by S T Branton
“Sounds like a nice guy.” I imagined a dude with a book of sad poetry in one hand and a journal in the other, dressed all in black. “I suppose you’re gonna tell me he’s on his way, too?”
“No.” Marcus shook his head. “He is already here.”
“Oh, right. Because he won.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
I pulled the blanket up to my chest and hugged my knees beneath it. “I’m sorry if this is disrespectful, Marcus, but I have some doubts about your king.” He didn’t say anything, but I could feel him watching me. “Why would I want to serve a god who failed at the one thing he set out to do? It’s not like things here have been perfect. My parents…maybe they could have used a hero-king by their side, instead of one hiding in the clouds. And then he goes and gets himself murdered. At the end of the day, Kronin wasn’t good enough, for himself or for us.. I can’t believe in that. And you can’t ask me to.”
“I pity you and your troubles, but they are nothing compared the ruin the gods will unleash. Carcerum kept you safe for thousands upon thousands of years, Vic,” Marcus answered. “Do you know what was holding it together? Kronin. All that time, he was protecting you. When he sent me here with his last breath, he was protecting you even in death. Your troubles that have been caused by your fellow humans, they cannot be attributed to Kronin’s inability as a ruler.”
I stared at the ceiling. The truth in his words slowly sinking in.
“If you want to avenge your parents, there is one thing you need to learn,” he said.
He saw me glance at the wooden swords leaning against the wall in the corner.
“No,” he answered my gaze. “Not those. It’s up here.” He tapped his temple. “For years, you’ve been pursuing your demons as the pitiable young victim, ravaged by the evil forces of your world. Bad things happened to you. But if you choose to let the hatred of others define you, you will always remain a victim. History has taught me that it is not victims who change the world, but heroes.”
I knew he had a point. If only it were that simple.
“Yeah, well, you said it yourself. I’m no hero.”
CHAPTER NINE
Tea brewed in my one saucepan when the prepaid cell phone I kept for emergencies buzzed its way off the edge of the table. Marcus caught it in his palm before it hit the floor.
“Nice save,” I said. He held it for a moment longer, eyeing it with a mix of mistrust and wonderment. I took it from him. “It’s a phone. My friend just sent me a text.”
“What is a text?”
I flipped the phone around to show him the screen with the address of the restaurant where Jules’s friend was hosting the party. “It’s a message, see? With words. She wants me to come to a party tonight.”
“A festivity?” he asked. “I do not think that is wise. You should not be wandering around without protection. The gods could have agents everywhere.”
“Man, could you just cool it with the gods already. I’m losing my freaking my mind.”
“Better than losing your head if the gods catch—”
The phone buzzed again
I looked at the address and did some calculations in my head. It wasn’t too far from the loft, actually. If I dressed for the weather, I could walk. I still had no desire to chat it up with Jules’ friends, but I couldn’t stand another moment in this apartment, and Jules could use a wingman. It’s what a friend would do, after all.
Maybe the fresh air would do me some good. And maybe so would some company other than a god-peddling weirdo in armor. Jules had said I might feel less crazy if I spent more time with people—preferably ones not wearing amor.
Two hours later, I stood in front of my meager closet, gazing critically at the few items of clothing I owned that weren’t threadbare and falling apart. How long had it been since I really, genuinely went shopping for clothes? I frowned, trying to remember.
College?
These days, I only got a new outfit when I had to pretend to be someone I wasn’t, like my little charade at Rocco’s bar. On nights like that, the clothes were usually ruined by the time I finally got home.
Case in point: the dress and boots I was wearing two nights ago that got dunked in the river. They still hadn’t dried out completely, and I had no idea how to get the river smell out of the fabric. Not that I really cared. Those clothes weren’t mine. They were just a means to an end.
Tonight, I had no such concerns. I was only going to make an appearance so that Jules would think everything was fine. I wanted to wear something she would like, something that would tell her I was perfectly stable and all my weird behavior yesterday was just a fluke.
If she asked, I’d say I was just stressed out. That was plausible, right? Of course. Communication was a two-way street, and she hadn’t been coming my way very often, either. She couldn’t claim to know what was going on in my life. Not truly, anyway.
So, I was safe. Throwing on some jeans and a belted sweater, I brushed my hair carefully until all the cowlicks and flyaways from the past few days lay flat.
For good measure, I broke out the makeup kit and did my face up just a little bit, erasing the black circles and bags under my eyes. I added a healthier tint to my cheeks. Mine was the face of a person who wasn’t sleeping enough, eating enough, not worrying about everything all the time, and definitely not poking around in the mob’s dangerous underbelly.
Once satisfied with my pretense of normalcy, I grabbed my bag off the back of a chair, checked it for phone, keys, and wallet, and made for the door.
“Where are you going?” Marcus asked. He was half reclined on my salvaged sofa with the stuffing poking out of the cushion corners.
“Remember that party I mentioned earlier? There.”
He stood up and crossed to me. “Allow me to accompany you to your social obligation. You need the protection, and I am curious to know how humankind has evolved since my time.”
“Whoa.” I put my hand up. “Hang on, slugger. First, it’s not a social obligation, okay? Jules isn’t forcing me to show up.” That second bit didn’t sound wholly convincing. “And second, I really think it would be best if you stayed put. New York City isn’t ready for a Roman Centurion in full armor to be walking the streets.”
I could already feel the stares.
Marcus considered this. “Then I shall discard my armor for now.” I stood in the doorway and watched him take the whole ensemble off, piece by piece, and set it delicately down on the mattress. Underneath, he had only a wool tunic and an undershirt. “I must admit, this arrangement affords much greater range of movement.”
“Nope,” I sighed, weighing my terrible options. “OK, I still don’t want you to come with me, but I also don’t want you sitting around here with no pants. Hold on.” I dug into the back of my closet where all the miscellaneous items collected. Among them was a canvas pair of painter’s pants, speckled with a variety of colors. They were huge on me, so there was a reasonable chance they might fit Marcus. “These will have to do. Put them on.”
He did as he was told, but he clearly felt strange about it.
“Yes?” he asked, presenting himself. Still weird, but definitely better.
I laughed. “Whatever. The best thing for you to do would be to stay here and keep out of sight. You’ve got the cat to keep you company.” The cat, who apparently had become mine overnight and still didn’t have a name, meowed. “See?”
“The cat is good company, but somewhat lacking in linguistic talents.” Marcus caught the door and held it open. “I shall accompany you to this party. Do not fear. I will endeavor to keep myself from looking like a fool in the presence of your associates.”
“Thanks,” I grumbled. “So kind of you.”
He clapped me heartily on the shoulder, and my legs nearly buckled beneath me. “You have nothing to worry about. I am well-versed in the nuances of social functions.”
“We’ll see about that.” Somehow, I didn’t quite believe him.
&n
bsp; ***
The restaurant was a cozy, two-leveled affair with a bar in the back and an outdoor patio. I spotted Jules as we approached. She was dressed boho chic, standing just inside the doors with a group of women I didn’t know. Her gaggle made me feel a little underdressed. She saw me, and a smile erupted onto her face. “Vic! You showed up!” She gave me a hug and turned to Marcus. “Who’s this guy?”
“Uh, this is my friend Marcus,” I told her. “I hope it’s okay that he came with me.” I was half hoping she’d say no, but her smile got even brighter.
“Oh, sure, it’s totally fine! We have lots of space. I told everyone to bring their friends.” Her eyes traveled over Marcus’s unusual getup. “Wow, I love your tunic! You have such a unique sense of style. Has anyone ever told you that?”
He paused, bemused. “No, they have not, but I am charmed to make your acquaintance.”
Jules shot me a look. “Vic, where did you find this guy, and why didn’t you tell me about him before?”
“He’s sort of a… recent acquisition. We’re just friends,” I added quickly.
“What is he, a museum exhibit?” Jules laughed. “Seriously, though, I have some friends who would go crazy over your fashion sense. Let me introduce you. Vic, do you want to come?”
“I think I’ll check out the bar. That’s more my style.”
It was possibly the lamest thing I’d ever said, but I didn’t know how to react to the fact that Marcus, who could be a Roman Centurion, was getting introduced to people my age at a party my friend invited us to. So naturally, I sought immediate refuge in alcohol. If nothing else, I could pretend to be invisible over there.
“I’ll join you in a sec,” Jules said. She steered Marcus toward a group who looked like they’d just stepped off the campus poster for an art college. I skulked my way over to the bar, head down, praying that no one would notice me. The bartender was a college-aged kid who smiled at me as I slid onto a stool.
“What can I getcha?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” I said, but I said it without the usual acerbic twist in my voice, trying to be on my best behavior for Jules. This kid had a nice smile. Also, when I summoned him, he would bring me booze. That alone made him my ally.
“No problem,” he said. “Take your time.” Then he backed off, which I also appreciated.
I pulled the cash I’d extracted from the day’s stolen wallet out of my purse and thumbed through it. I still had enough to give him a good tip for letting me use the bar the way I wanted—as a buffer zone.
I thought I was safe there. I could sit in relative silence and steal some moments to think about the mess filling my brain. All that shit needed to be run through a mental sieve so I could try to work out my next move.
I had spent enough time sitting alone at bars to know that solitude was too much to hope for. It was always only a matter of time before some prick slid onto the seat next to mine and tried to start a conversation. So, I was ready when I sensed someone flanking me, a well-dressed shape tastefully accented with cologne. He sat down, and I prepared my most caustic barbs without looking his way. I wasn’t in the mood to play games with men.
I was barely in the mood to look at a man ever again.
He put his elbows on the bar, and when the bartender sauntered over, he ordered a bourbon on the rocks. The bartender glanced at me as he started to pour.
“Have you made your choice yet, miss?”
“When she does, put it on my tab,” the man said.
I was usually pretty good at ignoring unwanted male attention, but this dude’s voice drew me toward him like a magnet. It was smooth and low, and it hit a calming frequency in my brain. I had to see if the face matched the voice.
To my chagrin, it matched well.
Our eyes met, and my world shook. It wasn’t like a big, traumatic moment, but something about him resettled the sand in my hourglass, and suddenly, things looked slightly different.
He smiled, showing white, even teeth. I was suddenly struck by how much time I’d spent lately in the company of men with poor dental hygiene. Most of the mob grunts looked like they brushed their teeth with a weed-whacker.
“You don’t have to buy my drink,” I said. “I can get it.”
“I’m sure you can, but I’m offering, and somehow, I doubt you’ll turn down free booze.”
“Had a lot of practice with that one, have you?” I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear and immediately chastised myself for slipping into the flirting zone. Something about his smile just drew one out of me, too. I let myself be grateful. Hell, I took the time to put on some makeup. Otherwise, he’d have caught me looking like a banshee in a sweater.
“Not as much practice as you’re thinking.” He accepted the bourbon glass, and for the third time, the bartender looked questioningly my way.
“Just a rum and coke,” I said, spouting out the first drink order that popped into my head. “Whatever rum you’ve got is fine.”
The kid nodded.
“A fan of the classics, eh?” the man next to me asked.
My new friend was wearing a black blazer over a crisp white button-down and indigo-wash blue jeans. I couldn’t see his shoes without craning my head like a creep, but I was willing to bet money that they were leather dress shoes, clean and neatly polished. I got a feel for certain types of men in my self-imposed line of work. I was pretty sure I had his number. All except for that voice.
“I guess you could say that.” My drink arrived. I sipped it, and the rum left a gentle spice taste in my mouth. “Come here often?”
He chuckled. “Nah. Drinking at restaurant bars isn’t my thing. It always makes me feel like some kind of salesman.” His dark eyes regarded me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “I didn’t get your name. I’m Deacon.”
Deacon. I hadn’t heard that one before.
I toyed with the idea of giving him a fake name, but it soured quickly. “Vic,” I said. His brows knit just briefly, and I added, “just Vic.”
“That’s an interesting twist. Guess I was wrong about the classics.” He gestured with his glass at the people gathered around the restaurant. “Who do you know in here?”
I scanned the room for Jules, suddenly remembering her promise to join me at the bar. When I saw her, I indicated her general direction with a nod of my head. “Jules.” Marcus sat at a round table with four other people, apparently engaged in lively conversation. “And… that guy. He’s a new friend.”
Deacon cocked his head slightly. “What’s he wearing?”
I smirked. “Don’t ask.”
“Can I ask about something else?”
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. “If you tread lightly, I’ll allow it.”
He pretended to think. Then he said, “Are you a Brooklynite?”
“Yep.” I bit my tongue before anything else leapt out. “You?”
A slow smile burned across his face. “I started off a little south of here in a place called Dade County. Then, the siren song of Lady Liberty drew me out of the swamp. It’s colder up here, but you can’t beat the view.” He was looking straight at me when he said it. I turned my face demurely away.
“You miss the alligators?” I said.
Deacon laughed. “Don’t have to. My folks still get ‘em in the backyard in the summer. All I have to do is stop in for a visit.”
“How big?” I smiled innocently.
The corner of his mouth turned up. “Real big.”
We let the heat simmer between us, sizzling in a few seconds of quiet. The hum of background conversation barely registered in the absence of Deacon’s voice. I was starting to feel a pull that I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. It was dangerous and magnetic like his voice, but I couldn’t deny the attraction.
He broke the silence with the worst question possible. “How about your family? What’s the equivalent of gators up here?”
I hesitated for as long as felt safe. The truth came out when I opened my mou
th.
“My parents died a few years back. At the same time.” I didn’t know why I was honest with him, just like I didn’t know why I tacked that extra detail onto the end. “They were murdered.”
Damn it to hell.
Whenever anyone even thought the word ‘parents’ near me, it was like I completely lost my shit. I just had to keep spitting out the cold, hard facts of my sad life, repeating the words over and over.
My parents died. My parents died. This guy was as close to a total stranger as he could get, and now, he knew. My parents died.
No wonder I always felt so crazy.
“I’m sorry, Vic.” He spoke gently. “I shouldn’t have presumed. That’s on me.”
I gave him a small, bitter smile. “No, it isn’t. How often do you expect to exchange funny parental anecdotes with a girl, and she says, ‘actually, my parents were murdered’?”
“Not too often, I’ll give you that.” He watched the TV on the back wall for a moment, seeming to fish for something relevant to say that wasn’t awkward. I knew from experience that no choices were perfect, but he came back with a decent one, at least, in my book. “Did they catch who did it?”
I shook my head. “I know who it was, but he went free. Not enough evidence is what they told me.”
Deacon’s eyes frosted over. “Yeah, that happens a lot in Miami, too. You hear about it on the news all the time. But the families never give up, you know? I mean, I’m sure you know. It’s inspiring.”
“I haven’t given up.” I took a drink of my rum and coke. The carbonation helped to clear my head.
“You don’t look like a quitter,” he said.
I glanced at him, finding his gaze already fixed upon me. Something in it had changed, a subtle adjustment of intensity. Instead of feeling warm, I was kind of uncomfortable, almost like I was being scrutinized.
That warm smile returned to his lips, but my suspicions were already on the rise. Was it weird to ask if they caught my parents’ murderer? Not necessarily to me, but then again, I’d been consumed by it for five years. Did he have the right to express such blatant interest?