After the Golden Age (Golden Age 1)

* * *

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 handcu

ffs 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 that feel?

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.