I jolted, wondering if he’d read my mind. “Pardon?”
He nodded. “I know the look,” he said, gesturing with his beer towards my face. “Everyone is so scared of the Boatman. Granted, I’m a scary motherfucker. Much scarier than even the rumors lead them to believe. Imagine how scared they would be if they knew the truth—”
He cut off abruptly, and then attempted to mask his faux pas by dumping some beer on his face. Sidenote: with his lips sewn shut, Charon couldn’t really drink. He absorbed his beer through osmosis, opting to dump it on his face. I let him have his secret, allowing the silence to stretch between us as I thought on his words. My story was much the same. People were terrified of me. And they only knew the half of it.
“Why do you think I am nice?” I finally asked.
“You invited me to St. Louis. You included me in your legend.”
I frowned at him. “Legend?”
“The Legend of the Catalyst,” he intoned, officiously. “It’s an incredible story. You should read it,” he said with a smile again tugging at the twine binding his mouth. “Although the ending blows. Kind of.”
I gave him a puzzled frown. “That doesn’t make any sense. The story isn’t over yet.”
He swept his gaze across the lava surrounding us. “Well, this sure looked like a pity party to me. Pouting in the privacy of your own mind. Maybe I was mistaken.”
I stared at him very intently, not entirely sure if he was joking or not. “So, the story isn’t over yet. Unless I let it be over…”
“The version I read was more like one of those ‘choose your own adventure types.’” He shot me a flat look. “There were better endings than this one.” He leaned back in his seat, resting one arm over the lip of the boat as he regarded me. “That’s what typically happens when you’re writing an autobiography, though. Unless, of course, someone else cuts the story short for you.” He drew a finger across his throat in a dramatic gesture.
I tipped my beer back, surprised to find that I’d polished it off, as I contemplated his answer. Charon chuckled, opening the cooler and snatching me a new one. I accepted it, smiling at the frosty cold can as I cracked it open and mirrored his pose with a thoughtful sigh.
I knew he was keeping things back, and that he was doing it out of necessity. I was also sick and tired of asking questions only to receive bullshit, half-hearted answers. Or purposefully vague ones. The gods were all in a club where they gave only cryptic responses. And even my allies were playing their own games. All answers were subjective.
“Sitting here too long will end my story,” I finally said.
He nodded. “Makes sense to me. Or it could be an interlude if you had the right kind of song.”
I nodded absently. Was he referring to the Elders? I knew their power had something to do with songs, and I’d seen Carl do some alarmingly frightening magic with a song.
I also knew he wouldn’t simply give me a straight answer. Not because he was a dick—which he was—but because straight answers carried drastic consequences. Namely, that they could alter outcomes or outright nullify them. He was giving me what he thought I needed. A weapon he thought I could use, as long as I was wise enough to comprehend it. Glancing around at my surroundings, I suddenly recalled an item on my to do list. A promise I had made.
“I need you to do me a favor.”
He turned to look at me, waiting.
“I’m going to take two people to the River Styx for a swim,” I said, choosing my words very carefully.
Charon studied me for a few long moments. “I do believe that would have consequences. It is not a place to beef up your warriors—”
“They’re kids,” I interrupted softly, thinking of Calvin and Makayla. I’d promised their parents, Gunnar and Ashley, that I would take them to the River Styx to hopefully make them as impervious to harm as Achilles.
Charon stiffened. “Oh.”
I nodded. “They’re in danger—through no fault of their own—and it’s the only way I can think to keep them safe until they’re old enough to take care of themselves.”
I didn’t mention that—although young and inexperienced—Calvin and Makayla were incredibly dangerous. Freya had bonded them from the womb, lending them some of her powers to keep them safe. Unfortunately, this meant that harming one of them also harmed Freya, and vice versa. And her protection had the strange consequence of them being born as pups rather than children—less than a year ago, I might add—and gave them the curious ability to turn into giant mist wolves. They’d been innately powerful enough to break through some of Fenrir’s chains—which had been strong enough to keep the giant imprisoned.
Despite these mysterious powers, they were just babies. Puppies. I wasn’t confident that they had matured enough to be able to take care of themselves. And Freya had her own enemies, which could result in them sharing her fate.
The fact that they were naturally powerful actually put them in more danger—because they were young enough to be abducted by my enemies and then molded from a young age into something wickedly deadly. And when they did finally manage to transform into human skins, they would be nothing more than scrawny children. Possibly seven years old, or so.
You know, because dog years were seven-to-one. My crazy life made perfect sense at times.
But I didn’t want Charon knowing any of that. I didn’t want anyone knowing the particulars of their powers, parentage, or anything. Especially not that they’d helped me break Fenrir out of prison. I was their godfather, and I’d turned them into rabid little felons.
Charon was watching me thoughtfully, almost as if he could read my mind. Now that I was a godkiller, I knew that wasn’t the case. Still, the intensity of his gaze was…concerning.
“What you request is beyond difficult,” he finally rasped. “First, you’d have to get them down here. Without being seen. Cerberus takes personal offense to that. Then there’s the Management,” he said, looking as if the word tasted foul. “There are a lot of us, you know. Different pantheons war for power over their little pockets of Underworlds. Right now, it is split pretty equally among Hades and Anubis, but there have been a lot of private, closed door meetings lately. Odin and Freya still hold a large chunk of power, even though Odin hasn’t been here in a while.” He trailed off, as if noticing that he’d been rambling. “Anyway, chalk it up as politics. There are a lot of politicians looking for angles they can use to acquire more power. I’m kind of the mascot for this place. If I disappear for a personal…errand, it won’t go unnoticed.”
I nodded. “I wasn’t asking you to do it for me. I’m letting you know that it will happen, and that I’d like someone to throw up some cover fire of some kind. Anything that will give me a few minutes to get it done and then get them back out unnoticed. This isn’t a power play. This is a keep kids safe play.”
He squirmed uneasily. “I will do what I can. Will this be happening soon?”
I laughed harshly, thinking of my current situation in Zeus’ prison cell. “I have no idea. Pretend that it will, just to be safe. Keep an ear open for my imminent arrival.”
He smiled. “I already do that. I always know when you come here.”
I flinched. “Can others do that?” I asked, fearing that Hades was about to appear and tattle on me to his brother, Zeus.
He shook his head. “No. Don’t worry. Even Anubis can’t track you, Catalyst. He bitches about it constantly since you’re technically on the payroll. Good times.”
I relaxed marginally. “Then how can you?”
He chuckled, cracking open another beer. “Family secret.”
I frowned at him, my shoulders suddenly itching. “You’re not a Temple, are you? Because that might just melt my brain,” I admitted, hanging my head in my hands.
He chuckled. “No. I’m not a Temple. I merely stand in the shadow of their illustrious dynasty.” I slowly lifted my head, frowning at him. “Well, stood, past tense. But that’s all I’m going to say about that.”
<
br /> I let out a nervous breath, liking his elaboration even less than the fact that we might be related. Maybe I’d actually fallen asleep, and I wasn’t really astral projecting right now. Maybe none of this was real—
“It’s real, idiot,” Charon said, tiredly. “Wait. Where are you going?” he demanded, reaching for his oar spear.
I felt my soul leave Hell faster than a nun could clutch her rosary after mistaking a sex dungeon for a soup kitchen.
4
I was suddenly standing in a jail of some kind—much different than the one I shared with Carl. I momentarily panicked, wondering if I had been caught—that Zeus had discovered my astral travels and had jerked me back into an imagined prison for my mind.
I let out a breath of relief to see that I wasn’t actually behind bars. I was in the hallway leading to a collection of cells. And there were some serious health-code violations going on here. In fact, it didn’t look like it had been updated since pre-colonial times.
Despite being here on the astral plane, the heavy stench of brine, iron, rotten leather, and decomposing fish clogged my nostrils, making me gag. The stone walls were wet with constant condensation, seeming to sweat despite the frigid chill to the air.
I flinched as a fishy female fiend flopped past me, her wet webbed feet slapping the ground like a bipedal frog fresh out of water. Her slick, scaly skin glowed in the dank darkness. She was covered in orange scales with wild arcs of white crisscrossing her skin, looking like a mutated Koi fish. She stared right through me, not registering my presence, and I let out a breath of relief as she walked away.
“Nemo Christ,” I murmured under my breath. Where had Charon gone? How had I gotten here—wherever here was? I gagged as an aromatic perfume of sea rot rolled over me, making my eyes water. What the hell? It smelled so bad here that I could smell it on the astral plane?
I leaned towards the bars of a prison cell as I sensed movement within. A figure rose up from the darkness, their hair matted and filthy and even frozen into dingy dreadlocks in places. Their shirt was crisp with frost, and it cracked and snapped as they moved, indicating that the body wearing the clothes should have suffered frostbite long ago.
But they—no, she—hadn’t. It was a woman. I thought.
As she leaned closer, pressing her face against the thick bars of her cell to squint at me, I took a step forward, surprised as all hell that she could see me.
“What the hell are ye doin’ here?” she demanded in a heavy accent that was some sort of amalgamation of Irish and Bostonian.
“Oh, hey,” I said to the stranger, scratching at my jaw in confusion. Maybe Poseidon had stepped in to give me a seaweed beating to help out his brother Zeus. But I didn’t want this woman getting her hopes up that I was some kind of savior. “Well, damn. This isn’t where I parked my car,” I muttered, feigning aloofness as I stepped closer to the cell to get a better look at the woman.
She reached out to grab me with a feral claw of numb, frozen fingers, catching me completely off guard. Her hand came within an inch of my jacket and struck an unseen force. She jerked her hand back with a startled look on her face, flexing her fingers with a grimace of discomfort as if she had been zapped.
I was more surprised that she had even seen me.
I eyed the woman suspiciously as she let out a string of imaginative curses under her breath, not even seeming to realize she’d done it. She cursed like nuns prayed—often and reflexively. Something about that tickled my memory, but I definitely didn’t recognize the bedraggled, beaten, frozen creature before me. Her cell was too dark to make out her features.
I found myself smirking at her mild pain of trying to molest me without my consent. Served her right. Trying to touch me without my permission. Who did things like that? You never invaded someone’s personal space without their consent.
“Seriously,” she asked in that harsh accent, “what are ye doin’ here?”
I frowned as I surveyed the adjacent cells and the dingy hall behind me, verifying that we were alone. Others might not be able to see me, but this woman wasn’t trying to hide the fact that she had made a new, imaginary friend—which would lead to questions if any of her guards overheard her.
I finally turned back to her, getting a better look as she shifted a tangle of hair from her face. Red, red hair. And that damning accent and filthy mouth…
“Hey, wait...I know you,” I murmured suspiciously, cocking my head as I struggled for the answer. I snapped my fingers as it came to me. “You’re that Irish woman. Othello’s friend. The thief.”
“What the hell d’ye just call me?” Quinn MacKenna hissed like a doused cat.
It had been a very long time since I’d seen the magical relic thief from Boston. I’d let myself into her apartment to discuss a business proposal. She had irrationally called it breaking and entering. I’d fought some demon ex-lover of hers, which she hadn’t appreciated either.
All in all, Quinn was very unappreciative, in my opinion.
“Sorry, that wasn’t supposed to be an insult,” I said, waving my hand at her cell. “But then, and I do hate to be the one to point this out, you are behind bars...” I added, dryly.
She glared back at me, not having any footing for an argument. She looked like a refugee. She’d been here for a long time. Either that, or she’d been caught after a very bad day.
In my current clothes, I looked like I was about to hit a nightclub.
“I didn’t steal anythin’ to get locked up, ye idget,” she finally snapped. “And ye still haven’t answered me question. How d’ye get in here?” She looked hungry for the answer. Desperate.
“Not sure,” I replied. “I was trying to find someone, but it looks like I failed. Again.”
“Find who?”
“Someone useful.” I flashed her a tired smile, hoping to temper my phrasing with a dash of empathy. “Anyway, I better go. Looks like I’ve got miles to go before I sleep.” I was on borrowed time. I couldn’t do anything to help her in my current state.
I prepared to leave this hellish place, focusing more intently on my original destination since my errant thoughts had accidentally brought me to Hell and then here.
Quinn, like a manic fucking psychopath, lashed out with one hand, looking as if she intended to punch my heart out of this solar system. Rather than recoil at the pulse of power she’d felt the first time, she gritted her teeth, obviously intending to weather the storm of power that had prevented her from touching me earlier—which had surprised the hell out of me, even though I’d hidden my astonishment. Her hand should have swiped right through me like smoke.
This time was even more of a surprise.
She latched onto…something within my chest, and her jaw locked up while the gaunt flesh of her cheeks rippled as if she was being zapped by pure electricity. Luckily for me, I felt the same blast of electricity rock through me—like she had stabbed me with a taser. Like a maniac, she held on, refusing to let go of whatever force was between us. After a few seconds, she let go with a yelp, wincing in pain.
“What the hell was that?” I barked, clutching at my chest and panting raggedly. I looked down to see that I no longer wore my imagined dress clothes, but instead resembled my physical body’s current state after Ares and Apollo’s dutiful care. My bare skin was sunburnt and peeling, almost purple at the shoulders, and I was back in my tattered clothes. My wrists were covered in scabs—some of which were freely bleeding. Quinn grimaced in surprise, as if imagining the pains for herself. She looked…strangely empathetic for being such a hard case. I had expected her to look victorious.
“What on earth happened to ye?” she asked softly, holding her own injured hand to her chest, looking as if she was trying to ride out her own pain.
I cursed at her revealing my injuries and immediately closed my eyes to bring back my disguise. In seconds, my nicer clothes reappeared and my wounds disappeared. Quinn stared at the sudden change in stark disbelief.
“It took me a wh
ile to figure out how to alter my appearance,” I admitted. “Astral projection isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, but it works a lot better if you don’t pop in on strangers looking like a leper.”
“Astral projection?” she asked.
“It’s how I’m here. Well, sort of here. It’s complicated. Let’s just say I’m making the best of a bad situation.”
“What situation would that be?”
“I got myself in a bit of a bind, that’s all.”
“Imagine that,” she drawled, seeming to bite back an amused grin. “Go on.”
I appraised her pensively, wondering how much I could trust her. She straightened her shoulders defiantly, looking oddly determined to hear my answer. It wasn’t sympathy. It looked…almost like she was demanding an honest answer. That I owed it to her for some reason. I knew the feeling well. “I pissed off a god,” I finally admitted.
She snorted. “Which one?” she asked sardonically.
I blinked at her in surprise, wondering why she hadn’t batted an eye.
“We can swap stories later,” she continued, reading into my body language. “Which god d’ye upset? Wait, wait, let me guess…d’ye break into Hestia’s house?” she asked dryly, her eyes twinkling beneath the filth, looking like gems in the mud.
I rolled my eyes at the reference to me breaking into her apartment—she’d remembered, and been just as unappreciative of my heroics as I’d assumed. “The goddess of the hearth. Clever.” I said in a dry tone. “That was a long time ago. And I didn’t break into your place. I just wanted to ask you to get something for me, and you overreacted.”
She took a deep breath, looking determined to bite back her knee-jerk response. I was still wary of how she had freaking touched me—not that it seemed beneficial in any way. She’d tased me. That was the opposite of helpful.
“What was it ye wanted?” she asked curiously, obviously referring to my initial break-in.
“Doesn’t matter, now. A jewel, I think.” I lied easily, not wanting to mention the Devourer I had been looking for at the time. “A lot has happened since then. More than I care to think about.”
Carnage: Nate Temple Series Book 14 Page 3
