Titan: An Epic Novel of Urban Fantasy and Greek Mythology (The Gods War Book 1)

by Daniel Mignault

  The closest warriors rush forward to form a defensive circle around the injured Inquisitor, swords and shields at the ready.

  From behind the front rank, Anton shrieks, “Arrest them! Arrest them all!”

  Five of the warriors advance. Two grab my parents. Three come for Mark and me. On instinct, I raise my right hand, pull it back, make a fist. The three missing crystals from my room tunnel out from between my knuckles. I must have absorbed them like I did the rock. There's no pain and only a little blood. I launch myself at the three nearest warriors, swinging my newly weaponized hand to take one man in the throat. He staggers back, a crimson fountain spurting from his pierced neck.

  I swing at the next man. He blocks and my crystal claws ring off his shield. The other warrior slashes at me. I duck. A narrow miss.

  I have to save my parents. I have to save Lucy, but she's lying facedown in a pool of red. I dodge another sword blow, but when I try to get past the warriors, they batter me back. I curse and come at them, claws striking sparks off their shields. There's no time to think, only to act.

  “Mom! Dad! I'm coming!”

  “Don't worry about us,” Dad says, “Run!”

  Anton orders four of the five men guarding him into the fray, keeping one to help bind his wound. The knife is out of his chest. I want to finish what Lucy started. I want my claws buried in his stinking guts, want to make him feel the pain he's caused her, the pain he's caused everyone…

  “Andrus, we need to go!” Mark tugs at my arm.

  I resist, feeling my claws connect with a second warrior, ripping through his tunic, sinking past flesh, past bone. He falls to his knees then topples over, dead before he hits the ground.

  The reinforcements are coming. I parry a vicious cut, wishing I could get to Anton. If I could only reach him, I could end this. I could avenge Lucy…

  And with just that simple thought, one of the crystal claws streaks from my hand. It flies like an arrow between the rushing warriors toward Anton, whose eyes grow wide with terror. His remaining bodyguard raises his shield, but it's not enough. The crystal punches through the metal, close enough to graze Anton's cheek before stopping. A snarl of satisfaction dies on my lips. So close!

  And then Mark's voice is desperate in my ear: “Andrus, come on!”

  I shake my head. “No! I have to finish this. I have to―” But I see it's impossible. There are too many of them and I don't even know what I'm doing or how I'm doing it. I let Mark drag me toward the exit. The warriors, who had held back when they saw I could shoot crystals through their shields, now come after us as Anton howls for my blood. There are five in pursuit, and that's five too many. We're not going to get far unless…

  I point my fist at the hardwood floor and fire a claw directly in front of the enemy. It shatters because I want it to shatter. I want it to tear through them. It does, exploding like a grenade. Two of the men go down clutching at shrapnel in their legs. A third staggers sideways, limping from a gashed thigh. The remaining two―the ones farthest from the center of the blast―sport superficial cuts. They keep coming, followed distantly by their limping companion.

  Mark and I hit the exit running. We burst into the parking lot, eyes stinging from the too-bright sun. Behind us come pounding feet and angry swords.

  We head for the woods, hoping to lose them. I don't have much of a plan after that. Part of me wants to go home to see what my father's left for me in the safe, but that's too obvious. Anton will look for me there first if he doesn't have men there already. That only leaves one course of action: Get to the cave. Get to Hannah.

  But Mark has another idea: “We have to save my mom.”

  “They'll expect that,” I say as we leave the parking lot behind. “That'd be as dumb as me going home.”

  “Still,” Mark says. “I have to.”

  A raven swoops by us. Shadow. He flies toward the warriors, croaking and cawing. When I dare to glance back, I see one of the warriors with a bloody hand clasped over his eyes. He's blinded. Screaming. The other warrior crashes into the bushes after us.

  “Monster!” he shouts. “Abomination! Face me!”

  I stop and point my remaining crystal at him. “Face this!” The crystal streaks from my fist, skewering his chest. He pitches into the dirt and doesn't get up. I run to him and pull the crystal free, messily jamming it back into my hand just as the last limping warrior appears in the treeline.

  I raise my fist and fire.

  38

  NO OPTIONS

  It takes forever to get to Mark's house. We may not have made it all if we hadn't stolen hooded cloaks from a clothesline. Our disguises aren't perfect, but by playing the part of crippled beggars, we manage to blend into Loserville and avoid the attention of the Day Patrol.

  Despite the hours it's been since we fled the Academy, there hasn't been much time to talk, let alone process what happened. We're wanted fugitives. Our old lives forever gone. My parents arrested. Lucy hurt, maybe a zombie now… But no, I can't believe that. Lucy's all right. She has to be. I'm going to save her. I'm going to fix this. Fix all of it! I try to make Mark understand, but he doesn't want to talk about it.

  “It's not because I don't want to,” he explains. “It's because I can't. I can't focus on Lucy now. I gotta focus on my mom.”

  “But don't you care?”

  “Yeah, man. Of course I care! She's my sister. I love her, but we can't help her now. So we have to do the one thing she'd want us to do: rescue her mom.”

  “Sorry. I didn't mean it. I'm just so pissed off! I can't believe this happened. We had everything, then it all fell apart. I'm sorry about your sister. I'm sorry I dragged you into this mess.”

  “It's all right. You couldn't help it. And it means a lot you want to do something for her―so do this. Help me, OK?”

  “Of course.”

  We ease into a garbage-strewn alley near Mark's shabby house. The threadbare curtains are drawn over the windows. We don't see any sign the place is under guard or being watched, but we decide to wait a few minutes just in case. The last thing we need is to go barging into a trap.

  “It looks clear,” Mark whispers. “Maybe they didn't bother to arrest my mom.”

  “Maybe,” I reply, but I'm not convinced. Anton is too thorough, too spiteful, not to have sent men here. “Let's give it a few more minutes, OK?”

  “They might not have come yet,” Mark objects. “Or if they already left, they might come back. Either way, we should get inside now.”

  “Hang on.” I keep an eye on the windows. I thought I saw movement behind the curtains, but can't be sure. Even if I did, it might be Mark's mom… or it might not. I hate all this creeping around, feeling powerless. But it's the right thing to do―well, the only smart thing. We should be heading to Bronson Canyon to meet up with Hannah.

  I fidget with the sole remaining crystal sticking out of my fist, wishing I hadn't lost the others at the gym. I experiment with popping the crystal in and out of my flesh until I notice it's freaking Mark out.

  “Seriously?” He shifts away and draws his cloak tighter around his body. “Can you please stop doing that?”

  I retract the crystal back into my body. “Sorry. It's gross, huh?”

  “It's, um… going to take some getting used to. Are you sure you don't know what you are? You don't have a craving to eat brains or anything, do you?”

  “No. I'm pretty sure I'm not part-centaur, if that's what you're worried about.”

  That gets a laugh, then we both go back to watching the house. Nothing moves. It's quiet. Maybe too quiet.

  Mark breaks the silence: “Hey, I got a question. Did you see what happened to Mr. Cross? Did he get arrested?”

  “Why would he? He didn't do anything.”

  Mark sighs. “Good point. I didn't see the guards go for him. Maybe he slipped out when everything went to shit. That's what I would've done.”

  “You'd sneak out? I thought you were a full hero now?”

  “I am
, Andrus, but I'm not stupid. I can't shoot spikes out of my fists. I'm not a warrior; I have to outthink my enemies.”

  I don't argue that trying to save his mom is the opposite of outthinking Anton. It's playing right into the inquisitor's hands. But it's not like we can wait for dark. The Night Patrol will be out and looking for us. Part of me says bring them on; I can't wait to fight Captain Nessus with my new powers. The other part of me says we need to get to Bronson Canyon before dark. Judging by how many hours of daylight we've burned, there's no time to waste.

  “All right,” I whisper. “Let's do this. I'll go first. You wait here; I'll signal when it's safe.” Acting every part the lame beggar, I hobble out of the alley into the street. There's no alarm, no running feet. I pretend-cough to explain why I'm just standing there if anyone's watching, then limp over to the house. I press my ear to the door and listen. Nothing. I knock. No one answers.

  I hope I'm not being an idiot. I knock again and wait, each second an eternity. Still no answer. I try the door. It's locked. I look around and don't notice anyone watching, so I use my crystal as the ultimate lock pick. Well, more like lock punch. When I try the door again, it creaks open. I peer in. The house is dark. No sign of any disturbance. I wave Mark over. He drunkenly stumbles across the street and it's the worst case of overacting I've seen.

  “Never mind that,” I hiss. “Get in here!”

  He hurries the last few steps and then we're inside. I shut the door, then cross to the window. I peer out from behind the curtain. A real beggar is weaving down the street, singing a merry tune. He stops in front of the house to belch and scratch himself in all the wrong places. That's when I realize what we should have done. We should have hired him―or a guy like him―to knock on the door for us. That way, if it was a trap, we'd be safe. Not a very heroic plan, maybe, but better than us getting caught…

  “Mom?” Mark calls. “Mom, you here?”

  I drop the curtain and turn toward Mark. “I don't think she's home or she would have answered the door.”

  He points at the empty wine bottle on the table. “She might not have heard.”

  His mom's a drunk, so he has a point. That would also explain why she wasn't at the rematch today. Either she was drunk or couldn't get past school security. Probably both.

  Mark says, “I'm gonna check her bedroom. Keep an eye on the street.” He vanishes through the door.

  When I turn back to the window, the beggar's gone. The sun is going down. We need to get out of here now, while we still can.

  “Mark!” I shout. “Mark! Did you find her?”

  He doesn't answer.

  A pair of red patrol vans pull up and block the street at both ends. The doors slide back. A squad of warriors pour out of each van. They move to surround the house.

  Twenty men. Twenty swords. Too many to fight.

  I run to the bedroom and push the door open. I find Mark with a knife to his throat. He's being held by a man it takes me a moment to recognize: a man with dull brown hair and dead brown eyes. The Soap Man from the Temple.

  Hanging from the rafters is Mark's mom. She's not dead, because without Hades no one can die, but she's beyond saving. Face blue. Tongue out. She's brain dead, still writhing against the rope in her ragged, wine-stained dress.

  “Hello, Andrus,” the Soap Man says. “Anton sends his regards. He would have been here himself, but alas, he's in the hospital. I understand he might not make it.”

  “Good. I hope he suffers!”

  The Soap Man shrugs. “So do I! Confidentially, I never liked the fellow. It was shameful the way he treated those poor, innocent girls… like this one's sister.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mark gasps.

  “You mean you don't know the sacrifice she made to ensure you got your scholarship? How she let Anton have his way with her?”

  “No! That's a lie!” Mark says.

  “Unfortunately, it's true,” the Soap Man replies. “She should have given it up the first time he asked, but she said no, tried to make a deal for you. She should have known there's no option to compromise, not with men like that. And you know what happened? Anton had her anyway, and she lost her scholarship in the bargain. Such a sad story. Your sister could have had a bright future. So bright! But it's a harsh world; you either bend or you break. I'm always telling people that. It's a shame so few listen. So how about it, Andrus?”

  “How about what?”

  “How about you listen to my advice and surrender?”

  “I can't do that.”

  “Really?” He presses the knife against Mark's skin 'til it bleeds. “I can't say I'm surprised. I find that most people express a certain unwillingness to face unpleasant situations at first. They want options.”

  “And mine are?”

  “That's the thing, isn't it? Yesterday, you had so many. Today, you have none. Not even escape. That is, unless you want me to slit this Loser's throat?”

  I hesitate. “Let Mark go and I'll surrender. None of this is his fault.”

  The Soap Man chuckles. “There you go, demanding options. Fault doesn't matter. The truth is what the Temple says it is. Don't you know that by now? You can't win. You can only obey.”

  “Fine.” I raise my hands slowly. “I surrender. Just don't hurt him.”

  The Soap Man sighs. “There you go again. You just don't listen. No options, remember? No compromise…” He takes his cold, dead eyes off me for a second, just long enough I can see the tension build in his arm, to see the knife move. He's going to slit Mark's throat no matter what I do.

  I swing my right fist up, send the last crystal hurtling through the space between us. It sinks into the Soap Man's eye. He staggers sideways, knife hand slashing empty air, the other holding his gore-slimed face. He backs into Mark's hanging mom. Her zombified body jerks and thrashes wildly, knocking him to the floor.

  I grab Mark and we run. I have no idea how we're going to get past the warriors outside, no idea why they haven't come in to fight us. I throw open the front door, ready for anything, but not what I find.

  Outside, it's a massacre. The twenty warriors lie scattered on the ground, broken like a child's toys. They groan and gag on their own blood, twitching in the road. Only one man is standing: Mr. Cross. He smiles and flicks the blood from his twin swords. The blades are gold, smoking, and engraved with magic symbols.

  “Hello, boys,” Mr. Cross says. “I thought you could use a little help.”

  39

  SEE ME

  There's no time for questions. Mr. Cross arms us with swords and shields from the defeated warriors, then piles us into one of the patrol vans. He climbs behind the wheel and backs the van up, running over a few fallen men in the process. We roll to an unblocked cross street. Mr. Cross hits the sirens, then we're tearing through Loserville.

  The rutted streets make for a bone-jarring ride, but I'm glad to be moving. Glad to be away from that house, from Axios, from everything.

  I lean over to Mr. Cross. “We need to go to―”

  He holds up a hand to cut me off. “Bronson Canyon, right?”

  “Yeah, but how did you know?”

  Mr. Cross shrugs. “I'm a teacher; I know everything. You should check on your friend.”

  Mark seems dazed and I don't blame him. I put my hand on his shoulder. There's nothing to say. Nothing I can think of, anyway. We lock eyes for a moment, and I hope he sees how much I care, how he's not just my friend, he's my brother. Were bonded now. Bonded by blood, by tragedy, and revenge. Mark nods sadly, then looks at the floor.

  I let Mark grieve, joining Mr. Cross in front of the van. As I slide into the passenger seat, my teacher lays into the horn, causing the anxious pre-curfew traffic to scatter. We barrel through an intersection and narrowly miss a rusty orange pickup truck, then the street is ours again.

  I have to raise my voice to be heard over the sirens. “Thanks! You saved us.”

  Mr. Cross glances over at me. “It was nothing.”

&nb
sp; “It wasn't nothing,” I insist.

  “It was to me.”

  I frown, not sure what to make of that.

  “Oh, I don't mean saving you was nothing―I mean slaughtering them was.”

  “But you took down twenty armed men in a few minutes!”

  “Minutes?” Mr. Cross says. “No, Andrus. Give me some credit! I defeated those fools in a matter of seconds.”

  “Seconds? But how―”

  “I'm not who you think I am.”

  “You mean you're not a gym teacher?”

  He grins. “No―well, yes. It's complicated.” He hits the horn again. A green sedan pulls over to let us pass.

  “Complicated? Complicated how?”

  “I'm not entirely human.”

  “You mean you're like me?”

  Mr. Cross laughs. “No, not like you, Andrus. No one is like you. I'm an avatar.”

  “An avatar? What's that?”

  “They don't teach you about us at Axios. Gods are energy beings, and an avatar is when a God takes on physical form by possessing an animal or human.”

  “But the Gods are dead!”

  “Not all of us, though the Titans would have you believe otherwise. It's in their best interest to look all-powerful. Keeps the people kneeling at the altar.”

  “So which God are you?”

  “Which one do you think?”

  I know he's not Hades, so I'm hoping for Zeus or Poseidon, the other two strongest Gods. But no, that can't be right. He's got to be one of the other ones…

  I'm not sure, so I try a joke instead: “Well, the way you were drinking yesterday, I'd guess you were Dionysus, God of Partying.”

  “I don't want you to guess,” Mr. Cross says. “I want you to see. Focus, Andrus. Concentrate! See me as I really am.”

  I wrinkle my brow in concentration. Mr. Cross's outline shimmers, his form blurs. It reminds me of the glow I saw around him at the gym downtown, when he stood in the doorway and told me my life was about to change. Suddenly, he's not my gym teacher anymore. He's a heavily muscled giant of a man in blood-red armor, face hidden behind a Corinthian helmet. Only his eyes are visible through the slits. They glow, smoking orange embers in the blackness, and reflected in them I see all the war and death that has ever been, and that ever will be. Centuries of it, millennia―from the first thrown rock to the last fired nuke.