Forgotten Gods Boxed Set 2

by S T Branton

  “In a sense, you’re right,” he said. “I lost everything. My wife, my sons and daughters, my congregation. Being driven in disgrace out of the only life you’ve ever known—indeed, the only one you ever wanted—is a pain that is truly unique. No one cared that it was she who committed the original sin, as foretold by the book of our Lord. She got the house, the children, and all that I had built with my own two hands. The day she locked the door behind me was the day my life went up in smoke.”

  I stole a glance at Deacon to make sure we’d heard the same insane drivel. He had long since given up the effort to maintain his stoic FBI-agent poker face. Now, he regarded the other man with a mix of open disbelief, anger, and pity. “Man,” he said. “What the fuck are you babbling about?”

  That is my sentiment as well, Marcus chimed in. This man is clearly not in a hurry, but perhaps he should be for all our sakes.

  “Save your breath,” the general said with a sneer. “I need not remind you that as long as you remain trussed up like turkeys in my own personal dungeon, I can do with you what I please. And truth be told, I want to savor this moment of total victory a little longer.” He began to pace back and forth in front of us, taking long, measured strides. Whenever he met a wall, he’d pivot precisely on his heel. “You see, I have waited for this moment since the gods rewrote my destiny.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I wish they’d written you a shorter monologue.”

  His face contorted into a disturbingly impish expression. It was almost like a mask, the skin capable of twisting into whatever grotesque caricature of humanity he chose. “Vic, my dear, don’t you see? You’re the one who’s slashed at the knees of the colossi.” He shook his head. “In a world as cruel and unthinkable as this, death is the greatest gift. The gods have come to grant us freedom from our wretched plane. I am simply a facilitator.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “But maybe start with yourself first.”

  Deacon ignored my comment. “You’re sick,” he interjected. “That’s what you are. Look at you, a damn soldier! You swore an oath.”

  “And that is where you’re wrong, my friend. You came to this place seeking soldiers to defend you.” The general stopped pacing. He backed into the shadows. A bare lightbulb flickered to life above him, dousing his sturdy physique in yellow light and revealing the mountainous blue tarps that lined the chamber. “I’m no soldier. I was a pastor, once upon a time. And I served God faithfully until He abandoned me. Those were dark days.” The terrible smile turned into a grimace. “All was lost. I could no longer see the light. But then, the truth arrived—the real gods, who showed me that I had only ever pretended to worship before.” He paused in his stride, directing his gaze upward. “Penitence was necessary, of course. And what better way to repent than to sacrifice in the way of the ancients?” The grin returned. “No, my boy. I am not a soldier.” He reached back, grasped the edge of a tarp, and whipped it up with a flourish. “These are your soldiers.”

  The smell of decay became overbearing. I fought back my gag reflex. Deacon fell silent. His whole posture seethed with such palpable rage that I half expected the goons around him to keel over.

  “There, there,” the General told him. “No need to look so upset. It would have been useless to make these men suffer. They died easily in their sleep.”

  “How’d you get them to let you in?” I asked, stalling. The story he told was repulsive, but it gave me time to think.

  He shrugged. “Like I said, I was a man of the cloth in my other life. Naturally, they assumed that the disciples I had gathered, others who had seen the light, were the remnants of my flock, and we deserved to be saved.” A shadow of something like sorrow passed briefly across his face. “If only they’d let us save them in return. We tried to bring them into the fold, but they resisted. They gave me no choice.”

  “This is monstrous,” Deacon growled.

  The crazed man paid him no mind. “After those poor fools were dead, we moved the bodies, put on their clothes, and sent out the safety signal. The only hitch in our perfect plan was that at first, nobody came. But now you’re here. You and your band of lost souls, seeking asylum from a world torn asunder.” A dreamy look descended on his lean features. “The gods could have freed you if you let them. Now, I will free you on their behalf.”

  “So that’s why you got rid of Dan,” I said suddenly. “Because he would have known within a day that you were faking.” The revelation spawned a cold dread in my stomach. “Where is he? Dead?” Though the thought pained me, I kept my tone flat and unemotional. We were playing a power game, where weakness equaled defeat.

  The general smirked. “Clever girl. No, they await their ultimate fate as you do, bound in a cell, surrounded by the corpses of their brethren. Why spill blood early when it could serve a greater purpose?”

  I frowned. “What kind of purpose? You going to lead a modern Crusade? I hate to tell you, but those gods you venerate? They’re nothing more than monsters.”

  “My sweet foolish child,” the general said almost kindly. He took his hat off and ran a hand over the top of his dome. “There is no difference between gods and monsters. None at all. You’ll see that soon enough.”

  He knows not of what he speaks, Marcus declared. The loss of his human life has driven him to fill the void with unspeakable atrocities.

  “Then why are you doing this?” I asked.

  The general grimaced. “Because they are right about this forsaken world.” He spoke almost in a whisper. “It deserves to burn.” He stood motionless for a second or two, staring at empty air. Reeking pools of rancid blood coagulated at his feet. “The preparations were complete before you arrived. Something is on its way, full of power and inimitable grace.”

  A flash of recognition seared through my mind. I saw Maya in the teepee and heard her voice.

  Killer cats. Apex predators. At that moment, I knew for sure—we weren’t dealing with bobcats.

  “I sense it as surely as I breathe the sweet air of redemption,” the madman continued. He closed his eyes, drank in the moment, and smiled serenely. “You are simply the final perfect touch.”

  He strode past me, beckoning his henchmen to follow. We were left in the tomb of a cellar, alone, unarmed, and suffocating in an atmosphere of decay.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Deacon strained against his bindings with all his ability. His mouth was set in a hard line, and every time the ropes resisted his attempts to break free, he scowled. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. I had never seen him so close to losing his cool. “That fucking scumbag traitor,” he muttered, his voice dripping with venom.

  “Hey,” I said. “Chill out for like two seconds. That crazy fucker will get what’s coming to him.”

  “How can you know that for sure?” He had managed to get his arms partway from behind his back, but the knots at his wrists wouldn’t budge any farther. “Right now, it feels like he’s about to get off scot-free after murdering and impersonating the staff of an entire military base.”

  “To hear him tell it, he gave them the gift of death,” I said. “He’s like a shitty Santa Claus.”

  Deacon stopped struggling for a moment and looked at me. “That’s not funny.”

  I sighed. “No, I suppose it’s not.” I nudged him gently, teasingly, hoping to calm him down so he could think straight. “You know, this kind of reminds me of the last time we were tied up together. Remember how much fun that was?”

  He snorted. “Fun for you, maybe. As I recall, I was the only one tied up in that fleabag motel. And I was the only one without any clothes on.”

  I smirked at the memory of his flabbergasted face the moment he’d realized I was really leaving him at the mercy of housekeeping. “That’s technically true, but I mean, I was there. It was still a joint activity.” I paused. “Besides, it was for your own good.”

  “I would have begged to differ at the time,” he answered. Once more, he tugged futilely at the rope. “Dammit, where did
they get this stuff? It barely has any give at all.”

  “Relax,” I told him. “All you’re gonna do is give yourself some nasty rope burn. There are way better ways to do that.”

  We were huddled up at a weird angle to each other, shoulder blade to shoulder blade. All his frustrated tension radiated into me like a slow-moving brick wall. For once, Deacon St. Clare was a ball of stress and nervous energy, and he couldn’t settle down to save his life. Every second we sat in that dark, nauseating dungeon, he kept trying to outsmart the rope somehow. With each consecutive unsuccessful strategy, I started to wonder if he might do more harm than good.

  “Shit,” he muttered. “I need to get my hands—”

  “Seriously, Deacon. Be cool. You’re going to cut your circulation off.” I laughed. “You can tell me if it bothers you to be this close to me.” I made a show of scooting half an inch in the opposite direction. “There, see? Don’t ever say I don’t know how to give you your personal space.”

  Deacon twisted around to stare at me, evidently stunned into silence. Then he burst out laughing. “What the hell are you talking about, Vic?”

  I shrugged. “Listen, here I was thinking we were finally getting some nice, quality bondage time—I mean, bonding time—and you’re trying to get away at the first opportunity. It’s a little hurtful. Can’t you take my emotions into consideration once in a while?” My straight face faltered in the middle of the last sentence, and we both cracked up. Deacon’s body relaxed against the ropes.

  “Man, I don’t know how you do it.” He shook his head. “All this shit would probably have driven me out of my mind by now if I had to deal with it the way you do.”

  I arched my brows at him. “Last I checked, you showed up to fights like everyone else. I’d say you’re dealing pretty efficiently.”

  “There’s a difference between shooting at them and having to be the one to track them down and figure out the current problem and how best to take care of business. Don’t get me wrong. That was part of my job too, and I like to think I was good at it, but the FBI used to deal with strictly human shit—at least the parts of the Bureau that I saw. Every single thing that’s happened since we broke out of there has been outside my wheelhouse.”

  “Thank God I’m leading, then,” I replied.

  “That’s kind of what I’m getting at. A federal agent has to be their own leader, in a way. You get handed a case, and you’re expected to solve it. Doesn’t matter if the file’s incomplete or if it’s been cold for twenty years already. Details like that are part of the challenge, and with such a burden of responsibility, it’s easy to lose yourself in the obsession.”

  “Don’t lecture me, dude,” I interrupted, a little tersely. “Marcus still has that covered. I don’t need it in stereo.”

  My lectures happen to be entertaining and informative. You are very welcome.

  “That’s not what I mean.” Deacon smiled wryly. “It’s like, this time, I don’t have to worry about any of that because you somehow manage to handle everything. Even when the whole damn city’s either falling down or on fire and gods are descending from the sky. You held your shit together, and now…” He paused, frowning. “Well, now we’re here. Maybe this was a bad example.”

  I grinned. “I can see how you might think that, but no, I’ve got something for this, too.”

  “Really?” He looked skeptical. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Right on cue, the entrance to the dungeon, which the general’s men had closed and locked behind them, busted open. A trail of smoke curled up from the glowing red crater that used to be the lock. Brax filled the doorframe with his hammer braced in his hands.

  “Feel free to start believing any time,” I said.

  Deacon barely kept his jaw from dropping. He glanced between the two of us as the demon advanced into the room. Brax’s nostrils flared at the oppressive stench. “I knew something was fucked about this,” he muttered. He hurried close and made short work of our ropes.

  My hands and fingers tingled with the rush of returning blood. I shook them out. “Thank you. It might’ve been a while if you hadn’t been on standby.”

  “I thought you left,” the man interjected, eyeing his rescuer warily. “Not that I’m ungrateful, but what are you doing back here?”

  “Contingency plan,” I told the agent, covering my mouth and nose. “I didn’t have time to tell you before we got here, but I’m happy to fill you in after we get out of this death smog.”

  “Agreed,” Brax grunted. “The smell reminds me of the food in Asphodel.”

  He led us back up the ramp to the ground floor of the abandoned building. All was quiet. The general and his cronies appeared to have returned to the main fort. The three of us stood in a small cluster, none of us with our backs to the door or windows. We stayed out of the moonlight that striped the floor.

  “It was back at the camp that he first brought it up,” I said, nodding to Brax. “He told me he didn’t really want to come to Fort Sigel, that the whole thing gave him a bad feeling. Plus, we had no idea how they’d react to us bringing a bona fide demon in. Obviously, I wasn’t willing to jeopardize our people by keeping them away from a potential stronghold, so we came up with a compromise. He’d pretend to leave the moment we arrived and before anyone from the fort had a chance to lay eyes on him. Then he’d infiltrate after we were inside. That gave us an ace in the hole for emergencies such as this one. Brilliant fucking job, by the way.”

  Brax’s dour expression eased into a very brief smile that faded as fast as it had appeared. “High praise, but in fairness, this douchebag isn’t very subtle. I knew something was going down the second I saw you two slipping out. All I did was follow you here.” He shrugged. “No big deal.”

  I must admit, it is sometimes wiser to dance with the devil than it is to risk his wrath, Marcus said. I held in an exasperated sigh. The old centurion would never get over his obsession with the Marked.

  “Now what?” Deacon turned and looked down the ramp toward the dungeon. The smell of the bodies wasn’t noticeable up there, but if I searched for it, I could still detect the faintest hint. That basement of horrors had upped the ante big time. The general wasn’t a savior. He and his men were an infestation.

  I pointed at the agent. “I need you to figure out where Dan and his crew are and get them out. Brax, you come with me to the main building. Go let everyone who’s anyone know what’s happening. Tell them not to eat or drink a single thing. Not anything. Not alcohol, not juice, not soda. Not even water. And tell them to get ready for a fight.”

  “And then?” The lenses of his dark glasses fixed on my face. “We wait for you? What are you going to do?”

  “Simple,” I said, heading toward the door. “I’m going to get my fucking sword back.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Deacon took the plunge back into the awful dungeon in search of Dan and company, and Brax and I raced toward the fort. Outside, the sun had reached its highest point, a furious white eye against a porcelain-blue backdrop. The biting wind stole all semblance of warmth from its light. My breath steamed like a dragon’s, and my feet crunched over the lightly frosted ground.

  I went in alone through the garden door, my fingers crossed that there would be no new guard detail moved mysteriously into the hallway. Deacon and I had to be high on the list of the general’s enemies, and we were absolutely not supposed to be roaming the fort anymore. Whether or not he had already told his soldiers, I couldn’t say, but I knew I’d have to be a little more careful than usual until I got my hands on the Gladius Solis again.

  This will be an interesting evaluation of your current skills, Marcus declared. I am looking forward to it.

  “Oh, come on.” I hunched over and ran toward the fort wall and pinned myself to the frigid concrete. Listening for approaching footsteps, loading guns, or radio chatter, I inched along the side like it was the edge of a cliff, my arms braced out to my sides. “It’s not a fair assessment if
you’re handicapping me.”

  I have said many times before that although Kronin’s sword is mighty, it is only as strong as its wielder. The more you improve as an individual, the worthier you will be.

  “Don’t you worry, buddy. This is the shit I’ve trained for. These assholes will get their shit jacked up.” I eased my way around the corner of the building and, seeing no one, decided to run the rest of the way. We were losing valuable time, and they would soon know I was there in no uncertain terms anyway. On my approach to the door, I leaned into my run, picking up a good head of steam before achieving lift-off and bashing the door in with a flying kick. The latch bar splintered into an empty passage that wouldn’t be that way for long. I could already hear boots on the tile—a whole herd of them.

  It is time, Victoria. Make this old centurion proud.

  The general’s men all had the guns they’d pilfered from Fort Sigel’s doomed staff. Having witnessed Marcus’s transition into portable ghost counsel, I was pretty sure the nectar I’d drunk wouldn’t bring me back from a fatal gunshot wound. The easiest way to solve this conundrum was to level the playing field.

  The first goon came into sight, already shooting though not aiming precisely. He sprayed a fan of bullets in my general direction, and pieces of the floor and walls shattered. The guard was too preoccupied with covering as much ground as possible to notice me rush directly at him, my head down and shoulder out like a football player or a bull. The gun spat fire into the air as we collided hard. I felt the breath crushed from his lungs.

  Barely slowing, I wrenched the rifle from his slackened hands, hit him in the head with the butt of the stock, and swung around the corner myself in hopes of recapturing the element of surprise.

  Very smooth, Marcus applauded. I cannot say I wholly approve of your current weapon, however.