Lyn Benedict - Gods & Monsters

Cachita put her hand over her mouth, trying to hide even her breath. The tiny cuts on her hands left blood on her cheeks. Erinya looked like she wanted to investigate, slunk off the wall, crept across the floor, claws scree king, and Sylvie said, “Uh-uh, Eri. You got lucky. You surprised the god. Don’t bring him back by trying to eat his chosen one, okay?”

The front door swung open; a patrol officer put his head in, saying, “Everything all righ—Holy fuck!”

Erinya pounced, pinned him between her front paws, and Sylvie said, “Eri, please!”

The Fury tasted the man’s neck, hesitated, breathing heat and hunger that Sylvie could feel all the way across the room. Then she pushed him back. “Go away, good man.” The patrolman took the dismissal as the command it was and ran.

A virtuous cop, Sylvie thought. Nice. The relaxation rolling through her body was making her dazed with it.

Erinya shook her entire body, shedding agitation like a dog shedding water, slowly dwindled inward, until there was nothing but a crouching goth girl snarling, incongruous in human-shaped vocal cords.

Cachita shook harder. Sylvie said, “Caridad Valdes-Pedraza? Meet Erinya. One of the Eumenides. A Fury. And if you think she’s dangerous? If you think she’s piss-your-pants scary? You’d be right. But you know what she isn’t ? She’s not even a full god. Think about that before you shout for Tepeyollotl again. Think about how much worse it would be to deal with a full god in a rage. That’s what you’re wanting to bring down to earth.”

THE OFFICE WASN’T QUIET YET: TOO FULL OF THEIR RAPID BREATHS, OF the ringing patter of falling glass, and furniture breaking down further under its own weight. Even the walls were creaking, settling as if Tepeyollotl’s earthquaking appearance had left them perched above a sinkhole.

“It’s too late,” Cachita said, finally, her voice a rasp. “I’ve called him. He’s primed now. He’ll be checking in.”

“Then we need to get Azpiazu sorted before—”

“Deal with me first,” Erinya said, interrupting them. “I want Demalion.”

“I want peace and quiet,” Sylvie said. “I want supernatural guests who don’t shred my workplace.”

Erinya slung herself into Sylvie’s personal space, a smooth lunge and crouch, black-painted lips peeling back to show red gums and sharp white teeth. “I want Demalion dead.”

“He died,” Sylvie said. “You killed him.”

“He didn’t stay that way. His soul should be languishing, tormented for his misdeeds.”

“Then go hunt for him and leave us alone,” Sylvie said. “I’ve got bigger problems.”

“I’ll help you,” Erinya said abruptly. “This Azpiazu. I can find him for you. And you’ll give me Demalion—”

“I won’t,” Sylvie said.

“I could take it from you.”

“You could try,” Sylvie growled.

Alex and Cachita protested at the same time, their fright like a dash of cold water to her own rising temper.

“Let’s make a deal,” Sylvie said. “I won’t give you Demalion. But . . . I can make it worth your while.”

Erinya gave Sylvie her back, heading toward the door, bootheels clicking.

“Erinya,” Sylvie said. “Dunne can have me when I die. I’ll hunt with you.”

Alex squeaked, and Sylvie slashed her hand down, shutting off further protest from without and within. Her little dark voice was a drowning cry of objections. Negotiations didn’t work with interruptions.

The Fury stopped in her tracks. “You’ll be a Fury?” She came back toward Sylvie, all slink and hunger and quivering hope. She got close enough to sniff reluctant sincerity from Sylvie’s flesh and mind, but hesitated. “When you die . . . That could be such a very long time away.”

“You’re immortal. Be patient,” Sylvie said.

“You’re the new Lilith,” Erinya said. More objections. “The Christian God might have plans—”

Alex looked intrigued, and Sylvie grimaced. She didn’t want Alex poking into the “new Lilith” business. Not until Sylvie’d had the time to do some investigating on her own.

“I make my own choices,” Sylvie said. “Always have.”

Erinya rolled her shoulders as if settling the idea into her skin.

“Would you help us for that? Help us kill Azpiazu?”

“I can’t,” Erinya said. “Find him, okay, yeah. But he’s Tepeyollotl’s chosen. I can’t just step in between them and rip his head off any more than I could shake the truth out of your girl.”

Sylvie said, “I’m not sure I want to give my soul over for tracking abilities. I can find Azpiazu on my own.”

“Mortals have time constraints.”

“I can work fast—”

“Sylvie!” Alex interrupted their bargaining. Her hands were tight on Sylvie’s forearm. “Sylvie, listen!”

The street outside had grown quiet. No more bystander noise. No traffic. No cops. Nothing. All the hairs on Sylvie’s body stood up. “Something’s coming.”

“Hunters,” Erinya said. “Human hunters.”

The remnants of the plate-glass window shattered as a smoking cylinder crashed through it, streaming . . .

“Tear gas?” Sylvie gasped out. Regretted it as the movement of her breath brought the gas billowing into her face. It was like inhaling an angry jellyfish. Her nose stung, her mouth burned, her eyes spat tears in a vain attempt to soothe the irritation. She coughed, clenched her hands by her sides, controlling the urge to rub at the burn, to scrub it off her skin. She knew it wouldn’t work.

Alex had ducked, turned away, had covered her face by yanking up her shirt. The cotton mesh wasn’t fine enough to protect her for more than a few moments. Sylvie, sobbing helplessly, letting the tears go, trying to flush out the toxin even as the smoke still eddied in the room, dragged Alex closer, dragged her under her jacket. Alex’s fingers clutched Sylvie’s side, tight bands of panic and fear.

Cachita had rolled sideways, was vomiting feebly, her face streaming tears and snot.

Gas-masked men bulled in after the tear gas, and Sylvie heard the first one scream, his cry ending bloody and wet, when Erinya tore into him with talons extended.

“Erinya, go!” Sylvie said. “Just go. Find us later.” Each word was hard to get out. Each word felt like an eternity between a panicking heart and challenged breathing.

Erinya’s growl echoed through the room; she dropped the first man, and the others slowed. She turned once, red-black eyes shining like lanterns, and snatched Alex away from Sylvie so quickly, Alex’s nails left gouges through her shirt.

Erinya vanished.

Sylvie, fighting to breathe, to stay in control of herself, fumbled her gun from her holster and slid it away from her.

The last thing she wanted was to be shot by the triggerhappy ISI SWAT team. They couldn’t be anyone else.

Their timing, as usual, was utterly, world-endangeringly, awful.

TWO HOURS LATER, SYLVIE HAD BEEN DETAINED, DETOXED, STRIPPED, scrubbed pink, and given a pair of white cotton pants and a tee to replace her clothes. Her clothes were gone down to her boots. She wiggled her bare toes on the cold tiles, wiggled her ass on the cold, plastic bench, and thought dark thoughts about the goddamned ISI, and the surveillance team who’d decided they’d had enough of watching.

“Get up,” Agent Riordan said.

It’d only been a day since she’d dealt with him, and already his shiny was wearing off. He looked ruffled, rumpled, and pissed. His suit jacket was gone, and his white shirt showed sweat stains at chest and pits.

She leaned against the slicked, easy-to-wash wall, and held back her shiver at its chilly touch. Small defiance. Enough to make his cheeks flush, to make his head jerk sideways to see if the men in the doorway noticed her refusal to respect him.