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

  “Well, well, well,” he laughed. “Looks like I’m going to have some fun tonight after all.”

  Willa scrambled to her feet. The sight of him glaring down at her pushed away all of her fear.

  Something replaced it. Something strong.

  She smiled in reply. “Well, that depends on how much you like poetry.”

  Before he could move the words shot past her lips.

  “I took my Power in my Hand—

  And went against the World—

  ‘Twas not as much as David—had—

  But I— was twice as bold—”

  A simple poem, one Willa had studied since youth. Simple, but effective. She pushed her hands forward, the reflex connected to a spell like this. Blue energy burst forth from her fingertips.

  The man lunged at her, but the energy caught him full in the chest, slamming him against the apartment’s cheap walls. The resulting thud was like music to her ears.

  He fell to his knees.

  Willa stepped toward him, her hands still raised. She didn’t rightfully know what a spell of that nature could do to a person, but she imagined it would more than take the wind out of him.

  “What happened here? Where’s Sean?”

  Her words poured over the man, but they didn’t move him. He remained statue-still where he had fallen.

  A moment of doubt struck the young poet. She hoped her spell hadn’t been too powerful. She took a step forward.

  That’s when the man pounced.

  He moved incredibly fast for his size, launching from his knees like a sprinter from the starting blocks. Willa attempted another spell, but the words were lost as he crashed into her—a wrecking ball of human muscle.

  The coffee table would have broken her fall if it wasn’t already shattered. She landed hard on her backside for the second time.

  When she looked up, the man was halfway through the broken window. She jumped to her feet and ran to the open space.

  He sprinted away into the darkness, thirty feet below, without even a limp.

  Willa bolted through the apartment complex and out the front door, but by then he was already gone.

  “What the hell was that?” a man gruffed.

  She turned, as King emerged again from the shadows. He stared in the same direction she did, mouth opened wide.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Dude dropped from the sky. Landed, and hauled ass.”

  Sirens, growing louder, could be heard over the sound of the highway. Willa turned for the alley, deciding not to wait around to see if they were singing for her.

  Men were fragile things, little more than paper and chalk held together by foolish pride. She pictured her attacker, taking the full force of her spell like it was nothing, leaping unharmed from a third-story window. Men were not made to move like that.

  King’s voice followed her down the alley.

  “What the hell is happenin’ in Pittsburgh?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There are 446 bridges in Pittsburgh, beating out Venice for the record by three.

  Elijah was pretty certain he had crossed every damn one of them.

  Unfamiliar with the city, he depended on the GPS app on his phone. He crossed the Smithfield Street Bridge, over the Monongahela River, which waited for winter to make its attempt at icing her over. Elijah turned left on Fort Pitt Boulevard, a corridor surrounded by a line of downtown buildings on one side and the river on the other. Traffic was light for an urban center in midday—but maybe only in comparison to the gridlock of Boston. He had only been gone for forty-eight hours but already felt lighter than he had for years.

  Enough luggage for a month weighed down the car—though he’d be staying for nearly six. The initial stretch down I-95 away from Massachusetts refreshed him. A recent ex-fiance, a failed job search, and a mildly sociopathic roommate were all in his rearview mirror—further away than they appeared.

  Pittsburgh was a new start.

  Elijah took two right turns, which landed him in the heart of Market Square—a quaint little urban plaza in the shadow of the PPG Tower. PPG’s distinct spires stood out when he first entered the city, but up-close, Elijah was struck by its glass exterior, reflecting the image of the metropolis that sprawled out beneath it. Meandering around the base of the building, he spotted the parking garage and pushed the nose of his ’99 Outback toward the gate.

  I hope they pick up the tab, he thought, pulling a ticket from the machine.

  Elijah found a spot between two large SUVs. He took the elevator to the 38th floor and stepped out at the ding.

  Alarawn Industries filled the entire floor. Rather than opening into a foyer, the elevator deposited Elijah directly into the bustling corporate offices. His tweed jacket with its worn leather elbow patches made it clear that he didn’t belong there. A young receptionist with hair pulled back tight enough to cause a headache smiled as he approached. “You must be Mr. Branton.”

  Elijah coughed. “Doctor. It’s, uh, Dr. Branton.” He immediately felt like a douche bag.

  The woman’s face turned a shade of pink. “Oh, yes. I apologize, Dr. Branton. Ms. Alarawn is waiting for you. I’m Laurie, her executive assistant. Can I get you an espresso or something before you go in?”

  Elijah pushed his hand through his hair and gave her the broadest grin possible. Trying to negate his douchiness, he said, “Oh, no worries. I’m good. But thank you, Laurie. That’s very kind.”

  He overdid it.

  He always did.

  The receptionist stood; she was nearly his height. “Come with me.” She smiled again, this time a little forced.

  They wove through a section of cubicles. Elijah inconspicuously took in the view from behind.

  “Zumba?” he asked, trying to break the ice he had created.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You look like you work out. You do Zumba or something?”

  “Cross Fit,” she replied. “You?”

  “Typing, mostly. Some heavy reading mixed in for muscle confusion.”

  She warmed—just a little.

  The worker-bee din of the cubicles faded as they ambled down the hallway past the executive offices. From open doors, he could hear businessmen making their business deals—a foreign language to his academic ears. This wing seemed exclusively reserved for overeducated, upper-class, white males.

  All of them, except for Brooke Alarawn.

  The hall terminated at two enormous mahogany doors accessorized with oversized brass handles. The receptionist grabbed the levers and pushed the doors open. The dramatic effect, no doubt intended, did its job.

  The Chief Executive’s office was the size of a regulation basketball court. Elijah took it in, appreciating the clean design. Photographs chronicling the steel industry’s rise tastefully filled the walls. Metal adorned everything, making the open space gleam from the natural light that poured in from nearly every angle.

  Brooke Alarawn sat behind a mahogany desk. Its stain matched the doors, and it seemed larger than Elijah’s apartment. She stood as he entered. Younger-looking than he expected, and objectively beautiful, she placed both hands behind her back and flashed the most perfect smile money could buy.

  “Dr. Branton, welcome.” The enthusiasm in her voice was unmistakable. She was either extremely excited about his arrival, or he had just met the best damn liar in town.

  Trying to exude a confidence that he’d never mastered, he reached out and shook her hand. “Please, call me Elijah.”

  Brooke Alarawn stood naturally at five foot something but reached six feet in her black heels. Her face was angular, emphasized with a modicum of blush on the cheeks and a smokey eye fit for the runway. But her lips took center stage. They were full and blood red—the perfect contrast to the flawless teeth they veiled.

  Part CEO, part socialite, Brooke Alarawn was a complicated woman. A month before she would graduate top of her class from Yale with a degree in International Economics, Brooke’s parents had
crashed their private plane deep in the Sierra Nevadas. The authorities ruled out foul play and blamed the tragedy on her father’s piloting abilities. An independent investigation concluded the same.

  As an only child, she left the ivied world of academia and returned to the Steel City to captain the family ship.

  Elijah had done his homework—which wasn’t difficult, as she often adorned the covers of gossip mags and entertainment TV. A major cable network had even offered to create a reality show around her life—an offer too garish for her taste. A recent scandal involving her breakup with a local sports figure Elijah had never heard of still filled the pages of the tabloid rags. But mostly, Alarawn attempted to keep a low profile. It also was no secret that during the early months of the recession, the company nearly claimed bankruptcy. Brooke Alarawn had set her eyes on bringing it back. Now, at thirty-two, she was still one of the youngest major CEOs in the nation.

  “Grab a seat, Elijah,” she said, directing him towards the most comfortable chair his ass had ever had the pleasure of meeting. “Can I get you anything? Water? Bourbon?”

  Bourbon at a 10 a.m. meeting? What decade is this?

  He half-expected her to offer him a cigarette. “No, thanks, I’m good.”

  Elijah’s hand trembled slightly as he reached into his attaché. Made out of cracking, synthetic leather, it was likely older than even his thrift-store blazer. It struck him for the first time that he sat with one of the wealthiest and most powerful women in the country. His first-day-on-the-job nervousness turned into fear in the face of power. His research hadn’t prepared him for this. Pulling out three loose sheets of paper from the satchel, Elijah placed them on the table.

  Brooke’s eyes surveyed the paper.

  “My CV, if you need it.” His voice cracked.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Sorry. Curriculum Vita. It’s what we call a resume.”

  “I know what a CV is, Dr. Branton, but I certainly don’t need it. We did a thorough background check. I know more about you than you know about yourself.”

  Realizing his naiveté, his temperature rose. “Naturally.”

  Strike one.

  Brooke handed a padfolio across the table. “Before I say anything else, you will need to sign a non-disclosure statement. The typical things, really. No talking with the media—or anyone—about your research. You’ll have access to sensitive documents about the company—and our family. Let’s just say the Alarawn skeletons must remain in the closet. Further, you will be allowed to publish an academic paper for a journal of our choosing, but only after my team goes over it with a fine-toothed comb.”

  So, much for academic freedom, he thought.

  Despite any reservations, Elijah breezed through the document. If it required the donation of a testicle, he’d likely still sign the thing. Desperate times, and all that. If Alarawn Industries had done their research, they would know this as well. He pulled out a cheap Bic pen and signed on the line.

  “Good then, let’s get started, shall we?” Brooke asked. “Your task over the next six months is to write a thorough history of Alarawn Industries. You’ll submit weekly reports directly to me.” She leaned back in her executive chair and seemed to admire her own office. “My great-great grandfather Thomas worked for Carnegie. The family emigrated in 1860. Instead of going to school, Thomas became a ‘coal boy’ at the age of thirteen. I’m sure you’ll dig some things up on his life. Thomas was smart and a hard worker. He did everything right. After years of climbing the ladder into management, he finally got a break that landed him in corporate—a very lucrative position. Typical American dream.”

  Yeah, very typical, Elijah thought, remembering his own blue-collar upbringing.

  “But he rejected that dream, the life given to him, and chose to make something of his own. He left Carnegie and created his own business, his own empire. It was that grit and determination that allowed him to build Alarawn Industries.”

  Elijah had read the family’s history a dozen times in as many books. Hearing the heiress recount it gave him something that none of the pages could.

  Heart.

  “Alarawn Industries means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

  She exhaled, and he could feel her icy demeanor melt, if only a little. Closing her eyes, she nodded. “It means the world to me. Everything, really. This company and this city.”

  Brooke Alarawn rose, pushing the executive chair back. She walked over to the glass on the west side of the office. “Join me, Elijah.”

  From their vantage point, the surrounding downtown buildings were children’s toys. The view of The Point—a park sitting at the confluence of the three rivers—lay before them like a model meticulously built by a master craftsman.

  “Thomas Alarawn was a significant link in the industrial chain that made this city truly great.”

  Elijah recalled the city as described in several texts he brought with him. Buildings covered in soot, air filled with smog, water unsafe to drink. He resisted interrupting his new benefactor’s reverie with these sordid details. Nor did he mention the significant human rights violations associated with steel.

  “I love this city, Elijah. It’s a part of me, and in many ways, I am a part of it. Most people think our future is in medicine or tech, but there is a place here for Alarawn Industries. Steel will always be Pittsburgh’s backbone.” The historian’s eyes wandered to PNC Park and through the historic North Side. She placed her hand on his back, which made him distinctly aware of his old tweed jacket. “You’re going to be the first stage of our re-emergence. Your report, our story, will remind this city of why they need us. And of what we’re capable of offering them. We’re calling it Project Cold Steel—a little inside joke within the family.”

  Elijah nodded, biting back the thought that Cold Steel sounded more like a shitty death metal band than a history report.

  Brooke paced back to her desk. “You’ll have the full power of the company at your disposal.” She reached into the top drawer and threw a set of keys on the desk. They slid across the polished surface like a puck on the ice. “Access to our archives and an office here—if you choose to use it.”

  “Better than any teaching job I’ve had.”

  “I aim to please.” Brooke’s eyes locked on his. They were serious, but Elijah could sense a softness behind them. Maybe sadness.

  “Oh, we also have a loft for you in the Cultural District. It’s modest—two bedrooms, two baths. I expect it will be fine for you.” She gave him a smile that felt more manufactured than the steel her family had churned out for generations. “Where do you want to start?”

  Thought I’d move in and grab a quick shower.

  “Well, I like to be in the contexts I study. I read that the original mill is still standing?”

  “Barely. But it’s there.”

  Elijah, a sucker for post-industrial ruins, smiled. “Good. I’ll eventually need to head out and take a look around.”

  Brooke pressed a button on her phone. The doors swung open almost before she could remove her finger.

  A man twice the breadth of Elijah walked in. The clean shave of his head and a set of sharp eyes made it difficult to judge his age.

  “This is Rex Bertoldo. He’s my personal assistant. Whenever you’re ready, he’ll accompany you to the site in Homestead. It’s not exactly the safest neighborhood.”

  Elijah smiled at the man; the expression wasn’t reciprocated. Elijah ignored the slight. “Brooke, I can’t explain how excited I am about this project. Thank you. Really.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Don’t let us down.” She paused. “I almost forgot. I have something for you.” She slid a small white box across the table.

  Opening it, Elijah found a round metal disk not much larger than his palm. Etched into the medal was a square, intersected by two sharply pointed ovals. It looked to Elijah like a symbol that evoked fire and power.

  Or maybe danger.

  “Um, thanks.”

  “It
’s not a gift, Dr. Branton, but another puzzle to solve. This is an heirloom my great-aunt passed down to me. She was our family historian, of sorts. Personally, I find it dreadful. But it belonged to Thomas, and I haven’t been able to figure out what it means or where it came from. If you stumble across any information during your research I’d be grateful. And maybe it will bring you some luck.”

  I’m going to need it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Chem felt as inconspicuous as a clown at a funeral. He tried to keep his cool as the bleary-eyed guard stared at his credentials. He smiled, but not too wide. Keeping his arms relaxed at his side, he fought the urge to shift from foot to foot.

  The giant of a man in the uniform looked down at the ID, up to Chem, then back at the ID. A second later he barked into his university-issued cell phone.

  It’s just a routine thing, Chem told himself. He doesn’t know anything. Just let him do his job. Hell, he’s probably just being thorough. Or racist.

  No matter how nerdy Chem might look in his lab coat, a towering black man walking the halls of a chemistry lab in the middle of the night tended to draw attention from security.

  Finally, the light on the guard’s scanner turned green.

  “Sorry for the mix-up, Dr. Scott.” The man looked down at the floor as he handed back the identification card.

  Chem smiled at the sound of his proper name. “Technically, it’s just Mr. Scott. But my friends all call me Chem. They’re not too creative.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

  Chem considered laying into the man, make sure the guy wouldn’t pull a stunt like this on him again. Instead, he snatched his credentials and turned for the door without a peep. It was the smarter choice. He wanted to make as little of an impression as possible on security.

  After all, the ID was a fake. And the guard just greenlit his trespassing for the night.

  Normally, Chem would head east toward the labs. They were relatively safe—most people paid little attention to anything other than their research. But tonight, Chem took the more dangerous route toward the west wing of the complex. More dangerous, but far more valuable.