by Jax Garren
Macha and Badb Catha, looking dramatically goth in the family-friendly gymnasium, stared at them as if fascinated, making no move to attack.
“You did this!” Freyja wailed.
“If you don’t like it, I have a suggestion,” Macha called casually across the space between them. “If you’ll stoop to take one from me.”
“Why would you give me a helpful suggestion?” Freyja dropped to her knees beside the dead guy as if she could actually do something and started to shake like she was freaking out.
Rafael grabbed the guy’s gun off the ground and knelt beside her, keeping his eyes and the gun pointed at the Morrigan. “Freyja, we have a fight. Stay with me.”
“Wait,” Macha drawled, voice cautious as she backed around the Kia Soul on her way to the other side of the gym, as far from Freyja’s fists as she could get. “I would prefer him not dead. And she can save him. I suggest a ceasefire while she patches him up.”
“What do I...” Freyja gulped.
“Diosita, the dead are dead.” There was no way that hadn’t been a killing blow. He didn’t like it either, but it’d been him or the goon, and, frankly, he liked her choice.
“Not if she has Brisingamen,” Badb Catha said from beside Macha. “Didn’t you just mention jewelry, girl?”
Freyja stuck her hand back in the bag and came out with a silver torque embedded with amber stones. “What are the odds they’re playing us?” she muttered, hope and mistrust warring on her expressive face.
“High,” he answered through gritted teeth. “We’ve beaten them twice now.”
But she put the necklace on, and it looked right—like the drawing. “Watch them,” she muttered and put her hand on the guy’s head. “Don’t die.”
A golden light traveled from the amber in the torque and down through her fingers. Macha and Badb Catha watched from their distance, hands folded peacefully before them. “What’s it doing?” he asked.
“I don’t...” She sounded like she was trying to say she didn’t know, but then she stood up and yanked the ax from where it had embedded in the guy’s abdomen. The glow moved from her to the dead man, encompassing his body in amber light. As if the whole thing happened in reverse, blood drained uphill, back into his torso as the skin began to seal shut. “Fight the good fight,” she whispered.
And the man who’d had an ax in his ribcage ten seconds ago sat up.
Meanwhile, Freyja collapsed. Coyote just got his hand under her head before it hit the gym floor. “Freyja!” he whispered urgently, unsure what the zombie—or whatever it was she’d made—was about to do.
The zombie-human thing rubbed his side, his flushed face looking quite alive. “Well, that hurt,” he said all matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, well, you were about to get me killed, so pardon me if I’m on her side,” Rafael growled, trying to keep his eyes on the Morrigan, zombie man, and Freyja all at once.
Freyja moaned, clutching her stomach. He pulled her into his lap, pretty sure that was a bad idea from a freedom-of-movement perspective, but knowing he needed to comfort her. “Bad time, diosita. Hang with me for a few more minutes.” He looked up at the Morrigan, who were now grinning. “What’s happening to her?”
Macha’s smile turned evil. “Resurrection. Think that’s an easy spell?”
Badb Catha put a hand on her chest. “Why, my dear sister, I fear our little Freyja’s used up everything she’s got!”
Macha stepped forward, her smile dropping for a look of pure menace. “Wonder who she is. Huehuecoyotl, if you transform with her and run away, you leave these people to a bloodbath.”
“Bag,” Freyja muttered softly, her hand moving toward her new Mary Poppins pouch. Rafael shifted to block whatever she was doing from the Morrigan’s line of sight as he racked his brain for something he could do that wouldn’t desert the families huddled on the stands.
He had nothing. Except to sing. It seemed ridiculous that at a time like this, the best he could offer was music. But music had power that he’d always believed in, even before he could use it for magic. He sang, infusing all the comfort he could into an old lullaby Abuela had sung him as a child, and after a moment, a few voices from the crowd joined in.
Freyja sighed, her eyes closing briefly as she looked a trifle less weary.
The formerly deceased dude stood up between them and Macha, like he’d swapped sides, “I’m afraid I can’t let you—”
With a wave of her hand, Macha telekinetically threw him aside. He landed crunched but breathing on the floor a few feet away.
“Sing her relief all you want, Huehuecoyotl. It’s a lost cause,” Badb Catha taunted him, starting her own advance.
Cowards.
Freyja’s hand was in her bag, and she hissed once in pain.
Her body bucked as she shrieked, and he stiffened in fear for her. Her clothes dissolved, leaving her buckass naked, which, combined with her screaming, turned off every thought circuit as he panicked over what might be happening. Her blond hair turned black as the night sky as her pale skin darkened to olive brown.
He took off his headdress and for the first time ever decided it was too small, as it only covered half of her torso. Her eyes opened, and they were yellow with the tiniest pinpricks of black—like a lion’s. Revulsion filled him as he recognized who she’d become.
“Oh fuck.”
She blinked, and when her eyes reopened, they were light brown and very human. But the collective gasp about the room said he wasn’t the only one who recognized which goddess she’d pulled out of her bag of random things.
Her breathing came erratically as she hissed at him painfully. “Am I... naked?”
“Y-you have bracelets and a hat,” he said stupidly. It looked vaguely like one of those conical toddler toys where you stack tiers of donuts on a peg, but with white horns instead of donuts. It was still better looking than his headdress.
Not that that was even close to the point right now.
She sat up and swept brown and white dappled feathers over her body. They were majestic. Like the rest of her.
“I have wings...” she said, and he wondered if she even knew what she’d done.
“No...” Macha intoned, voice hushed with rage. “This I will not accept.”
A lion roared. Freyja—no longer Freyja—turned with him to see a giant lioness pace between them and the Celtic goddesses, then take a seat with her back to Freyja like she was posting sentry.
“Do you know who you are?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“I think I have a lion. What goddess has wings and a lion and jewelry and no clothes?” She stood up, looked down at herself, then turned white as a ghost. “Oh shit. What other goddess.”
“Uh...”
Before he could bring himself to tell her, Macha hissed from halfway across the gym, “Ishtar.”
Chapter 19
FREYJA-WHO-WAS-NOT-Freyja closed her eyes. “Omigods.” Then she made a stunted noise of pain and grasped her forehead. “I don’t think she wants to be me.”
Macha laughed. “Oh, my precious. She wants you very much. Your body anyway. Keep fighting her while you fight me, or she’ll replace you. How long do you think you can last?”
“What?” Rafael asked, clutching Freyja as if he could ward off whatever was happening.
Instead of attacking or turning cruel, Macha looked serious, almost in awe. “Ishtar was the first of us. The priests didn’t quite know what they were doing and let a little too much of a greedy goddess in.” She took a step forward, not so much threatening as intent. “She’s going to take your girlfriend over, ejecting her soul and getting herself a new body to be reborn in. I don’t want that to happen any more than you do—reborn gods make a mess. It’s a small risk we all take, but Ishtar? She fights—she fights so much.” She held out her hand, the genuine worry in her eyes mixed with greed, as if she wanted the challenge. The lion stood up and growled. Macha scowled at it and didn’t come forward.
Freyja-Ishtar closed her eyes, and a one-shouldered dress with an extraordinary amount of colorful fringe appeared on her.
“We can change our clothes? Is that a thing we can all do?” Rafael asked.
Macha ignored his not-really-on-point-right-now comment. “I, Macha of the Morrigan, challenge you for the godstone of Ishtar.”
Freyja-Ishtar pulled away from him. She raised a trembling hand again to press to her forehead, and the bracelets on her wrist rang with the motion. “I don’t even know what she can do, and you’re challenging me?”
Macha nodded. “You’re the most powerful goddess who’s ever existed. What better time is there?” She leaned forward, ignoring the growl of the lion. “We’ve been waiting twenty years, and you’ve been in this twit’s bag the whole time?”
“I’m the most powerful of all, huh? So I can beat you.”
That just got a placid nod. “Yes. You should. But you’re a war goddess who showed up in the form whores hang on brothel walls, not the form kings worship in the palace or soldiers on the field of battle. Meanwhile the most well-proportioned Huehuecoyotl one could dream up is staring at you so thirsty even I, a goddess of blood and conquest, can see what’s happening.”
“Hey!” he said, standing next to Freyja. But Macha ignored him.
“You think this is a love story. It isn’t. It’s a battle—one my sisters and I will win. You have a choice. Hand over the stone, go home, and let that darling man put a big smile on your face. Or stay and die. Either way, I get what I want.”
Badb Catha took an eager step forward. “But the second option is so much more thrilling, sister.”
Freyja-Ishtar looked at them with such furious eyes that he knew what she was going to do. Nervous, he nodded encouragement. “You got this. We got this.”
Macha settled into a battle pose, spear at the ready. “In case you are unaware, Ancient Coyote—a case I’d lay bets on—during a formal challenge, you aren’t a contender. Any music you play will apply equally to both of us, for ill or for good. Makes things more interesting.”
Freyja-Ishtar took another step forward and stumbled, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead like she had a migraine. Her wings flared, as if to keep her balanced.
He ducked in front of one and caught her, worried. Was this a death match? Or if Macha got the stone, was it over?
She looked up at him, real fear in her eyes. “She wants free—Ishtar.”
“You can give Macha the stone.” Consequences didn’t matter—they’d figure it out. Keeping her safe was imperative.
“Listen to him, Freyja,” Macha said, so much lust in her voice that he knew it was a terrible idea.
“I just need to get control of her.”
The war goddess had said a song spell would apply equally to both of them, and he believed her about that. So if he used his magic to detach Freyja just a little from Ishtar, it would help Freyja out. And if, in the process, he detached Macha just a little from her source of power... well, that should help Freyja, too.
“Kiss your boyfriend goodbye, little girl. Time to start.” Macha raised her spear.
Rafael started to sing the first thing about detachment that came to mind—a breakup song. “Goodbye, love. I know you’ll be gone before morning.”
Giselle leaned away from Coyote, letting his startlingly soothing voice wash over her as he sang Estelle Carnes’s first number one hit—a song she’d recorded right after her very public breakup with Rafael Marquez. Rumor was he’d written it for her. She flushed the irrelevant thought from her mind as Coyote’s magic seeped into her, making the insistent pressure on her head ease as the goddess backed off.
Ishtar was a pushy bitch. Once again, Coyote had figured out a way to help her, without lifting a weapon.
“Fuck,” Macha muttered. And she threw her spear directly at Coyote.
Giselle slammed him to the ground. “Keep singing, keep singing. It helps.”
The air gushed out of him, but he sucked in a wheezing breath and started the next line, nodding as his temporarily mellow voice was replaced with gasping vocals. No matter; the magic still worked. Ishtar kept pushing—pushing, pushing at her brain, but Giselle could wall it off.
War goddess... she was a war goddess... “Lion, attack!” Did that work?
Yes, that worked. The lion leaped for Macha, giving Giselle space to remember she had wings now. With a mighty flap, she took to the air, stupid-ass fringe whipping everywhere like a damn puffer fish.
“Come on, gimme something useful.” She shook the stupid star symbol that had appeared in her left hand, and—glory be—it turned into a bow and arrow. Compared to Ande, she sucked at archery. But she’d been training all year with an Amazon warrior, which meant she was better than anyone with only eleven months on a weapon had a right to be. An arrow appeared between her fingers, and she shot for Macha’s shoulder. The goddess wrenched her shield up just in time, blocking it. She pointed into the crowd, and magic zapped from her fingers. “The lion,” she ordered.
To Giselle’s horror, a child barely out of toddlerhood dashed toward the frenzied animal with a war cry, and her confused lion turned on the kid, jaws wide. People screamed as the child’s parent, or someone else who cared, dashed out after her.
“Stop!” Giselle yelled at the beast as she dive-bombed it.
The lion pounced. Giselle landed on the ground on top of the child. The lion crashed into her, changing direction at the last moment and sheathing its claws. A bare breath of their razor points scraped across her side, running shallow rivulets where a gutting blow would’ve killed the kid.
“Mija! Mija!” someone was screaming.
The lion roared from on top of the two-person-and-a-feline pile, driving everyone back.
“Her!” Giselle pointed at Macha, who had another damn javelin ready. The spear flew as the lion turned. The weapon slammed solidly into the lion’s side.
The animal roared as it fell backward, smashing back into Giselle.
“What is wrong with you?!” Giselle screamed, trying to get out from under the lion. “Animals and children? What are you doing?”
“Winning.”
Giselle practically threw the squirming child back at her parents—“Don’t let her go; she’ll run at the lion,” which hopefully wasn’t dead—and spun back to face Macha.
The woman ran at her, face a frenzy of determined bloodlust. Giselle waved her bow, hoping for a melee weapon, and the thing turned into something resembling a sword with a hook on the end—almost like a sickle, but not.
Macha swung. Using the hook, Giselle parried, catching the sword in the notch. With a twist of her wrist, the sword flew from Macha’s hand.
The goddess looked at her in shock. Giselle lunged forward and swung. Macha brought up her shield.
The hooked weapons slid over the bronze, scraping across with a terrible squeal of metal.
The goddess inside her loved the sound, shivering with pleasure and lusting for more. A violent desire washed over her to drive the sword deep into Macha’s heart and then fuck Coyote on the bleeding corpse.
The image was as horrifying to Giselle as it was attractive to Ishtar, and Giselle wanted to vomit. Psycho goddess!
A javelin from the side of the room came at her, slicing painfully through her bare arm. Blood splattered half of her in red. She glanced to see where it had come from and found Badb Catha with a smug look on her face. “Hey! You said one-on-one!”
“We’re the Morrigan,” Macha said from behind her shield. “We are one.”
Badb Catha began her own song, and the earth moved—or felt like it did. Giselle fell to the ground as a terrible, whirling sensation, like she’d been on the tilt-a-whirl one or five too many times, made her nauseous. The wail of other people filled her ears, and she realized Badb’s spell was affecting the whole room.
Except, of course, Macha, who strode purposefully toward Giselle, sword in hand. “You should’ve given me the stone.”
Coyo
te stopped singing, and Ishtar roared back in with a vengeance.
Rafael clutched his ears as Badb Catha screeched a wail as maddening as microphone feedback. Immediately, a sense of disorientation made the ground feel wobbly, like he’d had too many shots.
On the court, Freyja was on the ground, Macha striding to her with her sword raised. That bitch was the only one in the room unaffected.
Driving back Ishtar was no longer the priority. He switched to an Aztec rhythm he’d started studying, filling the space with a steady beat of his fist against the bleachers to counteract the maddening howl. Quickly he found enough balance to rise to his feet—a surprise benefit of spending way too much time drunk the last two years—and stomped in rhythm. A few of the onlookers joined in, helping him overcome the disorienting cry. The music he needed to make came to him clear and fully formed, like it did on good days. Like it used to all the time.
He didn’t want a drum. The instrument, as if it knew what was necessary, morphed into a rattle and an ocarina. The rattle he could handle as well as any toddler, and he began to shake it to the rhythm of his feet on the bleachers, each pound and shake making the dizziness feel a little less insane. But the little bird-shaped flute? “Huehue, you sure you don’t like the guitar?” he muttered, sure this was not going to be pretty.
He put the mouthpiece to his lips and blew. He’d figure out the fingering while he was performing. It wasn’t like the situation was life or... oh, wait.
Macha raised her sword, and Rafael took an angry step toward them. Fuck the “rules”; he couldn’t just let her die.
Relief stalled him as Freyja-Ishtar rolled to the side, then flipped up to standing, no longer reeling from Badb Catha’s spell.
She still looked like a physically darker version of his Freyja—mostly. She even moved like her. But there was something... different. Like she wasn’t the only pilot in the cockpit. Her Ishtar eyes were solid yellow with pinprick pupils. As she spread her wings wide, his Freyja-Ishtar was every bit as terrifying as she’d looked murdering Pope Maui, even if it was clearly not the same person behind the yellow irises. She muttered in a language he’d never heard before.