Rock Hard (9 page)

That had pissed him off and, after the few days it had taken him to heal, he had sent a huge storm to the god’s house and completely washed it away. The two had called it quits and simply agreed to avoid each other for the rest of eternity.

He was proud of Tess. Apart from the string of curse words, she hadn’t once flinched at the pain. He had seen grown men tolerate far less. He was also impressed with the fine doctor. If, as he suspected, the war with Nergal and friends was back on, they would need someone with Doctor Whitehill’s skills on their team.

For gods to spend a few days healing when peace reigned was one thing, but in the heat of battle it would be necessary to be put back together as soon as possible and head back into a fight. Her usefulness was only one part of the equation where Dani-Lee was concerned. Several of his boys would consider the doctor delicious to look at, even if they were unable to touch.

Dr. Whitehill finished the job with a quick tetanus shot, and gave Tess instructions for the care of her scar. She wished the pair luck and turned to leave when Marduk called her back.

“Doctor,” his voice mesmerized. “You forgot to leave us your card so we can get in touch with you if we need anything.”

He knew that Dani-Lee was about to tell him that Tess should see her regular physician if anything out of the ordinary occurred, but found herself digging in her pocket instead. He had her quickly jot down her cell phone number and the address to her apartment on the back of a prescription pad, which she handed to him without blinking an eye. She waved good bye to the pair and stepped out into the hall.

Marduk had no doubt she’d suffer qualms about handing her personal information to a complete stranger, but he’d also read her enough to know she’d justify her actions by convincing herself it would never be used, would most likely end up in the nearest trash can. She’d be unable to fathom anyone wanting to make best-buddies with their doctor!

Marduk was helping Tess back into her spandex shirt and finding it difficult to keep his hands to himself. Now that she wasn’t bleeding anymore and had proven stoic during her treatment, he wasn’t sure whether he could be trusted to maintain his distance.

Tess must have seen the gleam in his eyes. “Uh, uh, mister. You can just back off. I’m not falling for any of your ‘only a little kiss’ schemes again. You and your friend owe me gobs of information before I decide to trust you.”

Marduk could have easily bent her to his will…or maybe not, he thought frowning. She hadn’t proved easy before when he and Enlil had tried to compel her out of the cemetery. Hell, their combined forces to make her leave the scene of their fight had not gone as planned. He tried a little something to test his theory.

“Place your hands on my hips and draw me forward,” he ordered, staring deeply into her eyes. She reached toward him, then shook her head and stopped.

“In your dreams, pervert.” She snorted. “Why don’t you go find yourself some willing bimbo and leave me alone? The way the women look at you around here, you’ll have plenty of offers.” She got to her feet and wove unsteadily. He reached for her then and held her up gingerly.

“Oh, all right then,” she conceded with obvious irritation. “I might need you for just a little while longer, but you should definitely start taking numbers on the way out.” She held her head high and leaned into him the slightest bit as they moved out of the room and down the hall.

Chapter Eight

Dagon sat high atop the church steeple and eyed the teaming humanity below. Plymouth was far from how he had left it several hundred years before. Houses and buildings vied for small scraps of land. Streets, made hard and black with some unfamiliar substance, crisscrossed in a multitude of grids. There were metal boxes that scurried along the byways as conveyances; he had seen people enter and emerge from the strange beasts.

His senses were overwhelmed by the visions and the noise. Looking up, he realized that more metal boxes flew through the sky in a realm that had once belonged exclusively to the gods. His brain decried the myriad of sights. It became increasingly apparent that waylaying an unsuspecting human would be necessary to quickly bring himself up to date on all that he had missed.

Dagon’s eyes traveled well south to the spot where the modest property he had purchased once stood. It was no longer in evidence. In its place sat a far grander abode, still a wood-framed structure unlike many of the brick and glass edifices that surrounded him in the midst of town, but far larger than the salt-box that originally graced the property. He would see what that was all about once he obtained the proper clothing and caught up with current local affairs.

He spirited down to the street, having spied a cut-through alley strewn with the detritus of an eating establishment and backed by a tall fence at the rear of a human abode. Every few minutes, a human would use it to circumvent the crush of bodies on the main thoroughfare. Why were they all in such a bloody hurry? He sighed and took up a position out of sight. The next likely male who could provide clothing to fit Dagon’s god-like proportions would be brought down.

An hour passed, and then two. Dagon despaired. Were all males of this future so puny? Where were the well-honed men needed to fell trees and drive oxen? Every torso he examined was soft and feminine. He’d never seen so many milquetoast men in his entire stay on earth in the seventeenth century!

Well, a pox on waiting any longer. The next person in the alley would at least supply him with much needed information, if not clothing, and end the puzzle that this time period presented.

He didn’t have to wait long. An innocuous individual, small and pale, dressed in a shirt that read, Blind Lemon, stumbled in front of him and provided the perfect prey. How in the world could a lemon be blind?

The human male’s surprise barely registered as Dagon stepped from the shadows; eyes merely filled with a vague curiosity. Apparently it wasn’t unusual to find giants dressed in centuries-old rags wandering the back streets of Plymouth.

“Which enactment are you from?” He smirked until Dagon’s hands pressed to either side of his head. The man’s body went limp, and Dagon sucked the human dry. A chuckle escaped the god.

“An upload,” he laughed, suddenly suffused with knowledge. “And you will sustain an unrecoverable crash of your hard drive by the time I am finished!”

Dagon cannibalized the hapless man’s mind and left a blank in its place. When the male recovered, it would look like he had suffered amnesia. No one would suspect foul play. Humans were so easy to deceive.

He searched his newfound database…ah…database! A wonderful name for a storehouse of knowledge. He had to find the nearest workout club…no, that wasn’t quite right, his mind flashed on women with leotards and he licked his lips. He’d relish that trip a little later.

No, he needed a place where large men worked their bodies, and he needed something called a smart phone to show him where to go. A picture of that device popped into his head, and he quickly rummaged through the downed man’s pockets to come up with the necessary box.

His fingers talked to the machine as if they’d been doing it for a lifetime, and a map quickly emerged showing him not only several likely spots, but also the quickest routes to get there. So the human race hadn’t become entirely useless. This new technology was going to come in very handy!

Dagon regained invisibility and wafted off to the nearest gym. He stood and watched the patrons walking, running, and climbing on various machines, while others moved large heavy objects. Some used a system of pulleys to move pieces of metal, others grabbed and moved the…barbells…with their hands. Dagon searched his new memory, but found no direct connection to all of this within his brain. His “suckee” had obviously never used a gym.

It didn’t take Dagon long to acquire clothing that would fit. He found the trousers…no, jeans, very confining, but the soft material of the white button-down shirt he purloined felt like sin itself whispering over his skin. He was yet undecided as to how he felt about the sneakers.

He rummaged through the pockets of all the other clothing left in lockers and took what he knew was paper money, still astounded that something so flimsy would be used as currency. He left the smart phone behind when he departed the gym. Part of him understood that it would alert authorities if he continued to use it and that eventually he would have to purchase his own.

He rematerialized in front of the property he’d owned so long ago. It should have been recognizable, but up close, he could see no hints of the old salt-box. This was a style called…he waited for the information. When none was forthcoming, he cursed his gray matter donor for having no architectural understanding.

It was still a very old structure compared with many of the houses he had spied on the way here. Quite large, it had five upper story windows and four lower surrounding a large door, which was finely appointed with a brass latch and knocker. The dwelling called attention to itself by being red, whereas the neighboring houses were all innocuous whites and yellows. It displeased Dagon that his followers, if they were still in possession, would do such a poor job of blending in.

A well placed brick walkway led to the front door, surrounded by flower beds, just showing signs of spring shoots. A well-kept lawn completed the property.

He wasted no more time in useless thought and speculation. It was time to find out the status of his organization. The only question now was whether he should knock and announce his presence or whether he should perform a dramatic materialization. A phrase entered his head unbidden: “more bang for the buck!”

“Agreed,” he told his inner voice and decided to go for the theatrical approach.

The god was mildly disappointed upon spiriting inside, to find only two humans in residence, and one of them a female. The room they occupied was well-appointed and obviously used as an office. Bookshelves covered most of the wall space not taken up by the antique paned windows overlooking the back of the property. A large walnut desk sat to one side of the room, opposite a well-used fireplace, flanked by two massive leather wing chairs. Care had been taken with the furnishings and everything was neat and orderly.

Dagon turned his attention to a heated argument.

“…and I say that we need to get people off the payroll,” the male snapped.

“We’ve been over this many times, Matthew,” responded the woman who sat behind the desk. Her patience was obviously wearing thin. She looked down her small but slightly crooked nose as she continued. “We lost a lot of money in the downturn, but we still have plenty of sound investments. Our charter clearly states that we need to maintain an adequate staff at all times—”

Matthew cut her off. “Charter?” he queried. “Who cares what the damn charter says.” His hands pounded on the desk, where he stood opposite her seated position. “You’re the president of the company, and I’m the vice president, and the charter is almost 400 fucking years old.”

Dagon was disappointed to hear that a female was in charge.

“I vote fewer employees, higher salaries for us, and I’ll guarantee that if we convene the board of directors, this time they’ll agree with me!” Ahh, thought Dagon. This Matthew tickled him. The human male had not been averse to spending time gathering dirt on board members and using it as blackmail. Dagon watched him take a combative stance.

The woman, spectacular with her green eyes flashing, whipped back long platinum hair and, leaning far across the desk, looked right into Matthew’s face.

“Now you listen to me, you son of a bitch. Just because you inherited more shares than brains doesn’t mean you call the shots.” Her lovely breasts heaved as her petite form, lush with extra curves, hovered menacingly, letter opener clasped in one hand, looking like she meant business. Obviously this was how the curvaceous scrapper had received that broken nose!

Dagon, amusement aside, was not interested in how this would play out. He felt it was time for a little intervention.

“Children,” he purred as his body became corporeal. “Let’s not fight amongst ourselves.”

The woman fell back into her chair with a satisfying thunk. The man, Matthew, whose back had been to Dagon when he appeared, spun around, confronting the intruder.

“Who the hell are you?” he snarled.

“Plenty of time for chats about hell later,” Dagon quipped, taking a fast appraisal of his vice president. The man called Matthew was tall and broad with dirty blond hair and brown eyes that were a little too close together to make Dagon feel warm and fuzzy.

“At least you’re in shape and look like you might be able to defend yourself.” Dagon circled him slowly.

“I’ll show you how I can defend myself, asshole,” Matthew whipped out a blade from a hidden underarm sheath and lunged in Dagon’s direction.

Without discernible movement on the god’s part, the human’s wrist was suddenly held fast in an iron grip. The unused knife dropped to the floor. Dagon forced the blond man to his knees and, not letting go, focused his attention on the intriguing woman.

“What name do I use for my president,” he drawled, his eyes caressing the length of her ripe body.

“Lenore,” she breathed unsteadily, “Lenore Crest.”

“A pretty name my dear.” Dagon continued conversationally. “So, Lenore,” the timbre of his voice sharpened, “do I let him live…or die?” The god glanced at the man, and his gaze iced over. “It seems to me that Lenore has been doing her best to protect my charter and that you would see it altered to your benefit. Am I correct?” He tightened his fingers imperceptibly until he heard bones snap. Matthew screamed.

“Who the fuck are you?” Lenore’s voice rose over Matthew’s agony.

“We’ll get to that,” Dagon said coldly, his attention was now riveted on the man writhing at his feet. “Just answer the question.”

“This is ridiculous! What do you even know about it?” Dagon grinned as Matthew tried his best to hide the agony he was experiencing. “The charter was written a million years ago by some frigging pilgrim and needs to be thrown out.”