The Pantheon Saga | Book 4 | Gods of Wrath

by Ekeke, C. C.

  “Definitely,” Hugo stated.

  “Yep,” Quinn answered sleepily. Clint had called twenty-three minutes ago. She’d only had time to throw on a Brown University-branded hoodie and sweatpants, then wrestle her bushy afro into a bun. She wouldn’t have come to the musty and dimly-lit safehouse at six in the morning for just anything. It still felt wrong being here without Geist. Or Therese, fast asleep back in Quinn’s condo. She suppressed a grin at the warm fuzziness of her new normal. Glancing at Hugo, Quinn felt severely underdressed.

  The teen was a towering sight in his purple-and-black Aegis costume. His hood and mask were pulled back, revealing boyish yet rough-hewn features and tousled hair. He looked as exhausted as Quinn felt.

  Clint cracked his knuckles and typed away. “Here we go.” One of his monitors displayed blurred footage from the failed Shandon mission. Clint was running some program to clean it up. After several minutes, the video of Team Geist's attackers grew clearer. Clint played the footage back to where Therese fired an explosive arrow in a masked super’s face.

  Quinn leaned closer as the smoke cleared.

  Titan stared back, eyes gleaming with mindless rage.

  Hugo swore.

  Quinn clapped a hand over her mouth. “Good Lord!”

  Clint studied the paused footage intensely. “Wowzah. Identical to Titan.”

  “Exactly like Titan.” Hugo marched up, jabbing a finger at the screen. “And we don’t know where it will strike next!”

  Clint brushed off his ferocity. “I’ll start looking. We’ll find this doppelgänger.”

  Quinn wasn’t feeling so sure. “What if we don’t?” Paxton-Brandt could've hidden this clone anywhere in San Miguel. Or California. Or America. She shuddered.

  Hugo massaged the bridge of his nose. “I’ll search around SLO County on my morning patrol. Call me when you find anything.”

  “Sure that’s wise?” Quinn asked as Hugo turned to go. The Vanguard’s implosion and the Seraph/Blur/Sentinel saga had gotten wall-to-wall coverage. But the hero who’d manhandled Vulcan and Sentinel was still a top headline. “You’re still a heatscore.”

  Hugo shrugged. “I don’t trust The Elite. And Tomorrow Man's a joke.”

  Quinn could accept those reasons. The superhero world had been in an uproar after not only Seraph’s affair, but Sentinel beating up Blur. Quinn was one to talk, having received floods of concerned calls and texts from coworkers, friends, and family. The evening after Sentinel’s meltdown, she’d spent an hour convincing Annie Machado not to fly back to San Miguel. Even Helena had finally spoken to Quinn.

  “What about Lady Liberty?” Clint inquired, standing. “Where the hell is she?”

  He took the question right out of Quinn’s mouth. The Glorious Glamazon had been noticeably absent for over a week. She would’ve had thoughts about The Vanguard’s implosion.

  Hugo’s face hardened. “Out of town.” Curt and abrupt, ending further debate. He pulled his mask and hood on. “I’ll tell you if I find something.”

  Quinn wasn’t done. “Hugo. A word, please?” She motioned near the exit. The teen sighed and followed.

  “Jodie doesn’t know about me,” Hugo stated before Quinn could speak. “I’d never put her in danger.”

  Quinn flinched at Hugo’s intensity. She softened. “There are eyes on you now. Including SLOCO Daily. And I’m not the reporter assigned to investigate you.”

  Hugo’s eyes widened as he grasped her words. “Understood."

  “About my cousin,” Quinn continued, raising a finger to highlight her point. Deep down, she knew that Hugo had no ill intent for Jodie. “She’s like a sister. Not telling her anything is for both your safeties.”

  Hugo visibly relaxed, clearly expecting the ‘stay away from my cousin’ speech. “I hear you.” He then spoke whisper-soft. “Be careful with your love situation.”

  Icy panic splashed down Quinn’s back. “What the…!” Her thoughts jumbled at someone knowing her secret. “How did…?”

  Hugo tapped his nose. “Her scent is all over you.”

  “GROSS.” Quinn slapped his rock-hard arm and winced. “Boy, get outta here.”

  Hugo smirked. The next moment, he vanished with a stiff breeze.

  Clint was fiddling with one of his computer consoles when she returned to him. “I’m cloning the Titan clone video." He cackled at the unintended quip. "A clone of a clone!”

  Quinn couldn’t smile any wider. “This has to convince Helena.” She was about to gush more until really studying Clint and the bags under his eyes. And by his pallid complexion, he hadn’t seen much daylight. “How are you?” Quinn asked.

  He looked ready to deliver a cheeky response. But as Quinn held his gaze, the façade collapsed, revealing an ocean of pain. “Could be better. Giving support to Domino on her patrols,” he admitted. “The streets are getting restless with…him gone.” That pause spoke volumes.

  “Yeah…” Quinn placed a hand on Clint’s shoulder and squeezed. Her breath hitched thinking about Geist, despite Hugo’s theory of his survival. Therese had been telling more stories of her earlier adventures with Geist. Despite his grim-dark broodiness, his team adored him. “Speaking of heroes…” Quinn had participated in more think pieces, opinion panels, than she could wrap her head around. All reached the same conclusion about The Vanguard’s future. She wanted to hear from someone in the know. “Vanguard’s finished, isn’t it?”

  Clint let out a harsh laugh. “Let’s see.” The hacker listed off reasons on his fingers. “Seraph got caught fucking a minor. Sentinel beat up said minor on live television. Vulcan aided Sentinel by taking out the minor’s team. Oh, and Wyldcat’s in rehab. I’d say The Vanguard’s cooked itself for dinner.”

  “Pretty much.” This gave Quinn no joy. The best superhero team in the world self-destructing hurt like watching a family member’s self-sabotage. “What else did you hear?”

  Clint lit up, as he regularly hacked Vanguard HQ networks. “Sentinel’s stepping down as leader. OWE is suing him personally for trespassing and assault. There’s talk of Justice Jones as interim leader and promoting the Warguard. No one knows where Lady Liberty is.”

  Quinn nodded. Hugo knew about Lady Liberty but wasn’t talking. Something on Clint’s far left monitor caught her eye. A Google-type map of San Miguel. She leaned closer. “What’s that?”

  Blood drained from Clint's face as he hurriedly minimized the window. “Echolocation project I was working on for Geist…” he stammered. “Wanted to see it through until it was…through.”

  One of Clint’s consoles pinged. “Here you go.” He plucked a thumb drive out and shoved it into Quinn’s hands.

  “Thanks,” she said carefully. Part of her wanted to inquire further. But Clint had already turned his chair away to manipulate two touchscreens simultaneously. Knowing she’d worn out her welcome, she silently departed.

  Her first instinct was to head over to work and inform the Spotlight team. They finally had proof of Paxton-Brandt cloning Titan. But that meant nothing without Helena’s approval.

  The editor-in-chief’s house had to be Quinn's first destination. Besides the day Sentinel had beat up Blur, they hadn't spoken in a week. Quinn planned on fixing that today and not just for the Paxton-Brandt exposé.

  Pink streaks slashed the burnt-orange sky when she reached the Morro Bay estate. Helena’s car was parked outside. Quinn was surprised her house key still worked, given how petty Helena could be.

  “Helena,” Quinn called out after entering. “We need to talk.” The hallways and rooms were gloomy except for the living room. There was plenty to discuss and apologize for on both sides.

  Quinn headed into the living room. “I’m not leaving until we straighten…” She almost tripped over her own feet.

  Helena was splayed across her couch in only a red bathrobe, curly tresses pooled around her head. Her skin looked grey and sweaty, limbs spasming, eyelids twittering.

  It took Quinn’s brain a few seconds
to shake off the stupefied surprise. “Oh my GOD!” Any Paxton-Brandt concerns evaporated. She dashed to Helena’s side, even more terrified when getting a close look.

  Helena shook in sporadic spasms, eyes rolled back. A gurgling noise emerged from her throat.

  Quinn grabbed Helena’s shoulders and shook desperately. “Helena? Can you hear me?” Her pleas went unanswered. Helena was out of it. Quinn became aware of crunching and crinkling beneath her feet. An open oxytocin bottle and torn packets of fentanyl.

  Quinn snatched up the half-empty bottle. She gawked at Helena’s spasming form in horror. “How much did you take?”

  The front door opened and shut. Quinn almost jumped out of her skin. Who else would be here this early?

  “Ms. Madden?” Naomi Doyle strutted into the living room in penguin pajamas with a bag of food. “I got the croissants you like—AH! Quinn!” She squealed.

  Quinn swayed, mired between dizzying shock and fear of someone seeing Helena. “Doyle?” she said.

  Doyle looked past Quinn and gaped like a fish out of water. “OMG, Helena?”

  “Help me get her to the bathroom,” Quinn ordered. The priority was getting out what Helena had ingested.

  Doyle grabbed Helena under the arms while Quinn took the legs to the bedroom bathroom. Quinn’s relief was overwhelming after getting her mentor to barf into the toilet. “There you go. Get it out.” And Helena did, violently.

  But when the editor-in-chief couldn’t stand on her own or speak coherently, Quinn’s worries persisted. They tucked Helena up into bed before calling 911.

  “Why are you here?” Quinn asked as they waited at Helena’s bedside.

  Doyle fanned her tear-stained face. “Helena and I worked through the night,” she sniffled. “I left for an hour to get fresh clothes and breakfast.”

  Quinn relaxed somewhat. Since her argument with Helena, she’d seen Doyle become the editor-in-chief's shadow. What didn’t make sense was how Helena got a hold of so many potent painkillers. “How did she get these?” Quinn held up the oxytocin bottle, waving it in Doyle’s face.

  The intern turned away, unmistakably ashamed. “I got them for her.”

  Quinn nearly choked on her fury. For a solid minute, she couldn't even speak. Doyle edged away from her, frightened by whatever she saw.

  “After I said not to get her any painkillers?”

  Doyle raised her hands in submission, eyes bulging. “Helena was in such pain and ordered the prescriptions on her own. She threatened to fire me and give a bad recommendation if I didn’t pick those up last night. I didn’t know she’d…OD…” She dissolved in loud, anguished sobs.

  Quinn almost punched Doyle to quiet her. But the girl was a scared intern who’d screwed up. Quinn let most of her anger out with a sigh. “Are there anymore?”

  Doyle looked up, her shoulders sagging. “In the living room. And a bag in the kitchen.”

  Quinn took off, shoveling any drugs and bottles she found into a trash bag. But the ambulance lights radiate through the windows before she could dump the goods.

  Quinn spoke to the EMTs while Helena was stretchered out of the house. An unsettling sight. She was honest, talking about too much pain medication. After signing some paperwork, the ambulance was off.

  Quinn would've accompanied Helena but had a Beyond the Cape panel later. Since the Sentinel/Blur fight, she’d been booked daily to discuss The Vanguard and the unnamed new hero who’d fought Sentinel and Vulcan.

  Still, Quinn couldn’t let Helena wake up in that hospital alone. “Follow the ambulance and stay with Helena today,” she instructed Doyle. “Make sure the hospital takes care of her.”

  The intern, wiping the tears from her chubby cheeks, trembled. To Quinn’s great annoyance, she looked afraid again. “But…but my manager—” Doyle blubbered.

  Then Quinn understood. “I’ll tell your manager you’re working directly with Helena today.” She patted the frightened intern on the back. “Call me if anything changes.” An edge of warning slipped into her next words. “Say nothing about this to anyone at work. Especially your part.”

  By Doyle’s frantic head nodding, she got the message.

  Once Doyle left in her car to follow Helena’s ambulance, Quinn drove off with the bag of drugs in her car. Then she tucked away the roiling emotions rampaging through her. The time to freak out and sob would come later.

  On the way back to Arroyo Grande, Quinn called SLOCO Daily’s Managing Editor.

  “Hey, QB,” Rhonda Malo greeted chipperly.

  “Can you cover Helena’s meetings and interviews today?” Quinn asked after exchanging hellos.

  She felt the mood shift over the line. “Is Helena alright?”

  Quinn silently cringed while driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, having not thought that far ahead. “Food poisoning last night.”

  “Ooph,” Rhonda responded in distaste. “Yes, I can work with Helena’s secretary.”

  “Thanks.” Quinn hung up, sagging in relief. The guilt over lying to Rhonda was ephemeral. She would protect Helena as long as possible until her mentor got help.

  A few hours later, Quinn was at SLOCO Daily freshly showered and dressed. For today's Beyond the Cape panel, she chose a black sports coat and matching slacks with a green pinstriped top. Her afro was blown out with a coppery headband. A quick download on today’s main topics bolstered her confidence.

  As Quinn powerwalked to the studio where she’d speak to the Beyond the Cape panel via satellite, her phone rang. Doyle.

  “Naomi,” Quinn answered. “What's wrong?”

  “Quinn…” The weak, throaty voice definitely wasn't Doyle.

  She stopped. “Helena?” Glancing around to ensure the hallway was empty, she let worry bleed into her voice. “How are you?”

  “Feels like I got hit by a truck.” Helena laughed, only for a coughing fit overwhelmed her. That yanked at Quinn’s heart. “Doyle told me what happened.” Helena sounded unspeakably sad. “I’m sorry. About everything…”

  Quinn leaned back on a wall or else her knees would’ve buckled. “Helena…”

  “You’re a better friend than I deserve, QB,” Helena interrupted with guttural emotion. “I’m gonna get help. I promise…”

  Quinn couldn’t do this right now. “Let’s talk when I come to the hospital.”

  “No,” Helena ordered, sounding like her old self. “I need a day to get this crap outta my system,” she said more gently. "We'll talk tomorrow, okay?”

  Quinn struggled to hold herself together. “Sure.”

  After hanging up, Quinn let herself bawl for two minutes. Then she went into defense mode, walling off the grief and stepping into Studio 3 to meet the makeup team.

  Chapter 33

  Three days in a cell wearing power restraints hadn’t broken Greyson. But it had given him too much time to reminisce over past mistakes.

  Disappointment saturated his soul over not killing Diablo.

  Grief seeped in when seeing Connie again. Regret rocked him over what Big Izzy had become…

  Those old stories bubbled and wracked Greyson with frequent, uninvited sobs. By the time two of Delgado’s heavies came for him, he was emotionally drained.

  The march through dank tunnels was silent, punctuated by their footsteps. Greyson remained blank-faced, chin held high, wondering what macabre demise Delgado had planned.

  On the elevator ride up several stories, the guards looked trepid despite Greyson’s restraints.

  Once it stopped, he was escorted to some spacious throne room of tacky splendors. Gold lined the chairs and tables. Arabesque patterned rugs were woven from the finest materials.

  In the chamber’s rear, Delgado lounged on a gold throne dressed in white like a holy man.

  Greyson swallowed a chortle, half-surprised some scantily-clad wench wasn’t feeding Delgado grapes.

  The cartel leader’s children flanked the throne. Cristóbal donned a crisp suit, annoyingly handsome. Yet he appeared rather pal
e and wobbly.

  Dayanara chose a black pantsuit apt for a funeral, glossy hair piled atop her head. Her lovely face soured when seeing Greyson. Hernando dressed like he’d rolled out of bed. While the twins glared, Hernando expressed sorrow. Several guards encircled Delgado, clutching their guns like security blankets.

  Greyson was flattered. Rikki informed them well.

  Rikki stood smugly nearby in travel-worn fatigues and tactical gear. Hate flooded Greyson’s veins, but he ignored the traitorous bitch and focused on Delgado.

  Greyson kept a calm exterior, besides his cuffed hands shaking. This gaudy chamber might become his grave.

  Delgado sat up. “You failed, Hirsch. Ms. Leung had the courage to fix your mess.”

  Greyson cleared his throat, pushing down the swirl of rage. “I didn’t fail,” he replied. “I defeated Diablo and injured him. I just need to finish him.”

  Rikki snorted. Dayanara guffawed, but quieted after a warning look from her father.

  Delgado stood. “If you had Diablo, I’d be smiling down at that glowing payaso’s corpse.” The cartel leader cocked his head, never raising his voice. “Is he dead?”

  Greyson shrank from the rebuke. “No.”

  “Am I smiling?”

  Again, Greyson’s quiver was empty. “No.”

  “And now,” Delgado continued. “American supers are hunting you in my territory.”

  Rikki told them. “They’re a group of heroes,” Greyson replied through gritted teeth. “A formidable group I can handle if you release me.”

  Cristóbal perked up at Greyson’s description. As expected…

  “Like you handled Diablo?” Rikki retorted. Her laughter dripped with disdain.

  Greyson moved from Rikki’s mockery to Delgado’s giggling children, lost. “What?” he demanded.

  Delgado glared so intensely that Greyson instinctively glanced away. “If Diablo is so injured,” Delgado countered. “Who was blasting our Cuidades plant out of commission this morning?”

  Greyson heart plummeted. How the hell…? “I don’t know. Diablo must heal fast.”

  “He’s lying!” Dayanara pointed an accusing finger.