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

  CATALYST

  By LE Barbant and CM Raymond

  Copyright © Smoke and Steel Books

  March 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people or events are entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  Chris and Lee would like to thank their families for letting them go on this strange adventure.

  CONNECT

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  PROLOGUE

  Homestead, Pennsylvania

  1902

  God formed man out of the dust and breathed the breath of life in him.

  Man pulled steel from the earth and turned himself into a god.

  “This is my city, Gabrijel. You’re forcing my hand.” The man’s bleached white shirt peeked out from under his wool overcoat. His bowtie seemed comically out of place. “You have left me no other choice.”

  He didn’t belong here.

  But for Gabrijel, the dirty mill floor was more than familiar—it was home. He had crossed the exact spot more times than he could count. His feet knew the floors, his hands the machines. His soul was knit into this place.

  He loved the steel mill in ways the well-dressed man could never understand. Gabrijel believed in the industry, believed in the work done there. It drove him to this fight. And, one way or another, fights always came to an end.

  A half dozen goons surrounded him. They were the management’s muscle, and Gabrijel had become the brains of labor. In the abstract, they were enemies; though, in practice, this wasn’t quite true. Good guys, each one of them. Family men, when off the clock. Funny. They were usually reliable for a bummed smoke after a long shift.

  But things had changed.

  Just like Gabrijel, they had a job. And, good guys or not, they had come here to do it.

  “It’s far past time your hand was forced,” Gabrijel spat back through a thick accent. “You don’t know what it’s like for us, for your workers. The conditions are terrible, the pay a crime. You’ve pushed us too far, and we had to stand up. For our rights, for our families, and for this city.”

  The man laughed. “Do you really think you know what’s good for Pittsburgh? This isn’t your home, it’s mine. You’re nothing but strangers here. And I own you. It’s time you made peace with that.”

  Holding his chin high, Gabrijel tightened his jaw and stared down the men. This wasn’t going to end well, and he knew it. The labor war would be long, his stand only one of many still to come. The Croatian millworker’s legs shook, but he had been beaten plenty of times before. He could take it.

  “Then let’s get this over with. Make an example of me. We’ll only come back stronger.”

  The man sneered. “You have no idea, Gabrijel. This latest protest of yours might cost us everything. If they do not stop, the workers’ demands will destroy steel—ruin this city. I need to end it once and for all. For the city. The hottest fires forge the coldest steel.”

  The man turned to leave, then, hesitating, he walked over to his prisoner. Smiling, he grabbed the medallion hanging around Gabrijel’s neck and ripped it off. “Something to remember you by.”

  The boss nodded to a stout, bald man with a crooked nose and wide-set eyes. That hardened face was the only mug that Gabrijel did not recognize. Without hesitation, the ox took out Gabrijel’s legs with a steel bar. Bits of rock ground into his knees as he hit the floor. His arms pulled against the rope that fastened him to chains overhead. Its cords bit into his wrists.

  Gabrijel tried not to scream but bracing himself remained useless. Defensive postures never lessened the pain. All he had left was his pride, and he held it with a firm grasp. He looked up into the eyes of the bald man. They were devoid of emotion.

  Blank.

  Inhuman.

  The thug kicked Gabrijel, knocking him to his side. The rest of the men retreated.

  Boli me kurac? he thought. Is this all they had for me?

  Only then did he realize where he lay: directly under a crucible. The giant metal pot glowed orange like the high-noon sun. He tried to move, to roll out of the way, but with his damaged knees and restrained arms, his efforts proved futile.

  The bald man stepped toward the lever, pausing long enough to give Gabrijel a jackal’s smile.

  His destiny became clear. The sacrifice took shape. He was a lamb and this was the slaughter. He thought about Adrijana. He thought about his men and the fate that would soon befall them. He thought about Pittsburgh.

  Rage filled his heart.

  “Rana te ljuta zapala.”

  The old curse of his motherland was swallowed up by the screaming.

  The molten steel covering his body began to cool before his cries ceased ringing through the mill.

  PART ONE

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Current Day

  A bar of steel—it is only

  Smoke at the heart of it, smoke and the blood of a man.

  A runner of fire ran in it, ran out, ran somewhere else,

  And left—smoke and the blood of a man

  And the finished steel, chilled and blue.

  So fire runs in, runs out, runs somewhere else again,

  And the bar of steel is a gun, a wheel, a nail, a shovel,

  A rudder under the sea, a steering-gear in the sky;

  And always dark in the heart and through it,

  Smoke and the blood of a man.

  Pittsburg, Youngstown, Gary—they make their steel with men.

  In the blood of men and the ink of chimneys

  The smoke nights write their oaths:

  Smoke into steel and blood into steel;

  Homestead, Braddock, Birmingham, they make their steel with men.

  Smoke and blood is the mix of steel.

  “Smoke and Steel,” Carl Sandburg

  CHAPTER ONE

  “We never know how high we are,

  Till we are called to rise;

  And then, if we are true to plan,

  Our statures touch the skies—”

  At the word “high,” a round of snickering broke through the classroom. But Dr. Willa Weil ignored it. When she recited a poem, only the words existed.

  She finished writing the lines on the blackboard, then turned to look down at her class. A dozen bored and dozing undergrads stared blankly back at her. Not unusual for a Tuesday lecture. Not unusual for any day, for that matter. “Great Women Poets” failed to draw the most enthusiastic crowd. It was a gen ed. Nothing more than a hoop for students to jump through before they entered the world to pursue careers and families and lives, leaving all thoughts of poetry behind as a distant memory.

  But they weren’t there yet. Three hours a week, Willa had their ear, and she was determined to make the most of it. It was work that she had been doing for the better half of a decade. Whatever their intentions, if students were here, she would don her dark pencil skirt and gray cardigan and put everything she had into teaching them.

  “What do you think Dickinson is trying to tell us here?” She infused her question with as much warmth and hospitality as she could muster. The students stared back like witnesses being grilled by a defense attorney.

  “Sean what do you—” she stopped herself mid-question, staring at the empty seat. Sean Moretti, her prized pupil, was nowhere to be seen.

  Sean never missed a class. Never showed
up later than ten minutes early. Never shirked a chance to respond to her questions. His absence was odd, to say the least.

  In truth, she had come to rely on him as much as she had the texts themselves. Without him, she would be left pulling teeth. Even while discussing her most beloved verses, an hour and a half was an eternity when her questions came back empty. Willa tried not to cast blame. Twelve years of traditional education had a way of darkening even the most poetic of souls. Still, humans were made for the light of beauty; she hoped that her efforts might just provide a spark.

  She sighed, adjusted her oversized glasses, then plunged ahead undaunted.

  “Emily Dickinson is speaking about heroism. The hidden virtues within ourselves that we deny daily, rather than risk showing to the world. Our world pampers us, coddles us, leads us to believe life can be a safe and simple thing. But she knew the truth. You cannot hide forever. One day, destiny will call, and your true mettle will be revealed. Destiny will show you the plan the universe has for you. The question is, on that day, how high will you rise?”

  An hour later, Willa yielded to the lack of interest in the room and released her weary pupils. If the words of Emily Dickinson weren’t enough to rouse them, she didn’t stand a chance. Looking again toward the empty seat, a tinge of worry swept through her. It was so unlike Sean.

  “Hey Sarah,” Willa said to a young woman about to leave the room. The girl seemed startled, afraid that Willa would attack.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s fine, you’re not in trouble. Just wondering if you knew where Sean was?”

  The girl relaxed. “Sorry, I haven’t seen him. He missed biology yesterday too. Which sucks cause I usually bum notes off him.”

  Willa nodded. “Okay. Just curious. Thanks.”

  Sarah and the rest of the class shuffled out while Willa gathered her things. Lastly, she turned to clean the blackboard for the next professor.

  Dickinson’s words stared down at her. She hesitated, then hastily erased the chalk and bolted from the room.

  Tonight, she would see how high she could rise.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dim lights blinked down on Willa as she made her way through Oakland, the side of town that housed Pittsburgh’s major universities. The streets were quiet, although she could hear the traffic of the city echoing from a few blocks away.

  Sean Moretti was a sophomore at the University of Pittsburgh, where Willa taught. It wasn’t hard to find his apartment.

  Normally, a student missing a couple days of class wouldn’t have raised any alarms. Students bailed on classes all the time—despite their complaints about the expense of the enterprise. But Sean wasn’t like other students. He never missed. Ever.

  He had taken at least one class with Willa every semester. Once, he showed up just as class was ready to begin with blood trickling down the side of his head. Carnage from some sort of longboard accident. After class, he sent her a 700-word email by way of apology.

  No way he missed class without a word, let alone two days worth. Willa had checked with his other professors. The kid was AWOL.

  Still, a normal professor wouldn’t go to this length to check in on a student in a major course, let alone a nameless face from an elective.

  But Willa was no ordinary professor.

  She was a magician, born into a sacred order, and able to wring tremendous power out of her words. Well, not her words. The words of the greats. Byron. Whitman. Shakespeare. And yes, Dickinson. Poets from all cultures and ages. Poetry, unbeknownst to nearly all who wrote and who read it, held a deep power. A power that Willa could access, and which now drew her into the dark streets of Oakland, searching for a missing student.

  She pulled her dark peacoat tight against the cold. It kept her warm, yet didn’t add much flair to her already monochrome ensemble. Willa liked her words extravagant; her clothes understated.

  As she moved down the sidewalk, she couldn’t help but wonder what the old man would think if he knew she was out here. Strictly speaking, Willa wasn’t allowed to use her gifts this way. There were rules, after all. But she’d have to worry about that later. She had to know if her student was safe.

  “Hey, you got the time?”

  Willa jumped at the voice breaking through her thoughts. A man stepped out from under a darkened doorway. He wore faded camo pants with sneakers that were once white. The smell of old booze and fresh cigarettes wafted toward her.

  She checked her watch. “Yeah. It’s just after midnight.”

  “Thanks,” the man said. He stared at her like he wanted something more.

  “Look,” she said. “I have a rule against giving money to strangers. Sorry.”

  The man stared harder. “That’s some racist bullshit if I’ve ever heard it. All I asked you for was the time. What makes you think I need your charity?”

  Willa’s pale cheeks flushed red. “I’m sorry. I...I’m just sorry. You’re right.”

  The man nodded. “It’s fine. But, uh, if you did have any change to spare, it’d be appreciated.”

  He held out his hand and broke into a wide smile.

  Willa stared at him for a second then laughed. She pulled out a ten, the only bill she had and gave it to him.

  “That was smooth,” she admitted.

  The money disappeared and his smile widened. “That’s why they call me King, Beautiful. Now, what are you doing out here on a cold night like this?”

  “Just looking for my friend’s apartment. He lives in the lofts.”

  King nodded, then pointed down the lane. “Looks like you’re on the right path. See you around.”

  “Thanks, King,” she said, then moved on, stealing a quick glance over her shoulder.

  Sean, like many students, made his home in a row of industrial buildings turned apartments. Far from luxurious, they were generally safe and cheaper than the school’s housing. No one manned the front door, so Willa slipped in as a group of students tumbled out.

  He lived in the last apartment down a shoddily lit corridor on the third floor. Music and muffled conversation pumped through the walls, yet as Willa reached Sean’s place, she could tell something was off. No sound came from Sean’s corner, and a cool draft blew out from the crack under his door. She touched the knob, and the door pushed open as if broken.

  Willa froze, fear racing through her veins. Her instincts usually guided her well, but she prayed that this time they’d be wrong.

  She held her hands stiff by her side, a poem rising quickly to her lips. No matter how frightened she was, if something waited for her on the other side, she would be prepared.

  Willa left the lights off, leaving the view of the apartment limited to the glow from the hallway. Even in the dim light, the place was clearly a wreck—not what she expected from Sean Moretti. Truthfully, she knew little about him outside of his school work, but his papers were always meticulous, and she assumed his apartment would follow suit.

  That is, unless someone had torn it apart intentionally.

  A cheap chair, thrown to the side and a broken particle board coffee table were the only discernible pieces of furniture. The floor was covered with what looked to be magazines. Willa leaned down and picked one up. A comic book. The brightly dressed hero stood tall as foes terrorized before her. Willa fought the urge to laugh.

  If only heroes were like that, she thought.

  As she moved further into the apartment, the source of the breeze became clear. A hole gaped where the apartment’s lone window should have been. Shards of glass littered the floor.

  She slowly approached it, looking out into the crisp Pittsburgh night. Peaceful, unlike the apartment she stood in. Violence happened here, although Willa couldn’t discern its source. In truth, she didn’t know what to look for. She spent her life training in the magical arts, but her craft was mostly theoretical. She had never pursued a villain. Never avenged a wrong. Never saved anyone.

  Willa took a breath, pushing away her doubts. Her experience didn’t m
atter, only her capabilities. And she was more than capable. Which meant she was more than complicit if she refused to act. At least, that’s what she told herself. Technically, she was breaking and entering. And if the police did arrive, she would look more than guilty standing in the trashed apartment.

  She needed to move faster.

  Her first plan was to look for anything obviously missing. Maybe she had found a run of the mill break-in. But there was the TV—broken, yet still here. And a video game system of some kind hidden beneath it. What else of value would a college student keep in their apartment?

  While she looked around, a short squeak reached her ears. Like the groaning of a loose floorboard. Willa turned toward the source.

  It came from the bedroom.

  She took another breath, then moved forward.

  She stepped quietly, cursing to herself over every rustle of paper that the wind kicked around the room. Her heart threatened to wake the neighborhood. Willa reached slowly toward the doorknob.

  Before her fingers touched the metal, the door exploded toward her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Willa landed hard, shards of wood rained down around her. Instinct drove her flight, and she crawled backward as fast as humanly possible.

  Escape was her sole priority.

  Away from the person standing over her.

  He was huge, almost completely filling out the door frame. Willa stared up in shock. He wore a three-piece suit—it’s high quality clear, even in the dim light. Fists the size of bowling balls burst from the end of his sleeves. He looked like he could bench press a river barge.

  It wasn’t his size or lavish attire that drew Willa’s attention, but the black ski mask that covered his massive head. Its large holes for his eyes and mouth gave him a monstrous air.