The Trickster's Drum (Godsongs Book 1)

by Jax Garren

  She always latched on too fast.

  For the next few minutes, Coyote’s comforting voice prattled on about breaking his arm in elementary school as he ministered to her—detaching the shirt from her wound, cleaning it with antiseptic, and then bandaging her up with sure fingers and messy tape lines. She grinned at the lopsided final product.

  He surveyed his results with a frown. “If my crookedness drives you crazy, I can try again.”

  That made her laugh. “It feels secure, and that’s what’s important.”

  He stood, his breath hissing in as he did so. “Doctor Coyote to the rescue.” He leaned over to the wall and grabbed a T-shirt from the bin, eyebrow raised in question.

  She nodded, and he dropped the shirt in her lap, then walked away. He seemed so sure, so cool, but his fingers twitched like he hummed with electricity.

  Like he wanted to touch her. And he hadn’t, not in a way that was anything other than clinically detached. She pulled the T-shirt on, putting a little more fabric between herself and a bad decision she still wanted to make, even without Ishtar’s influence.

  “Coffee?” Before she’d answered, he started pouring two mugs, fixing hers just like she’d made it for herself yesterday. He’d noticed. The attention made her feel warm and cared for, and it terrified her. Fourteen homes in twelve years. It didn’t take much to convince herself that this time she’d found a permanent place, despite repeated evidence to the contrary. She took the mug from him with shaking fingers and headed for the couch.

  “So, Ishtar’s godstone was in your bag, huh? I’m guessing that’s what made you say, let’s see if I can quote, ‘Shhhhiiiiiiiitttttttt.’”

  She smacked him with a pillow as he sat down, his dark chest too bare as he sat across from her and casually sipped his coffee. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t stutter ts. And no, that’s not what made me curse. This is.” She spoke one word to the bag, turned it over, and Coyote’s jaw dropped.

  Chapter 21

  A MOUND OF GODSTONES—ENOUGH to create a platoon of conduits—poured onto the table, leaving Giselle feeling woozy with the amount of dangerous power they had.

  Coyote closed his jaw with his finger as he leaned in. “What is that bag? Can you just request things and get them?”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s like a... a bag of holding. From that game?”

  “Dungeons and Dragons?” She shot him a questioning look, and he grinned. “Yes, I’ve played. My sister’s a big fan. You’re saying the bag holds way more than it should.”

  “Yeah. I’m not sure what all’s in here. But someone has to have put it in. It can’t, like, call forth the crown jewels or something.” To demonstrate, she stuck her hand in the bag, announced, “Stick of lit dynamite,” and pulled nothing out.

  Wouldn’t that have been fun if there had been one in there?

  “So your mother... whoa.” He leaned forward, sorting through stones. “I see she liked to collect Aztec stones. Should I be worried?”

  “What?” She leaned forward to see that quite a few of the godstones were the same obsidian with blocky hieroglyphics. “Yeah, gimme your stone. I’m building a Mesoamerican collection,” she deadpanned.

  He snorted. “A couple with runes—I’m guessing that’s the Norse pantheon. Greek lettering. Some sort of Eastern European writing. Ogham. No fucking clue what this is. And Egyptian hieroglyphics? But why? Where did you even find the pouch?” He took an unsteady breath as he picked a few up and put them down again. “Think the US government has this many yet? We’re... uh...”

  “In deep shit if anyone finds out?” She debated how much she could safely say, then she shrugged and told him the truth. “I went through my mother’s stuff. That’s where I was when you called about the shooter at the Y.”

  “Bryn—” His face crunched up in deep thought, then he lifted an eyebrow at her like something had just clicked. “Sofia. Your birth mom.”

  Oh shit. Why had she ever said her name?

  His face paled and eyes widened. “You have the Ishtar stone. Sofia Messner. You’re Ishtar’s daughter. That’s why your mother went to jail, not because she was a conduit, but because she murdered that kid.”

  She threw up her hands in self-defense. “I didn’t know. Not until last year. I had no idea.”

  “How could you not?”

  Giselle got up, ready to get the fuck out of here before he left. She would leave first this time.

  “Witness protection. They must’ve put you and Bryn in witness protection. I mean, if anyone found out, your life would be—”

  “Hell, yeah,” she said breathily, trying to figure out what all she needed to grab, but her mind was going blank as she surveyed the room. She didn’t want to go, and now she had to because her stupid bio-mom was evil and nobody wanted her.

  “Wait, what are you doing?” He hopped up and headed for her like he might try to physically stop her.

  “Don’t!”

  He put his hands up and kept his attention riveted to her. “Freyja, what are you doing?”

  “Getting out. Soon as I find my stupid...” What was she even looking for? Other than a few more seconds for him to tell her to stay. Shit.

  “Why?”

  “Because this just got a helluva lot worse. I, the daughter of Sofia Messner, used the Ishtar godstone. I didn’t mean to—it’s what the bag gave me. I didn’t even know it was in there! But you think we were breaking the law before? This is Guantanamo Bay bad. You need to get away from me.”

  He shook his head, as if reality could be denied on his whim. Such privilege. He exuded it. “None of that is your fault.”

  “Doesn’t mean we won’t get fucked for it.”

  “Okay, so we have a pile of deeply illegal power, including the most wanted godstone in the world. What do we do with it? Let’s come up with a plan together.”

  Hysteria rose within her, and she shook her hands out as the enormity of this really sank in. “I have no idea what to do. Ande may not have been perfect, but at least with her I had a plan. Now, I have nothing. No direction, no ideas, and a fuck ton more trouble.” Shit, she was crying, and the memory of Ishtar clouded her mind, calling her to once again prick her finger and feel powerful.

  “Mi diosita...” And then Coyote put his arm around her shoulders in comfort that wasn’t exactly comforting. “I’m sorry. This must be freaking you out, your birth mom’s godstone and... everything else.” His hand rubbed her good arm, and he pulled her tighter into him. Her face buried against his warm neck, and for a moment it was like he was Rafael again, her dream man telling her everything was okay, just like he had so often with his music. “We’ve got each other, okay? We’ll come up with a plan, execute it, and the world will be a better place because of our awesomeness, all right?”

  He smelled really good and felt strong and warm and safe. Danger, Giselle, danger! “Dammit, Coyote.”

  “What?” He sounded so genuinely offended.

  She rolled her head away from his embrace, forcing herself to look up and see his tawny mask that made him look playful, even when his expression was serious, and eyes a sparkling amber, instead of Rafael’s brown so deep it was almost black. It wasn’t him. Coyote was not the dream. But he would let her lean on him... for now.

  It took a moment to get her mental shit back together, but eventually she pulled away and sat on the couch to look at the bag. Her whole body was stiff as steel, but she could stay on task. She needed to stay on task; that was sanity. “I know I’m an emotional basket case; just give me a warning before you get tired of my crazy and decide to go, okay?” Picking up the leather pouch, she wondered if something simple would work.

  He rubbed her back, the fucker, and sat next to her, their legs pressed together as he focused on her and not on what she was doing, like she was the work that needed to be dealt with, not the bag of jail time. “Not going to happen. I’m sticking with you.”

  Yeah... everybody said that.

  “I like your c
razy,” he added.

  Okay, nobody said that. Squashing the frisson of hope, she turned the bag upside down and concentrated on finding out what other terrible secrets it held. “Let’s see if we can figure out what else we’re saddled with.” What if she just said... “Give me everything inside.”

  The bag shook like it had a life of its own, and then things began to drop.

  Then more things.

  Then more.

  “Good grief...” she muttered, awestruck as out came several notebooks, jewelry, handkerchiefs, pens and pens and pens, bandages, knives in sheaths, several outfits worth of clothing, cash, sunglasses, tubes and tubes and tubes of lipstick, hair bands, bubblegum, and mints... She stood up as the pile of random crap, like decades of purses for dozens of women, all poured out onto Coyote’s table. “Holy...” she muttered. Tampons, a pair of flip-flops, safety pins, Harlequin romances, bits of food—including at least a dozen cups of applesauce—enough change to feed the city’s homeless...

  Coyote started chuckling. “Generations of Freyjas have carried this bag, and all I can think is that women are predictable. Please don’t punch me for being sexist.” She picked up a tiny derringer, and he threw his hands in the air. “Not that I expected any of this. I mean, you’re your own unique person, and I’m sure you don’t have a small notebook, a granola bar, rubber bands, tampons, and lip gloss in your purse.”

  She flipped him off. “I don’t carry granola bars.” She put the gun down as he laughed, and she had to admit she felt a little better. Finally the cascade of random crap ceased, and she shook the bag a few times. “That all? How about nuclear launch codes? Or a Conduits for Dummies manual? Something useful?”

  No. Coyote picked up the notebooks, skimming through each as she went for the clothes, wondering if anything might fit her. He held up a leather-bound book. “These might be helpf—you should definitely wear that.”

  The little black dress that’d come out had an emphasis on the little. She snorted. “Sure, to my next black-tie event.”

  Half of his mouth curled up in a grin. “That can be arranged.” He winked and handed her strappy black heels that were likely meant to match. “It’d be worth a lot of effort to see you in that.” He didn’t lean in or leer or anything, just settled back against the couch with the self-confidence of a man used to getting what he wanted and gave her that precious smile that said he meant it.

  Two could play that game. “I don’t even know if they’re my size.” She untied one of her ankle boots and shoved it off, sliding the black shoe on in its place. The damn thing fit perfectly.

  Coyote sucked in a breath, his gaze zeroing in on her foot in a way that made her squirm.

  She cleared her throat and took the shoe off. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be a... a...”

  “Flirt?” he finished for her, then shrugged as he started gathering money off the table. “I’m a flirt. I can’t exactly get after you for doing the same.” He shot her another mischievous grin. “Besides, I like it.”

  She tried not to blush but could feel the color creeping up her cheeks. “I just don’t mean to be confusing.”

  He set the pile of money down, stood up, and headed back for the kitchen. “Only yes means yes; everything else is just fun. Don’t stress so much over me. Popcorn?”

  She put the outfit aside and grabbed a pair of linen pants that were somehow not a crumpled mess—which might be the most magical thing the bag had managed. “That’s very noble, but not everyone thinks like you.”

  “It’s not noble. It’s a bare minimum standard for behavior.” The microwave opened and closed, then beeped as he pressed a button before turning to face her. “Do we need to, I dunno, go visit some people and kick their shit or something? Because I figure kicking the crap out of people who do bad things to foster kids would be a good-guy thing to do.”

  At the concern on his face, she wanted to change clothes immediately to reward him. Or maybe punch him in the face for digging into her business. Or run and hug him in thanks. It was a little confusing. Instead, she changed the subject. “Ever thought of getting a cat for our lair? Then we could have a Catcave instead of a Batcave. Vikings kept cats, did you know that? They even took them on their longships. And Freyja’s chariot was pulled by cats.”

  He sighed, looking a little disappointed that she’d veered the conversation off topic, but he didn’t argue. “We’d have to be here an awful lot to make it worth it for the cat. Not that I’m opposed to the idea.”

  She looked around her. “What, spend more time here? The horror.” She grabbed the stack of cash—mostly ones, but there were a few large numbers in there—and placed it beside the pouch. If she put it back inside, she wouldn’t be able to access it out of character. “I’m taking the cash. I’d offer to split, but I don’t think you need it.” He didn’t laugh at her joke, and she turned to look at him. “What?”

  He wrinkled his nose, like he wasn’t sure whether or not to say whatever was on his mind.

  “Spit it out.”

  Looking a little reluctant, like he didn’t want to start a fight, he waved at the back of the condo. “There’s a bed. It could be yours whenever you need it. Like, everyday or whatever. I know you used to have Andromeda, and I’ve been worried about where you sleep.”

  She tried to look casually offended, even if his concern made her feel warm inside, in a good way. “I’m not totally destitute. I’ve got a place to stay and a little cash left to me from my moms—both, actually. I’m a trust fund baby, too. What do you think of that?” It really was a trust fund, just a very, very small one. Enough to keep her going through college, if she was careful and kept her scholarships intact.

  He didn’t look convinced but played along anyway. “Ah, must’ve missed you at the country club last weekend.”

  “I was on my yacht.” She turned back to the table and started collecting the good pens. There were some really nice ones, including a few with old-school calligraphy nibs; they were going to be fun. She wanted to grab a journal and try a few of the cooler looking pens out, but that would mean opening a journal. She had to do that, she knew it. But it terrified her.

  What if one was Bryn’s? Or worse, Sofia’s? What would she find out?

  She located a trash can and tossed a bunch of useless crap, then wondered how they were going to handle taking the trash out. When you lived somewhere this fancy, did you even have to deal with your own trash or was that one of those inconveniences that went away with cash? The great mysteries of life.

  Useable crap went into its own pile. A sweater fit her. The pants she wasn’t even going to try—too small, too short. A couple vintage T-shirts were also pretty cool. Those she put in the bin with Coyote’s things so she could have her own stash.

  Finally there was nothing left but the journals.

  Coyote came back with a bowl of popcorn. “I’m sure there’s a bag somewhere to carry that in so all this won’t disappear with your outfit.”

  She didn’t take her eyes off the journals. “Thanks.”

  He tossed a piece of popcorn at her, and she snapped out of her trance just in time to get hit in the cheek. He made as if to toss another one at her.

  “I know how to throw axes.”

  He ate the piece and set the bowl between them. “That’s a lot of journals to get through. Want me to work on any of them? I read pretty fast. Or is this a private Freyja thing?”

  She hummed thoughtfully as she lifted one after another, looking for clues as to their original owners. “I should probably read them all at some point, but you can read them, too, if you want. Just not my moms’—either of theirs—if they’re here. Let me read that first.”

  He picked up a cracked and ancient-looking tome. “Of course. I’m going out on a limb to say this one’s not hers.”

  She grabbed a different journal, one that also looked older, and flipped to the back. It was empty. Good. She grabbed a pen. Organization was a form of sanity, something she desperately needed more o
f right now. “Okay. So we have a lot going on.”

  Coyote smirked. “Are you making a list?”

  She pursed her mouth before answering. “Are you suggesting we just continue bumping along, reacting to whatever happens next? We have a lot of things to do. If we want to be successful, we need to start planning proactively.” She turned the page to the side and sketched out a three-phase table of “Urgent,” “Soonish,” and “Eventually.” Because it had been forever since she’d thought about it—if she defined forever as yesterday, which, damn, felt so far away—she put “Find Osoosi for Shawn” in the “Soonish” column, followed by “Figure out whose stones we have.” Shawn’s book would be a big help with that. Then she frowned and tapped the pen against the page a few times. “So... what’re our current to-dos?”

  “Rescue bitch from hell” went under “Eventually.”

  “Find your shield and the rest of your shit?” He scooted across the couch and looked at her notebook. The light in his eyes said he thought this activity was hilarious, but he pointed to the “Urgent” column like he was taking her seriously. “Put that there.” The light in his eyes grew brighter. “Also put ‘Teach Coyote how to throw a punch.’ Definitely ‘Urgent.’”

  She turned the paper back upright and started a bulleted list on the facing page. “Compare schedules” and “Set up training plan” went first.

  “Are you always this organized?”

  She shook her head. “I’m horribly disorganized. That’s why I have to do this.”

  “Looks really damn organized to me. Who’s Shawn?” His phone beeped, distracting him, and he leaned away to check the text.

  “Anything you need to take?”

  “Uh... friends asking about a party.” He silenced and pocketed his phone. “I’m going to skip it.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I can do that anytime. We’re... making charts. Charts are important.”

  Uh-huh. She pushed his shoulder playfully. “Make fun all you want to. I know I’m a nerd. And I’m going out tonight, too, so you should go. Have fun.” She bit her lip in nervous excitement at the thought of the party she and Rawan were headed for. Sure, she’d seen Rafael in class five times—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in English and Tuesday and Thursday in government—but tonight she’d be socializing with him, a totally different level. And everyone there would be rich and cultured, not like her. She’d probably stick out. A weird thought struck her. “Maybe we’ll be at the same party.” Trying to lighten her own mood, she made a joke. “Us trust fund kids gotta stick together, you know.”