Forgotten Gods

by ST Branton

  A shudder ran through me. “Marcus. Do you see that dude?”

  “Yes.” Marcus spoke low, out of the side of his mouth. “Pay him no attention. Do not let him scare you.” He paused. “I believe you would tell me to ‘play it cool’ under similar circumstances.”

  “Looks like I’m not the only one learning,” I said with a smile.

  We wound our way closer to the stage. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the guy heave to his feet, rocking the whole corner table. He edged out from behind it and waddled across the room toward a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, which barely opened wide enough to let him through.

  Marcus signaled for me to trail him, so I kept my head down and followed in his footsteps. The first thing I’d learned about recon echoed in my head. Act like you belong.

  The employee door opened onto a long, harshly lit hallway. The walls, once white probably, were tinged a disgusting yellow with age and neglect. A rat darted along the molding—the only surprise was that there was only one.

  “Do you know where he went?” I whispered. Marcus indicated a door that stood slightly open halfway down the corridor, spilling out a slice of wavering light.

  Marcus went first.

  He squared his shoulders, strode forward, and pushed open the door with no hesitation. We looked in on an empty dressing room, the kind with a vanity on one wall.

  I noticed an odd, brownish tarp wadded on the floor. Weird. Looking closer, I picked out holes, frayed edges, suspicious bumps. I reached out and took a bit of it between my fingers, recoiling at the soft, slightly moist texture. That was about when I realized it was skin. The same skin I’d just seen adorning that creep’s corpulent figure at the corner table.

  “Gross!” The word leapt out before I could stifle it.

  A baseball bat crashed into the side of the doorframe, splintering it. My instincts took over, by which I mean I pulled back and shrieked. The bat, wide enough to be considered more of a club, was clutched in a huge, gray-brown hand. The skin was knobby like an old log. I followed it up to see the face of the guy in the corner.

  But he was different now.

  There was an empty bottle of whisky sitting on the vanity, a big, heavy, square one. Marcus picked it up and flipped it over in his hand. During the next windup of the baseball bat, Marcus arced the bottle right under the guy’s huge arm.

  It shattered on a protruding, rock-hard jaw.

  The man—was he a man? I honestly couldn’t tell—reeled back, stunned. Shards of the bottle’s base rained to the ground, leaving behind smudges and trickles of sludgy blood.

  Definitely not a man, I thought, now that I could get a good look at the shape in front of us. It was more or less the right shape, but its heavy shoulders were too hunched, and its jaw was too thick and wide. The teeth were something else altogether. They jutted from the lower lip like leaning tombstones.

  I had never seen anything like it. All the thoughts in my brain melted together into a stream of gibbering consciousness. Marcus’ stories, I could handle. This thing that was staring me in the face, standing on two feet in the real-ass world? Not so much. There had to be a reasonable explanation—there had to. For the monster in front of me. The skin on the floor.

  So why couldn’t I think of one?

  The creature raised his bat again, prompting another clean hit from Marcus with the remains of the bottle. It broke down to a nub in his grasp, his fingers dangerously close to the gleaming edges of the glass. I would’ve dropped it at that point, but Marcus held firm. A tooth ricocheted off the far wall, and a moment later, so did the creature’s head. It left a squash-shaped dent in the plaster.

  “I yield!” The voice was a wet bellow. I watched the beast clutch at his bleeding face with those gigantic mitts, attempting futilely to pick out the smaller bits of broken glass still embedded in his coarse skin. “I yield,” he said again, sounding like he meant it. “I yield, damnit.”

  “Very well.” Marcus made a show of setting down the neck of the bottle. He folded his arms and gazed down on his defeated opponent. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it, ogre?”

  Briefly, the ogre looked like he wanted to say something snide, but sense got the better of him.

  “Look, Roman, I don’t know what in hell’s name you think you’re doing here, but I can tell you, it ain’t got nothing to do with me. I haven’t been messing with any of that monkey business since you saw me last. Swear by it.”

  “Last we met, you were leading colonists to their deaths in your stinking bog,” Marcus interjected.

  The monstrous figure frowned. His already saggy face sagged even more. He hadn’t necessarily seemed old before, but he sure did now. I could see the rough whiskers poking out of his chin and the cataracts clouding his eyes. “I haven’t run that game for a couple centuries at least. I get everything I need right here.”

  “And it is every bit as shameful as it should be,” Marcus said. “But I am not here to inquire about such things.”

  A deep sigh escaped the ogre. His body deflated, expanding a few more inches around him. “Thank the King,” he murmured. “I was sure Kronin sent you.”

  “Kronin is dead.” Marcus spoke matter-of-factly, but there was a steel edge underneath the words.

  The ogre paused for a second to take in the words, then laughed. Marcus’s eyes hardened, and I expected the beast to die right then.

  “That explains all the weird shit that’s been going down around these parts lately,” he croaked, dragging his knuckles over his jaw. The slack flesh rippled.

  “Elaborate.”

  A horrid smile parted the monster’s lips, revealing his janky teeth in all their uncomfortable glory. I could feel every cell in my body trying to draw away from the contents of that dressing room. He continued, taking no notice of me whatsoever. “That’s the kind of thing I only give away for a price. I’m not a cheap date, you know.”

  He laughed again, a bumpy, hacking sound.

  “The price is that I leave your overgrown forest of a mouth intact,” Marcus replied. He was pretty good at this game, but the strain was starting to show on his face. His cheeks were pale and sunken. A vein stood out in his neck.

  I narrowed my eyes. Was he okay?

  The ogre considered the offer. “I’ll give you a freebie,” he snorted. “How’s that? For old times’ sake. The rumor mill tells me there are some Apprenti sniffing around the backside of town. Looking for recruits and the like. I guess the whole ball of yarn is finally coming undone.” The smile on his lips turned cruel. “About time if you ask me.”

  “I did not.” Marcus shifted his weight. His temples were shiny with sweat. I opened my mouth to say something, but he kept talking before I got it out. “You have not pledged your allegiance to any such recruiters, have you?”

  “Ha!” The ogre gestured to his wasted form. “In this body? You gotta be kidding. I’m too old and busted to fight. Don’t have the grace of Carcerum down here to keep me young. I know it, and so does everyone else. They haven’t even asked.” He scratched one of his chins. “Which is good, because these days, all I want is to feast and fuck. In either order.”

  I made a face.

  “Charming,” Marcus said. “Tell me, have you heard anything about a specific Apprenti? Perhaps one who prefers the color black?”

  “You mean Delano.” The creature nodded his heavy head. “Yeah. Haven’t seen him, but I know he’s around. You must know, too, don’t you? Servants of Lorcan don’t exactly travel under the radar too well. Ironic, isn’t it?” He chuckled, and it turned into a cough.

  I wanted to throw up. C’mon Marcus. Get us out of here. The longer we spent in the presence of this thing, the more my skin crawled. I felt like I was full of bugs.

  “Is that all?” Marcus asked. He, too, looked worse by the minute.

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re gunning for, but if you want some serious advice, don’t mess with Delano. He don’t screw around with any of these bleeding hearts dow
n here. He wants killers and only killers. If they enjoy it, all the better. You get my drift?”

  “I get it.” Marcus moved to straighten up, but his knees buckled, and he toppled to the side.

  I rushed in to support him.

  “What’s going on?” I demanded. “Are you okay?”

  He didn’t say anything, but he felt for his flask. Behind us, I heard the human gelatin cake scrabbling around. Marcus uncapped the flask. I spun around just in time to see that we were back in baseball season.

  “Dammit to hell, you bastard!” I grabbed the vanity chair and hurled it with all my strength straight at the bulbous gut.

  The feet of the chair dug in, and the ogre retched, but held his feet. Before he could use his bat again, Marcus regained himself.

  And torpedoed the jagged piece of broken whisky bottle straight into the ogre’s bulging eye.

  “Shit!” I gasped.

  “I planned on letting you live,” Marcus said with little mercy in his voice. “But apparently your fear of Kronin’s law died with him. Fortunately for the people of this city, his justice lives on.”

  The monster made a noise kind of like a chicken as he slid to the ground. He clutched at his face, but it was futile. The bottle cap sat flush in the eye socket, eerily almost the right size.

  “We are done here,” Marcus said. He took me by the elbow and guided me from the room, back into the hallway. We retreated from the carnage in silence. On our way out of the employee door, we passed a girl in little more than bits of pink string. Despite the fact that she could have been his daughter, she gave Marcus a flirty smile.

  Neither of us said a word. The door closed. We walked away fast.

  The club was loud, but we still heard her scream.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I saved all my words for when we were outside again in the relatively fresh air, away from that hellhole stripper prison. I started with the obvious. “Are we gonna get in trouble for that?”

  “No. The body will be gone without a trace by the time the authorities arrive. The longer he has been preserved, the faster death will dissolve him.”

  “Okay, sure.” All I could do was unconditionally accept whatever he said at this point. Denial required a presence of mind that I simply didn’t have. Which led seamlessly into my next questions. “So, it’s really real, then? You weren’t lying?”

  Marcus smiled. “I never lie. It goes against my code.”

  “All of it is real?”

  “Yes.”

  I blinked. My mind remained stubborn, at least, in part. “But, like, all of it?”

  He ran a hand through his hair and adjusted the neckline of his tunic. “Let me recount the tale of when I first discovered the truth about the realms. We were in Gaul, my cohort and I, on a regular foot patrol. This was something we did every day, several times over. For quite some time, we had seen and heard nothing. With no evidence to the contrary, we expected this trend to continue.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “But as you can guess, it did not. We were attacked by a monster, half man and half bull, with great, wide horns and cloven hooves instead of feet. It was nearly twice my height, and it bellowed like livestock but a thousand times more terrible.” An inscrutable expression crossed his face. “It is no exaggeration to say I nearly soiled my tunic on the spot.”

  I snorted. “No kidding. They call those things minotaurs now.”

  Marcus nodded. “They have always had their proper names, but it has taken me ages to learn them all. There are so many more than you know, Vic. And in the wake of Kronin’s death, the curtain grows thinner every day.”

  “What happened after the minotaur arrived? Did you beat it?”

  “No.” He smiled flatly. “Our weapons barely slowed it down; it was as if its flesh was wrought from iron. I saw a man’s skeleton splintered on those horns.” He winced at the memory. “My men scattered, some fallen, others in shock, and others mad from the impossibility of what they were witnessing. I thought for sure that we would be destroyed, our chances at honor wiped out, but then Kronin arrived.”

  “He was there? You met him?” No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep myself from being drawn into the captivating weave of his story.

  “That is when I met him for the first time. He descended much like I did unto this plane, albeit in a vastly more controlled manner. He had the Gladius Solis with him then, and he used it to rend the minotaur clean in half.”

  “Uh huh.” I knew a bit about the blade’s ability to do that.

  “He was so regal, so radiant, and so just and commanding that I pledged my service to him then and there. For the rest of my days, however many I had.” He glanced up at the moon. “As it has turned out, I had a lot.”

  “And you’re still serving him,” I said. “Here in New York.”

  “I never imagined the world could look like this.” Marcus took a deep breath. “Or that I would be able to see it this way.” He turned to me. “This is why my mission is so important, Vic. I must protect and preserve this world because it used to be my world, too. Perhaps you do not see the same value in it as I do, but my hope is that you will someday. And I hope you will feel the same sense of duty toward your fellow human beings.”

  “What are you trying to say, Marcus?” I asked quietly.

  He pondered that. “I am trying to say that I hope you will choose to save them when the time is right.”

  “That’s theoretical, right? I’m trying to get rid of someone, remember?”

  “Yes, but there will be many more to dispose of in the future—your future. In Kronin’s absence, the darkness he kept at bay will only grow until it engulfs this world.” He pointed his thumb toward the strip club. “The things you saw in that house of ill repute were only a taste of the bitter potion. There are far greater horrors biding their time in the shadows.”

  “Delano,” I muttered.

  “And more.”

  It was all too overwhelming. I could feel myself actually getting lightheaded. “Can you make it home okay on your own?” I asked. “Sorry, I just… I just need to take some time to think about things. About everything.”

  “Take your time.” Marcus lifted his hand in a casual salute. “You have much to absorb. I understand.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled tightly. “See you later, okay?”

  ***

  I veered off the main streets after we parted ways. Back in the days before everything went to hell, I followed all the rules when it came to walking at night. Never alone, never unarmed. I knew how to grip my keys between my knuckles with the best of them. Now that I spent my days and nights ducking out of dangerous bars and had no problem firing a gun in crowded rooms, I’d thrown all that caution to the wind.

  It was freeing in a way. In another, it was terrifying.

  I turned my brain off and trusted my feet to just walk through the cool October air. The breeze lifted my hair off my neck. I ran both hands through it and let myself smile at the feeling, even though it was a little greasy. That was another thing I’d embraced about the street life: no one cared if I looked a little ragged. We all did.

  We all were. Inside and outside.

  My heart noticed that the streets were starting to look familiar, but for different reasons than I’d become accustomed to. I told myself to ignore it. The draw, however, was irresistible. In my current state of mental exhaustion, I couldn’t keep myself away if I tried.

  So, I didn’t.

  The building had been abandoned for five years, and it still stood empty, the façade bearing traces of the blaze that had taken it down. I ran my hand along the outside edge of the boarded-up front window, staring at the layer of dust that came away with my fingers. I had played in that window when I was a child. I’d practically grown up in it. My parents used to joke that half their business came in because of the baby in the front display.

  Looking at it always took me back to the last day.

  The cop had been young, a wom
an with plain blonde hair pulled up in a sensible bun. She had looked earnest, eager to do her job right. She had also looked incredibly, painfully sorry. I’d never forgotten the look in her eyes when she knelt down beside me, took my hands in hers, and told me my mother and father were dead.

  That cop was nowhere to be seen a few months later. The officer who told me the investigation was effectively closed was a man, barrel chested, with the face of a garden slug. He’d been chewing tobacco while we talked. That was what I remembered about him. The tobacco.

  I also remembered my unfathomable anger, and my hunger for justice to be served. So began my five-year mission to make right what the authorities couldn’t—or wouldn’t.

  In all of it, the only kindness I tasted was from that lady cop, with the perfect blonde bun. She was the only one who wanted to help me.

  At least, until Marcus.

  Now, I was beginning to feel like a person who had found motions she actually wanted to go through. I was finding things besides vengeance to care about again.

  My friends. A cause bigger than me. Hell, even the stray cat Marcus would have eaten that now unequivocally called the loft its castle.

  Today, like me, the front window of their shop was nothing more than a void covered by plywood, too broken and unimportant even to be revitalized. The thought made tears bite at the corners of my eyes. How could I ever believe in the concept of fairness again, after what had happened at Stratton’s Checks & Cash? How could I ever see the intrinsic good that Marcus saw every time he looked out at New York?

  A week ago, I would have simply said I couldn’t. Now, I was beginning to sense a change stirring in the depths of my soul. I had no clue what it was, but it made me hate less. It made me wonder who I’d become and how I’d allowed myself to get here. The things Marcus had mentioned during our fight lit such a hot fire in me because they hit too close to home.

  For five years, I was a living manifestation of anger, revenge, and pain. But Marcus was right. That emotion kept me a victim.

  I was twenty-eight years old, almost twenty-nine, standing in front of my parents’ burned-out shop and crying like a baby. I sobbed so hard that I had to kneel on the sidewalk where the drooping ribbons of crime scene tape had hung, in front of the boarded window shattered years ago.