After the Golden Age (Golden Age 1)

Her grin turned wry. “Anytime. So tell me—I’ve always wanted to know why you never wore a costume, a skin-suit uniform, like the others.” She indicated his plain shirt and trousers.

“I’m a telepath. A glorified track suit hardly seemed necessary.”

Side by side, they went into the hallway and caught the elevator.

Arthur said, “I’ve found Warren. He knows about Typhoon.”

“What can he do?” Celia said. “He’s out past curfew, too.”

“I’d hope after all this time we’ve earned some allowances,” the telepath said.

“You know what Dad would say about this? He’d say this is a conspiracy to get the supers off the street. To get them out of the way. If the cops say anything about wanting to arrest him, he’ll blow up.”

She thought it was a joke. At least, when she started she meant it to be a joke. But Arthur wasn’t smiling. He didn’t even heave the flustered sigh of frustration that the team sighed when Captain Olympus was about to fly off the handle. Instead, the tension around them spiked, as the situation moved from a simple misunderstanding to a crisis.

The mayor had instituted the curfew. He could send an order through the commissioner to the cops, who’d be all too happy with any excuse to go after the superhumans. Again, the mayor.

Arthur said, “Celia, I find it disturbing that you and your father view the world in exactly the same way.”

“What, we’re both paranoid with severe persecution complexes?”

There, she’d done it again. Made a statement that was far too obvious and true to be funny. He raised a brow as if to indicate, You said it, not me.

The elevator doors opened to the penthouse. Businesslike, Arthur strode out, into the West home and to the Olympiad command center. Celia trailed behind a couple of steps, realizing too late what this was going to look like. Arthur’s hair was mussed, his shirt rumpled—at least it was mostly tucked in—and he’d forgotten his jacket. Her own hair was usually tousled to some degree, but she’d been sleeping on it. Futilely, she ran her fingers through it to smooth it out. The bandage over her stitches had come off. Her dress suit looked thrown on. She still smelled Arthur’s sweat on her.

It was going to be obvious to everyone.

Her phone rang again before she reached the command center—just in time, before she entered the shielded room. She looked at caller ID, and resisted the urge to throw it, to get it to shut up.

“What?” she answered.

“It’s Mark. Celia, you need to tell your people to stay off the streets.”

That boy had the worst timing. She even felt a thread of guilt at hearing his voice. But the way she saw it, he’d left her first.

“My people? What do you mean, my people?”

“Your parents. The other vigil

antes.”

“They’re not my people, Mark. And what the hell do you think I can do about it? You think they listen to me?”

“They’re your parents. You at least have access to them.”

And the police would, too, if they ever bothered to talk to the Olympiad.

“You ever tell your father how to do his job?” she said.

“What they do isn’t a job! It’s a hobby!”

No, she thought. It’s a vocation. A calling.

“Mark, we’re already trying. Can’t you tell your guys to back off Typhoon? She’s not the one trying to start anything.”

“The cops at the harbor district have just called for backup,” he said.

They were going to spook Analise.