Zeus is Dead

by Michael G. Munz

  Worse, not all of that rage was directed externally.

  She demanded it repeatedly of herself: Why, why in the name of all that was shadowed did she have to pick that exact moment to share that particular secret? Hecate, goddess of night, mother of witches, queen of secrets, had a new secret: she was in deep, deep trouble.

  She could have chosen some other secret with which to bless Wynter: The true name of the now-deceased Loch Ness monster (Larry), the first of the eleven secret “herbs and spices” (disturbingly, also Larry), or which of the Three Stooges was really a British agent (curiously, not Larry). Had she chosen to disclose any one of those secrets, she would have been free to exact retribution upon these Ninjas Templar and their masters. This is not to say that she was incapable of retribution as things stood, but the price was far too high. Dispensing divine wrath attracted the notice of her fellow immortals. Other gods paid attention to see if the wrath was directed at one of their own favorites, and if not, then simply for professional interest. Now that the Olympians were back, many of them anticipated the return of the annual Wrathy Awards, as well, and it paid to keep track of the competition. Any scrutiny of the situation would lead to the discovery of just what secrets Hecate had shared with Wynter:

  The secrets of the Titans’ prison.

  Everyone knew of the Titan War in which Zeus, his siblings, and some mercenary giants barely defeated their elders in a battle that nearly shattered the world. (Scholars and poets knew it officially as the Titanomachy, but Athena decided “Titan War” had more kick.) Everyone knew that after the war, the Olympians imprisoned most of the Titans in eternal voids in Tartarus, the worst part of the underworld. Those were the broad strokes. The details were much less known and far more dangerous, and Hecate had given them out like Halloween candy.

  It wouldn’t matter that Wynter had been interrupted before she could write down everything; the very act of sharing such things with anyone could very likely get Hecate herself locked away in eternal nothingness.

  The goddess stifled a scream. She shouldn’t have shared it, but Wynter’s devotion was so exuberant! The young woman began her worship before the Return, before she even had evidence that the goddess existed. She was trapped in a family that failed to understand her, her friends were long gone, and her college demanded tuition in payment for acceptance—tuition that she sacrificed to Hecate. With her adoration of the magic of night and secrets, Wynter was a kindred spirit who reminded the goddess of herself.

  No one on Olympus listened to her, after all. No one cared. They were only her adopted family. Oh, sure, she was as powerful as they, but no one acknowledged it. When she originated the idea of hiding cheese in the crust of a pizza, none of the gods gave her credit. When she became a successful supernatural romance novelist, they didn’t read her books. Heck, even after she created some of the most interesting monsters since the Return, they didn’t pay her one single compliment. Hecate supported Zeus’s death, supported the Return; she even knew who was responsible. The murderers met even now in a room Hermes thought was a secret. Yet did they ask her to help? Not even for a moment.

  She just wanted someone to talk to, someone who understood.

  Wynter understood.

  So telling her about the Titans’ prisons was a mistake. She’d deal with that. The pool in which she watched Wynter could only show her the room her priestess was in; she had no ties to the mortals who held her. They lurked in separate rooms, likely discussing their find and what to do about it.

  It remained for Hecate to determine what she would do about them.

  Elsewhere on Olympus in the secret chamber Hermes himself built long ago, five Olympians had gathered to tackle their own particular problems.

  “You did it wrong,” Hermes told the others.

  “Did it wrong?” the goddess shot.

  “If Zeus can still be brought back? Yes!”

  “It was a trap,” Ares snarled, turning his wrath on another god among them. “Ol’ Zeus knew it wouldn’t work! He just blurts out some bull about a god-killer, and you go and think he let it slip ’cause he’s drunk! It was a loyalty test! You doomed us all!”

  The smooth-voiced god whom he was addressing straightened up. “Zeus was drunk off his ass, believe me! Strongest ambrosia-liquor I’ve ever tasted. The poor fellow blacked out, didn’t remember a word. I’d bet my life on it.”

  Hermes rolled his eyes. “Really, you already did, you know.”

  “Hey, I only passed on what I heard. It was her idea to kill him!” he blurted, pointing at the goddess.

  “Okay, even if it ain’t a trap,” Ares went on, “point is the son of a Titan is coming back.”

  At that, the immortal who had been sitting silently in the corner cleared his throat, once.

  Ares winced. “Didn’t say bein’ a son of a Titan is always a bad thing.”

  “Might be coming back,” the goddess corrected.

  “Might be’s as good as done, far as I’m concerned.”

  “But it’s got something to do with this mortal?” the goddess asked.

  Hermes nodded. “So Apollo thinks. And you know how he is with visions.”

  The god of war perked up. “Easy answer, then: find this poor loser, and kill him! Problem solved.”

  The silent god in the corner cleared his throat again.

  Ares gritted his teeth. “What?”

  Hades stood, moving out of the corner to stand behind Ares. His face was grim, his eyes deep. “Mortal deaths release . . . energies,” came the answer.

  “Hades is right,” the goddess said. “We don’t know enough. Killing him might very well lead to resurrecting Zeus. Somehow.”

  “Somehow?” Ares snarled.

  “You know how these things go!”

  “Yes.” Hermes grinned. “You make one simple bet about who’s prettiest, and suddenly the entire Trojan nation is wiped out!”

  The goddess glared. “You just shut up about that, Hermes! The others were—I didn’t—it wasn’t my—shut up!”

  He winked at her before going on. “Apollo did think the mortal might be a child of Zeus. That might even increase the chance that killing him could be what starts things in motion.”

  Hades gave what was, possibly, a conceding nod.

  “Might. Might not.” Ares shrugged. “One way to find out.”

  “It’s a bad idea until we know more,” Hermes said.

  “Kill first, ask questions after!”

  “Sage advice!” Hermes sniped. “Are you a god or a stereotype?”

  “Yer a timid damn pussy, Hermes.”

  “Oh yes? Who risked himself to steal the god-killer in the first place, eh?”

  “We didn’t ask for your help!”

  “Ah, well you did, actually. ‘Don’t tell our secret, Hermes! Steal the god-killer for us, Hermes!’ With all ‘due’ respect, Ares, you’re not the brains of this operation. Frankly, I don’t even gather just what you bring to the table, so why don’t you let the rest of us do the thinking and—”

  Ares shot to his feet. “Yer all a bunch of pussies!”

  Hades put a single hand on the war god’s shoulder. His whisper close against Ares’s ear somehow echoed through the room regardless. “We shall not kill him. Yet.” A firm arm pushed Ares back to his seat before Hades returned to his corner.

  “Okay,” Ares tried, “so we haul out the god-killer again and off Apollo.”

  Protests echoed about the table from all but Hades, who merely shook his head.

  “Yer worried about Poseidon’s new ‘no attackin’ another god’ rule? We’re not attackin’ him; we’re killin’ him!”

  Hades stared at Ares with infinitely patient disapproval. “No.”

  “No one wants to investigate who killed Zeus,” Hermes added. “We do it again and we might not be so lucky. Besides, Apollo’s usually a decent chap.”

  “But—”

  “We’re not killing him, Ares,” the goddess insisted.

  “Okay, o
kay, it was just an idea,” he said. “Damned good idea, if ya ask me . . .”

  “So what, then?” asked the smooth-voiced god. “Ideas, anyone?”

  “We have him followed, for starters,” said the goddess suddenly. She turned to Hermes. “Any one of us can find a mortal to do a favor.”

  “Discreet," said Hermes. "I like it.”

  “Come on, following?” Ares grumbled. “That’s it?”

  “Yeah,” the smooth-voiced god agreed, “that’s not enough.”

  “We can’t take action until we know what this mortal is destined to do. Apollo said he wasn’t even sure if the vision was literal, so—”

  Hermes brightened. “Oh, that’s perfect! Look, we can’t kill him, but we can’t just let him go about his business, right? So, obviously, we find a way to distract him!”

  Ares grinned. “Good solid boot to the head’s always mighty distracting, I find.”

  The god gave a sly chuckle. “Not quite what I had in mind. But first, we’ve got to find the lucky fellow and get just a teensy bit of Aphrodite’s help.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Monster Slayer: He keeps you safe! He lets you watch! Wednesday nights on the Adventure Channel!”

  —Monster Slayer television promo

  THE LUCKY, SANDY-BLOND-HAIRED FELLOW now sought after by two separate groups of immortals resided in the college town of Bellingham, Washington, about twenty miles south of the Canadian border.

  Despite Apollo’s visions, Leif Karlson had never been to Paris. He did, however, spend an inordinate amount of his free time in cafés. It had little to do with coffee. Leif liked coffee just fine, but he wasn’t a snob about it. What he liked more was the excuse to get out of his apartment ever since he lost his job. Though he made an effort to try a new café every once in a while, the Sacred Grounds Café topped a small list of favorites based on two factors. The first factor—free Wi-Fi— Sacred Grounds satisfied in epic proportions. The other was atmosphere.

  It had occurred to Leif that anything worth thinking about was worth categorizing, and so he’d decided that atmosphere was a combination of the lighting, the attractiveness of the baristas, and the number of patrons in the place at any given time. As such, Sacred Grounds was also at the top of his list. The lighting was perfect (not too bright, not too dark, the perfect level of warmth); the baristas were top-notch (primarily female, primarily cute, and, also primarily, appearing to be just over twenty years old—so the twenty-six-year-old Leif could flirt with them without feeling creepy); and the number of patrons was usually just enough to give the place life without making it too loud.

  Usually. Today was not one of those days.

  He stood at the end of the bar, waiting for his drink order to make its way through a mass of people and wondering just what the heck was going on. Initially he counted himself lucky to get a table at all, though after placing his order, it was apparent that there were other empty tables as well. The sea of people hanging about, most of them women, centered mainly around a table in the corner and seemed more interested in getting a glimpse of whoever sat there than finding a spot of their own. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the stragglers from crowding the bar with drink orders to pass the time.

  A celebrity of some sort? Maybe even one of the so-called “gods”? It was impossible to ignore the chatter of the women nearby.

  “Can you believe he’s here?”

  “I know! I hear he just got back from filming a show in the mountains. He’s even cuter in person.”

  “Ohmigod, did you see the episode where the monster just ripped his shirt right off? I nearly lost it then and there. So hot!”

  “So very hot! I hear he’s a son of one of the gods too. You know, like Herculor or whatever!”

  “Really?”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “Mm, Herculor. I’ve got to find something for him to sign!”

  “Oh, I’ve got something he can sign, honey.”

  Both women exploded with laughter. Leif tried his best to get away from them before he threw up.

  So apparently it was a celebrity, and likely that guy from TV who made a show out of slaying the monsters that had shown up soon after the “gods”. Jason . . . Jason something. He couldn’t recall. But so what if he was a celebrity? It’s not like the guy would have anything to say to Leif. Maybe Jason Whatshisfinger would leave soon and give everyone else some peace. Leif was just thankful he’d managed to get a table.

  The call from the barista came, finally. “Tall mocha on the bar for Leif!”

  He reached for it only to be intercepted by the woman waiting beside him who snatched the cup first and glared as if he’d just stuffed a dead rabbit down her shirt. “Excuse me!”

  “Excuse you? That’s mine, sorry.”

  She gaped. “Is your name Lisa?”

  “Leif.”

  “Exactly!”

  The barista—a young blonde woman named Jen who reminded Leif of the cheerleader who repeatedly shot him down in high school—was focused on making the next order in an ever-growing queue and wasn’t paying either of them a lick of attention.

  “She said ‘Leif,’ actually,” Leif tried again, reaching for his drink.

  “Rude! Wait for your own latté!”

  Annoyance clashed with amazement at the scope of the woman’s mistake. All Leif could get out at first was, “That’s not a—”

  “Ugh!” She spat out the first sip and slammed Leif’s mocha down, sloshing the contents across the counter before hurling her outburst at the barista.

  “There’s chocolate in this!”

  “What the hell, lady? That’s not your—”

  The woman ignored him completely. “Hey! You put chocolate in my latté, you stupid—”

  The barista spared her a hurried glance. “That’s not your latté; that’s his mocha. Please be patient.” Though harried, she flashed Leif one of her customary smiles that he always assumed resulted from large tips. “I’ll remake yours in a sec.”

  Before he could respond with more than a smile of his own, the latté princess came back with a, “No! You don’t understand. That latté is for Jason Powers! Don’t you know who that is? Now make it right! Now!”

  Jen put some milk under the steamer. “Who’s that? And if it’s for him, why’d you take a drink?”

  “You know damn well who he is! Now make my latté before he leaves!”

  Jen grinned at him. “I thought she said it was Jason Powers’s latté?”

  “She did say—”

  The woman smacked her hand on the bar. “Listen, you little slut—”

  “Hey!” Jen and Leif both shouted at once. Jen whirled on her and kept going before Leif could find the words. “I called his name; you drank his damn mocha! For crying out loud, lady, you were in line behind him! Shut up, be patient, and try not to be such a virulent bitch!”

  “. . . Yeah!” Leif added to what he hoped was great effect.

  The entire bar line was staring now, all focused on the crazed woman. It took a few moments under Jen’s glare for her to regain her wits. “Fine! See if I ever come back here again!” For a second it appeared she might manage more until she turned and stormed off.

  The remains of Leif’s mocha went with her.

  “Hey!”

  Jen turned back to the espresso machine. “That felt good.”

  Leif pointed after her. “She—the nutbar took my mocha!”

  “Go ahead and sit down.” She drew a breath. “I’ll have someone bring yours out to you.”

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks,” he answered. Why was he feeling stupid now? He wasn’t the one who took the wrong damn drink. “I was just about to tell her off, myself, you know.” He turned to go as she nodded, then stopped. “Jason Powers is here?”

  “And about five hundred more fans like her, I’d guess. Fun, huh?”

  “Frigging insane.” At least he could get away from the crowded bar. He returned to the table he’d staked out, sat down, an
d powered up his laptop. “Leif, Lisa,” he grumbled to himself. “How the heck do those names sound at all the same?” It infuriated him more the longer he thought about it.

  The laptop was taking its sweet time to boot up. He turned to the dark-haired woman occupying the table beside him whom he might have found attractive were he in any mood to care. “Geez, it’s nuts in here today, huh?”

  She looked up from the smartphone she’d been tapping on and smiled behind her glasses. “Jason Powers is here.”

  “Heh. You knew, then.” Great, another one. He’d just wanted a nodding grunt from her that would kill a bit of time until his laptop was ready. He hadn’t really intended to start a conversation. “I didn’t take you for a fan, all the way over here.”

  “I’m not. A fan, rather.”

  “Oh, whew! Yeah, you look too smart for that.” Thank goodness! “Bunch of fan-girls running around here, crowding up the place and acting vacant over nothing. Show’s all fake anyway.”

  The woman’s smile at his first comment melted away at his second. “What’s fake about it? He makes the journey out to where the monsters live and fights them without any help. It’s not staged, if that’s what you think. That’s why people like it.”

  “Oh, come on. He just goes out there and kills stuff. What’s the big deal? It’s a glorified fishing show, for crying out loud. Just because he’s attractive and muscular—” He flung an arm toward the scene of his bar altercation. “I mean, did you see the kind of idiot it attracts? Lowest common denominator!”

  The woman frowned and set down her muffin. “Jason Powers risks his life and protects his crew every time he goes out there! It’s real, it’s exciting, and that ‘lowest common denominator’ is what makes a show successful!”

  “Yeah, right.” Leif didn’t bother hiding an eye roll. “Probably scouts the whole place by helicopter and dopes down the monsters before fighting them, just like that one wilderness-guy who they caught sleeping in hotels that were ‘rainforest-adjacent.’ Even if it is real, it just makes him an idiot risking his life.”