Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5)

by Dean C. Moore

  The overhead cupboard in front of her opened on its own accord, and out fell a bottle of prescription medications. Katia sensed the same invisible force at work.

  She picked up the bottle and examined the label. They were anti-depressant medications with Steven’s name on them. Maybe the ghost stalking Katia wanted her to understand that everyone was in pain—not just her—and the only way to end it was to give into love—not anger, not hate, not revenge, or a host of other possible reactions that would leave her feeling just as empty in the end as this pill container.

  Steven gave her a kiss on the back of the neck to distract her, while he slipped the bottle out of her hands. “I don’t need these, anymore. I have you now.” He tossed the child-proof canister in the waste basket.

  “You don’t have to be ashamed.”

  “I’m not. Who in your absence would be man enough to go it alone without wheelbarrows full of the stuff?” He clamped his hands over her eyes and turned her around. “Voila!”

  She had had her back to the rest of the apartment for some time, making the kitchen her sole focus. When he peeled his hands away, she gasped. “I hope you’re not this fast in bed.”

  “Nope. Just this boisterous.” He grabbed her and danced her around the apartment.

  She was amazed anyone could move this freely in this space, even cleared of junk.

  “My, but you’re light on your feet,” he said.

  She glanced down at her feet dangling a good foot off the ground. “Cute.” He held her up with one hand at her waist as effortlessly as he whirled her around without bashing her against the furnishings, and without looking where he was going. “You move better than a blind man in this space,” she said.

  “I only leave it once a year to mate with the first girl I see at the food mart.”

  “That would explain it.” She sniffed him. “You smell of mildew and pot and dried sweat.”

  “Try not to get too excited too fast over it.”

  “I’ll try, but no promises.”

  He whirled her around a few more times before resting her against the sofa. Once he was on top of her, she felt suffocated. He was still smooching around her face and neck, having not made it to her lips yet, when she frantically batted him off her, moving each of her limbs in rapid-fire motion. He eased off. “The idea was to make you so dizzy, you didn’t even realize we weren’t vertical, anymore,” he said.

  She balled herself into the corner of the sofa. Her pain and sorrow surrounding sex remained from that earlier life as a slave to men’s carnal desires, even if she couldn’t access the memories, even if that force barring her from going further into the pain and horror remained.

  “I’m sorry, it’s not you,” she said.

  “Hey, only Prince Charming can unlock Sleeping Beauty with a kiss. So, all that’s left for me to do is be more charming.”

  She smiled despite herself. “I’ll start in on that meal,” she said, sliding herself off the sofa.

  “Nonsense. I’ll cook. Give you a chance to explore the place, and get to know me better.”

  “You have other sides of you besides incurable romantic?”

  “Not really, but we can pretend.”

  He did as promised, prepared the food in the kitchen as she roamed about looking for clues. He slowed his manic pace with the vegetable chopping when he realized she was enjoying her new assignment, and appeared to be relaxing. His nervousness dissipated the more he found a groove with the salad preparations.

  She maintained a line of sight with him at all times. She sniffed his stinky tennis shoe, twisted up her face with mock exaggeration to carry to the back row of the theater, where he was currently located relative to her, proverbially speaking. She was at the far end of his bedroom, eying him at the far end of the kitchen through the opened door.

  “Don’t pretend it’s not quite the aphrodisiac.” He threw his voice just right to cover the distance.

  Their courtship was starting to feel as if it arose from the pages of a script: the oh-so clever lines volleyed back and forth without either missing a beat; the rising and lowering of voices just right to accommodate the widening and narrowing spaces between them; their shared performances carried out as if by professional theater hands.

  Each smile he brought to her face seemed to heal another wound. It made him seem like a powerful witch doctor. And this theater therapy was but part of his spell. But it wasn’t him procuring the magic, it was the ever-present force she could feel drawing the drama around her, trying to expel all the hate and anger and venom.

  Suddenly she was desperate to lose herself in the performance again. But the harder she tried, the more self-conscious she grew.

  She put down his shoe and picked up a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover by his bedside. Glancing at the other books in the cubbyhole recessed into his bed board, she passed her hands over love stories from various eras. He seemed like a ghost rehearsing his part for eons for the chance to be made flesh and blood again, to get it right this time, granted life by the power that currently held her in its clutches. She was growing increasingly mad at herself for seeing through the ruse, blowing his chance and hers to get things right.

  Steven played with the rhythm of his veggie chopping and wok-stirring and mixing, beating out a steel drum tympani to draw her back into the moment, seeming to sense she was getting lost in her head, again. He seemed so divinely connected to her. It was part of his magic; the hypersensitive attunement compensating for a lifetime of insensitive animals pawing her.

  When tears filled her eyes, he was by her side, lifting her in his arms and holding her before the window. “See how much prettier the city is in the rain. You’ve got to keep the tears flowing to make it sweet and beautiful again.”

  She laughed and cried at the same time.

  This time when he kissed the nape of her neck, she yielded to him, coming to orgasm at his gentle touch even before he could find his way inside her.

  He slid up her dress. As she bobbed up and down, she continued to view the city in a rain of tears, conscious of being able to accept his intimacy only as a sneak attack from behind. The moment was the sweetest yet in a rosary of delicious memories strung ever so closely together from the time they’d met in the food mart.

  ***

  Bacchus pushed in the door, slamming it against the wall, using the same intimidation technique Baen had perfected to encourage the girls to cower in the far corner. The expressions on his clients’ faces, bearing their lechery like vampire fangs, were just too much after the sweetness of Steven’s smiles.

  Katia wanted them to pay, not just the clients, but all the tenants in all the adjacent buildings who knew what was going on here day in and day out and continued to turn a blind eye.

  After alternating between sobbing, screaming, and shaking, she shuttered her eyes, and clenched her fists. When she opened both, the building was gone, and so was much of the block.

  Katia sat on folded legs in the barren patch of scorched earth.

  The wave of energy pushing away from her continued relentlessly, until it found every last politician accepting bribes as part of Bacchus’s corrupt business. Wives, sitting down to dinner with their husbands and children, watched their husbands burst into flames as they carved the turkey; poured the wine; the ones hugging their husbands from behind had to fight to get away from the rampaging fire.

  One official on a fishing trip, sitting with his legs dangling over the dock, exploded into ash next to his drunk buddy, who looked over at his remains hang-jawed, took a sip from his whiskey bottle in a brown paper bag and uttered, “Very cool. Do that again.”

  ***

  Robin materialized before Katia, sitting in the pile of simmering ash, as The Lady in Red. “You chose revenge over love. You chose poorly.”

  Katia seemed to recognize Robin as “the force” entrapping her in an alternate reality with Steven. She sobbed, as much from grief as from a sense of guilt and failure at having not been up to her
challenges. “I couldn’t let go. I still can’t. I’m not done killing them. Maybe I’ll never be done.

  “One day, I think you will be. And, with any luck, Steven will be waiting for you.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “In your case, because I’m sending you to a world of warring gods where you can get this out of your system. You’ve caused enough of a stir here. Rest assured the bastards you seek have their surrogates there. In Steven’s case, he’s been waiting for you to come back to him for lifetimes. Can’t seem to move on. He’s stuck in limbo, a ghost without anywhere to go. Maybe you deserve each other. After a lifetime of schmucks, you deserve the one man who will love you until the end of time and will accept none other. Maybe you can explore the true meaning of love and life with each other. I’ll be there to bring you together in the flesh when the time is right.”

  “When you say send me to the realm of warring gods—”.

  “I think you know what I mean. I’m sorry, Katia. You’ve been violated enough.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend, though I’m sure it doesn’t feel like that now.”

  Katia brushed the hair back from her eyes. “What’s with the red?”

  Robin had to think about it. She flashed on Iona Pax dressed in red at the museum, wondered if her unconscious was trying to communicate something by establishing a connection. It was certainly not the only recurring theme. A lot of the Renaissance figures she kept an eye on reeked of sarcasm or dry wit. There were hidden messages for her there, also, to be sure. Probably having to do with her own lack of humor.

  Now was not the time to spend decoding the hidden communiqués. “Red is the color of the root chakra, of survival,” Robin explained. “From the root chakra, the kundalini rises to suffuse all the chakras and breathe life into the body.” That answer would serve her better where Robin was sending her.

  Katia watched, seemingly entranced, as the wind caught Robin’s hair and dress, and made some connections of her own. “You’re only now powering up, like me.”

  “Like you, I have a lot to learn about how to use these powers responsibly.”

  “Well, do your best. I’ll do mine.” Katia held out her palm at Robin and screamed; from the look on her face, intent on blasting her all the way to hell in the pulse of energy emitted from her hand.

  Robin just smiled warmly.

  In another second Katia was gone. Robin had reflected her energy back at her so she could ride her own shockwave to the realm of the warring gods.

  In her mind’s eye, Robin could see nearly half of one side of the obelisk lit. That girl sure could generate a lot of power.

  She liked Katia. They would meet again, after the healing had taken. Katia was so broken, it would take a while for the metaphorical bones to set.

  Robin looked forward to their next encounter.

  FIVE

  “You’re taking a page from my book, I see,” Archer said, eying Cristo’s handiwork with the arrow tip. Seeing himself through Archer’s eyes, he suddenly realized he was filing it with more care than he gave to flossing his own teeth.

  “Bullets are too good for them. This way, they get to see life from the whale’s perspective. Should be very mind expanding.” After the latest burnishing stroke, he blew against the tip to remove the shavings. “If you can’t get a little distance on yourself as you’re dying, when can you?” Archer shuddered, and seemingly not from the cold. Although the wind was picking up, Cristo thought. Alaskan wilderness liked to spank them when they were down, showing them that when she was being mean, it was just tough love on her part to prepare them for what comes next.

  “You might want to take cover. That storm coming looks like a real doozy,” Archer said, grimacing.

  Alaska was getting increasingly personal in a way that spoke of their evolving love-hate relationship, Cristo thought.

  “I’m good.” He refused to break from rhythm with his filing of the arrow tip, although he gazed up to size up the encroaching storm and the merits of Archer’s warnings.

  “You plan on your hate keeping you warm through that?” Archer studied the perilous storm in the distance with growing fear. “No one’s got that much.”

  “You think those flimsy tents are going to protect you?” Cristo threw an eye back at the aerodynamic nylon domes whose best bet for riding out the gusts of snow was being streamlined enough to resist the wind as little as possible. Even that didn’t seem like enough. Likely they’d have to tunnel their way out come morning—if they survived. “You underestimate the value of your bile at times like this.”

  Archer was either too tired to argue, or too light-headed. Already defaulting to survival mode, he scurried toward his tent and jumped in. The zipper emitted a metallic cry that made it appear as if even the tent was taking the onslaught of the weather personally.

  The howling wind seemed to be whistling an aria, so Cristo gazed up to see if indeed a wind goddess had materialized to serenade him. He found, awaiting his gaze, a Lady in Red. Suddenly, the thought that had brought a smile to his face made his hairs stand on end.

  There was something ghostlike in how she stood. She seemed even more undaunted than him by the weather. Her flimsy red cocktail dress refused to yield to the wind; her hair tossed. As for her balancing on high heels—he wouldn’t give the Yaktrax Pro Cleats he was wearing much of a chance against those gusts.

  She sauntered over to him as if “goddess of the wind” was an understatement.

  He masked his fear with mock confidence and cheekiness. “What’s with the outfit?”

  “What’s with the attitude?” she said, not missing a beat.

  “My mother wore red.” He resumed his filing of the arrow’s tip, this time, to steady his nerves.

  “Was she the excitable type?”

  “Very.”

  “Maybe I’m showing myself to you this way to get you to recognize that quality in yourself before it takes you any further down the garden path.”

  “I hope you’re not here just to lecture me. It is getting awfully cold, and I could use a fantasy woman to lure me back to my tent.”

  “You underestimate my allure. I’m here to steer you toward a different future.”

  Before he could return to his filing, she found her way into his mind.

  ***

  “Great, that’s just what I wanted to be… What do you call the figurehead on a bow of a ship?”

  “A figurehead.”

  “Really? Well, honestly, I wouldn’t mind being a figurehead, just not this. What do you call this?”

  “Nailed to a cross.”

  Cristo had to admit, dangling from the mast of the ship with his hands tied behind his back wasn’t the most becoming arrangement. The kid hanging next to him, the latest recruit, reminded Cristo of himself in the early days, less than a year before, when he had his first run in with Archer and his crew. His name was Victor. Possibly his mother sensed his inability to face down any of his demons even before he exited her womb and decided a name implying victory was the way to go to put more battery acid in his demeanor.

  “Relax, you worry too much.” Cristo hoped he’d managed to strike the right mentoring tone.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. On the plus side we have a ring-side seat to the slaughter.”

  Their perch did indeed go far to magnifying the horror of the whales being slaughtered en masse. One of the perks of this new whaler was that it could spear several at once. Why do one at a time with so many hungry Japanese to feed back home, who were waiting for announcement of the last surviving whale to rein in their dietary habits?

  Victor flailed against his bindings, determined to give testimony to his impotence. He cried out as much from the discomfort as from the indignity.

  After further winding himself up, Victor gasped, “You’re just biding your time, right? Waiting for the perfect opportunity to make your big move?”

  “Yep.”

  “I appreciate you lyi
ng to me in my final hour.”

  Cristo figured the timing was finally right to make his move. The majority of whalers were deployed on the smaller boats for the finishing work.

  He snapped the bindings behind his back with brute strength alone. He next broke the chains around Victor’s hands. When Victor fell, Cristo landed right on top of him.

  Victor gulped. “Not that I don’t appreciate the rescue, but I don’t usually get this intimate with other guys.”

  Cristo pushed away with enough force to do a backwards aerial somersault and land on his feet. He ripped off his clothes with one smooth movement to reveal a body of well-chiseled steel rising out of a scuba diver’s pants.

  Regarding him, Victor said, “I guess that explains how you burst the bindings.”

  Cristo ignored him, making for the side of the boat.

  Victor pulled himself to his feet and followed him. “What are you thinking? Accelerate the ship away from them, leave them stranded in their row boats?” Cristo barely heard what he said, already diving over the side of the ship. “Or maybe not.”

  ***

  Cristo surged out of the water like one of those flying fishes, his hands clutching the ropes streaming from several of the row boats. Victor thought, I can’t believe he’s been holding out on me like this.

  With one dive he took the boats and the whalers down with him.

  The undertow was so powerful that the boatmen got caught in the slipstream, and were unable to swim to the surface.

  Victor had seen this once—in a Godzilla movie. He gulped, but there wasn’t enough spit in the world to wash down the sickening realization things were getting way way out of hand, even for Sidekick Avenger—yeah, he liked that. He was definitely going with Sidekick Avenger. Though, so far, his only superpower was super-worry, and Wondrous Worry Wart just didn’t have the same ring to it.