by Jamie Wyman
“Where is she?” I ask. “Muriel?”
His face sags beneath the sadness only known by the immortals. Mischief ebbs out of his gaze. When he speaks, his throat is dry but his eyes are moist. “She is home.”
Another flash of light. Another rumble of thunder and I am flying on the back of a cold gale.
Asgard is gone.
Loki’s voice is a whisper from the bottom of a black hole. “And so are you.”
…
I woke up and begged for the sweet oblivion only a frying pan to the head could provide. What with all the fire, the whip to the face, and the part where— You know what, let’s just not bother categorizing all of the ways I almost became an ex-Cat.
Apparently Karma’s implants didn’t protect against dehydration. Like with a hellish hangover, the pounding at my temples felt as if a herd of banthas was challenging a pack of wild gorillas to a rousing game of Red Rover. I needed a putty knife to scrape my tongue off the roof of my mouth, and my skin stung with the most righteous sunburn ever. I tried to moisten my lips. When I did, I found that they were cracked and tasted faintly of blood.
And I hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet.
My muscles creaked, as stiff and unyielding as a Republican senator, as I shuffled to the bathroom for a shower. I probably looked a lot like Frankenstein’s monster. With crispy eyelashes.
“Fire bad,” I growled to myself. I quickly decided not to talk again for a while just to avoid hearing my own shredded voice.
A shower, I soon learned, proved to be a mixed blessing. The water sluiced off the grime and blood and what little was left of that layer of skin. The tender flesh of my back, however, didn’t appreciate the attention. As I gently brought the sponge over my ribs, I dared to look at the wound there. The skin had pinched together in a red seam. No scabbing, just a puffy line where a scar would remain. Despite the soreness and dehydration, I had to admit Karma did excellent work.
After an eternity of steam, suds, and stifled screaming, a raw but recuperating version of Cat Sharp stepped out of the shower. She didn’t even smell like burned hair or gasoline. Achievement unlocked! Dressed in my loosest, softest clothes that weren’t pajamas, I opened the bedroom door to see how my guest had fared.
Nate sat in the lotus position on my living room floor, breathing in through his nose and exhaling slowly through his mouth. Eyes closed, his blond curls were brushed back from that youthful face. A shaft of golden light poured through the window and pooled around him.
“Don’t mind me,” he said blithely.
I smiled. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
As I tiptoed past him to the kitchen I caught the phantom scent of sandalwood and lilacs. I whirled around, looking for the source.
“That smell,” I said. I didn’t say that it reminded me of when I saw Muriel. Instead, I asked, “Do you carry incense with you or something?”
He shook his head.
I inhaled again. Despite the macabre memories it called up, the scent was calming, comforting. While he continued meditating, I padded around my kitchen preparing coffee. The crown prince of my apartment, a tuxedo tomcat named Linux, wound around my ankles and looked up expectantly. Even he seemed to respect Nate’s quiet time. Typically, Linux would be squalling at me for food. I filled his bowls, scratched his ears, and received appreciative purrs.
To tend to the human—or whatever Nate was—stomachs, I set out boxes of cereal so Nate could choose which he wanted when he’d finished and poured myself a bowl of Lucky Charms.
I sat on my sofa, feet curled under me. Content to not think about anything deadly, painful, or otherwise negative, I let my mind wander as I munched on the magical deliciousness. Every few marshmallows, my eyes would fall to Nate, the island of sunshine in the middle of my apartment.
With his sister, her plain quality allowed her to blend into a crowd and assume the face of the Everywoman. Not so with Nate. While he didn’t have a massive physique, his T-shirt stretched over well-developed muscles, and a subtle strength rippled where a six-pack might be. His features were smooth and pale as alabaster. High cheekbones, the slightest hint of a dimple on the right cheek. A gentle curve to his brow and a strong slant to his jaw. My stomach lurched, not in revulsion or in desire, but with a strange, unnamable pain. Awe mixed with humility, as if I was unworthy to look upon his heartbreaking beauty.
Nate seemed to soak in the light. With every exhale, he cast warmth and golden radiance into the ether until my living room was saturated with peace.
I was so lost in trying to name the ache in my chest that I didn’t notice when he opened his eyes. He cleared his throat, and I jerked to attention. That blue stare pierced me with subtle accusation.
Cheeks burning with shame, I practically dove into my bowl of soggy Lucky Charms.
“You have to figure everything out, don’t you?” he asked.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I said to my cereal.
“It is. How can you believe in anything if you’re always trying to know everything?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but I had no response for him.
“You are beholden to Loki,” he said, “but you told Karma he’s not your god.” When I nodded, he went on. “So who is?”
I shook my head. “I don’t believe in God. I mean, I’ve met gods—little g. I know they are there, obviously. Eris used to own me. In my time with her I met Ares, Coyote, Maui, and many others. Now, I work for Loki.” I shivered at the memory of our meeting in Asgard. “All of that experience aside, I still consider myself an atheist.”
He blinked in amused disbelief. “Why?”
“Because…” I sputtered.
“You can’t know everything. What about faith?”
“What? Just believe blindly that some all-powerful parent figure gives a rat’s ass about me and…what? What’s the point? Heaven and Hell? An afterlife that may or may not happen? How is that more important than this life? I can’t suspend disbelief long enough for religion.”
“Is it so hard? You flip a switch and believe the light will turn on.”
“No, that’s science. That’s electricity and physics. Provable things I can test and repeat.”
Nate tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Where is your faith?”
It wasn’t the question that punched me in the stomach but the sadness behind it, the sincere pity in his voice. I answered with the question that had haunted me for years. “What if I don’t have any to give?”
“Of course you do.” His smile was sunshine. “You’ve just forgotten where you put it.”
In a graceful motion, Nate stood. As he glided to my kitchen, he intoned, “Humans worry that there’s not enough faith to go around, but it doesn’t work that way. It’s like love: there’s always enough.”
I looked down at my hands. I hadn’t fared any better with love than I had with faith. Maybe both were stripped from me right along with my soul. I lost all three right around the same time…
“You’re all so protective of your faith,” Nate continued. “You keep it close to you, hoard it, or squirrel it away because when it comes to your gods, you’re all quite jealous. It’s a very personal connection between believer and deity. It goes both ways, you know?”
“It does?”
He nodded. “You don’t need to hide your faith, Catherine Sharp. Especially not from yourself.”
“I don’t even know where to look,” I confessed.
Nate shrugged, eyes tracking over the breakfast options. “It’s probably in the most obvious place. You’ll smack yourself on the head when you understand.” He snatched up the box of Cap’n Crunch and clutched it to his chest. “See? You’re already one step closer to God.”
Chapter Twelve
“Ruled by Secrecy”
The first time I bothered to look at a clock I was surprised to find Sunday afternoon half gone. Had Loki really only given me this task on Friday night? I made a mental note to ask him
for a raise. Or at least hazard pay for jobs that would nearly get me killed twice in as many days.
Fed and refreshed, I felt more and more like myself with each minute. Nate used my shower, and I focused on the problem before me.
Mages looking for a veil. A veil that belonged to Polly but that the mages had assumed I would have because of a presumed connection to some thief. There were also the matters of her stalker and the break-in. But I wasn’t supposed to be focusing on that. Loki insisted I keep my eyes on the puzzle of Muriel’s death. All without factoring in her heritage.
But I couldn’t help it. A murderous father, eh? One that would be friends with Loki and cause his family to go into hiding. Loki’s words from behind the tow truck replayed themselves in my mind: Muriel is the daughter of a friend. I am doing this for him while he tends to other family concerns... And he asked for you specifically.
Whoever Mr. Murder actually was, he had taken notice of me. And if I messed this up, or dragged my feet, would he come to take my life for his reportedly large collection?
Joyful thoughts.
On that note, I called Flynn. When he picked up, I didn’t bother with greetings.
“So Muriel’s a troubled, reclusive sort. How does she get involved with the owner of the most horrible voice I’ve ever heard and end up crucified?”
“Not wasting time today, eh?” he asked.
“The sooner this is over, the better I’ll feel,” I admitted. “What am I missing here? Muriel had like three friends. How would she end up with Hector Chu?”
“We don’t know that they were together,” Flynn said.
“Chu—a ferromancer—stole the same truck where Muriel ends up dead. Crucified, I might add, with the macabre yet clever use of ferromancy. And you think it’s coincidence?”
“Fair point. But we don’t know. The truck might have been stolen from Chu.”
Even though he couldn’t see it, I shook my head. “That’s overcomplicating things.”
“We didn’t get to question him, Cat. It’s possible.”
“But not probable.”
“Just playing devil’s advocate.”
“We need a new lead,” I said. “The truck and Chu are a bust.”
“All right. Where do you want to start, Sherlock?”
I snorted. “As much as I hate to admit it, I think we need to look into the creepy caller more. Whose voice is on the other end of that line?”
“Is that Flynn?”
I glanced up at my bedroom door. Nate stepped into the living room, trailing steam as he towel-dried his hair. Part of me was disappointed that he had gotten dressed.
I nodded. Then, to Flynn, I said, “My car is still at Nate’s place. Any chance you and Karma can swing by here, and we can figure out our next move?”
“I think that will work. We’ll be there in about twenty minutes, okay?”
“Sounds good.” I directed my next question to both Flynn and Nate. “Any word from Polly?”
Flynn answered. “Karma’s on the phone with Polly as we speak. I’ll fill you in on anything when we get there.”
We hung up, and while I waited for the other two mages to arrive, I packed up my shoulder bag with a few things that passed for weapons, at least for me. My multi-tool. A portable battery pack for charging electronics, which was also a good backup supply for my own magical antics. A stun gun roughly the same size and shape as a tube of lipstick. An EMP that worked on the human nervous system.
Once everything was packed, I shrugged into Polly’s jacket. More than anything I just wanted to make sure I didn’t forget to take it back to her. It hung a little loose on me but was incredibly comfortable. There wasn’t a tag in it, so I didn’t know the designer. I made a mental note to ask where she’d gotten it.
All of that busywork had given me time to ponder, and as Nate passed me on the way to dispose of his cereal bowl, I stopped him with a tug at his sleeve. “You realize you make it impossible not to ask questions,” I said. “I need to figure you out because you are nothing but riddles.”
He studied me, jaw set and serious. “Can’t let it go, can you?”
“Refusing Flynn’s place. You won’t tell me what you and your sister are. You won’t even commit a petty crime to find her murderer. I don’t understand you.”
He shrugged and pushed past me toward the sink. “You have to learn to be okay with that.”
The knock at the door broke us apart.
“Hey, hey!” Flynn chimed as he entered.
He and Karma tumbled into the apartment. Today her hair was the exact blue of cotton candy and just as fluffy. She’d changed into a pair of jeans and what looked suspiciously like one of Flynn’s metal-band shirts. The messenger bag slung over her shoulder had a strap that mimicked crime-scene tape. Flynn wore bondage pants, chains at his hips, a bright-blue Doctor Who shirt and a grin from ear to ear.
Laughing together, arms about each other’s waists, they looked too cheerful. For a moment I hated them both. Just a moment, though.
“I guess we beat Polly here?” Karma asked.
This was news to me. “She was coming?”
Flynn nodded. “We gave her your address and asked her to meet us. Better than driving all over Vegas.”
Nate’s phone began to ring. He checked the screen. “Speaking of…” He thumbed it to answer. “Hey, Polly.” After a pause, his face screwed up with confusion. “That’s weird.”
“What’s up?”
“I thought I heard her say my name, but the line just went dead.”
“Butt dial?” Karma suggested. “With all that junk in her trunk, she does that to me. Constantly.”
Nate stared at his phone. “Maybe.” A few swipes later, he held the phone to his ear. The same dread I felt played over Nate’s features. “No answer.”
“She’s probably on her way,” Flynn said. “Just give her time.”
Karma was already dialing. Silence stretched in long seconds, and then she put down the phone. “No answer here, either.”
“Would she answer if she’s driving?” Flynn asked.
Nate shoved his phone in his pocket and bounded for the door. “We need to go get her.”
“We don’t know that she’s in danger,” Flynn said in his calmest voice.
“I don’t like this,” I admitted.
“Me neither,” Karma said. “Polly is glued to her phone, and she’s got it set up to ring through her car radio. Something’s not right.”
“Let’s go,” Nate ordered. “I’m not waiting to find her on the back of a wheel lift.”
I closed my eyes against the image of Polly in Muriel’s place, the Amazon’s curvy frame mauled and her perfect face a mask of horror. Pulling her jacket tighter around me, I slung my bag over my body. “Let’s roll.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Shrinking Universe”
Nate and I shared the backseat. The nimbus of peace he’d worn in my apartment had evaporated, replaced by a shroud of brooding, fearful darkness. Flynn drove with Karma on his right, navigating to the address Polly had texted her the previous night. Worry marked Karma’s eyes despite the gaiety of her cotton candy hair. I had hoped that the action of driving to Polly’s hotel would calm Nate’s nerves somewhat, but that idea proved futile. With every mile, Nate Harper grew tenser and more agitated. When we’d left my apartment, Nate indulged in his childlike habit of chewing his thumb. As the car meandered down the Strip, caught in the foot traffic inherent to Las Vegas Boulevard, he’d begun tapping on the door. And by the time we arrived, Nate’s knees bounced in a tight rhythm that would make some speed metal drummers snarl with envy.
Karma’s directions led us to a small motel near McCarran Airport—cheap, utilitarian. No one staying there gave a damn about luxury, or even the shows on the Strip. Career gamblers, adulterers, habitual losers down on their luck, and people with tight-fisted bosses filled the rooms here. Rust and sun-scarred paint covered the sign. The pool—a cement hole roughly the siz
e of a Volkswagen—probably closed for the season less than a month ago, but the layer of filth on the tile was black and spreading.
When we pulled into the lot, Nate directed Flynn around the dogleg to park outside a bank of rooms. A set of concrete steps led up to a second level of rooms. Before Flynn could cut the engine, Nate climbed out of the car.
I dove after him. “Wait!”
“Room one-twenty-eight,” he called over his shoulder.
Nate jogged ahead of me with long strides and a determined slump to his shoulders. Two doors shut behind me, and I knew Flynn and Karma were catching up.
Twenty feet in front of me, Nate reached the door just as it opened. He flinched, stepped back, and stared at someone, or something, I couldn’t see. When he spoke, Nate’s voice crackled with anger and pain. “Who are you?”
“I’d ask you the same,” a rich, accented voice answered, “but what’s that? Oh yes, I really don’t care. Good-bye!”
I pulled up short, chest constricting, head throbbing with a dizzying rush of recognition and disbelief. That voice. Silken London fog and delectable sarcasm. I hadn’t heard that voice in almost a year…except in my most clandestine dreams.
It can’t be.
Nate reeled as if he’d been smacked. As the door began to close he thrust a boot in the jamb. He bared his teeth and hissed but otherwise stood his ground.
“Clearly,” the voice chimed, “you’ve got the wrong room. Toddle off now. There’s a good boy.”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled at the sound of that smooth baritone. I’d know that voice anywhere.
“Marius?” I blurted out.
The satyr’s all too familiar face poked out of the doorway, his eyes narrowed with annoyance or nearsightedness. “Bloody hell. Catherine, is that you?”
“You know him?” Nate asked, breathless.
I sidled up next to Nate, drinking in the sight of my former co-worker as he stepped into the hall. “Used to work with him during my time with Eris.”