by CM Raymond
The waiter raised his eyebrows. “Oh, nearly perfect.”
Brooke laughed. “I didn’t see that coming. I thought your specialty was twentieth-century American history.”
No one was more surprised than Elijah himself. The words came out unbidden as if he was a ventriloquist’s dummy. “Yeah,” Elijah said, scrambling for words. “I knew a guy in Boston. We went to these places all the time.”
His subterfuge was improving.
“You’re full of surprises, Dr. Branton.” Brooke’s eyes smiled in a way he hadn’t seen before.
“And, speaking of surprises,” Brooke said, “what in the world happened to your face?”
Elijah’s left hand instinctively came up to his jaw. He had been awake for hours, and yet still no memory of where his injuries came from. He fought to keep the fear at bay and tried his best for a winsome smile. “Absent-minded professor.”
“Occupational hazard? This sounds interesting.”
“Not so much,” Elijah said. “I was walking down Fifth, lost in my thoughts. I was making a few notes on my phone and ran straight into a street sign.” He grinned and looked at the table, hoping she would buy it.
Brooke laughed. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“Nope. Right into it. Consider it a mark of my dedication that I’m willing to sacrifice this pretty face for your job.”
Brooke laughed again. “Quite a sacrifice. I’m starting to think that I’m doing the world a disservice.”
The appetizer came; Elijah’s mouth watered. He wanted to swallow it whole.
“I love finding these neighborhood places,” Brooke said. She scooped some of the bread pie onto a plate and took a bite. “Oh, this is excellent.”
Elijah took his own. “It’s decent; the lamb isn’t quite right.” He surprised himself again.
“You’re a connoisseur?”
“I dabble,” Elijah said. “So, you said we were here to talk shop. What do you want to know?”
“Are all of you academics so straight to the point?”
Elijah laughed. “Getting straight to the point is not a charge often given in the halls of the academy. But...I didn’t know if it was appropriate to pry into my boss’s private life.”
“You can pry a little.” She smiled looked down at the table clothe. Gone was the powerful figure he had met on the top floor of the PPG Tower. Instead, sitting across from him was simply a woman, out for a first meal with a new friend.
“Okay. What was it like going to the great and mighty Yale?” he asked, not especially sure what to just chat about.
“Oh, you know. You went to college.”
Elijah fidgeted with his silverware. “Yeah. Sure. But I’m guessing Yale was a little different than Canton State University. Most of us were just working-class kids. I think their motto was ‘Good Enough to be Considered College.’”
Brooke laughed. It was deep and true, which made Elijah relax. “Maybe. But there’s only one of us at the table who’s a Ph.D.”
He shrugged. “School was the only thing I was ever good at. Seemed wise to stay the course. But I’m asking the questions here. Yale?”
“It was...refreshing. Growing up in Pittsburgh as an Alarawn, it was like every second was an event. We’re celebrities here. When I went to Yale, the pond got a lot bigger. It gave me a chance to just be some kid trying to figure things out.”
“Just another multi-million dollar kid?”
Brooke laughed. “I know, right? But it’s really like that there. I also had to make friends and achieve things based on my own merit, not on the Alarawn name. College was really good for me.”
“Until you needed to come home.”
She nodded. “Yeah. The spotlight returned quickly, with my parents’ death and taking over the company. And it’s been nonstop ever since. Everything moving in nine directions at once. I’d give anything to go back to Yale for a while.”
“If you need me to, I could roll out my best boring lecture. I have a ton of them. Guaranteed to make you snooze or your tuition back.”
Brooke snorted and covered her mouth, a move which Elijah decided was ridiculously cute. “It might be why I’m glad we’re hanging out. You make me feel like, well, just a person. Thanks for that.”
“Sure. As long as you keep paying me.”
“Way to ruin the mood, Branton,” Brooke said.
“It’s what I do best.”
“Okay, then. Business time. I’m sure you’re smart enough to see what AI is up against. Project Cold Steel really is the best chance I have and salvaging this thing. Rex told me about your trip to the old mill. Find anything interesting?”
While the question was inevitable, Elijah still felt unprepared. He had stepped into one of the more difficult conversations of his life. The vague memory of pain was all that was left to him. “Some people say if you’ve seen one old mill you’ve seen them all. But they have no idea what they’re talking about. It was really interesting, walking the grounds, moving through the building, and picturing the stories that I’ve been reading about for weeks.”
Brooke pushed her dish toward the center of the table. “I’ve read a lot of those stories. And of course, my dad talked about his grandfather Thomas incessantly. There’s a lot of pride for the Alarawn family in that place. In the city, really. That’s what this project is about. I need you to reconstruct the narrative, show people all the things my company—my family—has done for the city. And what we will do in the future.”
Filthy lies! The voice, drenched in its Eastern European accent, sliced through Elijah’s ears. It was louder this time, but Brooke seemed not to hear it. Elijah fought the urge to turn around, terrified at finding nothing once again.
Silence grew between them, so Brooke carried on. Elijah began to sweat as he listened to her. His face flushed; he wondered if it was the food. Maybe the wounds that littered his body were infected after all. He fought the urge to scratch at the scabs on his chest.
Elijah watched Brooke’s lips move, hearing only some of what she was saying. “These days everyone focuses on the negatives: smog, accidents, exploitation, blah, blah, blah. It really is an inaccurate representation of what we’ve done. And that’s why…”
The discomfort transformed into something else—anger. His face turned from warm to red-hot. Beads of sweat rolled down his back. Brooke Alarawn’s beauty vanished.
She was grotesque. All he could see was a monster who would kill him and his friends for nothing more than profit.
“...and that’s where the name for the project came from. An old family motto: ‘The hottest fires forge the coldest steel.’ A little hokey, I know, but there’s truth in it. Basically, it means that passion is our strength, that you don’t get the durability you need to build skyscrapers and bridges—to build a city—without really caring. That’s what Project Cold Steel is all about. Showing Pittsburgh how passionately the Alarawns care.”
Bastard—gadovi, the voice rang again. We should kill every last one of them.
Brooke stopped talking and stared at Elijah, mouth slightly open. “You okay?” she stammered. “Your face, it’s…it’s changing.”
Elijah stood, knocking over the chair behind him. Everyone in the restaurant turned. “I’m sorry, excuse me. I’m…I’m not feeling well.”
Stumbling toward the restroom, Elijah felt the pain in his legs increase. His head felt numb—tingling—as if his blood was being drained. The men’s room was a tiny square with a single toilet. Thankful for the privacy, he ran cold water into his cupped hands. With his face close to the sink, Elijah splashed water again and again. His eyes were on fire. He opened Chem’s “prescription” and swallowed three more pills.
The voice was screaming now. Something about steel and fire and revenge.
“Leave me alone,” Elijah shouted, then slammed the wall with his fist. The voice quieted, and with it, the anger that Elijah felt.
He took a deep breath, then another. Looking up into the dirty mirror
, he found his face sickly pale, except for the dark circles under his eyes, staring back at him.
After several minutes of deep breathing, Elijah returned to the dining room. Brooke was on her phone as if nothing ever happened. As soon as she looked up, the feelings returned.
Anger. Pain. Disgust.
Fire.
Elijah gathered a fistful of his khakis and squeezed, but the emotions remained. Three paces from their table, Elijah knew he was going to pass out—or throw up.
His body grew hotter.
As he stood there, failing to make sense of it all, a different phenomenon struck him. Elijah felt his body changing. Pressure built from the inside—as if his blood were trying to escape through his skin.
The pain was staggering.
Brooke stared as well, but her face held a look of concern. The cell phone slipped out of her hands and tumbled to the floor. She paid it no heed. The rest of the crowd carried on as usual as if she and Elijah were invisible.
He looked down at his forearms. His muscles heaved in rhythm with the pounding between his eyes. His flesh rippled.
What was in those drugs? Am I hallucinating? What’s happening?
An inclination to scream overwhelmed him.
The room blurred, then went dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Schenley Park was quiet, which suited Willa’s needs perfectly. Too cold at this time of year for most casual park goers, only the occasional hardcore runner threatened to break her concentration.
She wrapped her peacoat tighter around her tiny frame as her eyes ran across the open text on the grass. Poems, from all ages, ready to be used. All ages except for the present. The Guild’s law still held its sway. Just because she was fighting with her grandfather, it didn’t mean she couldn’t use the Canon.
She just wouldn’t be using it the way her grandfather had taught her.
From day one of her training, Edwin stressed defensive magic, encouraging her to hide in the same ways The Guild did. But Willa knew that defense was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to what magic could do. So, over the years, Willa began to gather her own repertoire, combing through the Canon’s offerings. The great verses might be old, but with its age the Canon carried multitudes.
None of this was easy. Magic was an art form more than a science, and like all good art, its ways and means were subtle. Apparently, debate still raged in The Guild’s ivory tower about how exactly the poem magic worked, and why most couldn’t use it at all. But while the theory behind magic was far from agreed upon, the praxis couldn’t be more clear.
For those in the line—like Willa—poetry called out in its own voice—a voice that was often unique to each caster. Edwin oversaw her studies, but in the end, when she cast a spell it was an act unique to her and her relationship to the poem. A marriage of sorts, between student and subject. And like a marriage, it took tremendous effort. Not just at the moment itself, although casting a spell was exhausting, but the moments when she wasn’t actively using magic was where the power truly came from. It wasn’t like she could just read some Shakespeare and pull a rabbit from a hat. She had to find spells that spoke to her—most never did—and she spent hours with those words, running them through her mind, plumbing their hidden depths, welding them to her and her to them. It was more like knowing a friend or lover than knowing a recipe. Her relation to the poem had to be deep. Personal. Mystical.
Then, and only then would their power reveal themselves.
But sitting on the cold grass, desperation had taken over. She worked quickly. Fudging corners and trying to force a solution. Trying to find the monsters that haunted her dreams. Trying to find the ones who stole her student from her.
Edwin would hate every part of this, a fact that made Willa smile. Although she didn’t look it, she wasn’t one to shy away from a little rebellion now and then.
She took a breath, started the words, and prayed for a response.
An hour passed, then another as the sun dipped behind the ridgeline to the west. Her body, stiff from the cold, didn’t move. She barely felt the temperature drop, barely felt the minutes creep by. Her only focus was the words.
One poem after another passed her lips. Finally, she struck gold.
“My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.”
A curious poem for this search, she fought the urge to analyze it and just let its cadence wash over her. It was a poem she had loved since college, yet one which had never produced any magic. But now, with her hopes set on finding her prey, she could feel the spell taking hold. It was as if something deep in her chest pulled her. Strange music filled her up, steady, yet fierce, like a hammer ringing again and again against an anvil, forging metal out of chaos then breaking down again into fire and fury. It was equal parts rage and sadness and longing for a home that was no longer there.
Then, the image of a man burning in pain filled her mind.
She jumped to her feet and ran from the park. Willa knew exactly where to go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Alarawn, where is he? Must find him. I’m in control again, but this body resists me. The pain, I can barely stand it. The burning is too much. I need to let it out.
A restaurant. They are all looking, all of these people. Their clothes, so odd, like the others.
Her.
She is one of them. Belongs to him. Comes from him.
The child bears the sins of the father and the father’s father. Generation to generation, the destruction churns. She is no different.
The fire he poured down on me, I will give it back to her twice as hot. She is all that remains of him. She must bear the punishment.
Kill all the bastards.
Ah! The pain is too much. I cannot let it out. Why does he resist?
The darkness comes again…
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Elijah came to with a knee on the concrete floor and a hand planted on a stranger’s table. The historian’s eyes burned, their temperature catching up with his skin. Everything appeared through a carmine filter—the world turned red.
Revenge. Justice. Death. Fire.
The voice kept shouting in Elijah’s mind. It blurred between English and some foreign tongue Elijah did not know, but the meaning was clear.
Whatever it was, whoever it was, they were furious. And they planned something terrible.
Pushing himself to his feet took every ounce of energy. He winced; his own groan rang in his ears like a foghorn. The patron at Elijah’s side pushed off his chair and scrambled away. All eyes were fastened on Elijah. Everything fell silent, but for the words in his head. Elijah knew nothing except that he needed to escape. The words had him, and he needed to break free. Murderous rage coursed through him.
He turned to Brooke, the rage filling him again. “I’m sorry,” he managed to eke out. “I have to go.”
Before she could respond he pushed his pulsating body through the front door and onto the street. The frigid January air did nothing for the burning.
Rex’s Lincoln was parked on the curb to the left. Elijah turned right. Moving his legs was nearly impossible. Fear propelled him forward. He stumbled. A road sign caught him and barely held him up. The sound of sizzling condensation filled his ears. The metal softened beneath his fingers as the sign bent and fell to the ground.
The war of emotions was over; rage had won—or perhaps he had given himself over to it. Throbbing replaced the fear. He welcomed the hurt.
Elijah reached down and clutched a City Paper box in both hands and pulled. His strength shocked him. He hurled it down the empty street and watched it tumble. Without thinking, he yelled, releasing anger from a century of loss.
The last thing he saw, as the world turned to black, was Willa Weil. With one hand raised, she chanted and walked in his direction.
Then he was no more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Who is this in front of me? This witc
h? She opposes me again. She must work for them. The Alarawns have cast their lot with the Devil’s whore.
She will not stop me. I’ve waited too long, come too far. I will bring justice.
Strength. I feel it. The fire is power. It fills me, gives me purpose. The old way, how did I ever doubt it? We were so naïve. Organize and compromise. Weakness.
This is true power.
And they gave it to me—now they will pay. I am zduhać. I am but a small piece. His penance will be for the multitude. For every drop of blood, for every life squandered, for every child who goes to bed with nothing but a faint memory of a father he hardly knew—they will pay.
I am justice wreathed in flames.
I will purge this city.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The police scanner buzzed, a continual annoyance in the lab. But over the years, Chem had accustomed himself to its incessant squawking—its presence overhead now a familiar thing. The crackling voices fashioned a common soundtrack to his many experiments. Chemistry, otherwise isolating, was punctuated by sounds of the streets of Pittsburgh.
His colleagues, who distrusted him anyway, considered the scanner unusual. But they were chemists; they all had their oddities. Chem let their curiosity devolve into the innocuous assumption that he merely had an interest in law enforcement.
They remained unaware, however, of the scanner’s true purpose. The illicit nature of Chem’s side business demanded it. Coded responses emanating from the small black box alerted him of potential clients—his medical bag prepped and ready for a rapid response. He was always ready to make a few bucks. Knowledge was power, even—and perhaps especially—for the criminally inclined.
The chatter on the radio faded into the background as he studied the lab report. Typical blood work could take weeks to evaluate, but he stared at the analysis of blood he’d drawn from Elijah only an hour earlier. He was a firm believer in the power of a well-placed bribe, and he happened to know an underpaid lab tech who was willing to bend the rules. Having friends in the right places went a long way, and Chem did all he could to never burn a bridge.
