The Trickster's Drum (Godsongs Book 1)

by Jax Garren

  “Thanks.” She scooted forward until her face was cradled into the indentation. It was, in fact, more comfortable.

  His warm hands ran down her spine, then back up, hesitating at the clasp of her bra. “Modern bra with full Viking battle gear. I’ll never understand the stones’ costuming choices.”

  “Right?” she muttered into the fabric.

  “Mind if I...?” He ran a finger under the band. “Only if you’re okay with it.”

  She hesitated for just a moment, then nodded. He maybe couldn’t tell that’s what she was doing with her face stuck in blankets, though, so she added, “Yeah. But...” She felt like a broken record.

  “I know,” he said soothingly. “You’re not giving me permission to do anything else.” He deftly unhooked the thing—clearly the man had some practice—and then his hands smoothed down her bare back from her neck to the top of her leather pants.

  She sighed into the pillow. His hands were warm and wonderful as they pressed and smoothed then kneaded into her back.

  He chuckled. “I think you need a lot of these.”

  She snorted. “Volunteering?”

  “Maybe.”

  His hands might be sticking by his promise, but his voice was thick and sweet as caramel—decadent. He started singing, or vocalizing, or whatever you called that wordless, near tuneless sound. This time she didn’t join in, just listened and relaxed into the pressure of his hands. The incense made her drowsy as her back and neck softened into a gooey feeling she’d never had.

  Was that what normal people felt like? If so, she was missing out. The pressure on her back increased, and she couldn’t help a groan. Coyote went silent and still for the briefest moment, then his hand brushed her hair to the side, exposing her neck. One hand drifted down it in a soft touch that made her skin prickle in anticipation.

  Shit, this was bad. If he pressed a kiss to her neck, right there, she wouldn’t punch him in the face. She’d turn around and kiss him back. Then she’d be pissed at both of them—how could she expect him to keep his word when she couldn’t keep her head on straight?

  Her fists clenched in determination not to be stupid. Or stupider. If he broke his promise, he did not get rewarded. She would not reward...

  Who the fuck was she kidding? She didn’t need love, she just needed to belong somewhere to someone, a treasure she hadn’t had since Bryn’s death. Even knowing that was her problem didn’t stop the desperation from welling inside her. Coyote was a rich, beautiful man who’d provided her a home and wanted her—or parts of her, anyway. She had a history of throwing in with any of the above. All four combined into one human was irresistible. Why she’d literally put herself into his hands knowing she’d fail if he pushed was one more testament to her crazy.

  He sighed, and she waited for what he’d do next. When his hands went back to firm strokes, taking the intimacy from the moment, tears sprang to her eyes.

  She’d have failed. He hadn’t. When the hell did that ever happen?

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “I keep my promises, diosita.” His voice was rough. “Do you speak Spanish?”

  The question surprised her—not that he’d asked, but that he’d asked right now. “I can carry on a basic conversation, but not much beyond that.”

  “Okay. Now relax and find that vision.” Instead of singing, he started talking in Spanish with the cadence of a bedtime story. The language in his velvety voice was gorgeous—regal like poetry, graceful and comforting, and she didn’t bother trying to translate it in her head—there was no way she’d be able to—just let the sound of it wash over her.

  The incense made her drowsy. She wasn’t sure how long it took, but between his hands, his voice, and the smoke, she drifted off into a cloudy, peaceful headspace. Had she ever been this relaxed? And why did being relaxed make her nervous? What fucked-up part of her history said bliss was not okay?

  The air in her lungs completely expelled as one of Coyote’s hands pressed just above her ass and the other moved her hips, loosening her lower back. His hand returned up her spine and pushed into her hair, massaging her scalp.

  The drumbeat hit out of rhythm, and a new voice sang nonsense syllables in the tune of an old lullaby, Bíum, bíum, bambaló og dillidillidó...

  She gasped and jerked her head up to change the music, not interested in hearing more of that old memory. Bryn was dead, taking her lullaby with her.

  But Coyote was gone. The mattress was gone, the candles, the room. Her prone body was surrounded in a dreamy mist as a hollowed-out echo of her mother’s voice sang:

  I rock my girl slow, but outside a face watches at the window.

  Cold darkness seeped into her bones, offering the hopelessness of eternity. She hadn’t dropped into a vision. She’d dropped into a nightmare.

  Chapter 27

  ONCE AGAIN IN FREYJA’S threadbare regalia, Giselle rolled over and stood cautiously, dread filling her chest at the nothingness surrounding her. “Mom?” she called.

  The disembodied voice continued to sing snatches of Bryn’s favorite lullaby as if she hadn’t spoken.

  Giselle turned, trying to find the source of the song. Her hand hit cement, roughly poured and going up like a wall. She traced her hand as high as she could, finding it went out of her reach.

  “I am the wall,” someone whispered. A wretched stench filled her nose—human waste and vomit, the foulness of decay and neglect.

  I light five candles and chase away shadows.

  She followed the wall in a circle, and the mist cleared as she went, revealing the bottom of a pit. High above, the near full moon shone, appearing to be the same phase as it would be tonight.

  “You came...”

  Giselle turned to see where the voice emanated from but still found no one. Instead, a presence slammed into her, chilling her to the gut. “I am the wall,” she whispered, unsure if it was herself speaking or the spirit invading her.

  “No wings? I fly.” From her back erupted wings, and she cried in distress at the pain. She—or they—shot straight into the air.

  With me both shelter and shade you will have when evil men—

  “Freyja!” Coyote’s voice called her name from a distance, and she trembled as if being shaken—pulled in two directions. She wanted to follow him and find safety. But there was something she needed here that she hadn’t yet seen.

  “No,” she tried to tell him as she busted through a metal grate with a clang and up into the air through a copse of mesquite trees. A hot wind picked up, blowing sand and grit to stick onto her sweaty skin as the cracked landscape became visible. In the distance a road curved for no reason, and she realized where they were.

  The military base cast shadows across the plains to the south of her.

  She knew exactly where they were.

  —villains crowd our Earth, my friend, stalking us, and plot again.

  The being released her, and she fell, plummeting back into the hole. Fear launched into her throat as her stomach dropped. Unable to take it anymore, she reached for Coyote, crying his name.

  Reality crashed back in, and she found herself clinging to Coyote’s chest. She was in his lap, and his arms were around her as he rubbed vigorously on her back as if trying to wake her up. The music was off and the candles blown out, though the scent still lingered. “Come back, come back, come back. Oh, gods, Freyja, come back.”

  She pulled away just enough to get him to notice. “I’m back. I’m here.” She pressed against him again, needing something warm and solid and safe to hold onto.

  “Oh, holy fuck, you scared me. Oh fuck. Let’s not do that again.”

  She gasped a laugh at his distress, possibly more intense than her own, and pulled away again enough to look into his face. He swiped at her cheeks, and she realized she was crying. “I never realized how terrifying my mom’s lullaby was.”

  “Lullabies are often terrifying if you think about them. You’re okay? You started shaking and you screamed
and I couldn’t wake you up. The fuck kinda god were you talking to?”

  She shook her head. “I think it was my mother.”

  “Your mother wanted to talk to you? Which one? Ishtar?”

  She shook her head, and slowly the horror of the vision dissipated as he stroked her back. “Bryn. She showed me where to go.”

  “To do what?”

  “I’m not sure. My wings...” His hand was on her bare back, right where she’d sprouted them. Wait, she was half nude, pressed up against Coyote’s equally bare chest. The naked, sweaty reality of being pressed up against a gorgeous male body chased off the rest of her fear, turning it into a more pleasant yet far more dangerous feeling.

  As if he sensed the change in her mood, his body stiffened, pressing ever so slightly more into hers. His gaze traveled to her mouth, and she didn’t protest.

  “Shit,” he muttered, then pressed his forehead to hers. “I promised.”

  She kept her mouth firmly shut, afraid she’d say something encouraging if she let any words come out. But oh, how good it would feel right now to have him remind her she was alive.

  And how embarrassed would she feel later?

  She grabbed the blanket she’d rested her face on and slipped it between them as Coyote drew back, his gaze anywhere but on her.

  “I’m going to stand up and back off before I do something I shouldn’t. I’m sorry, I know you’re upset. Adrenaline makes me...” He stopped, but she knew what he meant. One aftereffect of fear was horniness. Gods knew she’d run into that problem before. “Can I get you something?” he asked.

  She wrapped herself in the blanket, wishing she was the kind of person who could take the comfort they both wanted and move on like nothing had happened. “French toast?” she managed to ask. “I’m ravenous.”

  “French toast!” He clapped his hands together and sped to the kitchen. “Computer, play top forty.” Rage Riot’s latest single, “Hot Mess,” came on. “Oh, fuck me,” he murmured. “I hate this album.” But he didn’t change it, just turned on the gas under a flat pan.

  “Not my favorite either,” she admitted, a sentiment that might’ve felt like a betrayal before her conversation with Rafael last night. But she’d gotten permission from the man himself to scorn Whirlwind as lesser.

  Rafael. There was a real person, someone she admired who was brilliant and talented and hot as hell. Someone who knew who she really was and seemed to like her anyway. That’s what she wanted—a real relationship, not stolen moments while committing a felony. Even so, as she grabbed her bra and a T-shirt, it was an effort not to watch Coyote’s tight ass outlined against his snug gym shorts. French toast with a table between them sounded like just what the doctor ordered.

  “So tell me what happened,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”

  Bra in place, shirt on, she headed for the kitchen and complied, recalling all the details of her vision as best she could as he cooked and plated their breakfast, then joined her at the table.

  He shot her a weird look before tearing into his meal. “Are they usually that horror movie–esque?”

  “No. I mean, this is only the second time I’ve done this. But the first one was playful. I was dodging in and out of shelves in the library, then I stopped at the display case and my focus zeroed in on your stone.”

  He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and asked, “Were you running around the shelves at human height, or about yay high?” He motioned two or three feet off the ground.

  She thought back to the dream. “Short. Like you said.”

  He grinned. “So Huehue showed you where to find his stone. He wanted out.”

  She thought over the old dream again and realized she hadn’t placed hands against the glass when she’d looked in. She’d had paws; they’d just seemed so natural she hadn’t noticed until he’d pointed it out. That made her smile. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Friendly guy. I like him.” Another bite. “I’m afraid he’s a little disappointed in how tame his human is.”

  “I doubt that’s possible.” She took a delicious bite of her breakfast. “Freyja’s not... communicative. I never know what she’s thinking. Does Huehuecoyotl talk to you?”

  Coyote tipped his head thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t say he talks to me. I don’t get words, just feelings. Impressions. I dunno, I guess I could be imagining things. But he feels playful, like the vision he sent you. I like him.”

  That brought a frightening thought. “So if who I’m getting the dream from controls it, why would my mom send me that freaky monster? You don’t think she’s, like... in hell or something like it, do you?” Like I sent Macha to...

  He made a pshaw sound. “Why would she be there?” He said it like the obvious answer was “she wouldn’t.”

  Giselle took a deep breath. “She was, for all intents and purposes, married to Ishtar.” Who murdered someone in a ritual sacrifice to herself on camera. She’d prayed for some way, despite all evidence, that Sofia could be innocent—assumed that Bryn was not involved at all.

  What if her mothers were both just evil?

  No. She hadn’t known Bryn long, but she’d been a good person. The only bright light in her life. She shoved another bite of french toast into her mouth and talked around it. “Doesn’t matter. We just need to go to the place and see whatever it is she wants me to find. Maybe my wings are there.”

  “You did fly in the dream.”

  She nodded. “Okay. After breakfast, then—”

  He waved his last bite at her. “Slow your roll, hot stuff. We’re not invading a military compound after breakfast.”

  “It’s not the compound. It’s near the compound.”

  “The area you described is on military property. And, no offense, but you look worn to the bone. You need a nap before we do anything dangerous. And if I’m honest, I’m a little hungover, so I could use that nap and a few gallons of water before facing military-grade weaponry.”

  “This is urgent. We need to move quickly.”

  “Let’s do it tonight then.”

  She gave him her most mulish look. Something about the images left her feeling desperate for action. Whatever was there, she needed to have gotten to it yesterday—or last year, or before that even.

  Coyote sighed. “I will pick you up and throw you in the bed and...” He stopped, narrowing his eyes as he looked her over. “I was going to threaten to nap with you as your guard, but that’s probably a bad idea right now. So you will take your own nap, and I’m going to go.” He shot her a look of frustrated need that made her breath hitch, then picked up their empty plates and rinsed them in the sink. “Regular me has shit to do today anyway.”

  The real him. The one who could have a girlfriend and a job and a life. Not this him, who was ephemeral. It was the reminder she needed.

  She yawned, her body turning traitor to her determination, and she felt how unsettled the conduit power was in her system. Visions seemed to deplete her pretty badly. And he was right. If all they were doing was grabbing something off the prairie, they’d be fine. But if they ran into any trouble, which would be stupid to assume couldn’t happen, she’d be out of power halfway into the fight. She didn’t like it, but she nodded at him. “Okay. Meet here at five?”

  He shot her a thin smile. “I’ll bring dinner.” Dishes clean, he dried his hands slowly on a towel and gave her another longing look. It would be lovely to sleep next to him, but he was right—they wouldn’t stop there. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he finally said. “You had me worried.”

  “Thanks for all your help.” She squeezed her hands together. “And thanks for keeping your promise.”

  He winked and, with a quick about-face, exited the apartment, leaving her alone.

  RAFAEL LET GO OF THE godpower and charged into his home, thwarted desire churning through him so desperately he wanted to hit something. He’d never been this crazed for a woman before, and the force of his emotion disturbed him. Shower first—get a handle on the problem, s
o to speak—then a nap. Then homework—ugh, that seemed vastly unimportant right now—before rehearsal.

  “What are you doing?”

  He jumped at the unexpected voice and turned to see his sister sprawled on the couch, looking at him like he’d lost his mind. He felt like he’d lost his mind, so maybe she wasn’t so far off. He grunted. “Lyss, it’s not a good time. I’m—” He pointed to the bathroom, not quite willing to tell his sister the primary reason he was headed that way.

  “Rafe,” she said accusingly. “What is going on with you? Do you normally run around the complex in pj’s?”

  He glanced down at himself, realizing what this must look like. “I was just at a friend’s. What do you want?” He sounded asshole-ish-ly sharp, and he rolled his neck, trying to get control of his temper. Lyss hadn’t done anything to deserve that.

  “I have news, but now I’m worried about you. College has not been good for you. You do see how miserable you’ve been, right?”

  He waved a hand. “It’s not college. I’m...” Oh, what the fuck; might as well tell her part of it. “I’m crazy about this woman, she’s not that into me, and I’m heading to the shower right now.”

  She blinked at him. “You’re...” Then she frigging laughed at him, which, all right, he deserved.

  He put his head in his hands, then gave a pained chuckle himself, dulling the edge of his misery. “You have news? For Riot, the fam, you, or...?”

  “Me! But... you’re in love? Like capital L love? The girl with your phone number, is the new song about her?”

  “Yeah. Capital L, moonstruck, painful, oh-fuck-me—except she won’t—love.”

  Lyssa laughed even harder. “Oh, brother. How are you possibly not getting laid? You can literally have any woman you want. Even before you were postered across the bedrooms of America and beyond, you could have anyone you wanted.”

  “Not anyone.”

  “Oh, please. The girls in high school were drowning in their own drool. I made bank charging people to sleep over so they could flirt with you.”