Olympiad, tearing open the warehouse that held the Baxter Gang’s main headquarters.
The camera could only follow the Bullet’s progress by tracking a whirlwind that traveled from one end of the building to the other, tossing masked gunmen aside in a storm of dust and debris. Guns flew from their hands and spiraled upward, shattering with the force of movement. It was all the Bullet, Robbie Denton, moving faster than the eye could see, disrupting one enemy attack after another in mere seconds.
Captain Olympus—the Golden Thunderbolt, most powerful man in the world—wore black and gold, and tore down walls with his will. He stood before his target, braced, arms outstretched, and created a hammer of force that crumpled half the building.
Celia’s hands started shaking. The warehouse district was across town. He wasn’t anywhere near here. The news reporter on the scene raved on and on about the spectacular scene, the malevolence of the criminals, the courage of the Olympiad.
She found the remote and turned off the TV.
TWO
THIS was the kind of story that made up West family lore:
When Warren West was six years old, he fell. This wasn’t a stumble and a skinned knee, a crash on a bike, or a roll down the stairs, any of which most kids had suffered by his age. No, this was a fall out of a tree—from the top of a twenty-foot tall oak in City Park. He’d landed on a bent elbow, which should have shattered his arm at the very least. A fall like that should have killed him. But Warren walked away with no injuries. He didn’t even cry. Then, his parents realized he had never skinned his knees or elbows, scratched himself, or gotten a bruise of any kind. He’d only ever cried when he was tired, hungry, or didn’t get what he wanted.
There was something special about Warren.
Celia’s parents went to high school together at the Elmwood Academy, Commerce City’s premier private school, where Celia herself had gone until she dropped out, earning her GED instead. Warren and Suzanne knew
She had a trick she used on guys who came on too strong. She’d touch his hand, give him eyes like she was coming on right back—then really turn on the heat. Within seconds he’d get the hint, usually leaping away with some sort of squeal as her power scorched him.
But Warren just stood there and took it. Her saccharine smile fell, and his eyes got wide. He held her hand and his flesh didn’t burn. He could take the heat.
After that, they taught each other, tested each other, learned to use their powers for more than high-school games. Together, they made a vow: to use their powers for good. Together, they could change the world.
“Come in, Celia.”
Celia entered the office of the elder Kurchanski. Kurchanski was a year from retirement, except that he’d said that every year for the last three, as long as Celia had been with the firm Smith and Kurchanski, Certified Public Accountants. The senior partner’s office had a core of respectability. It had at one point been designed to impress clients: corner windows, leather executive chairs, a vast walnut desk, plush carpeting, wood-paneled walls, and real ferns living in brass pots on the bookshelves between bound tomes of tax law stretching back for decades. No one had bound copies of tax law anymore—everyone subscribed to online databases. But Kurchanski collected the volumes and used them to provide atmosphere. The room had long ago developed a lived-in atmosphere; a newspaper lay discarded over a chair arm, a coat lay slung over the back, and paperwork covered the desk.
He’d called her to his office first thing this morning.
“Do you know the District Attorney’s office has hired the firm to work on the Simon Sito prosecution?” He didn’t look up from the papers on his desk. His was the only office in the firm without a computer.
“Yes, sir,” she said calmly, belying the sinking feeling in her gut. It wasn’t a surprise. Smith and Kurchanski was a pioneer in the field of forensic accounting and had worked with the DA before. The case against Simon Sito —aka the Destructor—was possibly the most extensive criminal prosecution in Commerce City’s history.
But surely the firm didn’t have to involve her in it.
“DA Bronson has specifically requested that you be assigned to work on the case.”
She was the firm’s youngest CPA. She was inexperienced, definitely, but more than that she was far too personally involved. Conflict of interest? Kurchanski had no idea.
She was too desperate to keep the nervous waver out of her voice. “That isn’t a good idea. He knows that isn’t a good idea, doesn’t he?”
He finally looked at her as he leaned back in his chair. “I’d have thought you’d jump at a chance to work on this.”
She wanted to stay as far away from it as possible, for so many reasons. “I’d just as soon keep those memories buried. Not to mention the possible conflict of interest. The firm has plenty of impartial accountants—why would the DA even ask for me?”
“I imagine your connections make for good press.”
The daughter of Captain Olympus helping to prosecute the Olympiad’s greatest adversary? Good press, indeed.
Could she get out of this? How much vacation time did she have saved?
“Celia, if you’re really adamant about not taking this case, I’ll tell the DA no. But I’m sure he has a good reason for asking for you, and I’m sure you can handle it. I have to confess, I can’t ignore the publicity this will generate for the firm. As a favor to me, will you take the case?”
Put like that, she couldn’t refuse. “All right, sir.”
“Thank you. I knew we could count on you.”
She left his office wondering what her parents would think of this.
After all the news from last night, Analise insisted they have lunch together.
Celia met Analise by accident four years ago. On a bright spring day, Celia was climbing the steps to the university library, a bag of books weighing her down. Ahead, the door slammed open and a woman stormed out as if the building were on fire. Celia didn’t see any smoke or hear any alarms. The woman, about Celia’s age, brown- skinned, cornrow braids tied back with a bandana, seemed to not even notice her on the stairs. She plowed into Celia, who stumbled back against the metal railing and managed to grab it before she fell.
The woman bounced away in the other direction, dropping the loose books she carried. She barked some complaint as she retrieved them.
Celia knew her. Roughly, distantly. She didn’t realize it until she saw that snarl, the determined line of her jaw—the expression of a warrior frustrated in her task. If the woman were wearing a sleek blue mask, she’d be unmistakable.
“Typhoon,” she said.
The woman halted mid-stride and turned to Celia. The simmering anger in her dark eyes made her even more recognizable as the superhuman crime fighter. She marched toward Celia, who stood her ground, trapped as she was against the railing. The woman, Typhoon, clearly wasn’t going to let her escape.
“You’re joking, right?” she said.
“No, actually,” Celia said, smiling weakly. “You know, I expected you to laugh at me and then rush off, so I’d stand here wondering if I’d made a mistake. But that look on your face right now—I’m pretty sure I’m right.”
Celia shouldn’t have said anything. She should have convinced herself she was seeing things and let it go. Typhoon, even in her civilian guise, looked angry enough to do damage. But Celia had stood up to Captain Olympus. This was nothing.
“How?” the woman said softly. “How do you know you’re right?”
Blushing, Celia squirmed inside her jacket. The woman was looking at her like she was part of some
