Dreams of the Golden Age (Golden Age 2)

What she had to do now was figure out a way to change Analise’s mind. To recruit her to the cause.

She called Mark. He’d left her three messages about the latest vigilante news story. She hadn’t gotten back to him because she’d been distracted with Analise, the doctor’s appointment, a burgeoning hypochondria spurred by the doctor’s appointment, and so on. The vacation was sounding better and better. Surely the city wouldn’t crumble to pieces if she left it alone for a week. After the development plan was settled.

“Finally. I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day,” he said, flustered, and she worried about his heart.

“I know, I’m sorry, I’ve had a lot on my plate.”

“Well, I’ve got another one for you. We arrested Jonathan Scarzen based on an anonymous tip. Good information, the DA thinks she’s got a case, we’re moving forward.”

She had to remind herself who that was, what it meant. Crime lord who’d kept himself very underground. Right. “That’s great, isn’t it?”

“I’m pretty sure the tip came from a team of vigilantes. A different team of vigilantes than the kids at the fire.”

Oh. Oh, dear. “How do you know?”

“We got a call from a cabby about some suspicious activity in the area. He picked up a fare, a couple of kids dressed in black. He thought they might have been cat burglars or something. The timing puts them a few blocks away from where we arrested Scarzen. Frankly, I don’t know whether to be amused that they’re taking cabs around town because they can’t fly or pissed off that they’re putting themselves in so much danger.”

Teddy Donaldson was one of them, she’d bet. He hadn’t been part of the first group, Teia and company. “What are their descriptions?” Celia asked.

“I don’t think I’m going to tell you,” Mark said, sounding entirely too gleeful. “You’ve been holding out on me, now I’m holding out on you.”

She did not have time for this. “I’m just trying to keep you from pulling up to these kids’ houses and arresting them on some trumped-up curfew charge or whatever the hell you’re planning.”

“Celia, it’s for their own good. They’re running around Hell’s Alley in the middle of the night, they’re going to get hurt.”

He was right, of course. It was the same reason Analise was so angry about it. He kept on, “I’ve got two brand-new superhero teams hitting the streets now, and neither of them knows what the hell they’re doing. They’re kids playing with dynamite, and it has to stop before one of them gets killed. You know who they are, you have to stop them.”

“You know how I can tell you don’t have teenage kids?” Celia asked.

“I get teen delinquents in here every damn day. Don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about,” he said, sharp as a razor.

She’d cut too close. Mark didn’t have kids of his own, not because he didn’t want them but because he’d made a responsible choice not to inflict his genes on the next generation. Guy ought to get a medal, not her sarcasm. Backing up, she tried again. “It’s not a matter of making them stop. You’ve been dealing with supers as long as I have. It’s a compulsion with them.”

Mark understo

od the compulsion, because along with the powers came a need—a need to protect, to act, to control. It was why he’d become a cop when he could have been anything he wanted. Sometimes the Leyden descendants were born without powers, but still they felt the compulsion.

When she was younger, people used to ask Celia why she didn’t just leave Commerce City if she wanted to get away from her parents’ shadow. She could never adequately explain why she had to stay. It was her city, she always said, vaguely, earnestly. She couldn’t leave.

Maybe Arthur was right. She was trying to do too much. Maybe it was time to delegate. Mark was already half on her side. He might be able to help her get Analise on their side, too.

“Mark, I want you to meet someone. Can you pick me up and go on an errand with me?”

She was grateful when he agreed.

* * *

Celia was even more grateful that Analise didn’t slam the door in her face when she and Mark showed up. It was early evening, when Analise was home from work at her job managing the downtown rec center.

“I’ll tell you everything, I swear,” Celia said, before hello even, and Analise paused. She and Mark must have looked very serious, standing there together, both of them still in their business suits from their workday.

Analise glanced over her shoulder to the staircase and, by extension, the kids’ bedrooms above them. “All right, but let’s go somewhere the kids can’t eavesdrop.”

A block from the town house, a small park occupied an empty lot between cross streets. After dark, the place was empty, and they gathered on a secluded bench.

Celia started, “Analise, I don’t know if you remember Mark Paulson—”

“We met briefly,” Mark said. “I don’t know if you remember, that stint Celia pulled in the hospital after the bus crash.”