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battling was suddenly clear: mortals should not enter into the world that lay behind these doors unless they had the strength to defeat evil beyond imagining.
    Tired of the scorn of the gods, Sarah turned away and looked down onto the hustle and bustle of the street traffic rolling down Fifth Avenue on a chilly Friday afternoon.
    She smiled to herself and rolled her eyes at her foolishness. She may not have been a Paragon, but she knew at least one way to outsmart the gods….If the front doors had been locked it meant there would only be minimal staff on duty inside, and she knew another way in.
    After Alexander Stanton had been forced to reveal to the world he was actually the hero the world knew as the Industrialist, he had told Sarah the story of “the first Paragon.” His name was Prometheus, one of the Titans, and he had bravely stolen fire from Mount Olympus, bringing the precious gift down to man so that they could chase away the cold and the night.
    When he discovered what Prometheus had done, Zeus condemned the disobedient god to be punished for all eternity. Chained to a rock, the fire-bringer's liver would be eaten by a vulture every day, and then regrow each night, until the end of time.
    But even Zeus could not steal back the fire. Humanity would be able to keep its gift. Her father had told her that, if he could have, he would have used his powers to kill the bird and break the Titan free from his chains. But since he was just a man, he would follow in the footsteps of Prometheus, bringing the light of knowledge to mankind, no matter what the consequences or the cost.
    A few years later, when she had first seen the images for the front doors to the Hall of Paragons sketched out on parchment in her father's office, she had asked him if he found it ironic that Prometheus remained bound and tortured, while Zeus rode in his chariot high above, throwing mighty thunderbolts down to Earth.
    He had scowled at her and told her to leave, something he only did when either she or her mother were being what he considered “far too clever for your own good.”
    Shivering from the chill, Sarah stepped down the Italian marble staircase that swept down to the street from between the two massive granite columns that flanked the entrance. She made a sharp left when she reached the cement sidewalk and started walking up Fifth Avenue. The front of the Hall filled almost a third of the block between 49th and 50th Streets. Having been constructed as a modern-day version of the great buildings of Rome, it had for the last six years been the biggest structure on Fifth Avenue, adding a counterpoint to the soaring gothic towers of St. Patrick's Cathedral just down the avenue.
    The building was every bit the mysterious and impenetrable fortress that it had been designed to be. The imposing bronze doors were only the first of many formidable challenges faced by any enemy who might wish to enter and hurt the Paragons in their home.
    Although that hadn't stopped everyone—a good portion of the northwest corner of the building had been shattered when the Steam Hammer had attempted to undermine the Hall's foundations and found himself crushed under ten tons of stone.
    She could still see the cemented cracks, and the slightly whiter rock that had been brought in to replace what had been destroyed.
    But the building still stood, and the villain remained down below there somewhere, surrounded by walls that he would never be able to break.
    So far the only nonmembers who had ever actually made it inside were invited guests, and most of them never got farther than the foyer.
    And for most of them it was enough. The grand entry hall was the great showpiece of the building, designed to inspire awe in those lucky enough to see it. Built around a 500-square-foot red-marble floor, it was capped off with a vaulted ceiling that floated three stories above on two rows of massive Roman columns.
    On the walls were enormous frescoes that stretched up the