Infernal Glory

By Morgan Chalfant

The action never stops in this fast-paced, urban fantasy, laced with a heavy dose of dark humor.
Jersey “The Brawler” Romero was a washed-up, old, street fighter who spent more time behind bars than outside of them—until he was granted his youth, immortality, and the powers of a god by the Twilight Goddess, the mother he never knew. The only catch: Jersey has to protect his home city, Glory, from the dark forces that plague her at every turn. Already he’s battled his own brother, a succession of underworld demons determined to make Glory their home, and even the vengeful goddess, Athena. When can a brawler catch a break?
With his ex-lover, Abigail, in exile for betraying him to his brother and almost getting him killed, Jersey has carved out a new life for himself (along with carving up the occasional demon on the side). Alys, a champion MMA fighter, along with her friends who run the White Rabbits Detective Agency, are his new allies. They’re good for him. A human connection in a city filled with inhuman cruelty. Along with his friend, Goodspeed, (Mercury, the Messenger God), Jersey is going to need the White Rabbits’ help to handle what’s coming. A new trouble is riding into Glory on the backs of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The Horsemen’s psychopathic, black-sheep brother, Abattoir, the Carrion Collector, cleaner of the battlefields, is hell-bent on destroying them and any god he can get his hands on. And when Jersey decides to help, he becomes the next god in Abattoir’s path.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lachesis Publishing Inc
• Release date: Mar 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781773590158

Book preview

PART 1: HORSEMEN

CHAPTER 1

The docks in Glory have never been my favorite place. And that doesn’t change as I’m chasing an ugly nasty demon through a maze of shipping containers and warehouses. My newly acquired godhood comes with all sorts of little door prizes. I thought I was Jersey Romero, human brawler, but as it turns out, I’m Jakael, son of the ancient Greek war goddess, Melaina, whose old stomping grounds used to be the very city I protect. I may not be human anymore, but I’m still a fighter. The God of Brawling has a nice ring to it.

I can thank my dead brother, Thomas, for giving me his half of the power. By ‘giving me,’ I mean I jammed a knife into him and took it. He had it coming after having me tortured and trying to kill me and my friends. He also tried to blow up my city. You can fuck with me, but don’t screw around with Glory. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Hell, they end up turning into sawdust.

I round another corner. I’m faster, stronger, and more durable than ever—which is why the steel I-beam that hits me square in the chest like a flying battering ram doesn’t kill me on impact. That isn’t to say it doesn’t knock the wind out of me (and seriously piss me off). Walls don’t like me. I tend to go through them like shit through a jet engine. 

Crashing through the side wall of a large shipping warehouse, I shatter a stack of wooden pallets and land on the floor among the debris. Chunks of wood and drywall scatter around. I brush a few crumbs off my face. Goodspeed’s voice rattles from the two-way radio clipped to my belt, compliments of Goodspeed’s pawn shop. I’m truly surprised it’s still working.

What was that noise? he asks. You get him? Over.

I hurl the I-beam off me like it’s a foam swimming noodle and yank the radio off my belt. I exhale. Fuck this shit. No, Goody-Two-Shoes, I didn’t! I shout. I got up close and personal with an 800-pound I-beam.

Told you them Foksul Beasts were tricky, J.

Yeah, I got the Cliff Notes. It chews people up and spits them out. Bad demon, Jersey must kill-kill. Got it. Thanks, I say, standing up. On the bright side, I’m not even scratched. Another shirt’s toast though. I glance down at the big basketball-sized tear in the fabric. Anyway, he’s long gone now. I’ll see you in a couple hours. Over and out.

I switch the radio off and leave the warehouse the way I came in—through the gaping hole in the wall. It’s nice having Garwin Goodspeed, A.K.A. Mercury, on my team. Yep, the Roman Messenger God. For someone who has no filter on his mouth, I’m really surprised, that of all the old gods who are dead, he isn’t one of them. But he’s good people. All the other gods still kicking around either hate me or want to kill me, so that puts him in the plus column. Still, sometimes I hate him.

*    *    *

It’s only 6:30, but it’s already getting dark as I work my way farther into the city. Above, dark gray thunderheads float through purple skies. My mantled green duster billows in the cool wind. Things get darker a lot quicker in Glory. She likes it that way. Glory prefers the night. It’s her time to thrive. The essence of the Twilight Goddess still lingers in the Twilight City, behind the veil where nobody can see her. Nobody but me. I call her Mother. Centers of power are potent things. Glory is the focal point of my mother’s domain, or was before Athena had her killed out of jealousy. War goddesses are a bit mercurial. Most of the ancient deities who die just blink out from existence, but every now and then, some remnant of them, a spiritual essence, will attach itself to a place where they once held great power. So, my mother’s etheric essence still lurks in her city. Athena’s essence was snuffed out by yours truly.

I don’t remember much about my mother before she died. Just how kind she was. I recall her taking me outside to get ice cream cones at a vendor down the street. She never got any for herself, but I always picked butterscotch ice-cream. She always had this smile she gave only me. It was a special smile reserved for showing me how much I meant to her. She loved my father, Robert, even though he was only human. And I wonder what kind of mortal man could hold sway over a goddess.

Whatever.

That was before someone pumped them both full of holes.

Now she’s a vengeful spirit lingering in the city, the hot spot of her power, talking to me in my dreams sometimes. Eerie whispers in my unconscious. But she’s been strangely silent as of late. Without the direction of any dreamy whispers, I’ve had to make my own fun. It’s like I’m getting a little of the old Jersey back—not the drug and alcohol abuse or theft parts—but the spontaneity of a man who had to roll with the punches more often than not. When you’re thrown to the dogs, you have to outrun them or find something tastier to feed them. Yes, the spirit of my mother watches over me, but her gifts have a strange way of mimicking curses sometimes. Only after killing a brother I never knew existed, did I inherit the full measure of my powers and became, for lack of a better word, a god. My prodigal brother, Thomas Templar, sought to tear Glory asunder, so I killed him. You don’t just wreak havoc on my city with mindless cult members, try to destroy her, and walk away unscathed. Glory demanded vengeance and vengeance she beheld.  

Glory is spiteful—like her patron deity. She is sordid, shuttered and unforgiving, like an uglied-up woman of the night. A city moldering in her own decadence. She whispers like a junkie begging for a fix. Except Glory doesn’t beg, she takes what she wants. Like I said, the Twilight Goddess suffers no fools. If cities could speak, Glory would whisper, Fuck you. She’s a city with the beauty of a mangled supermodel. You don’t turn your back on Glory. Turning your back on her means dying horribly in the smoke-filled streets and serpentine alleys. Once she has you under her boots, your balls are busted. That’s Glory, the queen of ball busters. Lucky for me, Glory owes me a few favors for saving her ass.

I stroll downtown into the section of the city nicknamed the Strobe due to all the lurid lights and lingering, haunting music. Lights that call to people, Come in and see what you can get for the itty-bitty price of your soul.

It’s noisy and dirty. Smog and exhaust. Cars and people ebb and flow as I traipse down the sidewalk. Skyscrapers stretch into the skies like inanimate giants, heavy clouds resting on their shoulders.

Yes, the Strobe.  Bright lights, loud music, droves of people, and chains of businesses (or clever masquerades). I always forget how bustling it is until I’m in the thick of it. The Strobe offers any vice anyone could ever imagine. And some they couldn’t.

Flop houses, shops specializing in tattoos and body modification, sex clubs, fetish stores, brothels catering to people of all incomes, black-market weapons dealers masquerading behind restaurant facades, and a few legit eating establishments and food carts.

I love food carts. No fuss, no muss. I pull out a wadded up ten, trade the vendor for a hot dog, and scarf it down. I’m ravenous. Getting hit with I-beams makes me hungry.

I keep going further into the erotic paradise, passing a new age occult store called Gypsy Rose. Any smart person knows it’s a front for the Romani Crime Syndicate. The name makes them sound fancier than they really are. In reality, they’re just another gang controlling a small piece of the pie, taking their cuts and pushing their shit under the table. To my right is Golden Gauge, a familiar piercing parlor that brings back fond memories. I ripped out a man’s lip and eyebrow piercings there one time. Through the picture window, with a giant neon sign shaped like a spider hanging in it, a young woman in her mid-twenties is getting a column piercing, small silver studs inset down her spine.

I shake my head. Not for me. I hate needles. Besides, they wouldn’t be able to pierce my thick god hide anyway. Divinity and restored youth do have their bonuses. It seems like only yesterday I was a senior citizen with the aching joints, brittle bones and arthritis to prove it. When I think back about those days, acquiring godhood, regardless of all the torment and pain I went through to get it, was worth it.

As I come upon the entrance to White Rabbits, a small fetish club on the corner, a guy comes stumbling backward out of the entrance. White Rabbits is a private club catering to a handful of clients, several high-profile ones, and their unique erotic needs. The club is a strange front for a private investigation firm, but then again, they both have ‘private’ in common, and normal is a pretty rare commodity in Glory. Normal people have shame, Glory’s people are shameless.

The man tumbles ass first to the pavement, bleeding from his nose. Following him out is one of the four owners of the place, Darcy Drummond. She’s a badass little bruiser with dirty blonde hair, sporting stained work gloves, a spaghetti strap top, orange fishnets and black low-cut combat boots. She’s petite and cute with a mean pair of brass knuckles on one hand and a meaner look on her grease-smeared pretty face.

Need any help? I stop and ask.

She flashes me a look that says she has it handled. She kicks the guy in the ribs while he’s down and then bitch kicks him under the chin. He stays down, holding his mouth and screaming. She pulls out one of her earbuds connected to a tiny iPod on her belt.

You shouldn’t listen to that angry rage music when you’re kicking somebody’s ass. You might kill someone, I say.

Son-of-a-bitch wasn’t gonna pay us, she says. Tried to weasel outta it. He deserves more than that.

I crouch next to the poor S.O.B. You’re lucky she’s in a good mood. Then, to Darcy. You do this with everybody who stiffs you? I pause. And when’d you become the enforcer? Where’s Alys?

The guy tries to get up. Darcy stomps him down into the pavement, pressing into his back with her boot.

Stay the fuck down, you piece of shit! Money! Then you can crawl away.

He fishes into his back pocket for his wallet. Once he has it, Darcy yanks it out of his hand and helps herself to what she’s owed. No more, no less. She flings it back to him. 

Now get the hell outta here! she shouts, taking her foot off of him and pointing her finger. Then, she looks at me. And to answer your question, on top of not paying, he called Kayla a ‘lot lizard,’ so I fucking decked him. Nobody talks about my sister like that.

I’d say he got the message. 

Some people gawk at us, but most are too concerned by their own bullshit to bother a second glance. If it was any other district of the city maybe, but not the Strobe. Actually, I’m lying. It could have been on Main Street in front of St. Jude’s Church and no one would have stopped to intervene. That’s Glory for you. Everyone is too concerned with their quest for the latest thrill, the next load to shoot into their arms, or something resembling a meaningful (or not so meaningful) one-night relationship.

Suddenly, Darcy notices my shirt and furrows her brow.

If you bought it like that, you got ripped off.

I flash her a smirk. Cute.

What’re you doing here? she asks.

Your sis said you had some new info.

Darcy nods. Oh yeah, your charity case. Thought you might be making a different kinda appointment.

Still might.

Sure you haven’t had your ass kicked enough for one night?

"I have not yet begun to fight."

She rolls her eyes and I follow her inside. 

CHAPTER 2

White Rabbits is the nicest smelling place I’ve ever been in. Lavender and vanilla linger in the air. The four girls who run it are some of the most hardcore women I have met since Abigail, the saucy chick who helped me at first, but ultimately screwed me over during that whole ordeal with Thomas Templar.

Hardcore or not, the women of White Rabbits are still women. They like the place fresh. Their business name comes from two of the four, Darcy and Kayla, having posed for Playboy Magazine. I’ve had the girls keeping tabs on Abigail for the last five months, watching her in her self-imposed exile. I fell hard for her, which was why her deception was a drop-kick to the gut. Not to mention it’s hard for me to forgive the woman who betrayed me to a torture dimension. But I know it’s even harder for her to forgive herself. Betrayal is a double-edged sword.

My experience with Abigail has left an empty spot inside me. It’s not something I’m aching to fill, but it’s there and I do miss when said spot was full. Trust has never been something I’ve been good at. Whenever I get close to doing so, something nasty always seems to bite me in the ass. It’s a sad fact I’ve had more trustworthy friends inside the walls of prison than outside them. I’ve been inside the walls of quite a few maximum-security slams in my checkered past. That’s not to say my future isn’t checkered, but I’m chiseling away at redemption.  

I like the girls of White Rabbits. I don’t like many people, so that puts them on a pedestal immediately. We originally met when I came to them to do the surveillance on Abigail, but since then, we’ve been teaming up more and more. I’m not a big fan of playing with others, but I don’t mind playing with them (that came across creepier than I expected)—especially since they come in handy when I need help handling pesky demons, vampires, trolls, mad warlocks, or even an angry pagan god. They’re no strangers to weird supernatural phenomena that plague my city, and supernatural activity has increased ten-fold since my dear brother, Thomas Templar, embarked on his annihilation of Glory more than a year ago. That was before I offed him. I wasn’t proud of killing him, but I had no choice. It was either him or me.

His quest was to divide and conquer, and destroy me in the process. It was a weird time. I had no idea he was my brother. He knew it all along. And when I found out it kind of freaked me out. We shared the same mother. My mother. The goddess who was killed by her own kind, along with my human father, in a dark alley, when I was just a kid. After that day, I was on my own, surviving on the streets, until my mom showed up again when I was an old man, and gave me the gift of eternal youth. It was a surreal time to say the least. I went from being a washed-up former pro boxer in his seventies, to a rough and tough twenty-five-year-old again. Yup, Mom came through for me after all. Sending a weird emissary to meet me and giving me another chance to save Glory.

And since then, Glory has been teeming with supernatural activity, and it’s up to me to keep everyone in line. Before I became a full-fledged god, and an immortal, I used my fists to settle disputes and solve problems. Now, I use my special powers and my ability to see through everyone and everything. I still use my fists though. Nothing like an old-fashioned beat down to get the job done. But seeing through supernatural guises and magical glamours comes with the god juice pumping through my veins. Some days I hate it, other days I don’t mind so much, after all it comes with the territory and I sure as hell don’t mind being twenty-five years old again, for the next millennia or so.

Want something to drink? Darcy asks. She may be hard-nosed, but Darcy is still considerate. Coffee?

Bourbon.

She chuckles. Think I can help you out with that. Have a seat if you want.

I look myself over. I’m dusty and dirty from my night’s failed pursuit. The room is furnished in plush blue couches, coffee tables with flowers, and sitting chairs with the girls’ offices to the right and left and the private rooms in back. It brings new meaning to the word multi-functional.

I’ll just stand. I don’t wanna mess up your décor.

Darcy shrugs. Whatever you want. That’s Kayla’s bag, I don’t give a shit where you sit.

I’ve seen your bad side, not sure I’m ready for Kayla’s, I say as Darcy retreats into her office.

Her Nine Inch Nails logo tattoo shows on her back-right shoulder as she walks away. She emerges a moment later with two quarter-full glasses of bourbon.

The customer’s always right, Darcy jokes.

She hands me the glass. I raise it.

Except when he’s wrong.

Here, here. She chuckles, clinking her glass against mine.

We both shoot our drinks in one gulp. It’s stiff and hot and burns going down. With the resilience of a god running through my veins, it’s damned tough to get a decent drunk on. I’ve made a noble attempt more than once.

Well, back to the grindstone.

She sets her glass and mine on the coffee table and starts toward the door that leads to her workshop. Darcy is the sexiest, smartest grease monkey that has ever lived. A total gearhead, amateur weapon smith and wizard (not magical that I know of) with anything mechanical. And some things that aren’t. She’s always working on some new project. They’re usually a treat to see—even when they have a few kinks to work out. Kinks are in abundance within the walls of White Rabbits.

Mind if I come back there and see what you’re working on?

She opens the door. I can hear the sounds of Nine Inch Nails’ Burn blasting from the stereo inside. That’s Darcy. She has to have her music. She has music for everything. Every mood. Anger, happiness, and all of the emotions in between. 

Night, Jersey.

I watch the door close. I’m standing alone in the lobby. I consider myself lucky to have the small conversation we did.