of her head, as if she were a child who’d skinned her knee.
Then she stood and walked away.
When Arthur came to her and touched her shoulder, all strength left her. She let him fold her into his arms and take care of her.
Robbie looked after Suzanne. Not that Suzanne needed looking after—she appeared elegant and stoic, regarding the proceedings with the cool detachment of a goddess. But he’d look after her anyway. Just in case.
Celia left the building, gingerly holding on to Arthur around the middle while he carefully gripped her across the shoulders. Eventually, she’d go the hospital for the burns on her arms and legs. In the meantime, they fit together and she wasn’t going to leave him.
People would tell her later that there was nothing she could have done, that she had succeeded in saving the city, the building had contained the explosion, and her father knew the risks of the role he’d taken on. Every hero, even an invincible one, had a weakness, and subjected to a high dose of the radiation that had a part in his creation proved too much for the great Captain Olympus. People told her this over and over, trying to be helpful, not understanding that Celia had accepted her own death, and now had to accept the death of another instead, which was somehow harder.
Appleton was there, supervising the throng of cops sent to clean up the mess. He stopped her.
“We’re okay,” he said, pointing at her like this was another accusation. The look in his eyes, though, was pleading. “From now on, you and me, we’re okay. Right?”
She only nodded.
Anthony Paulson and his scientists had been found hiding in a basement storeroom. Mark himself put the handcuffs on his father. He spotted Celia, and his eyes lit, then darkened when he saw her nestled against Arthur.
After Mark had secured his father in the backseat of a patrol car, Celia detached herself from Arthur to go talk to the detective.
“What were you even doing here? I know you suspected my father, but you should have come to me—,” he said.
“He set a trap, and I fell for it.” She shrugged. That moment seemed a long time ago, now.
He laughed, a stifled, bitter chuckle. “You always complain about having superheroes for parents. I’m guessing that’s nothing compared to having a supervillain for one.”
He looked to the backseat of the patrol car. Around the glare on the window, Paulson stared back. Both men’s expressions were taut and unhappy, the family resemblance reflected back at one another. Celia and her father spent much of their own lives looking at one another like that. At least she’d had the excuse of foolish youth. At least she’d been able to make some repairs to that bridge. A few patches.
The mutual bitterness before her was palpable.
She looked away. “Mark, there’s something you need to know. I looked up your father’s adoption records. I talked to some people. You probably ought to do a paternity test to confirm it, but I’m pretty sure your father’s birth father was Simon Sito. I don’t know what it means, if anything. But you should know.” Not just the son of a criminal mastermind, but the grandson of one, too. How did
Might as well tell him he was the king of Prussia, as blank as his expression showed. No, not blank. Scarred. The vacant stare of a disaster survivor. He couldn’t take another blow. He was done processing. It would have to wait.
He said, “I think I’ll want to do that paternity test. To confirm that.”
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry about your father.”
She didn’t really believe it herself. That would have to wait until morning. “Thanks.”
“What happens now?” He looked pointedly at Arthur Mentis, who was watching them.
“A funeral. Another trial.” In which she would have to testify again. The cycle continued.
“What about us?”
The question evoked no emotion in her.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mark. I … I’m just sorry.”
TWENTY-NINE
SUZANNE West wore red to her husband’s funeral. It was the talk of the society pages
, as was the fact that she brought Spark’s costume and threw it into the grave, along with what was left of Captain Olympus’s. That was all she did to announce her retirement. The Olympiad was finished.
Damon Parks attended the service. So did Analise Baker, Justin Raylen, and a few others Celia recognized when she imagined them wearing masks. Like the middle-aged man with his arm over the shoulders of a skinny young punk—the Block Busters. Father and son, clearly. Junior looked as shell-shocked as she felt—maybe imagining his own crime-fighting father in that grave. She almost went to give him a hug.
Everyone was very polite and said wonderful things about Warren West and his service to the city. Celia and Suzanne held one another’s arms. Celia thanked everyone. Suzanne remained silent.
The four Stradivarius instruments, along with the prize koi—alive, barely, in a fifty-gallon aquarium—were found in the basement of the mayor’s mansion. Andrea Paulson threw herself across the door, refusing to let the authorities in, sobbing, vowing to stay loyal to her husband no matter what. She recovered from her nervous breakdown at Greenbriar, then filed for a divorce.
The day after Captain Olympus’s death, Breezeway—Justin Raylen—was released, all charges dropped. With his identity revealed, he did more charity fund-raising events than crime-fighting.
The Bullet and Dr. Mentis continued the work, doing what they could, as anonymously as they could. Without the team, they returned to their early days of running down muggers and trapping burglars. Crime rates stabilized, with nothing more sensational than the usual examples of urban malfeasance to combat.
It was as if the whole city was exhausted.
Typhoon never reemerged. The warrant for her arrest remained outstanding. The tabloids had a field day with the mystery of what had happened to her and offered rewards for the revelation of her secret identity. Many young women came forward claiming to be Typhoon, even in the face of the arrest warrant. Of course, none of them could so much as tip over a cup of water. Books came out retreading the mystery, offering vague solutions, defending the hero, vilifying her.
Analise collected the books, the papers. But she never came forward. She became manager of the record store where she worked, and volunteered at the rec center teaching inner-city kids how to swim.
Apart from a trust set up for Suzanne, Celia inherited everything.
For a long time after the company lawyer left their first meeting, Celia sat behind the desk in Warren’s penthouse office, the new owner of West Corp. The sleek, mahogany piece was a museum-quality example of high modernist design purchased by her grandfather. The thing was aerodynamic. Her fingertips skittered along the surface, smooth even after fifty years of constant use. Her father had left it in a state of disarray, pens scattered, file folders stacked in every corner, laptop computer still running. She’d have to clean it up, piece together what he’d been doing. She could do that.
The desk was her grandfather’s, but the chair had been Warren’s: large, leather, generously padded. Celia sank into it and felt lost. It had her father’s shape to it. She’d get a new one. Something more modest, unassuming. She’d move this one to … somewhere.
Suzanne appeared and leaned on the doorway. Celia blinked back at her, feeling about five years old and in over her head.
“I always assumed he wrote me out of the will,” she said starkly.
