Tribe, page 26
Probably some juxtaposition B.S. Old mixed with new. Like adding glass makes columns look daring.
He enjoyed art, but the way people talked about it, like it took an intellectual to understand something that ultimately came from the heart, infuriated him. It’s why he avoided places like art museums…and museums in general. That, and being broke and homeless, or living with foster parents who didn’t care enough to bring him anywhere other than to therapy…which, looking back, probably wasn’t a bad thing.
I probably would have tried to steal a priceless work of art or something. Hell, the night’s not over. I still might.
“Okay, Olympieion, how do I get inside you?” As he looked over the rooftop that was separated from him by a ten-foot gap, distant knowledge started to coagulate and collect at the forefront of his thoughts.
Over there, he thought, finding a roof access surrounded by a small wall that made it look like a military foxhole. Huh…maybe it is? He shrugged and stood still, eyes returning to the columns, the word ‘Olympieion’ repeating in his thoughts.
He stood up straighter, eyes widening. “Ho-lee fartburgers. Olympieion…”
The name tested the extent of his ancient Greek knowledge. Being a building, it didn’t register as being all that cool. But he’d read about it. The real one. Olympieion was the Temple of Zeus in Athens. It was one of the largest Greek temples ever built, and it had been recreated, in Boston, by Memnon. The only differences Henry could see were that the temple looked new and complete—no ruins here—and the interior was enclosed in glass walls stretched between the columns.
But he couldn’t see inside. The glass was reflective. From the ground it might even give the impression that the viewer was inside the temple, looking out. Cool, I guess, he thought, but really who gives a rip?
He stepped away from the roof’s edge and stopped fifteen feet back. Looked like enough room to reach top speed. He sprinted forward, leaped from The Art of the Americas roof, and landed on the Olympieion with less effort than he expected.
Henry glanced back. Judging the distance again. That he didn’t trip and fall over the edge was impressive enough. But he’d cleared the ten foot jump and didn’t even have to pull himself up from the edge. Not Sarah, but not bad, either.
His ego got a boost. He might not be a powered-up demigod like Sarah, but he was still a demigod. Still better than the average human. He might not be Thor, but maybe a solid Captain America, sans the shield.
How come Sarah got the power up and the shield?
“Sorry, kopis…” He gave the sword on his hip a pat. “I still love you.”
He headed for the roof access. What looked like a wall from a distance were actually square ducts painted to match the ceiling and arranged in a way that kept them from completely clashing with the whole Temple of Zeus look. Despite the possibility of there being a band of gun toting Culus hiding behind the air ducts, Henry strolled up with the casual air of someone stepping into their favorite bar.
He tried the door.
Locked.
He drew the kopis.
Captain America could do this. So can I.
He swung down hard, blade striking locked doorknob. Metal clanged. The handle fell away. And then, the other knob on the inside fell. Henry peeked through the hole. The stairwell on the far side was dimly lit in red. It looked hellish, but was just the ambient light of a building shut down for the night. He pushed on the door, and when that didn’t work, he pulled.
Still locked.
“Freakin’ deadbolt.”
He sized up the lock. It was heavy duty. Part of a metal door meant to keep people out.
Because this is a museum…
He crouched and looked through the hole again. Craned his vision up. The red light was coming from an alarm keypad. If he opened the door, an alarm would sound. The police would come, and the element of surprise would be lost.
He shook his head. The whole place had to be rigged with alarm sensors—including the café’s glass ceiling, which Sarah had fallen through. And then there were the gunshots.
The Culus either took out the guards and disabled the alarms, or the guards are members. Memnon had the Olympieion built. Maybe he has access? Hell, maybe the museum’s CEO is part of the cult?
Whatever, he decided, and he kicked the door just beneath the deadbolt. The door held, pushing all that energy back into Henry. He fell backward, onto his ass, banging his head on the air duct. Annoyed, he sat up, spun around, and punched the duct.
His fist left a dent, right next to the one made by his head.
He looked from the duct to his kopis. “In Japan, the hand can be used like a knife.” He grinned, remembering the classic Ginsu knife commercial. Then he chopped his hand into the duct, denting it further. “But this method doesn’t work with an air duct. That’s why we use…a kopis!”
He swung the blade down hard, cutting into the top of the duct. It made an awful metal-on-metal shriek and then the blade got stuck. He jumped atop the duct and began sawing the blade through the metal, filling the air with what sounded like some kind of dinosaur in heat. It occurred to him that the sound would be resonating into every room with an air vent below, but no one would know what it meant or where it was coming from. Even if they did figure out someone was climbing through the air ducts, they wouldn’t know where he might go.
Not even he knew that.
He cut a hole big enough to fit through, and then slipped inside. It wasn’t even that tight of a fit. Being skinny was finally paying off. He crawled forward just a few feet before the duct dropped off. He peered over the edge.
Darkness.
Made a clucking sound. It echoed far below.
Could be five feet. Could be twenty-five. There was no way to know.
“Huh,” he said, and pulled himself over the side.
He fell. Headfirst. Crammed his hands and feet out against the metal walls. Friction slowed him. And then brought him to a full stop. Upside down. In the bowels of a building. “It worked! Sweet!”
I’ll just lower myself a few feet at a time until I reach the bottom.
He let go, fell, and instantly collided with the duct’s base, his nose squished, lips pressed down hard. “Fuch,” he mumbled, and then he dragged himself forward, contorting his body around the ninety-degree turn.
He slid forward, trying to stay quiet.
Then he reached a vent.
Below him, voices.
A man and a woman. He looked through the grate. The woman wore a red chiton. The flowing gown covered most of the woman’s body, aside from her arms. She wore sandals, and her hair was in an elaborate bun. The man wore a more revealing chiton. Also red. It looked like a loose, short dress, where only one shoulder was covered. Typical Greek fare, very different from Henry’s Spartan armor.
In fact, neither the man nor the woman carried a weapon of any kind.
“Okay,” the man said, flexing oiled muscles. “I come in with the bowl.”
“You hold the knife,” the woman said. “I hold the bowl.”
“Right...” The man looked nervous. Like he was about to go on stage. “Right. Then I…I cut her throat. I can’t believe we’re going to do this. To her. I always believed, you know? We’ve seen what Memnon can do. But I never really thought anything would come of it. It was a good way to meet people. A community. But recording a human sacrifice? Broadcasting it to the world? Immortality? Far out.”
“Has to be done,” the woman said. “And it won’t kill her. That’s not the point. After we go through the divination and are blessed with the seed of Zeus, when we release the footage from the past day of her healing from a mortal wound at your hands, the world will know that gods walk among them once more. And they will see the glory of her resurrection.”
“I’m worried she’ll know it was me,” the man said.
“We both have hoods. She won’t know who took part in the ritual, and when she comes to love us as her children, she won’t care. We’ll be her family, and that’s the only thing she really cares about, right? She’ll sit by Memnon’s right hand, and we will serve them forever. Blessed be.”
“Blessed be. Okay. So. I cut her throat. You collect Helen’s blood—”
They caught Helen? How the hell—
The woman continued, “—and then we do the new girl.”
“I saw her earlier,” the man said. “Outside the bank. She seemed…I don’t know. Normal. Nice. Young, too.”
“Best to not think about that,” the woman said. “He already got what he needed from her. She, and the crazy one, had their chance. They could have come along for the ride. Could have been part of the new pantheon. But now… If she shows, he’ll kill her.”
“Kill them,” Henry said.
The man and woman turned in all directions, baffled by who was speaking.
The grate burst open. Henry dropped from above. The kopis whooshed through the air twice. The sound was followed by the double thump of the man and woman falling to the floor.
Henry wiped the blade clean on the woman’s clothing. “If they show, he’ll kill them. Give me some respect. Geez.”
A plan formulated as Henry took the man by his arms and dragged him away before the blood staining his chest could leave a streak on the floor. He deposited the man in a closet, and then went back for the woman. She was gone.
“Huh…” Henry stood, dumbfounded. The woman was either a closet demigod and could heal from a mortal wound, or someone had moved her. “Why isn’t there an alarm?”
“Cause we don’t need help, bitch.”
Henry spun around. Deimos stood just a few feet away, arms crossed.
“Round two,” Henry said.
“Yah,” Deimos said, and then he ducked. Phoebe soared over him, throwing two knives, one into each of Henry’s legs, and then punching him square in the forehead.
Henry sailed backward, into the stone wall, and then he slumped to the floor, unconscious.
46
Pain paralyzed Sarah. She dropped the dory to the floor. Would have dropped the shield, too, if it wasn’t strapped to her arm. Shock set in fast. Being impaled, through the gut, was a new kind of pain—deep and resonant. And the fear she felt, more than anything, was caused by how much it would hurt when the blade was withdrawn.
She looked down at the katana extending out of her belly, covered in her blood. And then into the eyes of the Sukeban. The woman held her brass knuckles a few inches apart from each other. She moved the weapons up and down, causing electric blue arcs to crackle between them.
“Your death will be my great pleasure,” she said in a heavy Japanese accent.
“Pretty sure…they want me alive…”
The Sukeban grinned. “We are not hired to spare people, and—” She glanced at the two dead women. “—even if we had been, your life now belongs to me.”
“The Sukeban demands justice.” The second katana-wielding woman stepped up and plunged the blade into Sarah’s leg.
Sarah wasn’t sure how she remained standing, or how she didn’t scream, but her resilience incensed the gang.
“Blood for blood,” said another, raising her handgun. Sarah attempted to raise her shield, but the woman adjusted her aim and shot Sarah’s shoulder.
Sarah ground her teeth. The pain was exquisite, but she could feel the hole in her shoulder knitting back together.
“Pain for pain.” Both assault rifles came up, about to blast her.
“Ugokasu!” The Sukeban shouted.
The katana in her belly withdrew. She felt it slipping through her, out the way it came, guided by the stiff armor.
Through the pain, Sarah realized what it meant. The swordswoman was about to move. The assault rifles would fire. She’d be torn apart. Reduced to slurry. There’d be no surviving that. Demigods might live forever, but they could be killed. Usually it was at the hands of another demigod, but sixty rounds of bullets in her face—the one vital area not protected by bulletproof armor—would do the trick. Sarah had no doubt.
She couldn’t let that happen.
She reached blindly for the swordswoman behind her, just as the blade slipped free, moving faster than any of them was prepared for. The sword in her leg twisted like an apple corer, but then she stepped back and the katana slipped free. She brought the shield up just in time to deflect a barrage of automatic gunfire. The rounds ricocheted off the shield and punched into her armor. It felt like Ronda Rousey was having a go at her, but she resisted the pain and the fear, focusing on the swordswoman, who’d been caught off guard.
She caught the woman’s arm and squeezed.
Bones broke.
The woman screamed
The sword fell to the floor.
The gun ceased, the shooters either out of ammo or afraid to shoot their friend. But their friend was screwed.
Sarah twisted, lifting the woman off the ground and flung her like an Olympic hammer thrower. The woman spun through the air, arms and legs extended, her scream coming and going with each rotation.
And then she struck the lime green, blown glass sculpture. The spines impaled her in twenty different places. Some of them shattered, but most of the points jutted through her body, pinning her in place.
Sarah cringed at the sight.
“Naaatsuuuukiiii!” The Sukeban shouted.
“Seriously,” Sarah said. “Shut. Up.” She crouched down as the two assault rifles were reloaded. Pistol rounds cracked through the air, punching into Sarah’s armor. She ignored it, took hold of the dory, and put everything she had into hurling it at the sculpture. It spun through the air, mimicking the swordswoman’s passage, but it struck the base instead of ten feet up.
Green glass exploded.
A loud grinding filled the air.
The perfectly balanced, forty-foot-tall sculpture was pulled by the weight of the woman pinned to it. And then—it fell.
Fast.
Sarah ducked, shield raised over her head. She considered diving away, but knew she wouldn’t make it. None of them would. The sculpture descended with the deadly intent of a guillotine.
Ten thousand pounds of glass struck with the power of Zeus himself. The floor shook. All around, windows shattered.
The shield protected Sarah from the spiked glass, but the weight and momentum slammed her into the floor.
Somehow still conscious, Sarah found herself pinned beneath her shield. What was left of the sculpture lay atop her. She looked around. Two of the women had been crushed. Another two were a few feet away, impaled by lime green spikes and exploded glass.
But not the Sukeban.
Where is she?
Sarah got her answer in the form of crunching glass. She turned toward the sound. The Sukeban staggered toward her. She was bloodied and pissed. She looked at each of her fallen, face twisting and quivering.
“Lady,” Sarah said. “If you start shouting all their names, I’m going to lose my mind. This is why people give up on Attack on Titan. Too much damn screaming, you know?”
She rolled her eyes at herself. There I go again, channeling Henry.
Screw it, she thought, these bitches tried to kill me.
The Sukeban deserved a lot worse than a dose of immature taunting.
“I mean, what’s the point, right? It can’t be good for your voice. What if you want to be a singer when you retire from being a damn killer for hire?” Sarah pushed against the shield, against the shattered statue. Most of its weight had been shed when it shattered, but there was still a good ton remaining. She felt it move, but she didn’t have the leverage—not with her shield arm, which was pinned against her chest.
“Though I guess you’ll have to retire after this, huh? Natsuki and the gang are dead. Who’s going to hire you now?” Sarah pressed her free hand against the sculpture. Glass shards cut her skin, slipping through her hand. Sarah winced, and then pushed harder.
The Sukeban stopped above her, glaring down.
“Well,” Sarah said. “What you gonna do now?”
Brass knuckles shot sparks when the Sukeban knocked them together. “Buchi korosuzo konoyaro!” She lifted her fist, aiming for Sarah’s head.
Sarah shoved with everything she had. She shouted in pain as glass shredded her hand. As her muscles cramped and snapped.
The sculpture’s jagged remains, like a giant baseball bat dipped in glue and then broken glass, shot up.
There was a crackle as the Sukeban’s punch struck glass. It was followed by a shout of pain, or surprise, and then a thump as the sculpture struck the hired killer, lifted her off the ground, twisted, and then fell on top of her.
Sarah sat up, picking glass from her hand, watching the wounds heal. Patched back together, she picked up her dory, averting her eyes from the dead women scattered about. Her body count was rising. She wasn’t comfortable with it, but what else could she do? Lie down and die? Give up? She didn’t have that in her.
She stepped over the wrecked sculpture and stood over the pinned Sukeban, their roles reversed.
Even as she lay dying, the gang leader seethed. She spit blood at Sarah’s feet. Muttered something in Japanese.
Sarah crouched over her. “I wish whatever happened in your life, that brought you to this point, never happened. For real. It sucks.”
The Sukeban frowned when Sarah stood up again. “What are you doing?”
“Uhh, I got bigger bad guys to deal with,” Sarah said, motioning toward The Art of the Americas stairwell behind her.
“Kill me,” the Sukeban said.
“Not my style.”
The woman’s face contorted in confusion. “You’re a fraud.”
“Fraud? Lady, I don’t want to kill you. I didn’t want to kill any of you. You could have walked away. Could have taken another job. Could be on a beach, sipping a Mai Tai. But you came here, tried to kill me, and now all of your gal pals are—”
“Mercy,” the Sukeban said. “I am asking…for mercy.”
Sarah looked at the woman with fresh eyes. She was suffering. Dying slowly.
