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

by LE Barbant

  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 looks 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.”

  Elijah nodded. He leaned against the brick wall and took her in—a little too drunk to talk local literature. His anger subsided, replaced suddenly with an urge to confide in her, to confess something, even if it wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

  “My mother died of lung cancer,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “My mom, she died of lung cancer when I was in college—undergrad.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Brooke’s eyes were glassy—from sympathy or the smoke, Elijah couldn’t be certain.

  “I don’t mean to be a buzz-kill, I just made a promise to her I’d never do this.” Elijah waved the cigarette. “But it’s the damnedest thing, ever since I got here, I have all of these weird cravings and inclinations. Like at the restaurant the other night. I lied to you. I’ve never had pastrmajlija, or whatever that thing was, but I knew I wanted it. Like the craving for these. I feel as if I smoked my whole life. I don’t understand.”

  Elijah could feel her staring at him, analyzing. He wondered what she was looking for. Through his buzz, he could still tell that she had come here with a purpose. What it was, he couldn’t say. She finished her cigarette and lit another.

  “I don’t know, but maybe you should consider getting a second opinion. This doctor you picked up in Oakland, you just found him?”

  “Nope. We met a couple weeks ago. He gave me his card, told me to let him know if I ever needed anything. He actually helped me before. I had another night like last—or at least I think so. Woke up with these weird bruises and a scar on my face.”

  “Helluva sleepwalking problem you got there, Doc.”

  Elijah half-laughed, half-coughed. Smoke seeped out several orifices. “No shit. The first time he patched me up—and took some blood. I’ve been meaning to ask him if he ran the tests.”

  Silence settled over the balcony. He considered telling her about the morning, and what Willa Weil had confided in him. It was likely that Brooke Alarawn thought he had some sort of sickness; if he shared that she’d probably think he was mad—which wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

  Brooke stared across at the historian. “He took your blood, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which hospital does he work at?” Brooke asked.

  He cocked his head, which drew a grimace. “I’m sorry?”

  “This doc of yours, where does he work? If you want I can call in a specialist. We like to take care of our employees.”

  Elijah felt anger rising again. He pushed it down with a long draw of Jameson and a final drag on his cigarette. “Well, he doesn’t actually.”

  “Doesn’t what?”

  “Work at a hospital. Never finished his residency. Actually, he is a chemist by trade. A researcher at the university.”

  An odd look—which Elijah couldn’t interpret—washed over Brooke’s face. He’d never been good with the hermeneutics of the female countenance, but her eyes filled him with unease. He wondered if he should have kept that information to himself.

  Brooke tilted her head back, and finished her glass. She took a slow, sexy drag of the cigarette—doing a French inhale. “When I drink like this there’s only two things I want to do. Smoke cigarettes.”

  “What’s the other?”

  “Fuck.”

  Brooke deposited the burning butt of the cowboy-killer into the balcony’s ashtray. She opened the sliding door and turned her head back towards the open-mouthed historian.

  “Let’s go, before this wears off. I’ll take it easy on you—in your condition and all.”

  Elijah flicked his cigarette over the edge. Ignoring the warning in his chest, he followed his employer without hesitation. When he reached the bedroom, her blouse was already on the floor.

  ****

  A two-inch beam of light shone through a crack in the curtains directly across Elijah Branton’s eyes. He was pretty sure his body was still sore as hell, but he couldn’t feel anything except the pounding of his head.

  The headache was well-earned.

  Reaching over, he found the space on the full-sized bed next to him vacant and cold. But her smell still lingered in the room.

  A note sat on the bedside table:

  Had to run and meet the Chairman of the Board. Wanted to get a workout in first. Had a great time. Promise I won’t be weird.

  XO,

&nbs
p; Brooke

  Elijah couldn’t wait to see her again.

  Pulling out his phone, he flicked through a dozen or so campus-wide emails and student notes asking for extensions. But there, unopened as they had remained for days, were a series of messages originating from a single source. A new one had appeared only hours ago.

  All good feelings from the previous night disappeared.

  Chem’s insistence worried the historian. Elijah hadn’t spoken with him for over a week but his emails were piling up, and Elijah knew he couldn’t blow him off any longer. His doubts overrode his anger as he considered that maybe the chemist had found something in his blood. He opened the most recent message.

  Wanted to do this in person but you’re acting like a pussy. Maybe this video will open your eyes.

  Elijah clicked on the link.

  A screaming crowd filled his apartment; a car flipped across the screen.

  Elijah didn’t make it to the toilet in time to properly dispose of the night’s Jameson.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Willa tried proper posture but conceded, slouching forward. The backless barstool prevented her from finding a comfortable position. With each move, her back reminded her about the fight on Mount Washington. Elijah Branton—or his monster—had barely touched her, but it was enough to knock her academic’s body out of alignment.

  She wasn’t exactly fit for battle.

  Spinning the glass, she pretended to know something about the viscosity of a dirty martini. She tilted it back and eased the remnants into her mouth, olive and all.

  She waved to the barkeep. “Another.”

  Three martinis in and she was starting to feel better. Willa ran the progression of the other night through her mind, time and time again, like a movie stuck on repeat. It was good for her that both Chem and Sean were there, though she would never admit it. She wasn’t ready. Without their presence, it was likely that her grandfather might have had to bury another family member.

  Flipping the pages in her Moleskine, she let the words of the strengthening spell dance in her mind. She played with it, imagining different enunciations and different pacing. Ways to make it stronger. It had worked, and well at that. It probably saved Sean’s life. But she wasn’t sure how much this would do in the heat of battle without others by her side.

  The bartender slid a fresh glass in front of the poet. She gave him a little two-finger salute and smiled. She had never been good at flirting, but when she drank she was a natural.

  “This seat taken?”

  Willa looked up at a kid young enough to be in one of her classes, then down the bar at the row of empty stools. “Nope. But I’m kind of working on something here.”

  “Oh, homework at the bar, huh?”

  Willa couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Not really. I give the homework, I don’t complete it.”

  “Oh,” the guy said, pulling out the stool. “My bad. Here I was thinking you were just another cute co-ed out for a drink.”

  “Two out of three isn’t bad. Now if you don’t mind.” Willa turned back to her notebook.

  “So, what is that?” he asked, peering over at the journal.

  Willa slapped it closed. “Really. I just want to have a drink by myself. Now, if you wait like fifteen seconds I bet one of those co-eds looking for a free drink and company will come and take care of your needs.”

  The student, young, but also attractive, pushed his side-part over on his head. “Yeah, but they’re all so, well, immature. I thought maybe it was time for me to meet someone a bit more, um, cultured.”

  “Cultured, huh?”

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  “What’s your name?” Willa asked.

  “Johnny.”

  “OK, Johnny. You’ve got your story.”

  “Huh?”

  “You can go back to your frat or little group of whoevers and tell them about trying to pick up a professor in Sal’s. Fictionalize it. I don’t care. But it’s time to go.”

  Johnny laughed, full on. “OK, let me just buy you one. Then I’ll go. It’ll make my story better.”

  “No, thank you.”

  The student waved to the bartender. “Two more of these.”

  “Actually, no,” Willa called across the bar.

  Johnny placed his hand on Willa’s arm. “Come on. It’s a free drink.”

  She pulled away, nearly knocking her martini glass over.

  “Hey, dipshit. She said no.”

  Willa exhaled a sigh of relief, glad that her favorite student was here.

  “What’d you call me?”

  “I called you dipshit,” Sean said. “Now, get out of here. Pretty sure the lady made it clear she isn’t interested.”

  Johnny stood and locked eyes with Sean. The two stood toe to toe at the bar. Willa wondered if she was going to have to mobilize the strengthening spell again.

  “Yeah. Alright.” The kid crossed the room and pulled out a stool at the other side of the bar.

  “No. Sit down,” Willa said, as Sean turned to leave.

  “You sure?”

  “Why not, we need to talk anyway. You want a drink?”

  “I doubt I could get served without ID even in a dive like this,” Sean said. “But I’ll grab a Diet Coke.”

  Willa waved the bartender over and ordered for Sean. “Thanks for getting rid of him.”

  “No biggie. Most of these guys will walk pretty fast. I mean, maybe once he gets a little liquid courage in him he might be more up for a fight but not this early.”

  Willa smiled. “Well, I was glad not to have to, well, you know.”

  Sean smiled. “I do know. And that’s why I’m here. The other night, on Mount Washington, you did something to me, didn’t you? You gave me extra power.”

  “How do you know you have powers?”

  Sean turned his attention from his glass to his professor. “How did you know?” He paused, leaving the question hanging in the air with the cigarette smoke. “I’ve felt it. There is a change happening inside of me. Right now, I can see people differently. Really, it’s there. And yours is stronger every time I see you. You’re practicing, aren’t you?”

  Willa looked down at her notebook. “Yes.”

  “Sure. Seeing what I see isn’t necessarily helpful in a fight, but as things stand, I’m kind of a superpower radar detector. But there’s something else. I think I’m a gatherer.”

  “A gatherer?” Willa asked.

  “Yeah. Somebody who can actually collect energies and maybe even powers from others and use them. I walk the streets of Pittsburgh trying to channel it.”

  “Can you gather from me?”

  “Don’t know. I guess I could try.”

  The smile that had danced in Willa’s eyes dissipated. She thought of her grandfather; she considered her mother’s death.

  “No. Don’t. Sean, I know you want to help, to be a part of the good fight for Pittsburgh, but you have to stay out of this.”

  Sean leaned on the bar. “I’m not sure if that’s your decision, Professor.”

  “You don’t understand. I like you. I even care about you. But this is beyond either of us. I should never have involved you the other night. You could get hurt again. Maybe worse.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You don’t know that,” Willa said.

  “What’s with all of you? I don’t care if I get hurt, OK, that’s part of the deal, right?”

  Willa nodded to the bartender. “I need to cash out.” Turning back to Sean, she said, “I won’t allow it.”

  “Allow it? What are you, my mom?” Willa leaned back, surprised by the force in Sean’s words. “Professor, with or without you, I’m going to fight. I don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s my destiny.”

  Willa let the silence hang between them for a moment. If what Percy had told her was true, then this thing wasn’t over. And if Sean tried to confront Elijah on his own, it could be disastrous. He was just a kid.

  Willa had to get rid
of him, for his own sake. “Sean, there’s no group. And except for in the books you read, there’s no superheroes. So there’s something different about you. So what? Everybody’s strange in this town. You need to grow up. Your infatuation with me has gone on long enough. I’m not interested, so leave me alone.”

  Without another glance, Willa stood up and left the undergrad. She held back her tears until she made it out of the bar.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Brooke slammed the phone, cursing at the receiver. The ten-minute conversation seemed to last an hour, and it was all she could do to contain her hatred. Van Pelt was calling more often—asking questions, offering advice. The chairman’s paternalistic show of support was nauseating. His check-ins were only faintly cloaked in pretense—as if he cared. But Brooke knew his true intent. He meant to rattle her—knock her off her game. The sweat in her palms indicated his effectiveness. If nothing else, his calls caused her to lose focus, and she would be damned if she let that smug bastard take her down without a fight.

  She pressed the button on her desktop, and the doors swung open instantly. Rex materialized, a knight-at-arms, in his normal spot. “Ma’am?”“

  “What the hell is this, Rex? It reads more like a fairytale than anything.” She waved a folder, filled a half-inch thick with paper. “Is he out of his fucking mind?”

  “That is the research he’s acquired. But you never asked me to evaluate the professor.”

  Brooke stood, walked around her desk, and leaned against the edge. Rex was a statue. The man was always composed, at least as far as she knew. If he was hiding anything, she couldn’t tell. The thought unnerved her.

  “I’m asking you now. Slavic legends, guardian spirits, some dead union organizer? I thought we hired a professional, not some History Channel wannabe. Do you believe any of this shit?”

  Rex glanced at his shoes, an uncommon gesture for the stoic employee. “You’re the one who said you saw a monster on Mount Washington. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but that stuff,” Rex said nodding at the folder, “I’m not willing to say it couldn’t have some truth in it. He seemed real upset by what he found, anyways.”