Tiny Gods: A Nate Temple Supernatural Thriller Book 6 (The Temple Chronicles)

by Shayne Silvers

  I just wasn’t supposed to feed him.

  Whatever the hell that meant. But I did know that the last time I had taken him to a fight, he and his brothers had seemed to feast on the soul of their victim. But we were in my house now, which was also bound to serve me, and there was no one here to kill. Or eat.

  I hoped.

  I shook my head in answer to Death’s question. “To be honest, I’ve had my hands full for a while now. Searching for Indie, practicing with Ganesh, getting used to my powers again, and starting Grimm Tech. I didn’t even intend to explore right now. But it seemed like Narnia had other plans.”

  “Narnia…” Death murmured thoughtfully.

  I shrugged. “Just came to me. Like the wardrobe C.S. Lewis wrote about.”

  I could feel him staring at me, but he didn’t speak as we continued on.

  “You heard her, right? The house?” He grunted in affirmation. “You hear her too, Carl?”

  He hissed back, which I took for a yes.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Death. “She knew what you were…” he nodded, and I turned back to watch where I was going. I had seen enough Indiana Jones movies. One wrong step was all it took before a bulldozer-sized boulder was chasing you down. “But you’ve never been here before,” I continued, speaking to Death over a shoulder. “Maybe she can smell you?”

  There was a long silence. “Perhaps. I’m sure my rarity gives off a particular… scent.”

  The house – Narnia – rumbled in what I took for an agreement. I shivered, imagining the stone hallway crumbling to dust, burying us underneath tons of rubble. By all laws of physics, we should be standing outside the walls of my house right now, not in a hallway that couldn’t exist. Because I knew for a fact that we were above ground, and that the door had been on an exterior wall of the mansion.

  Yet here we were. As we walked, new torches ignited ahead of us with faint pops and crackles, and those behind us were extinguished, keeping our section – and only our section – illuminated. Which didn’t make Carl too happy, judging by the frequent hissing as he struggled to stay close to us, because looking back, I could not see the doorway in which we had entered.

  Which was impossible, because we hadn’t walked very far. Maybe a couple dozen feet.

  “What does it take to smell like a Horseman? In fact, what exactly does it take to be a Horseman? You guys keep saying I’m one of you, but not one of you. That I carry the mantle, but I’m obviously not a Horseman. And I haven’t accepted, by the way. I’m just curious.”

  Death chuckled, reaching out to wave a hand through the purple flame on one of the torches. His hand passed through without fanfare, other than for him to grunt. “Cold,” he said thoughtfully. He cleared his throat after a moment, addressing me. “You have to accept the gift, or curse, whatever you want to call it.” He was silent for a few more steps. “And you need a Mask. And a Horse, of course. A few other things…” he waved a hand dismissively.

  I frowned, ignoring the last comment. “Because Grimm, the unicorn, bonded with me, I’m now a contender for the Apocalypse?”

  Death nodded. “In a way. It was no small thing for the unicorn to… adopt you. Don’t take it lightly,” he warned. Then he let out a breath. “Well, don’t disrespect it, at least.”

  I let out a breath of relief. “Good thing there aren’t any more Masks, right?” I pressed.

  But he didn’t reply.

  “Because there is no way in hell I’m becoming a Horseman. I’d be terrible at it. I can’t even handle being a wizard. Or, whatever I am now.” Again, he remained silent. “It’s not happening, Pastey. Okay? I won’t—”

  And in the blink of an eye, my words left me.

  Because we were suddenly in a massive cavern that stretched for hundreds of feet ahead of us, and fifty feet or more above our heads, making me feel suddenly very, very small. Tiny.

  And it was a fucking library. The library of all libraries. The ceiling was curved at the top like we were in a giant tunnel, with gems embedded into the stone to represent constellations. The stones even glowed faintly, providing a dim, blue light. As I followed the ceiling further with my eyes, I realized that each section glowed with differently colored stones. A cataloging system of some kind?

  Four levels of walkways clung to the walls of the cavern, leading up to the ceiling. Each walkway was almost entirely lined with shelves containing books and knickknacks. One shelf even contained dozens of musical instruments – I spotted a violin, flute, trumpet, and guitar, and a giant white piano sat beside it. Ornate, oxblood banisters and guardrails lined each level – complete with chairs, divans, tables with lanterns, and lounging areas. Hell, I almost thought I could see a bathroom on two of the four floors. Regardless, the shelves were broken up by doorways here and there, so there were at least reading rooms, or living quarters on each floor.

  Marble statues were spaced every couple dozen feet, larger than life, and all representing different eras of human history. Different monsters, gods, heroes, even an Elder, and… beings I didn’t quite recognize. On every level. Again, arranged almost like a cataloging system.

  The base of the banisters protecting one from falling off the next tiers were carved with runes and ancient words in every language imaginable, with a star emblem between each.

  It kind of reminded me of a Barnes and Noble I had gone to once. Near the café, a band of names had been painted on the wall. Last names of well-known authors in a giant banner that bisected the landscape mural.

  Except the words on the banisters here were almost unrecognizable.

  But I did see one that I knew. Merlin. As my eyes tracked the banisters, squinting, I spotted a few more that might be recognizable. Odin. Thor. Zeus. Anubis. But they were in different languages, so I couldn’t be sure. Maybe I was imagining it. I even saw sections of Enochian script – the so-called language of Heaven – according to Dr. John Dee who had written about it in the late sixteenth century.

  I shivered, glancing sheepishly at Death, who stared open-mouthed at the names. He probably recognized a lot more of them than me. And it wasn’t comforting him.

  “What is this place…” he whispered softly, flicking his eyes my way for a brief second.

  I shrugged. The cavern stretched on in a massively-wide hallway, longer than a football field, but we currently stood in a secluded, circular area, apart from the rest of the library. No tiers lined the wall here.

  One section of the wall was lined with more shelves, but the other half was bare rock, and a steady, crisp waterfall fell from high above, casting a fine mist to the air, opposite from where we had entered.

  And I immediately feared for the hundreds of thousands of books lining the shelves. Because water was not the friend of the printed word. It was the nemesis.

  Death held up a hand, taking a few steps closer to the waterfall as he tested the air. “Hmm…” he murmured, twisting it back and forth. “Dry. Completely dry.” He shot me a look. “Where have you taken us, Master Temple? An underground library – when we are not truly underground – complete with a waterfall that does not damage the books that have no doubt been here for hundreds of years…”

  Carl was sniffing the air, and studying the main room itself. The circular area was cozier, like a study area in a traditional library. Still huge, but not as stuffy as the rest of the library looked.

  A large fireplace sat in the center of the circle, before a giant star carved into the stone floor, and all around it were cushioned concave bowls set below ground level, where one could lounge in warmth while reading. Or take a nap.

  One massive, ornate wooden desk dominated the study area. The back of the desk had been carved in such a way that it more resembled a separate cloth sheet draped over the desk – even bunching up where it touched the floor – than part of the desk itself. I bent down to lightly knock on it to be sure it wasn’t actually cloth. That’s how realistic the sheet looked.

  Now closer, I noticed the carvings in the woo
d itself – faint, worn with age, but still clear enough to make it look even more like a decorative cover had been thrown over the desk. The carvings looked to have been done in the Middle Ages, by the Fae, tripping on acid, while watching Pink Floyd’s The Wall.

  Because it was complete with reliefs of dryads consorting with nymphs, centaurs, sprites, ogres, wolves, hawks, and the Fae themselves. Fornicating, bathing, resting, battling, or hunting. It was glorious. And chilling. I stood with a grunt, peeling my eyes away to study the rest of the room.

  A massive, wide stone ring was carved into the floor near the waterfall, a different type of rock than the rest of the room. It sat alone, with no tables and chairs around it. Just a big empty space. And for some reason, despite the beauty all around me, this vacuum pulled at me, as if it’s lack of furniture gave it dignity. But it wasn’t just visual. Some deep, wild power tugged at me.

  Runes were carved into the ring, pagan symbols, Druidic carvings, many unrecognizable, worn with age and the passing of boots. I walked closer to it, wondering why such a massive ring was carved into the floor, and curious why it looked to be separate from the floor itself rather than part of the floor. Like a thick wheel without spokes… As I neared, the ring slowly began to rotate clockwise, and then it began to rise up from the floor without a sound.

  Just rising up like I had pushed a button on an elevator.

  I stepped back and it slowly began to descend again. I halted, glancing over at Carl and Death. They stared, stunned. Death slowly motioned for me to step forward again.

  I did, and it resumed rising up out of the floor, this time complete with massive stone chairs sliding out of the floor to surround the table. A few moments later, everything stilled. It was a massive round table, a wide ring of stone with no legs holding it up. Just. Fucking. Hovering.

  The empty space in the center of the ring – which was at least twenty feet across – contained only a plain podium. The chairs around the ring each had different unknown symbols carved into the tall stone backs. And the chairs looked surprisingly comfortable, despite being made from rough-cut stone. I slowly approached the table, studying the odd carvings, and I noticed a band of metal now splitting the circle into two rings, one large, one small, like a ring within a ring. Except the metal ring was liquid.

  Just a three-inch-wide river of golds and silvers flowing infinitely around and around.

  And I could see shapes, movement, forms, figures, symbols, briefly rising up to the surface before sinking back into the metal for another obscure shape to replace it. Like magical alphabet soup. The inner ring flowed like a lazy river, endlessly circling the table.

  Death was frowning down at it. Carl shook his head, and then continued scanning the room, searching for dangers. I shared a look with Death. “You think…” I trailed off.

  “No. That isn’t possible,” he said, eyeing the table doubtfully.

  “It is round…” I argued softly. He ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath.

  Chapter 12

  I sighed, and backed away to the carved desk, watching as the round table silently sank back into the floor. I finally turned away, shaking my head. There were a few small piles of leather-bound books, dried ink wells, and a decanter with an amber stain on the bottom, also dried out. Two feather quills lay on the surface, and a stack of ivory paper sat before the ancient leather chair. As if the owner had been writing something before he left for the last time.

  I frowned, studying the drawers.

  Because I saw a faint carving on one of the legs. I leaned closer, my eyes widening.

  Ichabod, was written in a childish, juvenile scrawl, etched into the expensive ornate wood.

  “Fuck me…” I whispered. “Ichabod’s been here.”

  “Makes sense,” Death replied coolly. “He was raised here in this house, like you.”

  I nodded, still amazed to see proof that he had been here as a child, getting into trouble while his dad worked away. “Well, our upbringing must have been completely different. Because I sure as hell never came here, and I’m pretty sure my father hasn’t either.”

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Could it be because you are the true Master Temple of the house? You did say there hasn’t been one in quite some time…”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. Narnia did say it had been a while…”

  He grunted, slowly studying the room on his own.

  I stood, flipping back some of the covers of the books. Two were written in Latin, and although I didn’t recognize the title, I knew they were related to magic. One was in German, but the last was plain, without title. A journal of some sort.

  A slip of paper fell out of the cover, and I snatched it up on instinct, fearing I had ripped it out of the old book. After all, this room likely hadn’t been touched since Ichabod’s childhood, hundreds of years ago. But the paper was different. For one thing, it was black paper, but veins of silver were embedded into the pulp, and the message was written in silver ink.

  My dearest Matthias,

  I’ve taken the liberty of penning this message in silver, on silver-laced paper. None too cheap, I assure you! Only the most pretentious materials could be used to address my most esteemed colleague, Master Temple!

  As you warned us months ago, the situation has evolved into something that can no longer be ignored, and actions must be undertaken, posthaste.

  We, the Men of the Mind, anxiously await your reply to discuss our Grimm futures. However dire our decisions may be, anything is better than our enemy gaining more power in these brave and wild new lands. We must acquire these Hands of God prior to the upcoming war.

  I hope that your beloved boy – that rapscallion if there ever was one – Ichabod is well, and that he hasn’t taken after the weres as he seemed intent to do. We must keep our bloodlines pure, after all… You of all people know the importance of this.

  Ever your friend,

  Castor Queen.

  I flinched to discover that Death was reading over my shoulder. He was completely motionless for a few beats. “Let me see that a moment…” he whispered. I nodded absently, handing it over as I began to pull open the top drawer, rummaging inside to find frayed and worn artifacts, all magical focus items, but nothing particularly special. A scratched coin, probably worth a lot of money now, but still, just a coin. Not even wizardly currency. A feather. A sextant, a thread and needle, a small dagger – likely a letter opener – and a wad of wiry hair with bits of flesh still attached. I also found a small bone, but from what creature, I couldn’t quite discern.

  I pulled open the next drawer, and the next, but found nothing useful. Just more junk.

  Carl pulled a book from the shelf and grunted as a torch sprang to life directly above his head. He dropped the book and had his dagger aimed at the torch, hissing in warning, but the torch merely flickered as it burned away the dust coating it.

  Nothing strange.

  Except it was also the purple flame.

  And it had ignited when he withdrew the book.

  I began to laugh after a few moments of silence. “A freaking reading lamp attuned to the books?” I walked over to a different shelf and reached out for a book at random. But I felt a physical prickle on my fingers as I did so. I hesitated. Nothing happened. I moved my hand closer to the book and the sensation increased until I pulled my hand back. I frowned. Carl hadn’t seemed to have any issue picking a random book. I slowly extended my hand until I could just feel the tingling sensation, and took a few steps lateral, my fingertips hovering a few inches away from the dozens of book spines on the shelf.

  Then the tingling sensation suddenly evaporated, and in its place, I felt warmth, like a hot bath on a cold day. I stopped, and reached out to grab the book. The sensation increased until my fingertips touched the book, and then it suddenly faded to nothing, and I felt the house purr, the waterfall splashing a little louder for a moment, as if affected by Narnia’s vibrations.

  I withdrew the book,
and the nearest torch flickered to life beside me, bathing me in the soothing purple glow, illuminating the cover of the book in my hands. The book that the house had seemed to guide me towards.

  “Nate, don’t!” Death shouted. I released the cover and the book fell open as I turned to look at him in alarm. He was pointing a hand at me.

  Well, the book.

  I looked down to see that it was glowing slightly.

  But nothing had happened.

  I read the cover page of the book, written on ancient, leathery papyrus.

  Deus Ex Machina, Fable or Fact?

  I stared down at the page, frowning. Something about it tickled my memory, but I knew I had never seen the book before. Before I could think about it further, Death swooped in, slammed the book closed, and shoved it back into the shelf in one lithe motion.

  Carl watched him, looked at me thoughtfully, and then slowly replaced his own book very carefully.

  I scowled at Death. “It’s just a book. What’s wrong with you?”

  He arched a brow. “Is the owner of an arcane bookstore truly telling me that some books are just books? I seem to recall you going after quite a few books that you deemed too dangerous for mortals to have access to. Let alone, supernaturals to have access to.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, sure, but these things have been locked away—”

  “Probably for a reason,” Death interrupted, folding his arms.

  “Look, Ichabod hung out here as a little boy, and from the looks of it, getting into all sorts of trouble while his dad worked. This place can’t be that dangerous. At least not on this level. Perhaps up higher, or in one of those rooms, but not out in the open like this where a kid could wake up a demon or something.”

  I leaned closer to the shelf, scanning the titles, but none looked familiar.

  “Pick one up.”

  I did, feeling no tingling sensation this time. I grinned, flipping through the pages quickly as I met his gaze. He began to smirk.