by S T Branton
Jules giggled. The giggle escalated into more of a cackle. “I knew it!” she crowed triumphantly. “You totally like him.”
“I mean—”
“It’s okay, Vic. Just admit it! Like anyone would blame you. We all saw him.” She paused. “Not sure if he’d be down for the late-night booty call, though. I don’t know what kind of guy he is.”
I felt myself blushing, more out of annoyance than embarrassment. “This is not a booty call! He… wanted me to follow up with him after the whole thing at East Coast Comics Convention. And I lost his number. So, I need it from you. That’s all.”
“Well, I don’t know it either,” Jules said, with genuine regret. “But I do have Ezra’s, and Ezra is the one who invited him.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, painfully conscious that valuable time was passing. “I just need to get in touch with him. No booty calls for anyone.”
“Okay, okay.” Her tone of voice told me she didn’t believe a word I said. “I’ll call Ezra as soon as we hang up, and then I’ll text you. Good luck!”
“I don’t need luck,” I protested, but she was gone already. A couple minutes later, my phone buzzed with Deacon’s number.
I took a deep breath and called it.
***
“St. Clare.”
Even over the phone, his voice did weird things to me. I forced myself to focus on the problem at hand. I had to find a way to convince him to believe me, and then, to agree to help me.
Here goes nothing. “Hi. It’s Vic.”
“Vic?” He hesitated, either recalling me or trying to decide whether or not he should hang up. “Ah, right. Sexy woman in high heels who likes to hang out with gangsters.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s me. Listen, I need your help.”
“What kind of help?” That was when I discovered that Deacon and Marcus shared the ability to flick that suspicious undertone on and off at a moment’s notice.
“Jules gave me your number,” I said quickly. “She got it from Ezra. And she thinks I’m using it for… other things.” Why did I just say that? I forged on, privately mortified. “Anyway, it’s about Durant.”
“I’m listening.”
I considered telling him the whole story—for half a second. But Deacon seemed like a reasonable person, which meant I would sound crazier than Marcus. I decided that in this case, slightly altering the truth was an acceptable moral compromise.
“You remember my friend, Marcus, from the party?”
“Who could forget that tunic?”
“Well I’m pretty sure that Durant and his goons have kidnapped him. I came back to my apartment and there was blood everywhere and Marcus he… Rocco would want him bad. They’re going to kill him unless we stop them.”
The line hung silent for a second before Deacon responded. “How do you know all this?”
Dammit.
“Listen,” I said. “We don’t have time to play twenty questions here. You know I’m...connected somehow. And I know I was kind of a dick back in the prison, but you’re just going to have to trust me on this. Please. If not, Marcus will die.”
“Okay. Okay,” he said. “But we do it my way. Durant lives to see his day in court.”
“Fine, whatever,” I said. And I meant it. Marcus’s life meant far more than my revenge.
“Tell me where they’re at. I’ll call in the local PD, and we’ll sort this whole thing out. You have nothing to worry about.”
But that wasn’t true, and as soon as he said it, I knew this planned was doomed to fail. The local cops, there’s no way they’d be prepared for this. If what I just faced in my apartment was anything like what was waiting at the factory, then Deacon and his men would be torn to shreds. I didn’t even know if their guns would work on vampires or demigods or whatever else kind of hell Durant had locked away.
But I knew something that would.
“Vic?”
“I’m sorry, Deacon.” I searched for the words to say, but nothing came. So I mumbled, “I’m sorry,” once again and hung up the phone.
I was alone again, but this time I had a plan. If Marcus had hidden the sword, and it wasn’t in the loft, then there were good odds I knew where it would be.
The only other place he knew.
I didn’t bother locking the door behind me—I just ran full tilt down the stairs and out of the building. Sam was gone, but I didn’t have time to worry about him. The docks weren’t that far, but I was terrified that every wasted second could cost Marcus his life.
My priorities had a lot to learn. Or maybe I did, since they belonged to me. Find a way to rig a proper shower in the loft? Eh. Focus on making myself some real food once in a while? Whatever. Go diving for a magic sword in the river on a mid-October night? Yes.
In my defense, it wasn’t like I had a choice. I had to find the sword. I had to. Marcus’s life depended on it, and I was increasingly afraid that mine now depended on his. Plus, it was a point of pride. I couldn’t save a guy, sort of befriend him, and then let him get kidnapped and murdered on my watch. Totally unacceptable.
So yeah, I needed that sword badly.
Then, I needed to use it to wreak havoc on my enemies.
All right. So maybe that last part didn’t sound so bad.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The river looked black beneath a cloudy sky, and faint moonlight glinted off the surface current. It reminded me a lot of the night when it had all started. Not so many days ago, actually. Hardly any.
I barreled down the runway of the stone pier, my eyes fixed hard on the point in space where I thought Marcus had initially gone down. I didn’t even pause before I leapt out over the river.
The water came up around me like a thousand tiny needles. Once again, I gasped, pushed down my natural inclination to head for dry land, and dove deeper toward the bottom. The first thought that occurred to me was: I have never seen a black as black as this. Not only was there no light, but it seemed like light could not survive beneath the water. My eyes being open made almost no difference.
After twenty seconds of slow diving and searching, I returned to the surface, took in a gigantic gulp of air, and submerged again. My face and hands were rapidly numbing, and my eyeballs felt like spheres of ice, but I pushed through it. Leaving the sword behind was one hundred percent out of the question. What if it was the only thing that could kill Delano’s monsters?
The current kept pulling me away from the area I wanted to be in. I had to surface twice more before I managed to get down far enough for it to matter. I opened my eyes as wide as I could and peered through the inky murk at nothing. My hair drifted around my face like kelp. It was probably going to freeze solid when I got out.
If I got out. Because I was only getting out after I located the sword. I kicked harder, cutting the water apart with my hands. The air in my lungs was running low. At the edge of needing to turn back, I caught a glimpse of something down at the very bottom. A glowing shape.
The sword!
I replenished my air supply and dove with renewed vigor, shooting downward in a rush of bubbles. My clothes dragged at me, but the sheer determination overrode all of that. As I got nearer, the glow seemed to intensify, almost as if the hilt was calling me. It was stuck diagonally in the muddy bed, and when I was close enough to grab it, the water was lit so brightly it was almost clear.
I stretched out my hand, grasping the hilt firmly against my palm. It stuck for a moment, and a flash of fear leapt through my chest. I couldn’t get it out. It was trapped there. It would be lost forever because of my weakness.
Screw that, I thought and redoubled my efforts.
Satisfaction filled my body as the hilt loosed itself from the river’s clutches and came with me to the surface. I held it to my body, swimming with one arm back to the pier. The hilt came to rest on the concrete with an unceremonious clatter, and I pulled myself out beside it. Taking the moment to look at the ancient artifact, I breathed a sigh of relief. Marcus w
as smart; he had the wherewithal to hide Kronin’s weapon before he got nabbed by the goon squad.
I paused to wring out my hair and clothes as best I could. Against the ground, the sword hilt still glowed faintly. If I rested my bare palm on the dock, I could feel something radiating outward from it.
Energy? Heat?
Power.
I picked it up and hefted it in my palm. The moment I touched it, its light intensified. Nice of the gods to design a multipurpose device. It was warm, too, which was a welcome relief on my icy hands. As a tentative experiment, I swung it in a gentle arc until it was poised above my head.
A flash and a crackle ran through me, and suddenly, the sword was whole. Up close, it looked like it was made of solid fire. I could smell it burning. The wash of heat that had emanated from the resurgence of the blade dried me immediately.
It made me feel, somehow, as if I was taller, more capable. Able to take on the world.
“Whoa,” I whispered. Maybe I could get used to this. Still, I lowered the hilt until the blade went away, and then I stashed the sword in my bag. Now that I knew it worked, I had to keep it on the down low. I couldn’t have a sword out yet; not where I was going.
I doubted the bus driver would take kindly to that.
***
This late at night, the buses arrived sporadically in this part of town. I was impatient at the stop and impatient in my seat, keenly aware of the sword’s hidden weight on my lap and also irrationally afraid that I’d somehow set off the blade, punch a hole into the side of the bus, and possibly skewer an innocent passerby. It was safe to say the ride was tense. I couldn’t wait to be out in the open again.
More specifically, I couldn’t wait to fight. There was something about the God King’s sword that felt so cathartic to me. Maybe it was just the fact that I’d used it for straight-up murder right from the outset, or that it cut through flesh and bone as easily as if they were butter. I wanted to use it again, and I knew the slaughterhouse—an apt venue for this confrontation—would provide me with ample opportunity.
My stop came up. I pulled the cord and hopped down the steps, like any other twenty-something without a car in New York City, which was most of them. No one knew I hadn’t had honest money in years or that I scrounged for everything. And no one knew I was going to commit several acts of murder in less than five minutes.
That was my real secret. For the moment, I kept it without guilt. After all, my body count was already up to four, counting the vamp in the loft. Although, I was a little unclear on the ethics of killing monsters. No one knew better than me how little the inhabitants of the slaughterhouse deserved to live. The humans alone had taken everything from me, and now they had seemingly made some sort of deal with the devil. If I didn’t stop them in their tracks, they would take and take and take.
It was time to settle a long-uneven score.
I didn’t mess with the doors at all on my second infiltration attempt. No time or patience for that. Instead, I went straight for a first-floor window that was missing its pane, shimmying delicately through the gap. The inside of the building was cloaked in shadows. It smelled like bleach. Each footstep sent a ripple of nerve-wracking echoes ricocheting off the bare walls. Sneaking was more or less impossible.
That was fine. I wasn’t feeling very stealthy anyway.
I did want to explore a little bit, though. I tiptoed down the long, wide main chamber. The ceilings were high, with vents and fans. In some places, the inside wall had begun to crumble. It matched the floor which was patchy at best. Some of the biggest cracks ran the width of the entire floor. I was constantly crunching on pebbles and other debris.
“Shh!” The sound cut through my own personal noise. I stopped dead, head tilted to listen. “Someone’s coming!” It was an undoubtedly female voice, high-strung and shrill with agitation.
As I resumed walking, the sound of crying filtered down to me from above. I realized there was more than one woman. The implications filled me with equal parts unease and fury. What were they doing here? Why were they crying?
I had the feeling I didn’t want to know, but I was going to find out.
“Down there. Look!”
When I wasn’t on the move, the slaughterhouse was so silent that any speech at all sliced through the air like a knife. Aside from some difficulties caused by the echo, I had little trouble homing in on where the voices were coming from. The moment I laid eyes on their situation, a grimace spread across my face.
They were in a cage. It was like a huge birdcage with a domed top and padlocks on the doors, swinging from an anchor chain as wide around as my waist. Several sets of frightened eyes peered out at me from the interior. They whispered among themselves.
“Who is that?”
“She doesn’t look like one of them.”
“I’ve never seen her before.”
I stepped closer, and they all immediately fell silent. “Hey,” I called. “I’m not a bad guy. I can get you out.”
The women inched closer to the bars of the cage, eyeing me curiously. The one in front had bright blue eyes and a flowing mane of deep red hair. She gestured to the contraption enclosing them. “Out of this?” she asked skeptically. “Without killing us, I hope.”
I smiled slightly. “No killing. Not of you guys, anyway.” I withdrew the hilt from my bag.
Big Red frowned. “What’s that? A pry bar?” She shook her impressive head of hair. “That’s not gonna work.”
“Better than a pry bar.” I lifted it high and willed the blade to appear. The women gasped. Big Red’s eyes went wide with shock and fascination. I nodded at her. “I’d stand back a little if I were you.”
She seemed transfixed by the blade. They all did.
I judged the distance carefully, brought it up over my head, and then down in a slicing arc. The cutting tip of the sword struck through the padlocks, sending them clattering to the floor. The iron door swung open on screeching hinges.
“They definitely heard that,” I said. “Climb down fast, and get out fast. You can use the windows. They don’t all have glass.”
Their feet hit the ground, and the captives fanned out to choose their escape routes. I saw that they were all around my age or younger, all slender, all pretty. All stolen for the benefit of the monsters who lurked elsewhere in the building, converging on the point where I stood sentry.
“Go,” I said, waving the women on. “You can’t be here when Rocco shows up. I don’t doubt for one damn second that he’ll kill you.”
Big Red was the last to flee. She paused with one foot on the windowsill and looked back at me. “Who are you?” she asked.
I stared back at her. “I’m the woman who is about to start a war against the gods.”
The beat of approaching footsteps only supported my command. Her eyes lingered on my face for a split second longer before she disappeared into the night. I let myself relax a bit. With the prisoners gone, it would be just me and Rocco, plus however many hapless goons he brought to the fight.
That much, I could handle. It would be just like before.
Except this time, Rocco Durant was not going to escape.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
He and his men came up from behind me, but the persistent echo in the massive room gave me more than enough warning. The blade had once again evaporated back into the hilt, but I had the motions down now. I was ready to whip it out at a moment’s notice.
Rocco looked like a million bucks, for reasons I now marginally understood. His time machine had taken him back another five or ten years, but I noticed it couldn’t do shit about that nasty scar. No matter how strong his build, or how sleek and dark his hair, he’d be marred forever by that mark.
And that meant he could never hide.
He only had two dumb flunkies in tow this time. I thought about warning him that this really wasn’t going to be a fair fight, but he had never cared when the odds were tilted in his favor. Why should I care if they were tilted in
mine?
I wasn’t here to bet. I was just here to make sure this scumsucking shitbucket didn’t make it out of here on his own two legs. He looked me up and down from ten feet away. A wicked sneer curled his lip.
“Take care of her, boys,” Rocco said. “Just make sure you leave some for me.”
I stifled the urge to gag. This man might not have looked like the ogre lurking in the seedy strip joint, but he was at least as repulsive, if not more. In Rocco’s case, there were no excuses, flimsy or otherwise, about his base monster instincts. Rocco hadn’t been abandoned by the gods, and he hadn’t been stuck in his ways for centuries.
No, he was just a mean, selfish little prick whose utter delight in torture and pain were likely just his way of overcompensating for deficiencies south of the border. I’d seen it all before: flashy car, fat stacks of cash, jewels bigger than his teeth, and yet, no way to truly satisfy anyone.
This line of thought made me smile in spite of myself. It was hard to be afraid of him when I knew I had a seemingly indestructible sword of light in my hands. Marcus had mentioned offhandedly that the garments of Carcerum were more or less immune to serious damage, hadn’t he? Well, if his tunic could withstand anything, I bet Kronin’s trusty sword could, too. I was on the verge of getting a chance to prove it.
Rocco’s goons closed in on me from either side, and I belatedly recognized them as the bro-dudes guarding the door on my first failed foray into the slaughterhouse. If they knew who I was, their chiseled stone faces betrayed nothing. They wore their sunglasses inside, where the lighting was already suboptimal.
It was almost too easy.
I made a show of stretching out the arm that held the hilt of the sword, as though I was casually prepping for a fight. The shining blade popped into existence. I caught all three of the bastards’ expressions as the sword’s light momentarily engulfed them. Surprise. Annoyance.
For Rocco, was there fear? If it wasn’t there yet, it would be real soon.
Or else I hadn’t done my job.
The beefy guards stuttered in their advance. The sword made them nervous, and that pleased me greatly. Despite the impassive reflection of their sunglass lenses, I knew they were hesitating, having second thoughts. Maybe for the very first instance in their miserable lives, they were regretting their choice of career.
