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CHAPTER ONE - RATS, TROW, AND THEFT
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Charles Blakely was tired of rats.
There weren't actually that many of them here usually. There was something about the way Charles reeked of death that seemed to deter them (what a surprise) but the little shits that did linger about were the clever ones. Like the Rat King.
Charles Blakely would freely admit that he liked the Rat King. He'd also freely admit that he would like it more if it wasn't a solid mass of writhing rats, all twisted together and tied in knots at the tails, but Charles couldn't argue, not with the Rat King's willingness to share secrets. It helped that Charles had collected plenty of secrets to trade over the centuries; regardless of payment, Rat Kings were notoriously picky about who they talked most truthfully to.
And apparently Charles Blakely, psychology professor, counted… though honestly it probably wasn't the clinical psychology doctorate that made the Rat King like him, though.
"In the West a power grows," the Rat King's hundred voices spoke, it's thousands of bodies writhing and twisting with muffled squeaks, "And it will harken the New Age, and After the Ends will come, as the Wheel turns its course."
"That was perfectly unhelpful," Charles critiqued, "Look, Rat King, I've had eight centuries too many prophetic riddles. A clearer answer, if you will?"
"Bah," the Rat King complained, "No one's up for any fun anymore."
"I'm sure if you showed yourself to the young not-folk, they'd be happy to indulge your whims, if only out of terror." Charles replied mildly.
"True…" the Rat King hummed thoughtfully, the weird chittering noise making Charles cringe uncomfortably. That was a pain for sensitive ears. "But then I'd have to speak to them."
"Inconvenient." Charles agreed mildly. A decade or three of teaching psychology (at different schools, mind, there was only so long one could stay unchanging before it was noticed) and it had become glaringly obvious that talking to young people was exhausting. So much to explain. And so much he couldn't.
"The Greek Forefather rises, and with him he drags our Kin. Beast and being will be dragged together, lied to and deceived, and He will raze the earth and leave nothing as before. And After comes the Earth, and Ragnarok, and the Sun will be devoured." the Rat King shared almost mournfully, "So soon the end times, Ceorl."
"There, that didn't hurt, did it? And you still got to be vague and contradictory beyond belief," Charles commented drily, ignoring the double apocalypse omen. The Rat King chittered in amused agreement, body twisting and rolling back down the sewage pipe. "Oh! And it's not Ceorl." Charles called down the pipe, knowing the Rat King would hear. He'd been trying to guess Charles' First Name as long as they'd known each other.
"Damned apocalypses," Charles muttered, discomfited. He hauled himself up and out of the ditch, stepping out into the clear night, half-moon lighting his pale skin in an unnatural glow. He picked up his long dark coat from where he'd draped it over a fence, buttoning it as he stalked down the alley.
He was glad he didn't have a class to teach today. And that he only ever had night classes. Short, irregular ones at that. All Charles wanted to do then was get drunk out of his mind and see if he'd forget all about the apparently impending apocalypses.
Goddamned end of the world scenarios. Gotta hate 'em.
Charles wondered for half a moment if he could bargain with a Fate to just… pull on the strings a little, pull the future this way or that. But Charles knew bargains with Fates were never winnable. Instead, Charles wandered down the road, passing brightly lit streets and heading for dimmer ones, pushing through the door of a bar just on the edge of light and dark.
"Shalom, Charles!" one of the patrons called from where he stood, dart in one hand and mead in the other, aiming at the dartboard where a friend stood with his hand splayed.
"Shalom," Charles called back automatically, dismissing the fact that neither of them were Jewish nor speakers of Hebrew. Old greetings were what they were, and there were only so many that were usable still.
"Charles, you look like you've seen a ghost!"
"Funny, Mila, here I thought you were the ghost." Charles responded without missing a beat, ignoring the raucous laughter and raising an eyebrow at the rusalka, with her translucent skin and hollow eyes. "Your bones are showing today."
"Oh, hun, you flatter me!" Mila replied, cackling, the noise wet and painful, an echo of drowning.
"Drown any wrongdoers lately?" Charles asked, pausing at her table and leaning against her chair. The rusalka was accompanied by a banshee, a poltergeist couple, and a dullahan, his severed head replaced by the cut off head of an American Girl doll. Charles had to pause and stare at the doll's head, with its eyes glowing with dullahan fire.
"Oh, no! I've been slacking." Mila complained, "Well, that, and there's been an influx of demigods and hunters as of late. I'm not totally sure where they came from, since all the demigods are fairly old… that is, for a demigod. You know how it is. No playing when the watchers are nearby."
Charles hummed in weary agreement, narrowing his eyes at the dullahan's doll head.
"Get an eyeful, yet?" the dullahan asked snippily, the deep, definitely masculine voice coming from the air where his head might have been, and yet Charles couldn't help but watch the way the American Girl doll head's mouth opened and moved with his speech.
"Ah, my apologies, I'm being rude." Charles said, "You've found a lovely head."
The dullahan huffed, the 'geist couple next to him giggling, ghostly hands hovering over their mouths. Charles had never quite gotten why ghosts and other incorporeal not-folk came to bars. They couldn't drink, and tended to get walked through by all the not-folk not close enough to the dead to see them.
"What have you been up to, hunny?" Mila asked sweetly. It would have been more appealing if her skin wasn't beginning to turn green and slimy, starting to peel away from her muscles and bones, the rusalka having been out of the water for just a little too long.
"Oh, you know, teaching, running my Inbetween Houses, chatting up the Rat King. Everyday activities. I did actually come here for a reason, though." Charles continued, pushing himself up off her chair. "Have you seen the fext?"
"No fext here, not yet at least." the banshee hissed, her nail-on-chalkboard voice sending involuntary shivers down Charles' spine. She grinned an overly sharp smile, and, like Mila, a steady drip of water dropped from her body to the ground, pooling at the foot of the table. Charles truly didn't pity the barkeep's minions.
"Well then, I guess I'd better get a drink."
Landon had more than enough to do without trows creeping around. But no, the little blighters were wandering about, wrecking things. They'd kidnapped four children so far, and two pregnant mothers. If that wasn't enough, his dad was pushing him to find out where they were, let him know, and then the two were supposed to go off on a trow hunt.
Chrissakes, Landon was a fae, not a demigod. More fae than his dad, too. Shit, if this was Underhill, Landon would have more authority than his dad… he wasn't quite dumb enough to mention that, though.
"Why am I trow hunting?" Landon asked instead, glowering at the sheet of paper his dad had shoved at him, names, ages, and locations of the victims listed neatly in slightly-glowing ink. The djinni down the street must have made it then. Landon took a half second to wonder what his dad had paid for that knowledge before shrugging it off.
"You're trow hunting because you're my eldest child, and you have a responsibility to your family." Gary said firmly.
"A responsibility?" Landon echoed, scowling, "What's the risk of a trow? They're not about to target us."
"Your mother — Heidi," his dad corrected at Landon's narrowed eyes, "Heidi's pregnant with your sister. I know you're not attached to your step-mother, but I also know you like your siblings. Trow abduct newborns, and expecting mothers, you know that."
Landon sniffed, doing his best to show his irritation without actually saying anything. Judging by his sister Eveline's muffled snicker it had utterly failed. What did a selkie know anyways?
"Landon." Gary insisted. "Don't make me invoke your name."
Landon rolled his eyes. "You don't even know the name to invoke," he said drily, "Don't forget it was mother who named me, before ditching me with you."
"Landon, just find the trows, please. I can get rid of them easily." Gary sounded exhausted as he kneaded his temples.
"Dad, you're not fae." Landon pointed out. "What are you going to do? Hit them with a stick? The trow'll kill you before you can even whip it out. Besides, judging from this list," he waved it around for emphasis, "they're probably not even working together. I'm predicting one sea trow and one or two kunal ones. The pregnant women were taken in totally different areas, so that was probably the kunals. They won't attack again now that they've got their wives… though they'll probably end up inevitably dying in childbirth. Oh, the woes of trows. The children were all taken near Lake Auburn, so sea trow. Sea is a misnomer, they're basically just water trow. Water trow doesn't sound nearly as good though."
"Wait, how'd you figure that?" his dad asked, confused, "That paper only has names and ages?"
Landon rolled his eyes, "Isa likes me better, evidently. It's got more than that for me. Probably 'cause I don't bother him for information all the time."
"I always trade," Gary defended himself.
"Yeah, but you go to a djinni to solve all your problems. Also your secrets are worthless."
"Landon!" Gary warned.
"Hey! I'm fae, remember? I can't lie." Landon said laughing, heading towards the door. He may as well find the damn trows.
"We both know Gean-Cánach are an exception to the rule." Gary scolded, but didn't yell after him. Landon took a moment after slamming the door shut to lean against it, tug on his pointed ears once, and sighed a deep, long, exhausted sigh before stalking down the apartment complex hallway. How vague were the instructions 'find the trow?' There were a ton of trow underground and elsewhere. Finding the two or three that misbehaved and hunted humans was going to be real rough… unless.
Landon whistled long and low once he was outside, stepping into an alley to wait. He heard the howl first of course, the bone-rattling call that tended to herald doom. In this case, it did herald Doom… only Doom was a fairly young barghest who really liked to play.
"Good boy!" Landon praised, scratching behind the massive dog's ears. "Who's a good boy? You are? Good boy, Doom, good boy."
"Oi! Fae! What are ya doin' summnin' grimms for?" a nasally voice asked from further down the alley. Landon ignored it, attention focused on the barghest in front of him. "Fae!" something short kicked Landon's leg. Landon refrained from kicking it back. "What kinna fae are ya, fae? Tuatha? Sídhe? Oi! Pointy-eared bastard!"
Without looking, Landon grabbed the thing by the back of its shirt, lifting it up to his face and dangling it just a little too close to Doom's maw. The gnome, realizing the threat, howled obscenities, scratching and clawing at Landon's hand. "Gean-Cánach," Landon offered, it was polite to let other fae folk (even if they were little) know what you were after all. The gnome froze, staring at Landon with wide eyes and increasing panic.
"Sah-ree, then, Cánach!" the gnome prattled, "I'm gnomish, through-and-through. Woulda picked out what you were if it weren't for the stench of seal 'round here."
"Three of them," Landon said agreeably, teeth sharpening into a semi-feral grin, "my step-mother, and two of my half-siblings."
"Aw, fuck," the gnome whispered under his breath, "I s'pose the leanan's yours too?"
Landon hummed idly in agreement, rubbing his hand in Doom's fur. It wasn't hard to let the gnome think he was one of those gean-cánachs. It was easier than anything to let assumptions lead the way. Except…
"Have you been watching us, gnome?" Landon asked carefully. The gnome blubbered an excuse. Yes, then. "For who?"
"Please, sir, the Lady Midday needed ta know. She likes knowin' what's happening here abouts." the gnome babbled, hands once again flailing.
"There's a Noonwraith nearby?" Landon asked with genuine surprise. If she knew everything that was happening… "Lead me to her." This should be easy. Or he'd get killed. Fair trade either way.
"Set me down first!" the gnome demanded. Landon didn't, instead whistling a two-tone whistle, clambering onto Doom's back with a practiced movement. He settled the gnome in front of him, trapping it by wrapping his hands around its waist. Were it anything but a gnome, it would have been really weird… but gnomes were gnomes.
"Where to, gnome?"
The gnome squeaked, a tortured, helpless sound, and pointed down the alley.
"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" the little near-human muttered from next to her.
"You speak Latin?" Renée asked curiously, her bronze leg tapping restlessly on the rooftop the two were cooped up on.
"Nah," the teen answered, "I just read Watchmen. It felt… poignant."
"Are you even old enough to know what that means?" Renée couldn't help but ask, though she agreed with the statement.
"Yeah, of course," he answered with a huff. "Look, can you do anything? I called you 'cause a cousin of mine mentioned that you'd helped them out when that— when they needed help. I've been watching this asshole steal from people all this week. I asked one of the others to deal with it, but, well…"
"He's a demigod," the empousa said grimly.
"Yeah," the near-human answered. "Look, I'm sorry, I know this'll put you at risk, but I just… the last person he robbed was my granny. Just fucking… he just took so much of her food, and her medicine! I dunno what he'll do with it but pawn it off. What did she do to deserve that!?"
"Nothing, kiddo," Renée soothed, letting her aura pull the teenager in just a little to calm him. "No one does anything to deserve it. Maybe he picked up on your 'taint' nearby. Maybe he saw you come in and out. Maybe he thought she wasn't human either. None of it justifies this, kid."
"Can you do something about it?" the kid asked tiredly.
"We'll see," the empousa said, "I can at least lure him away. There's an awful lot of demigods nearby, though. There's no way killing him won't make them look closer for us, unless I dusted for it too."
"I don't want you to get yourself killed over this," the near-human argued. "Don't get dusted on our account. Fuck, I feel better just knowing y'all are out there willing to help, even if I wish the bastard would get a taste of… his own…" the teen trailed off at Renée's widening grin, and matched it inch for inch.
"Medicine." he finished, watching Renée fling herself over the roof edge, dropping to the ground with a muted clink of bronze on concrete.
Renée didn't usually steal, she was an empousa after all. Seduction was much more her style, but hey, everyone needed to branch out once and a while. If her branching out got her killed… well, she's died before. Tartarus wasn't a delight, but she was enough of a small fry that she tended to reappear fast enough.
Thievery was a little bit different from seduction, though. It required just a little bit more sneaking around, and luckily enough, Renée knew enough Mist tricks to hide her trail as she tagged behind the smug demigod, the old antique silverware shoved deep in his backpack. It was taken from a younger couple, probably passed down to them from their parents or grandparents (recently dead, Renée knew, given the memorial sign posted in their front yard). They weren't monsters. They had no connection to monsters, or the mythological world at all. They were just humans… young, vulnerable humans.
The demigod dodged down a side-street, and Renée took a moment to stoop and grab an empty beer bottle from the ground, untucking her shirt and tugging through her hair just enough to give the appearance of a disheveled, drunken girl. It was an appearance Renée used frequently.
She staggered around the corner, watching as the demigod hauled himself up onto an apartment building fire escape, creeping up several flights of stairs before slipping through an open window. Third floor, then. She stumbled to the apartment building's door, timing it for the instant when an older gentleman was exiting. She babbled something half-formed about losing her key, and with a sigh about 'kids these days' the man let her in. Bless his soul.
Renée walked on surer feet down the hallway to the elevator, pressing the button for the third floor. She took a long pause in the elevator, hunching over herself so the camera in the corner wouldn't be able to distinguish her face. The instant the doors opened, she was stumbling her way down the hallway, breathing deep to taste the air, scenting for the demigod. Fifth door on the left.
She knocked an erratic pattern, slumping in a way he wouldn't be able to see much of anything through the peephole. The demigod approached slowly, cautiously, and opened the door as far as the chain would let it go.
"Baby? Why won' you lemme in?" Renée pretended to slur, "Honey, baby please, I'm sorry~" she hiccoughed.
The demigod sighed, frustrated, shutting the door only to open it again without the chain. "Look, lady, you're in the wrong pla—"
Renée cut him off with a heavy pulse of her allure and a forced kiss, letting her magic drop him into sleep, and carefully lowering him down onto the ground. She dragged him further inside, shutting and chaining the door behind her and taking a startled look around.
"Holy shit." Renée said, wide-eyed.
The bastard was not a small-time thief. No, the dingy apartment was shoved full of expensive antique silverware and decor, a giant TV propped up on a massive mahogany dresser, drachmae littered about on the floor. There was a slightly-glowing apple in a golden fruit bowl to the side, and the bed was draped in expensive maybe-Chinese silks.
"This a Hermes kid?" Renée wondered aloud, eyes falling on a well done portrait of a young obviously-goddess, set above an altar with lit candles. "Nevermind, it's Laverna. Much better."
She took a moment to sift through drawers, finding one chalk full of stolen prescription medicine, another stuffed ridiculously with clearly ancient swords and weapons, and yet another with wads of cash and stacks of coins. This wouldn't be easily restealable. Steal-backable? Whatever.
Renée moved down the hall, checking rooms. Some of them were stacked with weird and expensive gadgets, others full of art and sculptures, and others yet full of actual gold, silver, and platinum bars.
"And behind curtain number three!" Renée said aloud theatrically, and pushed open the door with one hard shove, and froze.
Forget stealing, Renée thought, looking at the very young cyclops tied up in celestial bronze chains, gleaming wounds dripping golden monster dust from his arms, Renée was in the mood for demigod flesh.