by Wall, Nathan
“The Assassins saw you and I assume refused your proposition. Given your disdain for us, I’m sure we were on the offering plate.” Horus cut the other human prisoners free and pushed them out the door. He briefly stood above the Satyr and moved on, leaving him tied. “Why did they let you live?”
“Are you questioning me now?” Svarog spit at Horus’ feet.
“Judging by your earlier tone, I figured we could use the interrogation practice.” Horus nodded at Anubis—a command. Anubis snapped Svarog’s arm backward and yanked. The pop of Svarog’s shoulder was drowned out by his screams. Horus pushed Svarog onto his back and stood on his throat. “This is the optimal position for information retrieval, no?”
“I have no reason to lie,” Svarog coughed, gripping his arm.
“You have every reason to lie.” Horus put more weight on Svarog’s throat. “This is what I think happened. You were too afraid to fight in the war—”
“Says the Southern coward,” the Satyr interrupted. Anubis punched him in the face.
“As I was saying,” Horus said, rolling his eyes, “you wanted back into Heaven, but the illusive Assassins are far too callous and high-brow to work with a groveling worm such as yourself. So they cut you a deal. Make connections with as many factions as possible, earn your way in with them, and pave a path for their journey into our realms.”
“You don’t know what you’re up against.” Svarog connected his gaze with Horus’. “There are so many spinning cogs in this machine—you’re the smallest and most insignificant. I can make you important. You know that?”
“You have nothing left to barter.”
“But I do.” Svarog smirked. “I know something about the Assassin’s leader. It would shake both of you to the core.”
“Do not care.” Horus shifted his weight onto the foot over Svarog’s throat. Svarog’s body shuddered briefly as blood bubbled from his mouth before going still. “Finish off the last prisoner, Anubis. We must be on our way.”
“Are we headed to Cairo to retrieve the child Isis asked us to get?” Anubis asked, stabbing the changeling.
“We are.”
Chapter Seven
Madame Patricia I
The streets were calm. They carried an eerie aroma not commonplace since the time steam engines were popular. By ‘aroma’, Madame Patricia didn’t necessarily mean the stench. Stinging hot vapor emanating from subway lines, and the dull gut punch of exhaust, still littered the air and she tried desperately to inhale as little of it as possible. This unusual scent was something that could only be detected by someone with her level of attention to detail. The hairs on the back of her neck stood tall—apparently they agreed with her discerning nose. There was something here.
London was like a ghost town at night. Ever since Oreios sent a fault line stretching from Rhyl to Brighton, splintering the county apart and giving the British Isles one more member in the Commonwealth, curfew was established for the entire kingdom. That didn’t necessarily mean everyone stayed locked inside, but it was good enough for the law-abiding majority and the human scum smart enough to know when they’d been outclassed—people she didn’t have a use for. Those brave enough to venture out into the avenues under moonlight and neon signs were left alone by the police, who also knew when they’d been outmatched.
When Oreios killed Athos, taking the gem of Durga for himself and leaving Madame Patricia clinging to life on the shores of the Irish Sea, it was as if an unspoken agreement between the underworld and mankind had finally been reached. The humans would have their time in the sun, and those of the underworld—half-breeds, changelings, demons and more—would have their peace at night. War would be avoided between the two and everyone could live together, willfully ignorant but safe. No one would admit it, because speaking it aloud meant believing in superstitions, and no one wanted to be known as a believer in the paranormal. Blissful denial was a state enjoyed by angels and humans alike. Maybe they weren’t so different after all.
Madame Patricia folded the hood of her fur coat over her head and held the sides of it up to her face. Her high-heeled boots clacked against the cobblestones as a pair of demons passed by her. Their smoky and snarling faces made it crystal clear what they were. Seeing her, they scampered quickly away—they must not have recognized her aura. Demons were always the most self-preserving. ‘If you don’t know what it is, don’t mess with it’ was their motto.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was pair of eyes on her. They’d been trained on her back for the past few blocks, and there had been more than enough instances when the owner of the eyes could have pounced and tried to take her out. Whoever it was didn’t mean her harm. Not yet, anyway. She turned down an alleyway and walked past a group of whores. A lucrative new market had been established in allowing demons to temporarily possess you, giving new meaning to the term ‘penetration.’
Finally, she reached her destination. It wasn’t glamorous, or really the sort of place she approved of—the gentlemen’s club was overridden with the demon-possessed. The bouncers out front seemed nervous and more standoffish than usual. She opened her mouth to speak, but they moved out of her way and opened the door.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” the bouncer muttered, or something close to that. Madame Patricia moved up the steps and nodded politely at them.
“Another one?” she heard a voice ask. “Who they be huntin’ now?”
The lights and music inside caused a pounding in her skull, and there was so much cigarette smoke that she couldn’t even taste her own saliva. Her senses were all drowned out. A hostess with pink and silver striped hair approached from the cloud of strobe lights. Two naked dancers followed behind her and then moved into a private room on the left.
“My name is Tunrida,” the hostess said. “I have been expecting you. May I take your coat?”
“Is there a place you could take it to keep the stench of an ashtray from impregnating it?” Madame Patricia asked, not bothering to make eye contact with the hostess.
“I suppose not.”
“Then no,” Madame Patricia snapped. “Show me to the room so I can be done with this place.”
“Right this way,” Tunrida said, curling her index finger a few times. Black leather spandex covered her from ankle to wrist, opening into a plunging neckline down her chest. As she walked, the sound of it squeaking jabbed at Madame Patricia’s ears, even over the throbbing of the bass-heavy music. “Pardon the mood. We’ve had a busy night.”
“I don’t care about the sort you entertain.” Madame Patricia turned her nose up and followed Tunrida up a flight of stairs. This sleaze-fest was nothing like her place, the Progeny Lounge.
“Not just busy with patrons, mind you.” Tunrida turned back with an infantile smirk. “Never mind, you claim no interest.”
“Take that look off your face or I’ll do it for you.” Madame Patricia didn’t bother looking up at the hostess, but she knew the expression was there. It was easy to sense by the tone of her voice. She was above giving a demon the gratification of eye contact, but not above smacking one senseless. “I helped shape this spherical rock you live on. Don’t test me.”
Tunrida’s face fell flat. She opened the door and stepped inside to announce Madame Patricia, but Beelzebub held a hand up and shooed her away. He bowed his head reverently and offered a hand. Madame Patricia didn’t bite, choosing to walk right by him.
“Please, be seated,” Beelzebub said, sipping from his glass. “I’m honored by your presence.”
“I’ll stand.” Madame Patricia combed her fingers over the back of the couch and then rubbed them off on a stack of cocktail napkins. She didn’t try to hide her boredom. “I can feel him. Is he waiting to build the suspense? I lack patience.”
“He’s currently busy with other matters. He asked if I would be willing to entertain you.”
“Burn yourself alive and see if it draws a chuckle.” Her eyes moved around the room, purposefully ignoring him. “Wait, on
second thought, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise of what’s in store for you in hell.”
“Yes. Indeed you wouldn’t,” Beelzebub laughed and sat on a massive brown leather recliner. “I trust you didn’t have too hard a time finding the place.”
“I don’t like small talk, either.” She exhaled loudly in disdain and folded her arms.
The door opened and her eyes came alive as she stole a glimpse of the tall angel. His face was round, his hair inordinately long and his aura unmistakable. He was from the Southern Corner, but his identity escaped her. He quickly moved out of view as Ra entered the room and shut the door behind him.
“Moved on to men, have we?” she asked Ra. He chuckled in response. “I hope your lips didn’t burn his cock. Perhaps just a light suntan?”
“You would know best the warmth I give inside,” Ra retorted. His iron mask muted his voice slightly, but not the piercing glare of his starlight eyes. He walked in her direction and passed by a fish tank. The thermal discharge of his body boiled the tank water. He stopped and laughed. “Sorry about the puffer. I trust it wasn’t too expensive.”
“You’re paying me enough to buy a new one.” Beelzebub lifted his glass in appreciation and took a sip. He looked at Madame Patricia. “Are you sure I can’t offer you a glass of champagne or something stronger? You look like you need a stiff drink.”
“Perhaps a glass of cabernet squeezed from the grapevine I’m about to make grow out of your ass,” she replied. “Ra, I don’t have time for this. I thought that much was clear when you visited my realm after that incident with the Ourea.”
“Yet here you are.” He smiled.
“Indeed.” She paused and squinted at him. “I’m not beyond making a scene.”
“Never were.” Ra seemed intoxicated with her. His voice was sultry. She knew he remembered what she liked and turned those switches off. “My sweet Danu, whatever came between us?”
“All the other women you came in.”
“Yes. My stupid mistake.” His hand went over his chest. “I ask that you cast aside old grudges and fractured emotions. There are possibilities out there which demand we explore them. I will, with or without you…”
“Like giving terrorists the elemental powers of the Ourea?” She giggled. That plan was utterly preposterous. “What were you thinking? Poor Durga.”
“She’d been dead a long time.” Ra shrugged dismissively. “I figured if anyone was going to have our sister’s gem it might as well be me.”
Durga had lost her life getting caught up in the affairs of angels and humans. She’d received her warning just like the rest of the Architects, and Madame Patricia wasn’t about to make the same mistakes. Ra’s game wasn’t passive enough. It would eventually attract God’s attention, and when it did he would be sure to send Michael. No one could defeat him—a lesson many had learned the hard way.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, nor do I care.” She marched for the doorway but Ra stepped in her path. His warmth enveloped her. The closer they stood, the more their skins illuminated with cosmic energy. She stepped away, quivering. “Please move.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You came here because you have an interest in what I’ve to say. Do not deny that. When I’ve said my piece, the decision will be yours and I will not oppose you.”
“You have a minute.”
“The game with the Islamic radicals was merely a ruse—a bartering token I never intended to deliver on. I knew the Ourea were backstabbing cocksuckers. I counted on it.” He stepped towards the window. The glass fogged up in his presence, steaming the chilled rain that had collected on the other side of the windowpane. “No one can traffic children quite like Muslim extremists.”
“You make me sick.” What kind of twisted fetish was he addicted to now? The thought of him defiling young boys and girls the way Jihadists in Syria did goats made her stomach turn.
“Why? Because the taste of innocence gets me off?” He chuckled and looked over his shoulder. “Please, give me more credit than that.”
“You’ve wasted half your time.” She tapped her wrist.
“There was one among your realm. A boy, I believe. I felt him tingle my nerves when I stopped by.” He turned around and leaned over the desk. His hands charred the oak desktop.
“That is a tad less replaceable.” Beelzebub pointed at the desk and bit his lower lip in anguish. “The Resolute desk,” he whispered loudly, not really intending for it to be a secret. He was actually quite giddy. “It was a gift from her majesty for an inordinately long life to keep her son off the throne—and for sending some overzealous paparazzi to Paris, if you catch my drift.” He smiled, leaned toward Madame Patricia, and cupped his hand around his mouth. “She hated that blonde bimbo.”
Madame Patricia narrowed her eyes at him. “I understood the reference.”
“Just wanted to make sure everybody got it.” He looked around nervously, but the cold stare from Ra and Madame Patricia caused him to sink back in his chair. “I’ll shut up.”
“You don’t know what you have.” Ra’s voice sounded as if he were smiling, and the way the iron mask raised off his face supported that theory. “Don’t be ignorant, my Gaia. The chosen few described in The Word are more literal than we thought.”
However, Madame Patricia did know what he was talking about. She only hoped he mistook her flushed face as attraction for him and not nerves giving away her hand. She knew exactly what he was implying—once upon a time there was a pair of siblings that were separated to keep the existence of their kind secret. Ra must be looking for the others like them.
Her eyes washed over Beelzebub. It was widely known he was a part of some government entity from America—the one responsible for creating the individual rumored to be Death. They also dabbled in human trafficking of their own, though it was under the guise of global security. Her contact in that agency, the one who’d brought her the siblings and called attention to what they were, had informed her of all their goings-on in exchange for information about angels and the supernatural.
It was all coming together. The American agency had half the stronghold in the Middle East, and the terrorists had the other. Ra was being supplied by both. Though it was obvious what the radicals thought they were going to get out of the partnership, it escaped her how Beelzebub could possibly benefit. Ra’s endgame and Beelzebub’s couldn’t have been more at odds. Finally, the aroma that had aroused her suspicion on the walk over resurfaced. It was time to leave.
“I’m afraid the minute is up.” She nodded at the two and opened the door. “Your hospitality has been much appreciated and found not entirely lacking for a demon.”
“She acknowledges me,” Beelzebub laughed.
Madame Patricia quickly left the infested melting pot that was the gentlemen’s club. She leaned over a car hood to catch her breath. Immediately, the eyes which had followed her through the streets were upon her again. It was time to learn their identity.
She hurried down a small side street. The buildings all began to look the same. The frosty rain stung her cheeks. She managed to corner herself in a dead end, hoping to draw whoever was following her out into the open. Instead, a trio of changelings emerged from the shadows.
“Hello there, ol’ lady,” said one of the thugs. She looked him over. He was a Centaur; a rare site in this part of the world. The two behind him weren’t born changelings, but converted. It was hard to know what exactly they would turn into. Their lack of sight kept them ignorant to who they were dealing with. The Centaur grabbed at her. “I’d like ta dance wif you.”
“No thanks. I was just on my way home.”
“Perhaps we shoul’ leave ’er?” one of the Centaur’s mates, who was wearing a blue parka, suggested. He was nervous, which said he was smart. “If she be ou’ here all on her Tobler, then maybe she belongs. You know wot I’m sayin’?”
“Naw, she jus’ look like she needs a bit o’luck.” The Centaur towered ove
r her. Drool soaked his chin.
Behind him, on the rooftop, a silhouette took form. The shadow crept to the edge and jumped from six floors up with a sword in hand. The short blade jabbed through the back of the Centaur’s head and out his mouth. The tip of the weapon stopped just a few inches from Madame Patricia’s face. Thick crimson doused the blade and dripped slowly from the point.
The Centaur collapsed to the side allowing the purple aurascales of Athena to shine brightly in Madame Patricia’s eyes. Athena crouched and pulled the sword from the Centaur’s head. Her beaming eyes were intensely fixed on Madame Patricia. The other two changelings scampered away.
“Just one second,” Athena huffed, her voice robotic from behind the aurascales. She sprinted after the two men and leapt for them, springing off the wall of a building. Her legs wrapped around the first man’s head as she swung off him like a pendulum and tackled him to the ground. The quick crunch of his neck soon echoed down the way. The thug in a blue parka took a swing, but her sword sliced through his hand down to the elbow and split his arm in two. She pulled the blade back and severed his head with a quick stroke. She called out to Madame Patricia, her surrogate mother. “What are you doing here?”
“I should be asking you the same thing.” Madame Patricia stepped over the bloody corpse with her hands firm against her hips. “You know better than to come rifting out here all alone. What if Heaven picked up on you?”
“I used the crystal, just like you taught me.” The silver exo-armor retreated from Athena’s face and the vibrant orchid aurascales upon her head vanished shortly afterward. Her nearly platinum-blonde hair was soon soaked by the rain. Madame Patricia couldn’t help but think that she looked like her father, Zeus, although she had her mother Hera’s almond-shaped blue eyes. “That’s not the point. You could have been hurt.”
“Really?” Athena looked around at the changelings she’d just disposed of and smirked. “What about you? Why were you at that demon place?”