The Trickster's Drum (Godsongs Book 1)

by Jax Garren

  He blinked at her. “What?” She smiled craftily at him. “You’re kidding.” She was kidding. “Right?”

  “How do you think I paid for that spring break trip without a job or Mom and Dad’s approval?”

  He shook his head, reviewing his junior year and the uncommonly prolific parade of friends Lyssa had brought over almost every weekend. “Holy shit. But I was a choir geek in high school. I wasn’t cool then.”

  “With the guys, maybe.” She rolled her eyes. “So, you ditched us last night to go mooning over some woman who’s, li

  ke, gay or something?”

  “She’s not gay. She’s complicated.”

  “You need to get your shit together, dude.” She hopped up and headed toward the door. “You’re gonna be at practice, right? The band’s flying out tomorrow.”

  He nodded, the thought of rehearsal sobering him right up. “When have I ever missed? I’ll be there. I got some new material I want to show y’all if we manage to find time.”

  “Song from last night? Your brown-eyed girl?”

  That made him frown. “Maybe we’ll make her green eyed. Somebody else wrote a brown-eyed girl song.”

  “How in love are you if you don’t know her eye color?”

  He shot her a look. “I know her eye color. I’m just not telling it to the world in case the paparazzi gets speculative.”

  “Huh.” Her expression turned inscrutable. “You know, maybe you should look for a girl who would love you back—stick with you no matter what because she loves you like you are.”

  Something uncomfortable moved in the back of his mind, but he shook it off. Lyss was too blunt for coded messages.

  She shoved him toward the bathroom. “Go jack off in the shower. I’ll see you at rehearsal.”

  See, blunt. He rubbed his face. She made it all the way to the door before he remembered. “What’s your news?”

  She shrugged. “Eh, less important than the world’s most eligible bachelor getting cockblocked by a coed at Podunk U.”

  “Ha-ha. Zavala’s a good school.”

  She blew him a kiss off her middle finger and left him with the mystery of what was going on with her.

  Lyss would tell him when she was ready. He pulled his shirt over his head as the memories of Freyja’s soft skin and the way she’d groaned when he touched her just the right way clouded his mind.

  Homework, rehearsal, then invade a military base at the demand of a vision quest, where, surely, nothing would go wrong. Yeah right. He just had to get his head clear enough to focus, then pull up his big-boy pants and deal like a real man.

  Chapter 28

  GISELLE JERKED AWAKE from yet another nightmare. Her skin was chilled from sweat and trembly all over, heart still racing from the image of Macha, Bryn, and Sofia drowning in a pit of black vipers as she stood on the edge and watched. With the twisted narrative of a dream, though, even from the lip of the pit she felt it all—the snakes, the sinking, the fangs, the choking.

  She grabbed a pillow, its fabric every bit as cold as she was, and drew it against her. In the past, Rafael’s was always the face she’d imagined when anxiety really got to her. It was weird to picture him, though, now that she knew him. He wasn’t some theoretical figure from afar. She’d driven his car yesterday. And he was in love with... someone who wasn’t her.

  Her cheek burned where he’d kissed her, and this time she let herself touch it. She’d gotten through a lot of tough days with an imaginary boyfriend who could make it all go away with music, money, and the strength of his love. Somewhere along the way, Rafael had become a stand-in for the idea that tomorrow could be better, and she wasn’t sure how to let the dream of him go without letting that hope go, too. “I’m sorry I need you so much,” she whispered to the imaginary Rafael at her side.

  “I’m not,” her imaginary pillow-Rafael answered. Dammit, that had been Coyote’s reply when she’d said the same thing to him at the YMCA.

  She threw the covers off, rubbed her forehead, and scrounged through the magical backpack for the notebook with Freyja’s list. She needed to add Bryn’s vision and pissing off Ereshkigal. What did it say that pacifying a goddess of the dead who sent giant viper phantoms to kill her wasn’t on the “Immediate” list?

  Had they even solved anything? Or was the past week—gods, just a week?—one giant, rolling clusterfuck of a snowball? She flipped the page and started a new list to bolster her confidence: Things We’ve Accomplished.

  Saved people at the YMCA.

  Okay, that was unequivocally good.

  Saved people at the rich party.

  Question... why had the Morrigan even shown up there? She’d been so into stopping them and then proud of herself for doing it, she’d never thought to question their presence.

  Stopped Macha from getting Huehue’s stone.

  She felt unequivocally good about that, too. Ande was wrong about Coyote. He was a perfect choice for a conduit, regardless of whether or not Huehue had chosen him.

  She looked at her list, and a weight lifted. They were doing good. Life might’ve turned into a circus, but she was doing good things. She just couldn’t screw it up by letting her hormones get in the way of her decisions. Working with the hot guy without accidentally fucking him was pretty normal adult behavior. She could handle it.

  Partners. She tried the word out in her head. It was what he said he wanted. That meant they had more important things to do than scratch itches—which wouldn’t be as great in reality as it was in her head anyway.

  She dropped her pen and lay back in the bed, pillows cradling her. Smart way too often felt like alone when she wanted somebody to touch. She ran a hand around her throat and then down her chest and then wherever felt nice, determined to work out her problems on her own.

  Smart. Alone.

  And if her imagination flipped between two different faces and two different sets of hands, and, okay, two faces and four hands at once—gods, wouldn’t that be something else—nobody had to know.

  THE MOTORCYCLES KICKED up dirt under the tires as Rafael followed Freyja off road and skidded to a halt on the roadside by a barbed-wire fence.

  Freyja jerked off her helmet, her blue eyes electric as she grinned breathlessly at him. “Holy Hela, these are amazing!”

  He pulled his own helmet off and returned her smile. “Batbikes. We deserve them.” Really, he hadn’t been the least bit disappointed when Freyja announced she knew how to drive a motorcycle and wouldn’t need to ride behind him.

  That was a lie.

  But he did want her to have a real ride. She needed something better than a freaking bicycle to get around town in. He’d gotten black Harleys, something high quality but relatively ubiquitous so it wouldn’t be completely obvious if she used it as herself. Although he had a feeling every time he saw one now he’d look for her.

  She gave him a high five, then stared at the fence. “I feel shitty cutting it. What if they lose livestock? Super strength would come in handy about now...” She mimed throwing the motorcycle over the fence.

  He’d thought this would be the military base, but its fence—something that could not be cut through—had ended about a quarter of a mile back. A small herd of cattle hung out a few yards down, placid again after the excitement of motorcycles’ arrival, showing that this was the edge of someone’s ranch.

  Freyja inhaled, stretching her neck, and leaned against the bike, the movement weary despite her excitement.

  He took a more careful look. The dark circles under her eyes and worn look on her face weren’t just from the ride. “You don’t look rested,” he accused.

  “I had a hard time sleeping.” Her words seemed innocent enough, but the blush shooting across her face made him wonder if she’d spent any time the same way he had.

  He’d gotten his mental shit together after several hours of work and music and... work, but the thought made him feel electric. “You know...” he drawled slowly, trying not to imagine her long fingers sliding
down her stomach. Trying and failing.

  “Coyote.” Her tone was a warning.

  Boys will be... shoveling horse shit out of stables instead of playing guitar for the next six months, comprendes? His mother’s version of that dumbass excuse for bad behavior echoed in his memory. He used to be better than this, but after almost two years of everyone pandering to him, he found himself shockingly bad at this not-getting-what-he-wanted thing.

  Get your shit together, Rafe. He turned away from Freyja, determined to do better. That’s why he’d left New York, wasn’t it? To be a better man. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She hesitated, and he could feel her gaze on him, full of more curiosity than suspicion. It was a bellwether change, and her recognition of his efforts dulled his frustration. Finally she said, “You don’t get told no a lot, do you?”

  Her desert-dry tone made him grin ruefully. “Can’t remember the last time it happened.” He leaned in and made sure there wasn’t even a hint of a leer in his expression. “But we have more important things to do than listen to me be an asshole.”

  She patted his shoulder sympathetically, embarrassing him with the low bar she’d set for male behavior. Then her expression sobered as she faced the plains. Sure enough, a thicket of scraggly mesquite trees, just like she’d described, was off in the distance. It’d be a bit of a hike, but they really didn’t want to cut up a rancher’s fence. He waved at it. “When I was thirteen, I was a cocky brat to my stepdad’s assistant and found myself spending a weekend drilling postholes and unrolling barbed wire with the ranch hands.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “I think I like your family.”

  “I like them, too. They’re good people.” It was weird hanging out with her on the same landscape he’d grown up rambling, before fame and New York and all the glittering trouble that entailed. The past seemed closer, the near present more like a dream. “Like any teen male with a god complex, I was pissed as hell at the time.”

  He spread a gap in the wires for Freyja to get through and followed her as he continued an embarrassing but important story. “It’s weird growing up rich and not white. The pressure to distance yourself from people of your own race—from any hint of being ghetto or, in my case, barrio—is intense, a reality I struggled with at school. So when I was forced to do manual labor with recent immigrants instead of hanging with my friends, I was mad at my parents and therefore being a prick to the guys I was working with, because... teenager logic. While we were working, I got whipped in the arm by some barbed wire, badly enough to need stitches. One of the hand’s sons, a kid about my age, had been intentionally careless, probably because I was being an asshole.” He still had a scar on his bicep—Rafael did, anyway.

  She blew out her breath with an oof. “I bet your family was pissed—at the other kid, I mean. Not you.”

  He shook his head. “Somewhere between the shock of the pain and the genuine panic my injury caused the hands—plus the thought that maybe I deserved it—I decided not to tell my family how it happened. After that, I got invitations to parties at their place for the rest of my prep school days.” And spent many a night playing music with the hands at their quarters. “The privilege of being friends with them was probably one of the most enlightening things that ever happened to me.”

  “Huh,” she said and grabbed his arm in an old-fashioned elbow-to-elbow way as they walked.

  He squeezed her elbow and took a breath of clean evening air. They’d eaten and waited a bit for a few more shadows to come out before starting their mission. Now the sun was just touching down on the horizon to the west, away from the city, and the clouds above them moved from electric yellow to neon pinks to lightest purple in the glory of a sunset. The land itself might be flat, dry, and full of snakes, but nowhere on Earth lit up a sunrise or sunset in glorious hues like the endless skies of south Texas. “It’s good to be home,” he muttered.

  “I like your stories. Tell me another?”

  “Uh, sure.” He gave her a smile, happy to be talking about something other than whatever TMZ was shitting out. Rambling a pasture with a smart woman by his side made him feel clean again. He motioned to the sky. “Abuelo, my grandfather—I think I’ve been assuming you know abuela and abuelo mean grandmother and grandfather—died when I was still in elementary. Cancer. But on weekends we used to sit on the back porch and play poker with glass bottles of Jarritos while the sun set. It was the only time I was allowed to drink soda.” He kicked the dirt, then looked back at the sunrise, hoping somewhere Abuelo was watching it too. “I think they knew he was dying and wanted to make him happy, but at the time I just thought it was a treat.”

  To his surprise, Freyja pressed her cheek onto his shoulder comfortingly. “I never met my grandparents.” She wrinkled her nose. “Bryn’s parents, I mean. I don’t know why—probably something to do with witness protection? Sofia’s parents don’t count.” Groaning, she rolled her eyes. “Freyja the downer she shall be known as.” She cleared her throat and waved an awkward hand at the sky, where the sun was still half visible over the horizon. “That’s a cool story about your grandfather. The sunset is real pretty.”

  He moved his arm to around her waist and drew her into a side-hug with no weirdness in it. “I get the impression we might’ve grown up a little differently, mi diosita.”

  He started to let her go, but her arm came around him in a similar, friendly way, and so he held on. “What, ’cause I drank all the soda I wanted? I had no idea how deprived you were. Don’t tell me you didn’t get your fill of Hot Cheetos and Cup Noodles, either. Because, man, that’s not a life worth living.”

  “Cup Noodles?”

  She looked at the sky like he’d just said the dumbest thing and poked him in the stomach. “Styrofoam cup with noodles and peas and shit? You fill it with water and stick it in the microwave. It’s the fancy version of those plastic-wrapped bricks of ramen. You know, seventy-five cents a meal instead of forty.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but literally how are you skinny? I can’t eat a bag of potato chips without gaining five pounds, and apparently you wash down your carbs with a can of soda.”

  She burst out laughing. “Which one of us is the girl?”

  He flipped her off. “I’m a feminist. I think we can be equally unhealthily obsessed with our looks.”

  “Aw, such a pretty boy.”

  And with that, the sun was gone, but the light remained. He turned to Freyja, feeling easier than he had with her... possibly ever. “Sorry I was such an intense dickweed today.”

  She shook her head, expression earnest. “You weren’t. We were in weird circumstances, and you were a gentleman, even when I would’ve let you be other than.” She looked down at the toe of her boot drilling into the dirt. “You’re the first guy who’s ever done that for me. Thanks.”

  Swallowing thickly, he blessed the tiny scrap of willpower that’d kept him this side of asshole. He was a good guy, or working to be one, anyway. Something the world needed more of. “Well, I restate my offer to help you kick any asses that need to be kicked when we get back. Meanwhile, ready to check out whatever your mom crossed over from the beyond to show us?” They’d made it a little more than halfway across the clearing.

  She shrank closer against him as she looked over at the circle of thorny, bush-like growths any rancher in the south would tell you were a menace. Their shadowy silhouettes were the only break in the endless nothing of ranchland surrounding them.

  “I was so anxious to get here, and now I’m just anxious. It’s like... there’s something bad over there. I know it.”

  “Then let’s go fix it. Together.” He dropped his arm from around her and held out his hand.

  She took a deep breath, nodded, and put her hand in his. “Let’s go, partner.”

  Partner. She even emphasized the word ever so slightly, as if she wanted to make sure he knew she’d chosen it. Happiness lit up his insides as he realized he’d gotten the thing he wanted most—a team. T
he desire to comfort his partner in her distress made him feel reckless. “Race you to the trees.”

  “What? You’re in a kilt and I’m in armor. That’s not fair.”

  “This is not a kilt.”

  “It’s a man-skirt. What else do you call it?”

  “An...” He had no idea. “Aztec man-skirt. I’m going to look that up.”

  “Well, until then it’s a kilt. So why don’t you get out your phone...”

  He narrowed his eyes and did that.

  And she took off running.

  “Hey!” He chased after her. She was fast. “What are you, varsity sprint team?” he yelled.

  “Yeah, lemme show you my letterman’s jacket,” she called back.

  She’d almost made it to the trees before he caught up and proudly did not slap her on the ass—even if he thought about it—on the way past.

  “Damn fucking chain mail! I had you!”

  He got within a few feet of the first tree and its two-plus-inch thorns and stopped, put his hands over his head in victory, and took a deep breath. She caught up and, to his surprise, slapped him on the ass.

  “I want a rematch with fair clothing.”

  “Did you just slap me on the ass?”

  “Did I not do it hard enough for you to notice?” She straightened, her good humor dampening. “You’re not offended, right? If so, I’m sorry.”

  He laughed. “The only thing that bothers me is that I refrained when I passed you.”

  “You’ll know better next time.” She smiled again, then looked into the cluster of trees, her tension ratcheting up as her spine stiffened. A breeze blew across the land, whipping up dirt and making the long seed pods dangling from the trees rattle like a snake. Freyja was spooked, and he had to admit, the gloaming did nothing for the devil trees, as Abuela called them.

  Instead of moving forward into the breach, so to speak, Freyja looked back at him, expression serious and eyes full of nervous hope. “We’re okay, right? It’s become frighteningly important to me that we’re good.”