Life as a New Hire Ch. 46

Juanita bowed slightly, turned and left. Oh, she'd be calling this in. The difference was, she'd have to explain I was furious and why I was furious and that would make Buffy furious with her. And deep down, Juanita knew she was in the wrong. The next bodyguard(s) to show up would either be highly discrete, or someone I couldn't easily shove away.

I had an immediate emotional crisis to deal with.

"I ..." the girl in 3F mumbled, looking at everything, but me.

"Ya know, your decision to give the maid the week off was really inopportune," I grinned at her.

"Ah?" She was stumped.

"I owe you a favor, or three, don't I?" I inquired.

"You don't have to look at it that way," she evaded verbally while making eye contact.

"Deal," I widened my smile. "We are going out to the Egyptian place a few blocks over. Get dressed. While you are doing so, I'm going to go completely OCD on you and pick up your living room. Pretend to be surprised when you come out," I finished with a chuckle.

"You ... ah ... don't have ... ah ... to," she worked through the weirdness of it all. My smile won her over.

"Good. Get dressed. I'll call my roommate and his boyfriend to hurry over here and help. Hurry!"

"My place is a mess," she gulped.

"But it won't be ... and face it, after seeing me and my bodyguard get into a spat after her 'beyond' rude behavior and my offer to clean up your apartment, today can't get much more bizarre, now can it?"

Yes. Yes it could, but by burying the bizarreness of me and Juanita, I was actually doing her a tangible favor - cleaning up her place - and taking her out with the option for sensuality later.

"Oh ... you are right. That was pretty weird," she agreed with an impish smile. "I'll get dressed."

She skipped off to her bedroom. I called Timothy and had him and Sovann hot-foot it over to 3F with a box full of trash bags. Her place was a mess - capital 'M'.

Take an impossibly awkward situation of finding a guy you are sexually curious about, his gay roommate and his gay roommate's boyfriend in your apartment's main room cleaning up the place and turn it into a game. Forty-five minutes later, Theddy (Theodora) wasn't sure why she felt embarrassed about having the three of us over.

We put sixteen extra-large trash bags on the curb along with her old sofa. We gave her our brand new, sleeper-sofa since we would soon be departing. I was also giving her my relatively new bed (we would work out a deal on my suspension equipment). We chiseled her old carpet off the floor - it was beyond gross, tore out her garbage disposal - it was developing intelligent life - and cleaned her bedroom and bathroom too.

All along, we bantered about numerous topics including ...

[Sovann] "So what do you do for a living?"

[Theddy] "I'm a sound technician ... I dub for ... pornos ..."

[Me] "My ... how bizarre. I love porn. Have you done anything I may have listened to?"

[Theddy] "Maybe ... I also sell the soundtracks of your sex-capades." She was blushing, shuffling her feet and looking down as her confession spilled forth.

[...]

[Theddy] "I saw a girl break into your place, but didn't report it. Was that okay?"

[Timothy] "What did she look like?"

[Sovann] "Was she armed?"

[Me] "Hey now!"

[Sovann] "You're right. Stupid question. Of course she was armed."

[Theddy] "Really?"

[Me] "Plenty of women show up to my place unarmed. Odette has never shown up armed. Neither has Brooke, or Libra."

[Timothy] "It is so sad when it is easier for you to name your unarmed girlfriends than your armed ones."

[Me] "It is NOT that bad."

[Timothy] "Yes it is."

[Me] "No it isn't."

[Sovann] "Yes it is. Shall I name five?"

[Me] "Fine," I hung my head. "Let's not."

[Theddy] "Do you hang out with really deadly women?"

[Me] "Define 'deadly'."

[Timothy] "Yes, he does."

[Sovann] "Bro, it's gotten so bad, Odette started giving a technical critique to the last action movie we watched together."

[Me] "That's not my fault."

[Timothy] "Right. It's your crazy Grandmother's and your buddy in the SAS' faults."

[Me] "Pamela's not really my Grandmother and he's not in the SAS. He's in the SRR. They're totally different."

[Theddy] "I noticed you didn't say she wasn't crazy... and who is the SRR?"

[Timothy] "The British Special Reconnaissance Regiment."

[Me] "They're big map and compass people."

[Sovann] "Like big, delicious Boy Scouts."

[Timothy] "With guns."

[Sovann] "Oh. He had a gun?" and then Timothy threw a coach pillow at him.

[...]

[Theddy] "I'm sorry that guy tried to kill you."

Pause as we three looked at each other.

[Timothy] "Which one of us?"

[Me] "Which time?"

[Sovann] "Hang out with Cáel and you'd be surprised how many people show up trying to kill you ... or him ... or someone else."

[Theddy] "Really?"

[THE CULT OF THE JAGUAR]

We were walking back from the eatery. They were walking from the direction of Casa de Timothy, heading our way. There were five Latinos: two girls and three guys. To put it more accurately, there was one lady, one woman and three men. To say it like it was - there was one spirit-creature, one priestess-savant and three foot soldiers.

As previously revealed, the various members of the 9 Clans operated differently. The Cult of the Jaguar operated like a ... cult. They had a mess of flunkies at the lowest level - cast-offs, ex-drug users, the insane and those not quite right in the head. Essentially those people operated as a nearly endless supply of cannon-fodder for the Cult's activities and served as a base of worship for the Cult's divinities.

Next up the ladder you had the 'messengers'. Normally, they were not actually part of the cults, instead running the more mundane operations the Cult (big 'C') owned and operated as well as interacting with the various cults (little 'c'). Often 'messengers' worked for the Cult for generations in family businesses with some members not knowing the totality of their involvement with the criminal underworld.

Then you had the priestly caste. Priests, priestesses, savants and priest/ess-savants ... the priests and priestesses performed rites, led rituals and ran the organization. Savants, like my Amazon augurs, had mystic powers granted/cursed to them by interactions with supernatural beings.

In the Cult, there were four ways to get your priestly caste. You could train them. Some divinities had schools who trained their leadership up from a young age. Like any other profession, you learned and progressed as you grew older.

Or, a divinity could 'imprint' the knowledge in you. I understood those priest and priestesses burned out rather rapidly. Less we forget, this was a cabal of ruthless killers we are talking about.

You could also create a savant in the same method ~ spiritually twist some poor soul to serve a purpose. Their life expectancy wasn't worth writing home about.

Or, you could breed them ... yeah. Breeding people with supernatural horrors ... and these were my allies. Of course, being walking-talking abominations to the Weave had its own psychological pitfalls ...

And, at the top of the individual cults were things like the 'lady' coming at me right now. I'd been briefed about them and theorized I could make one out for what it really was because of my own mixed-up noggin - and I was right. Heading up each individual cult in the Cult of the Jaguar were avatars for the various divinities within the Cult pantheon.

Despite its name, the Cult of the Jaguar was not devoted to the jaguar (the animal), or even the Jaguar God (alone). It was an amalgamation of various Northern and Southern Native American divinities ~ okay FUCKING NASTY ASS divinities who feasted on death to keep a toe-hold in our reality. They had NOT gotten along with Christianity, nor agreed with the Weave's verdict that their time had passed.

The Weave's response was pretty clear. It had things like measles and smallpox to undercut those divinities' worship base to which these powers had no counter. Every other pantheon had retired into legend, like the Amazon Goddesses, or behind layers of mundane ritual, like the Hindi. These guys, and gals, refused to accept the message and still practiced that Old Time Religion.

How they ended up in the 9 Clans wasn't explained to me. They killed people - that was for damn sure. The only true assassins were the cult leaders. Of all the 9 Clans, they were the worst. No person had EVER survived having a contract accepted by the Cult of the Jaguar ... no amount of hiding, running, or fighting back had ever saved anyone. They always killed their targets. Always.

The reason was their leaders weren't human. They were monsters - think Grendel from Beowulf's Saga. Sure they looked human on the outside. Somewhere around the tenth shotgun blast to the face, they looked a whole lot less human, but that didn't stop them. According to my Alal-knowledge ... you dismembered it rapidly (they healed pretty quick) and then burned the severed bits. He'd done it before ... to more than one of them ... just not this one ... 'cause it wasn't like any of those creatures stayed dead ... or forgave, or forgot a damn thing. Oh joy. Me, him and our extremely distinctive emerald-green eyes.

As a final note: technically the Cult of the Jaguar controlled all 9 Clans' territory in North and South America. In actuality: in Canada, they let the Brotherhood of the Wolf establish bases. In the US east of the Mississippi and north of the Gulf, they allowed the Black Hand and Brotherhood to work. In Brazil and the Caribbean, they allowed the Coils of the Serpent to set up shop. All three did so knowing they operated under sufferance of the Cult and the Cult didn't fuck around.

So, why didn't they send a representative to my Father's funeral? They had no clue who he was, or how things would turn out. Send the head of a cult? Dad wasn't worthy enough. (Recall, the Earth & Sky sent Iskender, not someone of note at the time.) Sending a mere 'messenger' would have been insulting to the Amazons. Instead, they let the other 9 Clans handle it ... and look how that turned out. Or ... I'm a fucking idiot.

[AND BACK TO ME]

No one outside the Cult of the Jaguar knew the precise number of composite cults made up the organization, but many of the divinities had a history. I was looking at ... the Obsidian Butterfly ... okay ~ a walking patch of starless night in the form of a constantly mutating voluptuous, hourglass-shaped woman, bipedal bat and eight-winged butterfly.

A quick mental 'background check' matched to her image gave me a name - Ītzpāpālōtl, so the wacked-out side-kick had to be her half-human 'daughter'. I had a feeling the various divinities didn't share offspring much, considering the spiritual investment actually breeding one took.

"Bro," Timothy whispered. "Freaky-looking chick staring our way."

"Yeah. I'm afraid so," I agreed. I subtly snuck an arm around Theddy who had picked up on our changing tone of conversation.

"I think we can take them," Sovann noted after studying them a moment.

"Let me clarify things for you," I snorted. "Tricycle, tricycle, tricycle, 4x4, Land Leviathan."

Yeah, we could kick the three guys' asses. Their basic brutality couldn't compensate for Sovann and Timothy's courage, bulk and brawling expertise. They were essentially for show anyway. The priestess-savant looked pretty young ~ say 19 to 23 ~ and fit, but not martially adept. I could take her. Timothy, or Sovann probably could take her, being bigger and stronger. The avatar was utterly deceptive in her lethality. None of us stood a chance against such a creature.

"I feel weird," Theddy shivered. She pressed tightly against me.

"Ever had a near-death experience?" I asked while keeping my eyes forward.

"Yeah. How did you know it felt like that?" Theddy looked up at me. I was peripherally aware of her head movement.

"Call it a hunch."

"That chick is seriously weirding me out," Sovann muttered.

"And she's looking pissed," Timothy added.

Oh yeah. She was probably trying to mystically scope me out and getting nowhere, thanks to Dot Ishara. Bitch (not Dot). We were closing with their group fast. I had to think faster.

"Take this," I handed Theddy my food container. I drew forth my phone and called my No. 5 ... no 6 ... no No. 7 Go-To Gal.

"Estere," I opened up. Estere Abed, the Hashashin assassin and current 9 Clans liaison with JIKIT.

"Yes Cáel?"

"Did you send someone to meet with me?"

"Yes. Per your 'office's' request, an emissary should be talking to you momentarily. I was led to believe your schedule had opened up. Is there a problem?"

"Composition of said embassy?"

"I was supposed to be ... it isn't a messenger, is it?"

"Nah."

"Are you in danger?"

"Hmmm ... too late now. Give Buffy a very special 'fuck you very much' in case I never get to see any of you ever again," I jibed.

"Cáel ..."

"I've got a not-amused Bat-girl to talk to. Take care. I'll update you later," and I hung up. What else could either of us say? To get around my pique and still protect me, Buffy had sent in the 9 Clans to chat with me, not understanding the nature of the chatters. In the past, Estere and Miyako had both protected me and calmed me down. Oh well.

"Cáel Wakko Ishara," the 'lady' greeted me.

"Yep. This is Timothy, Sovann and Theddy. We are on our way to see 'As Above, So Below'." I took the initiative. She was confused. "It's a movie."

"That is not why ..."

"Listen," I cut her off. "I apologize in advance for my brusque manner, but I'd rather try to ass-fuck a wild rhino than discuss business right now.

"I know who and what you are and I don't care. For the next eighteen hours I'm a 22 year old directionless moron who doesn't want to see things Man was not meant to see, the restless dead, or the look of disappointment on a woman's face. I don't mean to insult you. You are merely on the tail end of a three-month long Conga line which has been stomping all the happiness out of my God-damn life ...

"So smile and say 'hey, a movie sounds like a great idea' and join us,

"Let us go on our way for now while promising me endless agony later like every other fucking divine bitch in my life,

"Or give me thirty seconds to say good-bye to these nice normal people then I'm going to draw down on your merry little band of murderers and you're going to kill me, or I'm going to kill the rest and seriously inconvenience you.

"Now, has anything I said been unclear and, if not, can I please have my answer now? The movie starts in 30 minutes and I don't want to miss any of the previews."

"Teoyotlni?" she exhaled extenuating sexual menace. No, she had not given us her name. Nah, in the Olmec-derivative she was speaking, she had asked me 'do you know I am a goddess?' One word ~ cool.

"Acampa nicãcatzahuacatlhuatl cuel cuitlananaca," I responded smoothly. Loosely translated as no one in my shitty world gives a crap right now.

Now I knew why Alal knew their lingo.

What kind of body was he walking around in at this moment? It wasn't mine, my aunts claimed it wasn't his original one and Pamela had noted it wasn't right, the one time she'd met Alal since his return ... and here I was looking at an avatar ... which is basically a spirit made flesh. Fuck a duck. Somehow, somewhere along the line, Grandpa had figured out the mystic trick these divinities used. Probably through the judicious use of torture ... because that's the kind of role model he was - the Fucktard.

He didn't have their full range of supernatural powers, so his 'avatar solution' was temporary at best. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I still had this problem at hand. A little body politics was going on. The 9 Clans delegation had stopped, but the avatar kept coming. Timothy knew better and Theddy was rightly terrified for no obvious reason. Sovann decided he had to do something.

"I know you are having a bad day," he quietly chastised me as he tried to step forward to confront the woman. Timothy's powerful arm slammed out like a crosswalk bar, stopping his progress.

"Don't," was all he said. The intensity of his tone was enough. I pushed Theddy away and to my rear. There was a blind, deaf-mute across town in a coma who knew this bitch was furious with me - him and about a million other New Yorkers. NO ONE talked to her the way I had done - horrible-fucking day be damned - and lived long enough to joke about it.

The priestess-savant was distressed, not angry. Her guiding light in life was focused elsewhere. The three goons were equally adrift, yet their minimal attachment to social normalcy left them uncertain. There were precisely two things - okay, four things - keeping me alive. The fourth thing would come to her later when her 'furious was replaced by her 'curious' ~ as in how I knew her inhuman lingo ~ which would lead to my legacy with Grandpa.

The top three reasons -

She had poked my chest. It was a challenge, calling for one of my guardians to come out and play. The avatar knew I was the chosen heir of the Goddess Ishara and my goddess had devoted a good deal of time and effort to my survival and continued service in her cause. If Ishara made an 'appearance', it would be enough reason to not eviscerate me for my foul treatment of her august personage.

Nope. It seemed Ishara was busy at the moment.

Still, she most likely knew SzélAnya had shown a keen interest in me in Romania, though I'd never told Selena, or any other member of the 9 Clans, the Dragon's Daughter had killed Ajax for me. Figuring out SzélAnya, a storm deity, had helped me and Aya escape from our kidnapping in the midst of a cyclone in the Pacific Ocean wasn't much of a reach.

But no bolt of lightning coalesced from my chest to singe her finger. No clap of thunder. Not even a cloud with a hint of disfavor appeared above us.

Her obsidian fingernail began penetrating my shirt, touched my skin, then drew my blood ... and something 'twitched'.

That would be Contestant Goddess #3. She wasn't actually hanging around me. She didn't have to. She'd left me a memento of our last shindig before we parted ways. That was the nightmare-inducing episode where she, the chthonic goddess Sarrat Irkalli, had compressed one man's body into a dagger and then proceeded to suck another's soul into it to use as a power source for an Airbus 350 (a commercial airliner, if you didn't know).

I still had that snaggletooth-looking thing at my back. Well who the Hell was I going to leave it with? Honestly, the only people I felt could keep it safe I loved too much to curse with it. Anyway, the second her divine claw touched my blood, the long dormant weapon whispered to me in a somewhat bored, lofty feminine voice from beyond the grave,

Do you want me to discorporate this pathetic has-been for you?

Quick check. Only the avatar and I ... and her priestess-savant heard that. Of course, in downtown, New York City, noon Sunday, how weird would such a declaration be? The avatar's eyebrow arched. Her big bat-ears (still looking human to the normal viewing public) flicked this way and that, figuring out precisely where the threat originated from. Slowly, her once poking hand began to slide across my chest, along my ribs and around my back.

She touched the dagger. Nothing.

Gingerly, she drew it forth. I'd had a makeshift sheath made. As the blade made its journey around me, she took a half-step back to better observe it.

"Please don't kill him!" Theddy squealed. "We haven't had sex yet!"

Being 'who' and 'what' she was, the avatar did what came natural. Fortunately for Theddy, I'd become accustomed to working with psychopaths.