She's no goddess, she's a monster

LUCKY

"Lucky? You're early. And... what is that?"

"A stray," I toss back off-handedly the moment I've fully materialized inside the room. Smoke curls away from my limbs, my mouth; I huff out a breath to clear it away from my eyes, wrinkling my nose. Drake takes longer to become corporeal again, and his weight gradually sinks into my arms, giving me plenty of time to prep. Once the last of the smoke has lifted from him, I deposit him as gently as I can atop the bed that dominates one wall of the small hotel room.

He doesn't move a muscle - and he won't for hours. Unless the nausea drags him from the waters of unconsciousness. Which, now that I think about it, is a distinct possibility. I'll have to keep an eye on him so that he doesn't choke on his own vomit before he's fully awake. Having gone to all that trouble to preserve his life, it would be tragic to have him die such an unbecoming death under my watch.

"It's not like you to take in beggars," Luke points out - not unreasonably, I might add - from his place against the wall directly opposite me. He stands with his arms crossed, his head cocked in slight wonderment; he's unabashedly devouring the sight of the oblivious officer on the bed. Luke's always taken an interest in humans despite my warnings, and while this wouldn't be his first chance to observe one up close, he treats it with the same reverence as if it were. "In fact, it's so against your nature" - he takes the few steps required to stand at my side and brushes aside the hair at my temple, cups my chin with his other hand and rotates my chin to inspect the other side - "I'm wondering if I shouldn't be worried about the state of your head."

I knock his hand away, frowning.

"I would appreciate the concern if it wasn't so baseless."

"Boss, I'm joking. It was a joke."

"I'm aware. I just didn't find it funny."

"Cruel person you are, boss. I'd call you a heartbreaker if I thought you actually talked to people besides us."

I shoot Luke a glower but all he does is grin in response, hooking his thumbs in the loops of his jeans and rocking back casually on his heels. Insults and death threats roll off Luke as though he's been freshly Windexed, and while it's an attribute I consider mostly advantageous, there are times when all I want to do is ring his thick neck for it.

"I need you to do something for me, Luke."

His playful expression falls away in an instant, and the hand he'd been reaching up to ruffle my hair claps onto my shoulder meaningfully. His amber eyes watch mine intently; he'd be ready to move at the slightest sign of trouble if I asked it of him. It's a comfort, honestly, having him so accustomed to my mannerisms that he doesn't even question the seriousness of my request.

"Anything, Lucky. What would you have me do?"

My mind flickers back to the ember of Nike's presence I felt in the city square, the looming dread hovering over Philadelphia as a whole I subconsciously picked up. As I've time to think now, the sensations from before are resurfacing, and I feel them more keenly without the distractions of either Nike or their cohort. My eyes fall shut, and I brace a hand against the corner of the bed to keep my knees from buckling; Luke grabs me under the arm for support, his face warped by worry lines he wears more often than I'd like.

"Fine," I mumble, rubbing at my chest to chase away the phantom burn, "I'm fine. It's... Nike's aura has changed," I explain to his perplexed look. I wince. "I recognized it through the bond, not the actual feeling it presented to me. There's... a new layer to it, complex and fiercely bright."

Luke furrows his brow. "Bright? Isn't that normal for Nike?"

"It's more."

"More... what?"

"More Nike. More of them, their essence, their life, their purpose. Just... more."

Luke isn't wholly convinced, but he doesn't question me further. Instead, he eases me onto the bed, careful not to jostle the still-sleeping Drake (though Luke looks as though he's half a second from throwing Drake onto the floor to give me a more comfortable position propped up against the wall). I'm tempted to remind him that it takes only seconds for me to heal, but the idea of someone troubling themselves over me is strangely appealing. No doubt it's another human trait that's attached itself to me.

I wonder if scrubbing myself raw will rid me of these petulant wants and needs.

"Tell me what's happened, Lucky."

The unyielding determination in Luke's stare is too much for me to resist, and I start in on my tale of the last few days, all the atrocities that have transpired just under my nose, my powerlessness to affect any sort of change in this unstable dynamic Nike seems intent on nurturing. He's silent throughout my story, only grimacing at certain points to show his disgust for Nike's actions. When I come to the part that happened only - wow, has it been just ten minutes? - a short while ago, he looks justifiable confused, just as I had when I questioned the significance of one of Nike's cronies attempting to drop me with a few measly bullets.

"A message?" he guesses.

"My thoughts exactly. And I fear I know the meaning of it."

Luke must read the suspicions in my solemn expression, because his hands clench where they rest atop his knees, bunching up the fabric of his jeans and chalking up his knuckles.

"They can't be serious."

I say nothing, afraid my tongue might betray me and spout off the root of my hunch. It's something I'd prefer not to look at too closely if I can manage it, and while I'm sure Luke would respect that, it's better not to give him the temptation at all.

"Lucky, tell me they can't be serious," Luke presses, leaning closer to me so that his face crowds my downturned one; his breath has turned hot and panicked, and I turn my face to the side, the heat prickling my mouth and nose too much a reminder of Nike's presence. "After all this time? Why now?"

"They must sense that something has shifted in their favor," I muse aloud, heaving another sigh. "Or perhaps they've simply had enough of this tired old regime."

The look of reproach Luke sends my way makes me rethink the rest of that thought, and I wisely switch tracks.

"I still have something to ask of you, Luke."

"Name it, Lucky."

"Gather the others, Luke. Bring them to the Woods, tell them everything. And send out another round of runners, will you? Whatever Nike's planning, we have to do everything we can to counteract it."

Luke nods, but then his gaze darts to Drake, and his resolve wavers. He doesn't want to leave me alone with the officer, not when he has cause to think I'm in anything less than top condition. Another frown tugs at my lips. He shouldn't have such fears, but Luke has had a knack for surprising me with his humanity since the dawn of his creation; it's why I even allow him to take human form when so few of my followers ever make the change.

Catching Luke's eye, I allow a trickle of power to rush through my veins, and the black ribbons I used before return, coalescing now into an aura that enshrouds my entire body. It pulses in time with the beat of my imagined heart, flickering like shadows in the sunlight. My eyes blaze from beneath the veil of black, colored with their own breed of shadows - and Luke bows his head, accepting my show of my power for what it is.

"I'll leave immediately," he says - and then he's gone, reduced to nothing but a shadow along the floor that quickly vacates the room, slipping out under the door with record speed.

I exhale quietly, savoring the solitude for a few heartbeats. Rarely these days am I ever alone for more than a few hours. If it isn't Luke coming to report an increase in the number of catastrophes we're meant to carry out, it's another of my followers warning me not to overexert myself, or informing of me a new bagel place I'll be just dying to try once I make my rounds in Cincinnati.

(The priorities of my ravens are called into question quite frequently, much to my chagrin and Luke's delight)

But this quiet - away from the masses, away from the city, away from humans. This quiet is my sanctuary, and one that I am aggressively protective of. Luke can usually tell when I require an absence of company, but sometimes - like now, for instance - he subconsciously puts aside that need in favor of his own precautionary instincts. More than once I've tried to condition the instinct out of him, for both our sakes, but he's incredibly resilient in the strangest of ways, and I never made much headway.

He shouldn't be so worried, though, especially given where I've come to escape from the world for a bit. This room is one of hundreds in a small, charming hotel in the heart of a certain city - one-hundred percent anonymous. And really, I am the world's greatest security system. Death and decay are at my fingertips at any moment, and should I choose to let them loose, they could keep at bay even the most persistent of intruders.

Except, I suppose, Nike themselves. Nike's power is equal to my own - or, it was. When we both played by the rules, when we both swore that we would stay within the confines of our universal roles. With Nike acting up as they are, they've become unpredictable, and if they're willing to destroy the balance we have worked for eons to cultivate and manage... then they could very likely reduce me to nothing more than ashes.

Just like I did with that dove.

What could possibly have happened to bring about this mess?

I'm half-expecting (half-hoping) for an answer from the disembodied voice currently taking up residence in my head. Of course, there is none, and who knows? That may be because that voice is only a figment of twisted psyche; I could believe that the disturbed balance is affecting me both physically and mentally, resulting in what would amount to insanity in this particular form. That would be just perfect, the absolute best icing on the most toxic cake ever crafted.

So, par for the course.

I do get a response, though, but it's a grunt, and it's coming from the previously comatose Officer Drake, so I can't say that I'm all that pleased about it.

He comes to slowly, blinking and squinting against the light of the fluorescent lamp on the bedside table. I watch as his hand wanders across the bedspread experimentally, each movement calculated and the corresponding information recorded. The softness must surprise him; he lifts his head, shaking it once to clear away the last cobwebs of sleep, his eyes falling to the bed underneath him, as though he's having trouble reconciling it with the last memory of city smog and gritty asphalt.

I decide to take pity on him (and possibly speed up this process, because Fate knows I am not in the mood for it) by clearing my throat to alert him to my presence. It works like a charm; he bolts upright, his spine taut, one hand clenched around a fistful of blankets, the other patting his side in search of (presumably) his firearm. Unfortunately for him, I took great care to avoid having his gun make the trip with us; my feelings about those abominations haven't changed despite my own use of them, and I really do try to steer clear of them whenever I can.

"Alright," I say, clapping my hands together, an action that has Drake going tense all over; he's jumpier than I thought. Wonderful. "Let's get this over with. I would ask that you call me Lucky, but feel free to inquire about my other names. I'll ask about yours later. As for our first order of business, I'm going to tell you all about the big, scary entity that, as of three-twenty-three this afternoon, wants you dead. Are you going to need a bathroom break before I get into the nitty-gritty of it all?" His open-mouthed stare is answer enough, and so I delve right into to his personal tale of woe.