The Trickster's Drum (Godsongs Book 1)

by Jax Garren

  There was clearly more to say about that, but she didn’t keep going, so Rafael prompted, “What did she do as an expert?” And why was he worried he was going to hate her answer?

  Chapter 26

  AS FREYJA DID WHEN she was nervous—or so Rafael was noticing—words came tumbling out like she could create a shield of sound between her and whatever was making her uncomfortable. He settled back to listen and let her get it out. “She used seidr, a type of shamanism—trance magic—that she brought from the Vanir, her tribe of wild gods, to the Aesir, the so-called civilized gods everyone knows, like Odin and Thor, when she and her brother moved into Asgard with them.” She took a breath and rubbed her hands together, staring at the rune like she was screwing up her courage.

  “Trance magic,” he repeated. “Like... drop acid, play drums, have an orgy, and see visions?” He’d met a few musicians into a high-end version of that scene, but one party with that crowd had been enough. They were a little too weird and wild, even for him.

  Although if Freyja wanted to get high and naked with him...

  She huffed her prissy-but-cute little “Coyote” huff. “I guess that’d be one way to go.”

  He nodded cautiously, not sure what was going on inside her head. “I can get you some acid if you want it,” he said slowly. Then he bumped her shoulder and gave her a small grin, trying to break her funk. “Does it have to be an orgy or can sex with one person work? Because if you’re just looking for altered states, I can—”

  She whacked his shoulder so hard it stung, but she was suddenly looking more amused than nervous, so he figured he’d helped. “You have a drum right there presented by a god. If we’re going to try anything, we could start there.”

  “Sure, sure. I’m just saying, I suck at drums, but I don’t suck at—I mean, I will totally suck anything you want me to—”

  “Coyote!”

  “Are you actually offended, or do you just consider it necessary to call me on my shit?”

  Another huff, and it made him grin. “You’re not on topic.”

  “What? I’m totally on topic! You want an out-of-body experience to talk with the gods, and I’m saying, as your ritual assistant here, I can get you there faster with my hands on you than on the teponaztli.” Her wide blue eyes stared at him in bemusement, and he got a little lost himself in thoughts of an on-her-body experience. “Not that we’d have to go fast.”

  She burst into laughter. “You are a mess. A horny, raunchy mess.”

  He crossed his arms to keep from reaching for her and managed to keep his voice light. “Hey! I totally coulda gotten laid last night, and what did I do? Sleep on the couch here. What does that tell you?”

  “You slept on the couch? I thought you’d just shown up. Did you go back—”

  “No.” He pouted as he held up his little finger. “The power of the pinky compelled me not to.”

  She stared at him a moment, as if debating whether or not to trust him. Finally she nodded. “She must’ve been really ugly, the girl who offered last night, I mean.”

  His spine stiffed a bit. That bothered him. Not for himself, but for Glendabelle—for that would be her name now. She’d had enough shit that she didn’t need any more, even shit she’d never hear about. “I’ll have you know she’s a really sweet person. And beautiful. And we’re friends.”

  “Uh-huh. And you didn’t because...”

  Because I’m too hung up on you to want anyone else. “I think she’s looking for a boyfriend and that wouldn’t have been fair.” Possibly true?

  “Go figure, you’re not boyfriend material.”

  He looked her up and down too obviously. “I could be. If the right woman asked.”

  For just a moment her eyes glowed with a covetous light that made him hopeful—not for the moment, but for the future. Then she stared at the ceiling as if asking for patience or guidance from on high. “You are such a smooth talker. Get your drum. This isn’t going to work.”

  Deciding he should probably stop while he was ahead, he picked up a mallet and spun it between his fingers before playing a few notes. “You’ve done this before? Why don’t you think it’ll work this time?”

  “Once. Ande helped.”

  “What’d you do?”

  She rubbed her face, her expression going disturbingly blank. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  He touched her arm, concerned at the way she shut down. “Because the dream-vision-thing was bad? Or because of what Ande did to get you there?” Pain could also get someone into an altered state. He really hated that woman. The way she’d treated him for fifteen minutes was the tip of the iceberg. He was slowly getting the impression she’d pretended to be a parent while using Freyja as a tool. The woman sucked eggs.

  She just shrugged. “There aren’t many pleasant ways to go liminal, as she called it. And before you say something ridiculous, having sex for any reason other than wanting to connect—” she blushed a little as she waved her hand between them—“with that person is not pleasant. Or it wouldn’t be for me, anyway. I’m lame and don’t do casual.”

  He wanted to tell her it didn’t have to be casual between them, but for once he kept his mouth shut—about that anyway. “What did the gods tell you? Can you share? I’m guessing they don’t speak for something small.”

  She gave him the smallest grin inside her misery. “Where to find Huehuecoyotl’s godstone. So, yeah, only life-altering, world-changing shit for divine messages.” Then she frowned. “What if they tell me to take the stone away from you?”

  The thought had never crossed his mind. “They won’t. Huehue and I get along. He picked me, remember?”

  “Or maybe I just dropped the stone. I mean, you’d think he’d have chosen a musician.”

  Talk about a stab to the heart. He just managed not to scowl and drag her next door so he could play her a little Chopin from memory on the baby grand in his living room. Fucking not a musician my ass. “Yeah, you’d think,” he ground out. You try channeling magic while figuring out how to play a four-hundred-year-old clay pipe shaped like a damn turtle in the middle of a death match. “Huehuecoyotl picked me; there’s no question in my mind. Nobody will tell you to take it from me. Except Ande, but she doesn’t count.”

  Freyja nodded, but still looked unconvinced.

  “Hey, if you don’t want to do this, then don’t. We’ve got some french toast over there that needs eating.”

  Her expression softened, and she took his hand, squeezing it comfortingly, like she realized he was offended. He squeezed back and shook his shoulders, trying to let his frustration go. Gods, he wanted to impress her, but all the things he led with—his music, his looks, his name—he lost all of them with the mask. What did he have left?

  She gave him a sly grin. “Gods knock on your door, and you’re like, ‘Nah, I got breakfast’?”

  Gall, apparently. He had gall. “Most important meal of the day.” And then pride choked out all sense, sending words out his mouth that were not helpful. “And I had a concussion the first time you heard me sing, back when we met. Remember? That wasn’t my best work. And at the gym I got knocked to the ground. Do you know how hard it is to sing when you can barely breathe?” He shut his mouth as his brain kept arguing in petulant vanity. The one thing nobody bitched about on Whirlwind was the singing, because even with shitty material I can fucking wail.

  She was smiling again by the time he was done whining, so while she clearly didn’t believe him, at least there was that. Suck it up, Rafe. Better than the smile, though, she rubbed his hand between hers, which was a big deal coming from her, but also gave him a wild idea—something he could do that was impressive, or at least nice for her. “So... want to do this or not?”

  “I think I need to.” She shuddered.

  Nodding, he rubbed her shoulder and stood up. “Okay, then let’s make this as pleasant for you as possible. You need, like, a total chill, zone-in-and-out state, right?” He grabbed a remote to turn the stereo on,
then grabbed couch cushions to make a mattress-like thing in front of her altar. “Lie here.”

  She frowned up at him. “We’re not having sex. Not even sexual activity. I’m sure you can do whatever with whomever and not be awkward as shit after, but I can’t work with you and—”

  He held up a hand to cut her off. “I get it. That’s not my suggestion.” He grabbed sandalwood candles off a shelf. The scent helped him clear his mind for creative work when he really needed to concentrate, so he’d brought a few over with the furniture. Maybe they’d do the same for her. “Can I touch your back?”

  That seemed to confuse her enough to let her guard down a little. “My back?”

  “Yeah—back, head, arms, feet? When I’m stressed and need a serious comedown quickly, I get a massage. It’s a great way to zone out.” The stereo finished coming to life, so he called, “Computer, play trance music.”

  “You want to give me a massage?” She seemed a little too dumbfounded by the concept.

  He lit candles as chill, vibey music started over the speakers. “Yeah. Haven’t you ever gotten one?”

  “No, those are really expensive.”

  He grinned and, mood set, patted the makeshift mattress. “And my therapist is worth every penny. I think insurance should cover these because, I swear to you, if everyone got a good massage once a week, we’d have world peace.”

  The confusion and mistrust on her face made him sad. It was like she’d never met nice people before. “And what do you get out of this?” she asked.

  If that was a legit question, maybe she hadn’t.

  He sat down next to her and leaned his chin on his hand. “Mi diosita, you sounded so terrified when you talked about last time. I don’t know what the hag did to you”—her face quirked like she vaguely considered a smile before resettling into suspicious lines—“but it must’ve been pretty awful. If you’re determined to do this, let’s try to make it not awful.” He took a risk and reached out to pat her knee. She looked at the connection then back at him but didn’t react with judgment.

  “I don’t understand why you’d do something like this for me.”

  “We’re partners. That’s what partners do.” She still looked at him like he was nuts, so he shook his head. “If you want a selfish reason, I want to know what the gods are trying to say to you because—I mean, really, the gods are trying to talk to you. That’s cool as fuck.”

  “But there are a lot of things you could suggest. You picked one that’s work for you and... and I get a massage.”

  Now he did scowl at her. “‘Trust fund baby’ does not automatically equal ‘useless lazy ass.’ Give me a little credit.”

  She shook her head, face scrunching up. “No, I’d be the lazy one, lying around while you expend effort on my behalf.”

  “You think I should lie around while you ‘expend effort’? A lesser man might love the way you think, but I’m not that guy.” He squeezed her knee and let go. “If you’re not comfortable with my suggestion, then that’s one thing. But if you think I’m only good for bad music and worse jokes, allow me to disabuse you of the notion.” He motioned toward the pillows.

  Her gaze followed his direction, and hopeful desire crept through her eyes. She liked his suggestion. Wanted it, even. Why was it so hard for her to let people do something for her?

  He settled on the floor next to the pillows. “Why don’t you take your shoes off. I may have popped my cherry with a reflexologist when I was eighteen—I started late but well.”

  “Reflexologist?” Her expression was confused, but she did loosen her boots, pulling one shoe off, then the other.

  “Using pressure points on your foot to affect change throughout the body. This shit’s amazing.”

  “That can’t possibly work.”

  “Says the woman who can shoot ice out of her fingers.” He picked up her foot.

  “Oh, you don’t want to touch my—” He pressed into the pressure point for her shoulders, and she cut off with a gurgle as she dropped back onto the pseudo mattress.

  “Uh-huh,” he agreed, picking up her other foot and doing the same. “Your shoulders are tight as a virgin fuck, woman. Do you ever relax?”

  She chuckled at that and propped herself up on one elbow. “What if this doesn’t work?”

  He slid his thumbs down to her arch, pressing the release point for her adrenal glands. Her eyes fluttered shut as she visibly relaxed. “If we can unclench your ass even slightly, that’s good enough. Seriously, how does anyone survive being this high-strung?”

  She laughed even harder, making him grin. “You can tell that from my feet?”

  “Yeah, and from having met you. Scoot onto the mattress, will you?”

  She only hesitated for a moment before complying. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Gimme your foot back, my uptight little goddess.” Head tilted forward, she looked up at him shyly through her hair. But she placed her foot in his hands. He gave her his best star-quality smile—which looked significantly different in a coyote mask with wild hair than it did airbrushed too pale on the cover of Rolling Stone. It still did the trick, though, and she blushed at him, giving him her own fleeting smile.

  “Thanks,” she said quietly.

  “Wait’ll I’m done to thank me. I have strong, magical fingers. And I have references for that if you’d like.” He risked waggling his eyebrows at her.

  She pulled her foot from his grip and kicked him gently in the thigh, then returned her foot to his hands. “Put up or shut up, Coyote.”

  “Ooh! The throwdown! Close your eyes and give me ten minutes with your feet, then turn over and get ready for the best massage of your life.”

  “Also, first and only.”

  “Like I said, the best.” He massaged down her foot and watched her eyes close in blissful response.

  When she reopened them, she averted her eyes. “Aren’t massages normally done without, uh...” She picked at the shoulder of her shirt.

  He did his level best to keep his tone even. “They’re usually done naked. But do whatever you’re comfortable with. This is not romantic. This is you unwinding enough to vision out, cool?”

  She nodded, swallowing visibly before catching his gaze again. “I’m watching to see if you can do this, you know. Live up to what you say. If this turns into anything else, you will likely get your pretty face punched and I will not trust you going forward.”

  He held her challenging gaze, emotions somehow making him feel full and hollow at the same time as he continued to work on her foot. “I’m more than a pretty face and a bag of money. I want this life—you, me, fighting evil like a couple old-school heroes—more than you can comprehend. One day you’ll know that in here.” He tapped his chest with one hand, the other still on her foot. “One day you’ll know you can rely on me.”

  That made her look away.

  “Freyja?” She turned back to him, and the vulnerability was back. Maybe she wanted their partnership as much as he did, she just didn’t have any faith left to give. “Lie down and close your eyes. Give me a chance to show you I’m worth it. I know being a reasonable human being for one morning isn’t all the evidence you’ll need, but give me a chance to start proving to you who I am.”

  She inhaled deeply, staring into his eyes, then with actions that spoke volumes, she closed her eyes on an exhale and lay down. His heart clenched, humbled and hopeful at the gift she gave him. He pressed into the ball of her left foot, the heart point, right where she’d filled him. “I’m never going to let you down, mi diosita. You’ll see, I promise.”

  Even if Giselle wasn’t positive she could kick Coyote’s ass, she might have lain back and closed her eyes. And that was terrifying. Will you walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly... The words of the old poem echoed in her head, a lesson about trust and vanity she’d long ago realized held value.

  But it was heady to be wanted by such a rich, beautiful man—he might even be as good-looking as Rafael Marquez
, which was about the highest praise she could give. And damn if he didn’t have magic fingers.

  She had to resist what else those fingers might be able to do because work didn’t mix with temporary pleasure. And she liked working with him—not just the money, but him. So for now, just for a little while, she would trust him.

  The pillow-mattress was plush, and the incense and tribalesque drums relaxing. How pressing on her foot relieved the tension in her jaw so well she had no idea, but she found herself dropping off in a haze at his insistent touch. The music shifted to add vocals, and it took her a moment to realize they weren’t from the recording.

  Coyote’s combination of humming, singing, and vocalizing blended seamlessly with the thump and hiss of the percussion. Maybe she had judged his singing too harshly, although it was honestly hard to tell when his voice was more instrument than song.

  She hummed a bit herself, just following along with the music and letting whatever wanted to flow from her vocal chords flow.

  “That’s right,” Coyote encouraged. “I love your voice.”

  She huffed a laugh, the sound almost drunken in her sleepiness. “I almost got a full semester of choir before I moved one year. I’m an expert.” Actually, she’d taken choir as often as she could, though with all the moving, she’d almost always been relegated to the intro class.

  His laugh was rich and warm. “I can tell. Keep singing.”

  And so she did. He joined her, and the sound of their voices, often clashing and then sometimes blending into something pure and good, lulled her further out of her head and into the moment.

  “Roll over,” he finally said.

  Feeling chill and what she could only describe as groovy, she did. Then—what the hell—she pulled off her tank top and lay back down on the pillows.

  He put a blanket wrapped vaguely into a donut shape in front of her. “Might be more comfortable for your face. And you can toss it over you if you ever want to.”