Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 15

[Work makes me tired. But I think the new job is a good thing. I'm sure it's a good thing, but it's making me fit writing in around the edges, and it's making me tired. Maybe I'm tired right now. That could be why I'm talking about tired. Anyway, small section today, more as I can get it out to you. Or out of me. Or both.]

    "This is Proust, and you better have a fabulous reason for waking me up, or I'm crawling through this phone, down your throat, and pulling your pancreas out to throw at the paper boy."
    "Good morning to you, too, Proust," said Tuck.
    "You got him?" asked Paul. "Put him on speaker phone."
    Tuck nodded. "Hey, Proust? I'm putting you on speaker."
    "And I'm putting you on 'hang up' unless you tell me who this is in five seconds."
    Tuck pushed the 'Speaker' button and set down the headset. "It's Tuck, in Northern Lights."
    "And Paul," chimed in his partner.
    There was silence on the other end, then a grunt. "Okay, so I'm not going to kill you. But only for old-time's sake, and after this you owe me."
    "Actually," said Tuck, "if you can answer my questions, I'll owe you double. Why were you asleep, anyway? I thought you were always up at five?"
    "Not today. Hamurabi had me out until the ungodly hour of one investigating an illegal creature breeding operation."
    "Entropic or preservative creatures?"
    "Preservative. Cute ones, too, so they're making good money. They're also messing around with local ecology. Too much divine energy in one place, and it's all out of balance."
    "You get the guys?"
    "Not yet, but that's not why you called me. Thanks for asking, though."
    "No problem."
    Silence.
    "So why did you call me?"
    "Forgotten Zed is dead."
    Paul snorted. "It kills me how that rhymes. 'Zed is dead.' There's a limerick in there somewhere."
    "Shut up, Paul," said Tuck and Proust together. Paul zipped his lips.
    "How'd it happen?" asked Proust.
    "Professional job. One shot, long range. They guy was a genius, or a psychopath."
    "Not mutually exclusive," said Paul, then zipped his mouth again as Tuck glared.
    "I assume you're calling because there's more to the story than this."
    "There is. The guy is dead."
    "You know who killed him?"
    "We think so. She's dead, too. Or he. We don't know the order."
    Proust sighed through the phone. "This is sounding familiar. Let me tell you the rest: after the second body, the trail goes dead, and you've got nothing. Am I right?"
    Tuck and Paul looked at each other. "Not quite," said Tuck. "We've got another body."
    "Hello!" said Proust, energy in his voice for the first time. "That's new. The body count usually stops at two. Well, three, including the unfortunate god. A third body...is interesting."
    "But," said Tuck, "other than that, this matches a pattern you've seen before, right?"
    "Definitely. It's like the killings at the Olympics, and the K Street shooting before that, and the Prohibition Killings, and the Suffragette Bombing, and three others that I can think of stretching back two- or three-hundred years. Killer does the job, is bumped off, and the bumper turns up a day or two later. Dead, of course. But I hadn't heard about Zed going down. This is recent?"
    "Last night," said Paul. "So are we seeing the same process on fast forward?"
    "Seems like it," said Proust. "Sounds like you're getting a few bonuses, too."
    Tuck spoke up again, leaning in toward the phone. "Proust, did you ever get anywhere on the Olympic Killings?"
    "Suspects, sure. Possibilities, but Tuck, they were all the longest of long shots. I couldn't find any connection between those people and any of the other assassinations we have records for."
    "Could you send me what you've got anyway?"
    "Sure, sure, of course. Let me get into the office, and I'll email you everything. I've got the stuff from K Street and Prohibition, too, if you want it."
    "Anything you've got would be great. We're flying blind, here, but you may have just given us radar."
    There was silence. "That's a lousy metaphor," said Proust finally.
    "I'd say it's average," said Paul. "Not exactly original, but not the worst he's ever come up with."
    "We should be careful teasing Tuck, though," said Proust. "After all, he is a demon."
    "But I carry more guns," said Paul. "And bigger ones."
    "You a gun buff, Paul? I didn't know that."
    "If it goes bang, it's my friend."
    "But you're an angel."
    "What's your point?"
    "Nothing, I guess. You need anything else from me, or do I go shower in coffee and get you your files?"
    Tuck opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally spoke. "Can I answer without the two of you mocking me?"
    "Maybe," said Proust.
    "Definitely not," said Paul.
    "Fine. Whatever. Please send it as soon as possible and now I'm hanging up. Later, Proust."
    "Love to the missus, Tuck."
    Tuck cut the connection and Paul stared at him.
    "What is it?"
    "You're married?"
    "No."
    "Then what's with the 'love to the missus?'"
    "Old joke. Before your time."
    "That again? You're only what, sixty years older than I am?"
    "Sure, but I'm a demon. That means my years are like dog years. They count for more."
    Paul snorted. "Right. Demons are such fleeting things. Your life is but a moment--a THOUSAND YEAR LONG moment."
    "Will you come to my funeral, Paul?"
    "Can it, Tuck. I'm going to see if Alice conned Draper into bringing in doughnuts."
    His partner left, and Tuck smiled. Driving Paul away was a small moment and a small victory, but he enjoyed it anyway.


    Damastes waited as the phone rang. A perky and obscenely young voice answered and identified herself as the university travel office.
    “This is Professor Troy.”
    “Of course, Dr. Troy. What can I help you with?”
    “I won’t be able to make my flight today.”
    “Are you ill?”
    “No.”
    “Did something happen?”
    “Not particularly.”
    “It’s just...I mean, I can look up your travel information--I mean that I have your travel information, and I can call the airline, but I’ll need to list why you were unable to--I’m sorry, but isn’t your flight in just an hour or two?”
    “Correct,” said Damastes, wondering if he had ever had patience for humans this young. He couldn’t remember a time.
    “If you had called earlier we might have been able to arrange something. I’m sure the airlines aren’t going to--”
    “Young lady,” interrupted the angel, “I called you the first moment your office opened, and now I have something for you to do: cancel my flight. I will make my own arrangements for returning home. That is all.”
    He hung up over whatever pathetic attempt at intelligence her small brain could muster, and he took a deep breath. She didn’t deserve his anger. He would save that for the worm of a police sergeant if he didn’t turn up some useful information soon. He would save it for whoever had interfered with his planning. He would save it for the people who were keeping him from making the world better.
    Then he would destroy them.