Deicide

by M. K. Gibson

  AGENTS of MORTAL

  Book One

  DEICIDE

  by

  M. K. Gibson

  Copyright © 2019 by Michael K. Gibson

  Published by

  Amber Cove Publishing

  PO Box 9605

  Chesapeake, VA 23321

  Cover design by

  Cover lettering by Michael K. Gibson

  Book design by Jim Bernheimer

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Visit the author’s website at www.mkgibson.com

  First Publication: December 2019

  Dedication and Acknowledgments

  I want to keep this one short and sweet. This book is for my wife and editor, Valerie. Many years ago, we were lying in bed reading. Out of the blue she said, “Wouldn’t it be cool if hippogriffs like Buckbeak were real?” I looked at my beautiful wife and said, “Are you f**king nuts? You want something like that flying around? It’s bad enough when a bird craps on your car while driving. Can you imagine zooming down the highway and a horse-sized load of sh!t hits your windshield, blinding you or denting the hood? No thank you.”

  After that mental exercise, the seed of an idea began to form. And Agents of MORTAL was born.

  So, whether you like, love, or hate this book . . . blame her.

  Love you, Val!

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Foreword

  Michael Gibson is a truly profound author. His imagination is a place of terrible beauty and side-splitting humor. On the phone with him the other day, we were talking through fixing a minor plot hole in the story and he stated that he visualizes each scene as if it were an action movie or television show.

  Just remember that as you get to the end of this work and it will give you the same appreciation that I have for his dedication to his craft.

  You’ve been warned.

  I am truly excited and pleased to be his publisher.

  Jim Bernheimer

  Prologue

  Why did all the myths come out? No one knows for sure. My guess is because of all the popular urban fantasy TV shows, movies, and books from back in the day. There was a time when you couldn’t turn on a channel without there being something fantastical. A vampire, werewolf, or fairy. Lord of the Rings, True Blood, Harry Potter, Twilight, Game of Thrones, Supernatural, the Marvel movies, Buffy, Grimm, Lost Girl, Sabrina, Midnight Texas, the list goes on and on.

  I always knew that crap would be the death of us.

  But what did we expect? Pop-culture media sources pumped out content faster than we could swallow it. Combine that with every progressive hashtag that millions of internet voices could scream daily, and well, that was us sending a signal. We were telling them that we were accepting of their differences.

  We weren’t.

  No one really wanted the myths. They just liked the idea of them. Everyone thought phoenixes were beautiful symbols of rebirth when they were a legend, cartoon, or tattoo. But the reality set in when those magical firebirds started setting roofs on fire. FYI, homeowner’s insurance doesn’t cover mythical beast damage. And when a hungry goblin sees your pet puppy? Well, it’s hard to explain to your kid that Scraps “went to to a farm upstate” when the carcass is being worn by three goblins dancing in the entrails.

  The world thought it was ready for beautiful creatures and magical adventure. The world thought it could embrace all the differences of living beings. But when the minotaurs began building mazes in back alleys, mailmen went missing. People were worried that the deep digging dwarves would release eldritch horrors. They never considered sinkholes appearing under major freeways, grocery stores, or residential areas. And when the hedge witches summoned zombies for fun during the New York City marathon? Well, the world changed its tune real fast. Oh, and that’s not even mentioning the minor gods who appeared and scared the holy ghost out of all the religious folks. It’s hard to say your deity is the one and only when a literal pantheon appears and demands worship.

  And then, separate from the food chain, sat the elves, watching all of this like a grand experiment. We still don’t know what they want, or why they helped build this city. But they did. And for now, that’s all we can go on.

  So why did the myths come out? Honestly, I don’t give a crap. I have a job to do. And now, so do you. Don’t die.

  - Detective Sergeant James Messer,

  Avalantis PD Graduating Class Guest Speaker

  ********

  11 May - 9:12 pm

  District of Brightway

  Hermes, the former Olympian god, ran at blinding speed through the warehouse looking for a way out. Well, not exactly “blinding” speed. Not anymore. Stopping to lean on one of the ceiling-high metal storage racks, Hermes huffed as he fought to catch his breath.

  Damn it, I need to quit smoking.

  The truth was, he wasn’t quite the god he used to be. None of the gods were. No more human worship equaled no more power. Badly written entertainment wasn’t enough to give the gods what they needed. Aside from the global tourists who came to Avalantis, no one really cared about the gods anymore. Maybe they never really did. Without regular worship, he, and all his ilk, were basically long-lived humans.

  Revolting.

  The former herald stood there, a sack of stolen money in his hand, and started laughing. Back when, he could have had anything he wanted. He was once one of the most powerful beings in the Mediterranean. Now he had a craptacular job at the local indie coffee house as a barista, because Starbucks wouldn’t hire him. “Not diverse enough,” the manager had told him. As if being Greek, or a god, wasn’t diverse enough for that pasty douche-weasel.

  Which is why he felt absolutely zero guilt when he robbed the place.

  In the old days, Hermes could summon glittering gold, throw it at mortals, and get what he wanted. Now he barely made a living wage. He used to live on Mount Olympus. Now he lived in a rent-controlled apartment in Avalantis’s lower west side of Alpdruck wi
th a roommate named Ted.

  Gods, he hated Ted. Always stealing his ice cream despite it clearly being labeled. Damn Ted to Tartarus.

  “Hermes, come out with your hands up,” an electronically amplified voice boomed from outside the warehouse. “We have the building surrounded. You’re under arrest.”

  Hermes dashed to the nearest window. Outside, he saw a small army of cops amid a sea of flashing red and blue lights.

  “Oh, bugger me,” Hermes whispered to himself, then yelled out the window. “It was just a Starbucks I robbed!”

  “You bisected a centaur when you fled the scene,” the officer’s voice added. “At a minimum, that’s manslaughter.”

  “Oh, that shouldn’t count,” Hermes yelled back. “Centaurs aren’t people! And besides, you have no proof that was me!”

  “You paused to take a selfie,” the officer said. “We found the image on social media.”

  “Damn it,” Hermes muttered. He’d been dying to try out his phone’s new high-speed camera. But all his efforts to gain more followers and turn them into worshipers weren’t going well. Showing his bad-boy side was all he had left. Especially considering how bad his #Her&Me hashtag had failed. People found it creepy or thought it was referring to a dating site.

  “You have sixty seconds to come out with your hands in the air,” the officer announced. “Otherwise, we’re coming in. Don’t make us put you down.”

  “Come on, give me a break!” Hermes yelled. “I’m also the god of thieves! You can’t arrest me for being who I am, can you?!”

  “Forty-five seconds.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think that’d work,” Hermes sighed.

  Was this the end? Could the god of boundaries and the patron of herdsmen, graves, heralds, and thieves go to jail? No. No he couldn’t. But while most people remembered him as the speedy messenger of the gods, they often forgot he was also an infamous trickster. Time for one last joke.

  Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, Hermes took the vial into his hand and smiled. He’d traded the caduceus for this last fix of Vitae. And while riding high on the euphoria of it, he’d decided to rob the coffee shop. Ivan had said that a small dose would make him feel like a god again. But a large dose would have consequences. Well, time to see what they were.

  Hermes slung the sack of money over his shoulder and walked out of the old warehouse and into the spotlight from a circling news chopper. He heard the screams of the officers barking orders at him.

  “Get down!” they said. “Drop the money!” they screamed. But Hermes really didn’t hear that. He only heard the impish suggestion in the back of his mind telling him to “do it.”

  Hermes dropped the sack full of stolen money on the ground, a wry grin on his face. Instead of lying flat on the ground with his hands behind his head as the cops demanded, Hermes thumbed off the stopper and downed the vial.

  A surge of power hit him like one of his father’s thunderbolts. For the briefest, flickering moment, he was a god again. His very body began to glow as his divine nature, which had long lay dormant, practically crackled with the prayers and offerings of a thousand Greeks.

  The cops were forced to shield their eyes against his godly aura. High above, the news chopper maintained its position.

  “Can you see me?!” Hermes yelled. “Can you see me, world?!”

  Hermes began to laugh as the euphoria of the power washed over him. Looking over, he saw one of the cops aim his weapon.

  “Tsk tsk mortal,” Hermes said with a wave of his hand.

  As he did, the cop’s form shifted. With a small flash of light, the man was gone, replaced by a fat pink pig. Hermes repeated the process several more times and was pleased to see a herd of swine in police clothing, oinking and squealing.

  “So glad Circe taught me that one,” Hermes said with a satisfied smile. “You see that, mortals? The gods are back!”

  “Return those officers to their normal form immediately!” a voice over a loudspeaker demanded.

  “Suck m’balls, pig!” Hermes said with a laugh. Before he knew it, Hermes began stripping off his clothing. Despite the cold air, he felt incredibly hot, like he was back in the forge of Hephaestus. Free of his mortal garb, the Greek god stood nude, as he had all those centuries ago, proud and powerful.

  “There we go, free at last! Quick, carve a statue of me. I’ll wait.”

  “Stand down,” one of the cops called out. “You need help!”

  “You need to shut your stupid, stupid mouth!” Hermes yelled. “The world is ours again. The world is mine again!”

  Hermes threw his arms wide, facing the news copter. His aura continued to grow brighter and brighter. With it, a warm giddy sense of finality crept into him.

  “Can you see me now?!” Hermes cried out, his arms outstretched, the light of his power growing brighter and brighter. “Do you see me, world?! I am a GOD. And I hate Ted!”

  Hermes, messenger of the gods, exploded in a massive, concussive wave of devastating power.

  The gathered police were either incinerated or sent flying. The scent of ozone and burnt bacon filled the air. Burning stolen dollar bills flickered and floated down through the night on the spot where Hermes had once been. The confetti-like rain of avarice and addiction settled on a pair of ownerless sandals and a dented winged helmet.

  ********

  11 May - 9:17 pm

  District of Brightway

  Detective Sergeant Messer balanced on the balls of his feet as he inspected the epicenter of the blast. Taking a pen from inside his aged, white leather trench coat, he picked though the ashes of dead god and burned money. The helmet and sandals would need to be bagged, tagged, and tested for latent magical abilities.

  It was then that something shiny caught his eye. Something that shouldn’t be there. Using his pen once more, he sifted through the ash. Sticking his pen in the end of the object, he held it up so that he could see it. With his free hand, he absently stroked his light gray beard.

  The vial seemed normal enough. But from the video footage Messer had seen, the glass tube should have been destroyed. Yet there it was. The sandals and the helmet survived because they had remnants of power. So what allowed this innocuous piece of glass to survive? A thought occurred to him.

  Messer looked up at his partner, who was dressed in a head-to-toe black bodysuit and wore a white leather trench coat that matched his own but was tailored in the fey style to her dimensions.

  “Hey Gabby, what do you make of this?”

  The near seven-foot-tall and impossibly thin elven woman bent over at the waist to look at the object. Her bright red hair fell aside, exposing the shaved half of her head and her long, tapered pointed ears. Her light blue skin looked almost gray in the shadows of night. She sniffed the vial with her snake-like slits. Her overly large, black, almond-shaped eyes narrowed and her thin lips pursed. She stood back up and shook her head in disgust.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Messer said. “Black magic.”

  Messer stood and produced a plastic evidence bag from his coat. He carefully put the tube inside, sealed it off, and then stashed the bag in his coat.

  “I’m going to have to call this in.”

  The elf woman cocked her head to the side, giving her partner an inquisitive look. She looked at the ashes, then arched her eyebrow.

  Messer nodded. “Yeah, I think it’s that bad. You got your end?”

  Gabby bowed her head, then stepped back. She produced a thin wooden wand from inside her coat’s pocket and swiped at the air, creating a small rip in reality. The elf stepped through and the tear in space healed itself upon her passing.

  Messer took out his cell and dialed.

  “Go ahead,” an elderly yet strong female voice said.

  “Hermes is dead,” Messer said.

  “Freak accident or a murder?” the woman asked.

  “Unknown. But my gut says that this case has gone from robbery to deicide.”

  “What do you n
eed?” the woman’s voice asked.

  “I need a new team.”

  ********

  12 May - 1:37 am

  Svartlside, District of Alpdruck

  Boris Derevadim walked past the hookers on 4th and Hulder who were lined up outside the closed pawn shop. A few males, a few females. Goblins, humans, a couple of dwarves, and even an elf who’d clearly been kicked out of high society offered a fantastic time for a reasonable price.

  Hmm, he did have a little extra cash. And the bald, green-skinned goblin with the black lipstick, fishnets, and nose piercings did have a certain impish evil about her.

  Boris pulled back the hood of his jacket to let his long, pine-cone-wrapped dreads fall free. He stroked his beard and inclined his chin.

  “How’s it going?” he asked with a slight Slavic accent.

  “You wanna party?” the goblin asked.

  “I might.”

  “Never hooked up with a Leshy before,” the goblin said, running a finger down Boris’s open shirt and through his chest hair.

  As Leshies went, Boris was of average height. Which meant the goblin only came up to his sternum.

  “I’m like any other fairy, just more . . . butch. So how much?”

  “Three hundred,” the goblin said.

  “I can handle that,” Boris said just as a car honked behind him.

  “Boris!” a voice yelled out.

  “Someone looking for you?” the goblin asked.

  Boris turned around and saw a large black extended-cab SUV parked by the curb. An SUV he recognized. Boris nodded and held up a finger. “One sec,” he said, then turned back to the goblin prostitute. “I live over at Coldwater Heights, top floor, apartment 419.”

  “I know,” the goblin said. “We all know who you are.”

  Boris smiled. “Then why don’t you head on over now. When I finish a little business, I’ll see you there. I even have a hidden stash. We could have one hell of a party.”

  “I’ll think about it,” the goblin said with a smile.