New Olympus Saga (Book 1): Armageddon Girl by C.J. Carella Read Free Book Online Page A

candles for
illumination and doesn’t have a TV or computer. My part-time crib is on the
third floor, an apartment I’ve furnished over the years with a combination of
Salvation Army furniture, lots of books, mostly second hand (I like to read a
lot) and a few choice electronics I’ve ‘liberated’ from assorted assholes who
had the misfortune to cross my path.
    It’s a safe house, but it’s not my home.
I don’t really have one of those. When I’m there I’m Cassandra’s guest. Same as
when I crash at Father Alex’s or (far more rarely) at Condor’s underground
base. When I want to be on my own or am entertaining a lady friend I usually
sleep at cheap motels that charge by the hour, or the lady friend’s place if
we’ve gotten chummy enough. I only keep stuff I need at Cassandra’s, without
much in the way of decorations or personal touches.
    Cassandra’s dwelling, on the other hand,
is full of personal touches, a candlelit museum of eclectic tastes. Carpets and
tapestries cover the floors and walls, mostly Middle Eastern designs that must
have cost a fortune. In between the tapestries there is a lot of artwork, from
a few paintings that are either very good replicas of old masterworks or have
been liberated from someone or other, to a black velvet Elvis portrait whose
eyes seem to follow you everywhere. One large room which I’ve dubbed the Hall
of Knick-Knacks is filled with shelves stacked with little porcelain figurines
and display cases with antique jewelry and objects that probably should be in a
museum. And like I said, lit candles all over the place, in all shapes and
colors. It’s a miracle she hasn’t burned down the place, but miracles are
Cassandra’s stock in trade.
    That morning, Cassandra was waiting for
me in the room with the Elvis portrait in it, relaxing on an ancient-looking
armchair and playing something Gypsy-sounding on her violin. My psychic pal is
very short and strikingly beautiful, with smooth mahogany skin, high cheekbones
and sharp features. She appears to be in her thirties, which doesn’t mean
anything when you’re dealing with Neos, since we either don’t age or age very
slowly, most likely the former. Most people thought she was black or Hispanic,
but I suspected she was something more exotic, some multinational blend I've
never been able to identify. I don’t ask about that kind of thing, though. It’s
enough that I know she loves music and laughter, and that she has never turned
down anybody who needed her help. Her eyes are covered with a milky pale film,
and to avoid making people uncomfortable she usually hides them behind
sunglasses. Not when it’s just us, though; we are very tolerant of each other’s
deformities.
    I figure she was blind before her powers
manifested themselves, since most Neos can recover from crippling injuries.
That’s another thing I’ve never asked.
    “Hello, Marco,” she said as I entered the
living room. Cassandra is the only person who knows my legal name is Marco
Martinez. Father Aleksander calls me ‘my friend,’ or ‘my young friend’ when
he’s trying to pull rank on me. Condor, a friendly costumed Neo I often work
with, just calls me Face. When I’m interacting with most everyone else I’m
wearing a fake face and a fake name; when I’m wearing my real no-face people
call me Face-Off or profanity-laced versions thereof.
    I don’t mind that she calls me Marco,
although I would like Mark better. It’s not my name anymore, but it used to be,
and Cassandra lives in the past at least as much as she does in the future, so
it’s fitting somehow.
    I sat down on an overstuffed armchair
facing her. “Hey, Cassie.” She nodded at me. “I found the girl.”
    “I know,” she said. “I was able to see
some of the rescue. The outcome was never in doubt.”
    “That's nice. It got pretty hairy for a
while. The Neo you warned me about turned out to be pretty tough.”
    “I saw you dealing with him. He was
powerful but