The pride of leo an urba.., p.1
The Pride of Leo: an Urban Fantasy Demon Series, page 1
The Pride of Leo
Book 5 of the Zodiac
Paul Sating
Contents
More Free Stories
The Zodiac
1 - Olympia
2 - Olympia
3 - Olympia
4 - Olympia
5 - Olympia
6 - Olympia
7 - Olympia
8 - Olympia
9 - Olympia
10 - Olympia
11 - Olympia
12 - Olympia
13 - Olympia
14 - Olympia
15 - Olympia
16 - Olympia
17 - Olympia
18 - Olympia
19 - Olympia
20 - Olympia
21 - Olympia
22 - Olympia
23 - Olympia
24 - Olympia
25 - Olympia
26 - Olympia & Beyond
What’s Next?
Reviews Help
Exclusives
Epic Support
Acknowledgments
Also By Paul Sating
About the Author
Contact
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any situations or similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2020 Paul Sating.
All rights reserved.
No parts of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Editor: Cindy Niespodzianski
Cover Design: Jake at jcalebdesign.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-7322617-8-5
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The Zodiac
The Zodiac are available in ebook, paperback, and everywhere on audiobook!
Book 1 - Bitter Aries
Book 2 - The Horn of Taurus
Book 3 - The Gemini Paradox
Book 4 - Cancer’s Curse
Book 5 - The Pride of Leo
Book 6 - Virgo’s Vigilantes (Coming late 2021)
To Cindy Neispodzianski. Thank you for making my word chains sound reasonably entertaining.
1 - Olympia
Months After Cancer
“Hey, freak.”
My stride hitched, assuming someone was talking to me. Throughout my six-thousand-year life, nicknames stuck to me like statically charged lint sticks to socks, so why would this one not be included in my litany of titles?
But I wasn’t the target of the felonious name. The taunt had come from a tall human, on the desirable side of six feet tall. His long appendages dangled, his fingers nearly reaching to his knees. Gangly, but not awkward.
Sunglasses obscured the gangly man’s identity, along with a hoodie, pulled up to cover his head. I doubted I knew him; I didn’t know many people in Olympia, having only lived here after moving from Seattle just over a month ago. That larger city was too expensive, so Cancer and I tried our luck in the state’s Capital. I knew less than a dozen mortals, and they all came into my life at the soup kitchen where I volunteered.
I had just stepped off the bus and was walking toward the soup kitchen in downtown, passing the Red Lion that was once the Governor Hotel. The new ownership’s banner hung at an angle as if hastily erected during an overnight hospitality siege.
I had planned on crossing over to Legion Way through Sylvester Park, but the park’s grass glistened with the sheen of sprinkler systems and sun, and I didn’t feel like getting my new sneakers wet. Half a week’s salary went into obtaining them, and without a vehicle, my feet were my primary mode of transportation. I had a long day ahead and wet socks made for cold feet, and as a demon, Abandoned though I may have been, the Overworld was already could enough. This realm did not need my help. The sidewalk suited my purpose, even if it added thirty seconds to my walk commute. This route also gave me an excellent observation point to watch this aggressive guy.
The gangly man who drew my attention to the park wasn’t alone. Five others stood behind him in a v–formation. After my time in the mortal army, I couldn’t help notice how slack their formation was.
I scanned the park to a bench on the other side of a large gazebo clinging to a few spots of white paint. A slim man looked up toward the group from his seat on the bench. Squinting, he took in the gangly, hooded man. As I continued along the sidewalk, I pulled my bag closer. I didn’t know much about the city yet, but I didn’t need to be a native, nor a genius, to recognize this first sign of trouble.
The slim man on the park bench had the same sense. His hand slid to the side of his leg, where it wrapped around the sling of his backpack. Slowing my gait, I paused behind a big-leaf maple tree, whose branches spread a shadow. At this time of day, my presence could not be hidden from the group, but at least I would be obscured.
The four–lane street to my left streamed with cars and busses, normal for work week midday. Traffic crowding Capitol Way was a constant of this small Pacific Northwest city. Vehicles filled the lanes, and pedestrians filled its sidewalks. My presence wouldn’t stand out to this group, so I hung by the tree, interested in seeing how this played out. No one else seemed to notice.
“Yeah, I’m talking to you,” the gangly man said, strutting forward. He and his entourage approached the gazebo, less than fifty yards away.
“I thought I told you I didn’t want to see you around here anymore. You stupid or something?” gangly barked at the man on the bench.
The slim man rose slowly, slipping his backpack on in a fluid motion that neither hinted nor displayed aggression.
“Shit,” I whispered.
I did not like this. The slim man moved with the caution of cornered prey, buying time while figuring a way out. I didn’t know him from anyone in the group, but I knew six-on-one spelled peril. This had the potential to be a serious crime, and every indication around Sylvester Park signaled I was the only one aware of it.
“Leave me alone,” the slim man said. His voice was soft, but direct, higher-pitched than I expected. It reminded me of Taurus’s voice, one of the last incubi I wanted to be reminded of at this point. I was questioning a lot about myself and my recent history of decisions that led to my Abandonment, and the memory of Taurus right before I killed him in self-defense was still too vivid. A raw reminder of my troubles.
The slim man moved laterally along the bench.
The trees lining Capitol Way provided enough cover for the group. A hill ran the length of the park on Seventh Avenue, rising fifteen feet to meet the street and topped with a row of bushes and trees that made great cover for nefarious activities.
When the gang saw the slim man sliding along the bench, they moved to cut him off.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
I stepped off the sidewalk and down the slight slope to the nearest tree. Turning sideways, I peeked around it and watched as the group shepherded their victim toward Seventh. His escape route cut off, he was probably unaware of the danger he was putting himself in. I glanced up and down the road, not seeing a police vehicle or anyone who passed as an authority figure. On sidewalks crowded with government administrators, elderly shoppers, artists, and hipsters, not a single uniform made an appearance. In the Underworld, Lucifer’s Council has armed demons everywhere. Not so much in the Overworld, as if those who ruled it trusted the populace. What a concept.
“Where are the Lucifer-blessed police when you need one?” I grumbled.
“Come here!” a rough voice yelled.
The slim man tried to pull away. A burly brute, desperately in need of a shave, dove for his target’s backpack and snagged a pocket. Slim attempted to bolt, but the other man’s size prevented him from moving further than the backpack strap’s reach. The brute gave it a yank as the slim victim slid his arms out of the strap and sprinted away.
“Grab him!” the gangly leader snarled, giving chase along with his cadre.
While keeping my eyes on the situation, I dropped to a knee behind the tree, hurriedly unzipping my backpack. The zipper caught halfway—snagged.
“Shit!” I repeated. Look, after spending the better part of two years around the American Army personnel, I can hardly be blamed for the complete disintegration of my vocabulary.
Slim sprinted across the green. He was fast, putting distance between himself and most of the group within a few strides. Unfortunately for him, one younger man, his hair split by a shaved zigzag pattern, measured him step-for-step.
Lunging, Zigzag sprawled out, swinging his arm in a sharp scissoring movement that took the slim man’s feet out. He went down with a scream, landing and rolling through the wet grass.
Wet sneakers were in my immediate future.
The rest of the gang caught up. One, his hair a mass of loose curls like an overused shower poof coming out of a month-long heroin binge, lifted one of the forest-green garbage cans and slammed it down on the slim man before he could raise a protective arm. A metallic clank rang out as trash met human.
Glancing away from the unfolding scene, I searched inside my backpack for my halberd.
Creed, being a magical halberd of mysterious origins, was as stubborn as my father’s perspective on unquestioning obedience to Lucifer and His Council. A long time ago, I learned the halberd had a mind of its own any time we were physically separated. According to Aries, the ancient Founder who gifted it to me, I was the only one who could wield it. Somehow, it knew if someone other than me touched it. Proof came in a few unfortunate—not for me—incidents. I did not have to fear anyone stealing it, but I sure as heaven needed to worry about mortals seeing it. Thus, the backpack.
The park was empty except for this group, their intended victim, and a few stragglers who navigated the bordering sidewalks. Even if the pedestrians noticed, which I suspected a few did from their quick sideways glances, none intervened. I had to help this human, and I needed Creed.
Beyond the gazebo, underneath a tall tree, the group surrounded the fallen victim, who shielded his face with his hands.
I glanced down the street again, gripping Creed and hoping for a lucky law-enforcement break. The foot-long, four-inch circumference truncheon appeared to be nothing more than a solid piece of dark, petrified cherry to the uninitiated. With a flick of my wrist, I could transform it into a six-foot halberd.
Creed was power. More importantly for this situation, I was dangerous.
The slim man stood and raised his fists, a scowl coloring his face. He didn’t look like a victim or someone who would accept what this group aimed to dish out.
They circled slowly, their steps, careful.
“I told you what would happen if I saw you out around the city, didn’t I?” the gangly, hooded bully snarled.
“I don’t care what you want,” the slim man said. “I have as much of a right to be here as anyone.”
Gangly flicked his hand. “No, you don’t. You’re a freak. Told you last time, I better never see your freaky face again, or I was going to fix that ugly mug.”
A sly smirk undercut the slim man’s high cheekbones. He wiggled his fingers. “Come and try then.”
The others oooh’ed and ahhh’ed.
“Shut up!” the group’s leader ordered. Most refused, still snickering behind balled fists. He turned on the slim man. “I’m going to break you, freak.”
“I’m still waiting for you to try,” came the response. Their target inched backward.
I pressed Creed against my thigh, inching from behind my cover. I wanted to give the target the opportunity to hold his own. Plus, if this resolved before I needed to get involved, I wouldn’t have to use Creed. During the day. In public.
Gangly snarled and lunged.
So much for that plan.
I stepped into the park, still trying to keep a low profile.
Gangly swung and the slim man ducked, sending his sunglasses–wearing enemy swirling away. He spun to counter his aggressor’s momentum. The move only drew more laughter from the gang, enraging the man behind the sunglasses.
“You fucking freak. You’re gonna pay for that!”
He lunged again and the slim man dodged once more, swinging a fist into the hooded figure’s back as he passed. The smack was sharp, a solid connection.
Raising both fists, the attacker half-cocked his head at the gang. “What are you waiting for, idiots? Jump her ass.”
Her?
Then the context of this confrontation hit me. If I despise anything more than Lucifer’s Third Council, it’s bullies. After six thousand years of being ostracized because I was the Segregate, the only demon ever born without magic, I understood what it felt like to be treated differently. And I despised demons—and people—who did that to others.
The group cinched their loop around the slim man. Zigzag moved to the left, Worn Out Shower Poof to the right. The burly man and the other spread out, circling as the instigator moved in.
“This ain’t ending good for you,” he spat. “If you’re not smart enough to stay holed up in your freak house or stay out of town, we’ll make sure you can’t walk back into it.”
The slim man didn’t wait for the group to corral him. He sprang, his fist connecting so hard with the bully’s face I could hear the splintering of the plastic sunglasses from three dozen yards away. The bully’s head rocketed, and he stumbled backward.
Burly Boy moved in for the attack. The target spun and thrust a kick into his thigh, kicking his leg out from underneath him. He screamed in a voice too high-pitched for someone his size.
“I’m done!” Burly Boy whined, holding his leg and limping at an impressive speed toward the intersection in the opposite corner of the park, where a handful of window shoppers gawked at goods through glass.
Though it gave him a temporary advantage, the move threw the slim man off-balance as the others neared.
The slim man might be able to hold his own for a while, but he would have to be seriously bad ass to last more than a half dozen minutes against a half dozen pieces of trash.
I lifted Creed. “You ready?”
The halberd-in-truncheon-form warmed in my hand.
I sprinted forward, giving Creed a shake. The truncheon extended. A six-foot weapon of destruction, its double-ax head sprang to life, the asymmetrical and half-moon axes promising violence from the top, while a wavy dagger jutted from the bottom.
“Please don’t make me regret this,” I whispered to the halberd, knowing full–well it would do whatever it wanted.
I never cast magic with Creed because I couldn’t control its spells. The weapon had once shown me its full promise in an apartment in Kaiserslautern, Germany, when an assassin attempted to, well, assassinate me and an angel named Cassie. Since that time, Creed’s magic had only shown itself on a few sessions where I practiced in privacy, and always of its own accord. I wasn’t even sure how to engage its magic, stubborn as that halberd was. Magic happened when Creed wanted it to, and not a moment before. The only gifts I partially controlled were my heightened inherent senses.
The haft vibrated. Was Creed laughing at me?
One man with a fluffy beard partially covering a long scar on his cheek, turned as I approached. His eyes widened almost comically when he saw me sprinting at him with the three-bladed weapon.
I lowered Creed and swung before Scar Boy figured out his next move. The haft of Creed connected with the man’s ankles as he attempted to leap over my strike. Wood cracked on bone, the halberd using the man’s momentum and lack of grounding to send him flying. He landed in a heap behind me as I continued toward the next bully.
This one had close cropped hair, the sides shaved in a military style. He tried to jump out of my way, but I thrust Creed to my side, looking like a marching band baton twirler. Creed clothes lined Military Man. The air sucked from his lungs at contact, and I left him behind, gasping and clutching his throat.
I didn’t want to use too much force, but like I said, Creed has a mind of its own. Taking care of Military Man was something he decided, not me. I was just the halberd’s executor.
I stopped, raced back to check on the human to make sure Creed had not done too much harm, and received a nasty surprise for my consideration. Scar Boy had grabbed the discarded garbage can during my distraction and sent it crashing down against the back of my head, knocking me flat on the ground. The world exploded in brilliant white light, and my mouth filled with the musky combination of dew and city water sprinkling systems. I tried to roll over but he was on my back, sending punches into my kidneys, shoulders, and skull. I kicked and scrambled, hoping to knock him off-balance and get to my feet before he knocked me out. I couldn’t get myself free. After a few rounds of punches, he made the mistake of mistakes. His hand slid along my arm to where I held Creed in a weakening fist.
