The Odin Short Stories

Sandpaper-lined lids fluttered open to a world colored sepia; a world that didn’t make sense even if the sounds did. Peeling fabric wallpaper exposed thin wood slats that peeked through missing plaster falling out in chucks. The dark-edged splotches of water damage dotted the ceiling and the stench of mold and mildew fought a fierce battle with those of stale cigarette smoke and human waste. Somewhere music played and people partied, but each cord was the fading wave of an echo and the sound of gallivanting was hushed. The town was living up to its famous motto: Laissez les bon temps rouler. Those good times rolling coaxed her from a sleep so deep her mind struggled to make the final leap to awake. At the sound of a door opening nearby her breathing slowed and every muscle went lax to appear sleep—or unconscious. It had been a sort of trick when she was younger, no more than six, to remain motionless. There was usually a blanket involved, pulled over her head and hugged tight to her body. Her little girl’s mind believing if she didn’t move a threat couldn’t see her. Years later she learned her childhood fake was something known by every good soldier—every good assassin. It wasn’t about the false sense of protection and cloak of invisibility offered by a square of material, it was about the threat in the room not being aware of your state of mind. Only when the footsteps receded did she allow herself a single deep breath.

She tightened various muscles in her body to take inventory of injury. The footsteps of anonymous, the knowledge that he (or she) could be them and training kept her motionless as her clouded mind registered each ache. There was nothing that would hinder her from fighting. The pains were serious in a different way. What she couldn’t remember her body gave testament and she didn’t like the confession being made. A lesser woman would have cracked, would have allowed panic and horror to break through, to break her. She was made of sturdier stuff. The slow, methodical rise from the mattress was done on bated breath. She stood, amazed at her silent ascent after taking stock of what she’d laid on. She tried not to think of the filth covering the bare mattress or what had happened on it—before her and to her. She pulled her bra in place and she allowed a single hitched breath after discovering her torn panties around her waist.

She’d been trained by men that governments would have sworn were the best if they’d admitted to their existence and by men who could cut those men’s throats. Some would have said she was a hard woman—unbreakable, unmoving. Most days they’d be right. Not today. She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. When she opened them she scanned the room. Her feet were solidly planted on hardwoods so dark they could be black. The only furnishing was the old iron bed she’d been lying on and the only thing littering the floors was trash. Where the fuck were the rest of her clothes?

Across the room light filtered in from a window large enough for her to fit through. Anxiousness bounced from foot to foot waiting to be tagged in and take caution’s place. But squeaking floors were worse than squeaking beds and the old planks announcing her every step kept her from making a run for it. She was on the second floor, maybe the third and she meant to get out. Even if it meant jumping. She picked up her foot, shifted her weight and took a cautious first step. Each step seemed weighed, as if her body knew her mind was leading it away from the safety offered in the shouts and cries of the drunken masses located on the other side of the house. Beyond the closed door. With no way of knowing who or what lay in wait on the other side the window was the best first plan. She reached the window and peered through dirty, wavy glass to find only cobblestone below to break the three story fall. She tried opening the window anyway. It didn’t budge.

She braided her hair and tied a knot at the end to keep it from unraveling. She looked down her body. Her feet and legs were bare, her shirt stopped at the top of her thighs and half the buttons were missing, exposing her white lace bra. Rage built in her gut as bile rose in her throat. Finding a police should have been on the top of her list of priorities, right after escape but they’d only be a hindrance. She had a different kind of justice in mind for the assholes that had dared take her. The kind the men in blue would frown upon. The kind that would land her in jail. Possibly on death row. Fantasies of slow torture made her breathe easier and calmed her heart. She could hardly wait.

She stood with her ear pressed against the door for long moments. The knob turned easy but the door stuck and stayed that way. She held her breath as she gave a hard yank, certain that her wakefulness would be announced by screaming hinges, but like the bed and floor, it was quiet. Her eyes darted in every direction, taking in the limited space the crack in the door allowed: a stretch of faded carpet-runner, worn bare in the middle from decades of foot traffic, more hardwood, more peeling wallpaper and crumbling ceilings. She opened the door slowly until the space was big enough to fit through. The front door stood like a beacon of hope three floors below. There was stealth in the dash as she rushed along the stretch of hallway on the balls of her feet. Each footfall still sounded like thunder. Voices stopped her on the second floor and she headed in the direction of the conversation. She didn’t dare lean against the door. Just because hers stuck didn’t mean this one wouldn’t swing open the second she touched it.

We were told to pick her up and hold her.

I did, a second man answered.

The sound of masculine laughter took form, became a physical thing that ran down her skin like something slimy. A rage so great it closed her throat and threatened to steal common sense filled her. She was ready to rush the room. Two against one weren’t bad odds considering who she was, but there was no way of knowing how skilled the men were on the other side of the door, or if there were even just two. The sound of a third man proved her point and stayed her hand that was white-knuckling the doorknob she had no memory of grabbing.

Where are you going? The first voice asked.

She took a step back. Not to run—oh no—even if it meant her death she needed to see red, needed to feel the blood of her rapists on her skin. Time stood still and yet the knob turned and the door opened.

**-**

Henri Deveaux made the Russian mob look like Boy Scouts and the Yakuza an unorganized bunch of street hustlers. He was an excellent shot, good with a knife but hand to hand was what he’d pick if given the choice. He loved two things: his daughter and his money—in that order and nothing else.

At five-eleven and a solid two-hundred and twenty-five pounds, his muscles were not defined but there wasn’t a soft spot on his body. His hair was a true black, wavy, and hit the top of his shoulders. He wore it pulled back in a low ponytail, giving him the illusion of short hair. His face was hard lines and sharp angles. He was not classically handsome but his mixed-race heritage made him exotic and women took notice when he stepped in the room.

Henri didn’t do girlfriends and he didn’t’ pay for sex. He didn’t wine or dine. He fucked, and if you were good, you got a repeat. He never planned on having children and on the occasion a woman showed up pregnant claiming to be carrying his baby she found herself in a stirrup-fitted bed within the hour. So how was it that his daughter’s mother gave birth? She didn’t tell him until after the baby was born.

Eve Tillman was a hustler and she wanted a baby about as much as Henri. The game she played could have gotten her killed, could have gotten the newborn she’d brought to his restaurant killed. There’s an old saying: God watches over babies and fools, and on that cold January day two stood before one of the hardest men on earth. Eve had been hoping for money, payments or one lump sum. What she got was cab fare and a promise that her body would never be found if Henri ever saw her face again. When Eve reached for the baby at her feet he told her to put his goddamn daughter down. It wasn’t that he didn’t like children. He knew they would become a liability. There hadn’t been a single thing in his life he wasn’t willing to lose. His parents were long dead and he had been an only child.

The baby was at his side day and night until he found a suitable nanny and a bodyguard he could trust with her life. He fitted his house with a security system that rivaled the White House. There were guards on twenty-four hour patrol on the grounds and at the gates of his estates when he took up residence in one. No expense had been spared when it came to her safety.

Leontyne Gabrielle Deveaux had been trained by ex-special ops soldiers and assassins. She was a better killer than most of the men he employed. Contacting her father on a regular basis when she was out of the house was a non-negotiable rule that had never been broken and defiantly not ignored if any real distance separated them. She was in New Orleans, he was in New York. She’d called when she landed, called right before she’d gone out, called again at one in the morning but not at two. At three he’d called her. Her phone rang and went to voice mail, at four it’d gone straight to voicemail. Even if she called now he’d still head to New Orleans. He’d been waiting for a ransom request, body part or God forbid, a body from day one. His daughter not calling to check in, not answering her phone, not being at home had alarm bells ringing loud and clear. He’d given her more freedom since she returned from the gap year that turned into two. It was no surprise when she picked Xavier and not somewhere closer. The South was where she considered home. Henri still owned his family estate, an old sugarcane plantation, but Leontyne lived in a small residence in the city. It was a town that never slept—a party town. He should have known better.

He was still in a suit because, yes, he was that kind of father. The lights in his office were daylight bright and his personal guard had been standing at the door since Leontyne’s first missed check in. God help the lone bodyguard that accompanied her. If he wasn’t already dead, he would be. He’d killed for lesser offenses. His daughter’s safety took precedence over everything: property, money, his own well-being and life.

The phone rang and he answered before the first full ring. At a quick glance he knew it wasn’t his daughter. He’d placed calls and people were scouring the streets looking for her.

Speak.

Her house is empty. I’ve obtained video feed from the night club she went to…

And, he asked when the man on the other end paused. A cop. One of many that Henri kept well paid in the cities he had residences in.

There man swallowed hard enough to be heard over the phone. She left with two men.

There was no double stands in his house. The rules would have been the same if she had been born a boy. When she lost her virginity at sixteen he’d invited her into his office and gave her a glass filled with bourbon that cost more than most people’s first car. She hadn’t called, was unreachable, and it was after five in the morning—no fucking was that good.

He waited for the man to continue. When the line remained silent he said through gritted teeth, And.

She was drunk.

The words creased his brow. Leontyne had only been drunk once in her life. Once. He ended the call, cutting short the rest of the dribble spilling from the cop’s mouth. There was no way his daughter had been drunk. He turned to the man who stood sentry and held vigil with him.

We leave in ten minutes.

He didn’t speak, didn’t nod, he turned on his heels and left the room. The men who had been with him long enough to see the baby grow into a beautiful woman loved her just as much as her father. They were chomping at the bit to find her, to get on the plane Henri had just ordered and hunt her ass down.

**-**

The streets below were filled with people and would be for the duration of the week. Bands and floats passed in an endless stream and drunkard parade watchers screamed from the sidelines for the goodies being tossed to the crowd. He lifted his gaze to the balcony directly across from his and was flashed. The girl was young, her breasts were real and gravity had yet to take hold. They were a nice pair of tits for sure. He raised his glass and tipped his head at her. The sounds of zydeco mingle with a marching band and both were nearly drowned out by the sound of the crowd standing shoulder to shoulder on the city’s main drag.

Would you like another?

The waitress had come to check on him every five minutes since he sat down and gotten increasingly brazen with the come-hither looks.

No, thank you.

The heady scent of her arousal floated like perfume in the air as she walked away. He took a long deep breath.

He watched the latest parade passing on the street below the private balcony. He’d come to the club to find refuge as his house was transformed. Restoration on the plantation home built a century ago had just been finished. It had only been a week since the construction workers and decorators vacated the premises. Replaced by caterers, and decorators of a different sort. The kind that had nothing to do with original furnishings and everything to do with flowers, flowers and more flowers. Not to mention about a million candles, miles of fabric and enough silver to back the dollar.

Furious Panye’s history was written in blood, his ledger full of red. He was a warrior of Odin, a berserker. His seven-three frame and three hundred and twenty pounds was enough to keep people uneasy. Big and bulky beneath his clothes hills and valleys of muscle covered him from neck to calf; even his hands and feet were strong. His hair was black, his eyes deep set, black, small, some might even call beady. A beard covered most of his face but didn’t hide full thick lips

He was a quiet, solitary man, but to say his temper was on a hair-trigger was an understatement. Most babies inherit eye and hair color, or attached earlobes, he was gifted with rage. Anger when unleashed was almost impossible to control and sent him in what could only be described as a frenzy. To lose his temper meant very bad things happened. So he’d mastered his temper when most children were taking wobbly first steps. No good came from him getting angry, not for him, especially not for those on the receiving end of it. He was not a lady’s man but he’d never lacked the attention of the opposite sex. He’d been with the same woman for a lifetime. He’d left the dark goddess upon the arrival of the first box van and came to the club. It was opened twenty-four hours this time of year.

For half a century he’d shared his life with a woman, had stayed faithful though no promises were made by either party. Curiosity and commonality turned into cohabitation and companionship and for fifty-five—no—fifty-six years they’d been content if not happy. He and Helena found each other when it was just the thing they both needed. Their time spent together was a blink of the eye considering they’d both walked the earth longer than any creature they’d ever encountered. After that much time it seemed miraculous their paths hadn’t crossed before. But Helena wasn’t a thing one forgot. Ever. The dark goddess’ exotic beauty surpassed all others. She was striking in a way that stopped people in their tracks. Literally. And she was just as deadly and dangerous as she was beautiful.

His brethren were all long gone, his kind all killed or perhaps the genes of the once famous warriors watered down until he was the last who possessed their original gifts. Either way, there had once been more. And he remembered them. The same could not be said for Helena. She was one of a kind and that kind of seclusion takes its toll on a person. To be surrounded by an ever growing population, a world filled with countless ethnicities, cultures and creatures and not belonging to a single one—he couldn’t fathom.

He pulled his wallet from his jacket and dropped enough cash on the tabletop to cover the bill and leave a substantial tip for the waitress. He ducked his head at the opened French doors leading from the balcony into the interior of the club and maneuvered around low hanging light fixtures as he made his way to the exit. He’d driven into the city but felt like stretching his legs a bit. Lately he’d been—antsy, a sure sign it was time for a change. Not in local, he’d just moved back, but in his life.

The sidewalk and streets were standing room only but people cleared the way for him, even those who weren’t looking at him. Their subconscious registering the threat even if their drunken mind did not. In his long life he’d both envied and pitied the mortal species, now he figured they got what they deserved. He would have thought beings with such a short lifespan would spend more time figuring out ways to prolong it. Alas, they’d only grown stupider and Furious cared not what happened the species.

He was a creature of war, but it was friendship that sprung to mind on his slow stroll through the city. Jean Rene, Alexis, Rob, Tomas, Luka Constantine, Tristian, Titus and Wallace—the pack—his pack. How long had it been? He’d met Helena’s soon after the disbanding so sixty years give or take. God, how he missed them. They had all separated with heavy hearts at the order of the only man any of them would have ever followed. For the first time in forever he wondered what happened to them. How had their lives turned out? Each man’s face drifted in and out of his mind’s eye as he left the sounds of partying and entered a residential neighborhood. Maybe he should try to find one. Maybe find them all.

Chapter Two

Rage buzzed like angry bees in Leontyne’s head. The man standing in front of her body faced forward but his head was turned, looking back into the room. Shock and surprise bloom across the faces of two men sitting in the room as she stepped in front of the babbling idiot she was going to kill. One was sitting in a chair next to a fireplace, the other’s arm was propped on the mantel with his foot on the raised hearth.

Reconnaissance and training had drawn her in the direction of the voices and kept her at the door listening. She’d meant to find out who had taken her and why. Anger, no, strike that—fury—had moved her to the front of the door.

Leontyne brought her hand up, slamming the heel of it into the asshole’s nose as soon as he turned around, then brought her knee up, envisioning his nuts sprouting from his mouth. He doubled over, blood pouring from his broken nose and a single squawk escaping him from the nut shot. She was angry enough to beat him to death but the others were on the move. She grabbed his head and twisted. The sound of his neck snapping was the sweetest music. She spit on him before running like her life depended on it—because it did.

She hit the door she’d spotted from the third floor with enough force to shake her teeth. A quick twist and pull on the knob told her she wasn’t getting out that way. She was on the first floor of a house with windows tall enough for her to walk through. She just had to get to one.

Running into the room to the right of the door, she grabbed a chair sitting next to some closed heavy drapes that were holding up well compared to the rest of the furnishings in the house. She was getting ready to smash through the window when the man who’d been sitting in the chair ran into the room. He grabbed a chair leg, nearly pulling her off balance. Leontyne turned her body, held the chair like a four prong shield and ran forward. He hadn’t expected it and stumbled backwards until his back came into contact with a bookshelf. Heavy tomes rained down like confetti filling the air with dust and the smell of dry-rotted paper. The world narrowed down to just the two of them. She wanted him dead, she wanted them all dead, and if it was the last thing she did she meant to see it happen, meant to do it herself. With thoughts of vengeance blinding her, she didn’t see the second man enter. He grabbed her, pinning her arms to her side and lifting her from the ground. Previously trapped man didn’t’ waste time coming to his friend’s aid. She lifted both legs planting them halfway between the charging man’s stomach and chest and kicked out hard enough to send him flying back into the bookshelf. She drove her head back and her captor yelled in pain and dropped her to her feet but kept his arms around her. Leontyne brought the heel of her foot down on his toes and elbowed him in the stomach. She broke his hold, grabbed his arm and flipped him over her shoulder. She punched him in the throat, envisioning her fist hitting the old, black hardwood floors.

The attacker at her back was up and advancing with a war cry filling the small room. Leontyne sprung up from the man on the floor, took a step from the gurgling man and swept the charging man’s feet from beneath him. He landed hard, sending a puff of dust into the air so thick she could make it out even in the dark interior of the room. Footfalls on the stairs stopped her advanced. Two against one was doable but any more than that and she was going to be in trouble…again. She chanced a quick look over her shoulder, the other guy was still holding his throat but the gurgling had stopped and he was making his way to his feet. She picked up the first weapon her hands landed on: a large, ornate candle-stick. The weight was good, it felt good in her hand.

Both men in the room advanced. She swung her body around while bringing her elbow up, hitting one in the face, she ducked beneath his swinging arm coming up behind him. She brought her foot down hard, snapping his knee. One down one more to kill. She swung the candlestick around, like she was winding up to pitch a softball catching the second man under the chin. His head flew back, blood spraying from his mouth. With both hands gripping her weapon she Jackie Robinson’d his ass, breaking his jaw. Still it wasn’t enough. The next strike destroyed an eye, once more and she cracked his skull. She raised the candlestick again and again, beating his head until nothing was left but a pulverized mess.

The doorway filled with a third person, pausing for just a second before he came at her in a mad rush. As if she wasn’t beating his partner to death with a damn candlestick and the other lay on the floor moaning like a little bitch. She brought the candlestick up and hit him square in the face with the large square bottom. He stumbled back, tripping on his down partner’s broken leg, giving her the opening she needed. She picked up the chair and threw it. She didn’t worry about her state of undress or the shards of glass still hanging around the frame like jagged teeth. She ran.

The house had been abandoned but the street in front was packed. The crowd so thick she ran into the backs of people standing watching a parade go by. All were drunker than Cooter Brown. Her escape didn’t raise alarm, some people even cheered. It was Mardi Gras. Stranger shit than a half-naked woman breaking a door was going on all over the city.

Leontyne knew exactly where she was the moment she looked out the window. She ran a block over and cut through a narrow opening too thin to be called an alley. She jumped a low wrought iron fence and crossed a back yard with a small dog yipping at her heels. Out of the gate on the other end, she ran into a different parade and chanced a glance over her shoulder while pushing her way through the crowd, ignoring the groping hands that pulled at her shirt and grabbed her ass as she passed. As she neared her destination she slowed to a brisk walk, her head on a swivel as she scanned the area for anyone looking for her. The further away she got from the main streets the lighter the foot traffic became until she was no longer passing tourist and party-goers but residents of the city.

The gate let out its familiar squeal as she pushed it open. She entered the six digit code to unlock the door and deactivated the countdown on the alarm and re-armed it in stay mode. She took a moment to take in the empty home of her best friend. Thank God Selene had already left for work. She didn’t have it in her to come up with a plausible story to explain her appearance. The clock on the wall read nine thirty-five. The time put her feet back in motion. She opened the door to the room Selene kept just for her. The carry on case sat at the end of the bed on a bench. She unzipped the side pocket and pulled out the back-up phone. She located the last number on earth she wanted to call and pressed the green circle without hesitation. The call answered but no words were spoken. For the first time since she woke up her throat got tight.

Daddy." It was the first word she’d spoken since waking up in the old house. She wasn’t a crier, there was no crying in the Deveaux house.

One hour.

The line went dead.

Her father was not a talker, rarely said more than what it took to get his point across. That he was an hour out meant he had been on his way while she was still in the house. She went to the window and pulled back the curtains just enough to allow a peek. Nothing and no one stood out as a suspect so she dropped the curtain and went to the gun safe. She pulled the Glock G17 and clip from the safe, made sure there was a bullet in the chamber and the safety was off before heading for the bathroom. One hour gave her enough time for a quick shower.

The cheery yellow and white paint and décor couldn’t lift the darkness of what happened. Leontyne’s reflection was one she didn’t recognize. Her hair a tangled mess, half her clothes missing and the other half torn and dirty. She turned on the shower and sat on the toilet as the water heated. She’d jumped out of the broken door at an angle hoping to miss the glass but at least one piece was stuck in her heel. She pulled the shard out, throwing it in the sink before pulling her ruined shirt off. It went in the trash can along with her ripped panties. Hot water that demanded time she didn’t have was heaven on her skin. She lathered up the loofah and scrubbed her body hard enough that the muscles in her toned arms stood out. She washed her hair the same. Too soon she was standing back in her bedroom wrapped in a towel. She pulled jeans and a shirt from the closet and grabbed her workout sneakers. The pains of her assault were fading, while those of the battle had her arms and legs sore. She embraced each, allowed them to comfort her. She left Selene a note promising to call later.

Leontyne pulled the hat low on her head and rushed from the gated area of the courtyard and bumped into a wall of flesh. Solid, unmovable. Her first instinct was to pull the gun and start blasting, when strong hands caught her shoulders. Hands so warm, so hot, she could feel it through the fabric of the shirtsleeves. She looked up—and up some more. He had to be the tallest goddamn man she’d ever seen in her life, and the biggest. Leontyne rarely had to bend her neck to look at a man. When the giant’s hands released her forearms she remained rooted to the spot. The man was older, she guessed forty, or a very well preserved fifty. Dark hair that made her think of rich earth fell in waves around a large square face, a full beard covered his jaw, thick eyebrows shadowed his small eyes and between the three his face was almost hidden.

Excuse me, she said, her hand moving to her middle, closer to the weapon there. He wasn’t a threat—to her, but he was plenty dangerous. She knew danger when she saw it. She’d been raised to.

Careful, he said. His voice was low, not a whisper, but deep and powerful, rough, like the man.

She stood a second longer, the heat from his body covering hers before her feet finally moved. She slid into the waiting cab with her hand still on the gun. She turned and looked out the rear window. The man was still standing where she’d left him looking right at her. He didn’t match the neighborhood. It was filled with young up and comer’s, college students and newly married couples mostly. It was possible he was someone’s dad or uncle but she was almost positive that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t just the Berluti oxfords and bespoke tailored suit, the single word he’d spoken was slightly accented. There were thousands of tourist in town but he wasn’t that either. No, he didn’t fit. She turned around with the weight of his stare on the back of her head. She’d been looking for someone that stood out and ran right into him. But he hadn’t done anything to suggest he was part of what happened to her so she put the mysterious, well dressed stranger in the mental catalog of all the things that she might need to help her track down her kidnappers and focused on the more important matter of her father’s arrival.

The first seventeen years of her life she’d been followed by a bodyguard even at school. Her senior year she insisted she didn’t need one. Her father agreed, but nothing was ever that easy with Henri Deveaux. She could be free of her bodyguard only if she could give him the slip. Leontyne had done him one better. She’d killed the man. It saved her dad the trouble of doing it himself. What did it say that she’d killed a man at seventeen? The better question was, what did it say that when she’d gone over how best to ensure she got her way the best plan, the only option really, was to take a person’s life? She’d done it without batting an eye, no hesitation, no remorse, only shocked at her lack of feeling. He could have been someone’s father, someone’s husband. He was certainly someone’s son. What if his parents loved him as much as her own father loved her? But in the end a different logic put things in perspective. His job was dangerous. He should have been better trained. If the person you’re protecting can take you out what chance did he have with an outside threat? The more she thought about it the better she’d felt. After that day she was followed discreetly. Her father would surely kill the man he’d sent to protect her and after what she’d suffered she wouldn’t oppose. She had to have a serious discussion with Kyle about the quality