Fratricide, Werewolf Wars, and the Many Lies of Andrea Paddington

  Chapter Eleven: The Obfuscations of the Gods

  The words hung in the air a moment after McGregor finished. They took Paddington back to Archi, not only to the prophecy three years ago or the long school days slaving over arcane texts, but to memories of his mother. Andrea had never mentioned he had a brother. Why not? She must have known – she couldn’t have forgotten giving birth to another son – but she’d never said. Adonis must have threatened her with something truly awful to keep that from him.

  It solved one mystery, though: his father’s false-death two days after Paddington’s birth. Most likely he’d left to take this brother off Archi. There must be something in the counter-prophecy about this place. Whatever was about to happen must have to happen here. Adonis had been making everything ready.

  Oh, Gods.

  They didn’t know what the counter-prophecy was but if they followed the same pattern as last time, the only way to stop it would be to fulfil this prophecy. Did that mean Paddington would have to kill his brother – the brother he’d only just learned existed – to stop Adonis?

  Also, small point: who was his brother?

  So many unknowns.

  “You have a brother?” Truman asked.

  “That’s what it says.”

  “What’s the other prophecy?”

  “It’s not here,” McGregor said. “Someone cut the plaque off. Within the last few years and using a power tool, from the look of the brass. The only remaining copy is likely in another Book of Three.”

  “The Three-God wrote a sequel to Their own book?” Clarkson asked. “Talk about self-absorbed.”

  “Isn’t all religion?” Skylar asked. “‘Worship no god but me’. ‘Give me offerings’. ‘Obey the Lord your God’.”

  “‘That money is for the poor’,” Clarkson added. “‘Stop peeing in the holy water’.”

  “What do we know about this new Book?” Truman cut in.

  “There was always supposed to be three,” Paddington said. “Three originals, all slightly different. One Book for each God.”

  Beck ran a hand through the mess of hair that flopped toward his right eye and uttered an exasperated sigh. “How many gods do I need to believe in now?”

  “Three,” McGregor said, “well, one, or sort of—”

  “Look, this is all very interesting,” Clarkson said, “but it’s about to rain and I sleep for fourteen hours a day. Can we take this back to the nest?”

  “Good plan,” Truman said. His American accent had improved over the last few years from incredible to flawless.

  They were back at the hideout overlooking the castle before the weather hit. Clarkson disappeared to a bedroom and shut the door, McGregor uploaded a few photos he’d taken of the Tree onto his computer, Paddington resumed his place beneath blankets on the couch, and Truman placed his rifle down and leaned on the kitchen bench. “Skylar, Mitchell; I want plans of attack ready in an hour. Think of a lure we can use; the best places for ambushes or prolonged conflicts. Joel… I’ll fill you in on God.”

  Once Mitchell and Skylar had retreated to separate corners of the room, Beck and Truman took the seats opposite Paddington’s couch and Truman began. “There are three persons in the Three-God: Idryo, Enanti, and Tipote. On Archi there are churches for each of them and holy books, the originals of which are the Books of Three.”

  “What do they believe?” Beck asked.

  “The usual crap,” Mitchell said from his corner. “Imagine the biblical fall of man but replace ‘man’ with ‘werewolf’ and ‘woman’ with ‘vampire’ and you’re close enough.”

  “There were two Trees in the garden,” Truman said, “the Tree of Life and the Understanding Tree. The fruit of the Tree of Life gave consciousness to all living things. The first man and woman were tricked into eating from the Understanding Tree and understood all of life and, therefore, death.”

  Beck was carefully silent. “And what do they believe on a day-to-day basis?” he said after a moment.

  “The Church of Tipote believes in objectivity above all else, truth, balance,” Truman said. “The connections between all things.”

  “Very Zen,” Beck said. Paddington didn’t know what that meant, but said nothing. So far the Mainland had been a tremendous disappointment; he wasn’t sure knowing more would improve his opinion of it.

  “The Church of Enanti,” Truman continued, “believes in fellowship, the social group foremost. That humans are made for community with one another and that through that togetherness each member learns of themself and of the Three-God. The Church of Idryo believes in love and beauty. From Paddington’s accounts, Her followers tend to be the most affluent on Archi but membership is more exclusive and less civically-minded.”

  “The God of the upper-class?” Beck asked.

  “But there’s a disconnect,” McGregor said, having apparently finished with his photos – or multitasking as he worked on them; Paddington wasn’t sure which because he couldn’t see McGregor without getting up and that would require emerging from the blankets – “between the Gods we see on Archi and the ones in the Book of Tipote.”

  “What disconnect?”

  “The Idryo in Tipote’s Book wouldn’t play favourites, for one, and She’s not so much about love as She is creating. And Enanti is less concerned with togetherness as with destroying whatever Idryo has made. The three Races conform to the Churches on Archi rather than the Book – the werewolves are pack animals whereas the vampires are solitary and uppity – but that still doesn’t explain the disparities.”

  “The Gods are lying to their own followers?” Beck asked.

  “Or Adonis decided to ‘neaten’ the truth,” Paddington guessed. “Stop people getting confused or thinking for themselves.”

  “So you’re all followers of this Three-God?”

  “We’re believers,” McGregor said, “no doubt about that.”

  “But not followers?” Beck asked.

  “I don’t have enough information,” McGregor said.

  “I don’t care,” Skylar said.

  “I’m not the kind to bow a knee,” Mitchell said.

  “I follow Them,” Truman said. “I offer prayers to Enanti to help unify the Team, or to Idryo for peaceful resolutions to problems, or to Tipote to help me discern the truth of a scenario.”

  “And does that make any difference?” Beck asked. He seemed hopeful.

  “Not a demonstrable one,” McGregor said.

  “It does to me,” Truman said pointedly.

  “What about you?” Beck asked Paddington. It was a question he’d been dreading. “You’re part of the prophecies but you don’t worship them?”

  “Everything in my life I’ve worked for,” he said. “It wasn’t handed to me from on high, I earned it. Why should I praise the Three-God for the results of my efforts?”

  “But what about the afterlife? Hell and damnation?”

  “Any God worth a damn would understand why I behaved as I did and the person I’ve tried to be. I just have to hope that the action and intention count more than the name I used.”

  Truman took the conversation back after that, detailing more about the Three-God. The last time Paddington had heard such devotion was from a pastor. Actually, no, even pastors weren’t this devout. No one on Archi – with the exception of Adonis – had such encyclopaedic knowledge of the Gods.

  After a while, Beck dropped hints that he’d had enough of religion. Or at least, of the exact ritual for offering sacrifices of spices to Idryo in thanks for a bountiful harvest. Truman left to check on his troops. Paddington let his head drop down. It felt good. Really good. Perfection, right now, could be summed up as permission to just lie here and sleep.

  Instead, the intake of breath and shuffle of feet alerted him to the continued existence of Beck, now standing over him. “Sorry,” Beck said. “I can let you sleep if you’d rather. That’s probably best. You need to rest. You’ve been through a lot and it sounds like you’ll have a busy night.”


  Paddington forced a smile. It took less effort than he’d expected. “It’s fine.”

  “So, uh… You said you’d never been off your island before?”

  “First time travelling abroad. You?”

  “Never left Estika. It’s home. Sure it’s isolated, and I don’t really fit in the social scene, and I don’t have a whole lot of, well, friends, but it’s… Actually, now that I talk about it I’m not sure why I’ve never left.”

  Paddington knew that feeling. “No family here?”

  “No family left. Never knew my mother; dad didn’t talk about her. He died five years ago; cancer.”

  No mother; grew up in the same town as the Andrastes’ summer home, complete with a Tree and a prophecy…

  Paddington looked at Beck. Really looked at him. Brown hair a shade darker than Paddington’s. Browny-grey eyes a shade lighter than Paddington’s and deeper-set. Bigger nose and jaw; more nervous ticks and mannerisms. But the same probing look behind the eyes. He’d even picked the same job as Paddington.

  “What was your father’s name?” Paddington asked.

  “Connor,” Beck said. “Why?”

  Not Gregory. “Nothing.” And it was. The Andrastes could easily have changed his name. Besides, what Paddington was thinking was ridiculous. There was no evidence that Beck was his brother. Just… hints.

  Beck sat on the arm of the couch and smiled down at him. “So you’re a demon?”

  “Hmm? Yeah. Well, that’s the term for it. I’m actually a human, not some kind of monster.”

  Beck smiled. “Most of the time?”

  “I’ll have you know, I’ve never hurt anyone as a wolf.”

  Beck caught the qualification. “And as a human?”

  “Once I did cut off someone’s head.”

  Beck’s eyebrows rocketed skyward.

  “With a family heirloom.”

  “Okay…”

  “To be fair, he was trying to destroy the world.”

  “Right.”

  “And the heirloom was a sword.”

  Beck stared. “You saved the world?”

  “For a little while,” Paddington said.

  “And now you’re going to kill your brother and save it again?”

  Talk about direct. It took Paddington a moment to answer. “Apparently.”

  “I think I should hear the whole story,” Beck said. “Might save time in the long run.”

  Paddington shuffled his shoulders until he was comfy, then told his story: being the bobby on Archi, calling the Team, finding the prophecy, becoming a werewolf, fighting the Browns. Beck interrupted to clarify when Paddington’s narrative lacked focus or he became too enamoured with descriptions of being the wolf, but mostly he sat and listened with careful attention and an almost-unblinking gaze.

  “How about you?” Paddington asked when all was finished.

  “My life isn’t interesting like yours.”

  Paddington found that hard to believe. The man lived on the Mainland. He fought crime in a town the Andrastes had taken a personal interest in. The mobile phone that McGregor had taken the battery out of – something about its GPS giving away their location – contained more technology than half of Archi. Beck didn’t have a wife waiting for him, but that was the only way Paddington’s life was superior to Beck’s.

  “Tell me about it anyway,” Paddington said.

  Beck did. He was mostly right: his life wasn’t interesting. For the most part it consisted of routine but it was, on the whole, a good life and a happy one. Was Paddington really supposed to end it? Why? He wasn’t embittered by Beck’s victories. He wasn’t embittered at all. He wished Beck only the best and happiest future.

  “I need to talk to McGregor,” Paddington said. The doctor was sitting at the kitchen bench, staring at a computer without a keyboard. “What’s that?” Paddington asked as he sat on the stool next to him.

  McGregor looked up, startled out of his thoughts. “A scan of the Book of Tipote. I’ve been looking for any hint of this prophecy. Tipote chronicles every action of the other two, but there’s nothing about this. It ends with the Browns’ prophecy. A very odd omission.” McGregor put the tablet computer on the bench beside him. “Something you wanted?”

  A couple of things. To ask him about Lisa’s pregnancy, mostly, but Lisa hadn’t even told her family – her birth family, that was; her adoptive mother passed away a year ago – and Paddington couldn’t tell McGregor before them. She’d be more than mad enough at him for leaving her on Archi without also blabbing about the baby.

  “Yeah, actually,” Paddington said. “I think the Andrastes forced my father to leave Archi with my brother, and now we come here, and see the Tree, and…” Paddington lowered his voice. “I may be crazy, but I think Beck is my brother.”

  McGregor frowned as if still waiting for the crazy part. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “It had?”

  McGregor scratched his scraggle of blond-red goatee. “I’ve been running you against everyone I knew on Archi for a match. It’s… sort of what my brain does if I leave it alone for five seconds. So far, the best match is Clarkson.”

  “Clarkson?”

  “He’s taller than you, granted, and with a stronger jaw-line. Bigger build. But he has brown hair like you, and you two do bicker like family.”

  “But Clarkson knows his mother.”

  “He knows the woman his father is married to,” McGregor corrected. “You think Adonis couldn’t have arranged a marriage? Even some fake older siblings, if he wanted to be really convincing?”

  “I’m sure he could.”

  “Also it has a certain… symmetry.” Paddington must have looked confused, because McGregor drew a breath to explain. “The Three-God likes balance, right? Idryo the creator and Enanti the destroyer. So if the demon is a werewolf, it makes sense that his brother is a vampire. Plus, the Three-God likes to keep Their prophetic pawns close and Clarkson was on Archi last time. He even killed one of the Browns.”

  “Well, yeah, but I begat peace, summoned you all—”

  McGregor placed his hands palm-outward. “Oh, you’re the demon. Absolutely. No doubt. But it explains why the Andrastes didn’t kill him when they captured him in their manor: they needed him alive for this prophecy.”

  Okay, McGregor was becoming a bit too convincing. He’d come here to talk about Beck. “So… you don’t think it’s Beck?”

  The Londoner shrugged. “It’s possible. You share more personality traits than with Clarkson, and his living in this town is pretty damning.”

  “Is there any way to be sure?” Paddington asked.

  “Do you have a picture of your father?”

  “Never seen one. He died… well, left Archi before photographic equipment arrived.”

  “Then it’ll have to be a DNA test,” McGregor said. He sounded strangely keen. “I don’t have equipment for a full profile, obviously, but I should be able to jerry-rig some basic Y-chromosomal tests.”

  What did that mean? “Will basic be good enough to tell if we’re brothers?”

  “It should be. The more STR markers I check, the more recent we can be sure your shared ancestor is, but the longer it will take. I doubt I’ll have time for a comprehensive analysis before sundown, but if your ancestors have been on Archi for several generations—”

  “They have.” His mother had always been so proud of that: purebred Archians all.

  “—then any shared lineage is proof enough.”

  “Why the enthusiasm?”

  “It’ll give me something to do; take my mind off this prophecy until we know enough about it to draw accurate conclusions.” McGregor fussed in his backpack until he found what looked like an ear bud. “Open your mouth.”

  McGregor swabbed the inside of his cheek then sealed the sample in a glass phial.

  “If you’re related along the parental line, you’ll both have the same Y chromosome,” McGregor explained, “so you’ll either be brother
s, cousins, or father-and-son.”

  “My parents were both only children,” Paddington said. “And he’s too young to be my father.”

  “I know that, I’m…” McGregor huffed. “My point is, it doesn’t produce a read-out saying ‘Hooray! He’s your brother!’ At best, it puts you in the same family.”

  “Ah. Right. Thanks, McGregor.”

  “It’ll still be a while before I have your results, and I’d better keep Truman in the loop, and I’ll need samples from Clarkson and Beck, and I have to set up a lab in one of the other rooms…” The latter part of this sentence was directed, presumably, to the apartment at large, because McGregor was already wandering off, backpack in hand, to find a space for a workshop.

  Skylar and Mitchell’s hour was up and the discussion of battle plans had commenced around the kitchen’s centre bench. Skylar’s plan was to steal the next Book of Three by raiding the castle during the day, though she didn’t have satisfactory answers as to how it being daytime would help them in the subterranean sections of the castle. Her plan was, therefore, shelved until they’d heard Mitchell’s idea.

  Which was to bomb the castle and toast marshmallows as it burned.

  “That doesn’t get us the Book,” Truman said.

  “Who cares?” Mitchell asked. “If we kill the vampires, their prophecy doesn’t matter a toss.”

  “Last time the prophecy wasn’t even really related to them,” Paddington pointed out. “Killing them might not solve anything.”

  Mitchell gritted his teeth into what might have been supposed to be a smile. “Fine. Then let’s send in Clarkson.”

  “Are you mental?” Skylar asked.

  “Clarkson can’t fight them all,” Truman said.

  “He won’t fight,” Mitchell said, “he’ll spy. If he finds the Book, he steals it and comes back to us. If not, he either works for us on the inside or kills some of them during their sleep. Evens the odds a bit.”

  “That’s a suicide run,” Truman said.

  “Only if he’s stupid enough to get caught.”

  “He’s exactly that stupid,” Skylar said.