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

by LE Barbant

  Why would they cave so easily? What “diplomatic” solutions could Alarawn have come up with?

  Curious, Elijah grabbed another text more specifically focused on Pittsburgh labor unions. A brief excerpt and a grainy black-and-white photo were all that marked the event. In the photo, among a group of steel workers, stood Thomas Alarawn, Jr. Bearded and wearing a dark bowler, his face was as cold and stern as the steel he produced. Elijah struggled to get into the head of this man.

  Who was this patriarch?

  Checking his notes, Elijah realized that this photograph must have been taken only weeks before Thomas’s untimely death. He couldn’t find much about the steel magnate’s tragic demise, only that it left his only son the keys to the kingdom.

  “Possible last photo—death two weeks later,” Elijah wrote in his notes.

  Looking more closely at the picture, Elijah made out an odd shape sticking out from Thomas’s open coat. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a small metal disk.

  “The medallion,” he said.

  Brooke had asked him to determine the strange medallion’s origins but he was an historian, not an archaeologist. For weeks Elijah had been looking for some reference to the artifact in the family archives. And here, he stumbled across Thomas Jr. wearing it while standing outside of his new steel mill, only weeks before his death. It hadn’t shown up in any of Thomas’s other photos.

  Reaching into his wallet, Elijah removed Brooke’s business card with Rex’s number on the back. He had hoped to push it back until the weather got warmer, but he was convinced that he needed to make a trip to Alarawn’s abandoned mill as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER SIX

  An enormous table filled the room. Popular legend claimed that it was made of dark oak mined from a virgin forest in Wales—the ancestral homeland of the Alarawn family. Its wooden surface gleamed from four generations’ worth of polishing. If the table could talk, most in the room would be criminally indicted. Large, leather chairs surrounded the table, each holding an executive board member—all outfitted with perfect suits. Primarily men, there was a rose or two amongst the thorns. But the roses were anything but sweet.

  The room was as cold as the Ohio River in January—more from the countenance of its occupants than anything else.

  Brooke Alarawn stood in the doorway; the armpits of her business suit were damp. Perspiration was a rarity—save for certain late night activities and tense board meetings. But now, she was sweating like a socialist at a Tea Party rally.

  Glass lined the room. The northwest window granted a perfect view of the convention center—its roof sloping toward the Allegheny. Even under duress, the familiar sight took Brooke’s breath away. She imagined running at the windows and jumping through it—a la “Hudsucker Proxy”—and to the street below. She could float down the river and disappear. The only thing restraining her was that she wouldn’t get the benefit of seeing their faces. A smile inadvertently curled on her lips.

  Opposite the windows, three large LCD screens were hung specifically for this meeting. Lavine and Hurtle telecast in from some other continent—prioritizing on-site meetings for companies that weren’t dragging bottom. They were professional board members, pulling in five to six figures per corporate seat. Fong, a multinational businessman in his own right, dialed in from China. Brooke feared him most. Van Pelt—Alarawn Industries’ chairman—initially argued that his inclusion was advisory—lending support on overseas relations and opening up new markets. She suspected otherwise. Fong’s membership indicated ulterior designs, less helpful to her and her company.

  Their company, that is.

  Two years before her father’s death, Alarawn Industries had gone through a takeover. It could hardly be called hostile. Mr. Alarawn rolled over and gave it to them like a possum playing dead. He ceded majority control to Van Pelt and company, retaining his position as CEO, but ultimately leaving AI’s fate in the board’s hands—a board that now sought to dissolve the company, against Brooke’s wishes.

  Dammit, Dad.

  ****

  “Feels weird up here, doesn’t it?” Mr. Alarawn asked.

  “I thought riding shotgun would feel more grown up.”

  “You’ll think that about a lot of things,” Mr. Alarawn said, patting his daughter’s leg. “Just wait until you get to drive your own XJ.”

  She knew the Jag made him feel like he was in the Old Country—though he had never lived in the UK. Not to mention the Alarawn family wasn’t from England. Pittsburgh was the only home Brooke had.

  From the passenger side of the XJ8, she watched the sleepy houses of Sewickley glide by. She knew them by heart—this was the route they always took to her dance class. The wealthy town, north of the city, was what many of the local elites called home. Alarawn despised them and their place. They were the new destroyers of the Steel City. But Sewickley contained a prestigious studio, and no matter how bad a ballerina the ten-year-old Brooke was, she still received the best.

  They passed a young mother pushing a double stroller. Every piece of her athletic wear matched. She’d put more thought into her workout gear than most Pittsburghers did their work attire. Big puffy headphones were plugged into a Discman.

  Alarawn shook his head. “New money.”

  “Huh?”

  “Pittsburgh. It’s filling up with new money. That woman, she’s part of it. I bet her husband just landed a job at one of the tech startups or UPMC.”

  He often spoke like this to Brooke—about work and the world—but she rarely understood most of what her father was saying.

  “Our family is old money,” he said. “But money isn’t the point, really. Money only goes so far. You see, new money doesn’t care about the city. It only cares about making more.”

  “Why are you talking about money, Daddy?”

  This made her father grin. Without taking his eyes off the road, he said, “I’m not, really. Old-money people like us, we care about different things. Your grandfather, your great-grandfather, and I have spent our lives building something that’s bigger than us. It’s bigger than you. We’ve built Pittsburgh. They don’t understand.” Alarawn jutted his chin at the neighborhood.

  Brooke’s eyes got wide. “You built Pittsburgh?”

  Her dad couldn’t help but laugh. “In a way, yes. Steel made the city great. It made the city thrive. And unlike so many of the companies that started before us, we decide to stay through the bust. This town was good to us in the old days; we’d be traitors if we left when it was in need. Before you were born, there was a time when most of the steel mills moved out. It was a terrible time. Those who could leave, left. And those who stayed had a hard time finding work. Pittsburgh fell apart—now it’s barely limping. But she’ll make it. I was pretty young then, just getting acquainted with the business, really. But your grandfather left it to me. Alarawn Industries is his legacy. This city is his legacy. And it will be yours one day. I’m damn sure not going to leave.” Brooke always blushed when her dad use those words.

  ****

  “What we need right now is penetration,” the chairman nearly shouted.

  The outburst brought Brooke back to the conference room. She bit her lip, holding back laughter.

  “Did you hear me, Ms. Alarawn?” Van Pelt asked.

  “I’m sorry, I was running numbers.” She tapped her temple. “Did you say you really need penetration?”

  The middle-age men in the room chuckled behind their hands. Many of them loved her spunk—and a few despised the chairman.

  Van Pelt’s face was granite. “Do you think this is funny, Ms. Alarawn?”

  Brooke’s body quivered with contempt. “I think this is tragic, Lance.”

  He hated being addressed by his first name, especially during a meeting. The man pulled on his collar, looked around the room, and then toward the large screens on the wall. “Tell us what’s on the table, Fong.” His eyes moved back to Brooke. He almost smiled. Brooke turned her eyes toward the LCD and focuse
d on the elderly Asian man, half a world away.

  He glanced at a legal pad and pushed his glasses up the flat bridge of his nose. “They’re interested. I don’t think they’re willing to meet our number, but if we played with it a bit, they just might bite.”

  Brooke’s perspiration returned. She shouldn’t have been surprised that this conversation had reemerged. Alarawn Industries had struggled since the mid-80s, and many of their peer corporations had made lucrative deals oversees. Selling made fiscal sense. “You’re not hawking my company like a used appliance.” Brooke’s left hand clenched her knee beneath the table. Her perfectly manicured nails left four tiny marks. “That’s a non-negotiable.”

  The chairman of the board couldn’t hold back his delight. “It’s not your company anymore, Alarawn. It’s ours. And you can’t dictate terms to us. We have a responsibility to the shareholders.”

  Brooke had never felt homicidal, not until that moment. “The shareholders? You don’t give a shit about them, do you, Lance? All you care about is your own bottom line. My father, his father, and his father before him built this city. When the rest of steel tucked tail and ran like a bunch of whiny bitches, we stayed. AI always knew this was something bigger than themselves. Pittsburgh needs this business, and I can save it.” Brooke stood, knocking her chair back. “Give me time.”

  A low murmur greeted her response. Several of the board members had been with the company since the old days, had known Brooke since she was a child. She knew they agreed with her, but whether or not they’d confront Van Pelt was another story. All eyes turned to the chairman.

  “Eight months.” Van Pelt removed his glasses and spun them on the table, casually, like this was all a minor detail. He rubbed his eyes. “The board has discussed this, and we decided to give you eight months to turn the company around. We want results, Ms. Alarawn, or Mr. Fong will continue to broker the deal.”

  Brooke turned and left the boardroom. She slammed the door hard enough to shake its frame.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Elijah leaned against the cold brick wall in front of the library. The bus stop allowed for optimal people watching—it was a human zoo. He wasn’t sure if being a historian by discipline made him more attentive to his surroundings, or if he was just a curious person.

  Nevertheless, in times like these, he took in everything. He hadn’t been in Pittsburgh long, but even after a few weeks, people started to look familiar. Not much unlike a bar or restaurant, sidewalks and street corners had their regulars. Among the hipsters, nerds, and hippies, Elijah spotted the woman from the coffee shop. His first reaction was to hide behind the wind guard of the bus stop. But before he could, she spotted him. Her eyes narrowed—or at least they did in his imagination.

  He bolstered his courage and gave it another shot.

  “You again?” he said.

  “Me again?” she asked, raising her brow.

  “I just wanted to apologize. Sorry about what I said the other day at the coffee shop.”

  Her face lost all expression. “Coffee shop?” She cocked her head to the side. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  Elijah considered jumping in front of the oncoming 61A. Academic hubris makes faculty see themselves as utterly unforgettable. “Oh, right. Last week. Kiva Han. I made an ass of myself.”

  The woman’s expression broke; something between a giggle and laugh emerged. “I’m sorry. That was cruel. Of course I remember. I know it’s probably surprising, but it’s not every day a stranger calls me hot.”

  Yes, it is surprising, he thought.

  “And she has a sense of humor too,” Elijah said, as her laughter subsided. “Let’s try this again. I’m Elijah. Elijah Branton.”

  “Much better. And I’m Willa Weil. Postmodern poetry and contemporary women’s fiction.”

  Elijah cocked his head to the side.

  “We’re supposed to share our CVs whenever possible,” she said.

  He liked her. A lot. Her beauty was stunning and she was funny. And poets were kind of sexy, even postmodern ones.

  “My turn. I’m…”

  She put her hand up. “Wait. Let me guess. You are…Economics.” She looked him up and down. “No. You’re far too practical to be an Economics prof. Business Administration, with a concentration in ‘Leadership.’” She made air quotes. “Undergrad division.”

  “What? I am completely offended.” They both laughed.

  “So?”

  “History,” he said “Late nineteenth through mid-twentieth century, with a concentration in industrialization in the Rust Belt…”

  “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.” She cut him off. “Slow it down, tiger. You didn’t even buy me dinner yet. Don’t give your whole resume in the first conversation. Were you going to list your recent publications next?” Her eyes smiled. “There are rules, you know.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, as if she caught him looking—a ludicrous notion, seeing as January in Pittsburgh is sweater weather and parka weather and long underwear weather, especially if you’re always waiting for a bus.

  “I can only assume that you’re tenured, maybe tenure-track,” Elijah said.

  “Nope. Proud adjunct, going on half a decade. And I don’t mean to change that either.”

  Single mom?

  Rex pulled up in a tinted Lincoln Town Car before he could ask. “That’s me,” he said, nodding at the car.

  “Whoa. The adjunct life has been good to you? If I didn’t know better, I’d guess upper level administration.”

  “I struck it big in Internet marketing before going to grad school. You know—dot-com shit.”

  She finally laughed with him, not at him.

  Elijah pulled a card from the only institution that gave him cards. “Here. If you want to hang out or something. I’m new in town, my only friends are the nighttime stockers in the library.”

  Willa looked at the card, then waved it. “Speaking of stalkers.” She slipped it into the pocket of her vintage wool jacket. “I might just do that.”

  ****

  “Making friends, are we?” Rex asked without turning his head.

  “Even a man of history has desires,” Elijah said. “I can’t live entirely in the past.”

  When he first met Mr. Bertoldo, Elijah was far too focused on Brooke to really make much of him. Sitting next to him in the car gave the historian another opportunity to size him up, and there was a lot of him to size. Rex was tall and shockingly broad. Even in the luxury vehicle, he seemed to barely fit. While it was hard to tell what shape he was in underneath his designer suit, judging solely by the thickness of his neck, Elijah could see he was no weakling. Brooke had called him her assistant, but Elijah assumed he was the muscle.

  I doubt he’d even fit in my Subaru.

  Sitting next to a man that size prompted Elijah to consider his own physique. In high school he had been painfully thin—a source of great embarrassment. School was designed for people built like Rex, not 130-pound pushovers. Subconsciously, Elijah still saw himself that way, although a decade of bad habits and sedentary living had increased his weight by at least fifty pounds. Those fifty pounds certainly weren’t solid, and Elijah remained intimidated by those who looked like his driver.

  They drove mostly in silence; some local sports talk station filled the car. Elijah barely followed the rapid descriptions of games, players, and statistics. Sports wasn’t really his thing. A call-in segment began, which only increased his confusion. Ninety percent of the calls were lamenting the Steelers getting knocked out of the playoffs by the Broncos—nearly three weeks prior. The show was a mix of Monday morning quarterbacking and Pittsburgh therapy. Elijah always thought the Boston accent couldn’t be beat, until an enthusiastic caller yelled into the phone. “Yinz guys know the deal. In a play like that, you gotta throw dahntahn. What was Big Ben thinkin? Irregardless, now we gotta wait a whole nother year. Eh, at least we got the Buccos, am I right?”

  They drove south, putting distance between themsel
ves and Oakland. Crossing the Monongahela River, they entered Homestead. Once a thriving industrial area, the town survived as a shadow of its former glory. Rows upon rows of houses, previously supported by the steel empires of the twentieth century, now lay empty. Maybe a tenth of its peak population remained.

  While Elijah could understand this town’s tragic decline in an abstract sense, he nevertheless loved the sight of abandoned buildings. It wasn’t something that he readily mentioned, but it was probably this very thing that first drew him to study the Rust Belt. Unlike much of the country, Pittsburgh contained ruins. For a historian, the tangible presence of a distant past proved irresistible. Elijah loved books—they provided a window into another world. But books and bricks…that provided a doorway.

  Rex cursed at the radio, interrupting Elijah’s reverie. “Fucking moron. They don’t know what they have in Tomlin.”

  The bald man gripped the wheel tighter, his jaw clenched. “What do they expect? A ring every season? Guy pulled a playoff run off of a fourth string running back who was still sucking his mother’s tit, and no Roethlisberger for half the season.”

  Idiot.

  “That’s why I don’t really get into sports,” Elijah said with as much disdain as he could manage. “It’s far too childish.”

  Elijah looked at his driver, hoping he’d understood his joke. Rex returned the stare. His eyes were ice, and his lips curled into a sneer. Elijah swallowed hard and quickly turned to break eye contact. The man laughed and turned the radio up.

  Moving through the residential district, Rex piloted them into an open, almost rural space. As steel moved out, trees and wildlife pushed back in. The twentieth century was undeniably man’s century, but in the twenty-first—at least on this plot of dirt—nature was making a comeback. The verdant patch of land would almost be described as lovely, if it weren’t for the rusted heap of blight that rose up from it.