Carrie Vaughn - After the Golden Age

“For which the city thanks you. This trial may be the most important one we’ve ever seen.”

God, he was on all the time. Was that the trick of politics, that you had to actually mean all the earnest things you said? Celia couldn’t change the subject by complimenting Mrs. Paulson on the clever and tasty hors d’oeuvres set out for them. The mansion’s cook had made them.

How would she have turned out if her parents had raised her in this kind of environment?

“Thank you, sir.”

Mark, bless him, caught the rebound. “So, Mom, you getting to play much tennis? Mom plays tennis,” he said in an aside to Celia. Andrea might have been one of the paintings, her smile was so fixed. She kept her gaze on her husband while she rattled on about tennis at the country club.

Dinner arrived, finally. Celia could relax as the conversation turned more banal.

That didn’t last, though.

Paulson, jovial, said, “I keep expecting to find a note on my desk one of these days announcing the Olympiad’s retirement—just like the Hawk did. How long have they been at this? Twenty, twenty-five years? The Hawk didn’t last that long.”

Celia smiled politely, as if acknowledging an old joke, and offered no reply. He couldn’t have waited until after dessert to bring up the Olympiad.

“I remember them at their peak. God, they were amazing.”

Celia could imagine what her father would say to that. He’d punch through a wall and say, How’s that for peak? And Spark might not even stop him.

He kept talking at her. “You must wish that they’d give up the double life. You must worry about them.”

Her polite smile turned wry. “They’re big kids. They can take care of themselves.”

“Of course. I’m only curious. They say they’re defending my city—I want to understand them.”

His city? What was it with people claiming the city?

“There’s not much to understand. They’re using their talents the way they see fit.” Was she actually defending them? She glanced at Mark. Get me out of this …

Mark shifted in his chair, calling attention to himself. “Celia can’t be expected to speak for the Olympiad, Dad.”

“No, no, of course not. My apologies. But Mark … let me run a thought by you. I’ve been wondering if our police forces have gotten soft.” Understandably, Mark straightened in preparation of some vehement denial. His father waved him down. “Now, no offense, this certainly is no reflection on you personally. With a criminal like the Destructor, who was so far out of reach of what any normal law enforcement agency could handle, of course I can see how they might come to depend on the Olympiad, who were a bit better equipped to face opposition like that. But these recent crime sprees—they’re perfectly ordinary crimes. They’re fully within the ability of any law enforcement agency. I chastised the Olympiad for not getting involved—but after giving the issue some thought, I don’t see that they, or any of the city’s superhuman crime fighters, should involve themselves. They’re simply not needed.”

Celia was getting to practice her polite face. “I always thought that maybe they could work together. With law enforcement.”

Paulson offered a thin, condescending smile. “If it hasn’t happened by now, it never will.”

“Sir, I’d hate to think you invited me here because you thought I’d take this conversation back to my parents and throw a little kerosene on the feud you all are having.”

“Feud?” Paulson said.

“Ah, dessert’s here!” Andrea Paulson announced brightly. “Celia, I hope you like chocolate.”

Dessert was chocolate raspberry torte. Brilliant. It almost made up for Mayor Paulson.

As the house staff cleared dishes away, Andrea stood—abruptly, almost rudely, if it had been anyone else’s table.

“Celia, would you like a tour of the upstairs? That’s one of my jobs—giving tours. We have some really wonderful paintings that don’t get seen much.”

Mark gave an encouraging smile, and Paulson didn’t seem inclined to accompany them. All that made the offer attractive.

“Sure,” Celia said.

The second floor was as impressive as the first. Andrea and her husband lived on the third floor, so even here wasn’t much evidence that this was an actual home. They occasionally hosted dignitaries in the guest rooms, or held charity concerts in the music room.

Andrea gushed about the house, the history, and her husband. “Tony is so dedicated. He gives so much of himself. He truly is the most generous man I’ve ever met. Don’t you think? I hope Mark follows in his footsteps.”

“He seems to be,” Celia offered. “Being a cop’s a tough job.”

“Hm, yes. Normally in this situation I suppose I’d ask you to tell me about your family. But I think they’re in the news even more than Tony. It must have been so interesting for you growing up. I hope this isn’t prying too much, but I’m terribly curious—”

Celia smiled inwardly and waited for the inevitable question: What was it like having Captain Olympus and Spark as parents? Isn’t Captain Olympus wonderful?

Instead, Andrea Paulson asked, “Do you ever worry?”

She shrugged. “I suppose. I worry about them getting hurt. Growing up I was always a little scared until they came home—”

Andrea gave a tiny, impatient shake of her head. “Don’t we all worry about that sort of thing? I mean, do you worry about yourself? It’s my understanding that your parents’ powers might be passed on genetically. Now, I understand you didn’t inherit anything like that. But do you worry that your children might inherit some of their more … unusual qualities?”

If you marry my son, will my grandchildren be mutant freaks? Celia could have used a cup of tea, a cup of coffee—any kind of social crutch to occupy her hands and keep her from reaching out and breaking something. As it was, she had to use willpower. Not her best attribute.

“Honestly, Mrs. Paulson, it’s not something I’ve ever thought about.” And thank you so much for adding that to my list of anxieties. “I figure I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

“Of course, you’re young yet.” She offered the polished smile of a politician’s wife. Paulson had probably married her for that smile. “I was simply curious. Really, I don’t suppose anyone can help but wonder … what was it like having Captain Olympus as a father?”

The ride home with Mark started awkwardly. Mark clutched the steering wheel, Celia leaned on the passenger-side door, head propped on her hand, feeling surly. He kept glancing at her, stealing quick looks out of the corner of his eye when he wasn’t driving through intersections. She waited for him to say something; he seemed on the verge of it, if he could just take a deep enough breath.

It was endearing. It didn’t matter who you were or who your parents were, they’d always embarrass you.

Mark pressed back against the seat and smirked. “That was a disaster, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. If it had been my father, he might have broken a few walls.”

“Not really,” he said. “You always say he’s like that … but you’re exaggerating, right? He always seems so together.”

“Sure,” she drawled, and decided then and there that she would never, ever take Mark to dinner with her parents. “Hey—did your mom seem okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“She was just so different than she was when I met her at the symphony. I guess I’m wondering which is more like the real her.”

“She did seem a little perky, didn’t she?”