The Scarlet Dragon Saga

by J. P. Rice

  Dressed in a long black dress and a dark overcoat, I waited in line at my father’s burial, where the funeral ceremony was being held. Hundreds of guests braved the extreme conditions for the event, which made me proud. With my identifying red hair tucked away, I hoped my black veil would hide my identity enough for me to sneak in.

  The Morrigan and I got over our little spat. She had come to see me after she’d found out about my father. She had also informed me that she had convinced everyone I hadn’t killed my father. Regardless, I didn’t care if the Celtic Gods thought I’d murdered him. I wouldn’t miss his going away.

  The suited man with a clipboard at the front of the line didn’t look familiar. I planned to use my mother’s name to gain entry since no one from the pantheon had arrived yet. The man barely lifted his head from the paper for each guest, so this could be an easy in. Then I just needed to avoid my father’s new family.

  The man glanced up at me and said, “Name?”

  Before I could answer, Viola’s cackling voice cut through the winter air. “Do not let her in.” She appeared from behind the large man with her finger pointing at me.

  The guests behind me pushed me aside and went in. I said, “I just came to pay my respects. I didn’t hurt him.”

  The squat Viola played with her blond hair. “No, you killed him. You’d better leave right this instant before I call the authorities.”

  That was only a threat if she wanted to see cops die. “I loved him as much as you did. I...”

  I stopped as somebody rammed his or her hip into me, jolting me aside. I turned to the left and noticed a sparkling purple coat and long red hair. “Excuse us,” my mother said, smirking at me. As she walked by, she muttered, “Murderer.”

  A short man with a five o’clock shadow dressed in a gray trench coat and a Kangol hat as dark as a raven’s feather put his hand on her back and guided her into the funeral service. A tightlipped smile developed on his face and he nodded to me apologetically for his wife’s rude behavior, as he passed. I didn’t know much about her newest husband, Warren. Other than the fact that he was crazy for shacking up with my mother.

  The dark blood inside me begged for me to lay waste to the attendees. No. I even fought off the urge to grab Viola by her fake blond hair and use her as a club to beat her sisters and mother to death. I’d come a long way in controlling my wrath.

  Instead, I turned around and left the service, hanging my head in shame. Not even allowed to attend my father’s burial. I followed a concrete jogging path that went up a steep incline before leveling off. Up at the top, I noticed a park bench hiding underneath a thin layer of snow. I dusted it off and sat down. Alone. Forever alone.

  Since I didn’t have many friends and my father was my only family, this was my first burial. I couldn’t believe they were going to put him in the ground. I would have taken the King’s remains back to Ireland, where he belonged.

  I dug into my purse and plucked out the bottle of Jameson, one of my father’s favorite whiskeys. I unscrewed the cap and knocked it back, filling my mouth. The lively spirits made my tongue tingle, and I swallowed the liquid in two big gulps.

  Thinking of my father, I leaned forward and tilted the bottle for him. I watched it drizzle onto the white landscape. The shot of liquor changed the snow from the look of whole milk to a bubbly, golden champagne.

  It was a message from my father. Champagne signaled a celebration. He wouldn’t want anyone crying their eyes out over his death. He’d want them to celebrate his life. And what a life it was.

  The King of Ireland. The King of the Celtic Gods. And most importantly, my loving father.

  With that in mind, I whispered, “One for the soul. Two for the mission. Nothing kills faster than indecision.”

  It was my father’s special battle cry. And he was absolutely correct. Sometimes, a fast decision is better than the correct one, especially during bloody conflict when any moment of indecision could be the last one. Once doubt crept inside one’s head on a battlefield, one had already lost. It was hard enough defeating one opponent at a time without having to fight your own thoughts.

  I downed more whiskey and poured out another shot into the snow for him. The people at the funeral were getting drunk and dancing. A polka band was singing and dancing in honor of King Nuada. My father loved polka. I remembered a sign he had at his first house when he’d moved to Pittsburgh. It said, Down with Disco, Long Live Polka.

  And I had to sit and watch from a distance. My chest buzzed from the whiskey that was keeping me warm and I leaned back on the bench.

  I tried to focus on the fond memories of my father but being edged out of his funeral was the final humiliation for me and for our secret relationship. How many people knew he was my father? Only the people I’d told? Did any of the Gods know other than the Morrigan? None of them would believe he was my father without him backing up my empty words.

  My mother Frigid would deny it until her death. It was as if my status as a demi-goddess had been erased with the passing of my father. He’d taken my hidden identity with him. I caught myself before I got too worked up. I brushed aside those selfish thoughts and focused on the positive memories.

  I remembered one of the first times he’d visited my village in Sleepy Willow. Although I’d barely understood his thick Irish accent, he’d brought me a beautiful longbow and a quiver full of arrows. Until then, the elders hadn’t allowed me to partake in activities designed for men. My father had put a stop to that in short order and taken the time to teach me how to handle the bow properly.

  He had been so patient when I’d asked at least a hundred questions, explaining the reasoning behind everything. I blinked my eyes a few times and saw the warrior King again. Standing right in front of me. Tears burst from my ducts.

  He was wearing all his armor—every single piece of it—and his ring mail jacket gleamed in the bleak rays of the setting sun. With dusk setting in, I stared straight ahead at him, entranced. My hero was gone. Only a grainy vision remained. I chugged more Jameson to dull the pain.

  I stood up and walked over to the vision of my father. It became brighter and more vivid and full of life as I approached. I extended the bottle, offering my father to share a drink with me.

  No one will ever convince me that my father didn’t take the bottle from me and enjoy a hearty pull. In the same token, no one will ever convince me that my father didn’t hand me back the bottle and wink at me. He did. Smiling proudly all the while. We shared one final drink of Irish whiskey together just before darkness fell upon the land.

  I tossed the bottle aside and moved in for a hug. I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around my father, but my hands only met bitter, frosty air. Opening my eyes, the darkness had consumed my father. I blinked rapidly, trying to bring back the vision, but it was gone. Gone forever. The sun had finally set on my father’s glorious life. King Nuada had moved on to the next life, where we would reunite someday. I blew a kiss to the heavens and wiped the burning tears from my cheeks.

  Absorbed in my own reflection, I didn’t notice that all the guests had left the cemetery below. I went down the joggers’ path and walked up to my father’s headstone. I lay down next to his body, just to let him know that I wouldn’t let anyone keep me away from him.

  Chapter 7

  Sitting in Jonathan’s office, I waited for him to get off the phone. I wasn’t even sure it was a real call. He was probably using the fake conversation as a cover because he wanted to get a feel of my temperament. I kept a stern look pasted to my face to keep him guessing.

  The vampire had crossed me, and I hoped he had a damn good explanation why. He’d almost gotten me killed while I was acting on his behalf.

  Jonathan hung up the phone and stood up, holding his arms out at his sides. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he exclaimed and removed his red suit jacket. He slung the jacket over the back of his chair and slumped back into his seat, elbows up on the armrests.

  “Why do you think I ha
ven’t been by?” I asked. He knew damn well why I hadn’t called him. It would be nice to hear it in his words.

  He spoke as he unbuttoned his cuffs, “I have a good idea it’s about my guys who went rogue and invaded the wolves’ house while you were there. I want you to know, I never sanctioned that.” He pressed his hands together in front of his face and leaned forward as if to say sorry. “Nor would I ever. They got what they deserved and I’m sorry they put your life in danger.”

  I wasn’t sure if I could believe him. He sounded sincere, but he was using the cuff bit to avoid eye contact. I told him, “It didn’t make the situation any better, that’s for sure. I’ve got other problems with Octavius, but after this sacrifice, maybe he’ll soften up.”

  Jonathan continued avoiding eye contact as he rolled up his sleeves. “Sounds like a war is the only option left.”

  Man, he jumped right to that card. That was a troubling sign. “No, it isn’t. He was very receptive to the idea of a duel.”

  Jonathan stood up and tilted his head to the side, his eyebrows rising higher on his forehead. “Really? I’m shocked to hear that.”

  I was pretty convinced Jonathan was lying. But attacking him at his house would be a foolish move. I planned to finish the conversation, but the trust between us had died. “It’s true. I could call him right now and see how he feels about it. If you are down for it?” I asked and unfastened the top few buttons of my jacket.

  Jonathan placed his knuckles on the desktop and leaned forward. “Rules. What about rules?”

  He was making me anxious by standing up. His vampire speed could have his fist against my jaw in the blink of an eye. I remained prepared for the worst and said, “I would think the rules would be the being who dies loses. Unless there was another version I’m not aware of.”

  He sat back down, thankfully. “No. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t put out any wacky demands. You can’t trust a werewolf. Always remember that.”

  Thanks, Captain O. “So are you in or not?”

  “I would love to kill him in a duel. Book it,” he stated confidently and slapped the top of his desk.

  Now it didn’t really matter if he was lying about the ambush. As long as Octavius agreed to it, my title as peacemaker was safe. I mean, one person had to die, but it would end up saving countless lives.

  I pulled my phone out of the inside pocket of my jacket and dialed up Caesar. There wasn’t a direct line to Octavius, and his blue-eyed assistant was at my house. Caesar answered, and after a long bout of muffled crackling, he said in a monotone, “What the hell do you want?”

  I took a deep breath and said, “First of all, sorry. I know I put you in a bad place.”

  “You should be apologizing to Octavius.”

  I objected, “Fook him. He tried to kill me. You’ve been nice to me.”

  “Not sure I can be nice to you anymore after you ransacked this place while we were feeding,” Caesar said.

  “I can understand that. You do what you have to do. I’m actually calling about Octavius. I’ve found a way to end the tension with the vampires.” I gave Jonathan a thumbs up.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Jonathan has agreed to the duel,” I revealed and nodded to the vampire.

  “You don’t say. Let me go see if Octavius is still on board with that idea.” The phone went silent for about a minute. Then I heard a knocking sound before it went quiet again.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “He said that’s a great idea. You and I will set it up, time and place and all that. Make sure they understand that this is the end of it. No more hostilities after this is over. It’s over after this,” he repeated.

  I confirmed, “I’ll make sure to relay that message. And I’ll be in touch about the particulars for the duel.”

  We said goodbye. I hung up the phone and saw Jonathan smiling from ear to ear. I told him, “You got your duel. Caesar and I will be setting it up.”

  “Just tell me the time and place. And make sure he isn’t setting up an ambush. Let me kill him fair and square and we’ll have our city back.” He drummed his finger on the top of his desk, restless.

  As long as the vampires or werewolves didn’t attack each other, peace was on the horizon. This noble act would surely reach their ears and hopefully boost my standing with the Celtic Gods.

  “You just better make sure you win,” I told him.

  Jonathan grinned, his fangs peeking out of his lips. “If you’d like to place a wager, I’ll honor any amount you’d like.”

  I wasn’t sure whom I wanted to win in the duel. I’d been better friends with Jonathan over the years, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was lying. I’d been in near death confrontations with Octavius, but he’d never lied to me. It probably seemed weird, but there was a sharp distinction between the two.

  That was why I hadn’t mentioned the business with the death cards to Jonathan. Taking clues from an untrustworthy source was a recipe for disaster. The duel needed shoved to the back burner for now while I concentrated on finding my father’s killer.

  First stop. The depths of hell.

  Chapter 8

  We entered Hades’ man cave, deep in the bowels of hell. His lanky assistant took us through the game room and back to the Greek God of the Underworld’s office. Hades sat behind his desk with Cerberus on his right. His meaty arm hung over the chair, resting gently on Cerberus’s middle head, scratching the hell hound’s scalp.

  He slapped Cerberus on the back twice and leaned back in his chair. The hound bolted through an oversized doggy door and out of the room. The toasty stone room had three carved-out fireplaces, one on each wall except for the side with the door. Ancient landscape paintings hung from the wall behind him, above the roaring fire.

  Dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit, Hades loosened the knot of his red tie and opened the top two buttons of his dress shirt, his salt-and-pepper chest hair poking out. I stared at his face, and despite the bald head and haunting blue eyes with pinpricks of pupils, I saw a stark resemblance to his brother, Zeus.

  Hades scratched his dark Fu Manchu sprinkled with notes of silver, then pointed at the two chairs across his desk. The Morrigan and I sat down. We’d buried the hatchet so to speak and agreed to work on this case together. I planned to let her take the lead down here.

  His assistant exited and slammed the door shut.

  “Ladies,” Hades said and dipped his head, the flames of the fires reflecting off his gleaming dome. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  The Morrigan got right to the point. “You know what’s going on with the cards. What have you heard?”

  “I’ve heard a lot. Most of it is bull, though. You ladies want a drink while we talk?” he asked and picked up a rocks glass with a little golden liquid in it.

  He downed the rest of the drink, and I said, “I’ll take a Sazerac.”

  Hades pointed at the Morrigan, and she ordered, “Bloody Mary for me.”

  The God called in his assistant and relayed our drink orders to him. As soon as his assistant shut the door, Hades leaned forward and steepled his fingers in front of his chin, his elbows resting on the giant obsidian desk. “I understand magic. Better than almost anyone. But this is outside my realm. I can’t understand what type of spell would allow someone to replicate the cards without a merchant present.”

  The Morrigan opined, “It has to be a spell from the dead. Or some sort of necromancy. If they could figure out a spell from a powerful dead practitioner, they could siphon that power and use it for the death cards.”

  Hades pursed his lips and tilted his head, pondering the possibility. “Considering we talk to the dead on a daily basis that would make sense. It would take a powerful entity, extremely powerful, to channel a dead spirit capable of performing that act. God or devil, I would think. With that said, it could be anyone here. I’m not about to go question every soul on every level.”

  “Do you have any lead
s at all?” the Morrigan questioned.

  The fire behind him crackled, and Hades squirmed in his giant seat, beads of sweat forming on the crests of his wrinkled forehead. He appeared uncomfortable with the question. “Not reliable ones.”

  I understood his reluctance to peddle in rumors. Nobody wanted to get blamed for sending someone on a wild goose chase.

  I sat by silently, and the Morrigan said, “Well, considering we have nothing to go on, we have to start somewhere. What do you know?”

  Hades’ assistant came in with our drinks on a silver platter. My mind flashed back to the servers’ trays on the cruise ship where I’d seen Zeus. It was mentally healthy to look back on big life decisions and question them, right?

  I could have gone right back to Hilton Head instead of going to Pittsburgh. As a result, I found myself in the depths of hell trying to figure out another supernatural mystery and avenge my father’s death.

  Hades tasted his drink, pulled the lime garnish off the rim and added a healthy squeeze to his clear, spritzy beverage. He turned to the side and mumbled, “A few people have said that Gareth knows who’s running this operation.”

  The Morrigan stopped chugging her Bloody Mary and wiped the red liquid from her lips. With wide eyes, she asked, “Gareth the dagger? That stupid ass is still around?”

  Hades nodded in confirmation, and I asked, “Why do they call him the dagger?” I naturally assumed he was a badass immortal with that nickname.

  The Morrigan turned to me, shaking her head. “No. He is a dagger. A talking dagger. A drunken, foul-mouthed dagger who practices more trickery than Loki would be a better way to describe Gareth.”

  I’d heard of inanimate objects that talked, but it was always a sword or morning star or one of the bigger weapons. This Gareth sounded like a real card and I was surprised I’d never heard of him. I naturally wondered how he drank.

  Hades added, “He gets so drunk, so often, that he is extremely unreliable. Several people said he’s told a drunken story about someone replicating the death cards. Chase him at your own peril.”