The coach blew the whistle to end the scrimmage. It was a team routine to warm down by skating ten laps, going slower and slower, until they were coasting along with barely any effort. Minnie was on her sixth lap when Bellatrix Smack, a large girl from Lowell with frizzy black hair, careened straight for her. Minnie dodged aside. “What the heck!” she screamed. Turning around and trying to block head-on was definitely against the rules.
Another girl, Donna Chernobyl, came at Minnie from the other side. Minnie barely darted out of the way. Was this some sick newbie hazing stunt?
“Hey!” the coach screamed, blowing her whistle. “Chernobyl, bench, now!”
Chernobyl ignored her and came at Minnie again.
Now there were five girls on the rink, and the rink manager was walking out. With six people after her, Minnie started to realize that this was not a joke. Their posture was different, and their eyes were wide and dilated. They were moving like zombies—zombies who were very skilled on roller skates.
The coach ran out, blasting her whistle. Bellatrix Smack turned around and punched her, knocking the other woman unconscious.
“So,” Minnie said, her back against the wall of the rink, black light making her electric blue skate laces glow, “Who is this then? Kronos?”
Chernobyl laughed. “You're quicker to pick up on it than your friends.”
Most of the twenty girls on the team had already gone out to their cars. Minnie was alone with an unconscious coach and a pack of possessed blockers. “I usually am,” she said. Knowing the pack's habits wouldn't help her here; they weren't behaving like themselves.
Minnie took a deep breath. She couldn't hurt these girls; odds were that they were people under supernatural influence, not Titans themselves. Still, she knew they could take a hit. The problem was, these were five of the biggest girls on the team.
Minnie darted to the left. Bellatrix Smack moved to shoulder-check her, but Minnie ducked down. Smack crashed into Chernobyl, who lost her balance and tumbled over. Minnie popped up just in time to avoid a hip-check from Big N' Nasty (she wasn't that creative) and slip past the wall of blockers.
She wasn't going to take off her skates until she was locked safely in her car. Minnie darted towards the door, scooping her purse up off a bench as she passed, and racing to the front. The gravel was going to tear up her indoor wheels, but protecting her gear wasn't a high priority at the moment. Minnie opened the door and skated out. A foot caught her ankle and she went flying, face first, into the gravel parking lot.
The owner of the rink stood over her with a smile on his face. “Not bad,” he said. “But not good enough.”
Valerie Hess was sitting on the bed in her dorm room with a book in her lap, doing her first homework assignment of her college experience. It was a beautiful August day, but Valerie was foregoing the weather to stay inside and get ahead on her work. Someone knocked on the door and Valerie put the book aside. She got up and crossed to open the door.
An older man with white hair and a clean-shaved face stood in front of her, likely a professor. She opened her mouth to greet him when she noticed that his eyes looked strange. “Can I help you?” she asked.
Valerie looked down and saw a knife clutched in his hand. The door was blocked. All she could do was slam the wooden door and hope he would give up his pursuit. His hand shot forward and his fingers wrapped around her slender wrist, cutting off her chance for retreat.
“Hestia,” he said.
“Kronos,” she replied, some distant memory of her life in ancient Greece informing this recognition.
“Come with me.”
The hotel ballroom was packed with politicians and campaign financiers. Senator Wexler was retired from office, but he was hosting the event for a colleague who was looking to run for governor next year. It was a private luncheon, meant to give the impression that this was all casual—that they were among friends. Five hundred close friends. Teddy hadn't wanted to go to the event, despite the open bar and fancy appetizers, but Mrs. Wexler had insisted that he put on a suit and be there to support his father. Mrs. Wexler just liked that Teddy's presence, with his dark hair and caramel-colored skin, courted the hispanic vote; that was about the only thing she liked about Teddy.
Dressed in a grey designer suit with a lilac shirt and wine-colored tie, Teddy made the rounds. He smiled when old women told him how handsome he was (“such long, dark eyelashes with those bright blue eyes!”) and tried not to be spotted turning his ginger ale into something stronger.
The special guest for the party, the big speaker everyone was here to see, was Atticus Speal, the latest self-help guru. Teddy didn't know exactly how much Speal was being paid to twist his “surrender control” bit to apply to big government, but he guessed that his fee could pay for a new car or feed and house a local family for a year. Speal stood by the stage, laughing and chatting. He was a tall man with a wild beard and a tight haircut to balance it out. He wore a red tie and the requisite American flag pin, and he gestured charismatically as he spoke to the cluster of white-haired CEOs around him.
Teddy watched Speal, trying to imagine what scandal would undo his self-improvement empire. Perhaps he'd be caught with a prostitute. Perhaps three corporate big-wigs would die mysteriously on a retreat he hosted. Perhaps he would have a mental breakdown and run naked through the streets like the Kony 2012 guy.
Teddy was smirking to himself as he imagined all of the possible disasters. It took a moment to realize that, despite the woman yammering on in front of him, Speal was looking directly at Teddy. Teddy sat up straight and Speal smiled. Teddy knew that face, and he knew it was from somewhere other than TV and magazines.
A strong hand gripped Teddy's arm. He looked up to see his father's aid, Jerry, standing over him. His eyes were dilated. “It's time for you to leave.”
“I'm not doing anything,” Teddy said, hoping Jerry couldn't smell the liquor in his glass.
Jerry smiled. It wasn't Jerry's usual dopey grin; it belonged to someone else. “Party's over.”
“I…you…what are you doing?” Teddy jerked his arm away from Jerry. He was getting pretty creeped out.
Another hand landed firmly on his shoulder. Teddy looked up to see a congressman from the panhandle, whose name he couldn't remember, standing on his left. He had the same distant, dilated look in his eyes. “I don't think you understand the situation, Dionysus.”
Teddy splashed his drink in the congressman's face and bolted. He expected to hear gasps and screams and he stopped in the door to the ballroom, confused when nobody made a sound. One older gentleman asked, “Who's making all that racket?” The rest were silent.
“Dionysus,” they said in unison. It was a haunting sound, their voices blending perfectly as one. No amount of rehearsal could accomplish such a feat.
Teddy turned back for the door, but the waitstaff had blocked him in. He loosened his tie and shook his head. “Great. A mind-control Titan.”
As the crowd closed in on him, Teddy saw Atticus Speal sipping a martini and smiling.
Frank and Devon were living in off-campus housing in Boca Raton. It was a small apartment with one bedroom, one bathroom, and a tiny living room, but they could afford it. Frank's football scholarship granted some housing money, and Devon was benefiting from a teen mother's charity that Minnie had found online. They still had to work part-time jobs to pay for diapers, but they were determined to make it work. Devon had begun hosting parties (sort of like Tupperware parties but for naughty accessories) and had become the company's top-seller. Frank had transferred to another auto dealership owned by the same guy he had worked for in Miami and was keeping a handful of hours in between classes and football practice.
This morning was quiet. Xander was sitting silently in his green and blue bouncer while Devon ran over her inventory and Frank mowed a lawn down the street for fifteen bucks. Xander was a peaceful baby, and that made everything a lot less stressful for the young couple; Devon knew she had gotten lucky. She s
at quietly on the floor, her back against the sofa, brushing her long blonde hair away from her face and counting how many cherry massage oils she had left in her tote.
Frank came in, sweaty and smelling like grass clippings, and went to the refrigerator for a glass of water. He pulled the curtain aside and looked out the sliding glass door that opened onto their little eighteen-square-foot balcony. “Devon.”
“I'm doing math. You just messed me up,” Devon said with a frown. She had never been great at math because she had never seen its relevance in her life. Now that she had to earn a living, she wished she had paid more attention in algebra.
“Is there a parade today?”
“No. Who has a parade in August?”
“The street is full of people.”
Devon put down her inventory check sheet and went to the window. There was a crowd of people, mostly older men and women in professional dress, but a few college kids scattered here and there, walking down the street.
“They're coming here,” Frank said.
“Was something going on in the building?”
Something was wrong with these people. Devon realized it when she saw a man pull his wind-breaker aside and draw a sidearm. This wasn't a parade. It was an frighteningly-calm angry mob.
“Get Xander,” Frank said.
Devon scooped the baby up from his bouncer. Xander sensed the sudden tension in the room and began to fuss. Frank went to the back window and threw it open. Devon handed Xander to Frank so she could climb out onto the fire escape. Frank passed Xander back through the open window and then barely squeezed his seven-foot frame out after them.
Devon could hear footsteps inside the building, hundreds of them stomping up the echoey stairwell. Frank closed the window and glanced back at Devon.
“Give me your earring,” he said.
Devon was wearing a pair of long stainless steel earrings that looked like pointed pendulums. She took one off and handed it to Frank, who used his fist to smash it into the window frame, effectively nailing it shut.
Frank started down the fire escape, dropping the ladder and going first so that Devon could hand the baby down. A crash from their apartment confirmed Frank's worst fears. The mob, for some reason or another, was coming for them. Perhaps they were rioting in general. Perhaps they knew about The Pantheon. Whatever the reason, there was an aggressor in their apartment, and Frank had to protect his family.
Frank hit the street and held up his arms to take Xander. Someone upstairs was trying to force the window open. Devon hopped down and started running. Frank followed close behind her.
“Why?” Devon panted as she stopped at her car.
Frank fumbled to slip the key in the lock with his great big hands. He knew why they had traded in her red BMW, but Frank sorely missed the keyless entry. “Dunno.”
He looked up from the lock to see someone standing behind Devon. The man had wide, vacant eyes and he smiled at Frank before grabbing Devon and pointing a switchblade to her throat. Devon screamed. Frank glanced down at his son, who he cradled in one arm, and back up at Devon. Why was this happening? Why was it happening in broad daylight?
“I don't think you wanna mess with me,” Frank said, trying to figure out how he could get the knife away without Devon getting hurt and without dropping his baby. He was strong and he could adapt quickly, but he didn't have Lewis' speed.
“Oh I know, Ares,” the man said. He grinned. “Which is why I've delegated. You do know that word, right? Delegated?”
“I'm not stupid.”
“Could have fooled me. You stay on the other side of that car and I don't have my pointy little friend here spill her throat on the sidewalk.”
Devon closed her eyes. Frank could feel a wave of her power, rippling out. The air got heavy, and he felt a little goofy. She was the most beautiful woman on the planet.
“Not gonna work on me,” the man said. “Or rather, this meat-suit I'm working with. You see, he's sacrificed his free will. He doesn't have any desire in this state. Isn't it beautiful?
Frank realized that a crowd was closing in around him. He hunched his shoulders and pulled Xander close to his chest. The baby cried out.
“I'm calling the cops!” someone shouted. Frank watched an old man in an apron come out of a shop, waiving a fish knife. The man who Frank had seen earlier with the gun pulled back the hammer and pointed it at the good samaritan. “You'll do no such thing,” he said.
“Puppets,” Frank spat.
“Yep. It's better this way. See how everyone is getting along?” said the man with the knife. “Now I know you're strong, Ares, but even you can't single-handedly fight off a hundred men. Especially not a hundred men when seven of them are packing heat. And you really can't do that and protect that precious cargo in your hands.”
Frank looked down at Xander. The child was scared and screaming, his face red with exertion.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I want you two to take a little road trip with me,” the man said. “I've got most of your friends already.”
“And if I don't cooperate?”
“I kill your child.”
Frank raised his upper lip in a snarl.
“Good dog,” the puppet replied.
Frank glanced at his arm just as someone jammed a needle into it. His head spun. The world closed in. The last thing he saw was a woman with dilated pupils pulling Xander from his arms as Devon screamed and Frank collapsed.
Celene, Peter, and Penny had gone back to the Davis apartment to grab a few things. Celene wanted the photo album that her friends had put together after the fire. Penny wanted her posters. Peter and Celene had entered the house in forms that looked like they could have been Penny's distant relatives. Penny had gone as herself.
They wandered around, collecting items and dropping them into cardboard boxes. “Only take what has sentimental value,” Peter reminded Celene. They needed to have enough things left for a convincing yard sale. After all, Celene was supposed to be dead.
They had been there for twenty minutes when a knock came at the door. Penny went to answer it. A rotund police officer was standing on the front step. “Excuse me,” he said. “A neighbor reported three people entering this apartment, but I have a report that the owner passed away last week. I'm just checking to make sure—”
“My mom was the owner,” Penny said. “I live here. Well, I did until,” she recalled her emotional state in the hospital that night. Her eyes started to well up. The police officer did not look moved. In fact, Penny realized, something was wrong with his eyes.
“I'm going to have to ask you, Demeter, and Hades to step outside.”
Penny slammed the door shut and turned the lock.
“What's going on?” Celene called from the kitchen.
“He knows who we are!” Penny grabbed a chair and wedged it under the doorknob as the officer started throwing his weight into the door. “He used your names,” Penny said.
“Out the back,” Celene said. She left her box of photos and jewelry and waved for Penny and Peter to follow her.
When Celene threw open the door, another police officer, an EMT, and three more strangers were standing in the tiny fenced-in yard. Two guns were leveled.
“Any more ways out?” Peter asked, raising his hands in the air.
“Aside from getting shot and walking back out of the Underworld again?” Celene asked.
“Yeah, aside from that.”
“No.”
“Well, damn.”
“The God of War hates those who hesitate.”
-Euripides
XII.
Zach was glad he had charged his phone overnight because he needed help and he wasn't risking a trip back to his car. After trying every member of The Pantheon, Jason Livingstone finally picked up.
“Zach, what's wrong?”
“Nobody is answering their phones. I just had a run-in with Kronos. I'm hiding. He can get into people's heads.”
&n
bsp; “Slow down. Where are you?”
“Orlando,” Zach said. “I need you to come get me. It's not safe to go back to my car.”
Zach instructed Jason on how to download a Geocaching app on his phone and then gave him the coordinates of where he would be. Zach started hiking, heading towards a nearby road, keeping his distance from the green Tesla Roadster that was probably swarmed with mindless Kronos drones.
As Zach walked through a sea of poison ivy, he remembered his decision that morning to wear sneakers instead of flip-flops. “Good one, Zach,” he said. At least he wouldn't have itchy feet while he tried to figure out what to do.
Jason pulled up in his Buick Electra four hours later. Zach's stomach was grumbling (he had missed lunch) but the classic car was of more concern to Zach at the moment. Jason parked on the side of the road where Zach told him to and unlocked the passenger door. Zach darted out from his hiding spot in the woods and climbed in.
“This car is too noticeable,” Zach said as he locked the door. He grabbed Jason's face and turned it so he could look into the older man's eyes.
“What are you doing?” Jason asked, his words muffled as Zach's hands gripped his cheeks.
“Checking your eyes,” Zach said. He let go of Jason's face, satisfied that his pupils looked normal-sized. “When Kronos is inside people, their eyes go big like…” Zach held his fingers up in the shape of a circle the size of a quarter. “You haven't, by any chance, read Becoming Your Golden Self, have you?”
Jason snorted, “That crap?”
“It's how he's getting people to surrender their will,” he explained. “He got my Dad. He got everyone in the office and about a bajillion people on the street.”
Jason put the car in drive. “Swell. So we have to assume that anyone who may have read the self-help bestseller is an extension of Kronos?”
The Cult of Kronos Page 8