The Pantheon Saga | Book 4 | Gods of Wrath
Page 1
By
C.C. Ekeke
Gods of Wrath © 2019 by C.C. Ekeke
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without prior permission in writing of C.C. Ekeke, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles.
C.C. Ekeke
www.ccekeke.com
Cover Art: Carlos Cabrera
1st Edition
ShatterHouse Press
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Interlude 1
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Interlude 2
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Interlude 3
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Interlude 4
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Epilogue
Author Notes
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Prologue
“Hmmph,” Betty Ortiz mused, inspecting a new design in a lower level room of her clothing boutique. The 3D hologram floated via a computer’s projector before her.
A full-length white bodysuit with zippered collar, covered in yellow lightning bolts. Golden circular goggles hung where the face would be.
Her client had requested this design for his imminent breakaway from the Extreme Teens.
Yet as a designer and fellow hero, Betty knew this costume bordered on Elvis-in-Vegas-level tacky. Not what a young solo hero needed. Betty, in a white kaftan with embroidery trails from V-neckline to hem, circled the design a fourth time. Running fingers through unbound and dirty-blonde locks, she craved another opinion. Usually, Betty asked one of the many talented designers working for her.
But for this costume, Betty turned to the target demographic—her twelve-year-old daughter. “Zelda?”
Zelda Ortiz stood pulling the hem of her t-shirt from her jeans. She’d experienced a growth spurt, all lean and gangly, an explosion of dark curls atop her head.
Zelda looked unimpressed. “Lose like ALL the lightning bolts. His name’s Blur, not Bolt.” They thought similarly about superhero couture, much to her daughter’s chagrin.
Betty studied Zelda fondly, struck anew how her little girl was becoming a woman. “Luke and his team want flashy,” she countered, playing devil’s advocate.
Zelda snorted. “Blur’s not a deep thinker.”
Laughter exploded out of Betty. “The mouth on you!” She gave Zelda a playful pat on the cheek and decided, “This can be one option we present. Our other options will have more of what he needs.”
Zelda’s smile split her round-cheeked face, highlighting a burgeoning beauty. “I like it!”
A door opening grabbed their attention. “Hey girls,” a gruff voice boomed.
Zelda twirled about and beamed. “Uncle Manuel!”
Betty’s heart sang. She turned to the visitor keenly. “Hey, babe.”
When Manuel Arroyo, aka Justice Jones, entered a room, all heads turned. Betty stood roughly six-feet tall. The ‘Outlaw Superhero’ was a six-foot-seven-inch mountain of muscle. His cutoff hoodie revealed powerfully built arms sleeved in menacing tattoos. A red bandana wrapped around his short, slicked black hair. “I got Beach Bum Burgers in the truck,” he announced, as Zelda bearhugged his waist.
“Always welcome.” Betty glided up to give him a deep kiss. PDA in front of Zelda no longer felt awkward.
Justice Jones grinned, softening a hard-bitten and stubbled face. His deep-set eyes swept over the hologram behind Betty. “What’s this…?” The biker frowned, struggling for apt words. “…situation?”
Betty followed his gaze and chuckled. “Blur needs a new look for his solo career.”
Jones made a scornful noise. “Not sure a new costume will help that pipsqueak.”
Zelda cackled.
Betty shook her head. “You two!”
Justice Jones had started off as a distraction from her grief over Titan. Seven months in, he'd become Betty's confidant, father figure to Zelda, battle companion, and passionate lover.
Life partner? Betty blinked, exhilarated yet terrified by that kind of permanence.
Then she watched Zelda’s elation around Jones and how her daughter’s soul had healed.
Eventually… Betty stole another lingering gaze at her magnetic colossus of a man.
“Ms. Ortiz.” The speaker system jarred Betty out of her musings. Shaun, store manager for the aboveground clothing shop. “Visitors on Level 2. No appointment.”
Betty exchanged curious looks with Zelda and Justice Jones. Her clothing boutique, AOPGS, sold Santa Barbara and SLO County fashion like Baywood Park and Scissor Clothing on the top floor. Level 2 visitors were private appointment only, either fellow heroes or their representatives.
Betty knew she had no further appointments today. Her cellphone calendar and Zelda would’ve reminded her. Betty’s instinct was to send these visitors packing with a mild rebuke to RSVP. But curiosity stayed her hand. “Who is it?”
“Benjamin Crane and Kurt Weston,” Shaun said.
Betty swallowed a curse. Vanguard’s communications director and field leader respectively—here.
And she already knew why.
Justice Jones rais
ed his brow. “The Fun Police is here,” he teased.
Zelda rolled her eyes. “Tell Sentinel about Blur’s new costume. That’ll make him leave.”
“Shush, you two!” Betty chided, unable to not grin. Sentinel’s staunch dislike of corporate-sponsored heroes was well-documented. She focused back on Shaun. “Be right up.”
One quick elevator ride later, Betty stepped off on Level 2. The spacious floor sported wood-paneled floors, the warm lights dimmed, but no customers or clothing racks. Four rotating platforms projecting costumed heroes lined opposite walls, switching every few minutes.
These included Titan, Seraph, Papa Voodoo, and Betty’s alter ego, Lady Liberty. Betty’s eyes were drawn to the center table where she’d sit with guests to discuss designs. Two men waited for her.
The gaunt older man with slicked-back hair and wizened features wore an impeccable pinstriped suit. Benjamin Crane, The Vanguard’s implacable communication director, had outlasted many superheroes’ careers. Crane was a force of nature behind the scenes in upholding The Vanguard’s pristine media image. And by the extra lines on his face, that job had taken a clear toll.
The second man looked odd in regular clothes, his physique filling out a long-sleeved tee and blue jeans like a Renaissance sculpture. With short blond hair and square-jawed good looks, the man codenamed Sentinel hadn’t changed much since they’d first met twenty-five years ago.
That supersoldier program built him to last, Betty mused. The only signs of age came from crow’s feet around Sentinel’s piercing blue eyes and tautness around his mouth.
Years of bittersweet nostalgia rushed through Betty. Being one of The Vanguard’s Sensational Seven had started off simple and pure, until it wasn’t.
Larger-than-life battles versus monologuing villains were fueled by youthful optimism to save the world. Passionate encounters led to selfish betrayals, bitter arguments, and ugly schisms.
Betty blinked away the memories, putting on a cordial smile. “Ben. Kurt.” She approached. “What a surprise.”
“Elisabeth.” Crane gave her kaftan a haughty onceover that said more than any spoken criticism.
Sentinel smiled, revealing perfect teeth. “Hey, Libby,” he greeted.
Betty shook Crane’s hand, then embraced Sentinel. “What’s this about?”
“I’ll be blunt.” The supersoldier inhaled deeply. “Vanguard needs you back.”
Like I thought. “We’ve discussed this, Kurt.” Betty shook her head. “Not interested.”
“We understand why,” Crane replied, hands raised as if addressing a gun-toting hostage-taker. “Being a mother and making San Miguel your patron city.”
“But you’re Lady Liberty,” Sentinel continued. Clearly he and Crane had practiced this speech. “You’ve seen the news. The Vanguard’s getting dragged through the mud no matter how much good we do. And these Elite Neanderthals are aiming to make us irrelevant.”
That tugged at Betty’s heartstrings. Of course, she’d seen the constant negative press. Betty also remembered the all-consuming cost of being on The Vanguard.
And Zelda deserved a full-time parent. Betty hardened her heart. “My answer is no.”
Crane made a frustrated noise. “I knew this was a mistake.”
Sentinel shot him a warning glare. “Ben…”
Betty jerked back. Her surprise at his insolence quickly became contempt. “Yet here you are, asking me to wipe the stink off Vanguard’s reputation.” Not the first time they’d done that. “Am I your last hope because Tsunami rejected you, too?”
Sentinel sucked in a sharp breath. “Libby, that’s unfair.”
Crane purpled. Ex-Vanguard member, Tsunami, remained a sore subject even fourteen years later. “When Titan died, we grieved with you,” he said frostily. “We ask one favor, and you spurn us?”
Betty unclenched her fist, curbing the itch to shatter Crane’s jaw. As usual, he despised any opposition to his agenda. “My life is in San Miguel.”
“So is your protégé.”
Those words chilled the room. Betty tried masking her shock. But the triumph on Crane’s gaunt face impaled through her. They know about Hugo. The Vanguard had been spying on him and her.
Crane twisted the knife deeper. “We know your apprentice helped stop Morningstar. He’s the real hero behind those saves Tomorrow Man keeps taking credit for.”
Sentinel’s wide eyes danced fearfully between Crane to Betty. “Ben, don’t.”
Crane ignored him. “What impressionable young hero wouldn’t want to join The Vang—ERRGH!”
Maternal instinct drove Betty to hoist Crane off the ground by the throat, one-handed. “Go near him, and I’ll tie your bony ass into a pretzel." Hugo was like a son to Betty. No one would disrupt his life on her watch.
Crane’s response was a panicked gurgle, his complexion turning paler.
Sentinel seized Crane's waist, struggling to pull him free. “Libby. Ben got overzealous. Put him down.” But Sentinel’s peak human strength paled before Betty’s ocean of power. “Please.”
The last word reached Betty, despite aching to teach Crane a painful lesson. She released her grip. Crane collapsed in a gasping heap on the floor.
Betty glared at him. “Get out.” Her demand was flat and final.
“Wait in the car,” Sentinel ordered, stepping between them. Like that could stop her.
Crane stumbled to his feet drunkenly. The elevator opened, and he ran inside like his ass was on fire.
Once the elevator closed, Betty grabbed Sentinel’s arm and whirled him around. “How dare you.” Her low voice was hoarse with anger. Betty couldn’t believe his betrayal of their friendship.
Sentinel recoiled, instantly contrite, hands raised to mollify her. “That wasn’t how I wanted this to go.”
“What was your plan?” Betty barked, her anger soaring. “Hunt down my student if I refused? Is this how Vanguard operates now?” Maybe it should die. The unbidden thought shamed her.
Sentinel looked annoyed. “Not hunt. Recruit,” he revised. “Things are that dire, Libby.”
Betty was unmoved. “My apprentice is off-limits.” Her words left no room for misunderstanding.
“I’m sorry,” Sentinel massaged his forehead. “We’re trying. I’m trying.”
Betty studied her former teammate. Now she saw the weariness, the weight on his very broad shoulders. Showing this much vulnerability was unlike him.
Worried, Betty softened. “How bad?”
Sentinel stopped to face her. “We’ve been bleeding endorsements and sponsorships since the Morningstar story. Charities and hospitals are still turning us away. The media and general public won’t forgive us.” He looked to the ceiling for answers, hands on hips. “Robbie Rocket’s ego is out of control, and he keeps threatening to quit.” Sentinel pulled out his phone. After some swiping, he showed Betty his screen. “And this happened.”
She saw towering redwoods on an early morning. Then a pairing came into view from several feet away. A burly mountain man leaned back against a tree, blissed out. A woman with long and glossy black hair knelt before him, head bobbing up and down.
Again, Betty was confused. Then the video zoomed in on the woman’s coppery-skinned face.
“Ohmigod!” Betty lurched back, stomach roiling. “When was this?”
“Two days ago, in Muir Woods,” Sentinel confirmed. “Some hiker sent that to Herogasm and SLOCO Daily. In the full video, Wyldcat was clearly on something. She pleasured him in exchange for his potato chips.” Sentinel stuffed the phone in his pocket. The cocktail of disgust and sadness on his face unsettled Betty. “Her drug problems have grown worse. We’re rotating through members on the Warguard reserve team while she’s in rehab.”
Betty and Wyldcat were never friends, but there had always been mutual respect. And she empathized with her grief over Titan’s passing. But clearly the British-born hero couldn’t move on. Which made the joke that popped into Betty’s head so wrong. “Wyldcat got laid
to get Lays?”
Sentinel gawked in disbelief, before laughter burst from his mouth. “God, don’t joke,” he managed. But Sentinel kept laughing, which made Betty laugh with him. He clearly needed it.
“Is the story out?” Betty questioned after regaining her composure.
“No,” Sentinel replied soberly. “Both papers have The Vanguard by the balls. Kaylie and I are giving SLOCO Daily exclusive wedding access to kill this story. Herogasm gets details on my bachelor’s party.” Sentinel bristled, angry again. “Instead of wedding planning, I'm leveraging my nuptials to save the team from more embarrassment.” Sentinel’s eyes shone, like he was about to cry.
Betty couldn’t take much more. She loved her life, but the hero in her hated watching Vanguard implode. She closed her eyes, swallowing distaste at her next words. “I’ll consider part-time.”
Relief radiated off Sentinel. “That’s all I ask, Betsy.”
Betty spread her arms. “C’mere.” The two shared a long embrace. The familiar warmth of Sentinel’s frame was welcoming.
“You haven’t RSVP’d for the wedding,” he complained.
Betty chuckled, grateful for the reminder. “Z, Manny, and I are coming,” she confirmed. “Give me two weeks on my Vanguard answer.” As she spoke, uncomfortable heat climbed up her spine. Betty hadn’t felt that sensation in years. She stepped back, hiding the discomfort behind a smiling mask.
If Sentinel noticed, he made no sign when they exchanged farewells. “Thank you.” He took what seemed like a serious cellphone call as the elevator closed.
Betty stopped smiling and staggered toward a wall for support. The warm sensation inside her skyrocketed. Like a thousand white-hot furnaces burning at once. Forming a coherent thought beyond not going nighty-night became impossible.
The heat ebbed minutes later, leaving Betty doubled over, gasping. She knew the sensation.
A challenger... 2009 had been the last time anyone had challenged Betty to become the avatar of the mystical powers that made her Lady Liberty. She’d won…barely.
Answering the challenge would take her far from San Miguel, Zelda, Justice Jones, and Hugo…
“Not now…” Betty shook her head, like that could will this problem away. Hugo had progressed excellently in his training these last eight months. But was he ready to go solo?