by LE Barbant
He and his friends could barely walk, let alone fight. He pulled Willa and Chem in close, trying in vain to shield their bodies.
A brilliant flash blinded them. Standing between Elijah and Alarawn was an overweight, bearded man in full academic regalia—cap and all. The gown and white hood flapped in the wind.
The man raised his hands overhead, as if to give a benediction.
The creature sprinted at him, snarling and hissing.
The don began to chant:
“Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.”
His final line sung, the man let forth a barbaric cry and charged into the giant creature.
A massive explosion shook the square. Its power knocked the three adjuncts over.
Willa was the first to her feet. “Grandpa!” she screamed into the empty night air.
But there was no response.
The hail ceased.
A light snow fell in its stead.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The desk on the far side of the room sat empty. Most of the students hardly noticed the absence, but for Willa it was cloaked in sadness. At times she would glance over, praying he would mysteriously appear.
But, of course, Sean was gone.
“Poetry continues to teach me, to move me. Each year, I become a different person—the lines are different—they change as I change.”
The basketball player and his doting fans didn’t hear her. A mousy girl in the front row continued taking notes, jotting her own lines of poetry in the margins, but the rest of the class seemed generally numbed to the core. Their disengagement broke Willa’s heart, but they had to find inspiration on their own. Her power wasn’t able to make people love learning. But she had discovered that it was meant for something.
Willa wouldn’t be teaching in the fall.
“I pray that you will remember, that as life rolls past—in difficulty or joy—poetry is there to comfort and inspire. The lines of the bards are invaluable. I leave you all with this:
“Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.”
The students filed out, most with little more than a nod to the part-time instructor. Their brief foray into the world of poetic verse had ended and they all had more important things to do. Final projects, end-of-the-semester parties, summer job applications: these things took precedence.
Over the final months Willa had realigned her priorities, as well as her expectations. It was time for a change.
****
Willa pivoted from the counter directly into a customer waiting behind her. Coffee rolled over the lip of her mug, and scalded her bare hand.
“Shit.”
“Déjà vu.”
A smile spread on Willa’s face as she looked up at the historian. He looked exhausted, but seemed strangely unbothered by that fact.
“Hey,” she said, grinning like a fool. “It’s really good to see you.”
Since the battle at PPG Place, she had seen him only a few times. She would never admit it, but avoidance had become her modus operandi. Elijah and Chem represented loss, and there were plenty of reminders around without adding them to the mix.
The poet and the historian found a table near the window. The early May sun warmed her thin frame. She watched Elijah’s medallion sway over his slightly wrinkled button-up.
“You’re wearing it,” she said.
“Yeah, I thought it was time to embrace who I am—what I’ve become.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, I’ve decided to stay in Pittsburgh. Piece together enough classes to keep food on the table. I’m thinking I can do some good around here.”
Willa’s eyes widened. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. I’ve realized how easily we become entangled in a place when we get involved. It’s time to stop being so objective, I guess.”
Willa chuckled. “Funny, coming from a historian.”
“If the last couple months have taught me anything it’s that history can be personal. It has to be.” He paused. “I’ve also thought a lot about Brooke since that night.”
Willa looked down; her eyes stung.
She pictured her grandfather and the monster he died defeating.
“I know it hurts,” Elijah continued. “You won’t believe this, but Brooke Alarawn was a good person. Her intentions were noble—no matter how misguided. Chem’s serum changed her, and we all got caught in the middle of it.” Elijah paused and felt the gravity. “I’ll never forget what your grandfather gave for us.”
Willa looked up, and nodded. “I’m sure it was important for him. Paying back the universe for past missteps, or something like that. That last poem he used, I think he meant it for me. I think he wanted me to know that his decision was his own, that we shouldn’t feel guilty about his death.”
Though she said it to comfort the historian, she also knew that it was true. And Willa didn’t feel guilty about Edwin’s death.
She felt angry.
Elijah took a sip from his coffee. “So, what about you? What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to take some time. My powers can be used for good, but I need to get control, develop them. I know the path now, but for a while, I need to walk it alone.”
Sadness grew in Elijah’s tired eyes. He reached across the table, and placed his hands over hers. “You don’t need to be alone.”
Willa wanted to accept the historian’s words, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Sean. About Edwin. About her mother. Someone was responsible for their deaths, and Willa would find out who. But the risks she planned to take were too great for Elijah, and she refused to make him a party to her vengeance.
“I’m sorry. I have to go,” Willa said, glancing at her watch. “It’s good to see you, Elijah.”
“Yeah. Stay safe.”
Willa smiled through pursed lips.
She ran her delicate hand across the historian’s back and then left the coffee shop.
EPILOGUE
Two men in perfectly pressed suits walked across the main dining room of the upscale, South Side restaurant. They weaved through the kitchen and down a back set of stairs. A low ceiling topped the tight hallway. The air was musty and damp.
Passing storage rooms and racks of foodstuffs, the bald man in the front finally rapped his knuckles on a solid oak door.
It wasn’t a secret knock, nor was it casual.
It demanded entry.
“Come,” a muffled voiced said from the other side.
The room was nothing like the hallway—ornate and lit with warm, indirect lighting. It had a sweet smell. Deep reds and blacks gave it an air of importance. A pool table and wet bar on one side made it look like some overdone man-cave. Cribs, Pittsburgh edition.
Across from the bar, a man reclined on an overstuffed leather couch. His feet were propped up on a table. Ice cubes, swimming in brown liquor, filled the tumbler in his hand. Age seemed lost on him, though he must have been somewhere between forty-five and sixty. Turning over a hardbound volume, he dropped his feet to the floor and stood with a certain ease.<
br />
“Gentlemen, welcome. It seems things got a little out of hand.” The man nodded at a copy of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette that sat tri-folded on the coffee table.
Rex laughed. “Out of hand? Everything went precisely as expected.”
“Really?” the man asked, behind raised eyebrows.
“Of course,” Rex replied. “Why do you think I convinced Alarawn to hire the historian? Do you think all of this could have happened by chance?”
The ageless man joined Rex’s laughter.
“Well, then. Sit down, both of you. Tell me more about your masterful orchestration.”
Rex’s laughter ceased. “After you.” He spread his hand out toward the seat in deference.
The man dropped onto the couch.
In one practiced move, Rex reached into his jacket and drew a Sig Pro. He sank three rounds into the chest of the man on the couch. Then he turned to his partner, whose mouth was wide open.
“What the hell?”
“Had to be done,” Rex said.
“But…”
“And so does this.”
He turned the gun, point blank, and shot one 9mm round through his partner’s forehead.
Rex wiped the gun, tossed it on the couch, and turned to leave the building.
Rain fell hard on his shoulders as he walked the streets of the Steel City.
****
Dear Heroes,
Thanks for reading The Catalyst. We had a blast writing the story, and things only pick up from here for our heroes! Want to see what happens next with Elijah, Willa, and Chem? Your just a few pages away from The Crucible.
Sign up here for updates from the authors. If you join their mailing list, you’ll receive Willa’s Spellbook for free.
This is a REALLY cool companion to The Catalyst. It includes the spells that Willa is studying and her reflections on poetry, life, and the events of the book. Chris and Lee have been calling it the director’s cut.
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See you back in the Steel City,
Chris and Lee
PS:
Looking for something fun, fast, and thrilling? Check out Chris and Lee’s thriller series, The Devil’s Due.
Here’s what people are saying:
“Great read, very fast paced, loved the story! I just felt like I could never put it down. A very suspenseful action novel!” Amazon five-star reviewer
This one is a bit longer, but EXACTLY what we were hoping for:
“I was pleasantly surprised by this book. I understand the author had just started publishing a year ago but this was already his fourth book and first of a new series. This one fascinated me enough to try out and I was not disappointed. The story itself goes back to something I crave in my favorites, which is to have something of the fantastic/paranormal/legendary genre happening within a somewhat normal setting. The author(s) did a great job of weaving in and out of the hero’s mysterious back story, which we still don't fully know, while distracting the reader with an immediate issue which needs dealt with…Plus this is a fast read. I technically started it over a week ago when I was just taking a peek in passing since I didn't have my other books with me at that time. That peek turned into the first 25% in about an hour. However, I had to put it down to finish my other books before coming back to it this week which only took another two days to read. Now I'm anxious to see what takes place next and find out more of our hero's history!” Amazon Five-Star Reviewer
Sound interesting? Grab The Devil’s Due here.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
L. E. Barbant is co-host of the remarkably mediocre Part-Time Writers Podcast. When he’s not writing (or struggling to pay the bills with his day job) Lee spends his time reading everything from Greek dramas to zombie thrillers, babysitting his four monstrous nephews, and wishing he could fly. The Catalyst is his debut novel but if his superhero career doesn’t pan out, he’s planning on giving full-time writing a shot.
He lives outside of Pittsburgh with his lovely wife and a cat named Cat.
C.M. Raymond holds a PhD in philosophy, which qualifies him to write superhero stories and not much else. His home is in a river valley of Western Pennsylvania. When he’s not reading and writing, he loves to spend time with his family in the woods and wilds or the city streets. Before writing The Catalyst, C.M. penned a middle grade/teen serialized fiction series called Arcanum Island, first for his sweet daughter, then for the general public. It’s fast, fun, and full of adventure.
THE CRUCIBLE
By LE Barbant and CM Raymond
First Edition
Copyright © Smoke and Steel Books
April, 2016
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people or events are entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
The Crucible is dedicated to the city of Pittsburgh, where heroes are born.
PROLOGUE
Oh, God, please.
Rob Vinton hadn’t spoken to a higher power since the last election cycle. Four years ago, he prayed for the life he always wanted.
Now, his lips moved for the only life he had.
Vinton spun his weight to the left and skidded around the corner of a building like an 80s-era cartoon character. Metal trash cans rattled as he slapped them to gain his balance. He splashed through puddles in the back alley potholes. The air hung damp from the late evening rain.
A three-piece suit and wingtips weren’t built for speed, but the out-of-shape 40-something aimed to break his high school mile record.
He ran with everything he had, until everything he had wasn’t enough.
“Shit,” Rob yelled. The alley terminated at a brick wall.
Unlike the thriller movies Vinton was so fond of, there was no fire escape to climb, no broken windows to crawl through, and he certainly couldn’t fight like Jason Bourne.
One similarity existed: He was being hunted.
Making himself as small as possible, Vinton crouched in the corner behind a dirty box spring, the only piece of cover available in the dark alley. The smell of rotting garbage filled his nostrils.
The clanging of metal on concrete pierced the night air. Vinton held his breath. His heart thumped in his chest. A giant, silhouetted in the street lamps, stepped into view. Its slow, laboring steps shook the ground. The monster passed by with great intent, seeking its prey.
Rob Vinton reached for his phone and pushed the power button in hopes that he could pull just enough juice to make a distress call. He cursed himself for leaving it unplugged. The Android symbol came to life as the creature turned toward him. Its features were unclear, but the red glowing cracks permeating its body were unmistakable.
The beast took a heavy step forward; its form loomed larger than life.
“Come on, come on.”
Warning: 2% Battery Life flashed at the man.
He swiped for an emergency call, and prayed again.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“Thank God. I’m trapped. The metal monster. It’s after me,” Rob Vinton whispered into his dying phone.
“Sir, you need to speak up.”
“I can’t. It’s…” A giant hand grabbed the box spring—Rob’s tiny shelter—and threw it down the alley. Rob lay exposed. He looked up into the glowing red eyes of the creature born from hell.
“Your work is over,” the monster said with a growl.
“No,” Rob screamed.
“Sir, you need to speak up.”
The monster raised its fists and dropped them on its victim.
It struck again and again, until there was little more than dental records and a stray fingerprint to identify the lifeless b
ody of Robert Vinton.
PART ONE
Cruelty has a Human Heart
And Jealousy a Human Face
Terror the Human Form Divine
And Secrecy, the Human Dress
The Human Dress, is forged Iron
The Human Form, a fiery Forge.
The Human Face, a Furnace seal’d
The Human Heart, its hungry Gorge.
“A Divine Image,” William Blake
CHAPTER ONE
The yellow moving truck swayed down I-79, barreling towards its destination in the Steel City. Elijah Branton sighed. Pittsburgh had been his residence for a short time, but it already felt like home. The historian gave much over the past nine months—more had been taken away. The events of the previous winter had wed him to the city, a swift and effective consummation, uneasily divorced. Two months in Boston confirmed that Pittsburgh was where he belonged. It was inexplicable, like so many things. Although the scholar in him still despised the unknown, he had decided to trust the feelings drawing him back to Western Pennsylvania.
Chem rode shotgun, and sang along with Froggy, the local country station. He droned, out of tune, with old honky-tonk and new pop hits for most of the drive from New England. Elijah was grateful for his help, but nine hours with the tone-deaf companion made him wonder if it was worth it.
“I never pegged you as a country fan,” Elijah said with a grimace.
“Is that a black joke?” Chem stared through the windshield.
“What? Black joke? No. I just meant…”
“’Cause for your information, there happens to be plenty of brothers who appreciate a little Toby Keith from time to time.”
