Her eyes flashed a brilliant green. Multiple writhing black snakes were visible on her leather jacket. She watched the biker struggle and scream. She smiled grimily, and strode off, her wings ruffling in the breeze.
Tisiphone is a Fury. One of a trio of primordial goddesses, whose existence dates from the beginning of time.
An Angel of Death, whose sole purpose is to avenge the death of anyone murdered by family and who had escaped justice.
Angels of Vengeance.
CHAPTER TWO
San Marin, CA
A rusting tan car sat abandoned in a large parking lot, both its driver and rear passenger doors hanging open. A trail of Pennzoil marked the car's track from the entrance to the remote parking spot. There was no sign of the car's driver or who was in the back seat, if anyone.
Across the lot, at the store itself, a lot of activity was happening: A bevy of TV news vans arriving. Police cars parked in all directions. An EMS van sat by the entrance. The small crowd of on-lookers being kept back by a handful of patrolmen, who were also looking back into the store.
The missing driver was currently in the butcher's section of the store, but he wasn't shopping. Buying a pound of 70% lean hamburger was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment.
Philip Simmons was holding a lethally sharp hunting knife to the throat of a crying toddler. His face was wet with sweat, dripping from his nose onto his soaked shirt.
The toddler's face was red from crying. A blue "spaceman" onesie was stained with spilled formula. The baby's fine black hair was matted with sweat dripping from Simmons.
Simmons was on the bad side of 50, in both figure and attitude. He was your basic low-level manager of a fast food company that only employed kids and semi-retired people, because the head office determined that the younger and older segments of society were more prone to take minimum wage, abusive scheduling, and hours of boredom and be happy about it.
Across from Simmons was a detective trying to figure out what to do with the man. Also, present, and unseen by everyone except Simmons, was a young woman.
Megaera.
A Fury.
She is what some would term a "nuclear blonde"; so hot she'd melt sand into glass. Her hair was supernaturally fine, her skin quite pale, her frame was thin yet muscled. Wearing a flowing, somewhat Grecian style, pale-yellow dress. All combined, it gave her an unearthly appearance. Angel? Demon? All depended on your point of view. Most people who met Megaera were convinced she is a demon.
Currently, Megaera was in the universal posture of a woman who wasn't about to be fucked with, now, nor in the future. Her hands were on her hips, and she was staring down the sweating man; a man down to his last frantic moments in his current lifetime.
"You piece of shit! Put that kid down! Now!" Megaera growled. Her hair seemed to actually be blown back by unseen fans. The "hair color commercial" look was what she preferred when dealing with recalcitrant targets. It was on purpose, and perfected after years of trial and error. It got the best reaction of any possible effect she had tried. A lovely combination of abject fear and fatal attraction.
However, at the moment, all she was thinking was how the assignment had gone totally "off the rails".
Earlier she'd spotted her target eating lunch in his car.
Simmons never ate at the fast food restaurant where he worked. He knew where the food came from and how it was handled, so he chose every day to bring a sack lunch, drive across the street to an empty parking lot and park under the trees. A few moments of peace.
That afternoon, it was baloney on white, a smear of a mayonnaise oozing from around something called an "American cheese sandwich slice", or a vaguely cheese-like product not actually made from any cheese or even vaguely milk-like substance.
It was also soggy.
He was busy biting into the gooey sandwich when Megaera made her entrance. As was her fashion, she simply appeared, popping in out of thin air. She quietly watched him for a time, and at the right moment...
"Hey ya, Simmons." She said quietly.
Simmons jumped. His coughing spewed the mouthful of chewed food all over the cracked dash. Coughing, tears in his eyes, he tried to turn.
Megaera leaned forward into his field of view. "Careful! Can't have you choking to death. I'd rather you freeze. You remember that? Boy, your father sure does."
"Who? Where did you come from?" Simmons was frozen in place, gripped by a force he couldn't see.
This was when Megaera chose to display her wings. It was most effective when targets asked who she was and experience had proven this to be the optimum time for the display. It's similar to when a rattlesnake would rattle, a black mamba would open its jaws or when a cat hunched and wiggled, just before the fatal leap.
Unlike Tisiphone, Megaera's wings were white, with soft long feathers, and they spread out across the entire backseat of the car. Simmons' eyes locked onto the wings, his face a rictus of horror.
This was when Megaera would send a vision of the target's sin into their minds.
***
He saw himself visiting his father in the nursing home. It was a facility known for paying little attention to their patients. This was forefront in Simmons' mind when he picked this place, hoping the neglect would help send his father to an early grave since the place was draining his father's sizable life's savings at an alarming rate.
Since it appeared his father was going to live a long life, regardless of the bad care, he switched tactics. No matter how much he tried, his father refused to come live with him, allowing him to take control of the bank accounts. He needed another option.
After Christmas, he'd cooked up a simple plan. He'd shown up after dinner one cold mid-January evening. It had snowed, and the sky was threatening even more by the next morning. He'd removed the tracking bracelet attached to his father's wrist and told him they were going for a visit to mother's grave, on the occasion of it being her birthday and all. He made sure that his father was dressed in street clothes, with no jacket or gloves.
The snowfall was fresh when he'd led his father out of an unmonitored side door and off into the heavy woods of North Pennsylvania. Their feet crunched into the snow, but their footprints would soon be covered over.
They hiked several miles into the woods, his father complaining about being cold the entire time. They eventually stopped under some pine trees.
"Dad, you wait right here. The road is just around the corner, but I can't let anyone see you, you know," Simmons explained. "You stay hidden and I'll be back with a heavy jacket. Then we'll go see mom."
***
"But you never came back, now did you?" Megaera leaned back and examined her nails. One was worrying her, so she bit at it. "Paid off rather well, don't you think?" She chewed a bit more.
Simmons looked befuddled. "Paid off?" Simmons asked. Well, this target was a bit dense, witnessed by his current job situation.
"His retirement account, surely you remember that?"
Simmons just nodded. His face held in rictus, eyes bulging.
"Yes, your father remembers. He didn't really mind. Not at first, he was looking forward to the girls you might bring home. But you spent it all on stupid shit," Megaera said, smacking him on the back of the head. "All of it. And quickly. Amazing how much a lot of that junk costs, especially when you get ripped off on auction sites."
"Wait." Simmons almost broke free of the trance. "Baseball cards are not stupid shit!" Baseball cards were important, dammit! He remembered the arguments he'd always had with his father. His father never saw the magnitude of a good collection, nor did he ever appreciate the time spend combing through collections to find just the right card.
"You father disagrees. Which brings up our present situation," she said as she leaned forward and flicked Simmons' ear, hard.
"There's no chance of freezing weather or ice right now. Not in this part of the state. And I really do not feel like a road trip. So, I have this idea." A large, lethally sharp hunting knife appeared
in Megaera's hand. She gently dragged it across Simmons' sweating cheek then down and across his throat.
"It's not for me to actually do this. Not my style." In a blink the knife was in Simmons' hand. He stared at it. His eyes on the sharp blade as his hand moved, deliberately to his neck.
"Now, it's just like shaving. A really close shave. Except you go a bit deep about right here," she whispered as she traced her finger along his left carotid artery. "One deep cut, and it's all over."
At that exact moment, a car alarm went off nearby. Megaera's eyes narrowed at the interruption. The loud honking and singing of the alarm distracted her.
"Damned things." She turned, stared at the offending vehicle and the alarm suddenly stopped. In the deafening silence, Simmons had somehow bolted.
Megaera shook her head at the suddenly empty seat and saw the back of Simmons fat ass running towards the store. The knife still in his hand. "Oh, gods DAMN it! Fucking Zeus balls!" She shouted to herself as she tried to get out of the backseat of the car. Her wings hindered the operation until she'd folded them back in. She took off running after the target, straight into the store.
***
Which brings us back to the present situation.
The plainclothes detective took a knee and assessed the situation. This is Dan Lanahan, a fifteen-year veteran of the police force, in the store by accident as he was hunting for a present. His niece's birthday was next week. He was slim, if not almost too skinny, with a shock of brown hair going premature gray, weary gray eyes. A been there, did that and didn't even get the T-shirt type of guy.
"Ok, buddy. Let's put the knife down, ok?"
"KEEP HER AWAY FROM ME!" Simmons shouted. He looked wildly from Dan to Megaera.
Dan noticed Megaera for the first time. Where the hell did she come from?
"Ma'am, I need you to step back," Dan ordered. "Now!"
Megaera simply turned to look at Dan. Her eyes widened. How in hell can this mortal see me?
Megaera returned to the matter at hand. "Put the baby down! DIE LIKE A MAN!"
"Jesus, lady! You need to get back, dammit!" Dan stood and looked around. His partner, Derek Jones, was pushing through the crowd.
Jones was Dan's partner, when he needed one. Jones was a solid man, reflecting his years as a college full back and, later, decorated US Army ranger. His dark shaved head glistened in the heat.
"Jonesy, is that the kid's mother?" Dan waved his hand towards Megaera.
"Who?"
"That – never mind. Please tell me you've heard from the SWAT team?" Dan turned back to watch Simmons.
"They're about 30 minutes out."
"Jesus." Dan chewed at the inside of his cheek. He looked, and caught sight of Megaera. She was bent over, almost face to face with Simmons. He blinked. In that skirt, her legs were extremely distracting.
"Can you see about getting that woman to hang back? She's really agitating the guy," Dan said, pointing at a space near Simmons.
"Uhm. What woman?" Jones asked quietly while looking at the situation.
Dan looked back at Jones with a raised eyebrow. "That one. You can't miss her!"
Jones surveyed the area. "Sorry, man. I don't see any woman."
"Alright, never mind. Any ideas? Any at all?"
"Wait for SWAT?"
Dan looked back at Simmons. He was crazed, his eyes wide, sweat continuing to pour down his chest, his Fast Food shirt soaked.
"We don't have 30 minutes. Not even 10." Dan placed his hand over his service pistol. "Well, what say you distract him and I grab the kid?"
"I don't know, buddy. I'll try," Jones shook his head.
Dan watched the scene. He sighed. "Well, stand by."
Simmons had stopped moving his head back and forth. He'd locked eyes with Megaera and then he began to emit a high-pitched whimper.
"Please, make her go away," Simmons whined, too quiet to be heard.
"Isn't going to happen," Megaera hissed.
Dan took this moment to step to the side, away from Simmons' point of focus. He crept forward. Then his eyes narrowed, and his mouth formed a thin, cruel line. His hand silently unsnapped his holster. He grasped his old Smith & Wesson model 10. He slid it out in one fluid motion. Slowly, edging closer, he held the gun behind his right thigh, away from Simmons' eyes. Megaera saw it and arched one eyebrow.
"Just who is this guy?" she asked herself.
In one swift motion, he brought the gun up to Simmons's temple and fired a single shot. He caught the toddler with his left hand as Simmons collapsed into a lifeless heap on the linoleum, blood from the headshot spreading into a dark red mess.
Dan held the toddler close as paramedics rushed in. Taking the child, one paramedic rushed it to a weeping woman a few aisles away, and began checking the infant for any wounds or physical trauma.
Dan holstered his pistol and wiped his face. He looked around, then locked eyes with Megaera. She was standing over the body and glaring back at Dan. She narrowed her eyes as Dan started to walk towards her.
"Stay right here, ma'am," Dan said, jaw held tight. "I'll need a statement."
"What?" Megaera was offended. How dare this mortal address her! "A statement? How about you go fu--"
"Don't go anywhere." Dan interrupted, then turned, walking quickly to his partner. "Get statements from everyone, Jonesy. I'll talk to that woman, might charge her with interfering."
Dan and Jones both looked towards where Megaera was standing only a moment ago, but now that spot was empty.
"Where'd she go?"
"I gotta ask again, Dan. What woman?"
"I'm telling you – there was a woman right there!" Dan pointed. "No way to miss her. Long, blonde hair, and tall, really tall, and it looked like she works out."
"I didn't see anyone. Trust me, someone like that, I would notice!" Jones shook his head and walked off.
Dan stood watching as the coroner crouched over the splayed form of Simmons and determined that the man was, indeed, dead. Then he looked at the crowd again.
There was going to be a lot of paper work ahead, and worse than paperwork, public notice. Dan hated to be called a hero. Heroes were either sandwiches or guys like his partner, earning medals while fighting a war.
CHAPTER THREE
Jacksonville, Mississippi
The sleek maroon motorcycle thrummed through the city streets. A figure clad in blood-red leather leaned into the curves as the bike flowed through traffic. The bike moved like it was a living thing, moving between cars and trucks like a panther. Otherworldly.
The rider is a sleek woman, of undermined age with dark almond-shaped eyes and straight black hair. She possessed a tight, compact figure with a musculature that can't be hidden by leather. A lethal Katana was slug across her broad shoulders.
On the hunt. Scanning the streets. Predator after prey.
Alecto. A Fury.
The final third of a trio of primordial goddesses tasked with one thing: Retribution for the dead upon the living who had caused their torment. Eye for an eye. Life for a life.
They're called the Erinyes, the Furies.
Alecto is on a sad mission; A mission made even sadder by the age of the petitioner, who had entered her realm in a sudden and violent manner.
She silently guided her motorcycle to a stop at an anonymous corner of a downtrodden section of a large city. Broken sidewalks, the concrete stained with green moss and lecithin growing on the edges, tree roots pushing up through the cracks. A neighborhood of broken dreams. Rows of white clapboard houses, pilloried porte cocheres lining most of the houses, the floors sagging with peeling blue-gray paint. The paint on most the ceilings in this area is a soft blue-green color known as "Haint Blue". It was often used in this part of the world with the hope that it would ward off ghosts and evil spirits.
It had no effect on Alecto.
This section of town had long been given over to the less fortunate members of society. The original builders have since moved to the more genteel
areas of the town, leaving the minorities and new comers to scratch out a living in older houses in great disrepair.
Alecto slid off the bike. Her guise in this section of any city is that of a motorcycle policewoman. She projected an aura which tended to make non-involved people nearby ignore her. Same type of power used by spirits to pass unnoticed by mortals.
She stalked along a broken sidewalk, her eyes steady on a pair of young men sitting on the stairs of a dilapidated house, weeds struggling for growth in the hard-packed clay of the yard.
The younger of the two men gave Alecto the "side eye" and exhaled a blue-gray cloud of sweet smelling smoke.
Eric is about 16, tight frame and multiple blue prison tattoos on his light coffee skin. A white t-shirt pulled tight. He grinned and elbowed his friend, Juan Peron. Eric laughed and pointed. "Damn! Check the sweet mama. Lawdy!"
Juan glanced up and grinned. He was lighter skinned than his friend, but his eyes were darker, wary.
Alecto stopped and eyed the young men. "Either of you two muchachas seen a kid named Juan? Juan Peron?"
Eric scowled. "It's muchachos, bitch!"
"We ain't no putas, bitch," Juan laughed and flicked his cigarette butt at Alecto.
"Yeah, who's asking, puta?" Eric laughed with the joint in the corner of his mouth.
Alecto leaned over and glared at Eric. Faster than Eric could react, she had the joint out of his mouth, on the ground and stomped into the dirt. She glanced at Juan, one eye just a slit.
In a flash, Juan was gone. Alecto straightened up and watched Juan run like a mad man, arms flailing and legs pumping.
"Give it up, little mama. Ain't no playtime puta can catch Juan." Eric's eyes squinted as he laughed. Then the laughing stopped as Alecto was gone, a soft pop where her body once was. The air was slightly cooler. Goosebumps rose on Eric's arms and the back of his neck.
***
About five blocks away is where the commercial district began. Old rusty red brick buildings with narrow, trash strewn alleyways crammed in-between rows of pawn shops, check cashing and liquor stores advertising lottery sales, all of them taking "EBT" transfers. Fifty cents extra to use a debit card. An occasional storefront lawyer advertised ticket defenses and bail bondsmen advertised low, low rates, and guaranteed 24-hour jail release. The merchants in this area knew their clientele.
Angels of Vengeance: The Furies, Book 1 Page 2