Paternus: Wrath of Gods (The Paternus Trilogy Book 2)

by Dyrk Ashton

  “Yes, many times. She mourned your disappearance, or at least appeared to. She eventually married, had a family. She devoted her life to healing and feeding the poor.”

  “I... don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I, Myrddin Wyllt. Neither do I. Love can be the most powerful force for good in the world. But it can also cause us to do the most foolish and dangerous things.” She watches him for a moment, then puts a hand on his arm. “You spoke the truth. Revealed your transgressions, and without hesitation. This is not the Myrddin Wyllt I last knew.”

  “Fifteen hundred years to think on your life can change a person. I’m a new man, Pratha. Or, I want to be.” Pratha remains silent. “Galahad won’t speak to me, you know.”

  “Can you blame him?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “If it means that much to you, the important thing is to keep trying—but prove to him you have changed. Words mean nothing.” He nods. “And,” she adds, “don’t be too much of a pest.”

  He smiles. “I’ll try.”

  With the adrenaline high of recent events fading, Zeke shivers. The circles under his eyes are darker, his skin paler, and in spite of the chill, sweat beads on his forehead. He asks Fi, “You know who that bird-guy is? Horus?

  “An Egyptian god, right?” Fi replies.

  “Yeah, but other gods too, from the sound of it. Important ones. Like Garuda, from Hindu mythology.” He pauses, looking at the ground. “You seem to like him.”

  “What? No way.” Then she thinks. “He has some sort of aura. I think they all do, and I’m beginning to be able to feel it. Even from Mrs. Mirskaya. It fucks with my head a little.” She speaks more softly. “But he scares me, Zeke. That Horus, or Fintán, whatever.”

  “He’s one of the good guys.”

  “Did you see how he killed those pilots?”

  “They were trying to kill us,” Zeke says, but he knows he’s trying to justify Fintán’s actions rather than come to terms with the brutal murder of military men who may only have been following orders.

  “He could have let them go,” Fi argues. “Use their parachutes. But he didn’t.”

  “I know. I saw it.”

  “He just killed them.”

  Having heard some of their conversation, Mrs. Mirskaya says, “I understand what you are saying, but you have nothing to fear from Fintán. He has a good heart, though it has been broken many times, like all of us.” She notices Zeke shivering, but continues, “The Deva have chosen to protect humanity in general, and we all believe in that cause.” Now Zeke is swallowing repeatedly, his eyes blinking hard. Fi notices Mrs. Mirskaya’s concern and looks at Zeke as well. “Individuals, though, sometimes not so important...”

  Fi says Zeke’s name as he sways, then he drops to his knees and throws up. Fi gets down next to him, a hand on his back. Zeke gags on dry heaves, then passes out. She catches him enough to keep him from doing a face-plant into the gravel. “Oh God.”

  * * *

  Though he’s only in a faint, Zeke’s nightmares return. Whine, whir and squeak...

  The slap, sting and burn of a belt. The laugh of the foster mother holding his hands, the man huffing and grunting against him. Drugs and murder. Robbing a house, surprised by a woman, sticking a knife in her stomach. The rape of a passed-out girl. Anger, horror, and despair. Another Zeke, in an alley, his life, his memories, clashing.

  The signal on the “radio” in Zeke’s head tweaks, and the memories become clearer. Only this one is much more recent.

  Staggering in the rain on another world. Utter madness. A voice from the past. “Bad Zeke, bad Zeke, bad!” Raising his face to the storm. Shrieking to the sky, “I have to get back to Fi!” The sky answers in the form of a diving swarm of locusts from hell. Clenching his fists, blood pounding in his head, roaring his agony and rage. The swarm blown back by the force of his cry. Asphalt cracks beneath his feet, and buildings come tumbling down...

  Then the signal is lost and a dark fever enfolds him in cold, shivering sleep.

  * * *

  Mrs. Mirskaya turns Zeke over in Fi’s arms. His breathing rasps while she checks his eyes, feels the pulse on his neck. “He will be okay, Fiona,” she assures. “But...” She looks toward the beach. Pratha and Myrddin approach, Baphomet and Dimmi trailing behind.

  Fi pleads with Pratha, “Help him. Please.”

  Pratha looks over Zeke’s face and body, like a predator appraising a live meal. “Gladly.” She scoops him up as if he weighs nothing. She sniffs his skin then licks his neck, running her tongue from collarbone to ear, and tests the taste on her tongue.

  Fi rises to protest but Mrs. Mirskaya silences her with a hand on her arm. Pratha brushes past, carrying Zeke through a group of tall boulders. Mrs. Mirskaya takes Fi by the shoulders and they follow.

  * * *

  They enter a box canyon, carved into the cliffs by tides long ago, when sea levels were higher. The boulders on the beach have been placed to keep their presence inside hidden. The canyon is open to the sky with a ceiling of fog that does not enter, the truck inside with its hood up, a box of tools on the fender and netting removed from the back.

  As they pass, Edgar and Peter look up from their inspection of the vehicle.

  “Oh dear,” says Edgar. “What’s happened?”

  He’s already digging into a pack when Fi answers, “He passed out. I don’t...”

  Mrs. Mirskaya says, “Just a faint. Exhaustion, I think.”

  Myrddin joins Fintán by the truck while Peter and Edgar go to where Pratha holds Zeke near the back wall. Edgar lays a blanket on the ground and Pratha sets Zeke down, kneeling beside him and bunching part of the blanket under his head.

  Without looking up, she says, “Mokosh, my bag please. I think he could use some tea.” Mrs. Mirskaya goes to the truck.

  “I should have been more attentive to his well-being,” Peter says.

  Fi says, “He’ll be all right,” and forces a smile to prove she’s trying to believe it.

  Edgar fidgets. “We’ll leave you to it, then.” Reluctantly, he goes back to the truck. Peter gazes at Zeke a moment longer, then follows.

  Fi looks on while Pratha presses her fingers to various parts of Zeke’s body, vibrating her fingers on each place so quickly Fi sees only a blur, then moving on. If Fi knew what these areas were, she’d realize they’re acupressure points on cheng ching meridians as described in ancient Chinese medicinal texts.

  “What are you doing?” Fi asks.

  “Adjusting his chi,” Pratha answers. “And he needs it. He is, what do you say, a mess. His material substance—his yin—is in poor alignment with his yang, or life energy. I’m surprised he could even walk.”

  “Will he—” but Pratha silences her with a “Shhh,” and begins to hum as she works.

  After a few minutes she says, “He’s fatigued and undernourished, exacerbated by shock, but he’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you,” Fi replies.

  “Think nothing of it. I’m quite enjoying the physical contact with his body.” Fi frowns.

  Peter calls out from over by the truck. “We need to be moving as soon as possible. Is he—”

  “He’ll be ready to travel when I say he is,” Pratha interrupts.

  Peter opens his mouth for a retort, but thinks better of it. Instead, he crouches to check on Edgar. The truck is raised several feet, the axles placed on rocks. Edgar lies underneath the engine, inspecting the damage cause by the machine gun rounds from the plane. “How does it look?” Peter asks.

  Edgar scoots out and gets to his feet, wiping dirt from his knees and backside. Peter helps by swiping it from his shoulders as Edgar speaks. “It’s not good, but nothing critical I can see. I think I can get it to run, for awhile at least. Do you believe there is time?”

  “What I believe is irrelevant. There is time or there isn’t. Just do the best you can.”

  Edgar notices Mol, sleeping on his back against a wall near the truck, legs in the ai
r, emitting little barks, paws twitching. Dreaming about chasing rabbits. Or Persians. Edgar says, “You’re a big help.” He doesn’t expect a response, but Mol wakes and rolls to his stomach, looking around as if he’s forgotten where they are. Then he sees Edgar and relaxes, tongue lolling in a panting dog-smile.

  Myrddin, hovering nearby, says, “I will help.”

  “I think not,” Edgar snaps back. “What could you possibly know of the mechanics of this form of transportation, or even the names of the tools used to work on them?”

  “Nothing, of course, but I’m willing to learn.”

  “There is no time for that.”

  Baphomet speaks from where he and Dimmi stand out of the way. “May I suggest—” He stops short as all eyes glare in his direction. Dimmi yips and presses himself against the wall.

  Peter ponders a moment, then says, “What would you suggest, Baphomet? You may speak, but choose your words wisely.”

  “I was merely going to recommend the services of Idimmu Mulla in repairing the vehicle.”

  They’re all surprised by this, but none more than Dimmi. “Oh no no, I couldn’t,” he sputters.

  But Baphomet continues, “He has extensive knowledge of modern vehicles, particularly of a military nature.” Dimmi’s eyes go wider. “Experience of the mercenary variety, if you get my meaning, in conflicts since the internal combustion engine was invented.” Peter still glares at him. “What I’m trying to say is that Dimmi is, among other things, a quite proficient mechanic. He can fix anything that rolls under the power of fossil fuel.”

  The intensity of Peter’s gaze falls on Dimmi. “Is this true?”

  Dimmi replies, but as if it will cause him physical harm to do so, “Y-yes, Pater.”

  Peter asks Edgar, “What do you think?”

  Edgar considers. “I could use the assistance, to be honest. I have some experience, but it is not my specialty.” He eyes Dimmi suspiciously.

  Peter says, “I will remain near.” He casts his eyes on Dimmi. “Very near.” He waves Dimmi to the truck.

  Dimmi hesitates, but steps up. Edgar moves to the other side and they inspect the engine. Soon they’re pointing and discussing what needs to be done.

  Peter places his palms on the front of the truck. “I know something of internal combustion science. I’ll assist as necessary.”

  “As will I,” says Myrddin, observing intently.

  Peter looks to Fintán. “Please continue, Horus.”

  Fintán eyes Dimmi and Baphomet. “This is not for all ears.”

  Peter assures him it’s fine, they’re not going anywhere. With Myrddin’s help, Fintán had earlier begun explaining the events leading to their spotting Edgar’s plane, including how Fintán spied Bödvar Bjarki, The Bear, in the Mendip Hills of England, how Bödvar broke open the cave where Myrddin was trapped, a cave none of them had been able to find, and told Peter about Lamia and her death.

  Fintán and Myrddin now tell Peter that since they hadn’t known his whereabouts and feared the Asura may have targeted other Deva, they’d flown at great speed to the closest Deva residence they knew, Freyja’s, in Norway. There they discovered her compound had also been attacked. She and her escorts were alive and well, though she was in a foul disposition. She’d been in contact with The Cats and Dogs in northern Africa and learned they’d been assaulted as well, a number of them killed by Asura assassins, but the rest, including Sekhmet and Anubis, had rendezvoused at their secret hiding place and were safe.

  At Freyja’s urging, Fintán and Myrddin then flew to the Anatolia region of Turkey and found the temple of the Order of The Bull destroyed, the domicile of Asterion, Arges and Tanuki collapsed. There was no sign of their Firstborn brothers, but there were the distinct odors of Ziz, The Beast of the Sky, and Xecotcovach, The Terror Bird. Not knowing where to turn next, they headed back to Norway. Freyja had managed to scry fleeting images of Peter flying to her from the west, on a heading that would take him north of Great Britain.

  Fintán and Myrddin had set out immediately. With a little luck and Fintán’s exceptional eyesight, he’d spied the plane being tailed by fighter jets. Upon closer inspection, he’d seen Peter piloting and made contact.

  Fintán admits he wanted to attack the jets then, but Pratha had signed he was needed in another way, to save Zeke or any of the others if need be.

  “We’re fortunate you came along. Thank you,” says Peter. “Any news of Quon Kiang or Azh?”

  “None, Father,” Fintán says. “It’s believed they’ve been abiding in the Congo for centuries, but no one knows where. The jungles there are dark and mysterious to this day.

  “The Twins?”

  “Freyja may know, but she did not say. She can be difficult, as you know.”

  Peter sighs. “She can indeed.”

  * * *

  Massaging Zeke’s temples, Pratha stops humming and says to Fi, “I’m intrigued by this young mtoto male. What is his importance?”

  Fi’s face scrunches. “I heard them use that word, ‘mtoto,’ before, but I don’t know what it means.”

  “But you are Firstborn.”

  “Supposedly. I still don’t believe it. So what?”

  Pratha fiddles with the metallic red pendant that hangs at her neck, for long enough to make Fi nervous. Just when Fi’s about to say something, Pratha asks, “Do you trust me, Fiona Megan Patterson?”

  Fi lifts her eyes from the pendant. “Not really, no.”

  “You should. And you shouldn’t, as in all things.” She spins the pendant now, which glints and flashes in the sun—except there is no sunlight coming through the heavy fog high above. Fi can’t take her eyes from it. “Would you like to understand the languages of the world? Of all worlds, Fiona Megan Patterson?”

  A part of Fi’s mind wants to throw her hands before her eyes and cry out, or clap them to her ears so she can’t hear Pratha’s seductive voice speaking her full name... My name... my name... But an unknown part of her says, “Yes.”

  Pratha speaks in a language Fi doesn’t understand—one no human and very few Firstborn comprehend.

  * * *

  Pratha’s pendant is a burning star encompassing all visual perception, before Fi’s eyes and in her head at the same time. All she hears are Pratha’s words, a recitation of keys to the Phrygian grammar inherent in the mind of all Firstborn. Symbols spin and swirl, pulsing with the sound of Pratha’s voice. They begin to fit together, arranging in an expanding lattice. One at a time, the metaphorical tumblers Pratha projects into Fi’s brain turn and fall into place. Pratha now speaks in English, but Fi realizes—she’s actually not. She’s reciting a jumble of words from many languages, forming simple sentences—but now Fi understands them. The plane of symbols swings open like a door, releasing a blinding light.

  * * *

  Fi blinks as if waking from a deep sleep. Pratha is concentrating on Zeke, pressing her thumb to the inner joint of one of his elbows, humming as she was before.

  “What did you do to me?” Fi asks, her voice a husky whisper.

  Pratha looks up. “There you are.” She tilts her head. “Did it work?”

  “Did what work?” Fi’s angry and afraid. “What did you do?”

  “Can’t you tell, child? I have aided you along the way to your awakening.”

  Fi realizes with a start that Pratha is speaking in another language. A dialect of Hindi, from the sound of it. But it makes sense to Fi. She swallows hard. “Awakening to what?”—she gasps, because she’s spoken in the same language Pratha used.

  “To what it truly means to be Firstborn.”

  Fi realizes she’s listening, really listening. Focusing on various conversations in the hidden gorge, her hearing heightened beyond anything she ever imagined. From where he’s working on the truck, Edgar answering a question from Mrs. Mirskaya, who’s kneeling next to a camp stove with a boiling pot. They’re speaking in Russian. No, an old form of Slavic. And Fi understands every word. Myrddin, Fintán and Peter conv
ersing in an ancient Celtic tongue. And Fi knows exactly what they’re saying, too. They’re talking about some kind of portal that can get them to Norway, and something about “The Lady,” and a lake.

  She shakes her head and it all of a sudden feels incredibly clear. She turns to Pratha. “‘Mtoto’ means ‘human,’” she says.

  “Very good.”

  Fi looks back to the others, listening again. “This is weird.”

  “It will take some getting used to. You can now understand nearly any language, and once you hear it spoken, even a few words, you can speak it yourself.”

  “Oh,” Fi responds. “Wow.” She’s grateful to Pratha, but frightened as well. More scared than her constant state of frightened lately, that is. But also less. Weird...

  She adjusts from a crouch to sitting with her knees to her chest and concentrates on speaking in English. Anything else is too bizarre right now. “You asked about Zeke.”

  “I did.”

  “He’s my friend. He’s here because he was kind of in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Or the right place at the right time,” Pratha replies.

  Fi isn’t sure how to respond to that, as if afraid to admit that without Zeke she’s sure she would’ve lost her mind by now. She looks at his face, which is losing some of its pallid hue and gauntness, hoping he wakes up soon.

  Pratha asks, “Is he just a friend?”

  “We were kind of dating. Maybe”—She stops herself, suddenly uncomfortable discussing such things with this... woman, if you could call her that. Fi still hasn’t decided if she likes or trusts her. She’s pretty sure she doesn’t.

  Pratha’s voice is a purr. “‘Kind of’ and ‘maybe.’” She looks into Fi’s eyes and it’s like she’s reading her brain like a screen of text.

  Fi blinks and looks away. “Stop that.”

  Pratha says, “Fornicate with him and be done with it.” Fi’s eyes go wide. “If you like it, do it again.” Fi can feel her cheeks turning red, but Pratha doesn’t let up. “And again, and again.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya approaches carrying a steaming camp mug. “What is conversation?”