After the Golden Age

MARK and Arthur both told her what they’d learned from the poolside kidnappers. They weren’t part of the so-called Strad Brothers, the group that masterminded the heist at the symphony gala. They were, however, working for the Strad Brothers. Criminal subcontractors, which would have been laughable if Celia hadn’t seen that kind of organization in action. It hinted at a larger conspiracy. The details were murky. They’d only been instructed to take Celia West alive. A new conspiracy, with her at the center?

The evening news didn’t mention her, thankfully. They had a bigger story. She and Mark lounged on her sofa, watching.

The pretty anchorwoman read her cue seriously. “Our top story, a robbery has taken place at the Commerce City Botanical Gardens. The perpetrators are believed to be the same group of thieves that stole four priceless Stradivarius instruments from the symphony gala last week.”

Celia turned the volume up.

“The thieves’ target this time? Three prize-winning koi. Because of their breeding potential, these koi were estimated to be worth tens of thousands of dollars.”

Mark huffed. “Fish? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Witnesses say the thieves took the fish from the Garden’s Japanese pond, an ornamental landscape that forms the central attraction of the Garden’s collection. Apparently, the fish were taken alive. Garden officials expressed some hope that they could be recovered in the same condition.”

They should be so lucky. This gang obviously knew what it was doing and chose its targets carefully: unusual, high-ticket items that would be impossible to unload on the conventional marketplace.

“They’re making a statement, not robbing for money,” she said.

“That means there’s a pattern. It makes them easier to catch.”

Both robberies coincided with her kidnapping attempts—just like her kidnapping off the bus coincided with a city-wide crime spree. She didn’t think she rated classification as a valuable cultural artifact. But in all three cases, she’d provided a distraction. Law enforcement and the supers had been looking at her, not at any robberies.

Until the Strad Brothers were caught, this was likely to happen again.

* * *

Now that she knew what to look for, she could spot her bodyguards. The next day, gazing upward, she caught a glimpse of Breezeway jumping from one building to the next, across the street from where she waited for the bus. He had a good view of her and all the streets around her. She almost waved hello.

Back in college, Celia had taken perverse delight in walking across campus alone in the middle of the night. As a freshman she’d gotten tired of the women’s groups and security activists insisting that no girl should ever venture forth into the darkness without a can of mace and a uniformed cop escorting her. That reeked of regressive Victorian thinking. Celia made a point of walking alone, with enough of a badass attitude that no one ever approached her.

One night, a breeze kicked up autumn leaves as she marched from the library to her dorm, half a mile away. It was a nice night for a walk. Her peasant skirt swished around her legs, her oversize cotton tunic was cozy. In another month the air would be too cold for comfort.

Or in another hour it would be too cold. The breeze turned into a gust, a harbinger of a storm. It whipped her hair into her face, she had to hold her skirt down, and she started leaning into the wind to walk.

Across the street, the trees weren’t blowing at all.

Her feet slipped, and she yelped. Cushioned by a whirlwind pounding around her, she floated a few feet off the ground. Her backpack slipped off her shoulder. She flailed her arms; it felt almost like swimming. The pocket of wind held her like a hand. Thank God she was wearing tights; her skirt tossed around her hips.

From above her, a man floated down, arms outstretched, riding the breeze like it was a surfboard. He wore the unmistakable sleek costume of a superhuman vigilante—or villain. A strip of silk ran along the insides of his arms, down his torso, rippling like sails. He wore a mask on the top part of his face. His frame was thin—barely postadolescent. He had overgrown brown hair and a shit-eating grin.

Celia struggled, but she only flopped like a fish out of water.

“You’re Celia West?” he said, calmly hovering before her.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Hm,” he murmured, like he was all macho or something. “I expected you to be more…”

“More what?”

“I don’t know. More something.”

“What do you want with me?”

“You’re going to tell me how to join the Olympiad.”

She rolled her eyes. This was the most dangerous type out there: smart enough to track her down, and stupid enough to think she was worth something. Eager enough to want to save the world—but not a clue as to what he was trying to save. To him it was all one supercharged cinematic adventure.

“You think I know how? I can’t help you.”

“But Captain Olympus is your father.”