The Book of Dead Gods

CHAPTER I: The Call

Agent Wayland Pierce was the kind of man to enjoy a good cup of coffee. Not in the way that an average person enjoys a coffee when they first wake up, or on their lunch break during a busy day. No, Wayland was the kind of man to know exactly what kind of coffee he was drinking, what it's ingredients were, and where it came from. He could tell you the growing seasons of over twenty coffee bean growing countries, and easily list the types of coffee beans and what was distinct about each of them. He was positive that the discerning coffee drinker should be able to properly explain the type of coffee they were drinking, regardless of whatever extra ingredients were added to the beverage. Picking fine details out of a larger picture. It's what he was best at. Where others get lost amidst the sugars and creams of a cup of coffee, Wayland could separate flavours. It was the same technique he could apply to his line of work.

He took a sip from his cup feeling the smooth, white, ceramic touch his lips before the dark liquid passed them. He sighed as he set the cup down. Robusta, hints of chocolate on his taste buds. The strong coffee was quite common in Europe, where he found himself, sitting outside of an Italian cafe. Even still, it was always a pleasant surprise to find pure robusta, not mixed with arabica beans to cut costs. He enjoyed the slightly stronger coffee, it was almost impossible to find its like back in the States.

While he drank, he scribbled in his notebook, crossing out various words, placing checks or x's beside others. He held the coffee in his left hand, writing with his right, so as to obscure the tattoo on his palm. It resembled a crow, its wingtips sticking out aways onto his thumb.

He placed a checkmark beside a word: Morgan.

His hands were rough but clean, pockmarked with various scars and calluses. They were hands that could examine the most delicate pieces of evidence just as easily as they could squeeze a trigger or form a fist. The kind of hands only gained through manual labor or dangerous work not discussed around dinner tables.

He crossed out a word: Romania.

Shaking his head he took another sip of coffee. It was luke-warm at best now. He hadn't been lied to. He had been told that the person he needed was in Romania, if you could call them a person, and they had been. But they hadn't stayed long.

He glanced down to a newspaper that lay on the table beside his coffee mug. It was the La Republica, perhaps the most popular Italian news publication. The headline read, "Archaeologist Attacked, Priceless Jewels Stolen."

The picture was of a severely battered and bruised man with a cigar in his mouth. He was large and heavily muscled. But he had, of course, been no match for his attacker.

Wayland finished his coffee and looked out to the street. Cars of various makes drove by leisurely on the cobblestone roads of the small Italian town. He sighed as he thought about Returning to the agency empty-handed once again. No leads. No-one. Nothing. On the surface it was easy to act cool, calm, as if there was nothing to be concerned about but, underneath his always dignified demeanor, Wayland had grown worried. It was as if the man he chased was a ghost, appearing and then disappearing in an instant.

He had asked the librarians at the Sunken Library to call him should they gather any information about the whereabouts of Wayland's target, and as of yet there had been no call. Of course they had their hands full with recent events. He had even grown desperate enough to travel from the Agency headquarters in New-Orleans to New England to visit a witch who he knew had had contact with the man he was after. So far, her small tid-bits of info had proven more use than all of the agency's top librarians.

The waitress came back to Waylands table and asked if he would like a refill. He nodded his eyes hardly leaving his notebook, but noticing how she studied him. How her caramel brown eyes moved over his body taking in the details. From his scarred hands, to his forearms exposed by his rolled up dress shirt, finally resting on his face. He had shaved recently but his jaw had a dusting of facial hair. The scar on his cheek, an old claw wound, stood out. His eyes were a striking blue, electric is how they had been described. Yet they had dark circles under them, as if he hadn't had a good night's sleep in quite some time. His light hair was pushed back out of his face so that she got a really good look before refilling his cup. He smiled at her, "grazie."