Loki stepped around Mir and pulled a worn, leather jacket off the dresser. “Tomorrow. I’ll tell him tomorrow.”
“That won’t fly and you know it.”
“It’ll have to. I’m heading out.” At six foot three, Loki knew he wouldn‘t blend into the human world. His height wasn’t the real problem. It was the otherworldly face. Razor sharp cheekbones, topped off with electric blue eyes set under a permanent scowl, that’s what drew attention. But the attention would get him what he needed tonight to work off this hardened edge that cut so deeply.
“Chicken shit.” Mir took a drag on the cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke.
“Can you blame me?”
“Not one bit.” Mir hesitated. “Try to get back before dawn. He’ll want answers.”
Didn’t he know it? But before that shit show started, he would lose himself in a woman for a few hours. He’d forget all about what he found in the alley tonight, and all the complications it represented. Because if the tight, queasy feeling in his gut was any indication, he’d be the one hunting down the violator, and most likely, putting him to death.
But right now, he needed to forget he was a total and complete fuck up. That his mistake was the reason they were banished to this planet in the first place. Trying to prevent the end of the world only to have your actions cause an apocalypse? Not an easy thing to live with.
Made worse by the fact everyone blamed you for it.
Shoving all that to the side, he simply told Mir, “Look, give me a couple of hours to myself. I’m going to grab a bottle of booze and some company.” The burly, red-haired god nodded, just once, his blue eyes cool and measuring. Mir was solid, and there was no one Loki trusted more.
“I’ll be home before dawn, and Odin’ll have his report the minute I’m back. Tell him that, will you?” Then Loki stalked out.
His suite might not be the grandest, but he had the best view. Plus, he was closest to the elevator for quick escapes and fewer questions. Stepping in, he punched the button and it heaved before dropping like a rock. He cursed loudly, praying this fucking relic from the turn of the century wouldn’t kill him. As it was, it took its good old time reaching the basement. Once it did, he coasted his motorcycle up out of the private parking garage under one of the city’s busiest streets. The roar of his Harley lit up Michigan, and he headed straight through downtown, following the lake to a part of Chicago that wasn’t on any architectural tour.
2
The Orphan
Keeping her arm elevated above her head, Morgane Burke pushed the door open to her shoebox-sized apartment on the city’s south side. Peeling off her leather jacket, she made a mental note: Next time, Burke, pick a complex with bigger units. It occurred to her she had been here for five months, which meant it was time to start looking for a new hideout. Kicking the door shut, she put her back to it, locking it tightly behind her.
Getting home tonight had been easy.
But this next bit would really hurt.
Her breath choppy, Morgane unbuckled and lifted the Kevlar vest over her head, gritting her teeth as warm blood gushed down her arm, off the ends of her fingers. Biting back panic, she turned and looked in the mirror. The gash was long but not too deep, the length of her upper arm from shoulder to elbow. But plenty of black, foamy venom seeped from it, and the smell of rot and sulfur filled the room. Just a lucky shot, she reassured herself, pouring a bottle of peroxide over the wound, holding her breath as blood and poison bubbled away, forming a foamy pool on the floor at her feet.
Next to her lay the Kevlar jacket, the ripped, ragged seam the only place the creature’s long claws had penetrated. Around her lay her entire existence. Half of the tiny room held a bed, a hotplate, a mini fridge, while the miniscule bathroom was equipped as a cobbled-together hospital. The rest of the shoebox contained boxes of weapons, knives, Kevlar reinforced black clothing, steel-toed boots, and military grade steel.
While the peroxide sent pain shooting through her in fiery spikes, she inspected the pattern of scars covering her torso and arms. Lucky shots were becoming rarer and rarer. Those first days, when she’d been new to the city, to the fighting, her body had paid the price for her inexperience.
She’d fixed that.
Daily self-defense classes, followed by one-on-one Krav Maga and Jiu Jitsu lessons had upped her fighting game. But there was nothing like hands on experience, the nightly do-or-die combat to hone your instincts. The thing was, she was getting pretty damn good after two years. Maybe she’d passed the magical ten thousand-hour mark. Maybe she was finally making some headway in exterminating these spidery bastards, crawling all over this city.
Killers of mothers.
Sisters.
With a shudder, she thrust that particular memory out of her head. She had to admit that tonight there’d been a moment, a split second, when she wasn’t sure she would make it out of the alley alive. When one monster hooked its curved claw through the seam, pulled her close enough she gagged on its fetid breath, those needle-sharp teeth clicking inches away from her neck. She stared at the frayed fabric again. And reassured herself it was just a lucky shot.
She wiped away the peroxide, the gash still seeping black, poisonous residue from the creature’s claw. Grabbing the bottle of antibiotics, she tipped four into her hand and swallowed them followed by a handful of painkillers. Their venom took more than a day to dissipate, giving her the equal of a severe, forty-eight-hour flu. And until her body filtered out the last drop, healing wouldn’t begin.
That, she’d learned the hard way.
Which meant she’d have to wait this out. She’d be off the streets tomorrow, and the missed night would cost her. Someone would die tomorrow. She owed it to her fellow humans to save as many as she could, even if it killed her.
She checked the door a final time, noting with satisfaction the thick, reinforced steel and interlocking deadbolt system capable of keeping out a rhino. Which made this crappy place home sweet home for at least another week. Dropping into bed, she shivered as the venom worked its way through her system.
After her two-day staycation, Morgane buckled on the new Kevlar with shaking fingers. Weak. She was weak but she had to get out there. If she waited another night, someone else would die. As if to mock her, the small television droned on in the background, listing yet another missing person. Every single night people went out and never came home. In every city in the world. And according to the news, things were getting worse. Her gaze was drawn to her map, the spiderweb of red dots indicating the missing, presumed dead.
Thousands. That’s how many people, just this year, came to Chicago and were never seen again. She should know. She was keeping track. Her lips thinning out, she pulled on the Dri-FIT shirt, the new Kevlar vest banded tight by Velcro and nylon, then the Kevlar jacket, all black, head to toe.
She made it a habit to rotate hunting territories each night and change apartments every six months. Her appearance changed so often she barely remembered her natural hair color, although she recalled it was some shade of blonde. Now it was dark brown, but that was about to change too. Best to not get too attached.
Heading into the wind, she crossed near the lions guarding the museum and dodged right, ducked down the metal steps to Lower Wacker, moving fast. She knew her scent would carry, and she knew they would come. The concrete amplified the impact of her boots on the broken-down pavement of the underground street as she walked. And walked.
The catcalls rising above the engine noise of a passing car drowned out everything else, so she lowered her head and moved faster.
But the distraction cost her, covering the skittering sounds of her enemy for those few, precious seconds, the creatures closer than she anticipated by the time she finally spotted them. They hung from the ceiling above her, their long, curved claws finding purchase in the seams of the concrete overhead, eyes fixated on her. Spider-like, they maneuvered cautiously, surrounding her. The subtle hiss of a razor-sharp edge against l
eather made them pause as she drew out her knives, then they advanced another step. Counting at least three of them, she crouched down onto her haunches. Their spider-like bodies lost to the shadows, she could only hear those sharpened, deadly talons scramble until she felt the barest brush of movement against her face. She struck.
They might have their claws, but she had her knives. Custom made. Black and serrated, fused glass and titanium. The first monster she killed with a backward swipe of her right hand while she sank the left knife deep into the second’s chest. One to go. Still waiting, too high for her to reach, she threw back the hood around her head, knowing full well her scent would drift upwards, lure it to her. It crept a few feet closer. Morgane blew out breath after breath, filling the space with her scent, drawing the creature in. The creature struck but too slowly, and her right knife took its arm, which fell, grasping, to the concrete. When it shrieked, sounding like rusty brakes gone bad, she plunged both knives down through the hollow chest into the ground below.
The sound stopped.
Three dead and not a scratch on her. Yes, she thought with satisfaction, she must be nearing expert level. Pulling her hood back over her face, she left them to disappear like the garbage they were. Missing whatever evil force kept them alive, the bodies shriveled and shrunk within minutes, leaving nothing more than gray debris on the side of the road.
A handy thing, that.
She spent hours searching for more. Three hours before she gave up, leaving her with a good chunk of the evening to deal with. Walking back toward the lights, she rounded Monroe onto North Michigan, taking a moment to pause in front of the magnificent old building facing the lake. While not as tall as surrounding skyscrapers, the stately lines of creamy white limestone spoke for themselves, as did the arched, gothic windows overlooking the lake.
Morgane spent the rest of the way downtown wondering who lived in places like that. So high above everyone else.
Nights like these were the worst. Nights with time to kill. Nights where no one remembered she existed. Where the only people who had known her were dead. Abruptly Morgane plunged her hands into her pockets and headed back the way she’d come until she reached Union Station. She should have boarded the train and headed home. She should have, but the shoebox seemed so…damn depressing tonight. Taking the stairs to the lowest level of the station, she found her locker and pulled out her key.
This time of night, the bars would be packed full of people just like her, seeking the same thing. Any escape they could find from loneliness. Opening the locker, she yanked out the clothes she kept there for emergencies.
Such as nights like these.
She made few concessions to weakness. Didn’t have many connections left to this race of people she’d once called hers. Most days, it felt like she didn’t belong to anyone. Or anywhere.
Most days, she had to remind herself she even had a name.
Morgane Elaine Burke.
Unseen killer of demons, which was precisely how she needed things to stay. The Kevlar vest and the knives clanked against the metal bathroom stall as she quickly stripped, trading the bloody clothing for a light sweater, black jeans, and heels. Slipping a short jacket over her shoulders, she stuffed her black AMX card and ID in her back pocket, went to the sink, and splashed water on her face. Finally she freed her hair, watching it cascade over her shoulders.
It was the one thing she hadn’t compromised on, and its glorious length reminded her she was, after all, female. Even if it hardly mattered anymore.
There were only three clubs downtown she trusted. Where the music was loud and the faces constantly changed. She never drank and always tipped generously for the bottled waters they doled out to her through the night.
And she danced. Caught in the throbbing pulse of bodies and driving music, it felt good to disappear for two or three hours, to lose herself in the crowd, in the music. Closing her eyes, she let herself go. Dancing, tuning out the world, tuning out everything except the bass and her heartbeat, at least she felt connected to something on this planet. Except for one stubbornly persistent guy, everyone left her alone. The best part was, the shoebox was a distant memory, at least for a few hours.
By the time she reached the second bar, sweat was dripping down her back, and a thudding sedation began to fill her bones. When the bouncer waved her in, the roar of a Harley rose over the waiting crowd, but the energy pulled her inward, the music beckoning.
By the time she reached the final bar, she’d almost forgotten. Almost forgot the day she’d come here, tugged along by her sister and her mother. Almost forgot running late, getting lost, the streets growing darker. Almost forgot the sounds of talons and teeth as the monsters dragged her family into that alley. Dancing, dancing, dancing, until sweat was beading up on her forehead, running in rivulets down her face, Morgane danced until she was near collapse. Until the memory of her sister and mother’s screaming was drowned out by the music, until exhaustion thudded in her ears, until the salt of her sweat mixed with the salt of her tears and nobody could tell the difference.
Heading back outside, Morgane shouldered through the line waiting to get in. Feeling the wave of cold hit her face, she couldn’t help but wonder at how young the boys looked these days. How inexperienced. Babies, really.
She’d done the dating thing, a lifetime ago. Had the requisite high school sex, followed by a taste of college sex before her world fell apart. The unfulfilling exchange of fluids didn’t do a thing for her. For whatever reason, angels never sang, and the earth never moved. Not once. Almost made her wonder if she might be gay. But nope, that wasn’t it either.
Back when things were simple, and life was one big shiny penny to be had, that was her biggest problem. Now sex ranked so far down on the list, it didn’t even make it onto the first page. Not that she went without or anything. A vivid imagination and her right hand took her further than any man ever had. Every single time.
The walk back to Union Station was short, cold, and well lit. Not many people out, she noted, skirting a knot of teetering partygoers looking for a cab. She rounded another tight, nervous cluster of couples, walking fast in a westerly direction, sticking to the well-lit side of the street. As if people knew, instinctually, to stay to the light, that the darkness brought danger. Picking up the pace, Morgane shouldered into the wind whipping through the gauntlet of buildings and headed back to pick up her weapons.
Three blocks later, she sensed them. Felt the faint, warning prickle climb the back her neck that had nothing to do with wind or cold. The lighted storefront a block up was her only hope. If she could make it. She broke into a run the same moment they leapt down from the buildings onto her. It was hard to say if it was momentum or their claws which made her go down, but as she watched the light disappear while the demons dragged her away into the dark, she realized the only thing that mattered was what she did next.
Demons commonly hunted in pairs, so if she was lucky, there’d only be two.
Two bodies, four sets of claws, two sets of teeth. She played dead as they sniffed her over, nosing at her, breathing her in, tasting her scent before they ate her.
Way to go Burke, coming out here unprepared, unarmed, just so you could feel more human. Well, I hope you’re happy because the second they sink their teeth into you, you’re going to feel pretty damned human.
As soon as they flipped her, she lunged for the closest arm and drove it up into the other one’s chest with all her strength. The second creature shrieked, black blood gushing all over her. She rolled, using the thing’s arm for leverage, feeling the first one scrambling around to reach her, and when its claws found her back, they sank into her. Deep. Her flesh screamed as she cracked the demon’s arm backward, and when it snapped in half, the claws popped out of her flesh. Then it was simply a matter of fighting the pain long enough to break the thing’s other arm.
Weaving, she stood over the black monster, watching it hiss and spew until she stomped the heel of her stiletto through i
ts heart. As the demon went still, she sank to her knees beside its body, chest heaving. Damn, this was not how tonight was supposed to go. Her back gushed blood while she concentrated hard on breathing, calculating the distance back to the station, the effort it would take to catch the train home.
She pushed to her feet, feeling her knees shudder under her weight. If she made it to the train, if she made it home, all she had to do was patch herself up and give herself a solid day or two to purge the toxins from her system.
But first she had to make that train.
Then the next wave of demons descended. An endless wall of black that went up and up and up, as far as she could see. So many of those curving, deadly claws, those long teeth already clicking, the foul stench of them slammed into her, ripped the last of her breath away. More of the monsters than she’d ever seen before in one place. A veritable army of black crushing down upon her. For a split second, she wished there was someone who would miss her.
That pitiful, pathetic hope was the last thing that flashed through her mind as she sank down beside the shriveling things she’d just sent back to hell.
3
As soon as Loki heard the demon’s shriek echo through the streets, he swung the Harley toward the sound as if it were a beacon.
For two days he’d been combing this area, looking for the bastard responsible for cutting in on their action, while the others searched their assigned quadrants. So far they’d turned up nothing.
Queen of Swords: The Banished Gods: Book One (The Banished Gods Series 1) Page 2