by LE Barbant
Still glued to the news, Rhett could see Paul in his peripheral vision, wringing his hands. He whispered in Rhett’s ear, “This is it. It’s happening.”
Rhett couldn’t contain his smile. “Just liked you called it, brother. And it’s going to be perfect.”
Rhett dropped cash on the bar for Lenny.
“See you next week, Rhett?” the barkeep asked.
“We’ll see, Lenny. We will see,” Rhett replied, stepping out into the afternoon sun.
CHAPTER THREE
The air was thick with condensation in the dank, low-ceilinged basement. A single bare bulb compensated for the dim light filtering in from outside. The cellar was empty except for a Pittsburgh toilet in the corner, an old-time single-speed bicycle with deflated tires, and Willa’s new gear.
She had set up a gym, small enough to fit the fifteen-by-twenty footprint, large enough to transform her into the woman she needed to become.
Standing in front of an old full-length mirror salvaged from the back alley trash, she inspected the work accomplished in eight short weeks. The academic had always been rail-thin. Some might have mistaken her physique for fitness, but that was woefully inaccurate. She was simply built like a waif, a fact that had never bothered her. But Willa’s security in her body shattered, along with many other things, during the melee at PPG Place. Afterwards, the magician dedicated her time into shaping her frail body into a killing machine.
Killing was always on her mind.
May marked a pause in her nearly ten years of teaching. After her final class last semester, she had said goodbye to Elijah and left a note and her cat at Chem’s apartment. The message was simple: She needed to get away, to clear her head. Between the death of her prize student, Sean Moretti, the revelation about her mom’s brutal murder, and her grandfather’s sacrifice to save her and her friends, the men understood her melancholy. They let her go without protest.
“Where’re you heading?” Elijah had asked.
“I don’t know. Pretty sure I’m going north. Rent a cabin near the Finger Lakes. I always liked it up there.”
She had forced a smile and the lie. She had no desire to leave the city.
Willa moved into her grandfather’s tiny apartment in Squirrel Hill. Sitting in the alley on the back side of a larger house, it was modest but reflected Edwin’s tastes and temperaments. He had moved there soon after finding his daughter-in-law, Willa’s mother, dead in his own home. The man couldn’t stomach returning to the scene of the heinous crime. Although Edwin was secular, the Jewish neighborhood of Squirrel Hill made him feel at ease and connected to his roots.
The poet-magician squeezed her fists and tightened her thighs. Muscles appeared in places they had never been before. Bending her right hand up to her chest, she felt the biceps tense up and burn. Patches of red, darkest on her elbows, bled up toward her wrists. Her knees and shins were similarly marked—an inevitable consequence of the training.
Willa should have been dead.
Marching into the office tower was a suicide mission. If it weren’t for the others, she’d be six feet under with nothing to show for it. Her life would be marked only by a Dickinson poem on her tombstone and another stray cat roaming the streets. But her hand had been forced. Rage, elicited from the knowledge that the Alarawn henchman had killed her student, was too much to control. Everything came loose. And Willa was arrogant enough—or foolish enough—to trust in her undeveloped abilities.
If it weren’t for Edwin Weil’s final show of magical strength, she and her friends would have been killed. After her grandfather’s death, she went dark—underground. She needed focus, not only to develop her magic, but also to craft her body and hone the skills necessary for fighting. She imagined herself as a battle mage of old. And when she was ready, she would seek revenge—for Sean, for Edwin, and for her mother.
Tae kwon do was the first of the arts she tested, but it wasn’t right. Its flair might have reflected a beauty she once appreciated, but her desire transcended aesthetics. Then she moved to aikido and one form of karate but found them too passive. She discovered a match in Muay Thai—a martial art brutal enough to fit her purposes like a glove.
Her knees and elbows grew sore from the jutting attacks she performed day after day. The heavy bag swinging from the old wooden rafters took a beating, yet remained faithful to the task. The poet-magician enacted the progression, habitually grinding it into her bones: jab, spin, knee, elbow—turn for a spell. Her magic and her hate sustained her. She found the ancient dictum accurate: mens sana in corpore sano. A sound mind in a sound body.
She practiced her movements over and over, Rex’s large, bald head filling her mind. Sweat ran down her back. This rote practice, the liturgy of attack, was a construction. She knew it was only the beginning of programming her body and mind to react together as she traded her calling as a teacher for the guild of martial arts. She knew that she could never hope to master both, but modest physical skills coupled with her unique gifts made her an effective weapon.
****
The likelihood of running into Elijah or Chem on the streets of Oakland was slim, but she refused to chance it. Heavy sunglasses and a Pirates hat pulled low masked her identity. Stepping off the bus, she made a beeline for the closest alley. Avoiding the main arteries of Forbes and Fifth, she meandered over to the Cathedral of Learning—the University of Pittsburgh’s sanctuary for the religion of knowledge.
Summer in Oakland brought change. While the university offered more between-term classes than most small colleges did throughout the entire year, the campus—in comparison to the school year—felt empty.
Willa slid into an elevator on the Cathedral’s ground floor. She pulled the key from her bag and ran her finger against its cold, jagged teeth. Fitting it into the elevator panel, she pressed forty-two and watched the number light. Few had access to the top floor of the Cathedral, and since the battle at PPG, its only permanent resident was gone. Edwin, who’d held emeritus status at the university for years, occupied a tiny hidden office at the end of the hall, nested at the Cathedral’s peak. He had occupied that space for longer than she could remember. In Willa’s mind, he had always been an old man in that place.
Standing before the office door, she drew another key. This one was new, at least to her. Edwin had left her everything, including his office and personal affects. She had no plans for it, and wasn’t even sure what drew her there that summer day.
She touched the knob, feeling for the familiar tingle of magic.
There was nothing. Edwin was gone.
The office still smelled of his aftershave.
Her eyes cut to the massive bookcases leaning in from the outer wall. She smiled. As usual, his library had a new arrangement. She wondered if Edwin had determined one last iteration before his final battle. It wasn’t chronology or geography and it certainly wasn’t alphabetical. She guessed the rows of books conveyed some subtle theme, masked to even the most astute readers. She laughed, wondering if his constant reordering indicated pride or mere whimsy.
“What were you up to, Grandpa?” she whispered into the empty office.
She shuffled through the documents scattered across his desk. Her grandfather’s familiar handwriting filled reams of paper, mostly personal notes on books and poems. She sifted through the pages trying to find something out of the ordinary—whatever that meant for the eccentric man.
Willa’s fingers ran across the littered workspace as she paced the desk’s width. Terminating at a bookshelf, she took time to admire the photographs—the aging professor shaking hands with the luminaries of the literary world. The size of his collection never failed to impress her. Her grandfather had gotten around. Scanning the frames, she stopped at a picture she hadn’t previously noticed. Most of the heirlooms were of Edwin and the greats, but this one was a rare group photo. Edwin stood off to the side, his dour countenance in place. The others smiled broadly. She squinted trying to discern if any of the faces were recog
nizable.
They weren’t. Or at least she didn’t think so.
She lifted the frame from its shelf and collapsed into her grandfather’s wooden chair. With shaking hands, she turned the latches on the back and eased the aged particleboard out of its place. Flipping the frame, she gave it a little shake. The backing and photo dropped out into her hand.
Sliding her glasses onto the bridge of her nose, she inspected the back of the photo. All it said was: Vox Populi, 1984.
Willa had found the clue she had been searching for.
****
“No, I’m fine really. I’m glad it’s summer, I just need a little space to decompress from everything,” Willa said into the phone.
Simon Weil’s voice chirped through the speaker, spanning thousands of miles in mere seconds. “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t make it out for the service. You know that, well, your grandfather and I had our issues.” The voice on the other end of the phone paused. The tension grew. “And, with the circumstances, it was all just a little too hard to come to terms with.”
“He’d understand, Dad,” Willa said.
“What?”
“Grandpa. He got it. He always blamed himself for what happened to Mom.” Willa stopped, wondering just how much she ought to tell her father. “Dad, after Mom, um, died, he changed. Grandpa threw himself into his studies—his academic studies. He told me I needed to not get involved in the affairs of the world, that it was all too dangerous.”
An uncomfortable snicker came across the line. “Well, that’s something. You should listen to him.”
“That’s the thing. I can’t. I know you hate it, but I’ve been given a power, a power few people have. And I intend to use it.”
“Willa…”
“No, Dad. Listen—for once.” Willa bit her lip. Her eyes burned. “Bad things have happened. They happened to you, to us. Hiding won’t make them stop, but maybe I can. I’m not going to let the bad things continue.” Willa’s father was unresponsive, so she continued, “Look, I called because I have a question for you. Do you know what Vox Populi means?
The phone stayed silent. “Dad?”
“You break my heart, you know that? I think you might just be a little too much like your mother.”
She could feel his smile from miles away.
“OK, I’ll tell you what it means. I know I can’t stop you, but I want you to consider this more before you jump headlong into something that could get you hurt—even killed.”
“I will, Dad.”
“OK.” Another long pause. “Vox Populi was a group your grandfather formed. They were crazy, arrogant men who considered themselves the guardians of Pittsburgh. Mostly wizards. All faculty. And nearly all dead.”
Willa paused, praying for the right answer to her question.
“What do you mean nearly?”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Welcome to Voodoo,” Tim held his hands high, showing off the brew pub. An old fire hall turned bar, the building had double roll-up doors that opened the industrial layout to outdoor seating. “Helluva a place to drop some good coin on a hand-crafted pint. Naturally, there’s plenty of dollar draft dive bars around if that’s more your style, but this is a homecoming party. Let’s get bent in style.”
Elijah warmed to the celebration. Moving to Pittsburgh had a feel of permanence. It was the first time he had chosen a place for reasons other than its academic possibilities. There were plenty of adjunct options—and enough institutions that he might just find a few term appointments. Plus, his research focused on the rust belt, so he would be living in the midst of his academic context.
But he didn’t choose the city for the classroom.
The city chose him.
Elijah sat across from Chem at a mile-long table constructed of recycled pallet wood. The place had a cool vibe while lacking in pretension. This could be his spot. A chalkboard reaching the ceiling filled the wall behind the bar. It was covered in Voodoo’s craft beer selection scratched out in bright sidewalk chalk. A National song hummed in the background.
“An IPA for the historian,” Tim said. “And a stout for Chem. Dark, like you.”
“You two and your race jokes.”
Elijah grimaced, even as he saw Tim pass Chem a wink. “I was referring to your soul, not your skin.”
The three sat in silence. Sipping their beer, they took in the crowd that trickled into the brewery. Two women, old enough not to be undergrads, pulled up stools at the bar. Elijah wondered if they were waiting for dates or looking for some. He couldn’t help but consider the possibilities, though there were more important things to attend to.
Tim interrupted his reverie.
“So, Eli.”
“Elijah.”
“Sure. Elijah,” Tim drew out the name, “Chem tells me you’re more than meets the eye. No shit?”
Elijah took a sip of the beer and relished its understated hoppiness. “No shit.”
“So, you can turn into this metal monster thing anytime you want then?”
Elijah caught a glance from one of the ladies at the bar. She gave a half-smile and tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Not exactly. And ever since that night last winter I haven’t felt too much of anything. Granted, I haven’t really wanted to.” He glanced back toward the bar. The blonde was looking again. On eye contact, she turned to her friend. They laughed.
“You talking with us or them?” Chem asked, with a nod to the bar.
“Huh?” Elijah turned back to the table. He shoved his hand through his hair. “Sorry. You know, it’s been a while.”
“I’m just messing with you.” Chem laughed. “Tim wants to know, though. He’s been bugging me about that night for weeks now, and I told him to wait to get the story from the horse’s mouth.”
Trying to read his eyes, Elijah looked at the large man. He still wasn’t sure if he could trust the soldier, even if Chem vouched for him. He wasn’t even sure how much he should trust Chem—particularly after what he did to Elijah’s blood. Chem’s potion nearly destroyed the city. If it weren’t for the chemist’s meddling, Brooke would still be alive.
“We think we’ve narrowed it down to an accident I had just a half-mile from here in the old Alarawn Mill. I don’t remember it, but I woke up the next day beat to hell and feeling generally out of sorts.” Elijah unconsciously ran his hand over his chest. His scar, in the shape of an old Slavic symbol, lay just beneath his shirt. “That’s when the strange stuff started.”
“Strange stuff?” Tim leaned in.
“Yeah, I felt like I was, well, not myself. Almost as if I wasn’t alone. I had weird cravings and feelings. Foreign curses—words I’d never heard before—kept slipping out. When we fought at the tower, it was like I shared my body with another, like there was a passenger inside of me. I think much of the strength came from him.”
Tim leaned back and took a long swallow from his pint glass. He glanced over at the bar. “Looks like you lost your shot, Colossus.”
Three frat-looking bros leaned against the bar and loomed over the girls. It was a familiar story. He flirted from a distance and contented himself with images of what could have been.
“Par for the course,” Elijah said. “Anyway, the passenger left after that night. Like he finished whatever he came to do. I can feel the power inside of me, but I don’t know if I could…well…make it happen again.”
Chem slapped his arm. “But that’s the first thing we’re working on, learning to channel the transformation. I’ve run your blood enough times to know it’s still weird as shit. We just need to learn how to bring it out, how to control it. That’s where the power is.”
“You know about self-control, Chem?” Tim asked with a slight sneer. “With your dealings, I’m not so sure about that.”
Elijah could feel a tension grow between the men, though he had no idea what it was.
“A man’s gotta make a living.” Chem gave him a sideways glanced and then looked over to the bar. The three men
were still flirting, but the girls were trying their best to blow them off.
“These douche bags,” Chem said. “Always the same. Don’t know why the bartenders don’t step in.”
“They will if the guys get obnoxious enough,” Tim said. “Max, the one working the bar, he’s a good dude. Probably wants to make sure the ladies aren’t just playing hard to get. The bar is a battlefield.”
Elijah looked up and caught the blonde’s attention. Her eyes communicated a silent plea.
Finishing his beer, Elijah stood.
“I think we should do something.”
“I’m in,” Tim said, jumping off his stool.
He advanced on the group, with Elijah hanging back just off his shoulder. The blue-collar man looked bigger than ever. He gave Max a glance, and the barkeep nodded back.
“Everybody OK over here?” Tim asked, eyeing up each of the guys.
“Yeah, man, we’re good. How you doing tonight?” the ringleader asked. His eyes were narrow, words slightly slurred. This wasn’t their first stop on the bar crawl.
Elijah saw him take a half-step back. He may have been smarter than he looked.
“Oh, we’re real good. A beautiful summer night like this, how couldn’t you be? Right, ladies?”
The girls at the bar smiled. “Yeah,” one said. “Nice night to go out for a drink and be left alone.”
“You hear that, boys?” Tim asked. “They want to be left alone. Time to walk.” Tim nodded toward the door.
The ringleader laughed. “Nah, I think we’ll stay. We’re having a good time here.”
The blonde said, “We’re not. Why don’t you guys find a different spot?”
“What? Is it that time of the month, honey? When should I come back? Three, four days?”
The woman’s mouth dropped open.
Tim landed a hand on the frat boy’s Izod button-up, which hung untucked over a pair of salmon shorts. “OK, you’ll apologize for that. Just because you’re a dick doesn’t mean you have to behave like one.”
