The Banished Gods Box Set: Books 1-3 Read online

  THE BANISHED GODS OMNIBUS

  BOOKS 1-3

  L.A. MCGINNIS

  QUEEN OF SWORDS

  THE BANISHED GODS: BOOK ONE

  L.A. MCGINNIS

  Copyright © L.A. McGinnis 2019

  All rights reserved

  Editor: The Editing Hall

  Cover Design: Brynna Curry

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form or by any means, without express permission from the author or publisher. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  Please contact the author for any use in a review.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, including businesses, companies, events or locales is purely coincidental. This author acknowledges the trademarked status of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-970112-00-9

  ISBN-13: 978-1-970112-01-6

  Published in the United States of America by Fools Journey Press, 2019

  Created with Vellum

  Epigraph

  “I’ll never pause again, never stand still.

  Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine

  Or fortune given me a measure of revenge.”

  -Shakespeare

  1

  The Joker

  Loki, God of Fire, leaned back in his bath on the twentieth floor of the Gothic skyscraper and watched the humans toil below.

  Lake Shore was a parking lot, even at this time of night, and he followed the lights as they inched along like ants, unbroken lines of cars heading north and south. Their trails of red and white distracted from the dark, endless sprawl of Lake Michigan beyond, the flat expanse of water consuming the city’s glow. A world with no edges, no boundaries. The floor to ceiling windows of his bedroom were leaded glass, so heavy it had taken men weeks to install them, back when men built such things and not machines.

  Building was about the only thing these humans did well, much like the ants he often compared them to. But now they just fixed the potholes and swept the streets. Day in and day out. That, and provided a source of food for the packs of demons roaming Chicago every night.

  Those clawed, fanged demons from the Underworld caught the scent of a warm, helpless mortal and then? Blood ran in the streets of Chicago.

  “We got problems, asshole, and sitting in there all night won’t solve a single one of them.” Mir’s voice through the thick oak door might be muffled, but he wasn’t wrong.

  We do have problems.

  Lifting his eyes to the bowl of stars overhead, Loki cursed, sensing the impatience of the immortal god waiting outside. He should have known better than to put off the inevitable. Should have known these few moments of quiet would be cut short, especially since he was perfectly comfortable exactly where he was. Healing from a night spent out on the streets.

  A night spent protecting the human he so despised.

  Every night they killed dozens of demons, and every damn night he ended right back here, staring out at the damn lake and feeling like they were losing ground. For two hundred years. Except now, they were losing ground. Lately, it seemed for each demon they killed, two more took its place. The city was crawling with them these days. The nightly news was full of reports of inexplicable attacks, missing person reports and the time had come to face the brutal fact. They were outnumbered. With more humans pouring into the city each day, the demons did what any apex predator did.

  They thrived.

  “I’ll be out when I’m done. You want to stand there all night, be my fucking guest.” Mir‘s faint grunt nearly made him smile as he pictured his friend, leaning against the wall, the picture of immortal patience.

  To complicate matters, someone else had joined their little war. Not very efficient and certainly sloppy, nevertheless, they had killed. At first, they’d found one demon, hacked to pieces in an alley by an unknown hunter. Then, a few weeks later, another. Then a few more after that. A year later, and the numbers were still racking up.

  But tonight, when they happened upon the four demons slaughtered in the alley, he realized they had a serious problem. His finger drumming against the rim of the tub, Loki stewed, fully aware of Mir outside. He’d want answers. Odin would want more. And Loki had none to give.

  Gods, four of the demons butchered. Hacked to pieces.

  The scent of fresh, human blood all over the scene. The smell of that blood had hit him viscerally, so deeply, he knew he’d remember if he ever came across it again. But no mortal body to be found. No drag marks, so the demons hadn’t taken it away.

  Chicago was Odin’s territory. Their territory. Always had been. Always would be. Odin allowed no other immortal gods to hunt this city. Except his own Chicago faction of immortals. Which raised the question, who, exactly, was doing the killing? As no human stood a chance against a single demon, let alone four, it was a valid question. With their nearly impenetrable skin, razor-sharp claws, and far worse teeth, Tyr forged unique titanium and glass-fused knives to penetrate their skin, for fuck’s sake. The demons moved so fast, no human could keep up with one, much less four. Throw in the fact they were all but invisible to the mortals…

  His finger stopped its incessant tapping.

  The facts added up to another god, hunting illegally in their territory. Maybe a rogue immortal from New York, maybe a disgruntled halfling from the west coast, looking to make a name for themselves. Who knew? But yeah, they had a problem. A serious one, most likely. And one he’d have to deal with. He pushed himself up in the tub, the gash he’d received earlier finally knitting itself back together.

  Dripping water on the floor, he threw a towel around his hips and walked to the window, frowning. Nights like these, he missed home the most. But they were stuck here—on this shit-hole planet, or as he liked to call it, the armpit of the universe—and would be for the rest of their endless, immortal lives.

  He hated this fucking place. Crawling with Hel’s demons, they’d been tasked with the never-ending duty of protecting the humans, who were apparently too stupid to save themselves. Fuck, they couldn’t be bothered to see the damn things, not even when they were right in front of them.

  “Look, the rest of them are still out on the streets, haven’t come in yet so this is as good a time as any to do this. I’m giving you another minute, then I’m dragging your ass downstairs, naked. Or you can act your age and get dressed and give your report. Deal with this shit, will you?” Loki caught the clicking sound of a lighter, before the faint scent of smoke wafted through the room. “Goddamn it, Loki, do not make me come in there.” The asshole meant what he said, then. Mir would wait him out.

  Once, they were immortal gods, ruling over an endless universe. Now, they were nothing but watchdogs.

  No, nothing so noble. They were trash men, cleaning up after a death goddess who took her fun by loosing her vermin on the world and letting them feast on these soft, slow mortals. He swapped his towel for faded Levi’s, heavy boots, and a gray pullover. The oak door creaked as Mir’s patience gave out, and he stepped inside, his laser-sharp eyes skimming over Loki, the room, the water pooled on the floor, the night sky through the window. “Took your time, I see. Odin’s gonna want to hear about tonight.”

  Loki stepped around Mir and pulled a worn, leather jacket
off the dresser. “Tomorrow. I’ll tell him tomorrow.”

  “That won’t fly and you know it.”

  “It’ll have to. I’m heading out.” At six foot three, Loki knew he wouldn‘t blend into the human world. His height wasn’t the real problem. It was the otherworldly face. Razor sharp cheekbones, topped off with electric blue eyes set under a permanent scowl, that’s what drew attention. But the attention would get him what he needed tonight to work off this hardened edge that cut so deeply.

  “Chicken shit.” Mir took a drag on the cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke.

  “Can you blame me?”

  “Not one bit.” Mir hesitated. “Try to get back before dawn. He’ll want answers.”

  Didn’t he know it? But before that shit show started, he would lose himself in a woman for a few hours. He’d forget all about what he found in the alley tonight, and all the complications it represented. Because if the tight, queasy feeling in his gut was any indication, he’d be the one hunting down the violator, and most likely, putting him to death.

  But right now, he needed to forget he was a total and complete fuck up. That his mistake was the reason they were banished to this planet in the first place. Trying to prevent the end of the world only to have your actions cause an apocalypse? Not an easy thing to live with.

  Made worse by the fact everyone blamed you for it.

  Shoving all that to the side, he simply told Mir, “Look, give me a couple of hours to myself. I’m going to grab a bottle of booze and some company.” The burly, red-haired god nodded, just once, his blue eyes cool and measuring. Mir was solid, and there was no one Loki trusted more.

  “I’ll be home before dawn, and Odin’ll have his report the minute I’m back. Tell him that, will you?” Then Loki stalked out.

  His suite might not be the grandest, but he had the best view. Plus, he was closest to the elevator for quick escapes and fewer questions. Stepping in, he punched the button and it heaved before dropping like a rock. He cursed loudly, praying this fucking relic from the turn of the century wouldn’t kill him. As it was, it took its good old time reaching the basement. Once it did, he coasted his motorcycle up out of the private parking garage under one of the city’s busiest streets. The roar of his Harley lit up Michigan, and he headed straight through downtown, following the lake to a part of Chicago that wasn’t on any architectural tour.

  2

  The Orphan

  Keeping her arm elevated above her head, Morgane Burke pushed the door open to her shoebox-sized apartment on the city’s south side. Peeling off her leather jacket, she made a mental note: Next time, Burke, pick a complex with bigger units. It occurred to her she had been here for five months, which meant it was time to start looking for a new hideout. Kicking the door shut, she put her back to it, locking it tightly behind her.

  Getting home tonight had been easy.

  But this next bit would really hurt.

  Her breath choppy, Morgane unbuckled and lifted the Kevlar vest over her head, gritting her teeth as warm blood gushed down her arm, off the ends of her fingers. Biting back panic, she turned and looked in the mirror. The gash was long but not too deep, the length of her upper arm from shoulder to elbow. But plenty of black, foamy venom seeped from it, and the smell of rot and sulfur filled the room. Just a lucky shot, she reassured herself, pouring a bottle of peroxide over the wound, holding her breath as blood and poison bubbled away, forming a foamy pool on the floor at her feet.

  Next to her lay the Kevlar jacket, the ripped, ragged seam the only place the creature’s long claws had penetrated. Around her lay her entire existence. Half of the tiny room held a bed, a hotplate, a mini fridge, while the miniscule bathroom was equipped as a cobbled-together hospital. The rest of the shoebox contained boxes of weapons, knives, Kevlar reinforced black clothing, steel-toed boots, and military grade steel.

  While the peroxide sent pain shooting through her in fiery spikes, she inspected the pattern of scars covering her torso and arms. Lucky shots were becoming rarer and rarer. Those first days, when she’d been new to the city, to the fighting, her body had paid the price for her inexperience.

  She’d fixed that.

  Daily self-defense classes, followed by one-on-one Krav Maga and Jiu Jitsu lessons had upped her fighting game. But there was nothing like hands on experience, the nightly do-or-die combat to hone your instincts. The thing was, she was getting pretty damn good after two years. Maybe she’d passed the magical ten thousand-hour mark. Maybe she was finally making some headway in exterminating these spidery bastards, crawling all over this city.

  Killers of mothers.

  Sisters.

  With a shudder, she thrust that particular memory out of her head. She had to admit that tonight there’d been a moment, a split second, when she wasn’t sure she would make it out of the alley alive. When one monster hooked its curved claw through the seam, pulled her close enough she gagged on its fetid breath, those needle-sharp teeth clicking inches away from her neck. She stared at the frayed fabric again. And reassured herself it was just a lucky shot.

  She wiped away the peroxide, the gash still seeping black, poisonous residue from the creature’s claw. Grabbing the bottle of antibiotics, she tipped four into her hand and swallowed them followed by a handful of painkillers. Their venom took more than a day to dissipate, giving her the equal of a severe, forty-eight-hour flu. And until her body filtered out the last drop, healing wouldn’t begin.

  That, she’d learned the hard way.

  Which meant she’d have to wait this out. She’d be off the streets tomorrow, and the missed night would cost her. Someone would die tomorrow. She owed it to her fellow humans to save as many as she could, even if it killed her.

  She checked the door a final time, noting with satisfaction the thick, reinforced steel and interlocking deadbolt system capable of keeping out a rhino. Which made this crappy place home sweet home for at least another week. Dropping into bed, she shivered as the venom worked its way through her system.

  After her two-day staycation, Morgane buckled on the new Kevlar with shaking fingers. Weak. She was weak but she had to get out there. If she waited another night, someone else would die. As if to mock her, the small television droned on in the background, listing yet another missing person. Every single night people went out and never came home. In every city in the world. And according to the news, things were getting worse. Her gaze was drawn to her map, the spiderweb of red dots indicating the missing, presumed dead.

  Thousands. That’s how many people, just this year, came to Chicago and were never seen again. She should know. She was keeping track. Her lips thinning out, she pulled on the Dri-FIT shirt, the new Kevlar vest banded tight by Velcro and nylon, then the Kevlar jacket, all black, head to toe.

  She made it a habit to rotate hunting territories each night and change apartments every six months. Her appearance changed so often she barely remembered her natural hair color, although she recalled it was some shade of blonde. Now it was dark brown, but that was about to change too. Best to not get too attached.

  Heading into the wind, she crossed near the lions guarding the museum and dodged right, ducked down the metal steps to Lower Wacker, moving fast. She knew her scent would carry, and she knew they would come. The concrete amplified the impact of her boots on the broken-down pavement of the underground street as she walked. And walked.

  The catcalls rising above the engine noise of a passing car drowned out everything else, so she lowered her head and moved faster.

  But the distraction cost her, covering the skittering sounds of her enemy for those few, precious seconds, the creatures closer than she anticipated by the time she finally spotted them. They hung from the ceiling above her, their long, curved claws finding purchase in the seams of the concrete overhead, eyes fixated on her. Spider-like, they maneuvered cautiously, surrounding her. The subtle hiss of a razor-sharp edge against leather made them pause as she drew out her knives, then they advanced another
step. Counting at least three of them, she crouched down onto her haunches. Their spider-like bodies lost to the shadows, she could only hear those sharpened, deadly talons scramble until she felt the barest brush of movement against her face. She struck.

  They might have their claws, but she had her knives. Custom made. Black and serrated, fused glass and titanium. The first monster she killed with a backward swipe of her right hand while she sank the left knife deep into the second’s chest. One to go. Still waiting, too high for her to reach, she threw back the hood around her head, knowing full well her scent would drift upwards, lure it to her. It crept a few feet closer. Morgane blew out breath after breath, filling the space with her scent, drawing the creature in. The creature struck but too slowly, and her right knife took its arm, which fell, grasping, to the concrete. When it shrieked, sounding like rusty brakes gone bad, she plunged both knives down through the hollow chest into the ground below.

  The sound stopped.

  Three dead and not a scratch on her. Yes, she thought with satisfaction, she must be nearing expert level. Pulling her hood back over her face, she left them to disappear like the garbage they were. Missing whatever evil force kept them alive, the bodies shriveled and shrunk within minutes, leaving nothing more than gray debris on the side of the road.

  A handy thing, that.

  She spent hours searching for more. Three hours before she gave up, leaving her with a good chunk of the evening to deal with. Walking back toward the lights, she rounded Monroe onto North Michigan, taking a moment to pause in front of the magnificent old building facing the lake. While not as tall as surrounding skyscrapers, the stately lines of creamy white limestone spoke for themselves, as did the arched, gothic windows overlooking the lake.