by Logan Ryles
“Excellent.” She closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat. “You just might have to.”
Twenty-One
Reed whistled as Banks slid into the Camaro wearing skintight jeans and a crop top. Her hair, heavily fragranced with perfume, hung over bare shoulders. Red lipstick coated her mouth, and dark eyeliner complemented heavy mascara.
Banks glared at him. “Keep it in your pants. This isn’t for you.”
He shifted into gear, and the Camaro rumbled away from Banks’s apartment, back toward Vanderbilt. The city lay in darkness now, but it was far from asleep. Cars, Ubers, taxis, and every manner of modified-party contraption rolled down the streets, honking and shouting at every intersection. Reed felt his blood pressure rise as he fought his way through the mess, giving lower Broadway a wide berth before he turned west toward the campus.
Even before they could see the frat house, the thump of rap music filled their ears. Dull lights flashed into the sky in half a dozen neon colors, and students gathered around the front porch. Reed parked the Camaro fifty yards down the street and watched the house. In a crowd this dense, it would be next to impossible to conduct a thorough search of the old home.
“We need a plan,” he said.
Banks sighed and opened her door. “How about this? I flash my boobs, you find what we need.”
Well, that seems workable.
Reed checked the Sig handgun tucked into his belt before joining Banks on the sidewalk. He could tell by her soft, labored breaths that she still felt terrible, but it didn’t hold her back for a moment. Her hips swung gracefully as she trotted in heels toward the house. He couldn’t help but admire her gentle strut, confident and calm, completely masking the clutch of illness on her body. So strong and steady, no other woman he’d ever met—even the cold-hearted, steady-handed killers—matched Banks’s relentless strength. His mind faded back to the two of them standing on the parking deck outside Atlanta, gazing at the skyline, while Banks strummed her ukulele. She was happier then, but no less the rock he had grown to know and love.
I want her back. God help me, I do.
A tall frat boy with broad shoulders and a drunken glare stumbled at the bottom of the steps. “Hey, this is a pwivate pawty.”
Banks shot him a seductive smile and tilted her head, but it wasn’t necessary. The redhead reappeared from the front door and waved his hand. “Don’t worry, Max. I invited them. Wassup, baby?”
He winked at Banks, and she batted her eyelashes.
My God. How does somebody this idiotic get accepted at Vanderbilt?
Reed followed Banks up the steps and into the house. The beat of the music pounded inside his head, jarring his shoulders and flooding his mind with new aches. He eagerly sucked down the cup of cheap beer that was pressed into his hand.
“Welcome, brother! How’s it going?”
Reed smiled and gave the kid a thumbs-up. Banks was already lost on the dance floor, swaying under the neon lights with the redhead grinding against her side. Reed felt his muscles tense, and he reached for the gun before his mind regained control of his reflexes.
She’s doing her job. Do yours.
He glanced around the living room, now so packed with kids he could barely distinguish the walls. The Greek letters of the new frat hung over the kitchen doorway, and pinned to the living room wall was a fraternity constitution. Reed pushed his way into the kitchen, where two guys smoked joints, and a third leaned against the wall, making out with a brunette. Much like the living room, the walls were bare, and nothing but alcohol covered the counters.
Reed pushed passed the cloud of marijuana smoke and into the next room. It was the dining room, empty except for more cases of beer and a few cartons of fried chicken. He grabbed a drumstick and tore into it as he stepped into the hallway. His stomach grumbled from neglect, and the cold, greasy food relaxed his nerves. A frat boy—clearly a freshman—leaned over the toilet in the hallway bathroom and puked into the bowl. Reed couldn’t resist a small smile.
Gonna be a long four years for you, my friend.
Inside a hallway closet built beneath the stairwell were a couple coats on hooks. A thorough investigation of their pockets produced nothing but cigarettes and weed. Reed mounted the steps and ascended to the second floor, softening each footfall as he drew closer. The music still pounded below, masking his footsteps as he passed the first bedroom. Empty. Light spilled out from beneath the next door. He placed his hand on the knob and started to twist, then heard soft moans and cries of ecstasy from the other side. He sighed and released the knob.
This can’t be it. There has to be something more. They couldn’t have cleared the whole house.
A window at the end of the hallway opened out over the backyard, where tall weeds were trampled under the feet of a few dozen more college kids, all sipping beer and swaying to the beat of hip-hop music. As Reed watched them, he marveled at how happy they looked—so loose and carefree.
Why does this piss me off? Am I seriously jealous of frat kids? Reed turned away from the window and clenched his fist. There must be something somewhere.
He started back toward the stairwell, then stopped. He remembered standing outside the house and staring up at the windows. There were skylights in the roof.
The attic.
A few paces down the hallway, Reed caught sight of the attic door. It was more of a hatch, really, about the size of a large pizza box, framed in the ceiling just above the window, but obscured by shadows and cobwebs.
Reed stuck the light between his teeth and stepped up onto the windowsill. He pressed up with one hand on the tile, and it lifted free from the remainder of the ceiling with a shower of drywall particles. Reed shoved it aside and forced his head through the hole. Pine rafters and dust filled the space beyond, illuminated by the moonlight spilling through the skylights. He stuck both arms through the hole, then hauled himself above the ceiling. A hardwood floor covered the upper side of the ceiling, providing a firm landing place as he rolled away from the hole.
Reed pulled himself to his feet and leaned against a rafter as his eyes scanned the plywood floor scattered with splotches of dark red. The residue was unmistakable. It was blood. Next to the blotches, systematic rows of dents in the wood lay in long, evenly spaced impressions. Chair legs?
Reed straightened and flipped the light around the room, hoping for an abandoned piece of paraphernalia from the vanishing fraternity, but found only dirt, dried blood, and shadows.
What the hell is this place?
Reed took another tentative step toward the end of the room. A board creaked under his foot, and he squinted at the far wall. It was different than the sloped roof that hugged his shoulders on either side. It was darker and softer looking, as if it wasn’t built of wood at all.
Reed touched the black surface of the wall, covered floor to ceiling in dark cloth, confirming his suspicions. He wrapped his fingers into the fabric and jerked down. The breath rushed from his lips as the sheet fell, exposing the complete wall behind. Inches away, a large dark face stared directly into his. Reed leapt back and jerked the pistol from his hip, even as his mind recognized painted features on the wall.
It was the silver owl—the same one he had seen in the picture of Mitch Holiday and Frank Morccelli. Its blood-red eyes glared at Reed with all the malice and rage a painting could express. Reed’s hand trembled as he lowered the gun, then shuffled forward and reached out his hand, tracing the painted outlines whittled into the blackened plywood. The eyes weren’t actually painted. They were glass, flat-backed, and glued to the wall. With hesitation, Reed set his flashlight on the floor beneath him, exposing a wide pool of dried blood.
This was no fraternity.
Reed traced the edges of the wall, searching for any hidden passage or retractable piece of plywood, but the entire wall was fit perfectly against the sloping roof, screwed into place at every edge. He returned to the owl and examined the wood beneath his feet more closely. Small indentions in the ply
wood, clearly engraved but unmarked by any contrasting paint, lined the wood beneath the owl’s talons. As Reed leaned in closer, he recognized the familiar outlines of Greek letters, but these weren’t the letters of a fraternity name—they formed a full sentence, written in ancient Greek.
Reed searched the internet on his phone for an ancient Greek translator, and it didn’t take long to find a website that claimed to translate text instantly. Reed painstakingly matched each letter to the Greek alphabet. Beneath his feet, the music continued to pound while college kids laughed and shouted at one another.
He was ten letters in, with another ten to go, when he heard the first scream, shrill and panicked, coming from the front of the house. Reed’s back went rigid as the first shout was joined by a second, then a third. Gunshots—fast and chattering—blazed into the house. Heavy thuds sounded beneath him, followed by doors slamming, more screams, and more gunshots.
Banks.
Reed started toward the hole in the ceiling, then stopped, knowing this might be his last chance to get into the attic. Whatever secrets were formed in this dark, strange place, led to the death of Mitch Holiday and Frank Morccelli. The men behind this blood-eyed owl burned Kelly alive, and he had to know who they were.
Back at the wall, Reed frantically tapped each letter into the phone. Sweat pooled on the LED screen, making his thumbs slip. More gunshots ripped through the house, and two stray bullets blasted through the plywood a few feet to his right.
The last letters clicked into the translator, and Reed tapped the blue button. Seconds dragged by, scraping against his nerves and feeling like hours. The translation loaded, and Reed squinted at the words, whispering the convoluted stream of text back to himself. “Our mother wisdom war conquest guard secrets beneath mighty feet.”
Reed stepped back and shone the light upward. The owl glared at him, bending invisible menace against his every move. The hellfire that burned in those red eyes spoke of outrage at the broken peace of this strange place. It was a dark soul eager to protect the secrets that Reed so desperately needed to uncover.
Reed eyed the owl. “Who’s the mother?” he demanded. The painted bird didn’t respond, but Reed imagined he could see renewed wrath in its scowl.
Reed snapped and slammed his hand against the wall. “Who is she?” His forehead collided with the wood, and he pressed his fingers against the carvings, retracing them.
The owl. The mother. Wisdom. War. Conquest.
Reed lifted his head and placed his hand on the face of the bird. The realization sank in, tearing through his mind like a thunderclap.
Owl. Mother. The goddess, Athena.
Twenty-Two
Reed’s boots hit the floor of the second-level hallway at the same moment his pistol cleared the holster. At the top of the stairs stood a man dressed in black, wielding an MP5 submachine gun. A black ski mask covered his face, but blue eyes glinted behind it. Reed raised his Sig and fired twice, driving two 9mm slugs right between his eyes. The gunman dropped, but gunshots and screams from the first floor continued. Reed dashed toward the stairs, shoving the handgun in his pocket before snatching up the larger MP5.
At the bottom of the stairs, bullet holes decorated the walls and banister, and outside, the screams of fleeing college kids filled the air. Music continued to pound from the living room, now joined by the flash of disco lights.
Banks screamed again, and this time, Reed could make out her location. He crashed around the end of the banister and charged into the kitchen.
A man pressed Banks against the wall with a handgun jammed into her temple. He screamed at her, “Where’s The Prosecutor?”
Banks kicked out with both legs, then spat in his face.
“Hey, fucker!” Reed screamed. “I’m right here.”
The man released Banks and spun toward Reed, the gaping mouth of his weapon following. Reed pressed the trigger of the MP5. The gun fired twice, sending slugs whizzing past the man’s arm before it clicked back over an empty magazine. Reed shouted and rolled to the floor as a heavy bullet whistled over his head. The MP5 clattered against the hardwood, and he fought for the handgun stuck in his pocket.
The mouth of the gun swung toward Reed. He kicked out with both legs, slamming his boots into the unprotected shins of the gunman. The handgun barked, and hardwood exploded into splinters next to Reed’s head. The Sig still lay buried in Reed’s pocket, but he managed to force his hand around the grip and reach the trigger. Without aiming, he pushed the muzzle away from his thigh and fired. A bullet rocketed out of his pants and struck the staggering gunman in the ankle. Another scream filled the kitchen, and Reed’s attacker stumbled back. Before the masked man could regain his balance, Banks appeared from the back of the kitchen, a can of soup clenched between her fingers. She drove the makeshift weapon full force into the face of the gunman, and he crumpled to the ground as blood gushed from his mask.
Reed pulled himself to his feet as Banks delivered another blow to the top of her attacker’s head, but it wasn’t necessary. He was out-cold already.
“There’s more of them outside,” Banks snapped. She flicked her neck, tossing the bangs out of her eyes before scooping the handgun off the floor. “Let’s move!”
Reed was vaguely surprised by her focused aggression, though he knew he shouldn’t have been. This girl was impossible to faze.
“Through the front!” he shouted.
They crashed over piles of shattered bottles and abandoned cups, sliding through the door as fresh gunfire erupted from the front yard. The windows that framed either side of the door exploded, and Reed grabbed Banks, crashing onto the front porch. His feet slipped from beneath him, and a moment later his teeth collided with concrete, the metallic flavor of blood filling his mouth. Banks slid to her knees beside him and brought the handgun to eye level. Her shoulders squared, and the weapon cracked—once, twice. The machinegun shots from the front yard faded amid a shrill scream.
Banks wrapped her fingers into his jacket and jerked him upward. “Quick, the car!”
They jumped down the porch steps and around the van. The screams continued from the shadows, and fresh gunfire erupted from behind them, back toward the house. Reed pulled Banks against the side of the van and grabbed the handgun out of her shaking hands. He emptied the magazine into the home, sending bullets flying at random. The submachine gunfire ceased, and Reed dropped the pistol and grabbed Banks by the hand.
“Let’s go! He’s not dead.”
Banks gasped for breath and slouched against his arm as they ran. He could feel the exhaustion and the weight of her disease sucking the life out of her, and weakening her every step. She pressed on, one foot dragging over the street as they approached the Camaro. Reed slung the passenger door open and pushed her inside, then jerked the Sig from his pocket and fired twice toward a shadow emerging from the house. The shadow retreated behind the doorframe, and Reed jumped into the driver’s seat.
Panic and confusion clouded his mind. Where the hell did these guys come from? How did they find us?
The big engine roared to life, and Reed slammed the shifter into first. “Hold on to something!” he shouted, then dumped the clutch. The thunder of the motor was joined by the whine of the supercharger, and the back wheels lost traction. Tire smoke filled the air as the back end of the car fishtailed to the left, and then the tires caught, slinging them into the seats, and causing Reed’s skull to smack against the headrest. By the time the man in black stepped into the street, it was much too late for him to move. The Camaro launched forward like a rocket, hurtling down the road with the front end lifted an inch off the ground. Banks screamed a split second before the bumper collided with the gunman, sending him tumbling over the hood and back into the street. The front tires slammed against the pavement as Reed jerked the wheel to the right and pulled the emergency brake. The car spun a full one-hundred-eighty degrees, facing the way it had come. Police cars filled the street two hundred yards away, their blue lights ablaze in his
eyes as sirens screamed, and the supercharger whined again.
“Reed, don’t do it!”
“Buckle in!”
The police cars swerved to either side as the Camaro screamed down the street like a cannon ball. By the time the first car flashed past Reed’s window, the heads-up display in the windshield read 63 mph. Nothing he had ever driven compared to the raw power of the supercharged LS motor. Every imperfection in the road sent shudders through the car’s tight suspension, though muted by the growl of the motor. A stop sign flashed on the right, and a horn blared. Twenty yards ahead, Reed cut the wheel to the left and redirected toward West End Avenue.
“I found it!” he shouted.
Banks clung to the armrest with wide, panicked eyes, sucking in air between blue lips, and screaming as Reed swerved around a taxi.
“It wasn’t a fraternity,” Reed said. “It was some secret cult. They worshipped the Greek goddess, Athena. I saw it all.”
He relaxed off the accelerator as the Camaro merged into traffic and the rearview mirror displayed nothing but an empty avenue behind him. The car shook as the tachometer dropped, but the exhaust still voiced the suspended power ready to be unleashed. Reed wiped sweat from his forehead and turned abruptly off the road, into a large park on the far side of West End. Tall trees overhung a curving road that wound passed Confederate memorial statues and small ponds.
Banks clutched the door handle and peered into the rearview mirror. “We have to go, Reed. They’ll find us here. We’re not far enough away!”
Reed shook his head. “No, we have to get the book. They hid it in the temple.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What book? What temple?”
The car squeaked to a stop, the engine still rumbling. Reed nodded toward a wide field. Thin fog clung to the grass, shrouding the park in a cemetery-like mood, enveloping the single structure that dominated the middle of the park. “That temple.”
Fifty yards away sat the towering bulk of The Parthenon. Constructed of sandy-brown concrete and illuminated by soft-yellow lights, the impending mass of the life-sized replica filled the windshield, commanding reverence. Columns lined every side of the temple, supporting a pitched roof rimmed with spikes. It was breathtaking. Monumental. Haunted.