Urban Mythic: Thirteen Novels of Adventure and Romance, featuring Norse and Greek Gods, Demons and Djinn, Angels, Fairies, Vampires, and Werewolves in the Modern World

by C. Gockel

  He went to get food.

  “Good. I’m hungry, and I bet you are, too.” She smiled, trying to lighten the mood, but he merely stared at her. “When did you last eat? Well, how often do you normally eat? Owen, I mean Lord Owen, didn’t seem to need to eat every day.” The title felt awkward and strange in her mouth, but she thought she would oblige him until Owen came back and made his wishes known.

  Normally we eat every three or four days. They fed me once a month. After considering her face a moment, he added, Grenidor lies.

  “Did you hear us last night?”

  Only the part where you accused Lord Owen of being a murderer. He wrote the words with irritated force, then glanced up at her again.

  “That’s not what I meant! I just wanted to hear the truth.” She was going to keep justifying herself, as thin as the words sounded, but he started writing again.

  Grenidor is one of the directors of the experiment program. He devises the tortures that are inflicted on our people. He turned the paper around so she could see it with an angry flourish, then stopped to add, If you cannot believe Lord Owen’s word over Grenidor’s, you are the stupidest human I have ever met.

  She winced. “You’re right. It was stupid. I’m sorry, and I owe him an apology.”

  He scowled at her, only slightly mollified.

  “How old are you?”

  Chapter Six

  She blinked. Yes, that would be right. If Owen looked about thirty, but was 273, this child looked something close to a third of that, eight or ten. She shook her head at the strangeness of it. “Where were you born? Do you remember before the Revolution?”

  It was his turn to stare at her oddly before answering. Nearby, outside the city. I remember. Not as much as Lord Owen, because I was young and my parents sheltered me from the worst of it.

  “From the worst of it? The worst of what?”

  Another strange look. The violence.

  “What violence?”

  He cocked his head to the side and stared at her for a long moment. He tapped the pen under the word violence, watching her face.

  “What violence? There wasn’t any violence. It was a bloodless revolution, just a political change. The only fighting was against the Outlanders in the West and South Quadrants, and even that only lasted a few weeks. There was some unrest, competing propaganda for a while, but then it faded as everyone realized how much better things were.” She stopped, blinking. The words came from her lips, but they sounded wrong, somehow. False.

  She shook her head, feeling as if she stood on the edge of a precipice. “It was bloodless, wasn’t it?”

  His lips opened as if he wanted to speak, but then he clamped them shut. He wrote furiously, and she read over his shoulder. No. There was much bloodshed. Do you not remember? Fighting in the streets for years. Many people killed. Some Fae also. Laser guns. Death squads. Getlaril bullets and vertril invented. Trackers. Propaganda war ended with assassinations of journalists.

  “No. No. That’s not what I remember.” But images flashed in her head. Blood splatters on the asphalt. Rockets. She pressed her hands over her eyes and shuddered. Shivering in the bathtub, hoping it would stop the bullets.

  She rocked, knees pulled up to her chest, as memories flooded her, a movie played too fast in her mind, the images running over each other and sounds filling her ears. Running from a fire consuming a building. Her home? A boy clutching her hand. Her brother? Maybe six years old? What was his name? Johann Sebastian. Her mother’s attempt at culture, though the family had no claim to musical talent or distinguished ancestors. Her mother’s face, beaten and bruised, abruptly yanked away. Her younger self screaming endlessly, throat raw.

  She didn’t know how long it had been when Owen pressed his hands on each side of her head and sang. The beauty of his song lay over the wounds of memory like gauze, a thin reminder that she was still alive, and that she would recover.

  The song slipped through her, quiet but insistent, slowing her racing heartbeat, calming the blood in her veins. It wrapped around her shoulders like a warm blanket.

  She blinked, and shuddered, shook her head as if coming up for breath. Owen let her go and sat back, eyes on her face. He and Niall were both staring at her.

  Finally, Owen said quietly, “That was unexpected. What happened?”

  Niall showed him his half of the conversation written in the notebook, and Owen glanced at her again. “You don’t remember?”

  “I remember some of it now. It’s all disjointed, but I remember.” Blood in the streets, yes, tanks. Soldiers running everywhere. Hiding under my bed. Yanked out by one arm, held up while… “It’s the trackers!” She caught her breath again at the memory. They put it in then. I was maybe 15? Terrified as a child in a nightmare. It hurt. A lot. But it faded, and then so did everything else.

  “What?” Owen and Niall were watching her with identical expressions of wary curiosity. “What about the trackers?”

  She trembled as the memories kept falling into place, one little piece here, a jagged edge there that lined up with another one. She forced herself to answer, “The tracker. I think it made me forget. It was all foggy. Everything was different. But now I remember.”

  “Remember what, exactly?” Owen asked.

  The memories jostled with each other for space in her mind, recent and distant connected with each other by threads of thought or a feeling. Desolation. When my house was burned, desolation, and when Mom died, too. Johann. Is he alive? No. Yes. Maybe? I can’t remember. I think he’s gone. And Dad died. I remember that. On the carpet in the living room. One of the soldiers shot him, when they came to put in our trackers because he fought so hard, punched a soldier in the face.

  “Everything. It’s so jumbled. But I remember now.” She blinked at them. “They put in the trackers and then everything faded. I forgot all the fighting. I forgot everything. I didn’t even remember—” a sob rose up in her throat. “I didn’t even remember I had a brother! His name was Johann.” She leaned forward to bury her face in her knees and felt Owen’s cool, gentle hand rest on her shoulder for a moment. She couldn’t face him, not now, not with everything so fresh again in her mind. She couldn’t face anything.

  But while one part of her mind listened to Owen and Niall, another part parsed through memories, placing them in a logical order, as though leafing through a photo album.

  Johann was younger there, so that one must be earlier. Mom has less gray in this one. That was when I was studying for the spelling bee, which was in sixth grade. This was when we went camping by the river. Johann fell in, because he was being a little scamp and running across the fallen tree. Mom warned him so many times! This was when I was studying for the college entrance exams. Dad was dead by then. Mom was dead. Johann dead? Or gone?

  Owen spoke first in Fae, but shifted to English, and she imagined that he did it on purpose, knowing she might be listening. “Here.” The crinkle of paper and plastic told her he had been to the butcher shop. Somehow the thought of the pig’s heart did not horrify her the way it had before. Strange what you can get used to. They knelt beside the lantern, a cardboard box acting as a makeshift table.

  Silence but for the almost inaudible sound of thin wet plastic, and then Owen spoke as if he were answering a question. “I have heard nothing about it from the other humans. But we keep our distance. I have not spoken to Gabriel in nearly three years.”

  Another pause.

  “No. We have both been occupied with our own pursuits, that is all. I don’t believe he blames me. He shouldn’t.”

  A long silence, and she looked up to see Owen shaking his head. He sighed heavily and stared at the bloody plastic before him. He said something in Fae, and Niall shot to his feet.

  The boy stood trembling in the lamplight, paced away and back, away again, then threw himself onto his knees before Owen with a wordless cry. He was shaking his head, tears running down his face.

  Owen put his hands on Niall’s shoulders and spoke s
oftly, urgently, but the boy struck his hands away and shook his head, his eyes never leaving Owen’s. The tears glistened on his cheeks.

  Arguing. Niall refuses to accept something Owen said.

  Owen’s voice softened still further, and he seemed to be pleading. His straight, strong shoulders slumped a little, and he closed his eyes against Niall’s wordless plea. Finally, Owen nodded once. Niall caught one of Owen’s hands in his own two smaller ones and pressed it to his cheek, kissed the back of Owen’s hand and then pressed it to his forehead.

  The silence drew out, and Owen finally rose, tousled Niall’s hair once, and stepped back to disappear into the shadows.

  Niall remained on his knees, his blue eyes rimmed with red. He glanced into the darkness and then stared at the floor.

  “What just happened?” Aria finally whispered to him.

  He looked up at her as if he’d just realized she was there. After a long moment, he picked up a notebook and slid toward her. He wrote slowly as she read over his shoulder.

  Lord Owen wanted to take me to the Old Country. He says it is safe there, and I can find refuge with some distant relatives of my mother. He would return to pursue the fight alone. I begged him to let me stay with him.

  He hesitated, then continued. I am afraid for him. He has been alone too long in the concrete and steel, and he has lost hope. If Gabriel still hates him, I see no hope for us. Lord Owen has no one to sing for him, as he sang for me, and no one to heal the wounds he has suffered.

  She swallowed. Niall looked up at her, his eyes brimming with tears.

  “What can I do?” she murmured.

  He studied her for a long moment. Do you know Gabriel?

  “No.”

  He sighed.

  “What about the trackers? If I didn’t remember, perhaps no one does. Would it matter if more people remembered? Do the others who removed them remember?”

  He blinked at her, then shrugged. Gabriel is the leader of the human resistance. He should know. Another pause, then, He is dangerous.

  Wonderful. She hesitated, then shrugged herself. “Everything is dangerous, though, isn’t it?”

  He glanced at her again, and a slight, sad smile quirked his lips.

  “You look like him, you know. Like Lord Owen.”

  His eyes widened and then he smiled. Thank you. I would be proud if I were like him someday.

  “Will you take me to see Gabriel?”

  His mouth twitched, and he hesitated. I cannot leave Lord Owen without letting him know. It would be cruel at this time. I doubt he will let us go without his protection.

  Another hesitation, then, He needs to rest first. He gave all his strength to me and needs a few hours.

  Niall left the notebook in front of her and rose to slip into the darkness.

  Owen packed his rucksack and wordlessly led them up through a trapdoor in the ceiling, through several connected attic crawl spaces, down another trapdoor, and into the back of a small clothing shop. Three horizontal metal bars lined one wall, the third only a few inches below the ceiling, all filled with hanging clothes.

  “Wait here.”

  He slipped through a door and reappeared in a few moments with a middle-aged woman close behind him. She flipped on the lights and stared at Aria thoughtfully, as if she already knew what was going on.

  Owen frowned again. “It’s a lot to ask, Margot. I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head with a quick wave of her hand. “You know it’s nothing. I owe you, Owen.” She patted his arm with quick affection, then walked around Aria thoughtfully. “Take off your clothes.”

  “What?” Aria blinked at her.

  “You look like a fugitive. Streaked with blood and dirt and smelling like a sewer. You can’t be seen like that.”

  Aria glanced at Owen and Niall, and Owen nodded for the boy to follow him as he moved to the front of the shop.

  Margot gave her an odd look. “Don’t want him to watch?”

  Aria shrugged. “It’s just awkward.”

  Margot chuckled. “You’re so young. I’d give my right arm for him to peek at me.”

  Aria blushed. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive. It was just awkward. Besides, he ate bloody pigs’ hearts. She covered her embarrassment by asking, “Why do you owe him?”

  “I found myself in the wrong place once. It would have gone badly, but he escorted me home.” Her odd tone made it clear there was more to the story, but she didn’t want to tell it. She gazed at Aria a moment longer, then turned to peruse the racks of clothes. She pulled out a few pairs of jeans, a couple pairs of boots, and three shirts.

  “Try these.”

  The first pair of jeans fit so well Aria blinked in surprise. Slim fitting and fashionable, they somehow made her feel more confident when she looked down at herself.

  “And now the boots.” Margot watched her as she slipped her feet into the soft, flat boots, the jeans tucked inside. “Yes, those will work.”

  Aria caught sight of herself in a mirror propped in a corner. “I look good.”

  The surprise in her voice made Margot smile.

  “You need to blend in, stylish but not eye-catching. Practical clothes, because heaven only knows what you’ll be doing. Try this shirt.”

  It was a form-fitting turtleneck in a deep teal, warmer than she’d expected. A sweater went over it. Margot draped another turtleneck over her arm.

  “Take this one too. Here, let me fix your hair.” Margot pulled a brush from her purse and ran it through Aria’s brown curls.

  “Come.” She led Aria out into the main part of the shop, where more neat racks of clothes filled the floor.

  “Here you are.” She presented Aria to Owen and Niall as if pleased with her work. Aria had completely lost track of time in the interminable darkness of the bookshop and tunnels, and she was surprised to see the clear light of early afternoon.

  “Thank you, Margot.” Owen inclined his head.

  “She looks good, don’t you think?” Margot prompted.

  Owen’s eyes flicked up and down with disinterest so obvious that Aria felt a little stung, despite her determination not to care. “Yes, thank you, Margot.” His eyes shifted toward the windows at the front of the shop.

  Margot frowned at his profile. “Be careful, Owen.”

  He smiled slightly, just a twitch. “You know I am.”

  She snorted. “Don’t get yourself killed. Or worse.”

  “I’ll try.” The quirk of his lips held no humor.

  With that, he slipped toward the door with noiseless steps. Niall followed, and then Aria, who glanced back at Margot with a grateful smile. The woman lifted one hand in a quick wave and smiled, but her eyes were grave and worried.

  Owen led them block after block. Aria was surprised to see him stay in the open so long, especially during the day. No one seemed to notice him, though. His shirt was new, but his pants were worn and threadbare enough to stand out in this prosperous section of the city. Though the afternoon sun slanted into the shop windows, it gave little warmth, and forlorn patches of melting sleet remained in the shadows. His short sleeves and bare feet, and those of Niall, should have caused some remarks, or at least second glances, but people brushed by without seeming to notice them at all. Interesting. I wonder how he does it. He’s not invisible, since I can see him and no one actually bumps into him. He’s just unnoticeable.

  Down a narrow alley and back out into the sunlight of a broader street. This time he crossed and entered what appeared to be an old hotel. He stopped just inside the door, Niall and Aria pressed against his back. He spread his arms to keep them from advancing past him.

  “I request entrance and an audience with Gabriel.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried in the open lobby.

  Aria peered under his arm to see a white marble floor with several threadbare red rugs spread across it. A dark fireplace loomed at one edge, with worn leather chairs arranged for conversation. A balcony loomed to their right. No one was visible. />
  There was no sound at first, but then a door opened at the far side of the lobby, on the first floor. There was movement in the darkness beyond, and a glint of light on metal.

  “What do you want?”

  “I will speak with Gabriel directly.”

  “You’ll tell me your message or you won’t see him at all.” Irritation tightened the voice, and Aria heard a soft, metallic click.

  Owen paused, then said, “Eli. Do you hate me so much?”

  A bullet cracked the stone above Owen’s head. He didn’t flinch, but Aria did, her heart racing.

  “Get out!” the man shouted. He advanced just enough to show himself pointing the gun at Owen’s heart, eyes narrowed.

  Owen murmured, “Please wait outside.”

  Aria swallowed, unable to move for a moment. Niall took her hand in his small cool one and led her outside the door and just to the side, where they waited with their backs pressed against the stone.

  Aria closed her eyes and tried not to listen. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she jumped at another shot. Then there was silence.

  Niall peeked around the corner, then pulled her through the door again. Owen spoke softly to the man, who held a pistol in one hand dangling by his leg. He looked at Aria and blinked slowly, and then glanced at Niall.

  “Yes. Yes, I will take you.” He blinked again and shook his head, as if coming up from swimming. He looked back up at Owen. “That’s not fair, you know.”

  Owen smiled faintly. “You have a gun, Eli. I have a human and a child with me. I don’t want anyone hurt.”

  Eli scowled at him, but without much rancor this time. He waved the pistol as he talked. “Fine. Fine. I’ll take you. Give me your weapons, though. I need to show I did my job. More or less.”

  Owen unbuckled his sword belt without comment and handed it to Eli, who slung it over his shoulder. He drew his knife and handed it over, hilt first.

  “Come on then.” He pulled the door open and led them down the hallway. At one intersection, he shouted, “Need someone on guard.” At an answering shout, he continued on, then turned to go up a long flight of stairs. Halfway down another hall, he stopped at a nondescript door.