Project Anubis

There is an order to this delicate, vast yet small world. To some it is justice, vengeance, kindness. To others it’s all about money, power, conquest. Some seek out order through chaos and violence, and pain. And for others it is something entirely different. Whatever it may be, order is something that runs this home planet we call Earth. It is innate for mankind to seek guidance, to find a leader, a ruler. Over millennia gods and devils, heroes and villains, emperors and dictators have risen and crumbled.

It doesn’t matter how you dress it up, humans crave to be ruled just as children yearn to be disciplined. However, there is a catch twenty-two. You have to rule people how they wish to be ruled. Bless their crops, give them tax breaks on their land, let them borrow your ‘good’ soil. But, let’s be real, you can’t just give them what they want. Oh no. You must also punish their transgressors the way they want them to be punished. Curse their land with a famine, incarcerate them for living off the grid, make them do community service.

Gods and monsters have risen and fallen by the mortal hand of man. How many stories have know of gods blessing or terrorizing their people? Their people’s enemies? Next, let’s fast forward to Kings and Queens—murderous or loving? Police officers or criminals cast in the media as corrupt or misunderstood?

This is where I come in. My family bloodline is that of Godslayers, Kingslayers, Devil-Hunters, Monster-Hunters, Vigilantes—although, we do not appreciate that term nor being compared to Batman. We are an entity of our that worships only one thing: riches, gold, money. Any god, demon, or king can be destroyed for the right price.

We were there when the fire god Kagutsuchi was beheaded. When Set murdered his brother Osiris. We made certain these deities rose and fell, all depending on the weight of coin.

My oldest memory isn’t as clear as it once was. It has been tarnished with new experiences and imagination. It’s remarkable how the mind can influence itself. Much like that episode of Seinfeld when Jerry is certain his old classmate used to chew licorice gum, but in reality she was obsessed with Dentine. Or the time I knew I didn’t let go of my stuffed Loch Ness monster during our entire trip to Scotland—when in reality I did have to set him down every time I showered or used the restroom… I still miss that Nessie plushie.

But I do know that I saw the way a god bleeds. Some bled burning light, some bled tar as dark as night.

Ever since being a young teenage girl I have felt the hot stickiness of their blood. Smelled the iron or sulfur or lavender of their essence. I’ve never bathed in it. I was taught that no-no at a young age. But that story is for another time.

This story is about to kick off right here. The part where this strange, new client said to me: ”I need someone who can perform Sex Arts."

“Well, no. I won’t.”

We were seated across from each other on my L-shaped suede couch. Between us was a tray with various bottles. Some were decanters of wine or whiskey, along with bottles of sake or tequila. Grapes of red and white were also offered on the glass coffee table.

My client sat with his arms resting on his thighs. His suit was an expression of his wealth. It was gray with mute black patterns and made soft whispers every time he moved. His shoes were piercing black leather and I would bet my left kidney his watch was real gold. He used a roll of his wrist to stir his Bourbon.

“You’re the Granddaughter of Ivana Ether, aren’t you? I was told you are.”

I moved my eyes from the drink in my hand to meet his cold gaze. His eyes were so pale they looked void of color. I could tell he was used to getting what he desired. Those eyes of his said it all. But they weren’t his only asset. His jawline was strong and neatly kept. His hair showed he had a fun side, but was trimmed to profession.

“I am,” I brought the rim of my glass to my lips. Sour cherries filled my senses, “But what does that have to do with me?”

“Your Grandmother—Ivana Ether—was known for her skills in the more… carnal occult skills,” his apprehensiveness was cut short by his, as what I can only imagine, well-practiced self-control. I was careful not to expose too much intrigue. We were negotiating, after all. He needed me for a job. I’m not going to pretend it’s that easily one-sided. I have my needs too.

“You assumed I am her predecessor?”

We both looked each other in the eye.

“I’ve heard… incredible things about her Sex Arts,” he spoke not only with his full lips but with his hands. The Bourbon in his glass swirled.

“Mr. Grimm,” I crossed my legs, keeping my back straight, “I’m not a hooker—I’m an assassin.”

“I know,” he pressed on, “And I don’t mean to offend, I really don’t, but my… the target I’d like you to take out… Feh, you’re going to need something bigger than guns and knives. You’re going to need to get close to him. Closer than just some outsider killer. He can quite literately sniff you out. He has to trust you.”

After that, he took a big gulp and I watched the poison course through the muscular throat of his. I made a small salute with my glass and sipped, “I don’t use Sex Arts, but pray tell, who is this mark?”

“This guy,” my new client finally flashed me that grin full of perfectly straight and white teeth, “is the Protector of Graves… Preparer of the Dead… a damned mongrel.”

Anubis… the name echoed faintly around the corners of my mind. I always loved reading about Anubis. If he was truly reincarnated into our century, oh, how I would love to meet him.