The Game of Gods: Series Box Set

by Lana Pecherczyk

  House, Ursa:

  The constellation where Bruce Urser originates. Also the Constellation where the king came from. This house has been known as a brutal war planet. It’s motto is: Victoria Aut Mors (Victory or Death). The bear is its emblem.

  House, Epsilon:

  Octavia and Pontius are the heads of House Epsilon. Their motto is: Non Loqui Sed Facere (No talk but action.)

  House, Eridanus:

  Led by Thurstan & Cato Eridanus. They have water powers and Cato has been likened to the god Poseidon. Their motto is: Semper Virilis (Always Virile.) Their emblem is flowing water.

  House, Aldebaran:

  The meat heads of the Ludus. Their motto is Citius, Altius, Fortius (Faster, higher, stronger). Their emblem is the bull. Most of this house have super strength.

  House, Corvus:

  Led by the blind healer Lena. Her progeny is Jesop, the alchemist. Their motto is Corvus Oculum Corvi Non Eruit (A crow will not pull out the eye of another crow). Their emblem is the crow. This house is dedicated to healing.

  House, Cetus:

  Mathieson is the head of Cetus. The motto is Scientia Potentia Est (Knowledge is Power). Their emblem is the Kraken. Most members of this house usually are very clever or have a way of knowing how things work.

  House, Draco:

  A little known House. Motto unknown. Leader is Zebedee. Emblem is a dragon. Most of this house has some sort of fire ability.

  House, Lyra:

  Lyra House has the motto: Astra Inclinant Sed Non Obligant (The stars incline us, they do not bind us). Most of Lyra house are Sirens.

  House, Vernalis:

  Leader of this House is Jacine (other wise known as Aphrodite). Their motto is: Amor Vincit Omnia (Love conquers all). Their emblem is two fish entwining.

  In-Between:

  The term used for the void Marc travels through when he teleports to another place. Sometimes time moves differently here and he can emerge having lost hours or days.

  The Ludus:

  The underground education facilities the gods use to educate trainees. It is also neutral territory so the Game isn’t actually played on site

  Nephilim:

  Half-human, half-god body for the sole purpose of inhabitation of a godly soul to play the Game on Earth.

  Player:

  An intergalactic god/Seraphim who has downloaded their soul into a Nephilim body for the purposes of playing the game on Earth. Players have no memory of their life beyond this planet, but they retain the memories of their time on Earth once they have returned to the Empire.

  Star-Map:

  The tattoo like marking present on all Player bodies that points to their godly soul’s point of origin in the cosmos.

  Seraphim:

  An immortal being from the other side of the galaxy.

  Witch:

  An evil, twisted spirit who can possess the body of a human, and pilot the body as they wish until they burn through the host and have to seek out another. Witches can manipulate cosmic energy, including understanding the frequencies the human body works with, making it easy for them to control the human body consciously the way our body works subconsciously. Witches can only possess female bodies.

  Seraphim:

  An immortal humanoid race with god-like abilities from the Empire.

  About the Author

  OMG! How do you say my name?

  Lana (straight forward enough - Lah-nah) Pecherczyk (this is where it gets tricky - Pe-her-chick).

  I’ve been called Lana Price-Check, Lana Pera-Chickywack, Lana Pressed-Chicken, Lana Pech…that girl! You name it, they said it. So if it’s so hard to spell, why on earth would I use this name instead of an easy pen name?

  To put it simply, it belonged to my mother. And she was my dream champion.

  For most of my life, I’ve been good at one thing – art. The world around me saw my work, and said I should do more of it, so I did.

  But when at the age of eight, I said I wanted to write stories, and even though we were poor, my mother came home with a blank notebook and a pencil saying I should follow my dreams, no matter where they take me for they will make me happy. I wasn’t very good at it, but it didn’t matter because I had her support and I liked it.

  She died when I was thirteen, and left her four daughters orphaned. Suddenly, I had lost my dream champion, I was split from my youngest two sisters and had no one to talk to about the challenge of life.

  So, I wrote in secret. I poured my heart out daily to a diary and sometimes imagined that she would listen. At the end of the day, even if she couldn’t hear, writing kept that dream alive.

  Eventually, after having my own children (two firecrackers in the guise of little boys) and ignoring my inner voice for too long, I decided to lead by example. How could I teach my children to follow their dreams if I wasn’t? I became my own dream champion and the rest is history, here I am.

  When I’m not writing the next great action-packed romantic novel, or wrangling the rug rats, or rescuing GI Joe from the jaws of my Kelpie, I fight evil by moonlight, win love by daylight and never run from a real fight.

  Come find me and let’s chat!

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  Sample of Envy

  Chapter 1

  He woke in a strange place.

  Thick, pungent air dragged into his lungs from the darkness. His head pounded and his body ached to the point of pain. Soft and lumpy beneath him. Hard and cold at his sides. When he fumbled around, his movement stirred the rancid odor. He knew exactly where he was.

  Dumpster.

  And if he’d hidden in a Dumpster, he most likely wore his combat uniform—a quick pat down his leather pants and tug on his hood confirmed that. His hands came away sticky, and when he touched his thumb to his forefinger, the tackiness remained. He held it to his nose and sniffed. Sweet, metallic, thick: Blood.

  But whose?

  And, how did he get here?

  Before panic set roots in his chest, he thought to himself: Evan Lazarus. Your name is Evan Lazarus. You fight the deadly sin envy. You save people.

  Sometimes.

  Maybe.

  He must have done something terrible… something worth hiding from. And rather than call for help, he’d hidden, because, why would the Deadly Seven help him? They were only his family.

  Evan moved to lift the lid on the Dumpster, but a pain pierced his torso. The sensation brought memories of the previous night flashing in a dizzying torrent. Multiple pairs of hands forced him down. Fists slammed into his eye sockets and cheekbones. Blinding pain. Swollen vision. Boots pounded into his abdomen. Air wheezed from his lungs. A crow bar to his ribs, jaw, knees. He’d bucked hard, but they’d ruthlessly pinned him down, driving his limbs wider until pain screamed in his joints, leaving his torso vulnerable to more violence… then he’d yielded and smiled and laughed. Because he’d deserved it.

  Evan scrubbed his face with his hand to wipe the memory, but the words of his assailant came hurtling back: “If you’re looking for validation, kid, you’re in the wrong place. You should have thrown the fight like we told you to.” Then the lights had gone out.

  Evan laid in the dark Dumpster, eyes closed, acutely aware of every ache and stab of pain in his body. They’d left him for dead.

  But he wasn’t dead.

  Well, he couldn’t stay there forever.

  Taking a chance he pushed the lid open and let it crash against the wall. Sweet, crisp air burned his lungs and he almost choked on the freshness. Dawn peeked over the tall grungey cityscape, casting the alley walls into stark chiaroscuro. Any other day he might have been awed enough to paint the atmospheric sight, but today his mood was murky and heavy like the sky.

  It would rain soon and, dammit, his fighting leathers chafed when wet. At least he’d left his weapons at home before he’d allowed himself to be a boxing bag at the fight ring the night before.

/>   He searched for a plastic bag in the Dumpster then crawled out and peeled his jacket and mouth scarf off, leaving him in a used-to-be-white T-shirt and blood-stained leather pants.

  Suddenly, the air rippled to his right, lighting his senses on fire. His arm shot out in time for a projectile to hit his palm, fingers snapping shut over the object within. A baseball. From… he pushed his awareness out, searching for envy. There. To the right. The sense of deadly sin trickled toward him, wriggling in his gut like grimy feathered fingers, sparking an intense hunger to search and destroy. This supernatural sixth sense was something all his siblings had, except each sensed a different sin. If they didn’t chase down the worst of sinners and eliminate or contain, then the sense would drive them insane.

  Perhaps it already had.

  There were a lot of sinners in Cardinal City.

  A lot of envy.

  He forced his urge to fight down. This particular sense of envy was small. Tiny. Not worth his time.

  Children. Two of them.

  Shit.

  They might have seen him get out of his battle gear.

  “Hey, nice catch, mister. Wish I was that good.” A dirty little leaguer trotted over. Grime on his cheeks. Dirt on the cuffs of his jeans. Holes in his sneakers.

  “Hey yourself, kid.” Evan stuffed his jacket and scarf into the plastic bag, hiding evidence of his secret. “Go home. It’s early.”

  So early. Or late. He couldn’t decide. His dry throat begged for a drink. And an aspirin. Also a shower and then sleep and the sweet oblivion it brought. Josie would have to manage opening the tattoo shop on her own, his bed called to him.

  Light flashed from the alley exit a few meters away as early morning commuters began their assault on the city. Evan turned in the opposite direction, intending to find a dark spot so he could hit the rooftops and trail the dying shadows home.

  Fire-escape up ahead. Perfect.

  As he walked, he blindly lobbed the ball over his shoulder. A cry of amazement proved he hit his mark as the kid caught it in his glove.

  Envy from the children spiked three-fold, echoing in Evan’s gut, and they ran after him, asking for an autograph.

  Double shit.

  “Why would you want an autograph?” he asked, testing the waters.

  “Because you’re one of them!”

  Evan fisted his plastic bag. He paused. Turned.

  The second boy was pale with wide blue eyes. Dark hair stuck up in the middle of his crown in a natural Mohawk or one hell of a cow-lick. Freckles hid behind his grubby cheeks. The first boy swam in an oversized Yankees jersey. Taller and similar facial structure to the second. Must be brothers. Yankee boy clutched the ball in his hand.

  “One of who?” Evan asked.

  “You know, the Deadly Seven.” The smallest boy jumped around him like an eager grasshopper, spiky hair bouncing.

  “You got the wrong idea, kid.”

  The eldest shot him a withering stare. “We’re not stupid. Or blind—”

  “Yeah, blind,” chimed in the youngest.

  “We saw you take your jacket off. The jacket.” He wiggled his brows and eyed the plastic bag in Evan’s hands.

  Evan groaned and then took a deep breath while he decided how to handle them. Fuck it. They were only kids. Who would believe them? “Probably not a good idea. I’m not very popular at the moment.”

  “That’s okay, Mr. Deadly sir, I like you.”

  Those three little words stabbed Evan in the heart.

  “Well, that makes one of us.” He continued to stroll toward the fire escape.

  “C’mon, please?” The children jogged backwards in front of him, holding out the ball. “It will only take a minute. Wow. Is that blood? Did you catch some baddies?”

  Only himself.

  Evan stopped under the escape ladder and sighed. He shouldn’t be talking with them, but it was nice to have anyone—even a couple of runts—have faith.

  “Can you sign my baseball? Please.”

  The Yankees kid smiled and threw his ball high above, intending to catch it in his glove to show off, but the round projectile hit the fire-escape instead. A loud clang sounded and the rusty retractable ladder dropped.

  “Look out!” Evan shouted.

  He shoved the boy out of the way only to have the broken ladder impale his own shoulder. He landed heavily on his knees and tried to breathe through the crippling agony, except the ladder pushed down and he was already drained and sore from the night before.

  He heaved.

  Pain splintered in his shoulder and black dots danced before his eyes. He almost lost sight.

  He could do this. Especially in front of the kids. Fuck the night before. Screw the injuries he still recovered from. C’mon, Evan. Do this.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, he gathered focus, and breathed through the fog until ready. Gripping tight, he lifted the lance from his flesh. A wet, tearing sound made him cringe, but he heaved out of harm’s way. Pain splintered the back of his head as he hit the brick wall, crumbling mortar and rock. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through him.

  Perfect. He couldn’t even save himself.

  The sound of a small boy’s voice broke through his agony. “Mason, he don’t look so good.”

  “Yeah. Mr. Deadly, sir, are you okay?”

  That was debatable. He tried to laugh, but a strangled sound came out.

  You wouldn’t see his siblings in this situation.

  Evan flared his eyes to focus through the blur. He bit his lip and held his wrist in front of his face to view the Yin-Yang tattoo. The bio-indicated ink itched like a motherfucker and was almost black. Fuck balance. It was all a lie.

  “Mr. Deadly, sir?”

  “Stop calling me sir.” Evan ground his teeth. “Leave. I’ll take care of myself.”

  “But, you guys saved my friend once,” the older kid said. “After the bombing. She… she was stuck under a wall and you… you got her out. She can help you. She’s a doctor. She helps everyone. C’mon, Mr. Deadly, sir. You need to get up.” The boy’s little hands grasped onto Evan’s big arms and yanked but to no avail. “Mason, call an ambulance.”

  “No,” Evan tried to say, but it came out a grunt. He didn’t need the hospital, just few minutes and his special body would take care of the rest. If only he could tell them that, but the boy already sounded further away. Evan was slipping, head swimming, walls fading. Tiny footsteps echoed. A siren wailed. The alley blurred, becoming as black as his temper, and everything faded.

  Chapter 2

  “Extra! Extra! Two years since Cardinal Bombing! New leads could find perpetrators.”

  Grace Go stopped in her tracks as the newspaper boy’s powerful voice carried across the busy sidewalk and bustling morning crowd. Someone bumped into her from behind and cursed at her. She cast a hasty apology over her shoulder and forced her feet to move out of the crushing horde’s way. Being an emergency physician gave her exceptional acting skills and emotional control. The trick was to detach yourself from the world. Disconnect from the emotion of the trauma. Spend your life busy and avoid focusing on your own miseries. Like the letter she crumpled into her bag and its headline, written in bold: Notice of Case Closure.

  She had fourteen days to come up with the goods on the arsonist of the bombing that killed her parents, and forty-nine other innocent souls. It was the only way she’d get justice for the people left homeless and destitute and maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to put her parents to rest.

  A twisted feeling churned in her stomach as the words new leads bounced around her head. She closed her eyes to center herself and shivered. A brisk rub of her scarred forearms barely warmed her, because the coldness in the pit of her stomach wasn’t elemental, it was guilt. She’d survived. Her parents had died. It should never have happened.

  Another bump on the shoulder as someone rushed past.

  “Sorry,” she said without looking up, and clutched her bag tight.

  Street sounds amplifie
d. Tires roared on the wet street, and the heavy footsteps of human traffic became a stampede. The repetitive clinking of loose change in a homeless man’s cup rattled her spine. Her head felt light. Dizzy. Must be low blood pressure. She’d had only four hours sleep last night, too busy scouring the internet for the identity of the mystery woman she’d seen at the bombing, but she did that every night. Why would it matter today?

  Because it’s been two years, dummy. Two years since her parents got sick of coming second to her crazy work hours. Two years since they decided to buy an apartment close to her own. Two years since she’d heard her father’s guffaw of a laugh, and her mother’s sweet, soft voice. Grace squeezed the tears from her eyes and resolved to deal with the pain like every other time. Squash it deep down and keep busy.

  An arctic breeze wafted the paperboy’s voice back across the street again. “… New leads bring us…”

  Her heart stopped—new leads—and started beating again. Remembering what it was that halted her the first time, her foot left the sidewalk to cross, but a horn blared a warning and she jumped backwards with a gasp, narrowly missing the fender of a pickup truck as it tore down the street. Water sprayed onto the path, bathing her black jeans in cold.

  A man cursed out the window and flipped her the bird, his voice quickly swallowed by the cacophony of city life once again.

  Grace tried again. This time, she checked carefully both ways, then rushed to the other side where the grubby newsboy smiled back at her as she drew near. He stood next to a stack of folded papers and an upturned baseball cap for money.