Rebellion Reborn

by Brian S Leon

Overview

Millennia ago, beings we call angels were tasked with watching over humankind in its infancy. Rather than protect humans, these Watchers decided to subjugate them instead, beginning a rebellion that would rock both Heaven and Earth. Defeated, the most powerful of the Watchers were imprisoned for eternity, while the weaker ones were condemned to live out their existence on Earth, relegated to the shadows that now occupy human myths and legends.

Until one of the Watchers escapes.

Immortal protector of humanity and one-time hero of the Trojan War, Diomedes—better known as Steve Dore these days—is horrified to discover that what human authorities think is a mentally unstable cannibalistic murderer is actually a gateway to something ancient and apocalyptic. Racing against a cosmic timetable, Diomedes is drawn into a dark and sinister underworld in a desperate attempt to stop another uprising.

But stopping this enemy may cost him far more than his life. Some grudges never die.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781948051156
Publisher:	Red Adept Publishing
Publication date:	07/29/2018
Series:	Metis Files , #3
Pages:	348
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.78(d)

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Gretna, Louisiana, outside New Orleans, March 10, 1919

* * *

In the quiet stillness of the early morning, rats began gnawing at the back door of a small corner row house that also served as a neighborhood grocery — one of several in the largely immigrant neighborhood. Dozens of the foul rodents, some still wet from swimming in the Mississippi River just a few hundred yards away, gave off steam in the cool late-winter air as they gathered. Whatever unseen force drew them also drove them to chew just as fervently. The fusty creatures all worked as a single writhing entity, and within thirty minutes, the rodents managed to quietly bite the lower panel of the flimsy wooden door free, providing an entryway — though not for the rats. Once they ate through the wood, the mass of stinking, steaming vermin disappeared back into the night as silently as it had assembled.

A large humanoid figure — more shadow than substance — emerged from the darkness along the fence around the tiny back yard, dragging a long-handled axe over the dirt and sparse grass behind it. The shifting form silently swept up the rickety pair of stairs to the rear door and cautiously, almost reverently, placed the axe down quietly next to the door while it stooped toward the small hole created by the rats.

Silently, the figure peered through the gap left by the missing panel. It gazed into the darkened kitchen beyond for some time, listening and watching for signs of movement within. Then the figure tentatively reached a bony, clawed hand toward the door. Its long, slender fingers moved over the opening as if testing the hole before it extended an emaciated hand through the breach and, more importantly, across the tiny home's threshold. Nothing stopped it.

The figure snaked one arm inside, followed by the other. The limbs bent severely at the elbows so they would fit. The spectral figure forced its head through the small opening, then a series of sounds like muffled pops came from its torso as the creature's unnatural bulk decreased like a wadded-up newspaper. The being crawled through the hole almost like a snake, arms twisted at impossible angles to support its weight as it pulled itself through. Once inside, the figure gathered itself back to its height of nearly seven feet, rolling its head and shrugging its stooped shoulders back into position with a series of soft cracks. Then it began an aberrant convulsive stretching and twisting along its long limbs to reset the dislocated joints. Limbs reformed and functional, it reached back through the opening and retrieved the axe set just outside the door. The being's wraithlike blackness enveloped the small room like a void. Only the very edge of the recently sharpened axe-head glinted in the darkness.

The entity had emerged into a simple, spartan kitchen with a single cupboard, a large sink, and a cast-iron wood-burning stove along the wall to the right, opposite a small dining table flanked by two plain chairs. The tiny room's only other feature was a lone doorway leading to the bedroom — the small home's only other room. A clock ticked, and a muffled snore came from somewhere beyond the doorway, causing the figure to hesitate. As the soft noises continued uninterrupted, the figure silently swept through the doorway.

The bedroom was as austere as the kitchen, just large enough for a bed, a small chest of drawers, two trunks, and a rickety rocking chair at the foot of the bed. The only light came through a gap in the curtains covering a small window set high along the nearest wall and overlooking the alleyway behind the house.

In the center of the room, three people slept soundly on the iron-tester bed. A woman with an infant nestled in her left arm lay next to a man who was the source of the snoring. Mosquito netting, currently pulled back out of use, hung from the bar across the head of the bed frame.

As the dark figure's scrutiny swept from the sleeping forms and back across the room, it noticed a large crucifix on a mantel along the far wall, next to the ticking clock. Paintings depicting not only the Crucifixion but also the Virgin Mary and a praying Sister of Mercy adorned the otherwise-bare wooden walls. The figure recoiled slightly at the collective images then refocused its attention on the small family in the bed.

Standing over the woman, the monstrosity silently drew the axe overhead as far as the ceiling would allow then swung down, viciously striking the sleeping infant on the right side of her head at the neck, killing her instantly. In a continuous fluid motion, the shadowy form brought the blunt edge of the axe across to strike the woman low on the left side of her head near her ear, crushing her skull and knocking her unconscious.

The brutal blows jarred the man awake. Rousing himself, the small man saw the dark figure standing over his wife and child. He froze, blinking hard, trying to make sense of what stood across from him as abject fear gripped him.

Before the man could utter more than a sound, the shadowy figure grabbed him by the face, its skeletal fingers digging into the thin flesh of his scalp, and shoved him off the bed and back against a wall. The man, still mostly in shock, weakly and clumsily attempted to swing his fists in defense of his family, but he failed to connect as the shadowy figure somehow, impossibly, instantaneously closed the distance between them. The man tried feebly to defend himself while the creature toyed with him, batting him around like a ragdoll for a few moments. Finally, like a cat tiring of playing with its prey, it brought the butt of the axe-head down on the man's head, fracturing his skull and rendering him unconscious, though not dead. The tormented man's limp body flopped across the bed.

The continuing commotion within the small space startled the woman back to semiconsciousness. Barely lucid, she had no idea what she was seeing or even what had transpired. Terrified by what she thought was standing over her husband's body, she tried to scream, but the sound stuck in her throat. She watched as the shadowy image moved from the opposite side of the bed directly in front of her before she could blink. It reached an emaciated, clawed hand for her, and she froze, consumed by fear, unable to move or even utter a sound as it grabbed her head in a viselike grip and began to squeeze until her world went black.

The next morning, neighbors found the family lying on the bed in pools of their own blood. The unconscious father had collapsed over the dead body of his daughter, while the nearly comatose mother mumbled incoherently, saying her daughter's name — Mary — repeatedly. They found a bloody axe outside the kitchen door, which somehow had a small lower panel removed.

CHAPTER 2

I arrived at New Orleans Union Station from Chicago on the Number 8 train, the Panama Limited, on Saturday, March fifteenth, at nine in the morning. Though cool, the morning was a pleasant change from the frigid late-winter winds along Lake Michigan and far better than the winters I'd spent overseas working for Army Intelligence during the Great War.

I hadn't been to New Orleans since just after the turn of the new century, when I was chasing the rumor of an apparent murder committed by a being calling itself Comte Jacques Saint Germain, but I always liked the city. As I had during my previous visit, I wished I'd come under better circumstances. Such was my life as the immortal protector of humanity for the past three thousand years.

Exiting the station onto South Rampart Street, I could feel the slow and comfortable Southern vibe the city gave off. Just three blocks to the east, I could see the monument at Lee Circle. I still remembered when it was Tivoli Circle, before they'd dedicated it as a monument to General Robert E. Lee.

Some things in the South die hard.

Standing on the corner of Rampart and Howard, I set down my leather satchel to check the file folder I had been given by the Pinkerton field office in Chicago. I was supposed to meet Francis Deringer, a junior apprentice in the local offices, here — or rather, he was supposed to meet me.

I'd been with the Pinkertons for only a few months, but as usual, Athena — my patron and the source of my strength and immortality — pulled the strings to get me where she believed I would best serve human interests.

Despite the fact I was reasonably new to the agency, they gave me the position of special investigator and the rank of senior agent. As a one-time goddess of tactics and warfare, Athena wielded significant influence, and her organization, the Metis Foundation, had serious political pull. From what I knew of the reason I was standing in New Orleans, the locals, as usual, had no idea what plagued their city. Frankly, even though I was a week too late to celebrate it, as far as I was concerned, the whole situation was made even worse by the fact that Mardi Gras had been cancelled again this year due to the Great War.

"Uh, Mr. Ark-en-ox? The-o-filly Arkenox?" asked an unsure, slightly squeaky voice with an unmistakable Brooklyn accent.

"Ah, it's pronounced Toe-feel Ar-sen-know, but yes, that'd be me." I replied, facing the voice. "I take it you are Francis?" The name I was currently using was one I'd used the last time I lived here almost twenty years ago. It was very Acadian, or "Cajun," as the locals said. Only a very few beings knew me by my true identity, Diomedes Tydides, onetime warlord and King of Argos. But that was more than thirty lifetimes ago.

Dressed in slacks and a worn tweed sack coat over a matching waistcoat, he stood there, wringing a cap in his hands. Nothing about the kid suggested he was anything other than human — and an uptight one at that. While people could certainly cause all kinds of trouble, mortal humans were a comfort compared to what I was used to dealing with.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, lemme grab your bag for you. The automobile is this way," the kid said in his thick accent, grabbing my bag and heading toward a shiny dark-green 1917 Anderson 6-40 Combination Roadster parked just up Rampart.

"Well, Mr. Deringer, it is painfully obvious that you are not from these parts," I said, easily falling back into my practiced Southern drawl.

"No ... no, sir. I'm from Brooklyn. They just assigned me down here for me, um, my apprenticeship," the boy replied sheepishly while working to convert the car from its roadster form into a more comfortable five-seater by unfolding the rear seat.

"Ah, well, no matter," I replied, climbing into the back of the vehicle. "Allons-y!"

"Pardon?" he replied.

"Forgive me. It means 'let us go' in the local vernacular," I said.

"Right away, Mr. Arceneaux," he said, drawing out the name, recalling how to pronounce it properly.

The kid turned the car around on the narrow street, headed us down Howard Avenue toward Lee Circle, and veered around the monument onto Saint Charles Avenue then up toward City Hall and Lafayette Square.

"Where are we headed first, Francis?" I asked, not really caring.

"The main office. It's only a block from City Hall since we was contracted by the city to help keep an eye on the growth of the local Mafia." Taking in the sights as we drove, I found it hard to miss the significant changes taking place in the city.

We pulled into a broad alleyway next to a three-story redbrick building adorned with the ubiquitous iron lace along the porches lining the front façade for which the local architecture was known. Everything in this part of town appeared to have been built recently or was currently under construction.

"The whole third floor's ours," Francis said, beaming as he clambered out of the roadster and grabbed for my bag. "We enter around the back. Front entrance is for payin' stiffs." His enthusiasm made me grin as I followed him around the building to a set of rickety stairs.

"I was under the impression that this office dealt specifically with City Hall and Mayor Behrman rather than the public," I said in response to Francis's comment about "paying stiffs."

"This office, yeah, but they still ask us to use the back entrance to come and go," he replied. "Plus, it's safer some times. Not so public, if you get my meaning. We got a public office down in the French Quarter."

"Indeed. Safer, you say?" I asked, eyeing the dubious stairway.

Francis ignored me and began climbing without concern. We made it to the top of the poorest excuse for a wooden fire escape I had ever seen to a windowless door on the top floor. It was the only entrance onto the unstable structure. Francis dropped my bag on the narrow landing — shaking the entire structure — and removed his cap. Scratching at his head, he mumbled to himself. Finally, he nodded then knocked three times. He waited then knocked once more before trying the knob. The door opened outward, seriously decreasing the space on the tiny landing. The whole thing was clearly defensive in design. Inside the door, two men flanked the entryway, holding shotguns.

I followed Francis into a large dark office area occupied by two desks manned by a young blonde and a middle-aged brunette clacking away on typewriters. Heavy smoke from cigars and cigarettes filled the space, instantly making my eyes water and my lungs burn. There were four doors off the room — two directly behind the desks and one to either side. I couldn't identify any other entrances to this office.

The blond typist glanced up and smiled brightly at Francis as we walked in. Both of the secretaries were somewhat less than lookers, but they were probably great typists — especially the older brunette. The kid smiled back at the blonde, dropped my suitcase — again — and adjusted his cap as he approached her.

Francis sat on the edge of the woman's desk, and I stood in awkward silence for several seconds while Francis desperately tried to make time with the woman. Finally, bored by the whole scene, I cleared my throat — trying not to cough up a lung from the smoke — and earned a brief, reproachful scowl from the brunette. She definitely ran things around here.

"Excuse me, miss, but in which office might I find the agent in charge here?" I gave her my smoothest Southern accent, laying on the charm, figuring if I made friends with her, it might make my stay in New Orleans easier.

"Are you Arceneaux?" she asked while continuing her typing.

"I am he," I said, "but you may call me Theophile."

She gave me a quick once-over then went back to typing. I knew I wasn't bad looking, dressed in a new light-gray Norfolk jacket, matching slacks, and a bowler, but I insisted on wearing a full beard and mustache, which given the current time of the Red Scare, wasn't very popular. I guess I came across as too Eastern European or like a dockworker. That was what I told myself, anyway. Whatever. I'm not here to socialize.

"Agent Carson will be with you as soon as he arrives this morning," she said then glared at me. "You may wait here, Agent Arceneaux." She stressed my last name as she said it, clearly establishing any relationship we might have had as a working one and making it known that my presence was unwanted. She couldn't have been clearer if she were made of glass.

I took a seat in one of only two wooden chairs in the room. While I waited, I wondered if telling her I was a veteran of the Great War would earn me any points. American patriotism was high, based on our recent victory over the Kaiser. That information was likely in my file, though, so that was doubtful. Then I wondered, mostly maliciously, what her reaction would be if she knew I was over three millennia old and that my being here meant something truly horrible was going on in the Crescent City.

The idea made me smile, but then it caused me to refocus my attention, too. I sighed, coughing slightly. Nasty situations were my bread and butter. And it's lunchtime once again.

(Continues…)

---

Excerpted from "Rebellion Reborn"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Brian S. Leon.
Excerpted by permission of Red Adept Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---