Paternus: Wrath of Gods (The Paternus Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  She casts her sight on The Goat, but he remains quiet, eyes closed, as if he isn’t listening.

  * * *

  But he is. Always. Calculating and scheming. It’s what he lives for, and always has. This time, however, he wonders if it may be what he dies for.

  The society of man is his favorite canvas. They want something to believe in, to give their short lives meaning, to feel they’re doing something important, perhaps even leave a legacy. Baphomet considers himself a master of reading human men and women with literacy of the highest order. He fully comprehends the ways of cultures and nations; empire, individual and mob. He can see flaws, strengths, weaknesses, mental and physical, like no other. He plumbs the depths of the human heart, hears the quickening of the pulse, comprehends the flush and pallor of the skin, smells the tinge of both fear and conviction, deduces inner workings of the psyche by the dilation of the eye, divines conscious and unconscious desire, the subtle twitch and tell of dreams.

  He’s whispered in the ears of many. Kings, emperors, and lowly peasants who would be conquerors. And they have listened.

  Firstborn are more of a challenge. They see so many changes, so many lives come and go. But The Goat does love a challenge, and this is proving to be the greatest of his long, long life, and he relishes it.

  Even young Firstborn can be difficult, but they’re more malleable. He doesn’t dare look at Fi, but he holds her in his thoughts. She may be of use, somehow.

  He’ll have to bring all his considerable skill to bear to accomplish his purpose, but he’s been preparing for quite some time. Reaching down into the fetid darkness of his heart, scouring the labyrinthine recesses of his nefarious and twisted mind, conceiving in the silent dripping places, the very depths of his soul, if he has one.

  But there’s much work to be done, and in present company, it could all fall apart in an instant. Nevertheless, that’s what makes it so exciting. A thrill unlike any he’s felt in a long time.

  However it turns out, he’s certain this will either be his grand finale or most spectacular failure. Either way, he’s convinced this is one case where the end truly justifies the means. Any means.

  As Arges created in metal, and Asterion in stone, Baphomet crafts with trickery and lies. Different materials, but The Goat is no less an artist. If he succeeds, this will be his true masterpiece. Even if it is painted in his own blood.

  * * *

  From world to world they slip, some barren, some arboreal with pines or jungle trees. They walk at first, then jog, then run, all the while Zeke slipping Peter and Fintán safely amongst rocks and trees. On every world there’s a cloud of locusts, some large, some small, some near, some far. All watching. But Zeke never slips too close.

  They run along a beach, as beautiful as any on their world. They slip with Fintán carrying Zeke in his arms and Peter in his claws. They slip with Peter riding piggy-back on Zeke, and with Zeke tugging on Peter’s sleeve and the strap of Fintán’s pack. All the while, Zeke’s confidence builds, and Peter commends him. Deftly slipping between worlds, faster and faster, Zeke’s jubilance grows, holding the hands of gods.

  They linger only a moment in one world, an arctic wasteland, blowing and cold. If they only knew, three thousand miles away are some folks they know and would sorely like to see.

  * * *

  They appear back in their world, Zeke running as fast as he can, dragging Peter and Fintán along with him.

  “That will do, Zeke,” says Peter, pulling him up short. “Well done. My confidence in your ability to save yourself and others, if need be, is high.”

  Zeke smiles wide. “Thank you.”

  “And my fear of you dying a horrible death or killing my daughter, significantly reduced.”

  Zeke’s smile falters. “Right.”

  Fintán says, “I have spied none of the locust creatures on this world, though they were on all others.”

  “And they seem to be capable of communicating with each other,” Peter replies. “It’s like they know where we are on each world.”

  Fintán says, “That is troubling.”

  “Yes it is. This is the only world Kleron has kept free of them. Except for the murder of Firstborn, he’s left this earth relatively unspoiled.”

  “Though he harries us pointlessly,” Fintán adds.

  Peter scratches his chin. “Unless the point is simply to harry.” He crouches to touch tracks left by Edgar’s truck, then stands, brushing the dirt from his hands.

  Fintán peers over Peter’s shoulder. “It’s not locusts, but we are being watched, Pater.”

  “Yes, I know,” says Peter. “Make no sudden moves, Zeke.”

  Zeke looks around, having no idea what they’re talking about. “Why?”

  “There is a Nidhogg behind us.”

  “A what? No way.” Fintán and Peter look at him. “Forget I said that. But you did say ‘Nidhogg,’ right? As in the dragon-thing from Norse mythology that chewed at Yggdrasil’s roots and ate dead bodies?”

  “Yes that, but there were more than one,” Peter answers. “They were a semi-sapient species of lind-wyrm native to Asgard, where all beasts are built of sturdier stuff than on this world. This one, however, I believe to be The Nidhogg. He is Firstborn, though he took after his mother far more than me, and spawned an even more powerful strain of the beasts, which were a constant problem.”

  “Like vermin,” Fintán says.

  “Very large vermin. They were the reason we began interring bodies in the temple of Valhalla and burning them on pyres and boats.”

  Fintán says, “But The Nidhogg is dead.”

  “Another of Kleron’s resurrections, it seems.”

  Zeke slowly turns his head in the direction Fintán is looking, but all he can see is more cliffs and hills of stone on the rolling countryside. “Is he dangerous?”

  “They were all large and strong,” Peter replies, “able to dig through rock as if it was loam and quite quick for their bulk. Even this one is not particularly clever, though, and mean, and he’ll eat anything, like all of his kind. So, yes, you could say he’s dangerous.”

  Zeke still doesn’t cease to be amazed. Then, on the nearest hill, perhaps twenty yards away, he catches sight of an outcropping of stone moving to aim toward them. At it’s peak is an eye. The iris is veiled in gray, but the vertical pupil of a reptile is apparent. And it’s looking right at them. Zeke says, “Um.”

  Fintán doesn’t seem overly concerned. “I have never seen one on this world.”

  “Kleron’s doing, no doubt,” says Peter. “Somehow he knew we would come this way.”

  “Or Nidhogg was placed here recently.”

  “Which means they know where we are. We need to get to the others.” He pulls Gungnir from his pocket, holds it in its form of a small gold-colored rod lined with glyphs. “Don’t be frightened, Zeke. I’ll take care of it quickly and we’ll be on our way.”

  Zeke sees the top of the hill move. “Peter,” he utters in warning.

  Peter makes to turn, but stops and adds, “Stay here, and don’t move. Nidhogg’s eyesight and hearing are poor, but it is sensitive to vibrations in the ground.”

  A large portion of the hill separates from the rest and Zeke can now see that its pebbly-rough hide has taken on the color of the rock, like the skin of a chameleon can change to camouflage itself from its enemies, as well as its prey. The size of a semi-trailer, Nidhogg roughly resembles a chameleon, too. His eyes swivel independently on cones of flesh, like a chameleon’s, but his teeth are on the outside of his wide flat mouth, with rodent-like incisors at the front, fangs to each side, and smaller interlocking pointed teeth along the sides. He supports himself on two thick front legs with over-sized, clawed hands with four fingers, the thumb at the center of the base of his palm. He has no back legs, only a bloated body that tapers back to a forked tail.

  Fintán watches it as well. “Father...”

  But Peter keeps talking. “Best stay close to Fintán, but run if
you must. A Nidhogg’s saliva is toxic with pestilence, and their breath alone can cause death to a human. They’re not smart enough to breath on people on purpose, but a belch from a Nidhogg has been known to kill an entire village.”

  Nidhogg slowly lizard-sneaks down the hill toward them.

  Zeke tries to warn him, “Peter, it’s—”

  “And,” Peter adds, “whatever you do, beware The Nidhogg’s—”

  The bulbous sticky end of a tongue zaps Peter in the back, hard enough to make him drop Gungnir to the dirt. Peter’s face falls. He just has time to finish what he was saying, “—tongue,” before he goes zinging back into the creature’s giant maw.

  Nidhogg claps his mouth shut and swallows.

  The whole thing happens so quickly Zeke can do little more than react with a startled jump. Fintán takes hold of his shoulder and they watch Nidhogg watching them, moving his weird eye-stalks as if considering his next move—which he decides is to whip around, bound over the hill, and run away.

  * * *

  The truck creeps over a particularly uneven patch of ground. In the back, though there’s much to be said, all have fallen silent. Edgar humming up front can barely be heard over the rumble of the engine and crunch of dirt under the tires. He’s not humming “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” this time, but another of his favorites, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Myrddin Wyllt snores softly. Mrs. Mirskaya studies her hands in her lap. Pratha has closed her eyes, and even her smirk has abandoned her lips.

  Fi rocks and sways with the movement of the truck, a queasy feeling rising in her stomach. Her vision blurs, all she can hear is her quickening heartbeat—and she’s gripped with terror. It’s happening. She’s going to have an episode. She just has time to grip Mrs. Mirskaya’s knee before her eyes roll up in her head and she begins to shake.

  * * *

  Flying through clouds. Or at least that’s what it looks like through her eyes. But they’re not her eyes.

  They’re Kleron’s.

  Cool air on her face, dampness from the mist. Wind flows over her—Kleron’s—body. The flapping of his wings.

  A white-out, a gray veil, and he’s slipped to a world with a different landscape below. He slips again, and again.

  Locusts in the sky on each world. They notice him, but go about their business of dive-bombing cities or scouting the land.

  Kleron mumbles something Fi can’t make out, followed by another slip, but the veil is dark this time.

  It folds away to reveal a world of primordial swamp which gives way to a vast wasteland, smoking from cracks in the red earth, the odor of sulfur and rot in the thick wet air. It goes on as far as the eye can see—but Kleron mumbles more words and the air ahead swirls like oil on water. They fly right into it.

  Dark as night, and then they’re through, trailing the inky blackness behind them. Below is the same red wasteland, but now there’s an ivory road, lined with ivory walls, that leads straight to a mountain, black and jagged, raking the sky at the edge of a great gray ocean.

  But the closer they get to the mountain, the more its image blurs, obscured by swooping phantoms of shadow. Fi squints her mind’s eye, trying to see in the growing darkness. Lights, fires, in openings on the face of the mountain. They dive toward one and enter. A flash of firelight, then more darkness. On and on, snatches of sights, sounds, jumping from one to the next like a dream within a dream, at the edge of memory—and there is something in the deep, and a conversation in a language that hurts to hear it, then the something looks at her and the pain becomes agony and she’s going to scream—but another voice rises, overriding all.

  No words, just impressions—of hope, but sadness as well. It comforts Fi. Her mind eases, darkness becomes light, and all she can think is it’s the song of the world itself.

  As the light brightens, overwhelming all, Fi realizes the voice is calling for its father.

  * * *

  Anxious tones. Mrs. Mirskaya telling them to hush.

  Fi opens her eyes to the faces of Edgar, Myrddin and Mol looking down at her. Pratha stands off to the side, studying her with a quizzical look. Closest of all is Mrs. Mirskaya, who’s sitting on the ground behind the truck, holding Fi in her arms. And Mrs. Mirskaya is crying.

  Fi works to form words, then says, “Are you okay?”

  Mol barks. Edgar exclaims, “Thank the Lord,” at the same time Myrddin says, “The Lord be praised.” They glance at each other then turn their attention back to Fi.

  Mrs. Mirskaya sniffs and lifts Fi to hug her face to hers, which is more affection than Fi has seen from Old Lady Muskrat since Fi was little, when Mrs. Mirskaya would hold her in an old rocking chair in front of the fireplace.

  Mrs. Mirskaya lowers Fi back to her lap, using one hand to wipe the tears from her own eyes. “I have never said this for fear of upsetting you further, but it scares me so when you do that, Fiona.” She breathes forcefully, trying to stop the tears. “Sometimes I think, maybe you won’t come back.”

  “But I always come back,” Fi replies.

  Smoothing Fi’s hair away from her face, Mrs. Mirskaya says, “Yes, you do. Just promise me you always will.”

  The singing from Fi’s vision, unlike any she’s ever heard, still resonates within her. Though the memory of it drains away, no matter how hard she tries to hold on, it continues to calm her heart. “I promise.”

  * * *

  The ground has leveled in the glen and the truck is making good time.

  Beneath the canopy in the back, the ride isn’t so rough. Pratha leans forward, checking Fi’s eyes. To Fi it doesn’t feel like she’s checking pupil dilation or for signs of burst capillaries, but looking right at her brain. She’s relieved when Pratha sits back, though The First Daughter’s unblinking gaze lingers on her. And her golden eyes are just freaky.

  Pratha says, “Mokosh tells me you are clairvoyant.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Fi replies. Pratha’s scrutiny makes her uncomfortable more than anyone’s ever has. Not her teachers’, employers’, Edgar’s, Mrs. Mirskaya’s, or even Peter’s.

  “She is clairvoyant,” Mrs. Mirskaya states.

  Fi says, “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “You see things, Fiona. Events that have come to pass. You told us about Kleron and King Brian Boru. Something you could never know.”

  “And you called me a witch.”

  “Good witch, I said. Like me, and Pratha. Even Myrddin Wyllt is witch.”

  “Wizard,” Myrddin protests. “Or mage, if you like.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya rolls her eyes. “Whatever you say.”

  Fi observes Baphomet, who sits staring at the canvas wall opposite. Eager to turn the conversation away from her, she asks, “What about him?”

  “He has skills in sorcery,” Mrs. Mirskaya answers. “Dark and dreadful.” She turns back to Fi and says in assurance, “But not so strong without his flute.”

  Still happy to talk about anything but herself, Fi says, “Flute?”

  But Mrs. Mirskaya knows her too well to let her get away with the diversion. “Never mind. Clairvoyance is good thing.” She addresses Pratha. “You tell her, Sestra.”

  “It can be,” says Pratha, “depending on what type of sight it is, the effect it has on the one seeing, and to what extent they can control it. But it can also drive you mad. In some cases, aneurysms occur, which can hemorrhage, or tumors. Both can lead to death.” Fi doesn’t like the sound of that. “On the positive side, it seems your sight is incisive, yet you survive and keep your wits about you, such as they are. The problem is, your mind and body have no idea how to deal with your visions. Hence, the seizures.”

  Fi turns to Mrs. Mirskaya. “That’s what’s been causing my epilepsy? I was having visions all this time?”

  “I am sure of it now,” Mrs. Mirskaya replies. “I also believe the stress of your mother’s death brought them on.”

  “That kind of shock can waken the gift,” says Myrddin.


  Fi says, “But the seizures went away when I started taking medication.”

  “Fiona, I am sorry to tell you,” says Mrs. Mirskaya, “but what you took was placebo. Sugar pills. Edgar and I suspected these incidents might be visions, though you never remembered them, so we could not know for sure. This type of medicine, it has no effect on Firstborn. Your seizures went away because you believed they would. And the mind is a powerful thing.”

  “The most powerful thing in the universe,” Myrddin says soberly.

  “But,” says Fi, “I didn’t have a seizure when I saw Peter as a baby when we were in the pool at the hospital, the day we were attacked. Or when I saw Kleron in Ireland.”

  Pratha asks, “When did your episodes resume?”

  “The first was just a few days ago. I was with Zeke.” Pratha raises an eyebrow and her smirk returns. “We were outside, on the sidewalk,” Fi retorts. Pratha shrugs. Fi says, “Oh stop it,” then continues, “I didn’t remember them until recently, but I realized I’d been dreaming the same thing for a couple of months. About Peter as a baby, floating in a yucky red ocean, with volcanoes and stuff.”

  “This started when you first met Peter, as you call him, in the hospital.” Pratha speaks with certainty.

  That hadn’t occurred to Fi, but Pratha’s right.

  “And when you had the first vision with no seizure,” Pratha continues, “Peter was with you?”

  “I was holding him in the pool.”

  “And for the second vision, of Kleron, had he touched you?”

  “No.”

  “But he was in the same room.” Fi nods. “Was he looking at you?”

  Fi remembers Kleron’s cold black eyes, looking right at her in the great room of Peter’s house. Looking through her. “Yes.”

  “The Pater has a powerful presence. And he is, of course, your father. Kleron’s is strong as well, though of a different and darker nature. It touched you, even if not physically. This connection not only brought on those episodes, it also helped you see without completely losing control, and allowed you to remember them clearly.”