It turned out that Sean was right.
Her words continued to flow. They had kept whatever was happening to Elijah at bay for a time, but now Willa could do nothing but slow the transformation. He stumbled toward her. His face was tied in knots, and his eyes were black. The changing man’s footsteps grew heavy.
Her concentration blocked out the world. She and the historian were all that existed. Power coming through the words slowed him, but his arrival was inevitable. Magnus was a suckling pup compared to this creature. He yelled and she could feel the rage in his voice.
Panic struck.
Hesitation broke the spell, and Elijah’s change manifested fully. The six-foot man expanded like a dry sponge dropped in a bucket of water. His clothes split apart and fell like tattered rags. His skin, covered in red like a massive sunburn, went pale and then grew gray. The gray turned metallic and reflected the light from a street lamp.
As the figure that was once Elijah Branton continued to expand, cracks developed in his metal frame; a glowing ooze, like lava, seeped from each tiny fissure. His eyes glowed red.
Just twenty paces away, she could make out drops of molten steel left in his wake. The monster screamed. Without turning its gaze, it swung a giant metal arm, knocking a light pole into the street.
Concentrate, Willa, she thought. This is it.
The woman considered running, but she couldn’t abandon Elijah, whatever he was. There was no telling what the metallic beast would do—or what it wanted. Willa knew her power might be the only thing to prevent disaster and possibly save his life. A different poem came to mind. Instead of just speaking the lines, she shouted them, as loud as her voice would carry. She hurled her words at him. The concern that she had for the people—and for the city—increased the power of the words.
“From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—
From those deep cisterns flows.”
The monster stopped, dripping steel in one spot. It took a step backward and snarled. Willa kept yelling the lines—as if life depended on them.
Defense would only last so long. The creature was powerful—and pissed. Her mind raced through her catalog of memorized poems. She prayed in foreign tongues for something to come to her. This pause was just enough for the creature to pull itself together. It took two steps and drew back an enormous metal arm. The appendage was thick; it dripped molten metal as it moved. Willa stopped thinking and braced for impact. She could feel the heat emanating from the figure.
The attack was well announced, beginning its arc from three steps away. Though not the most graceful, the magician-poet dropped to the concrete and rolled, barely dodging the monster’s deliberate movements. She watched the metal fist smash the concrete wall behind her. The clinking sound of rock on metal filled the air. Shrapnel rained. Something hot splashed onto Willa’s leg and she screamed in pain.
Desperate to escape, Willa shuffled against the nearest car. She dropped flat on her stomach and rolled under the vehicle, looking for whatever shelter she might find. A glowing hand swept the space between her shaking body and the curb. But she was just out of reach.
Catching her breath, she returned to searching for the spell that might knock out the beast. She knew Elijah was in there someplace. She needed words that might immobilize without harming the man who had lost control of his body and mind.
Two steel hands gripped the undercarriage of the vehicle. It had given up on reach and traded it for brute strength. The car flipped over into the street. She lay prostrate, looking into the eyes of her attacker. Her father, with a hose and bat, would do nothing here, but she longed for someone.
Something.
Just as the monster reached down for her, an object swung over her body and made contact with the sloppy, dripping face. The surprise attack knocked the thing two steps back. The creature shook and shrieked.
Does he even feel pain?
Fear gripped her as she saw a young man with crazy black hair holding a long metal pole. The already-scrawny student looked like a child facing the metal monster.
“Sean, no! Run!”
But he didn’t.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sean turned the corner, just as Willa rolled under the parked car. Coming from the Cathedral of Learning to Mount Washington, they had ridden up the incline together; she made him wait by the lookout when they reached the top. But even several blocks away he could feel the monster’s presence.
Willa’s blue aura was brighter than he’d ever seen it, but even so, it was nearly consumed by the dark red of her attacker. The student knew that he had to do something. He had been waiting for this—his moment to prove himself.
Sean still failed to focus his powers outward. His mind turned back to the events outside of Hillman Library and just how defenseless he’d felt in the face of this creature. He would need to find another way. His eyes scanned the edge of where the alley met the road. A long metal bar, whose original purpose was unclear, stood out amid the trash. He grabbed it with both hands and felt its heft.
This should do something.
He turned toward the fight. The metal beast flipped the car as if it were paper mache.
Sean glanced at his weapon of choice, suddenly feeling underprepared. It was David verses Goliath, and he hoped that something—or someone—was on his side. Sean ran toward the skirmish, knuckles white as they gripped the pole. The metal monster’s attention was captured by the poet. She trembled and stuttered on words that proved ineffective. Three steps away from the burning beast, Sean pulled the bar back as far as he could, Babe Ruth style. With all the strength he could muster, he swung the weapon toward the disfigured, dripping face of his enemy.
Bull’s-eye.
The creature stumbled backward, bringing both hands up to its head. Sean’s jaw dropped as he saw an indentation the size and shape of his weapon mar his adversary’s face. But as quickly as the injury had been created, the beast’s face returned to its original form. There was something both grotesque and beautiful—something sublime—about the creature. Awe turned to terror as the thing pivoted toward him.
“Sean, no! Run!” The shriek of his teacher could not draw the monster’s attention. For Sean, this meant success. He was ready to lay down his life for her.
It’s what we do that defines us.
The monster turned toward Sean. Its aura was clear. While Willa was a perfect blue, this creature, standing before him, seemed to have a mixture of colors. The pure red remained, but something else existed within it as well, each pushing against the other. It was as if the auras were fighting within the being. Whatever inner turmoil it indicated, the creature seemed resolute.
It walked toward Sean. Each step created a ripple of molten metal across its body. Drops of steel hissed as they hit the ground in his path. It towered over him at nearly seven feet tall. Sean glanced at the poet, now propped up on her knees like a penitent pilgrim. Her lips were moving, a look of sheer determination covered her face. But she wasn’t looking at the beast. Instead, her eyes were locked on Sean. Her words danced in the air:
“In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?”
The words landed on the student. Sean felt a surge of energy. Fear left his body. His fingers gripped the weapon as if they could squeeze the cylinder flat. Rationally, he knew he didn’t stand a chance. But his spirit soared, and he stepped toward the monster. With the strength of a man ten times his size, he swung the pole confidently in an arc toward his target.
But confidence doesn’t always win. The creature caught the rod in mid-flight. Heat radiated down the pole; it scorched Sean’s bare palm. He released the weapon. Something almost like a smile came over the creature’s distorted face.
Both the monster and Sean knew it was over.
> CHAPTER TWENTY
“There’s an extra fifty bucks in this for you, if you can get me there in ten minutes.”
The Uber driver’s eyes looked back at Chem. “Sorry, man, we can’t take tips. And getting you up to Mount Washington that fast at this time of the day is damn near impossible.”
Chem pulled two dirty hundred-dollar bills from his pocket—part of the wages from his back alley work. “Make it $200. And I won’t tell if you don’t.”
The Honda Civic veered into the opposite lane, toward oncoming traffic. Moments before collision, the kid cut back. The guy drove like a man possessed. Chem glanced at his watch, hoping he wasn’t too late.
Twelve minutes later and they were stopped, three blocks from their destination. Two police vehicles barricaded the road. Chem tossed the bills in the front passenger seat and jumped from the car.
“Thanks, man,” the driver said. “Hey, don’t forget to leave me a review.”
Ignoring him, Chem slammed the door and ran toward the distant sounds of warfare. His long lanky legs straddled the yellow police tape. The cops were crouching, guns drawn, behind open car doors.
“Hey,” one of Pittsburgh’s finest yelled, “you can’t go up there.”
Chem shot a look over his shoulders at the boys in blue. “You guys probably want to stay back,” he growled.
His legs pumped; the medical bag swung at his side.
He came upon the scene just in time to see an old Ford flipping through the air. A cowering Willa Weil lay exposed at the foot of a monster.
What the hell.
The seven-foot glowing metal beast was terrifying, yet Chem was thrilled at the sight. If the thing before him truly was his new friend, the possibilities were staggering. He imagined what he could do with the vial of Elijah Branton’s blood now sitting in his lab.
He worked to control his rising panic.
The scientist in him took over, making observations about the creature and its effects on the outside world. Chem was amazed when he saw a young man rearrange the creature’s face with a metal pole, and more so when the face reformed in seconds. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he made the connection that he recognized the kid from the University.
The chemist opened his bag and reached for a vial. Drawing fluid, he half inspected the hypodermic needle and wished he had brought something stronger.
The molten man shoved his attacker aside. Chem’s stomach turned as he imagined the force of that blow and prayed the kid wasn’t dead. The creature turned its attention back toward the frightened professor. Willa was mumbling something in its direction. One hand raised, she knelt like a martyr. The monster stepped toward her. It lumbered, like it was fighting invisible restraints. Somehow, she was doing something to it, though he couldn’t guess what.
With enough tranquilizer to knock out a horse, the chemist made his move. Whether enraptured or enraged, the creature overlooked his approach.
He blew his tactical advantage by stumbling over the kid’s discarded weapon. Metal on concrete rang through the air.
“Shit!”
The monster turned, and Chem saw its eyes. They burned fire-red. Still, there was something human, familiar, deep inside. He didn’t need to run a test to know it was Elijah. But as the creature stepped toward him, that insight didn’t offer much comfort.
The hypodermic needle shook in his hand. Chem considered his next play. The further the creature got from Willa, the faster its steps became. Like a bather trudging out of the water, it picked up momentum. Chem reached for the pole. It was too hot to hold, leaving him weaponless. The monster roared.
He calculated an escape route and knew he only had seconds to act before his window closed. But he held his ground, refusing to move. This moment could determine the fate of his research, his life’s work. He needed Elijah Branton alive, and the odds decreased if the entire Pittsburgh police force rolled onto the scene. He would have faced fiery death before he’d abandon this chance. Chem balled his fist, not knowing what else to.
As the creature reached a glowing hand toward the scientist, a body flew into Chem’s peripheral vision. Screaming, the undergrad drove his shoulder into the monster’s rib cage. The kid had more force than Chem expected, and the monster slammed into a parked car, leaving a dent and heat-rippled paint. As its back arched up over the hood, Chem sprang into action. With three strides and the aim of an Olympian, he found a crease in its metal exterior. The needle sunk into something; whether it was flesh or not he couldn’t be sure. His hand was on fire. There was just enough time to thumb the plunger then roll away.
Chem landed on concrete, scraping flesh from his arm. He propped himself up on his elbows and watched the beast stagger forward. The poet, now standing, continued her song. He wasn’t sure what she was doing, but the combination of her hypnotic words and his tranquilizer seemed to be doing the trick.
“Come on, bitch,” he yelled in the direction of the creature.
It stared at him. Chem had pissed it off—and he knew it. The creature took a step forward and the chemist held his breath. After a few drunken strides, the monster’s eyes dimmed, and it dropped to its knees. The tranquilizer set in.
The body of the beast pulsated; it twitched with what Chem could only assume was pain. The seven-foot creature progressively lost its stature in front of his eyes. The unformed surface of liquid metal flowed off the creature and pooled at the feet of a burnt, but very human, heap of flesh kneeling on the road.
In the course of just a few seconds, the seven-foot molten metal man devolved into Elijah Branton.
The historian collapsed, steam pouring off his unmoving body.
PART TWO
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!
His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!
In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
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 pl
ace.
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.”
Steel City Heroes (Book 1): The Catalyst Page 10
