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  Death Dealers

  Episode One

  Emma Cole

  DEATH DEALERS – Episode One © EMMA COLE 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used of reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. And similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  Wrath

  Strong vengeful anger or indignation

  “Anger is the name of a passion. A passion of the sensitive appetite is good in so far as it is regulated by reason, whereas it is evil if it sets the order of reason aside.”

  ~ St. Thomas Aquinas

  Prologue

  She was alone. Always alone. No family, and even the so-called immortals didn’t count. Long-lived, yes, but they could be killed. Made little sense to make connections, only to have them eventually die on her; wasn't worth the heartache.

  Immortal like their creators, which were also hers, except she got the better end of the stick after they figured out they had to pair up themselves, instead of with the other entities in Eden. She had been bred—yes, bred—by them. She, along with her brethren and their mates, actually were immortal.

  Never having children themselves, the gods got envious of the other species that were procreating, and a few assisted the others of their pantheon in creating progeny to carry out their directives and run their universe. A regular, more ancient-than-ancient breeding circle.

  The original Amesha Spenta, the seven gods and goddesses, expanded to include their counterparts to keep the universal balance. They decided it would be an awesome idea to set up a breeding schedule with Spenta Mainyu and Ameretat, the Creators, lending their creation and immortality respectively, but not joining in on the rotation for fear that their union would make for a more powerful being than all of them combined.

  Spenta had already fucked up once and done the dirty with Avestan (Angra Mainyu, the destructive spirit), and spawned one pissed off entity: Ahriman.

  Quickly realizing their mistake, they prudently locked Ahriman up before he could come into his full powers and stripped what he’d already accrued.

  To err even more on the side of caution, his power was dumped into the last, and youngest, of the breeding program. Sure, they probably had another fancier name for it, but if she’d known it then, she sure didn’t remember it now. And let’s call a spade a spade here.

  As all of the children had been born male– some default of the process– the deities had one last chance to create a female. Feeding all the power from Ahriman into it as they supervised the consummation between Asa and Druja—Righteousness and Deceit—the added anger spawned a female, alright.

  Retta was born into existence with the burden of Wrath. Slightly stronger than her brothers, not by blood but by vice and their counterparts, she unknowingly grew up playing in the lushness of Eden, safe and loved, even if the adults were occasionally outwardly wary of any outburst. And worried they should have been.

  The brothers doted on their little sister even though they were the harsher aspects of the split bloodlines. They would come to be known as the Seven Deadly Sins and The Seven Heavenly Virtues.

  Afterward, sides were taken, of course.

  Upon her fifteenth birthday, it wasn’t only a celebration of Retta’s creation; it was also her betrothal announcement. She had blossomed into a short and buxom young woman if she did say so herself. Blindsided by the fact that she was to become a broodmare and continue the bloodline the Amesha Spenta desired, her rage brought the age old saying to life: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

  Not only was Retta intended to mate with her opposite, Patience, since birth, but she was also supposed to do it with a smile and a nod. Betrayed by her parents and a betrothed who saw nothing wrong with the scenario–regardless of her feelings–Retta rebelled.

  She refused outright to have anything to do with their plans. Retta’s brothers backed her decision, and the divide was set. She and her six brothers were kicked out of Eden. Stripped down to the bare minimum to survive. Unable to protect themselves. Powerless, they were all dropped off and spread around the world. A block was put on them to prevent their power from regenerating past a level barely more than required to survive. They also couldn’t be in the vicinity of each other for more than a short time without being drained to the lowest amount to survive, which in turn relocated them to their original drop point. Drop points that superstitious humans had marked and watched, waiting on the weakened Sins to appear.

  The Sins learned to live solitary lives with the evolving humans around the world. Regardless of the precautions the Immortals had taken, eventually their energy built until it began to unravel the bindings. In Retta’s case, she became enraged on a daily basis for quite some time. And as like calls to like, when her bonds broke, her energy hit each of her brothers, trying to restore balance. The result? They were supernovas of energy. Energy that, once expelled, wrapped the globe, and unfortunately, or maybe not so much for the population today, triggered the last ice age.

  As they were no longer too weak to protect themselves, they wandered, and as they wandered, religion began springing up, made of stories and feats of their travels. Some enterprising souls started recording it as history, and the deities took the opportunity to capitalize on the works of their children. All while vilifying them and turning them into the front men for the denizens of hell. Brutally hurt, some of the siblings went rampaging, while others spent long stretches refusing to incite a spider.

  Unfortunately, they found out the hard way that if they didn’t use their specific sins on humanity, the energy would start leaking, and in Retta’s case, it would nearly explode out of her, causing historical events that turned into legend.

  Ever heard of Helen of Troy? Attila the Hun? The Salem Witch Trials? How about those dumbass Crusades and the Spanish Inquisition? All instances of the Wrath getting the better of her. In Retta’s defense, it was occasionally just that— defense. The ‘Virtues’ liked to fuck with the Sins. Her especially. Except Loren, aka Patience, the Virtues heckled and harassed Retta. If they caught her, they’d siphon her energy on the spot and release it into whatever unfortunate area she happened to be in, causing untold strife for the inhabitants.

  Always trying to be careful to spread what she could safely, Retta inspired women (and men) such as Joan of Arc, Rosa Parks, and Harriet Tubman, a few Roman conquerors, and Alexander the Great. Well, she wasn’t all good. Just kinda.

  The years passed by, and Retta and the others made their own domains. The invention of the telegraph, then later the telephone, allowed them to stay in better communication. After a millennia of separation, the Sins’ relationships were strained but still very much there. And Retta was still their beloved little sister…

  Chapter One

  Retta sat in a hammock chair, kicking her leg out periodically to make it swing, and contemplated her current predicament. Scowling at the floor, she focused inward, oblivious to her surroundings. Her thoughts screamed at her to do something. Anything. Anything to make the pull go away.

  Shaking off her stupor, Retta gingerly rose from her seat to cross the stone floor into her kitchen area. She had carved out her own little pocket of reality to hide from anyone who might wish to harm her, but she couldn’t help but miss the caves of home, where she and her brothers had played so many years ago.

  So, she had recreated them, painstakingly, from memory. Creating little by little, as she’d acclimated to the earthen plane she’d found herself thrust into, alone. She had learned to harness the energy to create.


  Even her parents hadn’t been able to take her birthright from her, and they sure tried. Dropped her on her ass in a Persian desert. Hadn't that been a treat when she’d been found by a wandering tribe? Her markings that resembled tattoos, ones around her eyes and all over her body, paired with scarlet streaks in her black hair, made her novel enough to take as a prize to trade for provisions from other tribes.

  The light shining in Retta’s eyes as she remembered the retribution she’d exacted on those disgusting sand rats would have been unnerving had anyone been around to witness it.

  Musing on that long-ago time, Retta was interrupted by a sudden buildup of energy, one that demanded her presence. When the sharp tugging became a horrendous tearing unlike anything she’d ever felt, Retta knew something was very, very wrong.

  Abruptly, she wasn’t in her pocket anymore. She’d been pulled into the City of Sin itself. Smack dab in the middle of it from what her internal bearings gave off. The neon Elvis sign wasn't even a bit subtle.

  All her senses were on alert, any and all information from her surroundings catalogued and processed for clues as to the why of it. Retta felt as if a piece of her had been cut away— more so than that horrid tribe had ever done. Unlike in that scenario, she didn’t think this portion of her would grow back if it were permanently removed.

  She found herself behind an all-you-can-eat buffet and was instantly ravenous. In horror, she realized that her gluttonous brother Tomas was the cause of her distress and subsequent relocation. Carrying the judgement aspect made her the ultimate investigator and doler of punishments. Unable to find any trace of him other than the leftover aura urging her to eat— and even that was fading by the second— Retta was stumped.

  Where the heck could he have gotten off to? And what would trigger my reaction that way? There was no plausible explanation, so she set out the old-fashioned way of retracing the steps.

  Two days later and still in Sin City, as the humans called it, she hadn’t found any other clues. Even in this place used to seeing oddities, Retta was sick of being forced to use her glamour to hide the markings on her face in case she was recognized. The pull was building again, and now that she thought about it, it was very strange that there had been no huge catastrophe. It was as if someone, or something, had siphoned off all of the excess energy she should have leaked as soon as she'd landed behind the buffet restaurant.

  Again, she was struck by the sudden buildup of energy that seemed to be trying to tear her in two. Mouth open on a silent scream as it hit intolerable levels, Retta’s hotel room disappeared in a blink, only to have the cinderblock walls of a basement pop into sight as her vision cleared. She was in a maintenance area if the signs and her intel gathering were any indication. The basement of the Racquet Club, to be exact.

  And her presence, where it shouldn’t be, had triggered an alarm. She felt the spots of power moving toward her at a fast clip, barreling down on her location. With a smirk at their ignorance of who they were fucking with, she gathered everything else she could and popped herself back into her hotel room. But not before her panties were soaked from the aura that had been left behind. Thank fuck she, and Roderick, weren’t actually related. It was bad enough she considered them brothers and her, their sister, but that one was a hard pill to swallow, regardless. Usually her lusty fellow sin–Roderick– was able to tamp it down to nothing, where she was concerned, as it made her squiggy. And that alone made her worry. Very few things could make Roderick lose control in that manner. Not to mention she’d been siphoned off of again with no trace of the attacker, where the siphoned power was going, or her missing family members.

  She did what she should have as soon as she’d realized the first one had been attacked. She called the rest on a group video chat. Retta loved technology. It was a vast improvement over sand in her asscrack and having to travel everywhere by foot or popping around hoping you could zero in on the person you were looking for.

  Informing her brothers that there were two of them missing without a trace was the hardest thing she’d had to do in a very long time. Alec’s face was the first to fall, and Retta worried he’d be next as he’d want to be out looking, not sidelined in hiding. Things seemed to be happening around the Racquet Club, and she had some investigating to do. The Death Dealers, as the owners were referred to, wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to a power boost; they were big players already, but she doubted they'd have issue with being more so. She just couldn’t figure out the how of it. It was damn hard to take one of them down since they’d gained their power levels back many centuries ago. And she’d checked their drop points, too, and come up empty. Regardless, they should have been able to sense the others even if they couldn't pinpoint them. Another anomaly was the fact that her remaining brothers hadn’t felt the breaking of their bond. Something had blocked them.

  Off the phone and feeling dejected, Retta grabbed her laptop and started scouring her sources for anything she could on the Death Dealers and the club itself. The brothel and private entertainment rooms were directly above the basement. Something had to have lured Roderick down there.

  Chapter Two

  Setting up the files, she found that the Racquet Club had all sorts of holdings, including the buffet where Tomas was taken. Each member of the Dealers held an equal share in the business. Unsurprisingly, they seemed to be a crime syndicate. Everything from legal gambling and other entertainment, to racketeering and intimidation. A regular, not-so-hidden in plain sight, supernatural mafia ring.

  The first profile she created was Kingston, aka the King of Diamonds. The apparent ‘boss’ of the group, handling the day to day running of the club and making the executive decisions. Rumors had it, he was uncannily able to predict market trends and poker games, so Retta made a notation indicating he may be a precog. Precognitives could be tricky to handle, depending on their skill level.

  Thankfully, the world was an open mix of supernaturals and nons, all living together in mostly the same manner as before the big reveal back in the 1970’s.

  The ‘Queen’ was next. Quinton, the Queen of Hearts, was obviously a gender-bender, the not-so-nice term used for those who could switch their gender, race, and humanoid appearance at will. Even down to not aging unless they willed it. Quinton was clearly listed as the entertainment coordinator and filled in where needed. He had enough candid shots of dressing as a female burlesque dancer while obviously being male. Other photos of a female blonde bombshell linked to the male images indicated the switch of forms.

  Not having many inhibitions, Retta found herself eyeing the man in drag more closely. She flipped to a female picture. While she could appreciate the chosen form, it did nothing for her. She wondered if either form was his; everything she could find indicated he was male in his true form and figured they probably weren’t. She flipped through a few more before she gave it up, as her senses hadn’t picked anything else up.

  Retta moved on to Jason, the ‘Ace of Spades’, the presumed assassin and enforcer for the group. She felt a punch in the chest region at the one almost clear picture she had found of him. There was something alluring about him she couldn’t pinpoint, but it caused her internal radar to go crazy. The urge to go to him immediately was nearly overwhelming.

  Nearly as overwhelming as the sharp tug in her abdomen indicating she was getting full again. Isolation and siphoning it were the only real things that helped when the Wrath built up. As the world became more populated, so did all of the avarice. Anger was common as any other thing and was tolerable in small doses, but when it came to large groupings of people, it snowballed and attached to her.

  Staying there for the duration of the investigation was going to be tricky. Retta hated to waste time letting the energy out, but she couldn’t chance it overpowering her will and taking free rein to do as it wished. When she reached nuclear amounts, the Wrath would almost become its own entity.

  Doing more research on her assassin, and he would be hers even if briefly, she couldn’t f
ind anything on him or what his official, publicly known function was within the syndicate. The only clear features in the photo were shocking blue hair and lush lips in a chiseled face.

  Planning to come back to Ace later, Retta looked up Jackson. The ‘Jack of all Trades’ appeared to be a catch all. He handled everything from maintenance to bouncing and odd jobs. One image caught his hand in the form of a hammer, tapping in a nail to hang a plaque. If you weren’t looking as closely as she, or didn't have her abilities for cataloging the details, you’d miss that he hadn’t actually been holding a hammer.

  Another notation in the column for him being a chameleon as a strong possibility, as he could manifest into inanimate objects as well as living organisms. Chameleons could be very dangerous, depending on their skill level.

  Something struck her as familiar about the last one— Priest, aka the ‘Joker.’ He stood next to the dark featured, clean-cut boss making Priest look like the bad boy next door. There was something melancholy about him in the posed photo as he stood there with his messy hair and almost-beard. Maybe the lack of luster in his eyes or the stiffness of his posture was the cause. She ignored the tickle in her brain that there was something she’d missed and closed the lid of her laptop, setting it aside to concentrate on her game plan.

  Hands on her hips, Retta stood right inside the entrance as she surveyed the dim club with its din of slot machines and dealers calling for bets. The ire was plain in her kohl smudged eyes as she cataloged every nook and cranny, filing them away for later inspection. Her ruby-red lips curled up into a snarl, the tips of her extended canines denting the full lower pout at the palpable cloud of debauchery and desperation.

  If only they knew what she was capable of, they'd all flee in terror.