The Goddess Denied (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 2)

by Deborah Davitt

  “It’s the first place on campus that the bus stops. Come on, we have to walk a bit here. Pull your cloak up over your head.”

  “I wouldn’t apparently want to be recognized on campus.”

  “No . . . it’s not that. You’re in disguise tonight.” She paused. “Actually, let your hair show.”

  “I . . . what?” Maccis sounded confused. “I am cutting this hair when I join the landsknechten properly. It’s fine for a ley-mage like my father. Worthless for close combat, thought.”

  “And how much fighting do you plan to do in your human form?”

  “Every time I need to use a gun. Paws are terrible for aiming and pulling a trigger.”

  “Which is at a distance. Leave it alone, Maccis. You’re not a Roman, and I like it the way it is.” She was walking at a brisk pace, one arm snaked out from under her cloak to twine through his.

  “I’d like to point out that my ears are almost as good as my nose, Zee.” His tone was teasing.

  “Oh? And what do they tell you?”

  “Either you’re carrying a very fat coin-purse, or you’re dressed up as a reindeer. I hear jingling.”

  “Two wrong guesses. You only get one more.”

  “I’ll save it for when I have more evidence.”

  “Oh!” She remembered another detail. “When we get where we’re going, you’ll need to shuffle like an arthritic old man.”

  “Zee, this had better be a really good surprise.” They ducked through a portico, brushing through a group of late-departing students, and down through a long quadrangle of open space, filled with fountains and spreading trees in planters. At the end of this, was the library annex that housed the Magi collection.

  “Shuffle!”

  “Zee—”

  “Think of it as disguise training. That white hair is built-in costume. All anyone who looks at you from a distance can see is an old man, if you let them!”

  Maccis grumbled. And slouched over, hunching his back so he would look older and shorter, and shuffled, knees stiff, as Zaya did her best to look as if she were helping the old man keep his balance as she smiled at the night watchman and waved her badge at him. “Late night in the archives, Mistress Zaya?”

  “Probably very late,” she told him, cheerfully, and guided her guest down the stairs, into the vaults, where she slid her badge, made of thin bronze, through one of the electronic readers, so that the magnetized strip glued to it could trigger. The badge was also etched with recognition runes, and had latent spells built into it, dispelling the magic locks on the door as well.

  The archives spanned several floors below ground. There was a small reception and security area, several floors filled with shelves and shelves of books, some printed on rag-linen pages, and some handwritten on parchment or vellum sheets, stitched together into bindings of leather.

  Zaya gave Maccis the grand tour, including the lowest vaults, near the small office she shared with her mother. The vaults were reserved for papyrus scrolls and the oldest, most valuable books and clay tablets were kept in argon-filled, metal-lined drawers for protection from oxygen and fire. “These are the godslayer relics,” she told him, her voice filled with awe, and opened one of the drawers, letting him see the tiny fragment of diamond, the Phaistos Disk, and the most recent acquisition, the Tablet of Prometheus, which she removed from its storage vault, delicately, tracing over incised words with her fingertips. “I like this one. Mostly because I saw it revealed.”

  Maccis backed away slightly.

  “Oh, come on. It’s not going to bite you. It’s magically inert.”

  “Right. How many god-born or spirit-touched have handled it?”

  “Well, it was in Prometheus’ hands when he woke up. If it was going to hurt a god or a spirit, it would have killed him all over again, wouldn’t it?” Zaya’s tone was pragmatic.

  “Yes, but by all accounts, the godslayer of Troy liked him. With my luck, I touch that, and it’s going to eat my brain or stop my heart.” Maccis shook his head. “Not a risk I want to take.”

  Zaya laughed and put the tablet away again. Maccis caught her wrist, sliding his fingers under the cloth of her cloak to tease her skin, and she inhaled sharply. “So, yes. Not really what I was expecting tonight, but interesting,” he told her, and she felt his fingers steal higher, sliding up to her elbow. “I’ve never gotten to see where you spend so much of your time. And hardly anyone has ever gotten to see the godslayer relics. Thank you, Zaya.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “So, was this the surprise?”

  “Part of it.” She tossed her head, and led him back through the stacks to the office she shared with her mother. There was at least furniture in there, and it wasn’t as cold as the rest of the archives were. “Can we . . . eat dinner before we get to the surprise?” she asked, biting her lower lip. Now that they were here, she wasn’t sure if her nerve would break.

  “Sure. You’re already wearing your bib and napkin, so no crumbs will get anywhere important.” He set out bread and meat and grapes and . . . two large, golden, perfect apples. Zaya blinked, as the fruit’s perfume suddenly permeated the whole room.

  “Ohhh.” The word was a sigh. “Those . . . those are from Sigrun’s tree, aren’t they?”

  Maccis blinked a little, and looked sheepish, tossing his cloak over the back of Zaya’s chair. “Yes. Solinus says they’re safe for humans. Masako’s had one. Do you want to . . . start with one of those? I never really feel like I need to eat anything more after I’ve had one.” He pulled out a pocketknife, and began to cut one into slices.

  Zaya’s mouth watered, and she held out a hand for a piece. Maccis grinned, and held it back from her, before slipping the piece between her lips.

  Honey. Warm, golden honey, heated with spices and a little touch of wine. The smell wrapped around her like a living thing, rubbing up against her like a cat. Smell as a tactile thing, soft as fur, or velvet. Zaya closed her eyes in bliss, and chewed slowly, letting the flavors roll over in her mouth. When she finally, reluctantly swallowed, she opened her eyes again, looking up at Maccis as fire began to creep through her limbs. “. . . and you eat these all the time?” Her voice sounded a little lower in her own ears, the vibration of her own tones rippling across skin that was suddenly . . . incredibly sensitive. The soft wool of her cloak was suddenly an irritant, and she unlatched the brooch at her throat and let it fall to the floor, heedlessly.

  Maccis, mid-slice on the apple, promptly cut himself. “Morrigan’s mercy,” he swore, and stuck his thumb in his mouth. “Zaya . . . .”

  She looked down at herself, and then back up again. She’d gotten this outfit specifically for dancing; it was a brilliant crimson red, and the bodice held everything on top neatly in place. Clean, simple lines, with a minimum of bangles and coins, as she preferred. And the skirt clung to her hips and legs, and was made of translucent red lace. “Can I kiss that better?” she asked, smiling a little as confidence rushed through her. “Or at least get another piece?”

  Looking dazed, Maccis fed her another slice of the fruit, and she pushed him back, until his knees hit the chair of her desk, and he folded up into it, without any resistance at all. “Is it a nice surprise?” she asked, leaning forward to whisper in his ear.

  “. . . definitely.” He cleared his throat, and offered her another bite, which she nipped playfully out of his fingers. “You, ah, were planning this for a while?”

  Zaya swallowed. “Just since my father left. I couldn’t let him hear what I was thinking, now could I?” Swinging around so that she stood behind him now, leaning down and letting her hair fall down to mingle with his as she kissed the side of his neck. Let her hands run from shoulders to elbows, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fine linen of his shirt. “I thought, you’re pretty patient about my work here in the library . . . .”

  “It’s your birthright. And I spend just as much time at the landsknechten barracks—”

  She swung around to his other ear and whispered, “Shhhh,
” into it, before nuzzling against his neck. “Still my turn to talk.”

  Maccis put a piece of apple in his own mouth. Zaya spun back again, adroitly sliding between desk and chair, feeling the whisper of the room’s cool air against her skin. “And I thought, you know, Maccis has never had a private dance performance. Why not now?”

  She leaned forwards, and plucked the next piece from his fingers again, and whirled away. The dazed look of joy on his face, not to mention a certain amount of . . . relief, and a hint of anxiety, buoyed her confidence, which was already a much sturdier an edifice than it might have been an hour ago. Zaya turned aside to put a translucent disc in the photogram player on her desk. It clicked on, and the disc began to spin, colored lights flickering . . . and music, recorded via light into the photogram’s medium, was translated into sound, filling the room. Colors exploded through her head, the music swept through her body, and Zaya shuddered as she raised her arms over her head, touching the backs of her hands together; a classic cobra opening stance . . . and began to dip and sway to the music, and to the rhythm in her own mind.

  Her pedagogues in dance had usually grumblingly assessed her as proficient, but lacking in feeling. They’d told her, over and over again, that she had to treat the audience like a lover. To promise, to tease, to withhold, to retreat, advance, flirt, and then promise more. To understand that she owned the person watching her, for the time she was in front of them. Zaya had never been able to do that. She could block the audience out, ignore them. But then again, she’d never really wanted any audience than the one she had now. After an initially shy moment or two, she began to dart little glances at him as she swayed and shimmied, and then flung her head back, dipping in an arc, as if boneless, her long hair streaming in a dark waterfall to the floor . . . then met his eyes and took little steps in his direction. She hadn’t been far away to begin with, and now, dipped down to take another bite of apple, this time nipping his fingers.

  She couldn’t quite believe the change in his face. His pupils looked wide, and his gaze was fixed on her. Intent. The smile had faded. She wasn’t really sure what that expression meant, but she . . . thought it was probably good. He’d folded his knife and set it on her desk, and set the apple core beside it, leaving his hands free, if sticky with juice. Zaya grinned a little impishly, and caught one of his hands, settling herself down on his knees, almost demurely . . . and proceeded to lick his fingers clean for him, delicately. She could feel every muscle in his body tense each time she lapped at his fingers, and his other hand slid up her back to tangle in her hair. “Zee . . . you’re . . . probably a little out of it.” His voice was dark-toned. “You’re . . . .”

  “You want me to count backwards from one hundred in ancient Sumerian? I think I can manage it, but I don’t think you’ll be able to tell if I’m doing it right or not,” Zaya informed him, pertly, looking up at him, and sucked in a surprised breath as she realized exactly how much of an effect she’d had on him so far. “Maccis . . . I wouldn’t have gotten you off alone and dressed this way if I didn’t have . . . certain plans.” She hesitated. “You’re not taking advantage of me. I l—”

  Her words were cut off by a kiss that left her almost unable to breathe as he pulled her tightly to him. Concentrating, fiercely, and wholly, on her. Ripples of sensation expanding out from every exhalation against her too-sensitive skin, every muffled sound, every scrape of incipient beard. Ripples, like light reflecting off a frigidarium’s pool on the ceiling above.

  Cool air flowing against her skin as he loosened her bodice and found new places to kiss. Logistics that she hadn’t even considered, as he unwrapped his kilt, one-handed, still trying to mold her closer to him, and threw the length of wool more or less at the floor, so they’d have some protection from the cold hardwood. Jolts of sensation as she could feel him working his power in her, making her bloom, and her whole body clamped down on itself in a shudder of delight, as he worked his way lower, and removed her skirt. Kissed his way up her legs. And then a pause, as he swore under his breath and located the leather poke that he normally carried on his belt, and came back with a wax-paper packet, and tried to unwrap its contents.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “My mother . . . gave me a . . . contraception charm.” She leaned up and put her head against his collarbone. Zaya hadn’t thought she’d had it in her to blush at the moment, but there her cheeks went, all aflame. “About a month ago.” She’d worn it every day since then, actually.

  “She what?”

  “She says it’s just as good as the hormones, and much less bad for the environment! Think of all the frogs I’m saving!” Zaya blurted it out, and watched Maccis’ face as three entirely disparate trains of thought warred for control of his brain.

  “Unless that thing is also enchanted to slow me down, or to repel spirit-born energy, this is still probably for the best.” Maccis wrestled with the packet, slipped its contents on, and pressed her back to the ground, keeping his weight off her. Unexpected hesitance, as he kept kissing her.

  “What’s . . . what’s wrong . . . ?”

  “Don’t want to hurt you.” He pulled back a little. “You know I’d . . . do anything for you, right?” The leather collar at his neck had three silver tags dangling from it. It was overtly a dog collar, and not a slave collar, as had been still in use in places in the Empire until just before both of them had been born. “I’d do anything, Zaya. I’d . . . be anything you wanted.” Insecurity. That was what edged his voice, sending cold shivers down her spine in the words’ wake.

  “All I want is you . . . .”

  A look of relief, and one more kiss, and then they were moving together, sweetly. Zaya was never sure if she should thank the apple for it, or years of dance training, but there was also no pain. And he was so startled and pleased, when she rolled over him and began to kiss him again. Losing track of time. Nothing existing in the universe but the two of them, because this tiny universe was their own creation, and the smell of the golden fruit and the scent of each other’s sweat wreathed itself around them.

  Quite a bit later, Zaya lay on her side, Maccis pressed up against her. Her entire back was thus, toasty warm, but her front was cold. “Want me to go wolf and be a big furry blanket for you?” Maccis offered, sleepily.

  “Mmm. No. This is nice.” One of his hands was moving up and down her arm, her ribs, very lightly. Not a tickle, but a wide-palmed caress. “Why do you always pick wolves, anyway?”

  “I like them.” He yawned. “They’re strong. They’re loyal. They understand love, and have very structured lives, within their packs. Everyone has a job. Everyone has a role. I can run down a street in Judea, and some people might think I’m just a big dog, and won’t even look twice at me. The fenris like me better this way, too, and I generally like the fenris.” He stifled another yawn, and put his head against hers. His breathing began to edge towards sleep.

  There was a long moment of silence as Zaya warred with herself. She didn’t want the evening to end. Not yet. So she broke the silence. “Have you ever thought about maybe a tiger?”

  A pause, as he clearly tried to dredge up from the edges of consciousness whatever she’d just said. “No. Don’t like how the great cats think. Lions have pride-loyalty, but they keep a single big male around as their weapon. Their threat. Tigers . . . they’re loners. And they see almost everything around them as threat, prey, or something that can be safely ignored.” Maccis yawned. “Besides. You wouldn’t like me as a tiger.”

  “Maybe I would.”

  A slight shift, and Maccis’ arm around her suddenly became heavier. I can’t quite manage an adult male, he told her, as a massive paw, complete with claws, caught at the wool of his kilt on the floor in front of her. They can weigh close to seven hundred pounds. I still only weigh a hundred and eighty. Roll over.

  Zaya had frozen in place, but now turned. Fangs the length of her index finger curved inches from her face, and
the eyes that surveyed her had the fathomless indifference of a total predator. He was relaxed at the moment. Sated on food and companionship and loving. But the difference between this form and the wolf was profound, and she couldn’t quite escape the prickle of fear that broke through the haze of contentment.