God of Destruction

by Alyssa Adamson

  God of Destruction

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  GOD OF DESTRUCTION

  BY

  ALYSSA ADAMSON

  Chapter One

  Queens, New York; December 10th, 2011

  Kierlan Cole had been a simple thief. It was a career he’d perfected over the last ten years, following the sole statute that he was his own boss and always would be. And when he’d started out as a teenager, he never would’ve thought anything would get him to give up that creed, given his short temper and inability to follow orders. However, as it turned out in the past few days, his loyalties were easily swayed by the very thing that got him into his trade in the first place.

  Money.

  He’d barely given the letter requesting his presence a second glance once he’d seen the payment they were willing to give him, and all the zeroes associated with it. The paper his potential employer’s proposal was printed on lacked any and all descriptions of the job, as well as a return address, but it contained detailed directions to a meeting place ten minutes away from his apartment in Queens.

  He’d been forced to walk. The instructions had been explicit in the sender’s demand that he was not to give anyone the address; unfortunately, that included his own teammates and cab drivers, so, without a car of his own, it was his only option.

  He glided down the sparsely occupied sidewalk like a shadow, hood pulled over his head and face to ward off the biting cold. The first snowfall of the season blew around him. Hands shoved in his pockets, one curled tightly around the letter in his pocket, he walked, face down, toward the destination written on his letter. He couldn’t help but let confusion show on his face when the only building coming into view was casting a hot pink glow on the shops across the street. He wondered increasingly who he was going to meet when he read the neon sign over the front door, his eyes zoning in on two words specifically: Gentleman’s Club.

  “Wha—?” he mumbled to himself, staring up at the sign he’d seen many times before. For something so secretive, he mused, this guy had certainly picked an ostentatious place to meet. Running his hand over the stubble on his head, he sighed, pulling the letter from his jeans pocket and reading the address for the millionth time that day. It was the place. Wordlessly, he approached the front door, eyes guarded and flickering around the room for anything threatening. In his line of work, he was accustomed to things going bad quickly.

  Once he was inside, nothing struck him as out of the ordinary in the dimly lit room except for the lack of customers around him. The establishment was obviously open to the public, but, aside from the hostess before him and the many scantily-clad girls around the room, there weren’t any patrons watching the poles above them. Hugging himself against the cold he suddenly felt when one of the girls removed his coat, he glanced, startled, up at the hostess. The tall woman didn’t look up from the MadLibs book in her hand.

  “Excuse me?” Kierlan asked, approaching the podium.

  “Yes, Mr. Cole,” she murmured, eyes still cast downward. She pointed her heavily-chewed pen in the direction of a booth in the corner. “Vilmore’s expecting you.”

  “Vilmore?” Kierlan asked. “Wait. How do you know my name?”

  She chuckled, looking up so her heavily made-up eyes were boring into him. “Like I said, Mr. Cole, we’ve been expecting you.”

  Kierlan nodded, starting toward the booth she’d directed him to. Before he’d gone three steps, he froze. “Uh,” he grunted, “there’s no one there.”

  She exhaled loudly in irritation. Snapping the book in her hand closed, she scowled up at him. “Just take a seat, Mr. Cole. Vilmore will meet you in his own time.”

  Biting his tongue so he wouldn’t say anything he’d regret, he nodded.

  “Follow me, honey, I’ll get you something to drink,” a lilting voice murmured from behind him as a feather light touch trailed over his shoulder. When he turned, his eyes immediately found the enticing stare of a blonde waitress. She pulled him across the room by the thin material of his t-shirt, lightly shoving him into the booth. The girl leaned suggestively over his table, supporting herself with one hand so he could have a better view of the flesh spilling from her tiny shirt, an unused notepad in the other. Like every other waitress standing around the room, she was clad in tight, black jeans and a matching, sleeveless shirt, the hem of which was ripped at the navel. “What can I get for you, baby?” she inquired, smile blinding.

  Kierlan had to shake his head to concentrate, tearing his eyes begrudgingly from her breasts. “Uh, ya. I’ll—”

  “He’ll have my usual,” a voice from the shadows interjected.

  Kierlan jumped, searching for the man who’d spoken. He was unsuccessful until the huge figure separated from the darkness, gold-flecked eyes appearing before anything else. The waitress laughed at his discomfort, but nodded and turned on her heel toward the bar. Left alone with the large stranger, Kierlan stood, offering his hand to the mocha-skinned giant. “Hello, Vilmore, is it? I’m—”

  “Sit down, Mr. Cole,” Vilmore curtly said, his thick arms remaining at his sides. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  Kierlan sank back into the booth, knowing immediately that he wasn’t going to like this meeting, despite the strippers staring only at him. He looked away He waited for Vilmore to take a seat across from him before he finally asked, in a heated whisper, “So you’re the one who sent the letter?”

  The stranger chuckled dryly. “No, Mr. Cole. I’m not. I am merely speaking on behalf of my employer.”

  Eyes flickering about the room, Kierlan asked, “Is he here? Your employer?”

  “No,” Vilmore countered. “He doesn’t go out much. That’s why I’m here to talk about the proposal he made to you in his stead.”

  “Can I have his name, at least?” he pleaded.

  Vilmore slowly shook his head. “That’s impossible, Mr. Cole. I don’t know his name. No one does.”

  “But…” he trailed off. “What’d you call him?”

  Vilmore shrugged. “Sir? Don’t worry about it. It’ll come naturally if he ever calls you. ”

  “Calls?” he repeated. “How should I give him my number?”

  “He already has it, Mr. Cole,” Vilmore explained, raising his hand when Kierlan went to question him. “Don’t ask. My employer has a lot of connections, so it’s not difficult for him to find things out about you, like your phone number, and how good you are at what it is you do.” He folded his hands on the table, leaning back in the chair. “They also make it very easy for him to know if you do something he doesn’t like. And, just a warning, no one cheats him. Not even a contract thief, like yourself.”

  Kierlan didn’t let Vilmore intimidate him, his intentions nothing if not pure. Well, he amended inwardly, toward the employer, anyway.

  “Gi
ven what that means if you try anything, you still in?” Vilmore inquired.

  Kierlan mimicked the other man’s cool posture, though he tingled with nerves under the skin. “If he was serious about that price on the letter, I don’t think there’s anything you could say that would scare me away.”

  Vilmore laughed. “Good to know. Now, if I tell you the details of the job, telling anyone outside your team is grounds for…termination.”

  Kierlan couldn’t help but shiver. “I understand.”

  “Good,” Vilmore replied with a smile. “My boss needs a thief, somebody good, somebody better than anybody else in the business for this job. Somebody who won’t get caught.”

  The thief in question grinned smugly. “I’m your man. Never been caught once, what’s the job?”

  “It’s not something you’re used to, I’m sure. It’s something he needs from the British Museum, one of the artifacts.”

  “I’ve done plenty of grabs on expensive things,” Kierlan said with a small snort. “How much is it worth?”

  “Priceless, but it’s not his intention to sell it,” Vilmore vowed cheekily.

  “What else would you do with it?”

  Vilmore’s strange eyes flickered nervously around the room. “My employer is…for lack of a better word…a suspicious man. I can’t really explain it any better than that. Just know: it’s not something you’ll need to worry about. We have someone else taking care of it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kierlan said.

  Vilmore sighed. “I don’t expect you to. Your job is to infiltrate the British Museum, however you feel is best. There should be a place in there devoted to Persia. In that wing, you’ll find a heavily guarded piece of parchment paper. That’s what we need.”

  Eyebrow quirked, Kierlan deadpanned, “A piece of paper? You’re paying me obscene amounts of money for some paper?”

  “Obviously it isn’t just any piece of paper. I told you it was priceless, remember?”

  Kierlan nodded. “So what’s it worth to you? If you’re not gonna sell it, it really doesn’t matter how much it’s—”

  Vilmore slammed his hands down on the table. “Stop asking questions. Everything from here on in is need-to-know for you. Your job is to go to the museum and steal the page from the Book of Eternity. That’s it. Then you get paid and you go home. Get it?”

  “Ya, ya!” Kierlan nodded fervently. “I get it. But…I do have another question.”

  “What?”

  “You…” he gasped when a frothy drink was placed before him. He didn’t look up, picturing the pretty blonde in the back of his mind. “Thanks. You mentioned that there’s someone taking care of the job after me. Why is that person taking over? I have plenty of connections for artifacts, I’m sure I can get you guys what you’re looking for.”

  “Oh, Kierlan,” a cool, female voice annunciated carefully in heavily accented English. “You do not understand what we are doing, here.”

  Kierlan’s head snapped up, finding another woman in the blonde waitress’s stead. She was fully clothed, but she would have fit in easily with the girls on stage, given her tight, black camisole, leather pants, and impractically high-heeled boots. She didn’t sit, formally outstretching her hand for him to take. He stared for a moment before reluctantly shaking her hand.

  “Kierlan,” Vilmore said, “This is our other contracted employee. She’ll be helping you with the heist and taking care of any…unforeseen circumstances. Ms. Petrov, this is Kierlan Cole: thief. Mr. Cole this—”

  “Natalia Petrov,” she murmured. “Assassin.”

  Kierlan stared up at the woman, who couldn’t be any older than twenty, and immediately sensed that she could, and would, kick his ass if it pleased her. He said nothing, wondering what it was one said in a situation like this. Despite his best efforts at thinking, and common sense, the only words coming to mind were: nice tits.

  “Yes,” Vilmore said. “We recently employed Natalia Petrov on a long term basis. She’ll be leading your operation in the museum.”

  Kierlan stiffened, fighting the urge to jump to his feet. “What?!”

  “Relax, Mr. Cole,” Vilmore ordered, posture as relaxed as when they’d begun.

  “I thought I was leading the job! I thought that was the point!” Kierlan continued, slowly climbing to his feet. “I’m the best—!”

  “Oh, sit down you silly man,” Natalia taunted, shoving him back on the bench.

  Kierlan scowled up at them, face rapidly turning red with his growing ire. He winced at a forceful squeeze to his shoulder, sinking back into his seat.

  She smiled slightly, silent irritation oozing from her in waves. “I am not here to ‘steal thunder,’ Mr. Cole. This is an important job. I am merely here to make sure it goes smoothly.”

  “If I’m the one doing it, it will go smoothly,” he snapped.

  “Enough!” Vilmore growled. “Frankly, Mr. Cole, you don’t get a say in how this will happen. So, if you wanna get paid, you do the job they way we tell you, and you do it well. Do you understand?”

  Kierlan’s face twitched, baring his teeth. He sighed loudly, looking away from both of them. “Fine,” he spat.

  Vilmore didn’t smile. “Good. We’ll arrange for the two of you to leave the country within the week. Mr. Cole, we’ll be in touch.”

  Kierlan Cole stood, disregarding their expectant glances, and strode toward the entrance. The hostess didn’t look up from her book and he didn’t offer any pleasant sentiments. The door swung noisily shut behind him.

  Natalia smiled after the vanished thief and sank into the seat he’d vacated. “What a waste,” she murmured, taking a swig from Kierlan’s untouched drink. “He does not know, I presume?”

  Vilmore shrugged. “How could he? It’s impossible.”

  The assassin chuckled. “I have seen plenty in my line of work to know that nothing is impossible, Vilmore. Despite my personal belief.” She playfully pulled a gold cross necklace from her cleavage, letting it swing and glitter in the meager light.

  Vilmore threw his head back, erupting in a loud, deep laugh. “Petrov! You’re not religious!” he reminded her, wrapping his arm around himself.

  Her lip twitched, but never became a smile. “It’s never too late to start.”

  Chapter Two

  629 B.C.

  Lady Ziba of the Temple of Tehran donned the sacrificial white robes with a heavy heart. The cold, stone walls around her burned through the many layers of silk she wore as she waited patiently for dawn to rise over the miles of desert sand laid out before her. Outside her cell’s window, sand blew in the warm breeze and kissed her lightly on the cheek, the only warmth of comfort she had felt in days. It didn’t linger, just like all the other fleeting joys in her life. Her mass of alien blonde curls cascaded down her back, organized for the occasion with priceless gem pins and gold combs, despite the dank dungeon she had spent the last three days in. She had prayed to her patron goddess, Kurshid of the sun, for the entirety of her stay in the prison, pleading desperately for help, but it never came. Now, the only option she still possessed was to wait.

  They came to retrieve her when the faintest hint of pink began to paint the horizon. Fatigue had washed all color from Ziba’s alabaster skin and her blue eyes were rimmed with red but she held her head high as she strode toward the stairs between two of her sister’s priests. She felt the burn of the scratchy twine against the delicate flesh of her wrists, but she didn’t let them see any crack in her disciplined face. Nevertheless, it brought on a new flush of shame; in her life, she would never have imagined that she would ever be in this position.

  Her head fell of its own accord, her body having abruptly lost all the strength it had mustered to stand. This was the third morning now that she had gone without food while she fasted for the ceremony, per her sister’s demand.

  “My lady,” a quiet voice murmured beside her, catching the remnants of her focus. Those words were so agonizingly familiar that it ached in her hea
rt to realize that it was not in the context or the deep timber that she so desperately desired. Her love and lordship had not come to see her. Her love and lordship would not come to see her. As she came to this comprehension, again, a hand, much smaller than the one she wanted to see, reached out to hold a bronze goblet before her face. She took it obediently, not caring to survey the contents before she put her lips to the shimmering cup. She drank the water under the scrutinizing gaze of the priests, but, in truth, her most recent revelation had taken away the entirety of her appetite.

  “Thank you, Lord Hosrael,” Ziba replied graciously, emptying the goblet and returning it to the priest. He nodded in answer and the group ascended the stairs, each priest grasping the tops of Ziba’s arms so she couldn’t run. Their display of blatant distrust in her depressed Ziba, as she had been a priestess in the temple for eight years now, since her seventh birthday; everyone trusted her, and with good reason, as she was as guileless as the innocent child she appeared to be. She couldn’t exactly say, however, that she was surprised by this show of loyalty to her older sister. As the high priestess, Shireen was trusted above anyone else in the temple.

  The girl abruptly collapsed into the arms of the priests, as they expected, on the way to the altar. The sedative they had slipped into her drink on the way to recover her was tasteless, and the darkness had shrouded the green powder floating in the water. Hosrael lifted the girl easily into his arms, his companion chasing at his heels, and strode toward the sanctuary. Ziba, asleep for the first time since her love’s untimely death, remained blissfully unaware of just how close to her impending doom she really was.

  Lady Shireen swept through the marble temple toward the altar like the wrath of God, her blood red robes billowing out and around her. Her face was sallow from many sleepless nights, but it was still one of the most beautiful in all of Persia. Long, black hair was piled around a shimmering, gold headdress atop her head, making her seem all the more tall and ominous than her less than intimidating, elfin stature. The green of her eyes was cold, staring straight ahead and giving away no emotion, but all could tell how she felt. Anger radiated off her very skin. She felt no guilt or regret, only the deepest disgust, and all patrons and priests within the temple hid from the burning rage, praying that it would never, one day, be directed at them.