2 The Judas Kiss (24 page)

             
“So why do the Greeks destroy human bodies?” Ben asked as they strolled along.  A young boy came hurtling in front of them, nearly tripping Ben, and he waved a dismissive hand at the boy’s embarrassed, flustered mother who jumped up.  “I’m fine,” he called out and nodded at her appreciative smile.

             
Alex laughed and shook her head.  “I think she expected you to scream at her, or her kid.”

             
“Some people would have,” Ben said with a shrug.

             
They walked a few more feet before Alex answered Ben’s question.  “Hasn’t this been explained to you?”

             
“Sort of,” Ben said.  “I still can’t bring myself to really believe in any of this, but it’s starting to make sense to me now.  I don’t believe in magic, and for the first time someone is saying it isn’t.”

             
Alex laughed.  “I’m surrounded by morons so often it’s almost embarrassing to admit I’m related to these things.  The Greeks are children, toddlers, if you will, in the whole age spectrum of the gods.  They’re young, reckless, selfish and vain.  They exist without the ability to differentiate between I need and I want.  It’s basic psych-101 if you think about it.  They’re like the very core of life’s nature.  I need, I want, give it to me.  They can’t control themselves, and in that inability to control anything, and that desire to just take, they destroy.  If they could just stop for a moment and try to live harmoniously, they’d understand that coexisting is possible.  But it’s not who they are.”

             
There was a slight buzzing, and it took Ben a moment to realize that it was his phone.  He finally detached from Alex’s hand and pulled the phone from his pocket.  He didn’t recognize the number, and didn’t protest much when Alex snatched it from his hands.

             
“Andrew, news?  Uh huh.  Perfect, be there shortly.”  Alex hung up the phone and handed it back.  “Our friend is back with the information we need.  Shall we head to the hotel?”

             
They reached the room a few minutes later and found the door propped open and Andrew sitting on the floor near the sofa.  He looked exhausted, his face pale and drawn, and he was holding a CD case loosely in his hand.

             
“Are you okay?” Ben asked, frowning down at the god.

             
Andrew gave a yawn and a shrug.  “I’m not sure.  This body seems to be experiencing something, not sure what, but it’s certainly not comfortable.”

             
“Withdrawals,” Alex said absently as he plucked the CD from Andrew’s hand.  Shutting the door, Alex went over to the cabinet that held the large TV and began to rummage around for a DVD player.  “Your little body there wasn’t just a pothead, you realize.  I think he was a heroin junkie, so you’re probably going to feel like shit for a while.”

             
“Damn,” Ben said, sitting down on top of the low coffee table.  He stared at Andrew’s trembling fingers and sallow skin.  He knew from his line of work that heroin withdrawals could kill a person.  From what Alex had explained earlier, it was likely that the body would survive, but he had no idea if the human consciousness would.

             
“He’ll be fine,” Alex said as though she’d just read Ben’s mind.  “Our little Heimdall will take the brunt of the fall and when he’s finally ready to return to his storms, the addiction will have passed and little Andrew will be all better.”

             
“You think it’ll take that long before I can return to the elements?” Andrew asked, his voice strained.

             
“Just make him a coffee,” Alex commanded.  “This damn hotel room doesn’t have a DVD player.  I’m going to have to pop out and grab one.  Any chance you saw what was on this disc?”

             
Andrew winced as Ben stepped over him to the small coffee maker on the dresser.  He fumbled with the packs of pre-measured coffee, tipping the grounds into the little basket and he filled the pot at the sink.  “What’s the disc about?” Ben asked as he pressed the brew button.

             
“Security company,” Andrew breathed, wiping his brow with a trembling hand.  “Bakers said that a security company had alerted the authorities to a woman and three men hauling two unconscious bodies into an abandoned building downtown.  The police searched the building but found nothing.  It was suspicious enough for Bakers to put a red flag on it.”

             
“Who the hell is Bakers?” Ben asked, sitting back down on the table top.

             
“A contact of mine,” Alex said, waving her hand in the air dismissively.

             
“God?”

             
“One, yes, and one that’s requesting to remain anonymous,” Alex said almost impatiently.  “Either way, it sounds like exactly what we need.  This shouldn’t take me long.  Benny, keep him conscious and if he pukes, you don’t mind mopping him up do you?  There’s a good boy,” she said and before Ben could protest, Alex tipped them a wink and was out the door.

             
Ben let out a breath and looked at Andrew whose eyes were slipping closed and he sighed.  Just what he needed.  A god trapped inside of a heroin addict going into shock over withdrawals.  Ben was pretty sure it couldn’t get any worse.   

Chapter Twelve

              Mark’s pen hovered over the paper.  He glanced at the ever-increasing stack of words piling up beside him and he felt a violent rush of fear.  His words were like holding a flame over a pool of gasoline, and if any human walked through that door, the flame might drop.

             
He chanced a look over at Nike who was sitting on the floor, her back to the wall, legs crossed.  She was picking at a fingernail, and looked up at Mark when the scribbling stopped.  Her eyes narrowed and she let out a sigh.  “Tell me you’re not done already.  You said the story was a biography; surely your pathetic life couldn’t be summed up in fifteen pages.”

             
Mark swallowed thickly and set the pen down, rubbing his cramping wrist.  “I’m not finished,” he said slowly.

             
“Well I don’t know what you’re waiting for, Shakespeare, I don’t exactly have all the time in the world, even if you do,” she said and chuckled at her own joke.  “Seriously.  Get to it.”

             
Mark hesitated, looking at Jude’s prone form.  He’d finally stopped trembling, but he hadn’t regained consciousness, and Mark was wondering just how much damage that poison had done.  He fought down the urge to ignore Nike’s pressing commands and check his friend over.

             
“I know what you’re thinking,” Nike said, rising to her feet and stretching upwards languidly, looking very feline as her back arched and her neck stretched up, “but we’re not here to play doctor, Marky.  I don’t think I need to remind you what’s in store for your little friend if you don’t
GET TO WORK
!”  She finished off the sentence in an ear-piercing shout, startling Mark so badly that he dropped his pen.

             
Cursing inwardly at being taken by surprise, Mark leaned down and reached for the pen.  As his fingers closed around it, Nike lunged forward and kicked him in the side, her pointed shoe digging in between his ribs, sending waves of agony shooting through his body.

             
He coughed, trying to catch his breath as she cackled and skipped a few feet backwards from him.  “I’m bored, okay.  I’m bored of humoring you; I’m bored of your little friend.  I’m bored of the fact that he can’t die, and I have to wait for you to spill your guts into your fucking diary before I can get anywhere.  This is taking too long.”

             
“I’m going as quickly as I can,” Mark said, keeping his tone neutral, trying still to catch his breath from the kick.  He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, wishing he had better light, and wishing that in the time he’d been writing he’d come up with some way to defeat her.  But he was at a loss.  With Jude unconscious, Nike armed with a syringe of poison that would immediately incapacitate him, and god knows how many of the vessels upstairs, Mark was completely outnumbered.

             
He found himself hating Ben in that moment.  If only the detective hadn’t been so damn stubborn they may have been able to speak.  Mark could have told him what had been happening and they might have been able to escape this situation.  Now, all Mark could do was delay his captor long enough to either come up with an escape plan, or hope that he’d be missing long enough for Stella to pressure Ben into being concerned. 

             
Whatever the case, Mark had to keep writing.  Abby’s body was showing no signs of fatigue and as far as Mark knew, she could sustain this level of energy for weeks, and there was no way Mark could take that long to write.  He could only hope that by the time he finished, Nike would be weak enough to be strong-armed.  It was a sorry plan at best, but it was all he had.

             
With a heavy sigh, Mark picked up the pen, took a deep breath of air, and continued again.

~*~

Mark’s Story

              I found it fitting that my first true Pesach was to be celebrated by a pilgrimage to Jerusalem with the family.  The young ones were staying back to be minded by Yosef’s relatives as Yehuda, Yeshua, Yaakov and I prepared our supplies for the journey.

             
We were told that it wouldn’t take nearly as long, for which I was grateful.  The very idea of making another journey like the one from Alexandria sent my body into shivers, and I considered offering to stay behind.

             
Everyone seemed so excited to participate in this event, and the excitement quickly became contagious.  For the first few hours of the trip Yehuda and I talked non-stop, discussing all the things I would see and experience, the family I would meet, the crowds of people.

             
“It’s so huge,” Yehuda said, waving his arm into the air.  “The city is so full of people, so many markets, the Pharisee school is there.  People talk more freely amongst each other, and there’s better money.”

             
“Jerusalem is not a carefree place,” Yosef warned, listening to his young son.  “While there are more opportunities there, the Roman Governor has set up his home there, and there is constant unrest.  There have been riots, and crucifixions more often than not, and we must watch what we say, Yehuda.  We may be heading into the city of the Hebrews, but we must never forget to whom we belong.”

             
The warning was ominous, dark and pressing, and we fell quiet for the rest of that day’s journey.  We slept on the sand, under the stars, the thick desert breeze cooling us as we lay under the night sky.  Everyone around me had fallen asleep and I moved closer to the dying embers of the fire.  Above me a sea of twinkling specks spread out against the black sky and I felt so small suddenly, just a drop of life in the massive world.

             
Had I known then, all of the wonders I would see, all of the lands and all of the people, the ages passing before my eyes as I stood in the world unchanged and permanent, I might not have felt so small and afraid right then.  But how could I know what was in store for me?  How could I know then, what this trip to Jerusalem would entail?  The start of something impossible, terrifying; the road to changing the entire world.

             
I only slept a few hours and as the sun rose, we woke and began our journey once again.  We would arrive in Jerusalem by midday, Yosef’s cousin ready to accept us into his home.  He was a merchant, rich for a Hebrew, traveling around, often to Rome, Yosef told us as we marched along the road.

             
There were other people now, the road to Jerusalem becoming crowded with other Hebrews making the journey into their holy city for Pesach.  There were children all over, running to and fro, feeling far more carefree than I could possibly feel right then.

             
In the distance, as we approached the city, I could see the most terrifying sight I had ever experienced in my life.  There were stakes, some just tall wooden beams, others with a second to form a cross.  Crucifixion.  It was the most terrifying word in the Hebrew language, a fate that could befall any Hebrew should they cross the Romans wrongly. 

             
Growing up a Roman boy, I had never found my people cruel.  I had never been subjected to a gladiator fight, nor had I witnessed an execution.  My life in the big, Roman cities had been full of books, teachers, foods, wine and politicians.  They had been punctuated with conversations of philosophy and war, poetry and so many songs. 

             
I had never experienced this sort of abject terror, a bustling city, weighted down by oppression under the rule of an exhausted, angry governor.  As a child there, walking into the city, I had no idea of the politics.  I had no idea that the Roman prefect had been all-but sentenced to rule over Jerusalem, that Jerusalem was the city that you were sent to rule if you’d fallen out of Caesar’s favor.  I didn’t know the threat that hung over his head, that he would be displaced, stripped of money and title if the Hebrews rioted.