The Trickster's Drum (Godsongs Book 1)

by Jax Garren

  Rawan huffed a low laugh at that. “Oh, honey, anyone would do this. You’ve been through so much! You have a right to have something of your mother’s. I mean, who wouldn’t drive you a couple hours for this?”

  Most people. Giselle couldn’t help it, she leaned over and gave her friend—her new best friend—a clumsy hug, which Rawan returned with warm fervor.

  When Rawan leaned back, she had a determined gleam in her eyes. “Okay, roomie, let’s get in there and kick some crotchety-old-bigot rump.”

  They high-fived and exited the vehicle, Giselle taking strength from both her roommate’s enthusiasm and the Rage Riot tee she’d donned for moral support. They’d blasted their music the entire way here, Rawan singing along with her to the songs she knew from the radio, which had been a mighty fine morale booster.

  As Rafael had wailed in his soulful voice, Giselle had tried ever so hard not to think of Coyote-as-Rafael and how damn good he’d smelled or how damn nice he’d felt as she’d latched onto him like... like a woman who was having way too much fun pretending a fantasy had come true.

  Oops. But hell, now that she and Coyote were fine again, she had no regrets.

  They rang the doorbell, Ellen answered, and it took all the good feeling Giselle had drummed up over the last hour not to shrivel under a gaze that had aged over the past twelve years but not grown a mite less intimidating.

  “No soliciting. Can’t you read the—”

  “Ellen,” Giselle interrupted. “I’m not soliciting. I know you haven’t seen me in twelve years, but I need to get into Sofia’s room.”

  The old woman paled and stepped back with an expression of horror. “Get off my porch.”

  Giselle peered back into the house and was relieved to see the wreath of plastic gerbera daisies and baby’s breath still hanging on Sofia’s door, signaling that the room was likely still a shrine to her daughter—the version they wanted of her, anyway. During her month here, Giselle had slept on the couch so Ellen could keep that room perfectly preserved, though Giselle had sneaked in a few times to touch the remains of a mother she’d never met.

  Giselle managed to keep her tone perfectly even as she recited what she’d practiced. “I think my mothers left me something. I just need to find it, and then I’ll be out of your way and never come back—that I can promise. I have as much desire to be here as you do to see me.”

  “Mothers,” Ellen said in a withering tone. “No such thing.”

  Have patience. “Ellen—”

  “It’s Mrs. Jackson. And nobody goes in her room.”

  Giselle crossed her arms, her temper rising too fast. “You’d think you had her corpse on the bed the way you keep that room shut up.” She leaned for the doorway, considering shoving her out of the way.

  “I’ll call the police.” Ellen threw a weathered arm in her path, and Giselle had the sudden urge to break it.

  Before she could do anything half so foolhardy, Rawan stepped up and placed her hands between them. “As Ms. Ryder’s lawyer, I wouldn’t recommend that.”

  Giselle barely stopped herself from reacting to that ludicrous statement, but Ellen turned wide eyes on the girl, though her voice remained every bit as bitchy. “Oh, and why not?”

  “Because we’ll come back with a warrant. You have, after all, stolen my client’s property.”

  “I’ve done no such thing.”

  Rawan kept talking, spinning believable lies with startling sincerity. “Now, as you probably realize, getting said warrant will require bringing up a lot of history with the sheriff here, history about the relationship of your daughter with Ms. Ryder’s other mother.” Rawan couldn’t know how effective her threat truly was, as Giselle had never mentioned Sofia’s crime and imprisonment, just her death.

  “You wouldn’t dare—”

  “Of course, if you’ll simply let my client have a look around to find her property, we can avoid all of that and be out of your hair within an hour.”

  The hatred in Ellen’s eyes nearly made Giselle flinch. “I don’t know what that bitch did to turn my daughter—”

  Giselle snapped, “Sofia was always gay, Ellen. Bryn had nothing to do with that!”

  “You going to tell me my sweet daughter, all on her own, chose to become a monster? That it was all my daughter’s doing and not that turncoat of a hussy she thought she was in love with? Bryn got away with murder. She got my girl involved in the first place, and her sins finally caught up with her. Good riddance to burned rubbish.”

  Giselle balled her fists up in rage, trying not to choke on her anger. They weren’t talking about being gay anymore. She had no idea which one of her mothers had a godstone first—just that Bryn had never stabbed anyone through the skull in front of an audience, making her the good mother, as far as Giselle was concerned. Not that taking Bryn’s side would help her right now. “None of their choices are my fault.”

  Rawan placidly checked the time on her phone like two women weren’t near screaming at each other beside her. “Maybe we should just come back with the sheriff. Come on, Ms. Ryder.” She turned like they’d leave, and Giselle tried not to panic as she followed—but what did her roommate know about this? How sure was she they could actually get a warrant?

  “Oh, just get inside and then get out of my life.” To Giselle’s surprise, her grandmother held the door open. Rawan nodded a prim thank you and entered, Giselle close behind, giving no such nod or recognition. When Ellen put her hand on the doorknob of Sofia’s old room, she closed her eyes as a shudder of grief passed through her.

  Giselle crossed her arms and looked at the floor, wishing she’d at least met Sofia, gotten some idea of her other than the cold-blooded killer from the news. Bryn had loved her, and what few memories Giselle did have of her too brief time with Bryn were good. Smiles and hugs, reading books, homemade food, and someone to tuck her in at night.

  How could someone that good have loved someone horrifyingly evil?

  Ellen and Carter had thrown a seven-year-old into the foster system the day Bryn’s body had been found, unwilling to care for a child that “came from sin”—at least that’s what they’d said. But maybe Ellen somehow blamed Giselle, as a proxy, for Sofia’s crimes. Or maybe it was just too painful to have a constant reminder in the house underfoot and demanding answers.

  But even with all the anger she still carried, Giselle couldn’t look on Ellen’s stark grief without being moved. Some things you never got past. She looked Ellen up and down, her sun-brown skin and hands slightly gnarled with arthritis, her frosted hair in need of a touch-up, and a wave of pity, or maybe even companionship, made her try. “Why didn’t you ever take me to see her? I wish I’d met her.”

  Ellen shot her a sharp look. “She wasn’t my daughter anymore. Evil took her. You find any traces of evil in here, you do yourself a favor and burn it.” With a pained grunt, she shoved open the door. She started to step in, then flinched in the doorframe and backed out again. “Don’t make a mess,” she said quickly before dashing toward the kitchen.

  After a moment, anguished wails made their way through the trailer. Giselle put her hands on her head, wishing she could tamp down the chaos inside her.

  Rawan’s hand pressed against her back and rubbed soothing circles. “You okay?”

  Giselle managed a weak smile. “No. But I will be. Let’s get this over with.” She leaned in, bumping shoulders with her friend before heading into the room. “I can’t thank you enough for this. That was brilliant work out there.”

  “Thank Legally Blonde—that’s where I got the idea. What exactly are we looking for?” Rawan asked, following her in and shutting the door. “Oh, and apologies for implying your moms’ relationship was something to hide. I just figured that’d get us in the door. She’s crazy.”

  Giselle gave her the best smile she could muster. “Don’t worry about it. Ellen’s never going to change her mind, and getting in here was the important thing.” She surveyed the room. The faded time capsule of old boy-
band posters, a letter jacket, and three different editions of Titanic on DVD didn’t look like the lair of a psycho killer. But this had all been her mom’s.

  To see if it would help, she touched Freyja’s stone in her pocket, trying to look casual about it. A nearly electric charge of excitement zapped through her. The stone physically vibrated against her fingers, like the object itself was eager. Some of her grief dissolved in hope that this uncomfortable trip wouldn’t be a bust. As if guided by instinct, she headed for the small closet. Underneath a rack of dresses a quarter century out of date was a cedar trunk.

  Anticipation buzzed through her as a memory surfaced that she’d long since buried—as she’d buried and lost so many memories of that terrifying year after she’d entered foster care. The Jacksons had forbidden her from entering Sofia’s room, but after the first screaming match between them, Giselle had sneaked in here to hide and ended up in the trunk.

  With the logic of a seven-year-old, she’d planned to wait until they were asleep and then run away. But she’d been the one to fall asleep, then woken up confused and sobbing in the dark, narrow confines of a strange space. Ellen had found her—Carter was gone, probably to a bar or something. Instead of lambasting her for breaking the rules, Ellen had given her a giant bowl of cornflakes and a small mug of hot chocolate. Then Carter had come home, and...

  Giselle shook her head, shoving away a memory that was better off forgotten.

  “Did you find something already?” Rawan asked, dropping down beside her.

  With shaking fingers, Giselle opened the trunk. Nestled among antique quilts was an old but sturdy leather backpack that she’d bunched up and used as a pillow that night. “Maybe,” she told Rawan in a hushed voice.

  The bag didn’t belong in the trunk—it wasn’t Sofia’s. Giselle had brought Bryn’s backpack with her from home, as if it were a talisman that would guide her mother back to her. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing she’d just forget and leave behind, but it was amazing how many things—important things—never stuck in her head like they should when trauma was involved. And Carter’s wrath that night had been terrible.

  But now memories rushed her of the way her mother would carry it everywhere instead of a purse, like normal mothers. Bryn’s runes and a notebook were always in it, but it was just large enough to also hold a laptop or books or two lunches or whatever was called for on their outings. If Bryn had, for some reason, separated an artifact of Freyja’s from the costume, it would make sense that she’d kept it in here.

  “Open it! I’m dying to see!”

  First Giselle checked the bag over with an adult assessment. There were no tags or labels, like the item had been handcrafted. Based on the wear and tear, it had either been “rode hard and put up wet,” as one of her fosters used to say, or her mother hadn’t been the first person to own it. The main flap was branded with a single rune, othala, which meant “inheritance.” Seemed pretty on the nose.

  “Come on!” Rawan near begged.

  Giselle rolled her eyes, feigning a calm she didn’t feel. “I think you’re more excited than I am.” The stone in her pocket seemed equally elated, tingling so much she was surprised it wasn’t visible through her jeans.

  “Doubt it. Your willpower is just stupid levels of high. At least check the pockets or something!”

  There was only one pocket on the front. Giselle dug into it and pulled out a photograph of two women, one blonde and one dark-haired, their arms around each other, smiling at the camera as they leaned against a bar, beer bottles in their free hands. Tears suddenly filled Giselle’s eyes as she stared at Bryn and the only image she’d ever seen of her birth mother as an adult without a jumpsuit on. They both looked so young and happy.

  “Are those your moms?”

  “I... I don’t know. I never met one of them. But I think so.” Bryn was the blonde who, weirdly, looked more like her than Sofia, who was pale with inky hair. All three of them, though—Bryn, Sofia, and Giselle—had bright blue eyes. Sofia’s carefree smile, so effervescent compared to Bryn’s sedate joy, looked like trouble—the kind that had sealed her fate?—and her shoulders were relaxed like she hadn’t a care in the world. Weirdly, it reminded her of Coyote just a bit. She only hoped a better fate lay in store for her and her “coworker,” as he’d called them.

  How could someone with a smile like that have committed the acts she’d been convicted of? How could you smile so brightly and then stab a pike through someone’s brain?

  Giselle flipped the picture around and found a date. Her birth mother had been nineteen—Giselle’s age—and Bryn twenty when this was taken.

  Six years before everything fell apart.

  “You know, she looks a little familiar,” Rawan said, confusion in her tone as she touched Sofia’s half of the picture.

  “She’s got one of those classic Irish faces.” Giselle turned the photo facedown before Rawan’s memory kicked in, then swiped away tears and unrolled the top of the knapsack to see what else was inside.

  Nothing.

  Wait. Nothing?

  She felt around on the inside, wondering if there was some secret compartment or something. She’d felt so certain—hell, the godstone in her pocket still seemed certain—that something was in here. But she traced every seam, squeezed every inch of the leather between her palms, and finally turned the damn thing upside down and shook it.

  Nothing came out.

  She looked again at the photo. It was important. It was a good and wonderful thing to have. But it wasn’t going to help Freyja out. Disappointment almost wiped away the elation of seeing her mothers so alive and so happy—proof that their whole lives hadn’t been the misery and fear that was all she had left of them. An old backpack, while nice to see again, couldn’t be all there was to find, though.

  Could it?

  “I guess your mother really didn’t want her parents to see that photo. What kind of bigots can’t be happy for their daughter? I mean, look how in love they are—how happy. Maybe you should be glad you didn’t grow up here. Holy moly, I’m talking too much. Shut up, Rawan.”

  Giselle cracked a smile. “Please don’t. I like your chatter—it’s better than the voices in my head.” She tucked the photo back into the front pocket. “I guess we should look around some more.”

  “Yeah. I thought that was going to be a score, but while the bag’s cool and all, it’s a little anticlimactic.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, they quickly but efficiently combed through the room, but dried homecoming mums, old yearbooks, and a surprisingly advanced collection of science texts were the only things they came up with. The godstone in Giselle’s pocket was vibrating so much she couldn’t really tell if anything else was calling to it. Finally, after unearthing a stash of yarn under the bed that probably cost more than Sofia’s wardrobe—Cashmere sock yarn? For realsies?—she turned to Rawan. “As my lawyer, can you advise on whether or not I should raid the yarn stash? I have this cool, not-so-new bag to carry it in.”

  Rawan’s face turned serious. “Only if you knit me a pair of socks out of that sparkly purple. I’m pretty sure that’s what the legality hinges on.”

  “Done.” Giselle gave her a thumbs-up and stuffed the backpack with as much yarn as she could fit—including the purple shimmer—without it obviously bulging, a move she feared would encourage Ellen to investigate. When she’d picked through for the best of the stash, she shoved it back under the bed to, she guessed, rot along with everything else in here, and nodded to Rawan. “Let’s get out of here. Sorry to drag you all this way for a backpack full of yarn.”

  Rawan rubbed her shoulder, expression kinder than Giselle deserved for being a giant waste of her Saturday. “Don’t forget the picture. That’s worth it alone.” She headed for the door. “And I’ve seen your knitting. I’m going to have kick-ass socks.”

  It wasn’t until thirty minutes later that the trip got interesting.

  Chapter 17

  HER BATPHONE BUZZED
, then erupted in one of Rage Riot’s sultriest melodies.

  Stupid Coyote! When had he managed to program that? It had to have been after their argument, because he was clearly referencing it. She just wasn’t sure what he was trying to say or do—other than to make her want to flip him off.

  Maybe that was, in fact, all he’d intended.

  I was getting the impression you liked me better this way, echoed in her head. She had to cut that idea off—no Rage Riot fangirling around a shapeshifter.

  Rawan laughed. “Changed your tone, eh girl?”

  Giselle laughed on a sigh and dug through her purse to send it to voicemail.

  It damn near immediately dinged with a text.

  “Answer it,” Rawan said, waving at her. “Somebody clearly needs to get ahold of you. Or thinks they do.”

  While Rawan was focused on the road, Giselle pulled the phone out, hiding it behind her bag as she typed, Cant right now.

  Have to.

  Latr.

  Morrigans. Pick up your phone.

  The phone rang again. With a guilty glance at Rawan, she pressed the fancy thing to her ear opposite the driver, hoping her roommate wouldn’t notice it was a different device. “What are you talking about?”

  Coyote sounded halfway between panicked and giddy as he said, “Check the news. They’re at the YMCA, the one in your—our—patrol zone. So get here. Now.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t want to, I’m saying it’s not physically possible.”

  “Just ask someone for a ride; people are nicer than you think. Or I’ll pay your rideshare. Card’s already in the app. Be here in five.”

  “Dammit, Coyote, I can’t!” As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized her mistake.

  Rawan’s head whipped her direction, she gave Giselle a look up and down, and her jaw dropped.