The woman, a tall redhead with a body like a movie queen, accepted the drink from his hand with a stunning smile. “Thank you. I was getting thirsty. Kicking these morons’ asses is mighty thirsty work."
Gitano grinned. “Not a problem. Don't think I've seen you around here before. I'm Johnny."
"Maureen. I'm here from Houston on business, thought I'd check out the seamier side of town. You a local?"
"About as local as you'll find,” he answered smoothly. “So, Maureen, why don't you finish whipping their butts so we can go somewhere and have a nice quiet chat?"
"Sounds like a plan, Johnny.” Her smile was simply dazzling.
* * * *
Creepers weren't the only things to have come to this world. They were simply the first. They were the advance scouts, slipping in where nothing else could go, whispering into the ears of the vulnerable, chasing weakness like coursing hounds. They turned those they could, and did their best to destroy those they couldn't.
They were flyspecks in the grand scheme of things, but useful flyspecks.
Another of the Enemy's creatures, this one wearing the form of a tall, handsome man in his early twenties, stood on the deck of a boat not far out in Elliot Bay. He had clad himself in a gray silk Armani suit, with shoes nearly as expensive cradling his size ten feet.
He called himself Malice and he was one of the Enemy's most powerful servants. After the fall of Alantea, the Lords had captured one of those who'd survived their Thanatos virus and reverse-engineered what it had done to her. For them, it was child's play. They learned the secrets of the immortality Thanatos had bestowed and turned their hand to creating their own. Malice had been the result.
He had all the strengths of the immortals, but more. The powers the virus occasionally bestowed had been random, based on the inherent talents of the recipient. Those granted to Malice had been specific, and put those of most immortals to shame.
He had the power of glamour—that one came naturally. Before he'd been marked, he'd been a politician on his own world, a corrupt player in a complex game in which only the most ruthless thrived. When offered the chance for even greater power he'd handed over his people without hesitation.
His greatest gift, however, was mastery of matter. He could see and manipulate the molecular structure of inanimate objects, one of the most astounding of all immortal powers. He could've taken a bucket of rags and made them into the suit he wore with nothing more than the force of his will, but it suited him to actually spend real human money on it. Money he'd casually taken from a bank vault in broad daylight.
None of the bank employees had survived his expedition. He'd slain each and every one of them with his bare hands, reveling in the sheer joy of killing. Like a weasel in a henhouse, he thought, amused by the comparison.
He already hated this city. It stank of other immortals, as if it was somehow the center of their existence here on this world. He sensed the pain and despair of one of the Creepers, captured by the immortals and held in continual torment. He found its agony delightful.
His third and final power was that of telekinesis, with which he was operating this small vessel. He started the engine and guided it toward the harbor, standing on the bow with the wind rippling his hair, a wide grin splitting his handsome, almost androgynously lovely face.
Heads up, folks. Malice has come to town.
* * * *
"You are seriously out of practice,” Sif told Athena, after throwing her for the fifth time. “How could you let yourself get this sloppy?"
Athena pinned her with a scathing look. “I've avoided other immortals for centuries,” she remarked dryly. “Was I supposed to waste my time practicing with humans?"
"Why not? That's what I did. The techniques don't change, just how much effort you put into them. Your moves are ridiculously easy to counter, wide open and—to repeat myself—sloppy. Even a skilled mortal martial artist would've been able to do what I just did."
"Don't feel too badly,” Shea interjected from the gymnasium doorway, “from where I stand, she's not much better than you.” He seemed to cross the interposed distance in the space of a heartbeat. “Practicing with mortals, regardless of what you've come to believe, Sif, isn't good enough. It's one of the reasons I keep at least one immortal on the payroll at all times. Of late it's been Hermes, who poses a unique challenge in his own right."
Athena found herself nodding. Thanatos had left Shea none of the powers some had been granted, not even something as minor as the glamour most of them picked up. Or, at least, he'd never exhibited any sign of it.
No, Shea was, in many respects, the most mortal of them all. But even before the death of their world he'd been known as one of the finest hand-to-hand fighters who'd ever lived. He'd won the cross-service martial arts tournament four years running.
"I'll tell you what, Sif. I'll spar both of you together. If either of you get a touch on me, I'll bow out and let you teach her. If not ... then both of you will study under me."
Athena glanced over at the small blond woman, who seemed to be considering it. She finally nodded, albeit reluctantly. “You've got a deal,” she said.
They didn't coordinate their attack, but it seemed perfectly synchronized anyway. Both led with straight punches coming from opposite directions, aimed at either side of his face. Shea danced barely an inch out of line and caught both their wrists as they crossed, trapping them in the grip of his left hand. He tugged slightly, throwing them both off balance, then drove the tip of his right foot into the outside of Sif's thigh. As her leg buckled, he snaked his other hand up, around the back of her neck, and twisted his body just enough to jerk her head down and drive it into Athena's stomach.
He then spun the opposite direction, pulling her around, and jammed her closed fist, snapping her elbow back into Athena's chin as they whirled past him. She freed her trapped wrist with a sudden jerk, firing off a series of well-timed blows he fended off effortlessly.
As she lifted her foot for a roundhouse kick he crow-hopped forward, jamming the foot with enough force to throw her off balance yet again. He slammed his foot to the floor, effectively trapping hers, and drove his clenched fist into the pit of her stomach. She sat down. Hard.
Athena stood back, mouth moving without a sound emerging. The whole thing had taken less than a second.
Shea folded his arms, raised his brow, and graced them both with a thin smile. His breathing remained as slow and even as it had been before they'd started. “No—sparring with mortals does nothing to prepare you to face one of our kind. And I wouldn't bet you won't ever have to. Out of the two hundred who made it here originally, I can only state with absolute certainty where about a hundred and eighty of us are now. I'm not willing to bet that none have signed up with the enemy. Are you?
"Six a.m. here, every morning on the dot. Don't be late. It'll go harder on you if you are.” That said, he spun on a heel and strode nonchalantly out the door through which he'd entered.
The women exchanged glances. “Damn, he's good,” Sif said appreciatively. “I'm glad he's on our side."
"Tell me about it,” replied Athena, eyes still pinned to the door he'd used to exit. “Powers or no powers, Deryk Shea is a force to be reckoned with."
"Let's just hope it's the Enemy who has to reckon with him,” Sif laughed. “I have a feeling these lessons of his are going to leave us both aching."
Athena winced. “You can say that again."
Four
"And you used your own genetic code as a blueprint?” Renee asked, peering through the microscope.
Loki nodded, then realized she wouldn't be able to see him. Idiot. “Yes. I thought that would work. After all, it was a metavirus much like this one that changed us from what we were to what we are now."
"Immortals.” Renee laughed, almost gleefully. “That explains so many things—are all the gods of mythology from among you?"
"Not really. Some were purely the invention of human imagination. As were most
—but not all—of the myths themselves. There are some truths hidden within the fiction, if you know where to look."
"How amazing. I have friends who'd have fits if they knew."
"Speaking of which—are you going to try to regain your mortal life?” He knew he didn't have to warn her away from telling their secrets. She had secrets of her own she needed to protect now, secrets as large as the immortals'.
She lifted her head from the microscope and seemed to consider it for a long moment. “I don't think so. I'll miss them all, but..."
He nodded. “There are too many questions all the way around. We know what you appear to be, but how much of the old legends have any bearing?"
"It begs a whole host of questions,” she murmured. “Are there others like me out there—ones not created by accident in a laboratory? Will sunlight kill me? Will a stake through the heart? Will I burst into flames if I try to enter a church?"
"At this point you know about as much as I do,” he answered. “If you'd like, we could find out these things together."
She responded with a tentative smile. “I'd like that, Loki. I really would."
He blinked, suddenly aware of a change in the atmosphere he hadn't noticed earlier. Something ... intriguing. “Good. So where should we begin?"
* * * *
Gitano sat up in bed, watching as Maureen slowly dressed. “Where are you going?” They'd spent two days in bed together, making the earth move. He felt more satisfied than he could ever remember feeling. Almost enough to forget the vengeance he'd sworn against that first shadowy creature. His fingers traced the edges of the bracelet that second shadow presence had given him.
"It's been fun, Johnny, but I've got a life,” she answered. “I've got a thousand other conquests ahead of me."
He felt his heart plummet and sneered at his own weakness. She was a tumble, nothing more. Just a plaything, a whore. Sure, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, but what difference did that make?
In the end what bothered him the most was that she was the one choosing to leave. He didn't easily give up what he claimed. He climbed out of bed and padded naked to where she was finishing buttoning up her blouse. She patted his cheek. “You're a good fuck, Johnny."
An instant later she was picking herself up off the floor, rubbing her cheek where his fist had struck her. “I'm no one's pet, bitch. I keep women as pets, and I decide if and when they leave."
Surprisingly her eyes held no hint of fear as she pushed herself to her feet. “That was a mistake, Johnny. I could kill you for that."
His eyes grew wide. She meant it. For a brief moment he actually found himself frightened by a woman. At least, one he knew was a woman. Then his cocky nature reasserted itself. “Tough talk, whore. I don't think you're quite up to it."
"Oh, you're right about that, Johnny. I don't think I could kill you. But, maybe, you'll end up wishing you were dead.” She leaned down, picked up her shoes, and marched out the door.
He stood there watching her go, wondering, deep down, what she'd meant by that.
* * * *
It was early morning two weeks later when Athena arrived at Shea's dojo alone for the first time since the lessons began. Shea, sitting in the middle of the floor in a lotus position, didn't bother to open his eyes. “Where's Sif?” he asked, as she first walked in the door.
"She said she had some business to take care of at home and would be back tomorrow."
"Oh?” She couldn't tell how he felt about this news by his reaction. He might as well have had no reaction at all. “Her loss. Today is a special lesson. I guess it's one she'll just have to miss."
She said nothing, simply waiting for him to push himself to his feet and stride over to a box he had leaning against the back wall. He flicked the latch and opened it, pulling out a slender sliver of gleaming steel. She knew it was some kind of sword, though her expertise in such things hardly matched Sif's, much less Shea's.
"Today,” he said carefully, “we shall learn an unarmed defense against a sword."
She frowned, confused. “I don't understand. A sword can't really hurt one of us."
His eyes grew hard, like little chips of flint. “Did I hear a question, initiate? Did you presume to ask a question of your Kazai about his lesson plan?"
Her mouth snapped shut. He'd already warned them both about that, though, at the time, it had been primarily directed toward Sif. In the discipline Shea followed, the Kazai, or Teacher, was the ultimate authority, treated like a deity in his realm of power. “No, Kazai.” She aimed a swift bow in his direction—the only way she knew how to defuse the anger burning in his eyes.
"Good. So you will attack me with this weapon.” He handed it to her, hilt first.
She took it hesitantly. “I barely remember anything about swordwork,” she objected.
"The most dangerous opponent for a trained fighter is one that knows nothing,” he answered. “Attack me."
With the slightest shrug, she lunged at him, sword carving a shimmering slice of air. He seemed to lean one way and step the other, allowing the blade to pass by him unhindered. “Good. The blade should be like an extension of your arm, flowing easily from one movement to the next."
For the next ten minutes she chased him with the weapon and yet never came anywhere close to touching him. He continually critiqued her technique and form, and, finally, admitted that even in that short span of time she'd become at least adequate with the weapon.
"So now the clincher. You remember something of how the weapon moves now—vital for what I'm going to show you next. Aim a thrust for my heart. Beware, I will not pull this blow. It will hurt. Be ready for it."
She lunged, striking straight at his heart. Slowly, almost casually, he leaned out of the way, pivoting his back foot less than a hair's breadth, twisting his torso parallel to the oncoming blade. It passed across his chest and he reached out with his leading hand, catching her lead arm just above the wrist. He brought his other hand up and smoothly caught the underside of the cross-guard. He stepped inward and the whole thing seemed to writhe in her grasp, spinning with remarkable precision to impale itself through the center of her chest.
She couldn't help but let out a shriek as he withdrew the sword, flinging her blood onto the floor at their feet.
"Well done,” he told her. “Now we're going to change positions and work on it until you get it down. If you fail, you'll be impaled. So the quicker you work it out, the better it's going to be. Otherwise you're just going to have to get used to the pain.
In addition—and this is something I will not bend on—under no circumstances are you to show or otherwise reveal anything about this technique to Sif. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Kazai.” By the tone of his voice, she knew better than to even ask. If he wanted her to know, he'd tell her.
"Good. Let's begin."
* * * *
In the interest of privacy, Loki had taken Renee to his home in Gig Harbor, a piece of real estate purchased through several layers of anonymity. No other immortal even knew it existed, much less that he owned it.
Together, over the course of the last few weeks, they had explored what they could discover about her condition. It didn't take long to find out that she could not abide the touch of sunlight—even the merest whisper of a sunbeam against her pale flesh caused it to blister and smoke. As the sun rose over the Cascades each morning she fell into a death-like state, roused by only the most extreme measures. At first he set himself to watch over her during the hours the sun was overhead, but she objected vehemently to him seeing her like that.
She suffered no ill effects from crossing running water, nor did she find herself with the sudden compulsion to count small objects. Holy ground also held no terror for her, though she did admit to a slight bit of trepidation while exploring this facet. They walked into a church hand in hand and he felt her fingers clench around his. Nothing happened.
He breathed a sigh of relief, if only because he half expec
ted some kind of psychosomatic response. He bought her a cross as a gift afterward, which she wore proudly, though she admitted she barely held onto even a shred of the faith she'd had as a child. Soon enough she grew so bold as to dangle her hand in the holy water. She then flicked it in his face and he chased her, laughing, back out into the night.
They spent hours in conversation, taking long walks along the beach under clouds and moonlight, in clear weather or damp. He learned of her childhood in the South, the years spent at boarding school, then finishing school, all in the interest of learning how to be a proper lady. “So as to look at someone and say ‘how nice', when what you really mean is ‘fuck you',” she said with a grin.
He laughed aloud at that. It never ceased to amaze him that someone who was technically dead could be so full of light and life. Of course, this had been a miracle for her, bringing her back from the brink of death anyway.
"I got the results and called my mother,” she told him one night, sitting on the deck overlooking the Sound. “I was in a panic, scared beyond reason. You know what she told me? That I deserved it. She actually said to me ‘the wages of sin are death'.” A single tear, the color of blood, ran down a pale cheek. “I slept with one boy my whole life—one I planned to marry!—and because of that I was condemned to die."
He didn't know how to respond to that. The pity he'd always felt for the humans of this world in general transferred directly to her specifically. His people had been fortunate in that they had once known their Creatrix as a living, breathing being. Alantean spirituality was based on the knowledge that a higher being had created them all, and had once, in the not too distant past, walked among them.
Many of his fellow immortals believed that it had been her hand that saved even the small remnant that had been changed by the Thanatos virus.
Humans, by the sounds of it, had always been alone—trying desperately to fill a void by latching upon any explanation for their existence that they could. There was a time when he and many of his brethren had taken advantage of that, but that was long ago, before they themselves had matured as a race. Part of Loki would always regret some of the things they'd done. Not that he'd admit that to any of the other immortals.
Loki's Sin Page 5