was Elijah Branton’s blood. A small sample sat secure in the lab. But that opened another can of worms. What the hell is his part in all of this? If Branton turned out to be an active participant, Chem would shit a brick. The awkward, slightly overweight academic just didn’t fit the part of a secret super-soldier. And if he was involved, what was he doing adjuncting at the University? They’d most likely keep him under lock and key for testing and observation. Why would he come to the chemist for medical help? It would expose the whole program. It didn’t make sense.

  Chem considered the little he knew about the historian. It must be connected to his research.

  Whatever it was, his gut told him that Elijah’s involvement was outside of his control—which meant that his new friend was in danger.