Mythmaker

by Tim Waggoner

  “How do you explain the powers the women were reported to wield?” Sam asked.

  “Technology,” the sheriff said confidently. “The cat-woman had some kind of long-range acoustic device, and the silver woman used some kind of souped-up stun gun.”

  “And their appearances were due to—” Sam began.

  “Costumes,” the sheriff said. “They aren’t the first to get dressed up and fight on the street this week.” He glanced quickly at the corpses. “Although this is one of the deadlier incidents. Usually bystanders aren’t harmed.”

  “What do you think caused this level of violence?” Sam asked. “Some kind of gang activity?”

  “Maybe a Halloween-themed fight club?” Dean added.

  “Religious wackos,” the sheriff said without hesitation. “They started establishing their own weird churches a couple weeks ago, even replacing some of the regular ones. At first, there were only a handful, but more popped up every day, like mushrooms after a rainstorm. I’m sure you noticed the weird decorations on the houses and businesses as you entered town. Well, the cults are the reason for the strange costumes, too.”

  The sheriff looked away from the brothers and toward a black van that approached the crime scene.

  “Good. The coroner’s here. Now we can get down to processing the scene properly. It’s only a matter of time before some cultists show up to pray or chant or do who knows what over the bodies. I’d just as soon avoid that. Feel free to talk to any of the witnesses here, and you’re welcome to stop by the station and take a look at the other incident reports whenever you like. I’ll make sure to let them know you’re coming.”

  “We appreciate that, Sheriff,” Dean said, and then he and Sam turned away.

  The sheriff remained by the bodies as the coroner and his assistant approached, and Sam and Dean walked to the paramedic vehicle. The female paramedic, Gayle, was taking care of an elderly man while the other two paramedics were helping people still sitting in their cars, people who Dean assumed were too hurt to move. The back of the vehicle was open, and the man sat on the back steps while Gayle leaned next to him. The man wore a brown sweater and jeans, and he had a deep gash on his forehead. Gayle worked on cleaning the injury with antiseptic wipes, the man drawing in small hisses of breath whenever she touched the wound.

  The brothers stopped when they reached the vehicle.

  “Do you mind answering a few questions?” Sam asked.

  Gayle didn’t take her eyes off the old man’s wound as she answered, “As long as I can keep working, sure.” She continued dabbing at the man’s head.

  “We know you weren’t on the scene when the incident occurred,” Dean said. “But anything you might be able to tell us will be a help.”

  “I don’t know if there’s anything more I can add to whatever the Sheriff told you.”

  She returned her attention to her work. She finished cleaning the man’s wound, pulled some gauze out of a medical kit resting next to her patient, folded it, and pressed it to his forehead.

  “Hold this for me, please,” she said, and the man did so, freeing her hands so she could secure the gauze with strips of surgical tape.

  Dean addressed the man. “What about you, sir? What can you tell us?”

  The man scowled as he looked up at Sam and Dean. “Those two crazy women started fighting right in the middle of the street.” His voice grew louder as he spoke, and he winced. When he resumed, he lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “A bunch of us had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting them. Unfortunately for me, I hit the windshield instead. No concussion, though. At least, that’s what she tells me.”

  Sam and Dean thanked the man. They interviewed several more witnesses after that, but they didn’t learn anything new, with the exception of one man who told them watching the strange women fighting was like “watching superheroes battle—or maybe gods.” Superheroes weren’t real—which was too bad, Dean thought. He loved to see women in spandex—but gods were real, as the brothers knew from unfortunate experience. And given the sort of power witnesses had said the two women wielded, Dean figured they might be gods, which sucked. He hated gods.

  “Let’s go to the sheriff’s station and see what they have on the other murders,” Sam suggested.

  “Sounds good,” Dean said.

  The brothers headed back to the Impala, got in, and Dean pulled the car away from the curb. Sam used his phone’s GPS to get directions to the sheriff’s station. It was only a few miles away, and the drive would only take several minutes.

  “So what are we dealing with here?” Sam asked.

  “Weird religious cults, strange super-powered killers fighting in the streets… Sounds like we’re dealing with some kind of god infestation,” Dean said.

  “Yeah, but the gods we’ve encountered are usually solitary creatures. Less competition for worshippers that way.”

  “You mean victims. They may call themselves gods, might even believe that’s what they are, but the bottom line is they’re nothing more than higher-class versions of the ghouls we took down earlier. They’re predators, nothing more.”

  One of the many things Dean disliked about gods was that they pretended to be something they weren’t. Sure, lots of monsters disguised their true nature—shapeshifters, skinwalkers, werewolves, the list went on. But the monsters who called themselves gods preyed on the human need to be part of something bigger than themselves. They preyed on people’s hopes and fears, and as far as Dean was concerned, that made them the biggest con artists in the supernatural world.

  “That’s what puzzles me,” Sam said. “Why would multiple gods be in the same place, competing for victims and fighting to the death?”

  “And why are they operating out in the open like this?” Dean said. “The gods we’ve run into did their best to keep a low profile. But not these guys.”

  “Whatever’s happening, it’s beginning to look like the whole town is involved,” Sam said, “one way or another.”

  “It’s like some kind of divine infestation,” Dean said. “Too bad we can’t call Godbusters.”

  “I guess the two of us will have to do.”

  “As usual.”

  FIVE

  Paeon lowered his caduceus, slipped it into his coat pocket, then took a step back from the examination table.

  “There. How does that feel?”

  The patient sitting on the table was a young girl with long strawberry-blond hair and glasses. She wore a green sleeveless shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Her left arm, from the wrist to the elbow, was covered by a pink cast upon which numerous people had written get-well messages. Her mother stood close by, ignoring her daughter and gazing at Paeon, eyes shining with a combination of reverence and hope. Lena stood on the other side of the small room, back against the wall, arms folded over her chest. She was supposed to be acting as Paeon’s “assistant,” but the man needed almost no help—not as long as he wielded that miraculous caduceus of his—and she’d ended up primarily observing. On one level, this irritated her. She hadn’t become a doctor and specialized in oncology to stand around and do nothing, but she also never grew tired of watching Paeon heal people. The power he wielded was staggering, and she couldn’t help thinking of the lives she could’ve saved over the years, the suffering she could’ve alleviated, if only she’d possessed that same power.

  The girl raised her arm and looked at the cast, frowning as if she were trying to see through it and into the arm beneath. She wiggled her fingers and then smiled.

  “It doesn’t hurt!” She turned to her mom, but her mother continued looking adoringly at Paeon.

  “You healed her,” the woman said.

  “Of course,” Paeon said. “It is what I do.”

  He held out his hand and without looking at Lena said, “Doctor, would you mind fetching me some shears?”

  Lena didn’t appreciate his use of the word fetch, but she walked over to the cabinet and sink, opened a drawer, and found a pair of plaster sh
ears. She walked over to Paeon and placed them in his palm, a bit harder than she needed to. Paeon didn’t seem to notice. She returned to her station and leaned against the wall and folded her arms once more.

  With precise, confident motions, Paeon cut through the cast length-wise. When he finished, he put the shears on the table, pried the cast off the grinning, wide-eyed girl, and deposited it in the trash can near the door. He took a moment to examine the girl’s arm, his fingers feeling for any lingering pain or sensitivity in the bone. Lena doubted he needed to check to make sure the girl’s healing had been successful. She figured he did it for the mother and the girl, to put their minds at ease. Miracles were wondrous, but they were scary, too, and a little normality—like a doctor checking a limb to make sure it was fully healed—could go a long way to keeping people’s fears at bay.

  Paeon finished his “examination” and smiled at the girl.

  “All better,” he said.

  The girl grinned again, leaned forward, and gave Paeon a hug. He hugged her back, and when the girl let go, Lena saw that Paeon looked sharper somehow, his features clearer, more distinct. She’d seen this happen many times this evening. People began coming to the clinic, drawn to Paeon by instinct—or perhaps responding to some kind of silent summons that Paeon sent out—and he began healing them. Once he finished, they expressed their gratitude toward him, sometimes only verbally, but sometimes physically, as the girl just had. And each time Paeon seemed to get an infusion of power—a literal charge, as if his patients were paying him with emotional energy.

  No, not paying, she thought. Feeding.

  The more serious the condition he treated, the greater the exchange of energy. The patients didn’t seem to suffer for it. They didn’t appear tired or weakened afterward. She didn’t understand how the process worked, didn’t understand any of this, really. But she decided she didn’t need to. All that mattered was these people were being healed of maladies large and small, and while it was humbling to stand by and watch a far greater healer than she could ever hope to be work, it was a privilege to be a part—even a small one—of his mission.

  The mother also gave Paeon a hug, then he drew forth his caduceus and held it out. It glowed with power, and the mother and daughter each touched it, one after the other, of their own free will, and when they drew their hands away, they belonged to him. They said their goodbyes, took their coats from the hook on the back of the door, and left. Once they were gone, Paeon returned the caduceus to his coat pocket. Lena was surprised that she always felt a pang of jealousy whenever Paeon accepted a new follower, but she couldn’t help it. He’d come to her first, damn it!

  Lena’s office manager and physician’s assistants had been just as impressed with Paeon as she had, and after becoming followers themselves, they remained at the office after hours to help. They received patients and showed them to examination rooms, and Lena knew that other patients were waiting for Paeon. He knew this as well, and he walked out of the room. Lena followed. In the hall, she saw Sarah, one of her assistants, and motioned to her that the examination room they’d left was empty and ready for a new patient. Sarah nodded and headed for the reception area to get one.

  Lena marveled at how fresh Paeon looked. They’d been working for hours, ever since he’d first appeared at her practice, but he seemed just as alert and full of energy as he had then. Maybe not getting tired was part of his otherworldly powers, or maybe the emotional energy he fed on staved off weariness. Whatever it was, Lena wished she had some of it. She’d started her day early, visiting patients at the hospital starting at 6 AM before getting to her office at nine and starting to see patients there. And while working with Paeon was exciting, she could feel the day beginning to catch up with her. She stifled a yawn and told herself to ask Sarah to make a pot of coffee.

  Despite being relegated to a supporting position at her own practice, Lena felt good about what she was doing. By assisting Paeon, she was helping more people than she imagined possible, and thanks to the caduceus, all of them were guaranteed to be healed. A 100 per cent success rate was unheard of in medicine, especially in oncology, but that’s exactly what Paeon had accomplished since setting foot in the building. It was all like something out of a dream, and Lena knew that dreams didn’t come true. Not like this, and not without some kind of catch. But what was happening was so wonderful that she didn’t want to question it.

  She led Paeon to the next examination room, knocked, then opened the door. She stepped back so he could precede her, then she stepped inside and closed the door behind them.

  A man sat on the examination table, looked to be in his early thirties, fit, black hair, black beard. His coat lay on the table next to him, and he wore a blue turtleneck, jeans, and sneakers. He looked healthy, but Lena knew that outward appearances never told the whole story, medically.

  Paeon smiled at the man.

  “I am Paeon. What is your name?”

  “Bill. Bill Wright.”

  His voice sounded strong, but it held an undercurrent of fear. Lena wondered what Bill was worried about. Could he be far sicker than he looked?

  “What troubles you, Bill?” Paeon asked.

  Paeon’s voice was warm, caring, and reassuring, and Bill visibly relaxed.

  He’s got a great god-side manner, Lena thought, and smiled.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” Bill extended his hand and Paeon shook it. “Your patients have been spreading the word about you, talking about how you can heal any kind of sickness or injury.”

  “Good news travels fast,” Lena said.

  “These people speak the truth,” Paeon said. “Do you have need of my services?”

  “Yes. I want to follow you. Become Bound.”

  “I am honored,” Paeon said graciously, and he gave Bill a slight nod of acknowledgement.

  Bill looked uncomfortable. “There’s a problem, though. I’m already Bound.”

  Paeon’s smile faltered, but it held.

  “You may switch allegiances whenever you wish. It is permitted.”

  During the hours they’d worked together, Paeon had told Lena much about himself, or more accurately, about his kind and what they were doing in Corinth. She didn’t think he’d told her everything, but then again, it was possible he didn’t know it all himself. According to Paeon, his kind were born with a certain amount of knowledge—such as language and how to use their abilities—but their knowledge was limited, and they had to learn everything else the same way humans did: through experience. One thing Paeon understood very well about his existence was that it was temporary. Beings like him were brought into existence—and she was still fuzzy on how that process worked—and they fought each other, the winner absorbing the strength of the loser until at the end, the last survivor achieved Apotheosis—elevation to true godhood and a permanent immortal existence. Lena wasn’t sure why the process had to work like this, but there were numerous precedents in nature. Only the strongest cubs in a litter survived, and only the strongest salmon got to spawn. She supposed the Apotheosis was something similar.

  Part of the process was to acquire followers, humans that became Bound to an individual god. This attachment fed the god, made him, her, or it stronger. But people could switch allegiances from one god to another if they wished, so along with fighting each other, gods competed for worshippers, too. And when a god was defeated by another, the winner claimed the loser’s worshippers—assuming they wished to be claimed. Gods weren’t thrilled about losing followers, though, which explained Bill’s nervousness.

  Paeon continued, “There is nothing special you need do to switch. You need only desire it.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy for me.”

  Bill pulled off his turtleneck and dropped it on top of his coat. Now that his shirt was off, Lena saw that his chest was covered by a greenish-gray growth that looked like some kind of fungus. She’d never seen anything like it, and despite her medical training and years of experienc
e, the sight nauseated her.

  Paeon’s smile fell away and his expression became serious.

  “Who did this to you?” he demanded.

  “His name is Blight,” Bill said. “He’s like you.”

  “The creature who did this is nothing like me,” Paeon said, half in anger, half in disgust.

  Bill seemed to shrink at Paeon’s words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Paeon’s smile returned, although it seemed forced this time.

  “You have nothing to apologize for. Blight is the one who should apologize, for inflicting this… abomination on your flesh.”

  “Can you do something about it?” Bill asked. “Once I decided to switch to you, I tried to, well, I guess wish it away is the best way to put it, but nothing happened. Then I tried to cut it off. I used a sharp kitchen knife, but I only managed to remove a little before I passed out. It hurt so much! And when I woke up, I saw that the patch I’d cut away had grown back.”

  “We fight to hold on to what is ours,” Paeon said. “It is our nature. But fear not. I shall do what I can.”

  “Why do you want to switch?” Lena asked. When Paeon frowned at her, she added, “I only want to better understand how the process works.”

  Bill looked uncertainly at Paeon. The god nodded to give his permission, and the man turned to look at Lena as he spoke.

  “Blight talks about bringing people together by marking us with… this.” He gestured to the growth on his chest. “It’s supposed to connect us somehow. But all he really cares about is spreading his influence and increasing his power.” He turned back to Paeon. “But you help people in real, physical ways, and who wouldn’t want to be part of that?”

  Lena smiled. “I understand entirely.”

  Paeon gave her an impatient look. “If your curiosity is satisfied, Lena, perhaps you’ll allow me to get to work?”

  Her cheeks reddened. “Of course. Sorry.”