The Pantheon Saga Books 1-3: A Superhero Boxset

by C. C. Ekeke

  Hugo nodded proudly. Lacking a costume didn’t prevent him from helping those in need.

  “You’re gonna be a kickass hero,” Simon gushed.

  The praise warmed Hugo. “Hope so.” Despite Titan’s posthumous fall from grace, no one could debate the many lives he’d saved during his career. Hugo had ginormous shoes to fill.

  “By the way,” Simon continued. “Can I get a ride home?”

  “Again?” Hugo complained. This was the third time in a week. “Didn’t you take the SMAT here?”

  “You’re faster than the subway,” Simon admitted unashamedly.

  Hugo rolled his eyes. “Fine. You know the drill.” He headed behind a large white van wedged between two SUVs. Simon jumped for joy and followed.

  Sighing laboriously, Hugo picked his friend up like a small child. “This looks soooo wrong.”

  “But feels soooo right,” Simon refuted. After his scan found no possible observers, Hugo zoomed off. And Simon howled happily like a dork.

  Chapter 4

  “Sir,” Quinn Bauer began, shivering. This chilly Central Coast weather should barely faze her New England-born self. Must be from her current dilemma. “There’s been a huge misunderstanding.”

  “Not from where I’m standing,” her captor snapped. His eyes burned with disdain in the dim room.

  “Then stand over there.” Quinn couldn’t help it. Stress made her sassy.

  That earned her a stiff backhand, dropping Quinn to her knees. The sharp blast of pain left her eyes watery. She cradled her throbbing cheek, sucking her teeth. Tonight had been a favor for a friend. Visit Harmony Casino, San Miguel’s brand-new gambling den, and brazenly count cards at a poker table to grab its owner’s attention. She even wore her favorite little black dress and a cute golden headband to hold back her curly afro.

  Now my friend needs to arrive, Quinn mused. After security had escorted the reporter from the poker table, they’d dragged her into this warehouse behind the casino. Quinn’s purse and earpiece had been confiscated, cutting off communication between her and her partner.

  That left Quinn alone with daunting company. She was afraid, but not petrified as most should be. After she’d nearly died four times, this situation seemed almost pedestrian.

  Isaac Powell, the man who’d slapped her, walked forward. Swarthy from too much sun, he had a square and pockmarked face. An imposing physique bulged beneath his clothing. Combined with slicked dark hair, Powell resembled a Goodfellas mobster, wearing civility like his black suit. He loomed over Quinn, flanked by five henchmen. She knew at a glance that Powell’s posse were professionals, with the merciless eyes of stone-cold killers.

  “Counting cards in my casino,” Powell declared in distaste. “Using an earpiece.” He produced the earpiece removed from Quinn, tossing it on the floor and stomping hard. She recoiled. “Am I to believe you had no clue what you were doing?”

  Quinn contained her rising panic, offering a glib shrug. “I was stepping out of my comfort zone.”

  Powell scowled. “Or researching your next exposé?” He took pleasure in her shock. “I recognize your doll face from the news, unearthing superheroes’ dark secrets.” Powell’s men snickered.

  Quinn swallowed a wisecrack. One got her slapped. Another might end her life. “I’m just a good journalist,” she answered.

  Powell glanced back at his henchmen, crowdsourcing to see if they could believe the ovaries on Quinn. He clearly felt superior, in control. Pride before a fall. The casino owner crouched before her. Quinn tensed but didn’t retreat, refusing to feed his ego.

  “I’m willing to forgive.” Powell rubbed his jaw. “Just reveal your partner.”

  Quinn had to smirk, lessening her panic slightly. “You’d never believe me.”

  Powell glared. “Fine.” He whipped out a gun, pointing it at Quinn’s face. “Will this loosen your tongue?”

  Quinn gulped, heartbeat galloping against her ribcage. Any minute now.

  The ceiling lights flickered, then winked out. Darkness blanketed the gathering, save for a few windows on either end of the warehouse. Quinn’s wishes had been granted.

  Powell popped up, dragging Quinn by the arm. His henchmen promptly flanked the casino owner, guns drawn. “What just happened?” Powell demanded, aiming his handgun at no precise direction.

  Quinn smiled obnoxiously as her heart soared. “Meet my partner.”

  A whoosh sliced the air. Powell’s men whirled, aiming at darkness. None were afraid...yet.

  Until something seized one henchman's collar, dragging him into darkness. A flurry of vicious pounding silenced his screams.

  Powell stumbled back, dragging Quinn with him. By his pitter-pattering heartbeat into her shoulders, she knew he was scared. I warned him.

  The four thugs fired at where their coworker had vanished, flashing gunfire briefly chasing away shadows.

  Another whoosh heralded ghastly, bone-cracking strikes and one choked shriek. Another thug pitched forward, battered and bloodied.

  Quinn gasped. Now the remaining three henchmen were afraid, shouting and waving their guns.

  But Quinn’s partner was a predator toying with his prey. Powell practically had her in a chokehold from behind, a proper shield. He clearly realized nowhere was safe. Quinn agreed.

  A panther-like silhouette dropped among the henchmen, lashing out faster than Quinn’s eyes could follow. And the warehouse erupted in flash-bangs, illuminating the dark as the thugs fired and missed. Pained cries and cracked bones joined rapid-fire blows and baton strikes. Then silence.

  Only Powell remained, trembling. Quinn swallowed laughter, barely.

  “Coward!” Powell brandished his firearm, trying to act tough. “Show yourself, or I kill the broad!”

  “No, you won’t.” The unsettling voice seemed to emerge from purgatory’s depths, shivering through Quinn’s soul.

  Powell whirled in that direction, right when a spinning baton whistled through the dark. The weapon walloped Powell in the nose, snapping his head back. Quinn shoved him off before his unconscious body sagged to the floor.

  The tonfa clattered on concrete and stilled.

  Quinn dropped to a knee, breathing hard. Adrenaline left her exhilarated, feeling alive.

  Quinn didn’t hear his movements, but she sensed his presence the moment he knelt before her. Two glowing demon-red eyes were staring back. Quinn nodded in gratitude.

  Geist wore his usual attire: a smooth and featureless mask, light-armored suit covering a wiry build, and that billowing trench coat. The Midnight Son was an urban myth to the public, feared by criminals and a useful menace for local authorities.

  To Quinn, Geist was an ally. He laid gentle fingers on her bare arm. “You alright?” He spoke softly, indicating worry. “After he took your earpiece—”

  Quinn waved off the concern. “I’m peachy.” She stood.

  Geist grabbed his tonfa and rose also. He had several inches on her, his imperious presence making him seem taller. The lights winked back on, revealing Geist’s handiwork. Six unconscious men sprawled around them, most with limbs bent in stomach-turning positions.

  Quinn shuddered and focused on Geist, who looked over her head. “The flash drive?”

  “Got it.” The baritone voice from behind startled Quinn. She recovered quickly, identifying the speaker. The ninja entrances always freaked her out.

  Blackjack, another of Geist’s team, was a brawling bear of a man who towered over his boss. His suit was all-black, a sable bandana/mask covering his eyes and nose. He grinned, a thumb-shaped flash drive in his massive palm. “Clint talked me through the technobabble to download what we need,” Blackjack said, mentioning Geist’s tech guru.

  Quinn sighed, tension she hadn’t noticed draining from her shoulders. That flash drive had been tonight’s goal. Quinn's distraction had allowed Blackjack to hack data on Powell's money laundering for the Ukrainian Brotherhood from his office. And Geist had protected Quinn. This misadventure was the le
ast she could do for the vigilantes who’d saved her life.

  “So I wasn’t held at gunpoint for nothing,” Quinn joked.

  Blackjack chortled. Geist’s stare silenced him. “Any opposition?”

  “Some.” Blackjack handed the drive over. “Until they met my fists.” He kissed the blood-stained knuckles on both gloved hands, his post-battle ritual.

  Geist cast a detached look at the bodies lying about. “Tie this scum up.”

  An hour later, police lights washed over Harmony Casino. San Miguel’s finest perp-walked Powell and several employees to awaiting cars. Quinn was a block away huddled in a van, holding her retrieved purse.

  Blackjack occupied the driver’s seat, more interested in an alleyway across the street. Quinn followed his gaze, seeing Geist partially shrouded and speaking with two plain-clothes cops. The lady cop, coffee-brown-skinned with long braids, sported a hooded leather jacket and jeans. The guy cop, caramel in complexion, was rangy with buzzcut hair in a cheap olive suit. Despite hearing nothing, the easy chemistry between the cops and Geist surprised Quinn.

  “Geist seems chummy with folks who label him a criminal.”

  Blackjack shook his head. “Smoke and mirrors. Many in San Miguel PD oppose our mission. But we’ve turned a handful of cops into allies.” He gestured at the detectives as Geist gave them a copy of the flash drive he’d procured. “Like Detectives Rhodes and Delgado.” The strapping vigilante removed his bandana mask, revealing an attractive, strong-jawed face. The van purred to life. “Let’s get you home.”

  Quinn yawned in agreement, eyeing her cellphone. Half past midnight. Time flies.

  They pulled onto the Pacific Coast Highway when a question nagged at Quinn’s brain. She enjoyed Blackjack’s company but had expected Geist’s more frequent associate aiding them. “Where’s the rest of your team?” she inquired with put-on innocence. No need to be obvious.

  Blackjack side-eyed her and smirked. He saw through her ploy. “Domino and Longshadow are on city patrol.”

  Quinn’s skin flushed. “Ah.” Geist usually had someone on his team patrolling San Miguel when he was busy. Tonight, Domino, Blackjack’s wife, and Longshadow, aka Therese Levesque, got patrol duty. The Night Sisters, they called themselves. Quinn fixed her face, secretly thankful Therese wasn’t here.

  The Olympic-level archer turned vigilante had saved Quinn’s life twice during her investigation into Titan’s murder. Since then, Quinn didn’t know how to classify this odd friendship—if one could call it that. They met infrequently when Quinn needed story sources only Geist’s informants could provide. Their charged, intrusive banter always irked Quinn. Then came the cheeky text exchanges that left Quinn flustered…prompting her to get the last word in. She also didn’t care for these sporadic worries over Therese’s wellbeing. The City of Wonder’s bright lights masked an ugly underbelly, its darker corners hiding unspeakable terrors.

  Quinn eagerly changed subjects from Therese. “How many friendlies do you have in the police?”

  “Some unies. Detectives Delgado and Rhodes,” Blackjack answered, focused on the road. “Detective Delaney, sometimes. Sherriff Edmonds—”

  That last name jerked through Quinn like lightning. “Alexandra Edmonds?” Blackjack had to be joking. “Head of San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department?”

  Blackjack nodded without smiling. “Geist becoming active a decade ago exposed tons of police corruption. Edmonds arrived a few years later to help refill the police department during its housecleaning.” He turned onto the first Arroyo Grande exit. “Her other orders were to capture or kill Geist.”

  Quinn shook her head, baffled by this thread in Geist’s history. “Yet Edmonds became a supporter?”

  “Our most reliable.” Blackjack’s smile showed teeth. “Slow-walking her investigation. Running interference with outside authorities out to catch Geist. While we hand San Miguel PD victories that make them look like rock stars.” He fist-pumped.

  “A quid pro quo.”

  Blackjack nodded. “Edmonds watches our backs, and we keep her yard clear. Plus, Geist keeps her extra-happy with an occasional chimney sweeping.” He winked at Quinn.

  Quinn gaped. Did he imply what I think he did? She wanted to pry, but her stomach objected.

  “We’re here,” Blackjack announced, pulling into the narrow alleyway behind Quinn’s complex.

  She unstrapped her seatbelt. “Thanks. Tonight was fun.” Quinn meant it. After these last few crazy months, how could she return to a normal life?

  By Blackjack’s reaction, he clearly questioned her sanity. “Even after being held at gunpoint?”

  Quinn blinked, reconsidered his query and her weird reaction. “A few brushes with death changes your outlook,” Quinn replied, unlocking the door.

  Blackjack just laughed. “You’re nuts,” he said before driving off.

  Quinn rounded the alley and entered the front of her complex. A month had passed since she’d moved into this palatial midrise in Arroyo Grande, San Miguel’s second largest suburb. The large raise from her new contract and contributor appearances on National News Network had helped pay for the condo.

  Before that, Quinn had stayed with her aunt and uncle for weeks. Her old apartment no longer felt safe after almost dying there. And thanks to Therese, I’m still breathing. She quickly smothered the memory.

  After an elevator ride to the second floor, Quinn arrived at her new condo. It was almost too big—two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and several boxes. Quinn would find time to settle in eventually. Life had been insane these last ten weeks. Sliding out of her dress, she sank into a hot shower before bed.

  From there, she plopped onto her massive bed in Patriot pajamas and checked her many missed texts.

  Mom: Have you forgotten about your parents, Quinn? Call us back.

  Uncle Alonzo: Hey Q. Let me know when you’re picking up the last of your boxes.

  The one that wounded most came from Annie Machado.

  Annie: I’m starting to forget your face, friend! Come by for a meal soon.

  Annie: Miss you, Quinnie.

  Quinn winced, acute pain lancing her heart. “Miss you more, hun.” She texted those very words to her BFF. After Annie’s near-death, they’d grown closer. Then Quinn had moved. Now conflicting schedules and missed calls kept thwarting their meetups. Quinn would make time for Annie soon.

  Annie can’t know about tonight, she decided, scrolling through more texts. Annie, one of few who knew Geist existed, would freak about Quinn moonlighting with the Midnight Son. But what Annie didn’t know wouldn’t stress her, especially with her upcoming wedding.

  Quinn found her cousin Jordana’s texts from two hours ago.

  Jordana: Brie and I aren’t friends anymore. She somehow heard the boy was tutoring me and went apeshit at the mall. Telling me who I can’t hang with.

  Jordana: I dumped orange soda all over that miserable bitch. LOL.

  She threw her head back, laughing. Jordana, Uncle Alonzo’s oldest child, had more drama in her life than a telenovela. Quinn hated for Jordana to lost her best friend. But it was clear that Briseis, with her ridiculous face, needed to be cancelled. Or doused in orange soda. Quinn texted back, chuckling.

  ME: Recap at church tomorrow?

  Jodie replied in seconds.

  Jordana: Perfect. Lots to share. Te quiero.

  Content and tired, Quinn turned off her nightstand lamp. As sleep pulled her under…the horrors began.

  Hot, stinky breath buffeted Quinn’s face, a giant paw clamping her throat. “You owe me a scream,” Vargas snarled, his threat pregnant with murder.

  Quinn squirmed and begged for mercy through choked breaths. But she couldn’t break free from his grip. Devastating her further were the mutilated corpses nearby—her family and friends.

  Creed Samuels and Jensen Clark lay motionless, angry red gashes across their throats.

  Helena Madden convulsed, entrails spilling like spaghetti from her belly.

  Jodie,
Roland, and Rory, her younger cousins. Gutted from neck to navel.

  Annie Machado, dismembered and disfigured.

  Therese, facedown, upper back studded with her own arrows.

  Quinn wailed, but no sound left her mouth. Everyone’s dead, because of me…

  A budding light appeared… Dynamo’s arm cannon aimed at her face. The light grew white-hot before scorching Quinn to ash…

  …jarring her awake, screaming like a banshee. Another nightmare since moving to this condo.

  After reminding herself several times that her family and friends were alive, Quinn finally stopped sobbing. That didn’t make Quinn feel any less afraid. Or powerless.

  Another half-hour passed before Quinn, curled up and shaking, drifted off into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 5

  Today, Hugo was getting a freaking superhero costume! And his excitement was unmanageable.

  What would the colors be? How would he carry that around school? So many questions distracted Hugo from the 3500 Mega Cab truck he was shoulder-pressing.

  Bright and early on Sunday, Hugo was shirtless and in baggy workout shorts at his favorite empty junkyard. Dashing back and forth hoisting the 3.5-ton truck overhead—tossing up and catching it like pizza dough once he reached either side of the junkyard. Race two hundred meters forward, toss and catch. Two hundred meters back, toss and catch. Fifty times. No breaks.

  By the end, Hugo wasn’t even tired. “Getting stronger every day,” he marveled. The Samoan still trained at an isolated junkyard at San Miguel’s barren outskirts. The seclusion was refreshing, several miles from the nearest town.

  Also, training solo allowed Hugo to attempt his next feat. He took a knee, tapping deep within himself for a tense moment.

  Hugo then blasted off the ground, soaring up, up, and away toward pale-blue skies. He smiled, extending one fist up while curling the other against his chest like Titan.

  Below revealed the shrinking landfill, higher than Hugo’s last attempt. “I’m flying!”

  As soon as he spoke, his momentum slowed and ceased.

  “Goddammit!” Hugo fought to stay airborne by willpower alone, flailing at thin air.