Carrie Vaughn - After the Golden Age

“I’ve got all these puzzle pieces,” she said, her voice tight, on the verge of tears. It was just stress—she wasn’t weak, she wasn’t breaking down. “I should be able to figure it out. I should be able to pin something on Paulson by now.”

Arthur guided her to the sofa, made her sit, then sat with her and eased her back until she was cradled on his lap.

She sat up abruptly. “You’re not going to make me sleep, are you?”

“That wouldn’t help you get rid of the headache, would it? No, Celia. Not like that anyway. Please rest, though. I’ll watch over you.”

He didn’t crawl inside her mind to shut it down, not like he did when he commanded sleep. He just held her, stroked her hair. When he said he’d keep her safe, she believed him. She slept.

“WHAT the hell is this?”

“Warren, keep your voice down. This is the first she’s slept all day.”

That was Arthur speaking. His chest rumbled under her cheek with the words.

“Then she didn’t spend the day in bed? What was she doing?” That was Suzanne, sounding as irate as Warren, or at least sounding as irate as she ever sounded.

Arthur sighed. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Am I to understand that you’ve … been spending time together. Or something?” her mother asked.

Celia imagined her mother’s arms were crossed. Suzanne’s voice made it sound like she’d crossed her arms. She supposed she ought to open her eyes and look. She shouldn’t leave Arthur to deal with this by himself.

“That isn’t any of your business,” Arthur said matter-of-factly.

Warren exploded. Not literally, though close to it. “You took advantage of her. She looked to you for protection and you—”

“Dad.” Celia emitted a dramatic-sounding groan as she sat up. “Stop it.”

“Celia, what the hell are you thinking !” He was on the verge of smashing something. Maybe he’d show a little more restraint in his own house.

The room was awash with a faint, chill light of early morning. She was still half sprawled on Arthur’s lap. Her parents must have walked in on them—embarrassing at any age. Arthur hadn’t woken her. He’d let her sleep. Or he didn’t care anymore if her parents knew. She met his gaze. He smiled thinly. Again, and always, she felt warm and safe.

Suzanne was, in fact, crossing her arms. Her gaze was worried, her brow furrowed and confused. “This … this isn’t so bad, maybe. You remember some of the boys she brought home in high school? This’ll take some getting used to, but at least we can trust Arthur—”

“Would someone we trust seduce our daughter, a girl he vowed to protect—”

Celia sat up straighter. “Actually, I think it was me.”

“What?” Warren said.

“I think it was me who seduced him.” Arthur’s hand rested on her back. She hoped he kept it there.

Warren sputtered a moment, then said, “Then he shouldn’t have let himself get seduced!”

“Warren, please stop shouting,” Arthur said. Celia couldn’t tell if he’d wrapped any power in the command. Mostly, he sounded tired.

“I’m not shouting! Mentis, this is … outrageous! She’s my daughter. ”

This was him finding her in the Destructor’s lair all over again. Small comfort that he wasn’t actually yelling at her . She wondered: had he not been as upset at the thought of her joining his enemy as he had been at the thought of her sleeping with his enemy?

“Warren—,” Suzanne said tiredly, rubbing her forehead like she had a headache.

Arthur said, “She’s also an adult, or hadn’t you noticed? I certainly have.”

That sent a warm and pleasant rush through her gut.

Her father, however, roared. They all knew him well enough to recognize what came next: he cocked his arms back, preparing to launch a wall of force that would knock his enemies aside. Except this time his “enemies” were in his own living room.

Warren’s attention focused on Arthur, but Celia was caught between them. She let out a short scream and huddled forward, arms protecting her head.

“Stop!” Arthur called out, reaching forward with a hand. The single word shook the room, rattled through their minds.

Warren made a choking gasp of pain and clutched his head. He stumbled back, but didn’t quite fall.

“Will you two stop it!” Suzanne put herself between the two men, pointing an arm at each of them as if ready to let out a blowtorch. Celia looked up, hesitating—surely her mother wouldn’t lose it, too.

Arthur put his arm protectively around Celia’s shoulders and glared at Warren, who was straightening, muscles trembling with tension.

If she had known she’d cause this much trouble, she’d have let the bus carry her into the river.

She peeled herself from Arthur’s grasp. “Look, I’m sorry. This shouldn’t be such a huge, end-of-the-world deal, but apparently it is. I’m sorry.”

She started to leave, to stomp back to her room and take a painkiller.

“Celia, wait,” Suzanne said. Celia waited. “This is about us, not you.”

She indicated the three of them. The three grown-ups, Celia thought, even now reverting to the old way of looking at them. It didn’t matter that most people, seeing Celia and Arthur walking hand in hand down the street, wouldn’t look twice at them. In a different world, they might have met in college. They might have met when she did his tax returns. In a different world, this would have been normal. But Warren and Suzanne saw something different.

Celia crossed her arms and wished she could hide while the three of them exchanged glares.

Suzanne suddenly pointed at Arthur. “Don’t you go trying to convince me this is all right!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Arthur said softly. He looked at Celia.

They could run away, she thought, staring back at him. Flee the city. If her parents couldn’t handle it, then they could leave Commerce City altogether.

— And what of the city? —

He was one of its protectors. He couldn’t leave. Neither could she, or she’d have done it already.

Suzanne continued. “It’s just … it’s just going to take some getting used to.”

“I understand,” Arthur said. “What if we promise not to get caught snogging on the sofa like a couple of teenagers?”

Warren sputtered; Suzanne hiccupped. She put her hand over her mouth. Then, she was giggling, and she wiped tears from her eyes.

“Okay,” Suzanne said finally, recovering to a point.

“Bah!” Warren rolled his eyes and stalked out of the room.

Celia couldn’t have hoped for better than that, really.

Arthur had known what to say to calm them down, or at least to diffuse the situation a touch. He said to Suzanne, “Did you have any luck with Breezeway?”

“No. The police are charging him with breaking curfew. No bail’s been set.”

“Damn. That means the rest of us are targets.”

“Not until nightfall. I’m going to make some breakfast.” She crossed her arms as she left, as if she were still holding something back.

Arthur let out a sigh. “That went well.”

Celia giggled, and returned to the sofa and his arms, giddy with … something.

“JUSTIN RAYLEN IS BREEZEWAY!” shouted the front page of the morning paper, alongside a mug shot of a surly man in his twenties, with a flop of sandy hair above a slim face. Celia recognized that face, but only if she imagined a mask over the top half of it, and a broad, cocky grin. In the mug-shot photo, he still had some of that brash air. But he glared like he wanted to hit someone. Like maybe the person standing behind the camera.

The police had released his secret identity, apparently out of spite. She imagined the scene at the police station. How many officers had it taken to hold him down before they could take off his mask? How much weight did they hang on him to keep him from going airborne? Had his winds scoured the police station, sending papers and debris flying? Had anyone gotten hurt, so they could lay those charges on him as well? So far, the police had charged him with breaking curfew and resisting arrest.