by ST Branton
Gods Remembered
Forgotten Gods™ Book Eight
ST Branton
CM Raymond
LE Barbant
Gods Remembered (this book) is a work of fiction.
All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
Copyright © 2019 ST Branton, CM Raymond, and LE Barbant
Cover by http://www.bookcoverartistry.com/
Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing
LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First US edition, January 2019
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
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
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Author Notes
Connect with CM Raymond and LE Barbant
Dedication
To Gavin, Hank, and Simone. May you find magic everywhere and causes worth fighting for.
Thanks to the JIT Readers
Angel LaVey
Larry Omans
Paul Westman
Misty Roa
Crystal Wren
If we’ve missed anyone, please let us know!
Editor
SkyHunter Editing Team
Prologue
The road he walked was shrouded in shadows. Ahead of him, the dark temple loomed against a malevolent, churning sky. With every step, the cries of the damned rang louder in his ears and every breath filled his nostrils with the stench of burning hair and flesh. Death surrounded him.
He welcomed it like the embrace of an old friend.
The man’s hands hung at his sides and his fingertips dripped viscous scarlet. Whatever color his skin had been, it was of no consequence now. All that mattered was the crimson wash of blood that marked his trail toward the temple. He liked the way it felt as it pooled in the crevices of his palms and stiffened around his knuckles. The subtle sensations made everything real. He bowed his head slightly and a smile crept across his downturned face.
The front of the temple stood open to the acrid air. Great, soaring pillars lined the way to the elevated throne perched atop a flight of bone-white stairs. He could already see the lone figure that waited, slender and pale. A cloak of shadows wreathed the man’s shoulders as he stood before the throne and his eyes pierced even through their darkness. His lip curled as the bloody figure approached the base of the steps and began to climb.
Perfect, round drops of blood anointed the stairway. The pilgrim crested the landing and bowed. “It is done, my lord.” The words, though softly spoken, resounded through the structure.
The thin, curling smile widened. “Truly a noble sacrifice,” said the lean figure. “But we both know there is one last thing to do.” He withdrew one hand from behind his back, a knife clutched in his fingers. “Commit all to me and be reborn.”
The pilgrim’s breath caught in his throat—from exhilaration rather than fear. How long he had waited for such a glorious privilege? How hard he had toiled? How much blood he had shed?
So much blood.
The hand that held the dagger waited expectantly. He could feel the cloaked man’s gaze upon him. He reached up and grasped the blade. At last, the time had come.
The pilgrim raised the knife to his breast and plunged it deep. More blood, fresh and warm, gushed over him. His hands sank deep into the wound and when they emerged, they held his own still-beating heart. He presented it to his venerated lord, both arms outstretched in total supplication.
Then, he collapsed. His body was nothing but a shell, an empty vessel and the remnant of his mortal life. Coldness spread as color leaked from the world that faded around him. He had wondered for a long time what it might be like to die, to face the end of all existence.
Now, he smiled as he slipped across some invisible threshold. He had been so very wrong. There was no end there.
No. This was, in fact, the grandest of beginnings.
Chapter One
“I still can’t believe you did that,” Deacon said and shook his head. He walked toward me from the middle of the field outside Fort Victory, which we’d transformed into the world’s least impressive shooting range. Fifty yards behind him, two bloated pumpkins and an arrangement of equally sorry-looking gourds adorned some tree stumps that protruded from the untended grass.
“What?” I asked and kicked at a clod of dirt. “I’m a damn decent public speaker these days if I do say so myself. Maybe I saw our big, messed-up family all gathered together in the cafeteria and the spirit of oration simply struck me out of the blue. ‘Give me your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free,’ and all that. Refugees are what inspiration is made of. I think it went well.”
I was joking, but that wasn’t too far from the truth. The enduring spirit of our ragtag band of brothers and sisters had filled me with hope and inspiration. That, and it was simply damn good to be home.
Of course, Delano’s shadow still loomed large over the new world order we constantly tried to cobble together out of mud and army rations. I felt like I needed to imbue my people with something that would keep them going. We all knew times would be tough for a while.
Deacon checked his gun. “Hey, I’m not knocking it,” he said. “Badass, sexy Wonder Woman looks great on you.” He leveled the pistol and looked down the sights.
I laughed. “You would be into Wonder Woman,” I said.
He looked warily at me from the corner of his eye. “I’m afraid to ask what that means.”
I punched him gently in the arm. “It means you have a giant boner for justice.”
Deacon grinned. “Among other things.”
“I walked into that one.” I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Will you teach me how to shoot or not?” As much as I feigned annoyance, I couldn’t keep the smile off my face and he knew it.
“The best way to teach,” he said philosophically, “is by example. Observe.” He drew in a breath, adjusted his stance, and squared his shoulders. On the exhale, he squeezed the trigger six times in rapid succession. Fifty yards away, pumpkin flesh erupted in thick
orange ribbons. Seed shrapnel pummeled the ground around the stump. “There.” He turned to me. “See? Easy as pie.”
“Says the FBI agent with years of formal training,” I retorted. “I guess it doesn’t look so difficult.” He cleared the gun, then handed it to me. I retrieved a full mag from my pocket and swapped it for the one Deacon had used. He watched me click it into place and rack the slide.
“So far, so good,” he said. “Now, remember. It’s all about focus. You have to be able to work with the weapon instead of against it.”
A familiar sentiment, but it wasn’t the same. I felt like I brandished a movie prop. “Are we sure I can’t simply use my sword?” I grumbled.
“The world was never saved by a lousy shot,” Deacon quipped. “And you, gorgeous, are among the lousiest.”
I frowned at him. “Take that back, St. Clare.” I was willing to admit that my firearm skills needed work, but ‘the lousiest’ seemed like a stretch.
He smirked. “Make me.” That said, he moved around behind me as I aimed the gun at my bulbous orange target. “Clear your mind. Focus everything down to one point—the point of entry. Don’t tense up like that. Keep your shoulders loose.” He moved my arm a little. “There. Breathe in, breathe out, and fire.”
I tried to mimic everything I’d seen him do a minute earlier, but it felt all wrong. The gun might as well have been a toy in my hands. I missed the reassuring weight of the Gladius Solis and clean heft of its swing. Given the choice, I’d pick that damn blade every day of my life.
Still, the man had offered to teach me to shoot, and I wouldn’t turn down any opportunity to be alone with him. Plus, things were quiet at the moment in the wake of our adventure out west. We had returned to a routine of team meetings, mess hall meals, and daily patrols. If I didn’t do something, I’d run the risk of going stir crazy as I had before.
I sucked in my breath and as I exhaled, my trigger finger squeezed. The pistol jumped, and the smallest sliver of my pumpkin rocketed off into space.
“That counts,” I said to Deacon. “I hit it. You saw that.” I lowered the gun so I could point to the millimeter of exposed orange pumpkin meat.
“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “I think that’s what we in the business like to call a technicality.”
“Ugh.” I scowled at the weapon. “You guys in the business can shove it up your asses.” I raised the weapon once more and I took another shot. This second attempt went shamefully wide, even to my eyes. The bullet zinged off into the open sky.
“And that,” said Deacon as he shifted my arm once more, “is why we practice in an open field in the middle of nowhere.” He put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed gently. “Give it one more try.”
I groaned but did as he suggested. The third bullet zipped over the pumpkin’s stem and left its broad face completely undisturbed. Behind me, Deacon tried not to laugh. He succeeded—mostly.
I popped the magazine out and tossed it into the grass. Somehow, I resisted the urge to chuck the gun after it and placed it carefully on the ground beside me instead. “Fuck this shit!” The pistol had no sooner left my grip than I had my trusty sword in hand. I uttered a warrior’s shout as I threw it in a forward arc. The blade stuck neatly, dead center in the target’s body.
Deacon nodded and arched his eyebrows. “There we go. That’s not bad at all.”
“Can your stupid bullets do this?” I asked. On cue, the Gladius Solis sailed back to me, trailing its impaled cargo behind. I caught it and shook the pumpkin carcass off with a flourish. The juice sizzled off the surface of the blade. It smelled vaguely roasted and rotten.
“Show off,” he said affectionately. “You get points for style and points for precision, but that’s it.”
I sauntered in closer. “What about points for being a badass, sexy Wonder Woman?” The sword went back to my belt.
Deacon grabbed my waist. “None of that makes you a better shot,” he said.
I put my hand over my heart and pretended he’d wounded me. “Ouch. And they say romance is dead.”
“Truth hurts, beautiful. I don’t make the rules.” He chuckled and leaned down to touch his forehead to mine. I wrapped my arms around his neck and lifted onto my toes. Our lips were inches apart when the coarse squawk of the radio on my chest killed the mood.
“Hey, guys.” Luis’s voice crackled over the channel. “You gotta get back in here—like, right now.”
I pulled away from Deacon and thumbed the button. “Now?” I repeated. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” the kid replied. “Your friends from DC are here. They want to spill the beans.”
Deacon and I looked at each other and set off for the main building. I took Marcus’s medallion from my pocket and slipped the chain over my head. “Roger that,” I told Luis. “We’re on our way.”
Chapter Two
Deacon and I were the last to arrive at the fort’s only real conference area. Everyone else had already grouped around the long, glossy table. I shut the door as we entered and made a mental tally of faces. Steph and Frank stood amid the usual suspects and I couldn’t help but notice how closely they’d positioned themselves.
Then I had to do a double-take at Frank because damn, the man looked great. He was still not my type, but he was now a far cry from the corpulent, downtrodden gangster I had once loved to hate. He’d trimmed down a ton, and without the dead weight and the dark circles, there was a certain silver-screen charm about his rough features.
“Steph.” Deacon moved forward and enveloped his ex-partner in a hug. “It’s as good as hell to see you.”
She gave him a half smile. “And you, St. Clare. I hope you weren’t worried. You of all people know how hard it is to get rid of me.” They shared a chuckle. Over Steph’s shoulder, Frank caught my eye and I had to pretend I hadn’t stared at him.
He grinned. “Did ya miss me, Vic? By the look on your face, I’d almost think you were happy to see me.”
“Don’t read too much into it, Frank,” I said. “I’m only glad you’re back in off the streets.”
Shortly thereafter, I called the meeting to order. “Let’s get this ball rolling. We have a lot of information to exchange.”
“How were things out west?” Steph asked. “We received snippets from Maya, but not too much. DC is a disaster. It’s difficult to get communications in or out.”
I drummed my fingers on the tabletop and glanced at the circle of faces. “Well, we flew out, we killed some gods, and we found Delano.”
“No shit?” Frank asked. He frowned almost regretfully. “We caught wind of his name a few times too. I haven’t seen that son of a bitch since…” He made a general motion at his vampy appearance. “You know.”
“It turns out he’s been pretty freaking busy,” I said. “The dude’s on a rampage, killing gods and absorbing their powers. He’s becoming some kind of bizarre amalgamation of every god he’s managed to defeat.” I recalled the image of Delano’s long black hair turning gold as Oxylem’s lifeless body drifted away on the tide.
“I didn’t know that was possible,” Maya said. “Does it hurt him at all?”
I shook my head. “I wish, but it’s the other way around. He gets stronger every time he does it.”
Steph piped up again. “But you still kicked his ass, right?”
“We didn’t fight,” I said. “I don’t think he wanted to, for whatever reason. He arrived, then screwed off, and we came back here.”
“Damn,” she said. “He sounds like a guy who could use a good thrashing.”
“Speaking of screwin’ off, where the hell is Brax?” Frank asked and swiveled his head to look around the room.
“Yeah.” I snuck a look at Jules, who refused to return it. “He’s in the wind as usual. He split right after we touched down on the east coast. Said he had something he needed to do, but I sure as hell don’t know what that is.”
Perhaps it is for the best that the demon remains absent, Marcus
suggested. He may be somewhat reformed, but I maintain that his most prevalent talent is to attract trouble of all kinds.
I laughed. “Somewhat reformed? That’s all you can give him?”
It is all he has earned.
“You might be right,” I said. “Who needs a bullheaded, ornery old guy around when we’ve already got you? I’m beginning to think that the real reason you don’t like Brax is because you’re too much alike.”
This is slanderous language, the centurion warned grumpily.
“Oh, please,” I said. “Brax earns his keep. We all know it. Sometimes, I really can’t believe how stubborn you are.”
Deacon nodded. “I’ll admit that he can be pretty weird, but if there’s anything I’ve learned about Brax by now, it’s that he’ll turn up when he’s good and ready. Say whatever you want about him, he always does.”
A murmur of general agreement ran through the room. Jules had graduated to making eye contact with me, but her face remained impassive. She had yet to open up about what was going on between her and the demon, but I was her best friend and I had my theories.
