The Brothers Thanatos

Joshua Gamon

Description

After the ritualistic murder of Max’s younger brother, Charlie, the grieving warlock tethers the man’s soul to his own to keep it from eternal damnation. He knows the only one who can change that fate is the great Celestial Beast, Lucifer, but finding the devil is not easy. As Max’s search plunges him into an insidious world of horrors and fabled societies, he finds a lost girl who might hold the key to all his troubles, not realizing she will bring him far greater troubles than he can imagine.

Sujets

• Fiction
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Markosia Enterprises Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 février 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781915387189
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

THE BROTHERS
THANATOS
by
Joshua Gamon
A Novel

The Brothers Thanatos TM & © 2023 Joshua Gamon & Markosia Enterprises, Ltd. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction of any part of this work by any means without the written permission of the publisher is expressly forbidden. All names, characters and events in this publication are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Published by Markosia Enterprises, PO BOX 3477, Barnet, Hertfordshire, EN5 9HN.
FIRST PRINTING, January 2023.
Harry Markos, Director.
Paperback: ISBN 978-1-915387-17-2
eBook: ISBN 978-1-915387-18-9
Book design by: Ian Sharman
Front cover art by: Sam Healy
Back cover art by: Renae De Liz
www.markosia.com
First Edition
Contents
BOOK I 7
CHAPTER ONE: BOMBAY, 1909 9
CHAPTER TWO: DAUGHTERS OF NEW YORK, 1929 31
CHAPTER THREE: OLD FRIENDS, NEW ENEMIES 47
CHAPTER FOUR: A MAN NAMED SEXTON 58
CHAPTER FIVE: CHINATOWN 69
CHAPTER SIX: THE ELECTRIC CIRCUS 79
CHAPTER SEVEN: THE LONG WAY DOWN 96
CHAPTER EIGHT: EVERY BIRD IN ITS PLACE 107
CHAPTER NINE: THE MURDER SOCIETY 115
BOOK II 133
CHAPTER TEN: THE TURNING OF THE DAWN 135
CHAPTER ELEVEN: A FUNERAL FOR A FRIEND 152
CHAPTER TWELVE: TO HELL AND BACK 163
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: HEAVEN AND HELL 175
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: LAZARUS 188
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: AMMON SAFAR 200
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: OLD BOOGIEMEN 215
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: TEETERING ON A KNIFE’S EDGE 232
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: BACKS AGAINST OBLIVION 248
CHAPTER NINETEEN: OLD GHOSTS 256
CHAPTER TWENTY: THE COMPANY WE KEEP 276
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: THE FIRST BEAST 291
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: END OF THE LINE 306
For my mother, who never
once stopped believing in me.

BOOK I
-
OF MONSTERS & HEROES & MEN
CHAPTER ONE: BOMBAY, 1909
Max hoisted himself onto the metal railing of the P&O Line’s Dewan , and watched as the frigate’s hull below split the ocean in two. He leaned forward into the night, allowing the fullness of the cool sea spray to wash over him. With a flick of his finger, he dismissed the wind-shear barrier he had created to keep him from toppling into the ocean, and dangled himself fearlessly over the black abyss. The Dewan had finally discovered the faint lights of the Port of Bombay after being delayed at sea. They sparkled like a thousand glittering stars in the distance. Max couldn’t tell where the ocean ended and where the night sky began.
He grinned as he removed his top hat from his rapidly balding head, and playfully extended it outwards until the strong winds tore it from his hand. Three weeks at sea he had spent, and the Dewan was days behind schedule. But India was finally before him. He wouldn’t have missed his brother’s wedding for the world. “Charlie,” he bellowed, for all of India to hear, “I made it!”
***
Max stepped out onto the plank. The Port of Bombay looked as if it someone had kicked an anthill. Workers bustled, soldiers marched, vendors hocked. The trains left the station, ships were docking. Nothing ever stopped moving.
“Hello there,” he heard someone shout from the crowd. There emerged a middle-aged Indian man dressed in a white suit of silk. “I presume you are Mister Maximilian Thanatos.”
The magus walked down the plank to the dock. “Call me Max. Not Maximilian. Not Mister Thanatos,” he insisted. “They are names I associate with my father.”
“Well, it’s a wonderful pleasure to finally meet you, Max ,” he said as he took the westerner’s hand into his. “You certainly match the description given to me by my employer. I work for your brother. My name is Mahesh,” he added with a nod. “His assistant. I am here to collect you.”
“Why isn’t Charlie here to meet me?” His disappointment was plain.
“Ah, yes. He told me you would say that, and instructed me to be frank. The port is hardly a place for my employer at this time of night. The Swadeshi Movement has found its way to Bombay.”
Max shrugged indifferently. “I don’t know what that means.”
“To put it simply: it complicates everything, especially for someone of your skin colour.”
That, Max understood. As a man born in the American South, he knew prejudice intimately.
“Please, I have a carriage and an escort waiting for us,” the Indian said, beckoning urgently with an arm. “Where is your luggage?”
Max simply patted his left breast pocket, “Close.”
Mahesh didn’t understand, but nodded anyway. “Come. It’d be best to have this place at our backs as quickly as possible.”
They hustled behind a spice-and-fish bazaar, careful to avoid the crowd, if that was even possible. The combined stench of curry powders and seafood was overwhelming, and Max didn’t hesitate to pull a handkerchief over his nose to mask the smell. The locals took notice. Shouting reverberated throughout the marketplace. He ignored it until he realized the people were screaming at him. Max spoke over a dozen languages, but Hindi was not one of them. However, the content was clear: he was not welcomed.
“Hurry, before the matter escalates,” Mahesh warned.
Max was relieved when they finally reached the carriage. He was met with a curious sight: four mountainous Sikhs flanked the carriage on bicycles. Rifles were slung over their backs. Sheathed sabres dangled on their hips. Mahesh wasted no time in ushering Max inside, as rocks and vegetables pelted the sides of the carriage.
“Still, friendlier than Five Points,” Max admitted, as he watched the Sikhs disperse the mob with warning shots into the air.
The port faded away in the distance, along with the drama. From his cushioned seat, Max watched as children, dressed as brightly-coloured demons, danced in the streets, exploding firecrackers at each other’s feet. He leaned towards Mahesh, “What’s the occasion?” He parted the window’s curtain further for a better view.
“The children are dressed as Ravana, the demon king,” he said. “It is past midnight, so that makes it the first day of Diwali: a celebration of the victory of light over darkness.”
“So this ‘Ravana’ of yours loses the fight?”
Mahesh chuckled at the broad claim. “You speak as though it’s like a game of cricket, with winners and losers. Good versus evil isn’t a contest, it’s a struggle. When I was a young soldier, I visited Istanbul with my brother. There, we watched Ottoman soldiers partake in a strange sport called oil wrestling. These two men, matched evenly in size and strength and covered in olive oil, fought to a stalemate again and again. They could not secure a grip. They crashed into each other; one soldier would be forced to take a step back, while the other stepped forward, but neither would fall.”
Max rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Sounds like a tedious thing to watch.”
Mahesh smiled. “That is the struggle between good and evil, my friend: victory in small measures, not dominance. Are you a religious man, Mister Thanatos? Ah… Max,” he quickly corrected.
Max shook his head. “Faith is a man stepping off a cliff expecting to fly.” His voice softened as they rolled past a mob burning a straw effigy of Queen Victoria at a stake. The brightness of the fire stung his sensitive eyes. “After I watched my mother pass away, I stopped believing in God.”
They travelled north along the Mahim Bay, which glistened like precious stones in the moonlight. It was quiet and serene, a stark contrast to the civil unrest behind them. Reclaimed from the sea, Bandra was the wealthiest district in an already prosperous city. Charlie called it home. His bungalow was a sprawling estate overlooking the bay, and it was nearly as large as their father’s plantation. Perhaps even larger.
Max beamed at the sight. How proud he was of his brother. Every foot of the grounds was immaculately manicured. Palm trees swayed in the breeze. Monkeys roamed freely. The grass was emerald. The scene was pristine; regal. Charlie even had Sikhs posted around the bungalow, and he wondered if the troubles had even reached all the way to Bandra.
A dozen servants stood like sentinels along the path to the entrance. Everyone, seemingly, had come out to meet him, except for his brother. The agitation of that clawed at him. A lanky man, taller than Max, broke away from the line, and tried to assist the magus out of the carriage, but Max ignored him, only caring about one thing. “Tell me my brother’s on his way.”
“No, sir, the master retired for the evening, some hours ago.”
“Then wake him up, or I will. I had spent weeks at sea just to see him. The least he could do is meet me at the door.”
Mahesh exited the carriage behind Max. “Mister Thanatos—”
“Max,” the magus bit.
“I was referring to Mister Charles Thanatos,” he politely corrected. “He will be away on important business at dawn, and requires his rest,” he implored, obviously trying his best to soothe his guest. “But he cordially invited you to join him for brunch tomorrow in the conservatory.”
“How kind of him,” Max sneered, shaking his head in dismay, surprised his brother even had the time to fit him into his schedule at all. But he had waited weeks to see Charlie. A few more hours wouldn’t hurt.
***
The morning sun was relentless. There was no escape from the blasting Indian heat. The windows were open, but there never came a breeze. Max had spent most of the night watching the insects bombard the netting hung over his bed like a tent. He peeled himself from his sheets. His tongue felt like cork. On the dresser, a servant had placed a kettle of coffee while he slept. The rising steam from the spout was enough to twist his stomach into knots. He already hated India.
He removed a snuffbox of wood and ivory from the jacket he had left draped over a chair. He opened the lid and, w