She collapsed onto the bed, the somewhat hard mattress still feeling as welcoming as silk and feathers to her tired body. For a while she just lay there, not even bothering to take off her hood, simply luxuriating in the simple act of no longer having to carry her own weight.
The last couple of days had not been too pleasant. She’d had to sleep in a field the night before, unable to afford even a modest room like the one she was currently in. It hadn’t been the first time she’d needed to do so, but the experience was never a pleasant one. At least this time it hadn’t been raining, that was always the worst.
Still, things were looking up. Though she’d been forced to leave herself penniless to buy basic reagents she was now slowly recovering. The charms of luck and prosperity that she’d put together had been crude, but she was skilful enough to be able to empower them using only the local ambient energy. Since that meant she didn’t need to risk using her power it was a safe and slow option. The charms took hours to charge, and then even more to take effect, but they did work.
Patience was important, and anonymity was priceless.
With he help of the charms she’d stumbled across a lost wallet, returned it to the owner, after finding their address inside, and received a small reward in cash. With that cash, she’d been able to buy some more potent reagents, some that let her perform considerably more potent magic. Enough that a rather wealthy man passing through the town had decided to make a large cash withdrawal from a cash point, then had a moment of forgetfulness and left the cash there without taking it. Cash she’d grabbed the second he’d left. It was the sort of deed she was trying to avoid, but she consoled herself by remembering that to him it was just a drop in the ocean, hardly anything he’d miss.
It had been that money that had let her rent this room, and which would hopefully allow her to stay here until she was ready for her next move. She couldn’t allow herself many luxuries, as that trick wasn’t one she wanted to repeat too often. Such a use of power could quickly draw attention she couldn’t risk. For now, she was secure though, and that allowed her a little time to rest and recover.
Sitting up she reached over to her bag and pulled up the rolled-up newspaper that had been sticking out of it. As far as papers went it was a reliable, and had been for decades. What was important was that they gave her a general idea of how the world was doing, and hopefully help her get a heads up on anything that might pose a danger to herself or the demigod that she was tying her fate to. She’d have preferred to trawl the internet and social media, but without access to a computer, she’d have to fall back on printed articles.
So, what were the headlines today?
The front page was taken up by an aerial picture of a large cruise ship, one that was surrounded by a swirl of frothy currents. To all appearances, it was as though a whirlpool was trapping the vessel, though given how the picture showed some of the ship’s passengers sunning themselves on the leisure deck it clearly wasn’t a dangerous situation. The headline over the picture was ‘Held at Sea’, with a smaller bulletin taking up a small corner of the paper.
Giving it a quick read she saw that though spectacular, the situation wasn’t a dangerous one. It seemed that the ship had been cruising off the coast of Italy when some unscrupulous, and possibly unintelligent, employee had decided to cut corners in their assigned task of hauling some rubbish to where it should have been stored. Apparently, they had decided it would be easier to simply dump it overboard, a decision that had precipitated the entire mess.
The hooded woman snorted at that. There was always one, one idiot that seemed devoid of common sense. Ever since the return of the gods the various shipping and tourist companies had made it policy not to do any sort of dumping into the ocean. Naturally, it hadn’t been motivated by any sort of altruism. It had been purely practical.
The fact was that dumping had become far ever before. Gods and spirits could take offence at this defilement of their world, inflicting curses upon the ship’s crew, trapping them at sea, or even attacking the vessel.
Monsters could be even worse. The dumped trash sometimes acted as a lure for them, especially if there was decomposing food in the mix. Gods and spirits might attack vessels that offended them, but they normally only did so to inflict some punishment on those they felt had wronged them. Monsters though, could be totally unrestrained, and their attacks were almost always bloody and devastating, leaving only bloody ghost ships or broken wreckage behind.
But there was always that one idiot that thought the rules didn’t apply to them, that they could get away with it ‘just this time’ because all those things didn’t happen to someone like them. As a result, the luxury cruiser had ended up locked in place by strong localized currents under the control of the Celtic god, Llŷr.
Though a deity of Welsh origin, Llŷr had apparently chosen to travel to the warmer climes of the Mediterranean and had simply been enjoying the calm of the area before being provoked by the careless dumping. The article was surprisingly detailed as the sea god had been willing to answer the questions asked by the ship’s occupants being held against their will. Answers they had then passed on when they called for help.
The situation had garnered a certain amount of attention in France due to the fact that nearly a third of the ship’s occupants had been French tourists, which was why it was gracing the front page of the paper. Fortunately, the ‘hostage’ situation was not threatening. The ocean god did not wish to exact any sort of violence upon the ship’s passengers, he simply wished for the offending party to willingly hand themselves over for punishment. It wouldn’t even be a harsh punishment either, of that he was very clear, merely humiliating, and nothing they could not recover from.
The problem was that the transgressor was unwilling to own up, apparently convinced that if they did then they would face a far bloodier fate than was promised. The result was that they were hiding, barricaded in their room, and refusing to come out. Under other circumstances, the other passengers upon the cruiser might have formed a lynch mob and dragged them out, but Llŷr had been quite clear that he wished them to come forth willingly. Exactly why he was so adamant on this issue was less clear, but the writer of the article was chalking it up to ‘mysterious godly behaviour’, even if they didn’t use those exact words.
The news that Llŷr had established himself in that area of the ocean was of minor interest, but aside from that, the article was largely useless to her. A minor entertainment, one highlighting the prevalence of human stupidity, but otherwise unimportant.
Turning the page, she spotted a story about some minor political scandal, then a story of a man doing something foolish with his lottery winnings, neither of which caught her attention. She did pause as she saw a double-page spread devoted to multiple pictures of a very familiar god, one that appeared as a heart-achingly gorgeous young man with blonde hair and blue eyes. The pictures showed him getting out of some sort of stretch limo, greeting hordes of fans, working on some movie set, and teaching a child how to use a bow at an archery course. Of course, she knew who he was, she’d have had to have been hiding under a rock to have not heard of one of the most famous of the returned gods.
Apollo, son of Zeus and a member of the Olympian Twelve of the Greek pantheon, had been one of the first deities to step into public awareness and had made quite a splash when he did so. Unlike many of the other returned gods, who had sought to quietly build a powerbase before stepping into the light, the Greek god of music and archery, among a great many other things, had leapt into the world of mortals with glee. It had been he who had given the first few interviews to both academics and journalists that had let the world know just what the gods were, and why they had returned to the plane of mortals. He’d compounded this notoriety by essentially becoming the first divine celebrity.
His method was simple, Apollo went to Hollywood and became an actor, and was immediately seized up by one of the big studios after a bidding war that could only be described as ‘unholy’ in its ruthlessness. It turned out to be money well spent though, because while Apollo might not have officially been a deity of acting, he had been tied to the arts, such as music, dance and poetry, so his ability to perform was literally supernatural.
In less than a month the Olympian had become a sensation the likes of which Tinseltown had never seen before.
The thing was that every film production he was involved in profited greatly from Apollo’s presence for many reasons. The first was that he was an amazing actor, never needing to retake a shot, always able to deliver a brilliant performance. Not only that, his very presence seemed to inspire and elevate the skills of those working with him. Other actors consistently gave brilliant performances of their own, directors knew just what instructions to give or how to tweak the script, support staff were able to coordinate effortlessly, everything just seemed to go right around him.
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As a result, the films and shows he’d been involved in had been finished in record time. What should have taken months being done in weeks. This rapid production of high-quality work only served to further heighten the deity’s fame, already high as one of the most visible divinities in the nation, but that had not been all he had done. Since he didn’t suffer from mortal fatigue or the after-effects of overindulgence Apollo was able to live the sort of life that would have left a normal celebrity burnt out in under a week, the sort of life that the media loved. He could spend a day giving amazing performances, then go to a youth club to be seen teaching young men and women such skills as archery or dance, then spend the evening partying and drinking with the high rollers of Hollywood, drinking them under the table and gorging on the best food at the finest restaurants, only to be fresh as a daisy the next morning.
It was quite clear to her the journalist writing the piece had been heavily swayed by Apollo’s supernatural charisma because it did nothing but sing his praises.
A soft chuff of laughter escaped her lips as she shook her hooded head. Really? It never ceased to amaze and amuse her how quickly mortals would forget the darker parts of the old legends. Years of censorship and santising made it easy to the old mythes could be just as cruel as they could be kind.
Yes, Apollo was a god who had committed many worthy deeds in his life. He had slain the Python that had hunted him and his mother, he had aided in the defeat of the giants that assaulted Olympus, and he had invented the first lyre, but those were simply the bright spots of his legend. Mortals forgot the darker deeds, the petty and cruel slights and curses. They forgot how he killed seven brothers while Artemis, his sister, slew seven sisters, all because the mother of those fourteen had insulted the mother of the divine twins. They forgot how he had once rebelled against Zeus himself, trapping him in a net with Poseidon and seeking to take his father’s throne. They forgot how he had once punished a satyr that had dared to challenge him to a music contest, by flaying him alive and nailing his skin to a tree.
It was so easy for them to look at that charming smile and forget that this wasn’t some sort of superhuman they were dealing with. This was a god who had once gleefully wielded power over one of the great civilizations of the old world.
Still shaking her head, she turned the page again, noting a couple of advertisements featuring demigod models, the photos of them posing beside some car or other no doubt captivating to any mortal, but hardly even a distraction to her. There were other uninteresting articles, sports details, some small scandal by an equally small politician, the rising prices of petrol, none of it enough to catch her eye.
Instead, she paged through to the back pages, the place where the darker articles could be found these days
She wasn’t sure where or when it had begun, but most newspapers seemed to be following a similar layout plan in how their stories were ordered. The front ones were always the most eye-catching or light-hearted ones, the sort that the public lapped up. Then there was the meat of the paper, the little things that people bought it for every day, the results of games, the reviews of films and television, the gossip columns, and celebrity spottings. It was at the back that the more serious reporting could be found, the statistics about disappearances and abductions, the reports on which small towns had suddenly gone silent, pictures of the devastation left in the wake of mythological beings fighting each other, news on the hunt for the latest rogue demigod.
These were the sorts of things she’d need to know if she wanted her plan to work. She realised that the knowledge that could be gleaned from these pages was minimal at best but given her own lack of any true intelligence-gathering assets it was the best she could work with. After all, she did have the benefit of knowledge that most mortals lacked. She could understand things that they missed, and form connections they would have overlooked.
In that regard, two things stood out to her.
The first was a report on a new drug that seemed to be spreading through the European black market. Its origin was unknown, but its properties were oddly familiar to her. It was the processed form of some fruit, was extremely addictive, and induced a state of blissful apathy where the one taking it just didn’t do much of anything, just sat down wherever they were and enjoyed the effects. What was even stranger was that those that took the drug appeared to completely subsist upon it, going for days in their drug-induced stupor without the ill effects of dehydration, starvation, or even needing to void themselves. That it was of supernatural origin seemed to be clear enough, but as of yet not even the demigods that had allied themselves with the various governments had been able to locate the source.
She had a good idea of what it was the article was talking about, and probably others had worked it out as well, given that it was hardly a brilliant deductive leap. The hooded woman wasn’t entirely sure why that information hadn’t just been made public.
This new drug was derived from the legendary fruits of the lotus, the same ones that had been encountered by Odysseus on his voyage back home after the Trojan War. Back then he’d been forced to drag away those members of his crew that had partaken of the fruit and then fallen to content apathy. In this modern era, such supernatural fruits would be superior to any current narcotic. It was a gentle poison, one that provided a bliss of apathy and oblivion without damaging the ones that consumed them. Processed lotus fruit would prove just as addictive and would be far more easily concealed and transported.
Such a drug that could be incredibly profitable, one that left no signs of abuse, one that didn’t chip away at your health. It was a good way for someone with the right connections to the legends to make large amounts of money quickly, and secure a steady flow of it. No wonder it was already spreading fast through the black market.
Of course, for those using the legendary fruits, the risks were high. Aside from having to dodge the authorities, there were the existing criminal organizations that would not be happy with the competition. And on the less mundane side of things, dealing in the fruits would almost inevitably get some of the legends involved.
She supposed it was a sign that even the criminal underworld was having to adapt to the world’s new reality.
The other thing she spotted was somewhat less obvious, but it gave her a greater sense of concern, a report of an armoured knight riding a horse being sighted in the general area of the border between France and Italy.
On its own, that would not have been enough to concern her, since the return of the legends archaic weapons and armour had been becoming more practical. The more sophisticated a weapon, the more moving parts and chemical reactions it had, then the less able it was to hold any sort of mana. That meant that any gods, mortals, or magical beings that wished to enchant an item had to use the more basic arms and defences as the foundations of their creations. Given how mortals were rushing to regain their mastery of magic, and how some demigods had inherited an intuitive skill for enchantment, things like magic swords, armour, and the like were growing more common by the day
The knight hadn’t been identified, but the article mentioned that at one point the knight had removed his helmet, and a witness had noted a trio of scars running from his chin down his neck and disappearing under his armour. According to the eyewitness, the scars had looked surprisingly livid, as though the wound that caused them had been a bad one, one that should have claimed the life of the one they were inflicted upon.
The description was enough to spark a memory and a suspicion.
During her time on Earth, she had done her best to keep watch upon the few mortals that managed to rise in power and significance during the time when the legends had been sealed away. She had never done anything overt, always being a face in the background, a simple observer, rather than a player on the main stage. She’d briefly been at Camelot, near Arthur and his knights. She had stood in the shadows of a village and watched as Jeanne d’Arc had ridden by with her army. And she’d once stood at the back of a square as a dragon slayer saint spoke to a small crowd.
Saint George had been unusually blessed as far as saints were concerned. Rather than possessing enhanced charisma or good fortune, his blessings had taken the form of simple bodily power. What would kill others he could survive, what would stop others he could break, what would slaughter others he could overcome. Some versions of his tale even spoke of him returning to life several times despite being killed; such had been the force of his vitality. Still, for all that he hadn’t been immortal, and the scars of his wounds had been carved into his flesh and remained there. And she remembered those marks, remembered thinking that without the blessings of his strength, he would have bled to death when his neck was cut open by the dragon he fought.
Saint George was a dragon slayer, that deed being linked to his name and identity by centuries of legend and belief. When he had returned to the mortal plane, and she still wasn’t sure if he had come back on his own or if he had been sent, those legends had empowered him. This meant that he had a specialism now, namely fighting and killing dragons. And if he was hanging around the border of the country then that meant that there might be dragons nearby.
And that was not good.
Getting up she fished a beaten and creased map out of her rucksack and spread it out on the cheap metal and plywood table that served as a desk in this room. It didn’t take her long to find her current location, even if the map was almost a decade out of date. From there she was able to find the place where the saint might have been sighted, then work out the distance between the two.
Two hundred kilometres, so about . . . a hundred and twenty-five miles, roughly. For a mortal on the ground that would have been the work of two or three days, if they maintained a respectable pace. Even with modern vehicles, the trip would take at least three hours, if one had to follow the roads and obey speed limitations. But a dragon on the wing . . .
Barely two hours. At most. And that was if the dragon in question was flying at a leisurely pace. If they put real effort into it then that time could be cut in half, maybe even down to a third if they pushed themselves.
When looked at from that perspective then suddenly the sightings didn’t seem quite far away enough.
Still, that was all simply the worst-case scenario. Yes, there might be a dragon, but the odds that it was there for anything concerning Adam were extremely low. Dragons, for the most part, didn’t like to involve themselves in the affairs of heaven and hell unless it was to their benefit. A dragon being hunted by Saint George would not be eager to cross a powerful demigod unless it had to
There were a lot of ‘ifs’ and ‘maybes’ in this, too many for her to be sure of anything. She sighed, too much uncertainty, not enough resources. She’d just have to hope that the heavenly agent guarding Adam knew what she was doing.
Laying back on the bed she closed her eyes and tried to relax. For the time being, all she could do was slowly rebuild her resources and prepare as best as she could. She doubted that things were going to stay quiet for too long, after all.