Oswald Stone's Story

Blood streaked the cracked marble floor. Still slick wet but certainly not fresh. Bernardo bent to get a closer look. Two fingers touching the vicious mess as if it were imagined. It wasn't. He brought the fingers to his face, inhaling deeply the scent of copper. It wasn't the usual smell that greeted him. No. This blood had run afoul of something other. A looming presence that twined its way through each cell. He could imagine the source. An overburdened body carrying a light not meant for this world. And there it was, in the barely present light cast by his flashlight, the sheen of molten gold in the red that he hadn't noticed at first.

"Fuck, God's blood," he wiped the blood off onto his khakis and stood to face his partner. Atticus Wallace seemed disinterested. But Bernardo knew better than to assume there was nothing stirring behind that carefully made mask.

"Think it's still kicking around here?" Atticus swept his flashlight, first over the blood streaked floors and then up and over the rows of rotting pews. This church had been out of commission for decades at this point. A molding shell of half rubble that clung heavily to the remnants of its infrastructure. Most churches had long since become defunct. Though some still believed in their hearts that the Gods walking among men were heretical demons. Bernardo thought that strange, that people were willing to accept werewolves, vampires, and all manner of spirit but the moment the Gods descended onto earth they shuttered their doors and boarded the windows.

Bernardo's history with the Gods was just as sordid as anyone else that fell beneath their purview but it stayed just that. Purview. A distant connection based on a professional thread. His job was to take these cases because nobody else could. He could count the number of actual Gods he'd ever managed to encounter in this job.

It was a fact though that Gods didn't just up and die. No matter how much blood was on the scene. The closest neighbors had reported what sounded like fighting coming from the abandoned church and Bernardo had fully expected to be greeted with the sight of strewn bottles, needles, and whatever the fuck else but there had been no trace of drug activity here. Not a smidgen of violence to be heard. All was quiet, a hushed peace that was only interrupted by the blood.

Gods didn't die. Therefore if it weren't miles away by now then it was still here. Perhaps wounded though more than likely it was simply healing away from prying eyes.

"Might be, better start looking." Bernardo answered at long last. Beginning to trace the sinewy blood trails through the dark.

They didn't have to search long or hard for that matter, just on the other side of what would have once been the Sacristy they found the stomach churning remnants of the God. Half tucked underneath a freshly overturned cabinet. One that still surprisingly seemed to have been holding on to the moth bitten and tattered robes of its former inhabitants.

The body was cut in several places. Threads of shimmering blood having dried to the skin around the wounds that were visible. The heaviest of which centered around the Gods gut. Bernardo thought if he looked close enough he could see organs. Twisting intestines poking out through the torn flesh. He couldn't stop himself from running through the facts in his head.

Caucasian Female, Early Twenties, Multiple wounds…cause of death....evisceration? She had been run through with something. Something sharp and deadly enough to render a God helpless. The only things that killed Gods were other Gods, but that hadn't happened in quite some time. The Pantheon made sure of that.

Yet here the body lay twisted under this broken down, decades old cabinet in a church thats likely been untouched for just as long.

He noticed that the Gods mouth was half open in an enraged scream still. Pearly white teeth stained red. Bernardo shuddered at the depths of the Gods wide open eyes. They hadn't retained any humanity in those last moments, the entirety of the corneas had gone a molten lava-like red gold shade that reflected their flashlights back at them. Just like the blood, the essence of the God attempting to spill out.

Bernardo had never seen it for himself, few had, but like any other he had heard Ghost stories aplenty about what it looked like to stare into the face of a dead God.

"Shes young," Bernardo felt compelled to say out loud. He carefully, without disturbing the body examined the corpse. It was disconcerting to say the least. Most Gods emerged into youth of course but that didn't stop him from feeling nauseated at the thought of who this young woman might have wound up being without Divinitys interventions.

"Lets call it in," Atticus spoke sharply, just over Bernardos shoulder where he too gazed at the body. There was something in his eyes when Bernardo looked up. Not nervousness, no, something closer to revulsion.

"Something wrong Wallace?"

"With me? No," Atticus snorted, gesturing wildly. "But the Gods can clean up their own messes, we don't need to be here doing -"

"Our job?" Bernardo cut in snidely.

Atticus laughed.

"Our job is God related crimes. Not 'clearly murdered' Gods themselves. The Pantheon won't let anyone within a foot of this once they hear about it and by all means too, they should be the ones to get a leash on whatever new Holy terror has cropped up."

Bernardo hummed under his breath. Atticus made a great point. But something about this felt off. Like an itch too far too reach. He felt the haunting echo of this one raise the hairs along his spine. He wasn't scared. Nervous perhaps. He didn't want to deal with another Szen if thats what was happening.

"Alright," he nodded at last. Preparing himself for the long night of relayed reports, red tape, and press avoidance that would follow. He prayed that once he made it home tonight Selene would be there waiting for him just this once and not wasting her time trying to spin light into the Gods media presence. He missed her, and the sight of the young girl that could have been something so much more than a dead God rotting in a church made that all the worse.

He needed a drink. Or 20. Enough to drown out this ragged itch of wrong in his mind.

---

Filigree and baubles.

The Pantheon couldn't seem to ever get everyone together in one place unless burdened by loud music and fanfare. Isla hadn't felt the need to attend the party but when the call came in the night, a dream within a dream that could only have been a message of death, she did her best to get to the Pantheon before the urgency could be swept beneath the rug.

Alan had been meant to meet her there, but as usual he had been absent. Likely having forgotten about her completely. And instead Isla had been met with the overbearing audience of Gods that seemed to have very little to do other than waste away in hedonistic pleasures.

She could only try her best to gather the sober ones together long enough to get someone to figure out where any of the Major Gods were. It looked like Alan at least had already gotten the news of the newest addition to the growing list of names in the Gods personal obits.

By the time they managed to shuffle off into the meeting hall there was very little left of Isla other than nerves. Frayed and ready to snap at any moment.

The facts of the matter were given in precise detail. Quick and to the point.

Another dead God, cut to pieces. Isla felt hollowed out, gutted still by what she already had known. Her dreams were always right. Whether she wanted them to be or not.

"Two dead Gods could have been a coincidence. But three certainly isn't," Isla muttered and paced.

She couldn't stop moving despite the fact that nobody seemed to be giving her any mind. The frantic muttering under her breath as unhelpful as the bedraggled way she had appeared. She hadn't had the time to look presentable in front of her fellow Gods. Not at 3am and not when the third body in two months popped up in the city.

Each time she had strode the length of the room her thoughts seemed to unravel further. A knot of connections pulling loose from one another until she felt clear enough to stop. To wait. Her voice when it shuddered through her wasn't Isla. Not entirely at least.

"I told you all there would be death, damned bloody death, and its hunting us all!" Blythe was center stage, more than the God ever seemed to be and completely unrepentant about it.

"Come off it Blythe!" Crowed another God dismissively, "every vision you have is of death, can't bloody well expect much else."

"Fool! This isn't just death this is more than that. This is more than the approaching storm!" Blythe raged.

But even as strongly as the God gripped onto the forefront of Isla's conscious mind there was still cracks in the surface. The bleeding of Isla into Blythe that let the human push the God back. Regain her rationality. For a blistering moment she felt the embarrassment of tears prickle in her eyes but she knew better.

"It's all shadows in here," Isla tapped her head "I see things I can't begin to describe, things that even the Fates refuse to see. How long has it been since any of us have seen them anyways? Ever wonder if there's a reason they've abandoned ship?"

Disgust laced her every word, they were all in danger and couldn't see it. Even Alan, as sympathetic as he was to her plight would rather hide behind fake smiles and strategic statements released to the press. He stood at the head of the room as plastic and serene as ever. Isla bit back her frustration, wanting nothing more than to shout that this wasn't fair.

Why did she see the gaping maw of darkness at all times. The shadows that bled into her mind an ever present inky blackness that would leave.

"We understand Isla," Alan began, ready to plaster a bandage over the gaping wound that was Isla. "We're sorting this out." It wasn't any sort of promise or pledge. Just more words to placate.

Nobody else seemed all that concerned. Alan mostly looked disconcerted to be there at all. It had been years since any God had stepped foot into this hall. But times of peace always came to an end, and Isla could see the flickering of tension striking like a lightening storm in her head. The coming storm. Death haunting their steps.

"I know this is hard for all of us," Alan stepped forward, mouth set in a hard line. Standing impossibly rigid in his tailored suit. He looked every bit the part of a God in that moment. Domineering the space he took up.

"Then what's being done about it? Are we supposed to live in fear of a threat that we don't even know anything about - other than of course the three eviscerated Gods it's left behind." Isla knew she was poking at something that none of them ever spoke aloud. The glaring beast in the room made up of those that could and could not.

There had always been a line between the gods. Major, minor, lesser and even further than that went the Gods that were capable of wreaking havoc and those that weren't. Isla, Blythe, whoever existed in this body of hers was nothing more than a Glorified fortune teller. She was defenseless. As were many others.

She could see the discomfort on some of the faces in the crowd but none were so brazen as her to raise their voices in this fight. She had been afforded her stance by the ever thinning ounce of respect that her Dominion afforded to her.

"We're doing everything we can." Alan assured.

---

---

He'd been more clear in these past few months than he had ever felt in a lifetime of inhabiting this body. But that didn't stop the flooding anger from washing its way through his brain everytime he opened his eyes and still saw that he was here. Stuck in this Gilded Cage below the Pantheon proper. Stuck in this mindlessly endless boredom that pervaded every inch of his mind until the dull ache of anger roared into a blazing fire.

It had been easier when he was smaller to find exploitable weaknesses in this prison. It had been built for adults. Not children. And Oswald had been particularly imaginative in his desperation to escape this place. But it had been many years since he he last saw an opportunity to free himself and truly, he didn't much mind it anymore. He took a perverse sort of pleasure in watching Silva's face twist when he came to see what damage Szen had done to Oswalds body now. He'd scared off most of the other Gods that Silva sent to check in on him - all but Nemesis of course but he valued her company unlike any other.

They spoke as equals, two War Gods that saw the injustices of this systematic oppression. Their Domain had always been one of violence, there was no denying that,, and Gods like Silva certainly saw that fact. Its why Szen was here in the first place. Locked away for crimes he committed while crazed and lusting for blood.

He could still feel the blood on his hands. Could see the rivers of it running in his mind. Could feel and taste the heat of flames and smoldering ash as he took his fledgling anger out in the humans that had wrought agony on his body for years. Often he recalled the feeling of hands at his throat, squeezing the life from his body until specks of black covered his vision. Szen cant remember the point in which he emerged into this body well, can only see the moment that he popped Oswalds stepfather head like an overblown balloon.

He shuddered, and pushed away those memories.

Szen resented Silva for he seemed more invested in human welfare than that of his fellows.

It was pathetic.

He missed Catarina.

He wondered if she would visit soon. Or if she was busy with whatever seemed to be stirring up the energies of the Gods above. Szen could feel it, just like he suspected any of the War Gods could feel it. There was something brewing like a storm. He could easily imagine the strife that would be befallen the Gods and relished at the thought.

It served them right.

But that wasn't the only thing that Szen could feel. Even as caged away as he was there was a very distinct pull that seemed to echo from somewhere nearby. The presence of a God that Szen had not seen nor heard of in quite some time. He wanted badly to go out there and see for himself.

Had gone mad with the thought the first time he felt it. Thrumming with an energy that didn't feel like his own at the time. Admittedly, the body he wore had become a bit more damaged from his compulsive self battering than he usually allowed. His maddening habit of throwing himself against the enchanted barriers of the prison taking its toll.

Things were finally getting interesting. And here he was stuck.

Incapable of witnessing it.

---

Josephine lifted the bloated body of a rat by its wormlike tail. Watching in morbid fascination as the creature chittered its dismay to the air. Struggling against her steel grip even as she swung it up and let it go, watching it disappear down the endless maw of a beast that wriggled in delight. Its limbs endlessly twisting and turning over and under and through each other until the maddening tangle became too much to look at. It made her sick, but excited, and very much giddy to be so near to it.

Petra loved her abomination and Josephine could understand why.

Its proportions fascinated her, the impossible nature of its very being mind warpingly unpleasant. Josephine wondered if this was how the world saw her. An unpleasant thing, a blight on nature that hurt to look at. It felt good to be faced by another nightmare even if she could not place a name to it.

She would also very much like to feed it anything other than Rats but Petra forbade Josephine from even coming near the beast let alone feeding it. As if she could or would stop Josephine from doing as she pleased. Besides, the beast hardly moved at all other than to undulate its limbs.

Since her emergence Petra had begun to take Josephine more seriously. She wasn't this meek little creature that clung to their mothers leg anymore. Though she had admittedly not been that for a very long time. Even with teeth as sharp as razor blades on display as Josephines grin there had always been a blanket of familiarity that allowed Petra to paint Josephine as a Saint. Incapable of running drugs, people, or guns the way the family wanted.

That was okay. Josephine, and to a larger extent Minerva, thrived on the deception of seeming less than.

It was a game they played well.

It had brought them all the way from Russia to here. To this city that seemed to never sleep with all the activity it saw. Josephine had been in the city for less than a few days but already she could tell that things were going to be exciting.

"Your sister isn't gonna like you being down here."

She didn't startle at the voice, but she did turn around. Mouth already half quirked into the beginning of a smile. "Bold of you to assume she'll find out."

"Bold of you to assume I won't tell her." The man stepped into the light, revealing the face and body of a man that Minerva would be delighted to just eat up. Atticus Wallace, Petra's personal project and Josephines babysitter - at least. When he wasn't working alongside mangy mutts.

"Bold of you to think I care " she countered back, unable to contain her laughter as she dramatically flipped her hair over one shoulder. He rolled his eyes, though she could see the fondness in the action. But once he glanced over her shoulder at the beast just beyond her he seemed to shudder inward. It was an understandable reaction to the shapes that seemed to have no english equivalent description.

Josephine took pity, looping her arm through his and giving it a tug. She'd like nothing more than to squander her time in the basement but hiding away never did anyone any good. She was excited to see the world beyond The Pier, if even just for a moment as she accompanied Atticus to the Musée De Vries.

Though she was excited to be involved in some small part with the business it was clear that this wasn't about that for her. Minerva's plans revolved around something much larger than some vampiric pseudo cartel operating on the edge of a city bustling with bigger fish. Those plans began with Aristotle and his endless collection of trinkets.

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