"God, why?" he muttered into his palms.
The wind didn't answer.
He looked up and blinked the tears from his eyes. "Insidia!" He shouted to the dark. Then, getting to his feet, he called louder. "INSIDIA!"
He waited. The goddess had never promised to come whenever he called, so this was nothing new. But this was urgent. She had to know that.
Then it hit him: maybe she couldn't come. Or couldn't hear him. What had Hermes said?
It's like their voices are muffled, suddenly. I don't know where they're coming from, or what they're saying.
He was on his own, completely. There wasn't even a Thomas to go to now.
Things were about to become very different. Not only because of Esme flying back into his life. It meant the Order of Hell and maybe even the Knights Templar would be after him again. The apparent fall of the deities would have who-knew what sort of effect on the world.
And there was no Thomas to help the world adjust.
Luc had screwed up, royally.
All it took was one mistake for him to ruin everything. He'd totally undone all the owed favors he'd been collecting from Thomas over the years.
There would be no way he could repay the world for this.
Luc looked up at the sky. He was going to have to try.
Lesson Ten: Assassin's Kin
1
The sign said "Lemonade," but it was spelled wrong. It also had the cute backwards e, mixture of capital and lower-case letters, and bad drawings of lemons that were standard to neighborhood kids' attempts to make some extra cash. The boy standing behind the table with its sign grinned at everyone who passed, showing a pair of front teeth he might one day grow into. Spaces where other teeth were missing only made them stand out more. An unfortunate mass of freckles peppered his other features, but even they weren't enough to distract from his blazing red hair. The mess of it spilled around his face, unruly and uncombed.
"Lemonade, mister?" the boy asked, pouring some of his pale-yellow liquid from a pitcher into a paper cup as if Luc had already agreed to buy it. "Just a buck fifty! An' I promise it's the best lemonade you'll ever have!" A faint whistling came out of his mouth any time he said a word containing the letter "S."
Luc looked at the cup for a moment, then turned his head to take in the clusters of people hanging around the lemonade stand, all sipping happily. That kind of business made sense when a group of kids were selling cookies or popcorn. It was more suited to a bake sale or school fundraiser than a random lemonade stand on the Virginia Beach Boardwalk. Tons of hotspots, restaurants, popups, and food trucks offered better fare than one kid's lemonade.
"What's your name?" Luc asked the boy.
"Boris," he replied, whistling again.
Luc fished in his pocket for cash and produced a ten dollar bill. "What's your name?" he asked again.
The boy's eyes lit up at seeing the money, but the light faded when he saw the way Luc was studying him. His mouth twisted to one side. "Borvo," he said, far more softly. His voice had dropped nearly two octaves, and there was a faint accent in those two syllables.
Luc's eyebrows furrowed, but he held out the ten. "Never heard of you," he replied, just as softly.
"Look, I'm not exactly a popular god, okay?" Borvo set the full lemonade cup on the table, close to Luc, and reached to take the ten. "Celtic and Lusitanian. I was hot shit a long time ago, but when people can have Jacuzzis installed on their back decks, they don't much have need of hot springs, do they? And mineral water is a couple bucks at any store. So, no one worships me, and I'm just trying to get by." He held out the $8.50 of Luc's change. His voice was childlike when he said, "Here's your change!"
"Keep it," Luc replied, turning away with his paper cup in hand.
"Thanks, mister!" Borvo called after him, words accompanied by two echoing whistles.
A chill wind picked up. People passing on the boardwalk clutched their coats closer or shoved ungloved hands into pockets. At least it wasn't snowing. Yet another thing that had roused Luc's suspicions of the lemonade salesman. It would take something otherworldly for a youngster to do that kind of business this time of year.
Of course, if the other people had thought anything odd about "Boris," they'd had plenty of time now to adjust their ways of thinking. The otherworldly, divine, magical, mystical, or supernatural--however you named it--was normal now. It had been over two years since the Fall, when the gods and goddesses of every religion had arrived on Earth to stay. While it might have been mentally jarring at first, seeing Apollo driving a bright yellow taxi or passing Parvati weeding a flowerbed at a public garden was commonplace now. Not that Luc had seen Apollo doing something so mundane, but it wasn't outside the realm of possibility after what had happened.
So seeing a boy selling loads of lemonade in late February was definitely cause for note. For Luc, anyway. Luc had found more than a few other major and minor gods who had settled in the area. Hermes, for example, ran a courier service in the area now, though the Greek messenger god avoided Luc like the plague. Many of the gods did. Even Insidia, goddess of treachery and discord, who he was bound to through a vow he'd made years ago in ignorance. He hadn't yet seen her since the Fall. He couldn't help but wonder what the significance was in that. Could she be avoiding him, too? And if so, why?
No surprise, but the lemonade was good. Really good.
It had nothing to do with sugar or ripe lemons and everything to do with the water. There was a faint taste of... he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It tasted like... like air. Air and earth and growth. But not in a way that made him worry that mold was thriving in that old pitcher Borvo had poured it from. Luc felt taller, stronger, heartier, and even warmer despite the late February chill. He knew it was thanks to whatever tiny blessing the god had put in the cup. People would keep going back to the lemonade stand wherever he set it up, eager for what felt like a drug-induced high but wasn't.
In some ways, having the gods on Earth, where they could only do so much damage, was a good thing.
2
Luc returned to Umbra Motus well after dark. One would have expected to be able to hear the thumping music a few blocks away. Especially from a club with an overflowed parking lot and entry line that wrapped around the sidewalk. But there was nothing. No thumping bass, no crazed light show. Head up and eyes straight ahead, Luc strolled to the bouncer at the front door and received a nod to pass. Not that he needed it. The club and the signature that controlled the bouncer's pay were both his. There was some grumbling and a few outraged shouts from the line as Luc strode up and straight in, but there were also a few hissing, "That's the owner!" that swiftly quieted the protestors.
Inside was Luc's kingdom. Here were the lights and loud music, prevented from becoming sensory pollution outside by soundproof walls and a lack of windows. It lacked the smell of old sweat that such places often built up over time. Luc didn't want to deal with any of those things on a regular basis. Much easier to have a phenomenal cleaning service to stop them from forming in the first place. Any spilled crumbs or drinks, soiled or sweated-on upholstery, would all be cleaned to gleaming come morning.
The crowds inside likewise acknowledged his arrival. Grinding dancers parted for him to pass. When Luc nodded a silent greeting to customers eating and drinking at tables, they smiled in return and lifted hands to wave. If he'd wanted it, the bartenders and cooks would put aside their current drinks and dishes in progress to put a rush on his own order. If he asked for the room to be cleared, it would be done in moments.
What would someone like Borvo have done to establish a place like this? He might have such a following eventually, building a restaurant or cafe out of his lemonade stand. Luc had cultivated the club's and his image since first coming to Virginia Beach. Years had gone into this place. A cynical part of him thought it served the gods right to be lowered and forced to do the same. None of them had been guaranteed any sort of following, though most likely, some had rightly counted
on having one. It was good for them to be knocked down a peg or five.
Luc's private booth was empty, as usual. He paused, considering for a few moments before deciding it could remain empty tonight. Despite the rejuvenating and bolstering effects of the lemonade, the interaction with Borvo had left Luc somewhat down in the dumps.
Two years. Over two years since Luc had once again allowed himself to be blinded by his vengeance. He'd fallen for bait that tugged at old scars and blinded him to what was important in the present. He'd abandoned Thomas Statford to deal with immediate life-threatening issues. Luc had been chasing after shadows that should have long been lost into the darkness of the past. And nothing had come from it. Nothing but one piece of knowledge.
His sister Esme was alive. She'd been the murderer who had slaughtered their parents and two younger siblings back in Tours, France. Esme had set fire to their home to cover the slit throats. All for a final exam to officially enter the Assassin's Guild in the Order of Destruction. But her failure to also kill Luc had denied her that entry. She was not a true member of the Guild.
That was where the guesswork picked back up. Had she found and joined the Order of Hell, then? Was she working with the Knights Templar towards whatever aims that sinister organization had? He still had no clue just what the Templiers wanted with him as a youth. That bothered him.
His interaction with Esme had kept him away from Statford. It had purely been a diversion to keep him out of the private detective's reach. That much had been obvious from how Esme just suddenly left after an alarm went off. Her time to distract him had ended. And as a result, Statford's wife Susana was dead. Thomas had gone missing.
The gods had fallen to Earth. The world had turned upside down.
The weight of his mistakes had largely faded behind adjusting to the new world and taking care of it as well as he could. Time was hitting him now, though. Two years, and no sign of the detective. Numerous people were digging deep, but not so much as a hint had turned up of where he'd disappeared to. Statford's mother, in particular, was relentless in her search for her son. As had some local law enforcement and Statford's otherworldly companion, Larry. It was odd finally seeing the--ghost was the best word Luc could think of to call him--in the flesh.
Tonight was a night for making calls. It had been a few weeks since he'd contacted the others for any updates, though. It was time to catch up on what little news there might be.
3
Normally, he'd have a zombie killer and sip on it all night. Two of them, if he felt like spending a long time at his booth. Tonight, though, would be one of those rare nights he opened a bottle of wine in the privacy of his rooms and mulled over it. A sip in honor of the lost, everyone from his parents to Thomas and Susana. Not a sip. A swallow. Let him drain the bottle. A good vintage. One of the best he had. He was definitely in the mood for that.
His welcome to the common room of the guildhall-slash-academy was more muted than his welcome to the club had been. It was about equal in the respect he received, though. As above, so below. The guildhall was underground, literally, in the sprawling subterranean rooms he'd had dug when he'd first bought the land. Above, he was all but a god. Here, he was Father to everyone, even those few assassins who were older than he was. The title of respect was given quietly, often accompanied by nods as he silently strode towards the living area. He nodded back to his students and staff, not for the first time wishing he'd thought to make a private entrance that went directly to his room or office. He would have liked the invisibility of it.
"I'm ready, Father Luc," said a voice, slightly louder than the others. Luc paused and sought the owner. It was one of the initiates, a student who had not yet taken an academy exit exam and attained true apprenticeship. The mental file cabinet Luc did his best to maintain in his head opened and flipped through information until he found what he knew about this initiate.
Fifteen years old. She was a slight thing, lacking most of the curves that would have made her womanhood obvious. Bright red-orange hair hung past her ears, framing her face in a sort of upside-down seashell shape. Her name was Emily. She was studying the tenets of the Order of Release, Luc's own order.
"Ready?" Luc asked. Surely she didn't mean for an exit exam. She was too young. Release assassins needed time to mature, to fully comprehend the gravity of how they viewed their craft. Besides, simply saying you were ready was not standard practice. The professors and administrators assessed each student's preparedness. Emily wasn't even in discussion yet.
"My... take-along," Emily said. "Or were you waiting for tomorrow? Is now a bad time?"
A take-along. Of course. It was one of the few practices Luc had kept from the old D.C. guildhall when he'd inherited it some years ago. Initiates occasionally went after targets with a master assassin as a sort of job-shadowing exercise. They did not participate, only observed their mentors go about the carrying out of a contract. It taught them how to track, how to execute, and how to disappear in real situations. And it did good for the masters, as well, giving them chances to pass on their own tricks and tendencies. It also connected them with the next generation, giving them reminders of where they had come from. In all, it brought the guildhall and academy closer together.
And it was apparently Luc's turn to host a take-along.
"No, I'm... We'll take care of that tonight, my daughter," Luc said. "Twenty minutes."
She nodded and settled in a chair against a wall. Luc headed back for the offices rather than his own apartment.
"Scout?" he called when reached the administrators' shared office.
"Scout's out tonight," came a voice like an oddly smooth bicycle horn. "What can I help you with?" Betty Ferriby smiled at him from behind her desk.
"I have a take-along?" Luc asked.
"Oh!" Betty picked up a manila folder from her desk. "Easy one. Single man. Local. Low threat, low priority. Low everything. Did you not get my email letting you know? I sent it before lunch."
Of course, Luc hadn't, but he so rarely took contracts on his own these days it was no surprise. There was very little that came to his inbox that required any attention. Usually, he only checked his email every other day and just filed things away. Today had been a not-checking day. And now he had a contract and an initiate to take with him.
He hurried to his rooms with the folder tucked under his arm. He'd asked Emily for twenty minutes, but he didn't need any of it to prepare. He was always prepared to work, with at least a score of ways to kill someone tucked about his person. That wasn't even counting the ways he knew just using his bare hands or whatever was around him at the time. He used the remainder of his twenty minutes to do the whole night's mourning and musing. Another night, he told himself, closing his eyes and sinking into what might have passed for meditation. A faint imagined smell of smoke and fire touched his nose. Memories of laughter, blood, bantering jokes, worry, debts and repayments drifted through his mind.
Luc tried to cry and found he could not.
His internal clock told him when he had perhaps five minutes remaining before he'd had to collect Emily. Opening his eyes, Luc forced away the smoke and laughter. Thomas was gone. So were his parents and innumerable colleagues. Luc was here now. The world was here now. He'd been trying to take care of it, but one man could only do so much.
Luc got to his feet and stretched tall before tucking the folder back under his arm and returning to his student.
Within minutes, he was in one of the cars he'd bought for the guildhouse to keep his personal Audi out of danger. Using other cars also helped keep anyone from associating his car with murder scenes. It was win-win. So he was in the driver's seat of a gold Honda Civic with the tiny Emily in the passenger seat. He hadn't even started the car yet.
"Well?" he asked again gently. "Where are we going?"
The initiate was biting her lip, poring over the information in the folder he'd handed her after they'd buckled in. "It's... Saturday night... so... not at work... It says he w
orks a morning cook shift at Waffle House."
Luc nodded.
"So... at home?"
"Are you certain?"
The young woman scrutinized the papers again. "Yes?"
"How certain?"
She shrugged. "Maybe like... fifty-five percent?"
"Let's walk through the logic then. It's Saturday night. He's not at work. The target is how old?"
"Twenty-one."
"He's the age demographic to spend his weekend nights at clubs," Luc pointed out.
Emily shook her head. "But he's probably working in the morning. And Waffle House is always open. He probably has to go in early."
Luc favored her with a smile. "Good. That's sound logic."
She looked relieved. Some of the high color drained from her face. She'd worried he was trying to trap her. No, that was for the professors to do. Luc was here to teach her how to succeed. And that was impossible to do in their line of work if she didn't trust herself.
"So, what's the address?"
She rattled it off, and Luc finally started the Civic.
4
The target's name was Tyler Perrillo. A cursory investigation of his apartment told Luc that Emily's and his assessment was correct. Perrillo was probably in bed, considering the hour and the likelihood of early morning work. A minute or so of pointing out to his initiate what he was looking at served as instruction, and then the two assassins began their search for a way inside.
"Father Luc?" Emily's faint whisper nearly made Luc jump. He'd been so intent on his work he'd forgotten she was there. It was a mark in her favor, actually, that she was moving so silently despite her youth.
He turned to look at her, his eyebrows raised in silent question. Taking his hint that words were too much noise, the initiate pointed at Luc's pants. It took him only a moment to understand, but then the light coming from his pocket went out.
Luc Bertrand- American Assassin Page 24