The Trickster's Drum (Godsongs Book 1)

by Jax Garren

  Macha, however, seemed to at least have a clue what was happening, because she screamed a protest and began swinging her sword with more terror than grace. Rafael’s heart nearly stopped as Freyja-Ishtar slid under the blade with a hairsbreadth to spare and placed her hand flat against Macha’s solar plexus.

  The woman howled in a terror so intense he was tempted to feel bad for her. But, nah. A cloud of black gas surrounded her, swirling like a tornado as Macha clutched for Freyja-Ishtar with desperation. Cackling and chittering noises crescendoed until they overpowered every other sound in the room.

  Then Macha vanished, leaving silence.

  Rafael quit playing, unsure if he’d just witnessed a murder or teleportation or... what had she done? Twenty years ago, Ishtar had gruesomely and without provocation murdered someone on live camera. How much of that had been Ishtar and how much had been her conduit? What was his Freyja capable of under that goddess’s influence?

  He had to get them separated.

  The crowd began to cheer for Macha’s demise, voices raising in praise for the woman who’d vanquished the Border Terror.

  “No!” Badb Catha wailed, rushing toward them, looking all too human in her grief. She stopped several yards from Freyja’s grasp. “Bring her back. We’ll leave you in peace, I promise.”

  Freyja-Ishtar gazed at her with a hint of a smile, her eyes still leonine. “A war goddess speaking of peace? The shame...” She jerked forward, as if to reach for Badb Catha. The woman yanked back, turned into a crow, and flew away on wings beating so fast they were a blur.

  Freyja-Ishtar watched her go, expression inscrutable. Then she turned to Coyote and sent the full wattage of her smile to him as her eyes flipped back to brown. The hypnotic force of it hit him like the ecstasy of music, full of energy, heat, and joy. “I won,” she said simply.

  “Is Macha...?” He was uncomfortable with killing people if it wasn’t necessary. Although, the woman had caused so much death and sorrow herself, if somebody was going to get offed, she wasn’t a terrible candidate.

  Speaking of, he glanced a few yards away, where the resurrected man was sitting upright with his head in his hands like he’d had a helluva day. Coyote shook his head in wonder and turned back to Freyja-Ishtar.

  She tilted her head. “I sent her away. Far away.”

  Rafael sighed in relief—no deaths today. Sending mass murderers far away sounded like a good idea. Maybe Freyja was in command in that head of hers.

  The cheering got louder as she crooked her finger with a smile that made his blood pound. He came across the floor to her, hooked and reeled in by her magnetism. Freyja was normally desirable, but with the calm confidence of just having kicked so much ass, she was next-level glorious.

  On the floor where she’d fallen, Freyja’s godstone was right where it had dropped when she’d swapped goddesses. He scooped it up and continued to Freyja-Ishtar.

  Her arms wound around him, just as they had in front of his condo when she’d been pretending. “Wanna take me home and make me smile?” she muttered against his neck.

  He shivered and couldn’t help holding her a little tighter. How much he wanted that to be her saying those words. But something still didn’t feel quite right. “Who am I talking to?”

  She pulled back, and he looked into her eyes. She looked dazed, like she’d taken one too many hits off something good. His partner was there, but she was under the influence of something he didn’t understand. He pushed Freyja’s stone into her hand. “Wanna come back to me?”

  She chuckled. “You say that like Freyja is the real me. She’s not either, you know.”

  “Yeah, but... she doesn’t ride you like a high, my not-so-little goddess.”

  “You got a problem with getting high?” She leaned in again, grinding against him, and his mouth went dry.

  If he took her back to their place, they’d have the night he’d been dreaming of—and then some. And afterward he’d never forgive himself for taking advantage of the situation. If Freyja—his Freyja—said this, then hell yes, he’d make her smile and scream and moan and... He breathed unsteadily. “I don’t have a problem with that in general, and I want to make you smile more than you can imagine. But I think you need to let that goddess go first.” He pushed Freyja’s stone at her again, and this time she took it.

  Fear passed across her face. “She wants to stay. We’ll be unstoppable.”

  He took her chin in his hand, holding her eye contact. “Goodbye, love. I know you’ll be gone before morning,” he sang again, letting the magic flow with his voice. “You know this one, right? It was on the radio. Sing with me.”

  Someone else—not her—joined in on the next line and then others as he continued—

  And if I hold you tonight, we’ll touch as we’re pulling away.

  One more night to lie in my bed and lie with the words we’ll say.

  I should say no. I know you’ll be gone with the day.

  Finally Freyja joined in with, “Do I go or stay?”

  She turned her face into the crowd, looking away from him. But whatever she saw—or whomever, maybe the person who’d been in the car with her—gave her strength. Her body shuddered as she jammed Freyja’s stone against her bicep where the spear had hit her. “She doesn’t want to leave. Keep singing and hold me. I’m sorry I need you so much.”

  “I’m not.” He did as she requested, holding her tightly as he started the next verse, the crowd around him singing as if they were at a concert.

  You want me still. The bed burns when we’re together.

  But heat’s not love, won’t keep us warm when we’re apart.

  It was weird singing a work he’d given up, one he’d never sung in concert or even in private with the band. But the old pain he’d written it with, so potent at the time, seemed overstated—two kids on the cusp of fame attracted as much to the lifestyle as they were to each other. The next lines, though, still rang true, and he stroked his hand through Freyja’s hair, infusing all the magic he could into his voice as he willed her more strength to fight.

  And I can want you, need you, love you with all that’s in me.

  But you should go. Don’t want your touch without your heart.

  With a painful gasp, Freyja came back—blue eyes, blond hair, and insulating layers of fabric and chain mail that she’d probably like better after her short stint as a naked goddess. She crushed tighter against him, and corny as it was, he felt like a man holding strong for her after whatever the hell she’d just been through. It felt good. If she tipped her head up this time with that same look in her eyes, he’d sure as hell kiss her. They’d won the fight—mostly her, but he’d helped—and now they could win each other.

  Her hands flattened out against his naked chest, fingernails curling into him slightly, and it was hard to remember they were in the middle of a crowd.

  “Freyja—” he said.

  She shoved away, startling him, and whipped her gaze into the crowd again, looking for... whomever that was. Another man? Was she mad? What’d just happened?

  Sirens sounded in the distance, and she spun back to him. She squeezed his arm, proving she wasn’t angry, but the gesture was quick, more an acknowledgment than an invitation. “I’ve got to get the car out.” She stared from the vehicle parked midcourt to the person-sized entrance to the gym.

  “How’d you get the car in?” he asked.

  “We got this,” the man she’d resurrected said, pointing to himself and a couple others. “We’ll get it outside—there’s a rolling door behind the bleachers. Go before the cops get here.”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Let them get this,” Rafael assured her. “These are very capable people who aren’t going to federal prison like we’re about to.”

  “Video—” she started.

  “We know better than that,” another man chimed in. “You watch out for the neighborhood. We watch out for you.”

  The resurrected man shoved a piece of paper into her hand. �
��In case you need me. My name’s Emilio.” Then he called to other guys—he must have been from the area—and they started to clear people off the stands.

  The sirens got louder, and Rafael grabbed her arm, hustling her toward the back entrance. “There’s such a thing as too independent, mi diosita. Let people help you.”

  With obvious reluctance, she let him pull her into the alley. “We need to talk,” she muttered softly as they wound between the shadows of buildings like criminals.

  Which, technically, they were.

  “Yeah, so you found Ishtar’s godstone in the bag, huh? Big deal.” Big fucking deal indeed. “Where’d you get that bag?”

  “Yeah, about that, but also...” She trailed off like she was afraid to continue.

  When it looked like she’d just stop there, he prompted, “That you resurrected somebody from the dead? Because that’s new.”

  “Oh. I almost forgot about that. That’s a good thing, though. I think?” She sliced a hand through the air decisively. “That’s last on my list of concerns.”

  Damn, they had a lot to talk about. “Where you sent Macha?”

  She paled. “Oh, shit. Yeah. We need to rescue her. As soon as I figure out how.”

  “Rescue her? Why? And that wasn’t what you wanted to talk about either? There’s something else?”

  She ran a hand nervously through her hair as shaky laughter made her sound near hysterical. He shot her a goofy grin, trying to lighten her mood.

  “You going to tell me to forget what you look like naked? Because that’s not happening.”

  She flipped him off, but her hand was steady, so he took it as a win. “I don’t really look like that naked. More like, pale with stringy hair, smaller boobs, and fewer muscles. We need to talk about what else I found in the bag.”

  He ignored the self-deprecation—she’d be beautiful—and focused on the terrifying fact that he was still ignorant of whatever she considered the most important thing that had just happened. “And what you found is worthier of discussion than the bloodthirsty, most-wanted conduit who tried to take over your mind?”

  She sighed and paused beside an old-fashioned fire escape a few blocks from the Y. “Any suggestions for how we get into the lair this time? You’d think ‘go invisible’ would be a standard godpower, right?”

  She needed to get out of her head. Maybe it would help to get out of her skin. Transforming helped him clear his mind, anyway. As did flying. “So I know I’m not supposed to transform you again...”

  Chapter 20

  GISELLE’S HEART POUNDED in exhilaration as Coyote transformed her back from a falcon to a human. She’d needed that rush to blow away the oppressive vestiges of Ishtar, and once again, he’d come through for her. She was getting far too used to his presence and support. Still, the man deserved props for this one. She spun to him with a big smile on her face and nearly dropped against his chest in friendly joy. Luckily she squashed the impulse before flinging herself at him. “That was the best thing ever!”

  Coyote studied her cautiously, hands out like he, too, was stopping an impulse to reach out. His expression looked like he was still worried about her after her near meltdown.

  She rolled her eyes and tried to fake like everything was good, a skill she was well-practiced at. “I’m fine. Ishtar was... intense. Honestly, I don’t want to do that again. She’s not normal.” That was an understatement. Ishtar had felt like a car chase—breathtaking and out of control. Or maybe a drug, a heady, brilliant high that could only end in despair. But she kept that to herself and winked at him.

  Finally he grinned, looking awfully pleased with himself as he opened the balcony of their lair and made a motion of “after you.”

  “How many times have you done that, be a bird and fly?”

  “Only every day.” He flicked a knife out, and before she could stop him, he’d cut the inside of his elbow and renewed his connection to the godstone. The pain seemed not to faze him, like he was used to doubling up without rest. How casual he’d gotten about it worried her a little. But the second time wasn’t too bad. It was the third that the blood loss got dangerous. “I mean, come on. I can fly,” he said as he tossed his headdress on the couch and picked up sweats from the bin on the way to the coffee maker. “So where did you stick Macha?”

  She placed her own helmet carefully on a bookshelf and tried not to let panic infuse her voice. “Uh... the underworld.”

  He paused for a moment in his coffee prep, then continued. “Come again?”

  “Yeah, apparently Ishtar has the ability to send living people to the Sumerian afterlife. Groovy, huh? I have no idea how to get her back. But we probably should. I mean, she’s a terrible human being and all, but that’s... she needs to go to jail, not some ancient version of hell.” She tried not to sound hysterical as she said it. Ishtar had been perfectly willing to kill the woman. Giselle had insisted they not. Together they’d split the difference.

  Giselle wasn’t sure she’d done the woman any favors.

  “I have no idea what to say to that.” Coyote stared at her for a moment, then shook his head, like he was throwing the thought off, and started the coffee maker. “I’m okay with her hanging out there while we figure a few other things out.” He grabbed grapefruit juice from the fridge and chugged a glass, then poured another before putting it away.

  Her chest got tight as she thought of someone—even a bad someone—stuck in... in whatever the land of the dead looked like. “But—”

  He came to her, expression serious, and handed her the second juice. “Want some?”

  Giselle took a gulp and held the cup close, but she was listening like maybe she wanted him to change her mind.

  He was going to do his damnedest. “She challenged you knowing that was a possibility. She tried to kill you and put innocent people in danger to do it—including a kid. She sent gunmen into a YMCA. And that’s in the last twenty minutes. Storming the gates of hell doesn’t sound like a level one campaign, and not to go all Viva la Raza on you, but I’m not risking our lives for someone who made her name terrorizing my people along the Texas border. Right now out in the world, there are a lot of people in pain they didn’t bring on themselves. Let’s focus on them and not one of the people who caused a chunk of it.” He took her hands and squeezed her fingers, and it was strange having someone touch her so casually and so often.

  It was also comforting. She thought through what he’d said, and wrong as it felt, it made sense. Sometimes feelings tripped her up, made her illogical. He was right; there were other people who needed them more than somebody who was hell-bent on chaos and power. It always pissed her off in movies when the heroes mowed down a bunch of working-class bad guys and then gave the head evil a second chance, like the powerful person who’d chosen a life of doing horrible things was somehow worthier of forgiveness than a cog in the machine who was probably just trying to feed his kids. And by focusing on Macha, wasn’t that just what she was doing? She took a breath to calm herself and squeezed his hands back. “Thanks. You’re right. I needed to hear that.”

  He blinked at her, like that surprised him. “That’s it? No argument?”

  She shook her head and pulled away. “No argument. You’re right.” Dropping onto a dining room chair, she peeled her byrnie off and winced as the fabric of her undershirt stuck to her bloodied upper arm. “I’m starting to see the value in hot and heavy armor.”

  Coyote flinched. “Oh, gods. I didn’t see how bad that was. One sec. I’ve got...” He trailed off as he hustled to the bathroom and came back wearing sweatpants and carrying a bright-red first aid kit, still in the plastic wrap.

  She managed to work her tunic over her head and good arm, then gasped in pain as the fabric stuck again, making the gash worse as she tried to peel it off the left side.

  “Here. Let me help.” Coyote pushed her hands aside and grabbed the tunic. Then he paused, his bare chest so close she could smell the rain and earth of his scent, his face only inches f
rom hers. Nerves sprung up between them, and suddenly she felt naked again, even though she was in the same tank top he’d seen her in several times. He cleared his throat. “I mean, if that’s okay. But you’re going to make it worse if you keep tugging.”

  The look he gave her was reserved and serious, not even a mite of his playful, flirtatious self in it. It gave her the confidence to nod. “Okay.”

  He picked up scissors.

  “Wait! What am I going to wear if you cut this up?”

  “It’ll come back repaired.” He tipped his head curiously. “You’ve never ripped your outfit?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t know how I’d get another one.”

  “I dismantled my headdress, and by dismantled I mean I chopped it into pieces and set them on fire, trying to make it less”—he waved at the monstrous thing—“you know. But it came back as green and Mardi Gras–ready as ever. I don’t think we can permanently damage the costumes. Even if we desperately want to.” He pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear, the gesture more sweet than romantic. “I promise, if something goes wrong, I’ll help you fix it, okay? Whatever it is, we can tackle it together, from a ripped shirt to an insane trio of goddesses to whatever the hell is in your bag that you still haven’t told me about but is worse than Ishtar.”

  Feeling comforted but shy, she ducked her head and nodded. “Okay. Go ahead and cut it.” He was probably right. And if he wasn’t? Wouldn’t be the first time she’d stitched something up.

  His small grin returned. “And if worse ever comes to worst, I know this person who can resurrect the dead, so... we really can fix anything.”

  She scrunched her face up, not sure they’d realized the full consequences of that. “Yeah, well, don’t go counting on me bringing your ass back from the dead. You piss me off sometimes.”

  “You like it when I piss you off.” His grin turned to a full-on smile, and her heart gave a little lurch.

  It didn’t matter what consequences came next. She’d do whatever it took to bring him back. She ducked her head and stared at the floor, embarrassed by the rush of sentiment.