The Banished Gods Box Set: Books 1-3

by L. A. McGinnis

  But he got it, he really did. He knew Odin needed everyone locked down into their place so his perfect, little world could go on spinning. Because if there was one thing Fenrir understood, it was control. Hell, if he lost control, he’d wipe out half of this city without even trying.

  It pained him royally to bend a knee, but he did only because if he didn’t then they’d just posture around for an hour and waste each other’s time, and he was so over all of this shit.

  “My king.” Surprise that he used the title rippled from Odin, as well as suspicion. Odin was dressed casually today, his long, white hair pulled back in its usual silver circlet, those pale, otherworldly eyes so clear they glowed from within. Almost as tall as Fenrir, he lacked the bulk, but still had plenty of muscle, a lithe, handsome god, carved by the ancients. Descended from the very first of their gods, if the legends were to be believed.

  “Tyr’s report indicates you’re dangerous.” At least the asshole cut to the chase.

  “No, my king, I am not.” Yet. He’d be a fool to confirm Odin’s suspicions. A fool, quite possibly a dead fool.

  “Don’t argue the obvious with me, wolf. I can feel him seething below the surface, your monster trying to escape. Your control is slipping so badly, even I don’t feel safe around you.”

  And he shouldn’t. Even with all of Odin’s raw, endless power, Fen was still stronger. Faster. And far more lethal.

  “I only need a glimpse of moonlight to escape this plane, and then everything will go back to normal.” Which was not a lie. Fen craved the moon like he needed streets to run and demons to hunt. Caged in his room for weeks had done him no favors. For now, only the silver chain, warm around his neck, and his own iron will held his beast in check.

  Curiosity had Odin’s silvery eyes glinting in the dim light. “Where, exactly, do you go when you leave this plane?”

  How best to answer that? “None of your fucking business.” Fen growled. He remembered to tack on, a little late, “My king.”

  Silently, Odin studied him, and he glared right back. Hell, they could do this all day, it sure beat talking. Seemingly bored, Odin waved a hand lazily in the air. “I only asked out of politeness. I know exactly where you go. My ravens tell me that your weekly journeys to the Otherworld have stopped. For months, now. It’s not entirely due to this weather, which means something else is going on in that head of yours. I have to know why, since you are dangerous. Seriously, what am I supposed to do if the wolf comes out, Fenrir?”

  He really had no answer. “I have it under control. My king.” Unfortunately the title must have sounded a bit too much like you asshole. Before Fenrir knew it, his back was crushed up against one of the pillars, as tendrils of Odin’s powerful, icy magic wrapped around him, cutting off his airway. Sad thing was, he didn’t even try to fight back. Almost relieved, Fenrir let the breath rasp from his throat until there was no more.

  What the hell was happening to him?

  “You’re willing to let me choke you to death, wolf?” Well, yeah, apparently I am, Fenrir thought, the world going dark around him. He didn’t care. Death could swallow him up. Oblivion would be a relief at this point.

  “So what Tyr tells me is true. You really are that far gone? After all these years, you’ve finally let the beast overtake the man? You lost to the beast, Fenrir? I never knew you were so weak.”

  Maybe it was the way the pompous bastard said it, or the fancy ass gold throne, or maybe it was the emptiness he realized was the only thing left inside of him, but Fenrir just gave in and let the anger take over. A long, primitive howl escaped his mouth, reverberating through the long room.

  Problem was, when you’re the strongest and the fastest, then you really are a menace when you lose every last vestige of self-control. Except he’d actually, for once in his life, listened to Tyr.

  As he transformed into a hideous beast, Fenrir’s superior power ripped through the grip of Odin’s magic like it was tissue paper, and once the tangle of Odin’s hold loosened, he leapt through the air, lunging for the silver-haired god’s throat. That thick silver banded around his neck was the only thing that saved Odin’s ass.

  Well, that and the binding spells both Loki and Mir hurled at close range.

  Together, they melded with the elven silver and tightened the chain around Fenrir’s neck, which kept him from dragging his enormous body all the way up the dais. Which in turn kept him from digging his enormous claws into Odin’s neck.

  As Loki’s magic flattened him to the floor, as shouting and thundering footsteps filled the cavernous hall, Fenrir’s last, sane thought was they all owed Tyr a big thank you the next time they saw him.

  Boots thudded against the marble beside his head. “You. Are. Out. Of. Control. Wolf.” Odin’s words were accompanied by quick bursts of white steam, as the temperature in the hall dropped to below freezing. “You should be put down.”

  Choked growls and snarls issued from the maw of Fenrir’s fanged mouth, as he clawed and surged against the leash of Loki and Mir’s combined magic, his brain degenerating into base, animal instinct. As the beast took over, Fen lost himself to blood fury, the wolf’s power thrashing against hold of the silver entwined with their magic. Another blast of Odin’s magic hit him, the force of it driving sharp needles of pain beneath his flesh.

  Howling even louder to the darkened ceiling above them, he collapsed in a limp heap and everything went dark.

  Chapter 3

  The Thief

  “Miss Barrows?”

  Why would the droning voice not stop? Celine wondered. It just kept on and on, even though she was… Where was she, exactly?

  “…and that was beginning, with the invasion of Britain in ten sixty-six. Can you answer the question or not, Miss Barrows?”

  The room around her swam into focus, going from blurry and indistinct to painfully laser-sharp and bright, with every eye in the brimming lecture hall focused directly on her. She shifted in her hard, wooden seat. “Yes, yes, I’m so sorry, Professor Ellis, that would be the Norman conquest, sir. By William the Conqueror, when the Anglo-Saxons were defeated and what became known as Middle English became the spoken language on the British Isles.”

  The balding man waited patiently as the boy beside her gave her a sharp kick. She hastily added, “This metamorphosis of the language may have begun in ten sixty-six, but it continued until around fourteen hundred, including French loanwords, Latin descriptors, and German place names.” She warily watched the man—his thick sweater buttoned up wrong, one pair of glasses perched atop his head, another pair on his face—and hoped to heaven she’d gotten it all right. When the professor gave her a faint smile and moved on, she blew out a relieved sigh.

  “Good save, Celine, you were miles away that time.” Anderson Thompson slid his arm up alongside hers, shooting her a smarmy smile. She knew he only flirted so he could cheat off her tests and copy her notes and generally annoy her, so she did what she usually did and ignored him, hoping he’d just go away. Not that he was wrong. She had been miles away. Her head was a jumble these days. A mess, a disaster, a contradictory state of what it should be.

  Focused. Sharp. Orderly. Perfect.

  Which totally sucked. Because her mind was the one thing she always relied on, even when the rest of her world was going straight to hell.

  Life had always been somewhat of a paradox for Celine Barrows.

  A mix between the bad, the not-so-bad, and the it-could-be-so-much-worse. Her mother did her best, but like they said, sometimes your best just isn’t good enough. With Mom, her best was never good enough. Which meant Celine grew up between grandparents, the kindness of strangers, and foster care. Punctuated, all too often, by days and sometimes weeks spent on the streets. Seeing her mother only when she was off the booze or the drugs, or very occasionally both. Celine never saw her father because he was one of those things that went bump in the night. The tremor shot through her before she locked it down. Maybe one of these days, she would forget about hi
m completely.

  On the flip side, she’d been given a brain like a cutting edge piece of software, the kind already upgraded with all the bells and whistles, plus tons of extra memory. Celine’s brain took raw information, then indexed and cross-referenced and tabulated the data. Her cerebrum was the equivalent of a supercomputer built by Gates and programmed by Hawking. She remembered everything she’d ever seen, every word she’d ever read, and every detail of every lecture she’d ever sat in.

  Which was why she was here, at the University of Chicago, in a room full of kids four to ten years older than she was, and still the smartest in the room. Plus, because she’d grown up so damn poor, she could survive for months on a case of ramen noodles and a hotplate and meant to build a brand new life capitalizing on the only good thing to ever happen to her.

  A full scholarship to one of the best universities in the world.

  And she planned to let it take her far, far away from where she started. Except…

  Celine chewed on her lip, once again losing the drone of the professor’s voice to the hum of her own thoughts as the room in front of her turned to fog.

  “Shit Celine, get with it.” Anderson hissed under his breath, elbowing her hard in the side.

  Far too late, she realized her gaze was once again focused on Professor Ellis’s misbuttoned sweater as he stood directly in front of her. “Miss Barrows, is it too much to ask that I have your full attention when you are in this class?”

  “No, uhm, I’m so sorry professor, I… What was the question?” She’d just have to let her super brain save the day.

  “I asked you twice, but I will ask a third time. Can you explain to us the phenomenon known as the Great Vowel Shift, Miss Barrows?” She raised her eyes to his, focusing on the mole on the side of his nose. It had two long, curly hairs growing out of it.

  “Of course.” She went on confidently, “In Middle English, all vowels changed from long vowel pronunciation to short vowel pronunciation within a relatively short period of time. Several consonant pronunciations changed as well.” Frowning, he gazed down at her with a look she could only describe as…disappointment.

  “And the time period, please, Miss Barrows?”

  Her brain fumbled. It actually stalled for a second. “Uhm…between the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries?” Her face grew hot. “Sir?”

  He blew out a small sigh before answering. “Clearly, you have been somewhere else today. What is the title of my lecture, Miss Barrows?”

  She scrambled around and couldn’t come up with a single coherent thought. “I…I’m sorry sir, I don’t…I’m not sure…” She sensed Anderson leaning away from her.

  “If you check your syllabus, the title of today’s lecture is Analyzing New Information Pertaining to the Great Vowel Shift. We’ve moved our original estimate backwards almost two centuries. In the thirteenth century, language began to change on the continent, as migrations, caused by the Black Death, forced the collapse of towns and villages.” Her professor allowed a deep sigh to escape. “That is the new estimate Miss Barrows, please make note of it.” Dr. Ellis left her blinking in his wake, wondering how things had gone south so quickly. It was a first, actually, but still…

  It just felt so wrong…being wrong.

  Anderson snickered in her ear. “Guess I’d better find another seat, Barrows. Who’m I gonna cheat off of now?” His arrogant, gloating swagger rubbed her just a little wrong, as did the fact that she’d been such a pushover all semester, letting him cheat off of her and everything. A small flicker of the old Celine flared to life.

  “Well. I guess that’s your problem, asshole.” She hissed, letting a slow, slightly spiteful smile spread over her face as she watched him blink in shock. Yeah, that’s right Anderson, I put on quite the good girl act, but make no mistake, the old me would have ground you under my boot heel in a heartbeat.

  Celine wanted to say all of this, but she was a different girl these days. She’d changed. She was a scholar now, a nice girl who’d left her ugly past far behind her. So instead she murmured quietly, “Gosh, I’m sorry, Anderson, I think maybe I’m getting sick or something.” Then she picked up her books and flew out the door.

  Her mind was flaking out on her. It had always been the one thing she could rely on, the one thing that had never let her down. The One Thing.

  For as long as she could remember, all knowledge had been hers. And if knowledge was power, then she was powerful. But something terrible was happening. Her mind did not obey her anymore. It wandered away, right when she needed it most. Took her to dark, scary places when it should be behaving, working, cooperating. She needed it, damn it, her brain had an important job to do right now. She had another two months of classes to get her master’s degree. Then four years for her doctorate.

  Only then would she be sure she’d never end up back where she’d come from.

  The darkest, scariest place of all.

  Celine wove her way through the sandstone gothic buildings, heading for the Harper Library. The dimly lit granite fortress was her safe place, her escape when the dark memories crept too close. Skimming down the outer edge of the enormous vaulted room, she found her favorite reading nook. After a few shaky breaths of the rarified air, she chose the saggiest leather chair and dropped her backpack beside it. This was where she belonged, she reassured herself, pulling out a book on Sumerian ruins. Today had to be a fluke. It had to be, because if she blew this chance, if she ever ended up back home, then…

  Celine shook her head.

  Not going to happen. Never.

  Three hours later when she finally stopped reading, the room was empty. The total and complete silence should have been a big tip off they’ve closed, she scolded herself, you idiot. Now she’d be riding the train home in the dark with her mace in one hand and her heart in her throat.

  She waited twenty minutes for the Metra, spending the time sizing up three aggressive, tough-talking kids who boarded ahead of her, posturing like they meant to fight someone. Anyone. Wishing she had enough eyes for each of them, she finally settled in the seat she deemed safest. Between an older lady who shot her a sad, sympathetic smile and an older man in a worn coat with a newspaper and a cup of coffee, who nodded politely when she chose the seat in front of him. Thankfully the angry group drifted off a few stops later, the lady a few stops after that until it was just she and the man, his paper rustling softly every so often as he turned the pages. The heavy backpack on her lap made her legs go to sleep, and her hand was aching from gripping the mace inside her purse when she rose, finally close to her stop.

  “Oh no. You stay right there. This where you usually get off, sweetheart?” She sensed, more than felt the coldness of the blade pressed to the back of her neck, followed by the barest nick of the steel tip. Celine instantly froze, long-honed instincts kicking in. “Now. You’re going to do what I say, right? Nice and slow, kid, just like I tell you, and there’s no reason you’ve got to get hurt.”

  “Take your hand out of your purse, real slow and it’d better be empty when I see it.”

  Celine withdrew her hand, every movement feeling like she was a wound spring and the slightest pressure would make her snap. “Good, now this is what’s going to happen. We’re going to step off this car together. You’re going to walk in front of me, real slow. You run or make a break for it, I’ve got a gun too. You’ll find I’m ready to use it.”

  Weakness trembled in her legs, the rubber bandy feeling that lets you know that they might, or might not, support you, even while her brain commanded them to work. Walk, walk now. Take a step and then another. Maybe he doesn’t have a gun. Maybe he’s just bluffing.

  Hesitating, she faltered, and he shoved her forward, before flashing a small, compact handgun so she could see he wasn’t. Her gut clenched tightly.

  “Like I said, I’ll use it. But I don’t want to. It’s up to you.”

  He wasn’t bluffing, he’d push it into her back, or her neck, or her face, and he’d pull th
e trigger and it would go in, and that would be the end of her altogether. So when the train stopped, her body obeyed and she walked and did all the things he whispered into her ear, and she told herself that the way to stay alive was to obey. Obeying had always been the way to stay alive.

  She was only four blocks away from her apartment.

  So close, she thought, as tears dripped down her face, so damn close but no cigar.

  Stumbling as they walked, she searched for an opening to run, but the streets were empty, the opportunities few. A crowd of people across the street only made him press the knife in harder. When she glanced at the flashing bar sign, his hand dug cruelly into her shoulder, propelling her onward. When they made the final turn into a deserted street, she wondered how anywhere in this huge, busy city could be so damn empty. His hand trailed down her back, his breathing turning heavier, raspier.

  Just after she glimpsed the tops of the golden arches over the buildings, he shoved her left, into an alley and then to a tight, dark doorway. Flipped her around so she faced him. She felt the sense of finality then, the terrible symmetry between this new, clean life she’d been steadily building and the dark, horrible one she’d left behind.

  I never did get out, did I? The past came up behind me and caught me after all.

  “Give me the backpack, girl.”

  Wordlessly, Celine held it out with shaking hands, watched him toss the mace, her books, laptop, spiral notebooks, cellphone out onto the pavement. He continued emptying it out, until he raised it and shook it, while she watched the last few pens tumble out onto the ground. “Where the fuck is it?” He snarled, while she pressed herself back against the bricks. “I need it, and you’d better fucking give it to me.”