by Tim Waggoner
He couldn’t bring himself to believe this, though, and as he drove out of the cul-de-sac, the Mythmaker belted into the passenger seat and sleeping, his smile fell away.
* * *
As Lena approached the house, she passed a motorcycle parked on the street outside, but she was too focused on following the mystic compass in her head to pay much attention to the bike. She pulled her Honda Accord into the driveway, parked, and turned off the engine. The garage door was up, and the lights inside were on. She took this as a less than encouraging sign, especially this late at night.
She got out, closed the car door as quietly as she could, then stood there for a moment, uncertain. She had no reason to doubt Paeon’s power, but now that she was here, what if this wasn’t the right house. It felt like it was, but how could she be sure?
“Who are you?”
She realized then that someone was in the garage, but it couldn’t be the Mythmaker. The voice belonged to a male. A moment later, he stepped out onto the driveway, and she got a good look at him: probably early twenties, lean-bodied, with long greasy black hair and pale acne-scarred skin. He wore a jean jacket over a black T-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. He carried a length of metal pipe in his right hand, and around his neck he wore a small animal bone on a thin strip of leather. The bone seemed to glimmer with internal light, and Lena guessed it was a token from his god, probably an item he’d been given to help lead him to the Mythmaker.
Although he’d demanded to know who she was, he didn’t wait for her answer. He continued coming toward her, eyes shining with an almost feral gleam, teeth bared in a snarl, hand clasping his makeshift weapon tight. The boy was thin, but he was significantly younger than she was—not to mention taller. Lena had no training in self-defense, had never been in a physical fight before in her life, and she was afraid.
“Ravage sent me to claim the woman. You can’t have her.”
The boy’s voice was quiet, low, and dangerous. He kept his gaze fixed on hers as he approached, not running, simply walking with a brisk, confident stride that she found intimidating. As he drew near, he raised the pipe as if it were a club and bared his teeth like an animal.
For a second Lena stood frozen, but then her survival instincts kicked in. She might be shorter than this boy and have a couple decades on him, but she was also a doctor, and that meant she was an expert on human anatomy. She knew the body’s strengths, and she knew its weaknesses. Instead of waiting for the boy to strike, she stepped forward and punched him in the center of his chest, where his xiphoid process was. She was careful not to hit too hard; too much pressure, and it was possible to drive the bone into the heart. She only wanted to cause the boy pain and knock the wind out of him, and she succeeded on both counts. The boy’s breath gusted from his mouth, his eyes widened in surprise, and he took a step backward. Lena didn’t intend to give him a chance to recover. She stepped forward once more, and this time she brought her hand down in a chopping blow to his right clavicle. It was a free joint, and it didn’t take much force to break it. She felt it snap beneath the power of her strike, and the boy cried out in pain and released his grip on the pipe. The weapon hit the driveway with a clank and rolled away.
“Damn bitch!” the boy growled, and took a swing at her with his left hand. The punch was wild and she stepped back, avoiding it easily. He stumbled, off balance, and she stepped in and kicked the side of his right knee—hard. The knees are weak joints, and they only flex forward and back. They aren’t meant to flex to the side, and the force of Lena’s kick ruptured the tendons on the other side of the boy’s knee, and he went down, howling in agony. She feared his cries would not only alert the Mythmaker to their presence but wake the entire neighborhood, and without thinking, she kicked him behind the right ear. He immediately fell silent and lay still.
Lena stood there for several seconds, gazing down at him, breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through her body, ready to attack him again if he showed any sign of movement. But an instant later the reality of what she’d done sunk in, and she felt sick to her stomach. She was a doctor! She’d taken a vow to help people, not hurt them. She quickly knelt next to the boy and checked his vitals. His pulse was strong, and he was breathing regularly. She didn’t think she’d kicked him hard enough to cause serious brain damage, but there was no way to be certain without a thorough examination. She stood and reached for her phone, intending to call 911, but then she remembered why she was here. Or perhaps the part of her that belonged to Paeon reminded her. She stood there a moment longer, indecisive, and then she walked toward the garage. The boy should be out long enough for her to do what she’d come here for, and she could get medical attention for him later.
The garage looked like fairly typical—not much different from hers, actually—with the exception of a small area that had been set aside for painting. Looking at the easel and the blank canvas on it gave her a strange feeling, but she couldn’t say why this was.
The Mythmaker obviously wasn’t here, so Lena headed for the inner garage door, took hold of the knob, twisted it gently, and found it unlocked. She opened the door, stepped into the kitchen, and closed it quietly behind her.
The kitchen was dark, but a light was on over the stove, and she was able to see well enough to get around. As a doctor, she routinely made life-and-death decisions, and although she never took them lightly, she wasn’t afraid to make them. But here she was, standing inside a strange family’s kitchen in the middle of the night, and her heart pounded in her chest like it was desperate to find a way to break free.
Stay calm, she told herself. You’re in. Just go slow and quiet.
The first thing she did was check to see if there were food and water bowls for pets. She was relieved to find none. The last thing she needed was to trip over a cat in the dark or alert a dog that would start barking furiously at the intruder in its home. She moved through the house like a ghost, checking the dining room, living room, family room, downstairs bathroom, and finding them all empty. She crept upstairs next and found three bedrooms and another bathroom on the second floor. The first bedroom she checked was set up as a home office, with bookshelves, a desk, tabletop computer, printer, and filing cabinet. The second bedroom held a queen-sized bed and while it was too dark to tell for certain, she thought two people were sleeping in it. She thought she could make out two human-shaped lumps under the covers, accompanied by two sets of soft breathing. Could one of these be the Mythmaker? How was she supposed to tell? Paeon’s magic had led her to the Mythmaker’s house, but she didn’t know what the woman looked like. The tattoo had only shown her from the back. She watched the sleeping couple for several minutes, hoping that she would get some indication—an awareness born of instinct, if nothing else—of which might be the Mythmaker. But she felt nothing. She closed the door quietly and checked the last bedroom.
The door was already partially cracked, and she gently pushed it open the rest of the way. The hinges creaked a little, and she gritted her teeth at the sound, hoping it wouldn’t wake whoever might be sleeping inside. But when she had the door open far enough, she saw that she didn’t have to worry about waking anyone. The bed was empty. As she stood in the doorway, she felt something urging her to step inside, so she did so, reaching out to flick on the light without thinking about it. The light revealed that almost every inch of the walls was covered with sketches and drawings produced with different media—pencil, charcoal, ink, colored pencil—as well as paintings done with watercolors, acrylics, and oils. The most common images depicted were animals, plants, and trees, and although Lena saw no renderings of godlike beings, she had no doubt that she was looking at the work of the Mythmaker. The room was more than a little messy—unmade bed, clothes strewn on the floor—and the latter told Lena that this room belonged to a young woman. There were a handful of stuffed animals positioned around the room. A couple atop a dresser, one on a study desk, a couple on a bookcase. They were the sort of toys a young girl might have—kitties, dogg
ies, jungle animals—all cute and cuddly, but the fact that there weren’t many of them, and that they were set up as decorations instead of something to play with, told Lena they were probably keepsakes, and the girl was older, maybe even college age. But none of that really mattered now. What mattered was that the girl wasn’t here.
Lena turned off the light and left the room without bothering to close the door. She walked past the other bedroom—which she now assumed belonged to the girl’s parents—went back downstairs, headed for the kitchen, and stepped into the garage. She thought she understood what had happened: The Mythmaker had been working at her easel when a servant from some other god arrived and took her without closing the garage door behind them. Whoever it was, she was certain it hadn’t been the boy who’d attacked her. They had both arrived too late.
She was disappointed, of course—she hated to let Paeon down—but she was also relieved. She was a doctor, and she’d taken an oath to do no harm. She’d broken that oath when she’d stabbed Bill in the chest, but because the Mythmaker had been captured by someone else, she wasn’t going to have to betray it again, at least not yet. But if Paeon was going to win the war of gods that had come to Corinth, he would probably have to kill the Mythmaker in the end—how could he be the most powerful one left if she still lived?—and as his priest, she would have to help him. She decided not to think about that now. She needed to return to him and report her failure, and she’d have to be careful not to look relieved when she did so.
She looked for the boy she’d rendered unconscious, but he was gone, as was his motorcycle. She hadn’t heard its engine, so she assumed he’d walked the bike away from the house before starting it. She wondered if he would return to his god and report his failure, as she intended to. Considering that his god was named Ravage, Lena didn’t think he or she would take the news well.
Lena walked to her car, and as she was about to climb inside, a short, heavyset man in a ski mask and thick winter coat came jogging up the driveway. He stopped next to Lena, breathing hard, his breath misting on the cold night air.
“Stand aside!” he said between breaths. “I have come to claim the Mythmaker… for my god Icythus, and… no one else will—”
“You can cut the speech,” Lena said. “She’s gone.”
And without waiting for the man to reply, she got in her car, closed the door, and began backing out of the driveway.
* * *
Sam and Dean pulled up next to one of the dumpsters as the new god approached Karrion. They both maintained grips on their guns and knives, although Sam didn’t know why they bothered. Conventional weapons didn’t appear to have more than a temporary effect on these gods.
As the military-style god approached Karrion, one of his worshippers called out, “Kill him, Armament!” and several others picked up the refrain.
Dean looked at him. “Not a bad name,” he said.
Sam shrugged. He supposed it was as good as any.
Karrion, his head little more than a mass of ragged, bloody meat, rose unsteadily and turned to face his new opponent. Despite his horrific injuries, his one eye glared balefully out of his ruin of a face, and his grip on his machete was solid. Sam wasn’t sure, but he thought Karrion was already starting to heal, but even with his worshippers praying as hard as they could, the process was taking longer than when he and Dean had wounded him. It appeared that an injury from a fellow god was harder to shake off.
Armament fired his quadruple-barreled shotgun again, but this time Karrion moved far more swiftly than Sam had thought him capable of, and he managed to dodge the blast. Two of Karrion’s worshippers moaned and went limp, one slumping against the alley wall, the other falling to the ground. At first Sam thought they’d been hit by the rounds from Armament’s weapon, but there were no bloodstains on their clothes and their bodies remained intact. Armament’s ammo could probably reduce a human body to little more than a blood-smear, so the fact these two hadn’t immediately disintegrated was a clear indication something else had happened to them. But what?
Karrion continued moving swiftly, becoming a blur as he ran toward Armament. The other god was in the process of trying to track Karrion with his weapon when Karrion rushed past, slicing his machete into Armament’s right bicep. Blood sprayed the air, and the wounded god roared, more in fury than in pain—although there was plenty of the latter in his voice as well. His overlarge muscles might’ve looked as if they were made of rock, but his bicep parted easily beneath Karrion’s razor-sharp machete blade, and Armament could no longer hold onto his weapon with that hand. His fingers slipped off the gunstock and his arm fell to his side, useless.
Speaking of falling, another of Karrion’s worshippers slumped to the ground, and Sam thought he understood what was happening. That these gods possessed their own power was clear, but when they wished to, they could also draw energy from their worshippers to augment their power, which was what Karrion was doing now. Normally he moved like the stereotypical movie slasher that he resembled—slow and determined. But when he needed to kick things up a couple notches, such as in a duel with another god, he drained energy from his worshippers to make himself stronger and, in this case, faster. But his worshippers paid the price, weakening and falling unconscious, maybe even dying, all to help their god survive.
Karrion ran behind Armament, and while the other god was momentarily distracted, he slashed his machete across Armament’s back, cutting deep. Armament howled in pain, sounding more like an animal than a man, but when Karrion made to strike once more, Armament spun around, swinging his shotgun like a club. The four barrels hit Karrion in the side, snapping his ribs like kindling.
Dean sucked in a breath. “Man, that had to hurt!”
The gun’s impact caused Karrion to stagger-step to the side in order to remain on his feet, but in the process he lost hold of his machete and the blade fell to the ground. Karrion’s worshippers gasped and wailed at the sight of their master losing his weapon, and for a moment, Sam felt as if he were watching a professional wrestling match, the kind where all the moves are carefully choreographed, all the blood is fake, and the audience loves to boo and hiss their favorite villains.
Armament’s gaze fixed on the machete, and a wide grin spread across his face. He ran over to the weapon, and since his right arm was still out of commission, he bent down, dropped his shotgun, grabbed hold of the machete, and stood. He turned to face Karrion just as the other god recovered and came running at him, hands outstretched, fingers hooked into claws. The loss of his blade didn’t seem to deter the slasher god in the slightest, and it looked like he intended to tear Armament apart with his bare hands.
“Why’d he drop the gun for that thing?” Dean said. “The gun’s the better weapon.”
Sam was thinking the same thing when Armament stepped forward to meet Karrion’s charge and rammed the machete into the slasher god’s chest. Karrion shrieked and grabbed hold of Armament’s wrist, attempting to pull the blade from his body, but even though he only had use of one hand, Armament was too strong. The blade remained up to the hilt inside Karrion’s body, and blood poured from the wound. Karrion’s body began jerking, as if all his nerves were firing at once, and then with a sudden final spasm, his hands fell away from Armament’s wrist and his body ceased moving. Armament let go of the machete with a shove, and Karrion fell to the ground with a meaty thud. Karrion’s worshippers wept and cried out in despair, but Armament’s cheered and hooted, celebrating their god’s victory.
Dean looked at Sam. “You have to admit, that was pretty bad-ass.”
Sam didn’t reply. He was too busy watching Karrion’s body. A soft white light enveloped the dead god, covering him from head to toe. The light grew brighter and more intense, and then it contracted until it had formed a basketball-sized sphere. Karrion’s corpse was gone, replaced by the light sphere. No, Sam thought. It became the sphere. The sphere rose in the air several feet, hovered there for a moment, and then streaked toward Armament. Sam exp
ected the ball of light to smash into the god, but instead it passed into his body and was gone.
Armament let out a booming laugh of triumph, curled his hands into fists and he raised them—both of them—to the sky. The wound he’d sustained in the battle with Karrion had been healed. More than that, he looked stronger and more vital than he had when he’d entered the alley, as if he’d fed on the energy of his fallen opponent. It made sense. If gods could drain human energy, why not each other’s?
Grinning, Armament turned in a slow circle, fists still held high. Sam wouldn’t have been surprised if the sonofabitch took a victory lap next.
“We have to get that gun, Sammy,” Dean said, his voice low.
Dean wanted to ask his brother why Armament’s four-barreled shotgun was so important all of a sudden, but then he thought he understood. Even though the shotgun seemed far superior to the machete, Armament had discarded his own weapon in favor of Karrion’s. Sam could think of only one reason why Armament might have done that: because while the shotgun could hurt Karrion, the only weapon that could kill him was his own. And that meant the only thing that could kill Armament…
Sam nodded and together the brothers dropped their own weapons and ran toward the four-barreled shotgun. Armament’s back was to them as they made their move, but some of his worshippers saw what the brothers were doing and called out warnings to their god. Armament spun around, but not before Sam and Dean had reached the weapon. The damn thing was big and heavy, and Sam knew there was no way a single person could hope to hold and fire it, let alone handle the recoil’s kick.
“We have to do it together!” Sam said.
