by I. T. Lucas
They had the same exchange every couple of weeks. Like spoiled kids, they’d behave for a while, then go back to pissing him off.
That was the trouble with working with family. What could he do? Couldn't fire them, couldn't smother them either... It would upset their mothers.
Kian sighed in frustration.
"But the waffles, Kian! The waffles!" Kri lamented in mock despair.
"Get the fucking recipe!"
A loud knock announced another member of the team.
Kian pointed to the door. "See? Someone has manners!"
Okidu rushed over to open it for Onegus, the head of the Guardians.
Taking one sniff of the tantalizing aroma, Onegus smiled his Hollywood smile, and what a surprise... immediately bee-lined for the kitchen.
At least the SOB was actually supposed to show up for their morning meeting.
"Oh no you don't! Everybody out! Let's move the party to the other room!" Kian passed through the butler's pantry into the dining room, which was never used for its primary function. Kian ate at the kitchen counter and never had the kind of guests he wanted to invite to a sit-down dinner.
He liked to work from home, though, so when needed, he used the room for informal meetings. Not that this was a meeting.
More like a home invasion...
His home office was his quiet place to work, and he didn't want the gang invading it and messing with his neatly arranged stuff.
On some level, the fact that the whole force could fit easily in his dining room was depressing. The number of Guardians had shrunk in recent years, and with only seven of them remaining, their duties were limited to providing security detail, mainly to him as Regent, and internal policing—enforcing the clan's laws.
Back in the old country Kian had led that force, when it had still been the size of a small battalion, into more battles than he cared to remember. In the days of hand to hand combat, when the Guardians had been tasked with protecting and guarding the clan's turf, the force had numbered between sixty and eighty warriors. But as times had changed and the USA had become a relatively safe place for them to live and hide in, it had dwindled down. Its defense service had been no longer needed.
Kian, as the clan's American Regent, was in charge of the Guardians as well as heading the local clan-council. And that was in addition to managing the clan's huge business empire.
He snorted as he remembered thinking that acting as Regent, over what were now two hundred eighty-three people, would be an easy job. It wasn't.
With their business empire growing and branching into various industries, Kian was working harder and longer than ever. There simply weren't enough goddamned hours in the day. Was it a wonder then that he was short-tempered and irritable?
He couldn't remember the last time he had some R&R.
As his uninvited guests, and Onegus, were planting their butts around the table, Kian's cellphone vibrated.
He pulled it out and glanced at the caller's name before answering. "What's up in the Bay Area, Arwel?"
There was a moment of silence, then a sigh.
Kian felt a ripple of anxiety rush down his spine. "Talk to me!"
"Mark was found dead in his home this morning,” Arwel paused.
Kian remained silent, stunned by the impossible news.
"His cleaning lady found him on the floor of his living room and called 911. He had my number on his 'Advanced Decision' card, listing me as next of kin."
Arwel's speech faltered. It had been a while since a member of their family had died. The security and anonymity the clan enjoyed in their adopted home made them complacent. The pain of loss had faded into distant memory. Facing it once again was hard, more so for Arwel.
The poor guy had enough trouble coping with life as it was, with his over-receptive mind bombarded relentlessly by the emotions of others. To protect himself he often drank excessively. Though he sounded completely sober now.
"His body was intact. The paramedics declared heart failure as the probable cause of death. Obviously, we know what that means... fangs and venom. We checked his house for clues." There was another pause. "Doomers got him, Kian. They are here and somehow found Mark."
The chill that started in Kian's heart spread out to his extremities as his mind processed the implications.
DOOM—the 'Devout Order Of Mortdh' Brotherhood, his clan's ancient enemy, were sworn to annihilate every last member of his family and destroy any and all progress Annani had helped humanity achieve. Thus plunging the world back into ignorance and darkness.
Theirs wasn't an idle threat.
Time and again, the order had manipulated mortal affairs by planting seeds of hatred, triggering wars, and dragging humanity down—successfully halting and reversing social and scientific advancement all too often.
The DOOM Brotherhood was a relentless scourge.
It was Kian's worst nightmare manifest. He had believed that hiding in plain sight among the multitudes of mortals would keep his family safe from this powerful enemy. And yet, the Doomers had somehow discovered Mark and murdered him.
"Are you sure he was murdered by Doomers?"
"They left a message taped to his computer screen."
"What did it say?"
"Nothing and everything. It's a drawing. Two sickle swords crossed at the handle, flanking a disk. Their fucking emblem. I took a photo of it."
"Send me the picture."
"Hold on."
Kian switched the screen to messages. The image of the crude drawing was blurry, but there was no mistaking the DOOM's emblem.
As grief and impotent rage warred for dominance over his emotions, he pushed up from his chair and began pacing the room.
As a man of solution-driven action, Kian felt an irrational, overbearing need to do something, anything, that would make this all go away. Except, there was no action that would bring Mark back. No going back in time and changing the decisions that had led to this.
The only thing left for him to do was to mourn the dead and safeguard the living.
"Bring our boy home... Take the jet and bring him here,” he told Arwel, then paused to realign his mental gears and get them in motion. "Check his body and make sure they didn't plant any tracking devices on him. The bastards know we'd bring Mark home for a proper service. Can't risk them following you here. Go through his place again, see if anything is missing. Check for any clues that can point to us; letters, photos, personal mementos, and the sort. If you find anything like that, bring it here. I'm sure his mother will want to have it. Pay attention to details. I need to know if they found anything."
"I'm on it!" Arwel was about to hang up.
"Arwel! I'm not done. I want all clan members from your area evacuated. Have Bhathian contact them and explain the gravity of the situation. Provide each one with a different route and mode of transportation. I don't want a mad rush to the airport. They are to take nothing and tell no one. Just get up and go. We'll take care of the details once everyone is safe."
"They are not gonna like it, boss."
"I know, but until we figure out what went down, they'll be chilling their butts over here. I'd rather have them pissed than dead."
Kian ended the call and turned to the Guardians. By the look of their somber faces, they were waiting for him to release the huge boulder that would come crashing down on them.
It was one of those moments everyone dreads; the unexpected disaster striking out of nowhere, destroying the illusion that you're in control, and shoving the cruel reality in your face. Shit happens! Deal with it!
Squaring his shoulders, Kian delivered the grim news.
"As you’ve probably figured out, we have a situation. Mark, son of Micah, was murdered in his home last night." Kian lifted his phone to show them the DOOM emblem. "This was left behind, taped to his computer screen."
"Fuck!" was the only response from Anandur. Brundar and Onegus looked ready to kill, and Kri sniffled, trying to hold back her tears. None of the
m knew Mark very well, but they knew of him; the clan's genius programmer. His loss was devastating not only on a personal level but also as an asset that would be difficult to replace.
Kian sat down and dropped his elbows on the table, then hung his head on his fisted hands. "It's all my fault. I take full responsibility," he admitted, the guilt eating at his gut.
With a curse, Onegus brought his fist down on the table. “How could it be your fault, Kian? Beyond your usual spiel of being Regent and responsible for everyone and everything. Yadda, yadda, yadda...."
"It is my fault. I might as well have placed a neon sign, pointing to his head and blinking: Here I am. Come get me! Anyone with half a brain could've figured out that a code this sophisticated couldn't have been developed with current knowhow."
Kian had known he was taking a big risk by allowing Mark to leak too much info too soon. But he had felt he had no choice. The risk of WMDs in the hands of fanatics outweighed the risk of exposure. And besides, he had never imagined that the Doomers would come after Mark. He’d assumed that if they’d retaliate, they'd do it the same way they had always done, using the mortals under their influence against those the clan was helping.
He continued, "After so many years with no casualties, we've become complacent. And even before, the few of us the Doomers managed to snare were random cases of a male being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They’ve never been able to hunt us down successfully; there are just too few of us, and we hide too well. Except now, I feel like I've drawn the fuckers a goddamned yellow-brick-road!"
"Maybe they just got lucky with Mark?" Kri suggested. Which earned her the you-are-missing-a-screw look from the others.
"No, guys, just hear me out. Think of how the Doomers always retaliated before. They went after our humans or helped theirs against ours. Suppose the Doomers were seeking revenge on the team that worked on that code. They somehow find them, identify Mark as the top programmer, and decide to take him out; send us a message. I bet they didn't even know he was one of us."
Kri got more animated. "We never used to work so close with mortals. We’d supply a bit of information and back off, let them work on it, figure it on their own. Then we’d supply some more. So it would look legit—home grown. There is just no way the Doomers were expecting to find an immortal working on the same team with mortals. No freaking way!" Kri stared them down, daring them to try and refute her logic.
"She might have a point," Onegus admitted.
"Even if Kri is right, that doesn’t change the outcome. Doomers still found and murdered Mark. And now that they have a clue as to what to look for and where, they might find more of us.” Kian pushed to his feet and walked over to Kri. "Good thinking, though. You're a smart girl." He squeezed her shoulder.
At any other time, under different circumstances, Kri would've been ecstatic to receive this kind of praise from Kian. Now, she just nodded and reached for his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it back.
"Sire, the waffles are ready!" Okidu chose that moment to bring in a loaded platter. He placed it carefully on the sideboard, then scurried away, expecting a stampede. But the food was ignored.
"Thank you, Okidu,” Kian dismissed him. "Actually, I need you to do one more thing. Make sure we have four clean, vacant apartments ready, and if you could, please air Amanda's penthouse. We are about to have overnight guests."
"Certainly, sire!" Okidu bowed.
"Thank you." Kian nodded to Okidu and faced the Guardians.
"Onegus, I want you to call an emergency council meeting for noon today. Don't tell them what it's about. I don't want anyone calling Micah to offer condolences before I see her. No one should get news like that over the phone. We'll meet in the big council room. Instruct everyone to wear their ceremonial robes. I'm going to demand sequester for all council members, which they will surely bitch and moan about. But we don't have enough manpower to provide security detail for each of them separately. I need them here, protected. Let's hope the formalities will help them behave. That will be all."
Kian's eyes followed his people as they pushed away from the table and silently trudged toward the living room. Onegus pulled open the front door, and with a slight nod, left, followed by the somber brothers. Kri remained behind, looking lost.
Walking up to her, Kian took her in his arms and let her burrow her nose into his neck, hugging her for a long moment. Being so young, she had never faced the loss of a friend, and unlike the men's emotions which were deadened by centuries of countless battles, hers were still raw with pain and grief. When she sighed and let go of him, he looked into her eyes, making sure she was okay.
But there was a reason he took Kri on as a guardian. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed her chin up, and the determination he saw in her eyes proved to him that she really was the hard-ass he’d hired.
"Go, I need time to plan." He dismissed her with a pat to her back.
Alone, Kian allowed himself to drift on the waves of guilt and dread for a few moments, letting his mind go in different directions, envisioning every foreseeable danger and coming up with creative if not feasible solutions. It was an old and tried technique of his. Like purging out the pus from a malignant wound; eventually the blood would run clean and healing would start.
Unbidden, his thoughts drifted back to how it had all begun.
CHAPTER 8: KIAN
The story was one Kian had heard his mother tell many times. Each time, the details had changed a little; some new tidbits added, others omitted. As a child, Kian had thought her forgetful, or fanciful. Only later, he had realized that she had been tailoring her story to her audience, making sure it was appropriate for his age.
After all, you couldn't accuse a goddess of forgetting, or making things up.
By now he had it memorized.
The tale would sound familiar to most mortals, as its distorted echoes had been recorded in the traditions of several of their cultures. Written in various languages, the names of the players had been changed and the story adapted to fit different agendas, different moralites, different sets of beliefs.
It had become a myth.
But as all timeless myths go, it had at its core a true story.
There was a time when the gods lived among the mortals. They bestowed their benevolence, providing knowledge and culture and helping humanity establish an advanced, moral and just society.
In gratitude, the people worshiped the gods, expressing their adoration with offerings of their best goods and their freely donated labor.
Obviously, these gods hadn't been actual deities. Still, whether they had been the survivors of an earlier, superior civilization or refugees from somewhere else, his mother wouldn't say. She either didn't know or was keeping the knowledge to herself. Annani took her godly status very seriously and made sure everyone else did as well.
Kian suspected that she sought to elevate her grandness, as if it was needed or even possible, by shrouding her origins in mystery.
The gods had unimaginable powers. They could cast illusions so powerful that they fooled the minds of thousands. Their power over the human mind was so strong that their illusions not only looked and smelled real but even felt real to the touch. They could project thoughts and images into the unsuspecting, inferior minds of mortals, influencing everything from moods, to moral conduct, to a call to battle, all the way to divine revelation and inspiration.
Physically, they were perfect. Stunningly beautiful. Their bodies never aged or contracted diseases and healed injuries in mere moments.
But they could still die.
Even the gods couldn't survive decapitation or withstand a nuclear blast. For which, unfortunately, they had the means.
They were few.
The limited gene pool combined with an extremely low conception rate prompted the gods to seek compatible mates among the mortals. Those unions proved to be more fruitful, and many near-immortal children were born. But when those children took human mates, their progeny turned ou
t to be mortal.
Upon closer examination, their scientists found a way to activate the dormant, godly genes, but only for the children of the female immortals. The children of the males were sadly doomed to mortality.
Annani, one of the few pureblood children born to the gods, and the daughter of the leading couple, became the most coveted young goddess.
The one fortunate to mate her would become their next ruler.
The chain of events following her coming-of-age wasn't surprising. A fierce competition ensued between two suitors. Mortdh, the son of her father's brother and, therefore, the first in line for her hand, was her intended. And Khiann, the son of a less prominent, though wealthy family, who on the face of things didn't stand a chance.
But Annani was very young and impetuous, and she chose the one she loved and who loved her back. Not the one she was promised to, who never really cared for her and had already numerous concubines and children of his own.
Mortdh was infuriated and demanded she mate him, as was his right. But his right was superseded by her choice. The gods' code of conduct clearly stated that any mating, even one with a lowly mortal, had to be consensual.
Madly in love, Khiann and Annani were joined in a grand ceremony.
Both gods and mortals were so infatuated with the great love story that they wrote hymns and created myths to commemorate it.
Khiann and Annani's love was the story everyone loved to tell.
The tale of love's triumph.
It drove Mortdh insane. In his mind, he lost not only his one chance for sovereignty, but the respect of all.
And it was: All. Her. Fault.
His hatred of Annani, and by extension of all women, burned with rabid intensity. He detested the females' right to choose a mate, he abhorred the matrilineal tradition of the gods. He vowed to seize power and change all of that. Under his rule, women would have no rights. They would become property, to be purchased and sold like cattle. Heredity would cease to be matrilineal, the chains of power would become patriarchal.
