Lost Gods

by Brom

  “No!” Chet cried, grasping the wound in his hands, trying to hold his grandfather’s skull together, trying to stem the escaping ba. He glanced over to where his satchel lay on the ground several feet away, wanting to grab it, to get some ka, but not daring let go of the wound, not even for a second.

  Gavin clutched his hand. “Chet, listen. Senoy wants one thing . . . your daughter’s blood . . . they both do. Remember that.” More and more of the tendrils of smoke slithered through Chet’s fingers. Gavin’s speech slowed, his words becoming slurred. “Don’t . . . don’t give him a chance to play you. Just kill him . . . straightaway. Swear it.” He clutched Chet’s shirt, tugged him close. “Swear it.”

  “Yeah. I swear it.”

  Gavin nodded. “And when you do . . . while he is dying, speak my name to him . . . let it be the last goddamn thing he hears.” Gavin slid his hand into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out the key, and handed it to Chet. “Go. Go save your daughter, Chet.”

  The smoke billowed out around Chet’s hand, drifting upward, joining the others as the dead and dying passed, a cloud of unfettered souls lost to the wind.

  Chet clutched the key, felt a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry, Chet.” It was Yevabog. “Your grandfather, he turned out to be a good soul.” She was staring at the key.

  Chet slipped the key away out of sight, set a hand on Gavin’s chest. “Yeah . . . I believe he was a good soul. I truly do.”

  CHAPTER 87

  Is that him?” Veles asked, gazing upon Gavin’s body.

  Yevabog nodded. “He’s the one that saved us.”

  “I know this one,” Veles said. “It was he that cut me down at the Edda gathering. He was a brave and fearsome warrior, for one must be truly stout of heart to attack a god.”

  “His name’s Gavin Moran,” Chet said. “He’s my grandfather.”

  Veles looked up at the drifting clouds. “Sometimes death’s end is hard to find. Maybe his story is not over yet.”

  Mary walked up carrying a spear, the God Slayer, the very one that had cut Veles down. She tossed it onto the ground, on top of the blunderbuss and the demon lord’s sword.

  “Where is Sekhmet?” Veles asked.

  “She’s gone into the canyon,” Mary replied. “She’s hunting them down, every one of them. We will not be seeing her again until the last demon is slain.”

  Chet scanned the ruins; bodies lay everywhere, the smell of burning ka thick in the air. All was quiet now, the screams and moans silenced. Veles had seen to it, killing every man and demon left behind, sparing none, not even the wounded.

  “Mary,” Chet said, “do you know what happened to Ana? Back at the temple? Did you see her?”

  A shadow crossed Mary’s face; she slowly shook her head. “I’m not sure. The last I saw of her, she was running for the river. Then the men were upon me.” She started to say something more, then just shook her head again.

  Chet nodded.

  The great stag picked up the blunderbuss. “This will go to the bottom of the river. Then I ride to Hel, Duat, and Hades to gather the ancients. It is time for the gods to wake up, time to remind the netherworld what happens when we are angered.” Veles tossed the blunderbuss into the back of a wagon, then picked up the demon sword, holding it high. “It is time to go to war.”

  CHAPTER 88

  Chet searched through the twisted remains of the demons until he found what he was seeking: a bandolier of bullets that matched the caliber of his revolvers. He’d taken his grandfather’s long coat and now slung his arm through the bandolier, wearing it across his chest in the same fashion as desperadoes from the old West. He then rifled through the pockets of the dead souls, taking any ka coins he found until he had gathered several dozen. He took no shame in this; if there was one thing Gavin had taught him, it was to be prepared. He was on his way back to Moran Island, to Trish, and he intended to do whatever necessary to ensure he made it.

  Chet trudged back to the wagons, where he’d tied his horse and found Yevabog waiting for him.

  “I thought you were going with Veles?”

  “I would like to see that key.”

  “What key?”

  “Chet, you know you can trust me.”

  “I’m not real big on trusting anyone these days. Especially a god.”

  She smiled at him. “You have learned much then.”

  A leather cord hung about Chet’s neck; he tugged it up from out of his shirt. The key dangled from its end. Yevabog reached up and ran one finger slowly along its length. “It is real,” she said in awe. “You intend to try and cross back. Yes?”

  “I have to.”

  She nodded. “What a thing it would be to see the moon again,” she said absently.

  “Cross with me.”

  She tore her eyes away from the key, looked at him. He thought he caught a touch of fear on her face. “Put it away,” she said, urgently. “Put it away and let no one know you have it.”

  He slipped it back under his shirt.

  She took a quick glanced about, spoke softly. “Keep it well hidden. It is a true key between worlds. Gods, demons, souls, all would go to any length to attain it . . . to have a chance to escape purgatory and return to the world of the living.”

  “And you wouldn’t?”

  She let out a sigh. “It is why I came to you. To go with you . . . to even take the key from you if I had to.” She smiled coyly at him. “But now, with nothing in my way . . . I am unsure. No, I am scared. Yes . . . of what I might find. A world with no place for the likes of me.” She shook her head. “And I fear them. The angels. They have no mercy for my kind. And mankind too, they would see me as a monster now. I would never be able to rest without fear.” She seemed to be contemplating her own words. “Even so, I must admit . . . the temptation is great. It just might be worth being burned at the stake to have the chance to walk among the trees again, to smell the sweet spice of life.”

  “Still got your mind set on Lethe then?”

  She was quiet a moment. “No . . . no I do not.” She sounded like this surprised her. “Not anymore, not after seeing the Red Lady in all her glory. By the moon was she ever magnificent.” Yevabog tapped the knives she now wore in a belt draped across her chest. “It felt good to kill those who deserve death . . . a final death. It reminded me of what it is to be a god.” There was a spark in her eyes now. “I will go with Veles . . . try and rally the gods. Perhaps I will eventually seek out a few new husbands and begin anew. Who knows, maybe one day mankind will wake up and turn their backs on these One Gods. Then there just might be a place on earth again for one such as I.” She laughed, then her face grew serious. “Chet, I would warn you though. Purgatory does not give up her dead easily. What you are attempting to do . . . even with that key . . . it will be dangerous . . . perhaps impossible.”

  “I have to try. There’s no other choice. Not for me.”

  “The key gives you many choices. It can even open the gates of Elysium. Chet, after what you have seen, would you walk away from eternal paradise?”

  “I wasn’t real good at keeping promises when I was alive. But, just before I died, I made one last one. And I intend to keep it. I don’t care the cost.”

  “You do not understand.” She clasped his hand and a vision bloomed, golden fields beneath a honey-colored sky, a warm breeze fluttering through trees full of songbirds, and in the distance, the laughter of men, women, and children, their voices calling to him, filling his heart with joy. She released him and he gasped, shutting his eyes, trying to hold on to the vision. “Elysium?” he whispered.

  “Yes, and it awaits you if you choose it.”

  “How?”

  “Elysium Fields lie on the border of purgatory. Its gates are barred to all but those deemed worthy by the ancients. Chet, you hold the key.”

  He pressed the key against his chest.

  “It is a journey,” she said. “But not impossible. I would be glad to guide you.”

  He met and
held her eye, then shook his head.

  “How can you walk away from paradise?”

  “Because . . . it isn’t . . . it could never be, not so long as Trish or my daughter could end up lost in purgatory or somewhere worse.”

  A sly smile spread across Yevabog’s face. “Ah, Chet, you have indeed learned much. Too many Heaven-borne souls find out too late that eternal bliss comes at a price. Their scriptures and verses never illuminate just how one can be in joyous rapture while their mothers, fathers, children burn for all eternity.”

  She sighed. “The river will let none return. Should you try to return by boat or ferry, her hands will reach up and drag you down. There are many gods and souls alike whose bones rest upon the river bottom that can attest to this. You must use the bridge.”

  Chet recalled the dilapidated structure hanging above the river. “The one in Styga, near the ferry?”

  She nodded. “Once, there was just the river and the river let none return. But the first gods built several great bridges and for a while the world of the living and the dead lived side by side. It was a golden age and the netherworlds were a place of magic and splendor. It was the One Gods that closed the gates. Locked them shut. Even an angel’s blade cannot cut through those doors.” She touched Chet’s chest. “But . . . that key you hold, it comes from Heaven itself. It will open the doors.” She was silent for a moment, appeared deep in thought. “Beyond that I do not know, nor can I predict. I do know that there are many forces aligned to stop souls from leaving, that Mother Eye herself might burn you to a cinder.”

  Chet shrugged. “As I said, I don’t have any other choices.”

  “Sometimes our destiny is not our own.”

  “I need to be going,” Chet said, untying the horse.

  “Chet, listen to your grandfather. Senoy is a monster. If you are to have any chance at all it will be to strike quick and fast. Use the knife he gave you. It is from the wars in Heaven and is meant for the divine. Show him no mercy. As for Lamia, she has survived since the earth’s beginnings. I can only hope the Fates are on your side.” She stood up on her hindmost hands, kissed her fingers, then touched them to Chet’s lips. “My blessings might not be what they once were, but I send them with you just the same.”

  Chet smiled at her, pulled himself up into the saddle, and rode away.

  PART SEVEN

  The Lilith

  CHAPTER 89

  It’s just your hand,” Dirk said, enjoying the look of horror on the man’s face. Dirk tried to remember how many years he’d worked at Tubby’s Carwash dealing with guys just like this, guys sporting the same nose-up-their-ass haircuts, telling him he’d missed this spot or that on their overpriced foreign sports cars. Well, death has a way of evening things up, he thought as the man dropped to one knee and began begging to keep his hand. Dirk liked that, liked it when they begged. Things are sure running smoother with those witches out of my hair, he thought. Carlos had promised that they wouldn’t be coming back, none of them, had even gone so far as to say that the Red Lady’s time was coming to an end. Dirk tried to imagine how things would be without them sticking their noses in everything. We’ll do whatever the hell we feel like. Make our own damn rules, our own damn laws. Carlos had promised they’d all be lords and kings soon. Dirk smiled. Imagine that, me, a former mop hand at Tubby’s . . . a king.

  The man pushed his wristwatch into Dirk’s hand.

  “No,” Dirk said. “I told you, it’s a piece of junk. Look, I’m not going to say it again: you want to keep your stupid hand, then start swimming.”

  The man finally seemed to get it and stood up, walking slowly over to where Big John Thomson waited with the cleaver. There came a flash of the blade and the man’s hand fell into the basket with all the others. The man let out a cry and stumbled away clutching his wrist.

  “Fun’s just beginning,” Dirk called after him. Dirk caught the ferryman glaring at him and gave him a crisp salute. The ferryman grimaced and looked away. Dirk smirked. Thick bastards still think this is their show.

  Dirk looked at the cheap watch, at the time. It’s noon somewhere, he thought. Sun’s probably out, people sitting down to a good meal. He sighed. God, to see the sun again, to taste . . . to taste anything. He heard a cry, a child, and cringed. Hell, why do these souls have to keep bringing these miserable brats across? So fucking tired of dealing with them.

  It was a woman—usually was—a homely-looking lady who appeared to be in her late thirties. Of course Dirk knew that didn’t mean a lot, she could easily be in her nineties. She clutched the infant tightly to her breast as she came forward, arms about it as though she could somehow shelter it from death itself.

  “Here, lady,” Dirk said, reaching for the baby. “Let me make things easier for you.”

  She pulled the infant back. “No. I’ll carry her. I don’t mind.”

  He let out a sigh. Really, really getting tired of this. “Lady, here’s the deal, it’ll cost you two pounds of flesh. That’s your hand and the kid’s arm. You going to pay that?”

  She stepped back horrified.

  “That’s what I thought. So just give over the little tyke right now.”

  The lady shook her head. “No. No, I won’t.”

  Dirk punched the woman, hitting her square in the face and knocking her to the dock. The lady landed hard, and the child began to wail.

  Dirk nudged one of the guards. “Give me your club.” The guard handed it to Dirk and he stepped to the woman, looming over her. She looked up at him, horrified, and he wondered why he was putting up with any of this nonsense. Wasn’t he the one making the rules now? “Y’know, lady, I think I’ve been too nice for too long. I think it’s time to put things in order.”

  She tried to get away, scuttling backward while still clutching the baby. Dirk chuckled, couldn’t help it. She just looked so pathetic, half out of her wits with fear and doing that one-armed crab crawl. He swung, aiming for the baby, but the woman twisted, trying to protect the child, and he caught the woman on her shoulder, knocking her over. And still—she held on to the child.

  Dirk considered himself a pretty good hitter back in high school. Now might be a good time to show these guards how to handle a club, how to knock one out of the park. He pulled back, sights on the woman’s head—

  “Leave her alone, asshole!” someone called in a loud, stern voice.

  Dirk stopped, stopped because there was something in that voice that sounded like real trouble. He turned, saw a man standing on the stairs wearing a long coat, the sort of coat Wyatt Earp might’ve worn. It took Dirk a moment to realize he knew this man. “Well I’ll be damned.” It was the redheaded kid, the one Carlos was looking for. And for a moment Dirk wondered if the kid had an older brother, because the figure standing before him appeared older, harder, his face weathered, his eyes severe, the eyes of a man who’d seen more than his fair share of bad.

  The guards and souls all fell quiet, all watching the kid as he walked down the steps, his boots clumping on the stones. He stopped a few feet away and set eyes on Dirk. “Let her by,” he said, his voice cool and calm.

  Dirk snorted. “You have to be kidding.” Dirk thought about taking the bat to the kid, but there was something in the kid’s eyes he found unnerving; he seemed just a little too sure of himself. What’re you up to? Dirk glanced behind the kid, up on the stoneworks, but saw no sign of the sisters, or anyone else who might be backing him up. “All right, boys. I want you to break his arms and his legs. Then we’ll see how well he can swim.”

  The guards started forward and the kid withdrew a gun from his satchel. No fancy play, no slick moves, just calmly, almost casually tugging out the biggest fucking revolver Dirk had ever seen. The kid leveled it at his guards, his hand sure and steady. The guards stopped.

  Dirk was liking this whole thing less and less. “All right, you little twat,” Dirk barked. “Here’s the deal. You turn around right now and we’ll let—”

  The kid shifted the gun on
Dirk and fired. The slug punched Dirk in the gut, knocking him off his feet and onto his rear—the blast echoing up and down the river.

  “AH, FUCK!” Dirk screamed, clutching the giant hole now in his stomach. “Ah, Jesus. Jesus Christ!” The pain doubled him over. “Kill him!” he shouted. “Kill the fucking son of a whore!”

  The guards didn’t move.

  “Throw your weapons in the river,” the kid said in that same infuriating cool, calm voice.

  The guards hesitated, glancing back and forth at each other.

  Chet pointed the gun at the closest man’s head. “I won’t ask again.” He was looking for a reason to shoot them; they all saw it plain as paint on his face.

  The guards complied, tossing their clubs, swords, spears, and knives into the river.

  “Carlos, the Colonel, most of the rangers,” the kid said. “They’re all dead. Veles burned them up. Veles and the Red Lady . . . they’re real pissed off and on their way here to clean shit like you out of the gutters. To put it in their words, they’re coming to remind souls why they should be afraid of the gods. My suggestion would be to get as far away from here as you can get before they arrive. That sound like good advice?”

  The guards all nodded.

  “And you just might wanna tell your friends as well. Because anyone found wearing a green coat or hanging around these ferries is gonna be made an example of.”

  The guards nodded again.

  “Good. Now get.”

  The guards left in a hurry, heading up the stone steps and disappearing down the road.

  The kid walked up to Dirk.

  Dirk tried to push to his feet, but the pain wouldn’t let him, started to crawl away, found only the river.

  The kid pressed the barrel against Dirk’s forehead. “I’m giving you a choice. You can swim or eat the next bullet out of this gun.”