Forgotten Gods Boxed Set Read online

  Forgotten Gods Boxed Set

  The Complete Series

  ST Branton

  CM Raymond

  LE Barbant

  Forgotten Gods Boxed Set (this book) is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Copyright © 2019 ST Branton, CM Raymond and LE Barbant

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

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  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  First US edition, May 2019

  Contents

  Forgotten Gods

  Goddess Scorned

  Hounded by the Gods

  God in the Darkness

  Gods Of New York

  God Country

  Haunted By The Gods

  Gods Remembered

  Forgotten Gods

  The Forgotten Gods Series Book 1

  Prologue

  A labyrinth of gleaming hallways stretched before Marcus, twisting and turning to a thousand ends. To the uninitiated, it might have looked daunting, but for those who had dwelled in the honeyed hills of Carcerum since its conception, the palace of Kronin, Hero-King of the Gods, was as familiar as home. That was, after all, what he had meant it to be.

  A new home for an old, old people.

  Things had not quite turned out that way.

  Marcus took the next turn so fast that the soles of his boots slipped on the ever-polished floor. He dug the tip of his spear down into the surface, using it as a fulcrum to launch himself forward with even greater speed. The spear left a gouge in the soft gold that in days past would have been swiftly mended. Now, it hardly mattered because Carcerum would likely be empty soon.

  The Centurion had a dreadful suspicion that he was already too late.

  The door to Kronin’s royal chamber lay at the end of a long corridor, its ceiling vaulting into crisscrossed shadows. The torches ensconced on the walls were out, except for the two at the very end, and yet, he could see the shapes of guards standing sentinel before the towering door.

  For a moment, Marcus felt a flicker of hope. But the moment passed as he saw that the guards were not Kronin’s, but rather the twisted creations of an evil mind.

  His fears all but confirmed, Marcus fell back on the hardened instincts of former glory. Gripping tightly to the shaft of his spear, he raised the weapon and charged forward. A battle cry erupted from the warrior’s lungs. If this was to be his last great stand, he was going to make it in style.

  The pale creatures steeled themselves. Their swords met over the doorway, blade to blade. The challenge was clear, but Marcus did not stop or even slow his advance. He had fought and killed greater beings than these.

  Marcus darted in like lightning, dodging their gleaming sharp swords. Two quick thrusts of his spear pierced the creatures’ hearts, and their bloodless armor clattered to the floor. Pallid skin on gaunt faces faded into the realm beyond, but the old Roman soldier hardly took notice. Of course, his great foe had already been through here. These corrupted souls were not protecting Marcus’s king but keeping aid from reaching him.

  The black truth could not be denied any longer: Marcus was too late, after all.

  A swift kick from his sandaled foot flung the door open, raining golden shrapnel from its ornate carvings. The spear clenched in Marcus’s hands paused involuntarily in its quest for enemy blood. He felt the breath rush from his lungs. He had long envisioned such a sight in his nightmares but never dared to think it might come true.

  Kronin, Marcus’s god and king—his hero—knelt before the throne. There was a gaping hole in his back where he had been betrayed.

  Standing before him was the betrayer himself, pale and tall, like a man who had been stretched too thin—Lorcan, the self-proclaimed god of shadow.

  The Centurion roared in anger and in anguish, but the dark god before him only smiled then motioned with his head. A dozen of Lorcan’s forces swarmed toward the door.

  Marcus charged forward, but the old warrior soon found himself surrounded by a sea of slashing weapons. He tightened his grip on the spear and swung it with a vigor that might have looked like careless abandon. This time, there was blood—Lorcan’s curse had yet to take hold fully of these bodies. The howling screams of death echoed through the throne room as he worked his way forward.

  Above all else, he needed to reach Kronin.

  With a flash of golden light, he saw his King before him, waging a battle of his own.

  Even in his final moments, the sovereign was a vision of glory. His blade slashed in graceful arcs the same color as his palace. So many of its strikes were true. The sword shined despite the haze of blood hanging in the air and running down into his eyes. It was magnificent enough that the loyal Centurion almost failed to notice he had been stabbed. His body jerked forward from the force. He whirled around, and the point of his spear removed the assailant’s head from his body. An empty torso thudded to the ground. A moment later, so did Marcus.

  Another traitor moved forward, ready to pounce on the fallen warrior. The man raised a wicked blade, preparing to cut Marcus in half. But before the weapon could fall, the man’s chest exploded in a burst of light—a holy, golden sword sticking through it.

  As the man fell, Marcus could see the face of his king. Kronin smiled down at his servant—and then collapsed.

  Marcus pulled himself across the blood-slick golden tiles, striving to reach the king before his soul departed. Just one of the wounds on his royal body would have proved fatal to a mortal or even a lesser god. Even in death, Kronin was without peer. Marcus hoped his killer understood that, and he hoped it made him burn with rage.

  The king looked up with clouding eyes.

  “Your Majesty,” Marcus said, unable to find other words. Behind, the din of shouts and footsteps clamored from the hallway. Kronin reached up with a shaky hand and pulled his servant down with the last of his strength. The footsteps thudded closer.

  “Take this.” Kronin pressed the hilt of his sword into Marcus’s palm. “And… protect my people.”

  Then he was gone.

  Alone, the Centurion glanced down at the object in his hand, and at once, his mission crystallized. He tucked the now-bladeless sword hilt into his belt. By the time the voices came pouring through the throne room’s broken door, he had managed to regain his feet. His impressive height cast an imposing shadow over the floor.

  “Stop!” someone shouted.

  Bodies surged toward him, hands outstretched, ready for victory.

  Marcus gazed once more upon his dead king, and then he bolted for the window. No light graced the sky, save for the pinpricks of distant stars. The way down was long—very, very long—but it was the only way left.

  He did not look back as he mounted the windowsill and leapt out into the night.

  The clamor from the ruined throne room faded away.

  Marcus fell.

  Chapter One

  Five years of searching and my prize was within reach. This is going to be interesting.

  Sitting in a shitty dive in Brooklyn Heights, I tried not to stick out like a sore thumb. The place was full of mobster la
ckeys swarming the dirty bar like locusts in a cornfield. Normally, a leggy, emerald-eyed brunette in knee-high boots wouldn’t stand a chance; they’d be on me the second I walked through the door.

  Tonight, I was not in the mood to be mistaken for prey. Luckily, the lights were mercifully low.

  The bar was so dark I could barely see the guy across the table, but I already knew what he looked like. All these guys were the same. Bulldog jowls, necks like a tree trunk, and a million rings squeezed onto their sausage fingers. Most of that fancy jewelry was of the costume variety, unless the man wearing it was the real deal and high up in the ranks.

  This sad bastard was about as low-down as you could get, lower than a limbo stick at a drunken beach party.

  He had said his name was Frank, although I was sure he thought I didn’t remember.

  The shot glasses lined up in front of me like drunken soldiers certainly spoke to a night that had gone far beyond the human power of recall. Little did he know I had bribed the man pouring the booze. Half water, half whatever the hell kind of jet fuel we were drinking. So, I was buzzed but still ready to rumble.

  It wasn’t a good idea to be three sheets to the wind when there was a man who needed killing, but judgement had never been my strong suit.

  I put my elbows on the table, cupped my chin in my hands, and offered him a sweet smile. He smiled back, all undone tie and slightly crooked teeth. He probably pictured himself like De Niro in his prime—but he looked more like Hannibal Lector after a bowl of kidney bean soup.

  Sickness rolled through my stomach, but I ignored it. No damn way I’d gotten as far as I had by backing down. Time to go deeper yet. “Tell me something about yourself, Frankie.”

  The trick was to make my voice as sugary-sweet as possible, the kind of tone that would rot the teeth straight out of my mouth if I let it. These guys ate that shit up, and Frank, bless his heart, was no exception.

  His grin spread, and he leaned back in his chair, lifting his hands to the side, palms up. “I’m an open book, sweetheart. What do you wanna know?”

  What I really wanted to know was exactly how much force it would take to shove an empty shot glass down his throat. But I had to play nice until he gave me what I needed. After that, all bets were off.

  “Well.” I looked at my nails, which had been specially painted for this little charade. “I heard you’re pretty famous around here.”

  He barked out a coarse, phlegmy laugh. He tried to play off the compliment like it didn’t faze him, but he couldn’t resist puffing out his chest. “I mean, I guess it depends on who you ask.”

  “Aww, c’mon.” I batted my eyelashes. “You’re just playing modest now.”

  He downed his next shot and slapped another bill on the table. We were drinking for money, and from the looks of it, he had half his life savings piled up in front of him. A man his size going against a woman like me? It was an easy bet.

  One that he was about to lose spectacularly.

  Joke’s on you, asshat. Never underestimate a girl in stilettos and a slinky dress. “You’re way up there with the big boss, aren’t you?” I asked, taking my shot and slapping a bill on the table. “No need to be shy about it.”

  Maybe I was pressing my luck a little, but he was too sloshed to notice. Or so I hoped.

  Frank hiccupped. “Ah, I ain’t nothing next to Rocco.” He gestured to the money. “This look like a lot to you? If Rocco dropped that kind of cash on the street, he wouldn’t even blink an eye.” The sleazy grin reappeared. “I’m flattered, though. Really.”

  “And you should be.” I traced the edge of a shot glass seductively, watching his eyes follow the tip of my finger around the rim. “I think you sell yourself short, Frankie. Rocco Durant can’t be that big of a deal, can he?”

  He wheezed out another laugh. Obviously, someone misunderstood the old saying. It was an apple a day, not a pack a day that kept the doctor away. Poor shitscum. He was likely to have a heart attack and die right there on the filthy floor. It would have spared me the displeasure of his company, but I needed him alive for a little while longer. I had chosen my mark with precision. No one else in that hellhole was as likely to tell me what I needed to know.

  “Doll face, you best not get caught talking like that. Rocco runs this town.” He made a loose fist and banged it clumsily on the table. The glasses jumped, clinking.

  “Hey, Frankie!” someone shouted. “You break ‘em, you buy ‘em, dipshit!” This first-class quip was met by a chorus of guffaws. I caught a strong whiff of mean booze.

  A crowd was forming around us, closing in. Damnit to hell. So much for keeping a low profile.

  I lowered my voice. “I’m sure he’s got people like you whispering in his ear left and right.” I prodded gently, trying to ignore Frank’s compatriots. I didn’t like their intent, hungry looks. “What’s it like to be the man behind the curtain?”

  We were getting warmer. A few more minutes and I’d be home free.

  Frank’s face fell a little bit. The corners of his mouth sagged. He looked down at his giant, meaty hands, and I braced myself for something unpleasant, such as alcohol-induced vomiting. But in the next instant, his expression cleared.

  “It’s great,” he said. “Nobody messes with you if you’re with Rocco.”

  There was a weird flatness in his tone. I brushed it off. Frank’s workplace woes weren’t my concern.

  I shot him a skeptical look. “Don’t tell me he looks tougher than you.”

  The guy smirked. “Now I know you’re putting me on, little lady. Maybe thirty years ago, I could’ve given him a run for his money, but nowadays…” He shook his head. “It takes a special kind of man to pull off that scar. Right across the face.” He drew three fingers down from temple to lip, hooked at the knuckles like claws.

  I leaned forward coyly to disguise the fact that my interest had just skyrocketed. “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Too dangerous for the likes of you,” Frank replied with a yellowed smile and another nasty chuckle. It was a strange, almost kind thing for him to say. He glanced around the bar, peering through the low light. “You know, he’s here tonight. I could point him out if you really wanna see him.”

  And there it was.

  I dropped my hands beneath the edge of the table, upending it in one smooth motion. The shot glasses, not all of which were empty, smashed on the floor around our feet, sending glass shards and cheap liquor everywhere.

  As I lunged toward Frank, I reached through the slit in my skirt and pulled the revolver free of its holster. The other flunkies stumbled backward, cheap suits and ties flapping, a flock of squawking vermin.

  Someone screamed.

  Frank’s chair clattered roughly to the floor beneath our combined weight. He stared up at me, bleary-eyed and stunned. I forced open his mouth with the barrel of the gun and shoved it down until I heard him gag. Then I shouted at the top of my lungs to be heard over the chaotic roar that had mounted in the room. “If anyone moves, I’ll blow his brains out!”

  No one moved, but they didn’t stop talking. That was fine by me. I dropped my voice and jerked the revolver out of Frank’s craw.

  He gasped. “What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?!”

  “Where’s Rocco?” I demanded. He blinked, too stunned or drunk to speak. Maybe I’d let our drinking game go on a little too long. I repeated myself more slowly. “Where is Rocco?”

  No answer. I cocked the hammer with my thumb. The eyes bulged out of Frank’s head. I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the poor guy. I wasn’t going to kill him. Every bullet I had was strictly reserved for Rocco Durant.

  Of course, I wasn’t about to tell Frank that. I let him gape on the floor. He’d stopped trying to fight me off thankfully. Maybe we could get along after all. Under different circumstances anyway. At the moment, not a single asshole in that shitty dive was a friend.

  The sound of a door opening caused a tense silence to fall over the bar. Frank’s popping
eyes tracked to the left, and I followed his miserable gaze. A man built like a brick shithouse entered the bar flanked by four goons, two on each side. The scar on his sneering mug cut through one icy eye. It wasn’t white like scars were in the movies. It was red and nasty.

  Our eyes locked. His narrowed at me. The crowd between us cleared as if the entire moment had been choreographed beforehand.

  And who was I to give fate the middle finger?

  I raised my revolver and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Two

  I’d be the first to admit I wasn’t the world’s best sharpshooter, but I could move like a fucking champ in stilettos while fighting. I had to get points for that.

  Growing up in New York, my dad didn’t take me out on hunting trips, but I had a natural feel for guns—at least enough to make who I was shooting at take notice. The first bullet embedded itself in the wall just wide of Rocco Durant’s goons on the left, puffing out dust from the cheap plaster.

  Time in the bar slowed down for a few seconds, but as soon as the shock had worn off, all hell broke loose. I had to scramble off of Frank to keep from being trampled to death by the herd of terrified patrons making for the door. I raised my arm and fired again.

  “Shit!” a goon hollered. “Get him out of here! Go! Go!”

  The bodyguards closed around Rocco and began to usher him toward a door in the far corner of the bar’s back wall. I got up on my knees, clamped both hands on the revolver’s grip, and took aim. My last shot zinged off the doorway just before the door slammed shut.