The Gods' Day to Die

by David Welch

  ALSO BY DAVID WELCH

  Chaos Quarter

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 David Welch

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477828410

  ISBN-10: 1477828419

  Cover design by Jason Blackburn

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014920841

  CONTENTS

  PERSONAE IMMORTALIS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PERSONAE IMMORTALIS

  Artemis: 5,762 years old; formerly known as the Goddess of the Hunt; daughter of Zeus and Leto

  Ares: 5,846 years old; formerly known as the God of War; son of Zeus and Hera; first immortal born of two immortals that survived to adulthood; longtime lover of Aphrodite

  Aphrodite: 5,885 years old; formerly known as the Goddess of Love; longtime lover of Ares; daughter of two mortal parents; not related to Zeus by blood

  Zeus: 5,931 years old; formerly known as the King of the Gods; longtime lover of Hera; the first and oldest of the immortals

  Hera: 5,902 years old; formerly known as the Queen of the Gods; longtime lover of Zeus; daughter of two mortal parents; not related to Zeus by blood

  Athena: 5,674 years old; formerly known as the Goddess of Wisdom and Just Wars; daughter of Zeus and Metis; mother of Lenka Sidorov by a mortal husband

  Dionysus: 4,796 years old; formerly known as the God of Wine; son of Zeus and Semele; longtime lover of debauchery

  1

  Near Byers Peak, Colorado

  Desmond Taylor stopped short at the edge of the pond. He blinked to make sure that there was indeed a naked woman standing in the middle of the pond, washing herself. Post-blink she remained there, splashing cold water over toned thighs.

  The part of his mind not busy sending frantic signals to his lower body puzzled over this. A beautiful woman, completely nude, in the middle of the wilderness? This was either a bad movie or a Greek myth, or, given Hollywood’s recent efforts, both. His eyes scanned her body. Long legs blossomed into round hips. They flowed into a taut stomach, lithe muscle just visible under feminine skin. Her breasts weren’t exceptionally large, but they were high, round, and firm. The hint of muscle on her shoulders swooped into a long, graceful neck. This was a tall woman, about five foot eight. A thin face with a long, tapering jawline crowned her form. Raven-black hair, somewhere between wavy and curly, framed her bright, ice-blue eyes.

  Eyes that now fixed on him. Desmond tensed, expecting the shouting to start any second. He wasn’t sure how yet, but he figured it would soon be his fault that he had stumbled upon the only alpine lake in Colorado containing a naked centerfold.

  “Hi,” she said, her voice light and easygoing.

  His mind puzzled again, at least the part of it that wasn’t desperately trying to keep certain parts of his body from growing. No fuss, no craziness, and no desperate dash to awkwardly cover her privates with her hands . . . she just stood there, a hint of a smile on her lips.

  “Hello,” he replied.

  “Enjoying yourself?” she asked, a spark of playfulness in her voice.

  “Unsure,” he replied. “Still trying to figure the best way to react to this.”

  The woman arched an eyebrow.

  “Oh? Well, tell me when you do,” she replied, rubbing water onto lithe arms.

  Des gazed at her for a moment, then lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the shore of the pond.

  “Interesting . . .” she said, then started walking through the water. She stopped ten feet from him. A cool breeze blew off the mountain tundra, sending waves through the tough alpine grass and pebbling her flesh with goose bumps.

  “I could say the same,” Desmond replied.

  “Out of lust? Or curiosity?”

  “Both. You find it interesting that I’m making no effort to look away, and I find it interesting that you seem completely oblivious to being ogled by a stranger.”

  “You think you’re the first stranger to see me naked?” she asked, continuing to wash.

  “That just makes things all the more interesting . . . or less so,” he said.

  She cocked her head, saying, “Less so?”

  “Either you’re promiscuous, which I find kinda boring, or you’re jaded enough to be able to separate nudity from sexuality in your mind.”

  “And you seem to be jaded enough to watch a naked babe without tenting your pants,” she replied with a smirk.

  “Who said you were a babe?” Des replied with a smirk of his own.

  She laughed in disbelief, then gestured to her body.

  “Point conceded,” Des said with an appreciative nod.

  “You don’t seem old enough to be jaded,” she declared.

  “Neither do you,” he replied.

  “I’m older than I look,” she said.

  “I’m younger,” he said.

  She took a moment to look him over. He waited, knowing what she would see: Brown wavy hair topped a ruggedly handsome face, complete with a square jaw and a somewhat thick neck. A muscular body built over years of wandering the outdoors, more ropy than bulky. His features were pleasant, but not finely chiseled. The women he’d been with had never had complaints.

  “Thirty-two,” she said after completing her evaluation.

  “Twenty-nine,” he replied.

  That seemed to catch her off guard. She cocked her head quizzically, staring at him for a long moment.

  “Really? I’m usually pretty good—”

  “I am fully aware of my age,” he said with a smile. “And I’m not jaded. I’m quite amazed by what’s going on. I merely have . . . well-developed self-control.”

  She moved even closer, stopping a few feet from him, the water just barely lapping around her ankles. She crouched in front of him. Rivulets traced paths down her skin before dripping off her toned body. He swallowed hard, his mind fighting to keep itself together. Well-developed self-control, well-developed self-control, well-developed—

  “Hmm . . .” she said, cocking her head at several angles to stare at him. “You’re a strange man.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Des replied.

  “So what are you doing wandering around wilderness areas, far from the usual trails?” she asked.

  “Apparently looking for naked women in ponds. Do you hav
e a sword to give me? Am I to be king?” he asked, deadpanning before breaking into a smile.

  She laughed. “Wrong myth.”

  Now it was his turn to raise an eyebrow.

  “Artemis,” she said, extending a hand.

  He took it, letting her pull him to his feet.

  “Bathing in a pond,” he said knowingly. “You’re not going to turn me into a deer and sic the hounds on me?”

  “I was thinking of it,” she said with a shrug. “But I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to hunt deer with dogs in Colorado.”

  “Well, Artemis-who-seems-to-quite-literally-take-after-her-namesake, do you have a last name?”

  “Vescleves,” she said. “You?”

  “Desmond Taylor,” he replied. “And to answer your question, I’ve run out of trails.”

  “Oh?”

  “Hiking. Done most of the trails in the area, decided to start bushwhacking.”

  “Well, next time you feel like wandering aimlessly through the forest, give me a call,” she said, smiling warmly.

  “Will we be wandering near any ponds?” he said, a smirk crossing his face.

  With a light laugh she reached forward and pulled his cell phone from his pocket, coming so close that her scent swam around him.

  “We could plan ahead,” he managed, forcing back the intoxicating pheromones flooding his brain. “Maybe then I won’t be so overdressed.”

  Another laugh. She tapped away at the phone, entering her number, then handed it back to him.

  “You’re a confident man, Mr. Taylor.”

  “And you’re a naked woman, Miss Vescleves,” he replied.

  She smiled at the sound of her name.

  “First try, and you get it right,” she said. “Are you like that in everything you do?”

  “Is that lust speaking? Or curiosity?”

  Her smile became all sorts of naughty.

  “Both,” she whispered before turning and walking back into the pond, her hips swaying as she walked. No way that isn’t on purpose, Desmond thought.

  “Enjoy your hike, Mr. Taylor.”

  He watched her, hesitant to tear his eyes from her.

  “Enjoy your bath, Miss Vescleves.”

  2

  Outside Mecca, California

  Generally, rich people did not live near Mecca, California. Just north of the Salton Sea, it was a town of small houses surrounded by irrigated desert. Or rather it had been irrigated, until the irrigation was found to be harmful to some subspecies of fish, “forcing” the government to shut off the water. Bad for the growers of the Imperial Valley who lived around here, but good for Hermes.

  He’d bought nearly a hundred acres cheap from a farmer who’d thrown up his hands and moved to Texas. To most it didn’t look like much, just brown dirt. Sure, mountains rose just east, and Painted Canyon was a five-minute drive away. But the land itself was flat and mostly empty, except for some hardy scrub growing up among the withered husks of fruit trees.

  Well, empty except for his forty-five-hundred-square-foot large house/small mansion. It jutted up conspicuously, proud and tall and built of faux adobe to blend in with the brown wastes around it. Hermes, wearing only a robe, sat in a wicker chair on the balcony of his bedroom, the sun warming his bronze, muscular body. He leisurely sipped a cup of coffee as his dark eyes looked out over the broad valley.

  He liked the view, even if most of the world saw nothing but dirt and felt nothing but heat. It reminded him a little of Greece, though it was a drier, more true desert given a fringe of green by industrious humans. He’d always thought deserts were clean, elemental. Just dirt and sky with life scattered about in tenacious pockets. No jungles so thick with vines you couldn’t see two feet ahead of you, no humidity clamping to your skin like a vise. Sure, the arctic also had the sterile cleanliness of a desert, but it was so damn cold. He’d take heat any day of the week.

  A coyote loped across his backyard, heading for the mountains a mile east. He watched it go, hearing the sliding door open behind him as he did.

  “Breakfast, mi amor,” an accented voice said.

  He turned, seeing Carlotta approach carrying a tray covered with bacon, sausage, grapefruit, and home fries. Carlotta set the tray on a small table, then sat on his lap, straddling him. She ran her fingers through his dark hair, then draped her arms around his neck. His hands automatically opened her robe.

  “No, no . . .” she said. “Just a taste for now.”

  She kissed him, slowly and teasing. They kept at it for a few minutes, until Carlotta rose from him and returned to her seat. Hermes smiled. Hiring her had been a good idea. True, she was a voluptuous woman with dark hair and mesmerizing eyes, but he’d seen enough stunning women over his long life to look beyond that. He’d actually been impressed by her legality, given the controversy raging in this country. After he gave her the job, she’d gotten his house in order very quickly. The woman was so damn good at her job she didn’t actually need to be a live-in maid, which had led to many hours of her lounging around the pool with him. One thing had led to another, and now he no longer paid her. He didn’t have to. She’d smile, and he’d melt and give her anything she wanted. At first he’d wondered if she was a gold digger, but she always brought money back to him. Her life of working in houses for pennies had driven deep the value of thrift. He had money to waste for seven lifetimes, but she steadfastly refused to live like the spoiled girlfriend she was.

  Of all the terrible burdens to bear . . . he thought, smiling at her. She flashed a smile back, but shook her head playfully. She was hungry, and ate like a real person. Not like the girls west of the Coast Ranges, up in Los Angeles where most of the rich people lived.

  “You want to get married?” Hermes asked.

  Carlotta dropped her bacon.

  “What?” she said, the words clearly not sinking in.

  “I know it’s not the most romantic way to ask, but I want to marry you,” Hermes said.

  “But . . . but you said it hurt,” she said sadly. “When your wives die . . .”

  “It does,” he said. “But it’s great when I’m with them, and they’re with me.”

  “You haven’t had one in centuries!” she said.

  “Then I’m overdue,” he said. “And I love you.”

  She screamed, then clamped her hand over her mouth. Hermes felt a familiar warmth spread through him. Yes, he’d felt it many times before, but it was no less intense. Part of him felt he’d never get to this point again. He rarely told women he was immortal anymore. Few believed it, not in this modern and cynical age. Even Carlotta had thought him crazy, until he’d shown her a photograph of him taken in Paris in 1872. She’d disappeared for two days, then returned, saying she didn’t care what he was, that she loved him.

  And he had realized shortly afterward that he loved her.

  “Yes!” she squealed. “Yes, yes, yes!”

  She was on his lap again, this time nearly forcing his hands to the belt of her robe. His fingers fumbled with the terry cloth sash, her kisses covering every inch of his face.

  The moment was shattered by the noise of a half-dozen vehicles pulling up in his driveway.

  “Babe, hold on. Somebody’s here,” he said, her kisses still coming relentless and hard.

  “They can come back later, mi amor,” she whispered.

  “No,” he said, more to buffer his failing resolve than to distract her. “How ’bout you go into the bedroom. Surprise me when I come back?”

  She pouted and slid off his lap. How was it that a woman’s pout could be both adorable and sexy at the same time? So many centuries on this Earth, and he still didn’t know.

  He got up, expecting to hear the doorbell. For a long moment he heard nothing; then came footsteps, crunching on the gravelly desert pavement. People were moving to surround his house. Instantly hi
s mind spun into action, remembering the last time he had seen this happen. It hadn’t been that long ago when he’d been visiting Apollo at his place in the Cascades. He’d heard twigs snap, and gone to a window, only to see armed men surrounding the home. An hour later he’d been limping through the forest, wounded and bleeding with a bullet wedged between his ribs. Never aging didn’t mean you were actually immortal. A bullet could kill him just as easily as it could any other man. Apollo had fallen in a hail of gunfire that awful day, never even making it out of the house.

  Lenka!

  A shot rang out. Carlotta lurched forward, a silent scream on her lips. She fell into his arms, blood bubbling at her throat.

  “No,” he whispered, more in disbelief than rage. He wasn’t able to register what was happening.

  Then old instincts kicked in. He pulled his lover inside, moving her to the bed before jerking the sliding door shut. Bullets struck the bulletproof glass, sending a web of cracks through it, but not penetrating.

  He dashed to a small console next to the door to grab the remote for a security system he’d spent fifty thousand dollars to have installed. With quick taps he locked every door and window in the house.

  Stepping back, he tried to think, but couldn’t. All he could see was Carlotta, the life draining slowly from her eyes. He ran to her side, kneeling next to the bed to be close to her. She couldn’t speak, and her hand searched for his, weak and listless. He grabbed it, folding both his hands around it. His eyes met hers for a long second.

  Then, nothing. Carlotta’s eyes glassed over, and she lay still, her blood staining the comforter beneath her body. A wretched sob ripped from Hermes’ throat. His forehead fell to her ribs, and he wept bitterly.

  A loud thump came from downstairs: somebody trying to break in. A cold fury burned through his grief, focusing his mind, calling up millennia of martial experience. With tears still drying on his face, he moved to a large, walk-in closet. He went inside, finding not clothes, but a large gun safe and a wall full of weapons. Most were blades he had collected over the years. A Kevlar vest was draped over a heavy hanger near the back.