Tales of the Unquiet Gods by David Pascoe Read Free Book Online Page A

smile that twisted the scars on his face, "I'd appreciate it if y-you c-could d-d-do it for m-me."
    It was easier the second time. Not easier, actually, just faster. Or maybe just more familiar. After Mike saw to the warrior, who introduced himself as Tourney, he took care of Timmons for good measure.
    Or tried to, at least. In what he was coming to think of as heal-vision, Mike saw a grayish shadow in the sergeant's chest. And a darker one in his head. Mike couldn't do anything about them, as there didn't seem to be anything physical about them. When he said so, Tourney nodded.
    "W-what I thought: the shadow-beasts rode him hard."
    He explained a little of his experiences fighting monsters under the city. Yasmin, who'd gotten to her feet while Mike tried to heal the cop, shook her head.
    "I don't know how in the world I'm going to write the report for tonight."
    "D-don't. It won't help. G-go to the park near the Flatiron Building tomorrow. Late afternoon. T-t-together. Listen to the f-f-f-" Their savior scowled. "Violinist. Watch the crowd." He stared down at the comatose policeman for a brief moment. "If he recovers, take him, too."
    The tall warrior turned and started walking into the night. Mike called after him.
    "Tourney, what about your coin?" He held up the little gold disc, which obligingly flashed in the dim light.
    "Hold onto it, for now, M-mike. You'll know when it's time for it to move on, " he said as he stepped into the darkness. Just barely visible in the shadows, he stopped and turned. He smiled, eyes and teeth glowing. He spun his odd club around his hand. Mike's scalp tightened as the metal bar left flickering golden streaks in the darkness. "Me, I've learned a couple things."
    Yasmin turned to stare into Mike's eyes. Both their mouths hung wide open. Hers was the first to close.
    "Well, you heal people," she brushed fingertips across a cheek absent of enormous purple bruises, "why shouldn't he be able to make his own light-show?"
    Mike nodded, and plucked up his courage for the scariest part of the evening.
    "Yasmin, all that healing has worn me out." She turned to look at him, head cocked to one side. "Would you like to come with me and find something to eat?"
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    PART FOUR
    BY HANDS AND KNEES
     
    4
    Anne Cavanaugh had barely a heartbeat to avoid the huge bruiser's backswing. His knuckles whistling toward her face put her in mind of the aggressive "fangs" of a police cruiser. Big, scarred and politely malevolent. "I'm only now choosing to crush you, but I could have done it all this time. Nothing personal."
    Yeah, nothing personal. It wouldn't be personal if the fist connected. And - inconveniently - made a paste of half her face. It might not be much to look at. Just too square of jaw. Just too wide of mouth. Once broken nose. The catalog went on, but her attention didn't. Suffice to say, Anne's face verged on striking without quite hitting beautiful. But it was hers, and no bastard was going to mess it up. Even if he was two-fifty of solid beat-down.
    Anne slid her point of balance back a fraction of an inch, and the fist brushed just past her face. She felt it catch at a few of the hairs - electric blue this week - that'd escaped her headband during the struggle.
    The thuggish face carved itself into a scowl. A deeper scowl, really.
    Mike always scowled while he fought. Anne had always thought it was kind of cute, really.
    Sliding back that necessary fraction of an inch put her weight over her back foot, so she snapped the other in a low kick at Mike's groin. He took it on his thigh, and Anne was glad she used proper form. She didn't enjoy kicking rocks at all, and preferred to wear nothing lighter than steel-toed boots when she had to.
    Mike threw a jab toward her chest. If it connected, the punch would drive Anne off balance, perhaps even land her on her back on the mat. So she didn't let it land. Anne rolled around that big, scarred fist. She tapped him on