Accidentally in Love With a God (2012) (7 page)

In the Maaskab village, what was left of it, another fifty dark-priests lay scattered across the ground like leaves fallen from a tree, their nearly naked bodies riddled with bullet holes. Whoever had killed them hadn’t taken their sweet time like they had with the human tree ornaments. After examining a few bodies, he noticed they had one line across their chests. That answered his question about the peons, but not their leader.

He canvassed the rest of the area and determined no one was left. Not one damned, bloody soul. The situation was a disaster. Sure, he’d wanted them all to die, but he needed to interrogate them first, find out how they were learning their new dark tricks and confirm why they’d been killing those innocent women.

“Cimil!” he screamed. “A little assistance, please?”

He waited, but there was no reply. “Still behaving like a child, I see.”

With the agonizing pain from his earlier fall still coursing freely through his head, Votan clamped his eyes shut. Had someone purposefully murdered the priests to hide something from him? Or had one of the priests’ many enemies simply bested them? One thing was certain: the killers had worked over the more senior priest. Ruthlessly. Same damned thing he would’ve done.

Distracted by pain and frustration, he turned and walked straight into a tree, his nose crunching on impact. “Son of a bitch!” he wailed and kicked the mammoth tree that had toppled over. “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry,” he said, looking at the decimated tree, cupping his bloody nose.

He wiped the blood across his bare arm and pushed the tree upright. He reburied the roots, covering them with the black, moist dirt while he contemplated his next steps.

Catching a whiff of something out of place, Votan lifted his bloodied nose into the air. Buried among the stench of rotting flesh and burnt huts was the smell of something distinctive. He began stalking through the remains of the village, and as clear as day, there were tracks made with boots. The priest barely wore clothes, let alone any form of shoe.

Now what do I do?

When he’d arrived in the cenote, he’d thought this mission would be a quick, one-god job so he hadn’t made any arrangements with the Uchben to help him.

But if he turned back now and sent for them, he’d end up simply losing more valuable time.

“Fine. Alone it is,” he grumbled. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

***

Three days later. Gulf of Mexico.

It was early evening when Votan crouched into the dingy rancid cabin and slammed the door behind him. “Hello, Captain Pizzaro.”

The man with greasy brown hair and hollow cheeks rose, back against the wall, and gave Votan a once-over. Maybe he was taking stock of his enormous size. Or, perhaps, the man was checking out the bundle of machetes strapped to Votan’s back. Or, was he looking at the daggers tied to each appendage and the two guns holstered to his sides? Maybe it was the colorful, knee length man-skirt he wore? Had to be the skirt.

“Preparing for a one-man war?” Pizzaro asked.

“Always.” A grin swept across Votan’s face as he propped himself against the door, arms crossed.

“I see,” said Pizarro. “And since you know my name, I’m guessing your presence is no accident.”

Silly human.
There was no such thing as an accident. For three days, Votan followed the tracks from the Maaskab village to the ocean where he watched with intense curiosity as men loaded several small crates onto rowboats and then carefully pulled them aboard their rust-stained cargo vessel. He’d counted sixty, heavily armed, contemptible sorts and one evil looking, shirtless bastard with tattoos—dragons, sea monsters, the works. Votan had heard the men call him, “Pizzaro.” A Spanish name.

Traffickers were very common in this part of the world, but not Spaniards. Votan could not imagine how they had traveled through international waters; World War II was making ocean voyages very tricky.

Votan had wanted to immediately capture these men and commence interrogating, but they would scatter, and he’d lose more time. So, he climbed the anchor chain, hid aboard, and waited for deeper waters.

“Correct, no accident,” Votan said to Pizzaro. “And you should know I have a strict policy about honesty.”

“Honesty? About what?” asked the captain.

“I’m going to kill you. Everyone, actually. Likely today.” Votan shrugged casually. “However, if you tell me everything now, I promise not to torture you.” He felt his eyes tingle. No doubt they were shifting from a luminescent turquoise to a dark emerald green.

“Well,” the captain said. “How very generous of you.”

“What can I say? I’m in a good mood today and in a hurry.”

The captain’s eyebrows pulled together. “Can I offer you a drink?” He inched his way along the wall toward the dilapidated desk in the corner, pulled a bottle from the drawer, and then sat slowly, eyes locked on Votan.

“Thank you. No. But go ahead, rum will help dull your pain.

A large roach scampered across the floor and stopped near Votan’s foot. Votan hissed, making the roach flinch. The tiny bug peered up at him with its beady black eyes and then carefully backed away underneath the bed, not detaching its gaze until out of sight.

Pizzaro lifted one scar split brow, over-pouring his tin mug while he watched the exchange. The rum trickled off the desk onto his dirty gray pants.

“Bugs.” Votan shrugged again.

“All right, then.” Pizarro nervously wiped the beads of golden liquid from his lap and grabbed for the cup. “What answers do you need?”

“The priests. Who sent you to kill them?”

Pizarro’s cup slipped from his hand. “Um—I…”

Votan slammed his fist onto the desk, splintering the wood down the middle. He was done wasting time. “Tell me! Or next, I’ll crack your skull.” His voice sent shards of pain into the captain’s ears.

“I don’t know! She didn’t tell us her name, but she wasn’t normal. She was…”

“What?” Votan reached for a machete from the leather bundle on his back.

“Like you! I mean—her eyes.”

Votan was startled. One of his own sisters? Dear gods, what next? First Petén’s story of women being taken by one of his brothers and now this?

“She paid upfront and promised us more money—a lot of money. She wants the jars,” he said frantically. “She also told us to take out as many of those dreadlocked demons as we needed to make them confirm the location of the other jars, but they wouldn’t talk.”

Jars? While hiding in the hold, Votan had seen dark gray jars inside the crates, but didn’t think much of them. Humans often collected useless objects. His priority was finding out who’d been schooling the Maaskab in the art of manipulating dark energy.

“How did you trap and kill so many priests with only sixty men?”

“We stunned them with teargas,” Captain Pizzaro replied. “They never saw us coming.”

Ah, yes.
Humans were busy inventing all sorts of new weapons and using them in their new war against that nasty Hitler man. Why couldn’t Votan have been lucky enough to draw the short straw when that guy’s name came up? But, nooo. Instead, he got the malodorous, pesky, fanatical Maaskab to deal with.

But this journey led me to the child,
Gabriela,
he thought.
I cannot forget the importance of fate.

“Did you at least kill them all?”

Pizzaro stared at the floor. “Some got away.”

“Dammit all to hell!” Votan screamed. It could take him months to track them down, including the missing leader, and finish them off.

“What’s in the jars?” Votan asked.

“I don’t know.” He panted. “She made us promise not to open them. She said the jars would kill us.”

Idiots. What could possibly be inside that could do that? Killer bees?

“Okay,” Votan resisted laughing. He didn’t want the captain to think this was some kind of joke. Next Pizzaro told him about the map she’d given them that showed the location of more jars. Dozens of them scattered across the globe. They were told to find them and bring them back to Port Rota, Spain, where the woman was waiting.

“Aren’t you the least bit concerned about your ship getting blown out of the water by a U-boat or bloody navy ship?”

Pizzaro shook his head no. “She told us to stick to the routes she charted on the map. So far, so good.”

Votan’s mind was a jumble of frustration and anger. None of this made any sense. “What did the woman look like?”

“Flaming red hair, bright turquoise eyes, and a glare to make you wish you were never born. Like yours, actually.”

Cimil? No. It simply cannot be.
She had been behaving oddly lately, but then again, they all had. The world was gradually spinning out of control. Violence. There was so much uncontrolled violence everywhere now. It wasn’t supposed to be that way. In fact, once he returned, there was to be a meeting to discuss what to do.

“I’ve told you everything I know.” Pizarro stared at Votan. “So?”

“So, what?” Votan pulled out another machete.

“You’re still going to kill me?” Pizzaro said with arrogant disbelief. It almost made Votan like the man.

“Of course. You do not deserve the light inside you. You are a cold-blooded killer.”

“I could say the same of you,” Pizarro said.

“Cold-blooded? Me? Hardly. I’m the ultimate purveyor of justice—an executioner with a flawless track record and crystal clear conscience.”

There was a startling knock at the door causing Votan to glance away. Before he blinked, the captain produced a knife and lunged.

The blade struck Votan’s arm. “Hey! That hurt.”

A squatty bald man pushed open the door and went slack-jawed at the sight of Votan. He quickly gathered himself and yelled for help as he turned up the stairs toward the deck.

Votan jerked the knife away from Pizzaro and rubbed the spot, watching the wound close instantly. He slammed the door shut, turning toward Pizzaro who cowered in the corner of the room.

“What—what are you?”

“Ahhh, now that’s more like it!” Votan said, shamelessly contented by the other man’s terror. He paused for a moment, his thoughts vacillating between extracting the man’s heart with a spoon or making him watch as he executed the crew.

Votan couldn’t help but feel grumpy at the whole situation.
Eenie, meenie, minee, moe.
“Perhaps a spoon is a bit harsh—you did kill the Maaskab with admirable ruthlessness. I will be back to deal with you.” Votan pointed at Pizzaro. “Stay.”

Votan marched up the stairs, gripping a razor sharp machete in each hand. Several large men lunged as he emerged on deck. He could smell the darkness seeping from their skin. No. The Maaskab weren’t the first these men had killed. That foul smell only came from a lifetime of dedicated, unrepentant violence. Votan turned into a whirlwind of slicing blades. Before he took one breath, five men lay gasping in a tidy heap, their dark red blood forming a puddle.

The others stopped their advances, careful to step away from the syrupy crimson pool spreading at their feet. Their bearded faces, dirty and pale, transformed from angry to fearful.

Votan wiped away the splatters of blood from his face and smiled. Feeling a set of eyes on his back, Votan spun to find Pizzaro standing behind him, shivering with repulsion at the pile of bloody corpses.

The captain hitched up his pants as if rallying his bravery and ran his eyes over the faces of his terrified men. “I—I, uh,” he stuttered, “th-th-think this demon has come for our souls, gentlemen, and I do not believe any of us are going to heaven.”

“Right you are, my friend. No heaven for you. But, I am no demon. I am a god. A very, very cruel one.”

Chapter NINE

Present Day. Mexico.

The bus driver pulled to the side of the highway. It was late afternoon, but with the heat, it felt like high noon in hell. “Señorita, aquí estamos.”

“Here? You want me to get out here?” I questioned, having no idea where “here” was.

The last road sign said it was still several kilometers to the town of Bacalar and to its nearby lake, but which direction? I was one of those people who immediately lost their sense of direction if I wasn’t driving, which, obviously, I wasn’t. I’d encountered several mechanical difficulties with my rental Jeep, including not one, but two flat tires and an overheated engine.

Guy immediately accused me of being bad luck, and if I were a superstitious person, I would’ve believed the universe was trying to tell me something. But it wasn’t. Because that would be just be crazy-talk.

Now, after ditching the Jeep, successfully hailing a third-class, chickens-ride-for-free bus, bound for Bacalar—near the Belizean border—and five hours later, I was almost to Guy. This was it. But why weren’t my legs moving me off the dang bus?

The other passengers, all locals, turned their heads to dish healthy portions of glare in my direction. The inconsiderate tourist was holding them up.