New Olympus Saga (Book 1): Armageddon Girl (34 page)

Face-Off

Chicago, Illinois, March 14, 2013

“She’s stopped somewhere over New York
State,” Condor reported. “Damn me, but Ultimate is
fast
.” He sounded
envious.

“Fast isn’t always good,” Kestrel purred.

“The Lurker must have caught up with
them,” I said before the happy couple could trade more pleasantries. “I wonder
how that’s going.” I found it hard to believe that even the creepy, seemingly
supernatural Lurker could take out the man J.R. Oppenheimer had dubbed 'Shiva
Incarnate, Destroyer of Worlds.' “Can we go after them?”

“Even if I go on afterburner the whole
way, which I don’t have the fuel to do, it wouldn’t matter,” Condor said. “We
wouldn’t get there in less than forty-five minutes.”

“Shit.”

“Look, the Lurker may not be able to take
down Ultimate,” Condor said, then visibly reconsidered. “That is, I don’t think
he can. But he’s tricky. He could easily grab Christine and disappear. Ultimate
is a tough guy and no dummy, but he’s no Doc Slaughter. The Lurker can fool
him.”

“Maybe. Did you get a good look at Mister
Creepy? Did he look like the sneaky, tricky guy you used to know?”

Condor didn’t say anything. We all turned
towards Lester Harris, who had been sitting quietly, enjoying some local
sedatives courtesy of the Condor Jet’s sick bay. Unlike us, the cuts and
bruises he had sustained during his capture had not gone away. Sucks to be
human.

“Okay, yes, he’s changed,” Lester said
defensively. He paused, clearly debating how much to tell us. “I don’t know
exactly what's happening to him, but for the last few years he’s been doing… I
don’t know what to call it, exactly. Magic, maybe.”

Magic? I almost snorted at the word.
Sure, there were a bunch of Neos who called themselves sorcerers and magicians
and masters of mysticism or what not, but all their 'magic' was nothing more
than Neo powers with fancy names. Most of them were just trying to be more
impressive and scary than they really were. A few really believed they were
real witches and warlocks, and sometimes became so deluded their powers would
only work through some magical doodad or another. Some couldn’t perform unless
they chanted spells in Latin or Esperanto or some other weird language. Crazy
Neo shit, in other words.

“I know how it sounds but I don’t know
what else to call it,” Lester continued. “He draws these symbols, like the ones
he started carving on his mask last year, and they make things happen.”

“Some sort of Artifact,” Condor said
reasonably. “He must have developed the ability to make Artifacts at some
point. That’s nothing new. It’s the same way the Iron Tsar makes a lot of his
super weapons.”

“The symbols work even if a human draws
them,” Lester said.

“What?”

“Do you know any magic tricks?” Kestrel
said, switching from playful kitten to ice queen instantly. “Were you holding
out on us, Lester?”

“I only know one,” Lester admitted. “The
Lurker showed me how to do it. It’s not easy, when you are drawing the symbols
you start to see things, hallucinations or something – at least I hope they are
hallucinations. The mark I know lets me send mental messages to the Lurker.
That’s how I let him know you were on your way here. I could use it now but
he’s probably busy right now.”

That was new. There were rumors the
Dragon Emperor empowered normal humans and turned them into Celestial Warriors,
but most people dismissed those stories and asserted that the Emperor simply
had found a way to identify latent Neos and trigger their abilities. Who knew?
Maybe the Lurker did. There was definitely something strange about the guy. The
weird symbols etched on his gas mask had felt supernatural enough.

“Look, I wish I could help out more, but
this is all way out of my league,” Lester said. “I think I’ll be going now.”

I nodded. I felt bad for the guy. He had
gotten mixed up in Neo affairs and could have easily gotten killed a dozen different
times in the last few hours. We said our goodbyes and he drove off in the
slightly dinged car he’d brought to the warehouse for our ill-fated meeting. I
wished him well. With most of the Russian mob in Chicago dead, he would
probably be all right. I figured he’d have the sense to lay low for a while
until things settled down.

Meanwhile, we had plenty of problems of
our own. Christine’s father was a possibly insane Neo sorcerer. I hoped she’d
be able to handle it. I hoped she would be in a position to have to handle it.

I started to say something to Condor –
and felt my mind being yanked right out of my body.

* * *

Cassandra smiled at me from her stuffed
chair. She looked like shit. She looked like she was dying.

I was back at her building. People were
screaming downstairs. I saw a pale man in a white outfit crawling up the
stairs, bloody and battered and with a murderous look on his pasty face.

“What the fuck’s going on?” I blurted
out. Cassandra had been shot, slashed, struck with a dozen nasty wounds. A long
cut ran down the side of her face, and blood was running down from it, staining
her silk shirt. I saw a large red pool spreading out from under the chair. I
rushed towards her. “What happened? Who did this to you?”
I’ll kill them.

“I did,” Cassandra replied. “Marco, we
don’t have much time. I called you to say goodbye.”

I wanted to do something to help, but I
wasn't really there. The scene had that fuzzy around the edges feel you got
from a psychic contact. “Fuck that. The Lurker can teleport now, when he gets
back I’ll bring him here and he'll heal you. All you have to do is hang on for
a little while. We’ll take care of you,” I said in a pleading tone. “You have
to hang on.”

Cassandra shook her head. “All this has
already happened. It’s a little time trick; I borrowed some time to reach you,
but my tab is about to come due. I am gone, Marco. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell
you what was going to happen, but if you had stayed here all would have been
lost. And it was worth it. Christine and the Lurker have met. The world has a
chance.”

“You lied to me. You knew this was going
to happen and you sent me off to find the Lurker.” I felt numb. I was talking
to a dead woman. I glanced at the man in white. He had reached the room, and
when he reached Cassandra he would kill her.

“The poor man was rather disappointed,
I’m afraid,” Cassandra said. “I took my leave before he reached me. No doubt he
desecrated my body, but I was done with it.”

“Are you a ghost?”

“This is a bit of me I sent out as I
died. Come closer.” I did, and she took my hand. “Don’t be mad at me, Marco.”

“I am. That was a fucked up thing you
did. Christine would have been fine with Condor and Kestrel. I could have
helped you.”

“You would have died with me and achieved
nothing. Christine needs you, Marco. She is going to need you very badly. Your
presence may make all the difference in the world. Listen to me closely.
Something is going to happen that may turn the entire planet into a lifeless
wasteland. Billions of lives snuffed like candles struck by a tornado. I kept
seeing that future. If you and Christine make the right choices, there is a
chance we can avert it.”

“Great. You sent me off to be with
Armageddon Girl and never bothered to tell me. I get to be Sam Gamgee to her
sexy version of Frodo, is that it? Do I even get a kiss out of it?” I tried to
keep things light and ignore the fact this was going to be last conversation I
was going to have with Cassandra. I had to set it aside and not think about it.

She looked at me. “I don’t know. Maybe. I
know you are developing feelings for her, but that doesn’t mean anything. The
white knight doesn’t get the girl all the time, or even most of the time.”

“That’s good, because I’m no white
knight. I kick white knights in the balls and stomp them when they’re down.”

“Good. But try to be her knight anyway,
white or otherwise.”

“I will.”

“I always loved you like a son, Marco.”

“I know.” I was going to say more, but
she was gone. I never got a chance to say goodbye to her.

* * *

“You all right, Face? You looked like you
went away for a second or two.”

A little time trick.
“Yeah, I did.”

Unless I make a face people can’t tell
how I’m feeling. That suited me fine right now.

Christine Dark

Various Times and Locations/Chicago, Illinois, March 14, 2013

A Brief History of Christine and Her Dad:

Age eight. Christine put down the copy of
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
she’d been reading in bed when
she heard her mother’s angry voice coming from downstairs. She slipped quietly
out of bed, stepped into her Marvin the Martian slippers and tippy-toed her way
towards the bedroom door to listen to what was going on.

“… she’s sleeping anyway,” her mother was
saying. Christine had never heard her sound so angry, not even when Ellen Weathersby
had given Christine a black eye and Mom had been ready to go to Ellen’s house
and, in her words ‘Kick that fat b… bad girl’s as… butt!’

It sounded like someone’s ass-butt was
about to be kicked.

Christine heard a man talking, but he was
mumbling in a low voice she couldn’t quite make out. “Who the fuck cares what
you want? Do you think the monthly checks give you the right to see her?” Mom replied.
She wasn’t screaming, but her furious whispering voice carried very well.
Christine gasped; she’d never heard Mom say the F-word before. “You can’t see
her now anyway; she’s sleeping, and it’s a school night.” Another mumbled
response. “We’ll see. You can’t abandon us and come back years later like
nothing happened. I got your damn number; maybe I’ll call you. Maybe. And if I
don’t call you, take it as my final answer and fuck off!”

The front door slammed shut.

Christine made it to the stairs and saw
her mother leaning against the front door, breathing heavily. She looked very,
very mad.

“Mommy?”

Mom looked up, and Christine saw tears
running down her face. That scared her more than the cursing. Her mom only
cried when something really bad happened, like when their cat Princess
Fuzzybuttons had gotten hit by a car and gone to Kitty Heaven.

“Oh, Chrissy, I’m so sorry.” Mom came up
the stairs and hugged her. “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.”

Christine wanted to believe her, but she
remembered the words Mom had said, and something clicked in her head. Who had
abandoned them years ago?

“The man…”

“Don’t worry about the man, honey. He’s
gone now.”

“That was Daddy, wasn’t he?”

At first, Mom didn’t say anything.
Christine could feel her mother getting all stiff in her arms. Was she getting
mad again? Mom let go of her and crouched down so she could look Christine
right in the eye.

‘Yes, Chrissy. That man was your
biological father. He wanted to see you.”

“He did? Can I see him?” Christine said
and then wished she could take it back. Her mother almost never talked about
Daddy, and when she did she almost got at least a little mad.

She didn’t get mad this time, but she
looked like she wanted to cry again, and Christine leaned forward and hugged
her. “It’s okay, Mommy. If it makes you sad I don’t have to see him.”

“Oh, Chrissy,” Mom said again. They held
each other quietly for a bit. Mom stood up, wiping her eyes. “It’s okay,
Chrissy-bear. If you want to see him, it’s okay. We’ll set it up. Maybe
tomorrow after school we can all go for ice cream. Would you like that?”

Ice cream and Daddy? Christine nodded
enthusiastically.

The next day went by in a blur. Christine
always did well in school but that day she didn’t pay attention to anything.
Even when Ellen Weathersby called her names Christine barely heard her. Nothing
really registered until Mom picked her up and took her to the Dairy Queen. Her
father was already there, sitting by one of the outdoor tables, sipping on a
milkshake. He saw them and stood up.

“Is that him?” Christine said.

Her mother’s hand tightened on hers.
“Yes. His name is Damon, Damon Trent. That’s your father, Christine.”

He was short and skinny. He was barely
taller than Mom, and Mom was shorter than most adults. And he was old. Not old
like Grandpa, who had no hair on his head and a beard that was gray and white,
but pretty old. Dad’s hair was red just like hers; it was cut short but kind of
messy, and there was no gray there and no wrinkles on his face, but that was
Christine’s impression anyway. Old. Old and sad, with a snub nose a bit like
hers and a few freckles on his cheeks. Christine got freckles when she got too
much sun, too. He was wearing a suit that didn’t fit him very well.

Mom let go of her hand and Christine took
some tentative steps towards the old, sad man who was her father. He came down
on one knee and reached out with his hand, offering to shake it.

She did. “Pleased to meet you,” she said
politely.

“Hi, Christine.” His voice was hoarse, as
if he had a sore throat. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Why did you abandon us?” Christine
asked. She hadn’t known she was going to say that until the words were out of
her mouth.

Her father’s face looked as if he had
bitten on a lemon. “I had to do important things, in places far away,” he said.
“I wish I hadn’t, but sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do.” He
didn’t sound sad, just very serious.

“That’s okay, then,” Christine said, but
she was kind of lying. It wasn’t okay. Still, this was her Dad. She hugged him.
He hadn’t been hugged much, she guessed, because he didn’t hug her back very
well at first, but he did after a bit and it felt like being hugged by her Dad,
the way it should, and she felt happy.

They had ice cream – her favorite flavor,
mint chocolate chip – and he asked her about school and what classes she liked,
and she told him about Harry Potter and how she’d gotten an A in her last test.
Mom didn’t say much, but she didn’t look as mad as before. Dad told her stories
of far-off places and lands, of climbing mountains in the Himalayas and
traveling through the jungles of Borneo. Mom invited Dad over for dinner and he
said yes, and dinner was also very nice.

“You’re a very special girl, Christine,”
Dad said when they were saying their goodbyes after dinner. He didn’t call her
Christie or Chrissy, but Christine, the way she liked it, although she would
never tell her Mom about that because she knew it would hurt her feelings. “You
don’t know how special.” He hugged her and left.

Age sixteen. High school, braces, acne
and enough petty evil to drive a saint insane. Dad had been back a few times –
two Thanksgivings, one Christmas, and one birthday. He would call ahead, and
her mother would agree to his visit; he would show up and they would have
dinner and chat for a bit and he would give them presents or money and after
that he would go away for nine months or twelve or twenty-four. He’d always
been civil to Mom’s boyfriends, polite to Mom, and nice to Christine in a distant,
cool way. He never spent more than a day with them, and he was gone without a
trace afterward. It was weird. She’d Googled his name a bunch of times and
found a few Damon Trents, but none of them had been her father. Sometime she
wondered if that was his real name or whether he was a spy or drug lord or
something.

That day, Christine had been having a
quiet cry in the empty classroom where the Chess Club usually met. Nobody was
around, and that was just fine. She didn’t want to see anybody. She just wanted
to curl up and die.

The Halloween Dance was scheduled for the
next day. Halloween was one of Christine’s favorite holidays, a chance to let
her freak flag fly in relative safety. The dance party had been the community’s
way of rounding up as many teenagers as possible and putting them in a
relatively controlled environment so they didn’t go forth and enact their own
version of Devil’s Night, but Christine didn’t care. It would be a good night
to dress up (she had spent days working on her costume: Princess Giselle from
Enchanted,
with the critter from
Alien
bursting from her midsection), sip
non-alcoholic punch and hang with her homies from the D&D, Math and Chess
clubs. Geeks of the world, unite. Yay. She knew Harry Yang was going to ask her
to be his date to the dance, and she was going to say yes, even though poor
Harry was now and forever stuck in the Friends Zone. Things were looking up,
but as they so often did, they turned to crap at the worst possible moment.

Christine had been in the bathroom when
the cheerleader death squad came after her.

“Look who it is,” Ellen Weathersby said.
Over the years, Ellen had lost the baby fat but kept the bad attitude. She’d
made the cheerleading team last year. “Pissy Chrissy Dorko.” Her three friends
laughed nastily. An eleventh grader who’d also been in the bathroom made a
hurried exit; she knew things were going to get ugly in there.

Sinking feeling in the pit of her
stomach. These were the times that tried women’s souls. These were the times
when she hated her last name. Dark was a perfectly nice Anglo-Saxon name. A
derivation of the 7
^th
Century Old English word
deorc
. But in
21
^st
Century America, Dark was a weird name, and weird was
punishable by mocking and abuse.

Christine tried to leave the bathroom.
One of the cheerleaders blocked her way, and when she tried to go around her,
another one body-checked her and sent her staggering back. “Did anybody say you
could leave, bitch?” the cheerleader snarled.

Christine didn’t say anything. Nothing
she said would do any good, and most likely would only make things worse. Plus
Christine could be a chatterbox normally, but in this kind of situation her
words went away, not that she could produce enough breath to speak even if they
hadn’t.

Ellen Weathersby got right in her face.
“This is how it is, Dorka. You are cordially disinvited to the Halloween Dance.
We’re going dork free this year. You feel me?”

Why?
Christine thought but didn’t ask out loud. What had she done to get Ellen on
her case? She’d even tried tutoring her when the cheerleader was failing math.
Okay, Ellen had failed anyway, but some people just refused to think, and
Ellen’s face could be on the national flag of the People’s Republic of
Non-Thinkers. Maybe Ellen blamed Christine for failing. As the Laws of
Thermodynamics say, you can’t win, you can’t break even, and you can’t get out
of the game.

Christine’s silence wasn’t good enough
for Ellen. She leaned close enough to Christine’s face for her to smell a
nauseating combination of bubble-gum and tobacco wafting from behind the
cheerleader’s Invisalign clear braces. “This is where you say ‘Yes, Ellen.
Thank you, Ellen.’ Or things get really bad.”

“Yes, Ellen. Thank you, Ellen,” Christine
said dully, tears of humiliation burning in her eyes.

Ellen patted Christine’s head like she
would a dog’s. “Good Chrissy, good girl. So we won’t be seeing you tomorrow
night, right?”

Christine nodded, looking down.
Submission display mode, all in the hope the alpha bitches would be satisfied
and saunter away. And saunter away they did, laughing and giggling amongst
themselves. They’d shown Pissy Chrissy Dorko what was what, and all was well in
their world.

All of which led to her quiet cry in the
Chess Club meeting room. She had a free period, which she normally spent in the
library, but today’s plan was to turn on the waterworks for a while.

“Christine?”

The gravelly voice made her jump like a
goosed cat. Her father was leaning against a wall, dressed in the same ratty
suit he always wore. He looked the same as the last time – or for that matter,
the first one: old, sad and tired. And short: Christine was five three but if
she was wearing heels she’d be able to see the top of his head.

“Dad? How the frell did you get here?” He
wasn’t wearing a visitor’s badge, and George Washington Carver High School
frowned (as in call the cops frowned) on unsupervised visitors roaming around
its hallowed halls of learning.

“I have my ways,” he said by way of
explanation, which wasn’t much, but typical of dear old Daddy. “You’re crying.”

“Nothing gets by you, Dad. Sorry, that
was rude. I’m not having a good day, today. Or a good week, not really.
Definitely a sucky month, since it’s almost over. Next month will probably
suck, too. Speaking of next month, are you going to come over for
Thanksgiving?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.

“No.” That was also pure Dad, Christine
had discovered in the dozen or so hours she had spent with him over the years.
He said what he meant, meant what he said, and if you didn’t like it you could
go pound sand. He also didn’t let other people change the subject, although he
himself did it all the time. “Why do you let those girls bother you? They are
nothing. Tramps.”

“How did you know about the cheerleaders?”
Christine said. Had he been spying on her? In the bathroom? Frelling creepy,
Dad.

“I saw them leaving the bathroom, and I
saw you leaving afterward. Nothing gets by me,” he said, the closest thing to a
joke he’d ever uttered, and she thought he was smiling. It was hard to tell;
Dad seemed to have only two expressions and both of them would make a Marine
drill sergeant look like Mary Sunshine.

How come I didn’t see you in the hallway?
Christine thought. Granted, she was upset and mostly looking at
the floor, but it was strange she hadn’t noticed him.