by J. P. Rice
He was already making this more difficult for me. I asked, “What type of retribution were you thinking?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s say the head of Octavius since he clearly sanctioned the atrocity. I don’t even need the body, just the head,” he stated melodramatically, waving his hands around.
“Do you have any proof that Octavius sanctioned it?”
Jonathan stopped moving and stared at me, dumbfounded. “Have you ever heard of the word, intuition? You should look it up.”
I stood up, anger coursing through my body, and walked purposefully toward his desk. A ginger storm was brewing. “Listen, motherfooker. I know you’re fired up about this, but don’t you dare talk down to me.” My former self kicked in. The one that would kick ass first, and ask questions later if there were any survivors.
He backed up and put his open hands in front of his chest. I could smell his magic, probably brimming right under the surface of his skin. Ironically, it gave off an odor of roasted garlic. If he wanted a fight, I could break his vampire neck right here.
Instead, he spoke apologetically, “I didn’t mean to insult. And it’s not like you haven’t insulted me in the past. People still ask me why you call me Jack-O’.”
I stopped in my tracks. He was right. I had to work on controlling the dark blood swimming around inside me. Before my husband had disappeared over two hundred years ago, I was as happy as a meadowlark. My bitterness over the situation had quickly shifted to rage.
It had sparked a fire of anger inside me. A fire that consumed my body and soul. A fire that still smoldered just below the surface, waiting to come out and cause wrath. A fire that, once stoked and it began to blaze, took a mighty effort to extinguish.
I had given him the nickname Jack-O’ about 70 years ago, which was short for jack o’lantern because of his orange face. I’d meant it in jest, but I had to cut him a break because of it. He had never snapped at me over the insult.
Perhaps coming back to Pittsburgh was a bad idea. It already had me fired up. Perhaps I could turn this into a quick visit and get back to Hilton Head. Get the hell away from all this nonsense.
As I walked back to my chair, I asked, “So have you heard any rumors about Lugh’s Spear?”
Jonathan smiled and pointed at me. “There it is. I knew it. I knew why you came back to Pittsburgh. You just can’t keep your hands off that shaft, can you?”
I smirked at his reference and sat back down. “I told you. I came to see my father. But I wouldn’t be handling my due diligence if I didn’t at least ask about it.”
A firm double knock sounded on the door, and Jonathan screamed, “Enter.”
Shane walked in with a drink in each hand. He dropped off Jonathan’s red beverage first and handed me my drink on his way out the door. Perfect timing. Hopefully, these drinks would calm us both down. I took a sip and nodded in approval. Jonathan was right. His bartender was skilled. It was one of the better Sazeracs I’d ever had.
Jonathan took a sip, set his drink on his desk and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry about the spear, I can just put Mike Merlino on it. It sounds like you’ve heard some stories about him.”
I leaned back and drained more of my tasty beverage, the alcohol soothing my nerves and relaxing me. “I’ve heard some stories. I suppose you’re going to gush all over him too?”
Jonathan pulled his chair up behind him and sat back down. “Not at all. However, if you are to stay in this city, you’d be wise to befriend him. He has his finger on the pulse and always knows what’s going on. But I won’t gush over him. And I am extremely partial considering he took a few silver bullets dipped in holy water for me.”
That could complicate matters. I’d never saved Jonathan’s life. We were good friends, but in the battle for allegiance, saving someone’s life usually served as a trump card.
“So, he’s a vampire, huh?” I hinted.
“No. Why would you say that?” Jonathan asked, looking away and scratching his scalp.
I stated the obvious, “Because he looks like a damn vampire with all the sweating, not to mention his pale face and giant pupils.”
He shrugged, still avoiding eye contact. Why was he acting strange? He said, “He’s a mortal human as far as I know. Supposedly shares a bloodline with Merlin.”
I rolled my eyes and stirred my drink with my finger. “That crusty fooker. Now I hate the kid even more.”
Jonathan finally turned back to face me. “Speaking of that self-righteous curmudgeon. Is he still chasing after you?”
I tossed my head from side to side. “Kind of. He’s been sending the Bounty Huntress after me. Obviously, I haven’t seen either of them in a long time. Maybe he retired. Anything else about that kid?”
The vampire paused for a moment as if he’d forgotten who we were talking about. Then he nodded confidently and said, “Mike was kind of a whiny bitch when I first met him, but he’s come along nicely. He did however, lie to me about a member of my clan. An unforgivable act.”
Unforgivable? He hadn’t seemed the least bit angry with him earlier. I commented, “Looks like you forgave him during your chummy meeting.”
Jonathan leaned forward, his bushy brows obscuring most of his dark eyes. Apparently, I’d offended the delicate vampire.
He spoke in a growling tone, stressing every syllable, his words sharp and biting, “Commiserating with someone on a business level, especially someone who presents a great value to me, does not mean his lies have not changed our relationship completely.”
He took a deep breath and continued in a softer tone, “I will still use him for what I need, just as he will do the same to me and you do the same unto others. Round and round the wheel spins. Who will come out on top this time? He or she who employs their resources most wisely.”
Oh, puke. I didn’t need a vampire—even a historically famous one—getting all philosophical on me. “So. Lugh’s Spear,” I hinted.
“Right. I haven’t really heard much other than a few bullshitting antique hunters promising me that they could get their hands on it. They’re the kind of guys who can always get something, but it falls through at the last minute. A friend of mine heard that Loki ended up with it and broke it in half. Then he buried both pieces in two different locations.”
“Why ever would he do that?” I asked rhetorically. I knew the answer. Loki had earned the God of Mischief moniker. He did things to stir the pot. He’d start a war just to sit back and watch the destruction. “Has Loki been around here lately?”
“Not that I’ve heard. Thor has been spotted around here, though. As far as I know, Loki’s in Asgard. And you know, you can’t just hitch a train there. With the God of Mischief, anything is possible. And as we both know from this business, it could all just be a vicious rumor. One started by Loki himself, just to cause some angst. So if I were someone hunting the Spear. Hypothetically, of course. I would stand pat right now,” Jonathan added and capped it with a wink.
I finished my drink and stared at the candied lemon rind. The garnish added a unique southern sweetness. Nice twist. I rested the empty old-fashioned glass on my thigh as the flavors danced on my tongue. Ummm, that was a damn good one.
“I didn’t plan on going after the spear anyway. I know you don’t believe me, but I want to stay out of this. The spear pushed me to the brink. I can’t go back again. I just can’t. No. I won’t.” I told myself that, but I also couldn’t let this kid steal my thunder. That was my spear to return to the Celtic God to secure my spot in the pantheon.
No. I tried to fight against it. If only Goibniu had never mentioned the Spear. Why had he struck that match?
With a fire stirring inside me, I tried to beat back the flames, but that only enraged them even more and caused them to blaze out of control. Probably courtesy of the absinthe.
Maybe I could just solve one last case, secure peace between the wolves and vampires in Pittsburgh and receive my overdue nomination for the pantheon. Wh
ile I squashed this beef, I could pick up more clues about the spear.
Or I could take the easy road and head right back to the sunny beaches of Hilton Head.
Jonathan said, “I understand, June. We all have demons to deal with. And we all must choose our own path.”
Chapter 6
As I pulled over on 18th Street in the Strip District, the silver Mustang that had appeared to be following me drove right past. That was strange. I waited for my racing heart to slow down, got out of the Jeep and headed down the sidewalk, hungry for a sandwich from Primanti Brothers. The classic Pittsburgh treat put fries and cabbage slaw on the sandwich. It was one of my favorite meals before I left town. With all the modernization taking place, it was nice to see a classic Pittsburgh tradition still standing tall and proud.
As I walked down the sidewalk, I noticed someone speaking into a walkie-talkie. I took a few more steps and passed a tall gentleman in a suit talking into a shoulder rig. My dragon sense told me something was going on. I nonchalantly looked around as I kept moving and saw another man with a walkie-talkie.
In an age of cell phones and tiny communication devices, the big walkie-talkies with antennas really stood out. If they were in uniform, it would have made sense, but plain clothes individuals had no business with those devices. Could they be undercover FBI agents?
I continued toward the sandwich joint, but I went on red alert. I sniffed the winter air, trying to detect any lingering magic, but the strong smell of French fry grease wouldn’t allow it. It only made my stomach churn in hunger.
Something wasn’t right. Was I being followed? Watched and reported on?
Before I could dwell on the thought, a man screamed, “He’s choking. Somebody help him.”
A horde of gawking citizens surrounded the victim about twenty feet up the sidewalk. A man in a suit ran past me, yelling, “I’m a doctor. Let me through.”
For some reason, the people surrounding the choking man wouldn’t move aside and allow the doctor to get in. They were elbowing him out, instead of opening a path to the victim. I walked forward, hoping this wasn’t an elaborate trap to lure me in. My recently softened heart demanded I help that doctor get through.
A woman shouted, “What’s that? Up in the sky.”
Superman? As I lifted my head and shaded my eyes from the sun’s rays, I saw an angelic figure descending on the city. The object came into focus, and I realized it was a man on a white Pegasus. The giant animal’s wings beat powerfully, but I couldn’t tell who was on it. Then, unexpectedly, the Pegasus tucked its wings snugly against the rider’s legs, sending them torpedoing toward the earth.
As they closed in, it seemed like they were going to smash into the street, but the pale Pegasus extended its wings and they slowed down dramatically. They circled the area a few times before landing near the choking man. The rider jumped off the Pegasus. It was him. Like a superhero coming out of the sky.
Tyr, the former Norse God of war, had been evicted from his pantheon because Odin wanted to consolidate power. Tyr shoved people aside, but did so heroically, attempting to get to the choking victim. Tall and powerful, the breathtaking man was dressed in white enameled battle gear, looking almost as majestic as his Pegasus. Tyr positioned himself behind the man, as the panicked crowd shouted for him to act quickly.
Tyr smiled with confidence, but his hands were too low for the Heimlich maneuver. He positioned his clasped hands over the man’s belly button, not up near his diaphragm. Tyr picked the man up off the ground and jerked his hands back. The victim coughed and a brown chunk of food shot out of his mouth and landed next to a sewer. The strong trail of steam coming from the sewer grate obscured the chunk within a few seconds.
I couldn’t believe his questionable technique had worked on the first attempt. The crowd cheered, and Tyr took a bow, smiling and waving to everyone. I didn’t know Pittsburgh accepted the supernatural. A former Norse God had just flown in on a Pegasus and the people acted like it was normal. The times, they are a changin’.
As the cheering mass of citizens dispersed, Tyr sauntered over to me. He dipped his head and said, “Gale. How are you, my dear?” He held out an upturned palm.
I set my hand in his. He raised and kissed the back of my hand, sending a little rush through me that only Tyr could do. Normally, I thought kissing a woman’s hand was creepy and outdated, but everything was different with this man.
He leaned in and hugged me, gently caressing the back of my neck. Under his touch, my voice squeaked, “I’m still alive. Much to the chagrin of many people.”
We broke the embrace, and I took a step back. Tyr said, “I can relate to that. What brings you back home?”
Home? I’d never considered Pittsburgh my home. I’d never considered anywhere home. I was born in Clara Spiritus, the home of the Celtic Gods, raised in an otherworld by elves, and had lived in a few different locations after that. But I’d always felt a kinship with Pittsburgh. It provided a feeling of home, more so than all the others combined.
We both had to forge our own reputations with what we were given. Everyone knew Pittsburgh as a hardworking, blue-collar city and I likened myself to that. I had to earn everything in life, even my magic. We’d both made mistakes along the way. I could remember when the streets were filled with thick black smoke.
I’d made too many mistakes to list, but we were rehabilitating our images. Pittsburgh was a leader in the field of medicine. The Hillman Cancer Center was the premiere treatment facility in the world. Pittsburgh had gone from killing people with smoke from the steel mills to curing people with rare diseases from around the world.
I had gone from someone who would kill on a whim just to get a laugh out of the Morrigan to prospective peacemaker. So maybe this was home.
Someone bumped into me from behind, pushing me closer to Tyr. I told him, “I came to see my father. And I still haven’t been to see him. What have you been up to? Still hunting?”
“Tell you what. Why don’t we go sit down somewhere where we can talk without a crowd?” He gestured around at the mass of people surrounding us.
Caught up in the moment, I hadn’t realized we had an audience. Tyr had that effect on me. He made me feel like I was the only person around when we were together. He walked over and patted his animal on the back, then he sent his ride away. Pegasus parking was a real bitch in the city.
The winged animal crept higher in the sky, navigating between the buildings and rising high in the cerulean sky until it took on the nebulous look of a distant cloud. I forgot all about my sandwich, tried to hide my perma-smile and walked alongside Tyr.
WE WENT TO KAYA, A Caribbean joint down the street and got a table near the back. The quaint, one-room restaurant with a bar didn’t provide much seclusion, but it was better than standing on the sidewalk. I sat across from Tyr and tapped my right foot uncontrollably under the table. I played with the napkin on my lap as I stared into his eyes.
Tyr was still in his flexible battle gear, and I couldn’t believe that the restaurant workers had barely batted an eye at his medieval attire, when we had walked in.
On the way over, Tyr had informed me that after the dragons had crashed the city, it had forced the citizens to accept the supernatural. On second thought, the restaurant probably felt safer with someone dressed like Tyr around in case something happened.
I balled up the napkin and clenched my hand. Two hundred years of sexual frustration could do that to a girl. I released my killer grip from the linen cloth and wiped my damp palm on my jeans. I’d been tempted, only by Tyr, but I’d stayed true to my husband and had never cheated on him. My disturbing experiences in the Red Cavern and Zeus’s subterfuge didn’t count.
Tyr was big and strong, but not to the point of ridiculousness like Zeus. His appearance reminded me of the beaches of Hilton Head. He had sandy blond hair, a firm jaw and a strong dimpled chin. I could stare at the waves of his ocean blue eyes all day. His perfect tan in the dead of winter spoke to a life of
leisure or permanent vacation. Except for a closely shaven beard and mustache, he looked almost the exact same as the last time I’d seen him.
It was a proper man’s beard too, not the uneven blond peach fuzz pasted on that Mike Mendelino’s smirking face.
What I liked best about Tyr were the battle scars on his arms. I knew that sounded weird, but he had a lot of crisscrossed scars that mirrored mine and made me feel like it was some sort of sign. A kindred spirit connection.
He also had the stitch marks around his right wrist where they had attached his new hand. After Fenrir had chomped off his hand, Tyr remained without it for hundreds of years until the Norse doctors had found a perfect match. My father had also lost his arm in battle and had it reattached many years later, which only added another layer to our cosmic connection.
Tyr sipped his water and set the glass down as he spoke, “Before you ask, I’ll strike preemptively. I haven’t heard any news about Darabond. I know that’s your main concern. Your lips haven’t spoken of him, but your eyes certainly have.”
That was one of the key reasons I liked Tyr. He’d always been sensitive with my emotions and didn’t scoff at me for still chasing after my husband. He’d actually offered to help me track him down a few times.
“I appreciate that. So what are you now, like some benevolent superhero who swoops in to save choking victims?” I asked, wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans under the table.
He flashed his winning smile, his ivory teeth glowing in the dim atmosphere. “I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m trying to help people now. I was spending too much time with Loki. Growing cynical of the world. Far too callous. I want to help people now.”
Were we meant to be together? Both of us were trying to improve our lives and get out of the hunt. “I feel the same way. I’ve been so blinded, only worrying about me or my husband, that I forgot about everything else. Great minds think alike, it should seem.”
