Page 19 of All Superheroes Need PR
“The Wyvern,” he repeats, and though quiet, nearly gentle, the way his voice wraps around me gives me chills. “What is that, Vanessa?” At the sound of my name in his voice, paired with the flare of white light from his irises, I shiver fully.
“It’s a mythical dragon.”
“A dragon?”
I nod quickly and even more quickly sputter out, “We thought the other fire names, like Pyro, were too obvious. Most of the heroes—Ch-Champions,” I correct on a slight stutter, using the preferred moniker, “have drawn on names from fantasy and mythology. We ran through lists of fantasy creatures and mythological gods who can wield fire before settling on the Wyvern. More subtle than a dragon, it tested best with our focus groups, both those who knew and those who didn’t know what a wyvern is.” My voice fizzles out, and we’re left in silence.
“And it was your idea?”
I glance again at my water glass on the table, needing a sip because it feels like I’ve been sucking on cotton balls all afternoon, but the pressure of eyes on my face is too much. I don’t move. Can’t.
“It was a team effort.”
His expression turns severe then, and he drums his nails into the top of his packet. His nails look well trimmed, but they still mottle theglossy surface of the pack, digging shallow little trenches on each touch. “Was it, Vanessa?”
Vanessa, you’re such a fucking disgrace.
I shake my head, feeling reprimanded, feeling scorched. “My team came up with many ideas. I happened to come up with that one, yes.”
“Hm,” he says, and he goes back to searching my face as if it were a riddle he remembered the answer to once but with time has forgotten. He watches me with frustration and fascination in equal measure, making me feel like a bug beneath a microscope.
Silence prevails. I hate it a lot. His arms cross over his black T-shirt—hole-free this time—and hoodie, and I pray that he threw the gray sweat suit he was wearing last time I saw him in the trash—no, that he used his powers to incinerate it—because it needs to be gone from this earth.
I shuffle my feet against the bag I brought with me. I cough into my fist. Mr. Casteel raises a black eyebrow and glances to the glass of water in front of me. In a panic move, I reach for it, and as I feared I would, I fumble the glass. Condensation glosses the exterior, and my clammy hand slips. It falls, spilling, winding idle rivers toward Mr. Casteel and threatening the small projector box along the way.
I gasp, frantically lurch up, hit my thighs on the underside of the table, grunt at the shocking pain that slices through my knees, and, grimacing, still force myself to stand. I reach for the black napkins fanned so elegantly down the center of the conference table, but I’m not tall enough to reach them. Not that it would have mattered. Roland’s hand is already there, pushing the napkins on the table within my reach away.
“Sit.”
I sit. Like a damn dog. Heat suffuses my cheeks, but it’s nothing compared to the heat that suddenly emanates from Roland. He’s standing in front of his chair, the wad of napkins completely soaked and doing absolutely nothing for the flood I’ve started. He’s abandoned them anyway and is staring down at the water, his eyes glancing over italmost absently, every other second flicking back to me. I don’t know where to look because, as much hold as those pink eyes have on me, I can’t help but be amazed by the fact that the water on the table isevaporating.
When the table’s slate surface is entirely dry, the wet napkins go up in a small, angry blaze. Roland sits down insouciantly, but before he does, he pushes his full, untouched glass of water across the conference table until it’s right in front of me and grunts, “You okay?”
I nod jerkily, though it’s a lie. No, I’m not fine. No part of me is fine. He’s supposed to be mean and combative, frustrating and confrontational. He’s not supposed to be ...nice. He’s not supposed to use his powers tohelp me.
He squints at me, and his eyes fade from the palest shade of pink to a darker fuchsia color. “Wanna hear you say it. Use your words.”
I heat unexpectedly and hope that the color doesn’t pinch my cheeks. “I’m o-okay.” I clear my throat. “Mr. Casteel. Thank you.”
Silence simmers and sputters, the oil too hot not to burn. His eyes are changing color again, but their focus is unwavering. “A wyvern breathes fire. I don’t just breathe fire,” Mr. Casteel finally says, voice softer than it has a right to be.
I shrink down in my chair even farther when his eyes blaze a bright orange before settling back to their normal color. And then fire suddenly erupts on the tips of his eyelashes like little sparklers, and I jump. It spreads across his cheekbones before disappearing as it hits the collar of his hoodie and then shooting across the backs of his hands and off the crests of his fingernails in a shower of tiny sparks.
“Iamfire. I generate it through every pore.”
I jump, jolt, and shiver. I swallow hard. “We, um ... knew that ... but we couldn’t find another creature to more aptly describe your abilities.” We did ... but it wasn’t a good name for a Champion.
The devil and his demons, after all, could generate a fire like that according to some of their depictions throughout history. Luckily for us, our rebranding efforts were strictly secular, and luckily for Mr. Casteel,he has neither claws nor fangs nor horns. Luckily for all of us, because I don’t know what I’d do if a more monstrous Mr. Casteel were here staring at me like that.
Abruptly, Roland rolls his chair forward. He opens the packet to the correct page, the one with the images of wyverns on it from various mythologies, without looking down. “I like it.”
I swallow hard and glance up at Margerie, who’s leading the presentation from the front of the room and staring down at Roland like he’s grown three heads. I clear my throat.
She looks at me and shakes out of it, then says, “That’s very good to hear, Mr. Casteel. Now, if you’ll turn to the next page of your packet, we can look more at some of the design prototypes we’ve come up with so far ...”
A few more minutes pass, questions are asked and answered, and then Margerie makes space for Jeremy to come to the front of the room to discuss the contract. “After we go through the details, our legal team will finalize anything that needs correcting in the terms, and when we come back from the break, Vanya will talk to us all about tomorrow’s press conference.”
Roland’s still looking at me, and if I had to bet whether he heard anything Jeremy said, I’d bet ten to one against. He glances at my hands and then at my water glass. I still haven’t picked it up. I’m too nervous.
