False Gods

by Nazri Noor

  Florian – sweet Florian had carried me through the streets and into the Nicola Arboretum, all the way back into Artemis’s domicile. Priscilla apparently hooted in a panic when she saw me, rushing to fetch the first cot she could find and settling it at the domicile’s nexus, next to the river. For easy access to water, Florian explained, and because he’d be able to examine me more closely in the sunlight. Priscilla really was the smartest animal I’d ever met – well, besides this one corgi that could make people’s heads explode, but that’s another story.

  Priscilla loped closer, her long arms low to the ground, her face twisted in a mask of motherly concern. All the while, Artemis crunched and munched. I knew that the sun was necessary, but it was so hot out, and yet if it was so hot out, why was I so cold? My sweat felt like drops of ice.

  “Here I come,” Florian said, done washing his hands in the river, clutching something in both hands.

  I grimaced as Florian approached me, a clump of bark, leaves, and crushed roots in his hand. The smell wafted up into my nostrils as he gingerly lowered the dressing towards my wound. I gagged, hoping that at least the horrible bitter-pungent smell of Florian’s eleven secret herbs and spices would distract me from the pain. But no such luck.

  “Here goes nothing,” he said. “Deep breath, now. One, two – ”

  For a second, the poultice was cool, almost soothing against my skin. But Florian pushed to help it settle into my wound. I threw my head back and screamed.

  Why that hurt so much more than him and Artemis working together earlier to extract actual shards of twisted metal right out of my freely bleeding chest, I’ll never know. Tears streamed down my face. I bit into the back of my fist, whimpering.

  “It’s like ripping off a bandaid,” Florian said. “But, you know, in reverse.”

  “And it hurts a hell of a lot more, too,” I sobbed. “Come on, man, couldn’t you have mixed in something anesthetic in there?”

  He sniffed, then stiffened. “It’s really not that simple, you know. If you think that a little ibuprofen can help you close up your wounds, be my guest, but – ”

  “Let’s not get into this right now,” I moaned. “But okay, I’m sorry for complaining. Thank you for helping me, even though it felt like you set the gash in my chest on fire for a second there.”

  Florian beamed. “Always a pleasure.” He trundled towards the river to wash up. I leaned back onto the cot and sighed, closing my eyes against the sun.

  The sweat on my forehead was drying off, my body temperature lowering, and despite the initial absolutely horrific bout of pain, I could feel Florian’s plant magic working on my cut already. I didn’t even need to check to know that my flesh was probably stitching itself back together. Florian was just that good at his work.

  Artemis rolled her eyes, her lips stained orange from the Snacky Yum-Yums. “That was it? Ugh. Boring.” She turned on her heel and wandered off, Priscilla following closely behind her.

  “Thanks for the help,” I called out, half sarcastic. So maybe she spent several minutes just gawking at my injuries. Like I said, she did help with plucking out the broken shards of armor from my chest. I shuddered to think of how much shrapnel got into my torso. At least we had Gambanteinn. One legendary Norse weapon down, two to go.

  Still, the thought of it unsettled me, knowing how often I was getting blasted in the chest. First it was that slash that a demon cut into me, back in a nighttime fight at the Nicola Arboretum. And then this? You may scoff, but I didn’t like this pattern. My father, Samyaza, that fallen angel I never met? It was how he died, by spearing himself through the chest with an enchanted sword, and he did that to bring Dustin Graves back from the brink of death.

  Samyaza’s death gave fruit to two new lives: Dustin’s second chance, as I said, and my own rebirth from regular dumb idiot kid into a regular dumb idiot nephilim spawn-baby. I followed the scent of my father’s blood to Valero and found it on Dustin, which was how that running joke of him kind of being my father started going around the Boneyard. But Dustin’s entire reason for entering the arcane underground was being stabbed in the chest with an enchanted dagger, and he disappeared from reality the night he was pierced in the torso by not one, but five magical swords.

  What the hell did it all mean? It was creeping me the fuck out. I didn’t want to go out like that. I pushed my forearm over my eyes, hoping that the temporary darkness would blot out all thought of the creepy pattern, stave away some of the heebie-jeebies. Nope, didn’t work.

  The cold, wet hand that landed on my bare shoulder didn’t help, either.

  I yelped, jerked to sit upright, then fell painfully back down onto the cot again, the strain too much on my wound. My eyes flew open and I gripped the side of the cot in pain, only to find Florian standing above me, staring apologetically into my face.

  “It’s just me,” he said, raising the same wet hand, because apparently he couldn’t be bothered to dry it off after rinsing in the river. “Just me, buddy, here with a quick reminder.”

  “You just shocked me, is all,” I murmured, trying not to be so damn harsh with the guy who would always do everything in his power to ease another’s pain. “What’s up?”

  He sighed. “I know you don’t like the idea of it, but we really need to go see Beatrice about the handbag we ruined.”

  I pushed my hands over my eyes again, this time genuinely praying it would blot out the world. Nope. No such luck.

  “Everything is the worst,” I grumbled.

  “Well, not necessarily.”

  That voice. I forced myself into a seated position for real this time, wincing through tears of pain. See, this just proved my theory. Even being hidden inside a goddess’s domicile wouldn’t keep me from the prying eyes of the supernatural. Not for long.

  I blinked, clearing my vision, rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands, because I wanted to be sure. There he stood, clear as daylight, golden as the sun pouring from far above.

  “Hello, Mason,” said Raziel, the angel of mysteries.

  18

  “Well, well,” I said. “Look who it is. It’s Mr. Shows Up When it’s Convenient.”

  Raziel frowned. “Hey. How about a little gratitude, huh? More like Mr. Throws Himself on You to Protect You from a Bomb Thingy Person.”

  He had me there. “Oh, fine. You’re right. Sorry.”

  “Sorry’s right. You’re being a bit of a brat, Mason.”

  Florian shrugged. “He’s just upset that you didn’t warn him about flying sickness. Honestly, who knew it was even a thing?”

  “Oh, that?” Raziel scoffed. “That’s nothing. You’ll toughen up with practice. It’ll get better over time.”

  I shook my head. “Not sure I’ll ever want to do that again. And seriously, being reminded about how nauseous all that flying made me isn’t helping when my chest is ripped open like this.”

  “Hmm?” Raziel stretched his hand out, a pair of delicate golden tweezers appearing in his palm, which he used to carefully lift the poultice away from my skin. I hissed, but kept my fists balled and sat still, like a big boy. “Oh, you weren’t joking. That definitely looks quite nasty.”

  Florian tutted. “You should have seen it before we cleaned it out. There were pieces of broken breastplate in it and everything.”

  “Really?” Raziel shook his head. “The armor was broken? That doesn’t bode well.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” I said.

  “Neither do I.” Raziel tossed the tweezers into the air, not even giving them a second look as they vanished in a cloud of gold dust. “The armor being ruined means that it’s out of commission, Mason. There’s a very good chance that you won’t be able to retrieve something quite so effective for a while.”

  I stared at him with huge eyes. “You’re joking. But that was just one busted-up suit of armor. Surely they’ve got more of them upstairs.”

  “I don’t think you completely understand. You’ve not only caused the armor itself
to break, you’ve also ruptured the specific connection you need to summon it.” He shrugged, then spaced his fingers out, like he was measuring something. “No more large conjurations from the Vestments, at least not for a while. Only small to medium ones, if that makes sense.”

  “Great.” I threw my hands up in disbelief, then twitched, immediately regretting the strain it put on my wound. “Just great. And what happens when I go up against the entities guarding the other two weapons I need to find? The first one was just a staff, but that blast felt like a cannonball to my sternum.”

  “Then improvise,” Raziel said, beaming. “You cannonball them right back. I told you already, Mason. Creatio ex nihilo. Make something out of nothing. You have the gift of creation. You don’t have to resort to, pardon the analogy, borrowing books out of heaven’s libraries for the rest of your existence. Why not write your own?”

  I gestured at his clothes. “The way you, uh, write your own clothes into existence?”

  Raziel stiffened, his eyes flitting away from my gaze. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  I grinned at him. “So I’ve figured you out, haven’t I? You don’t understand how human money works, obviously, and you’ve shown that even currency you ‘create’ with your miracles dissolves as soon as it leaves your hands. Which leaves only one possibility.”

  Florian looked between the two of us like he was following a tennis match, but understanding dawned on him soon enough. “Oh, snap.”

  “Exactly,” I said, raising my chin triumphantly. “Our good friend Raziel just manifests his clothes. He makes them himself.”

  Raziel scoffed, stammered, then straightened his back, tugging on his lapels. “Well, if you must put it so crudely, then yes. Yes. These are indeed created through divine means.”

  “So they’re knockoffs?”

  Raziel gasped, then answered stiltedly. “They are simply perfect imitations,” he stammered, sweat beading on his forehead.

  “So you’re saying they’re good knockoffs.”

  “I said no such thing!”

  Artemis walked by just then, one hand deep in the same bag of Snacky Yum-Yums, just polishing off the crumbs. She stood there, giving Raziel the once-over. “And who’s this? How’d you get in here?”

  “Fair goddess of the hunt,” Raziel said, making a low bow. “Mistress of the moon. I am Raziel, angel of mysteries.”

  Artemis munched once, twice, then looked over at me, nudging her head in Raziel’s direction. “Friend of yours? Because otherwise I’m shooting him full of arrows. Angels make for good target practice.”

  “N-now, Artemis, there’s really no cause for violence of the – ”

  “I’m joking,” Artemis said. “Totally kidding.” She draped one arm across Raziel’s shoulder, her cheese-dusted fingers coming dangerously close to his not-designer threads. I smirked at the sight of the two of them like that. Artemis knew exactly what she was doing. “Any friend of Mace’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Right,” Raziel said, relieved, but still staring warily at her fingers. “Of course. Thank you.”

  “But maybe knock first next time, huh? You angels are all about etiquette and being polite, aren’t you? Hell, if humans can pull off a proper communion, surely you fly-boys can give me a simple ‘Hi’ and ‘Hello’ before you come crashing the party.”

  “Duly noted,” Raziel said, shuddering as he weighed the pros and cons of inching away from Artemis’s grasp and accidentally getting his clothes stained.

  “We really should go,” Florian said. “We’ve got to deal with Beatrice and all that.”

  “I know,” I sighed. “Just let me enjoy this for a minute longer.”

  All was forgiven, I suppose. I didn’t feel like shaving Raziel’s head anymore, and to be honest, he was right. I was being a brat. But seeing Mr. Put-Together suffer, even just the teensiest bit, was the exact pick-me-up I needed. It was super mean, but I just wanted to see him squirm.

  Still, all good things must come to an end. “Right,” I told Florian. “Just let me get dressed and we can go.”

  19

  I never knew that human beings could turn such fascinating shades of red until the day we went to tell Beatrice Rex what happened to her prized handbag. Her fingernails dug into the wood counter of her shop. I heard cracking, and there might have been some splintering in the grain.

  “You’re telling me,” she growled, “that the expensive, enchanted designer piece I lent you out of the goodness of my own heart is just – gone? Just like that?”

  “Exploded,” I said, trying to be factual and flat, but realizing I was taking a little pleasure in seeing her fume. I gestured with my hands, banging my fists together, then spreading my fingers as I separated them again. “Kaboom, then whoosh.”

  She waved her hands impatiently. “What do you mean ‘whoosh,’ what the hell is that?”

  “When the bag was destroyed, it looked like the pocket dimension in it was turned out into this reality,” Florian offered. He was less sheepish than before, clearly making an active effort to be more social with Beatrice. Good for him, I thought, even though I found her mostly insufferable.

  More importantly, good for us. The mere fact that Florian spoke up softened something in Beatrice’s features. But her eyes met mine, and she went full feral again.

  “You’re paying for that thing,” she said.

  I held up my hands. “I’m pretty sure we’ve had this conversation before, but I really don’t have that kind of money.”

  “It was all that stuff we were supposed to sell to the Amphora,” Florian cut in. “You know, like you suggested. Good idea, by the way.”

  Beatrice hesitated again, but once more, just as soon as her eyes left Florian’s face, she let loose with the first of what was sure to be another barrage of insults. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you to take care of something so valuable,” she said, directing her ire towards me very visibly by stabbing one manicured finger towards my nose.

  “Hey, get that out of my face,” I said, grimacing. “That thing was probably better off incinerated, anyway.”

  Her eyes went huge, and she reeled back, hissing as she sipped in a huge chestful of breath. Uh-oh.

  “That ‘thing’ was a couture collaboration between me and my design partners. It was one of a kind. Irreplaceable. And a boorish idiot like you would never understand its true value, because – ”

  “Now, now,” came a voice from the backroom, speaking in a British lilt. “There’s really no cause to be so incensed, Beatrice.”

  It was joined shortly by a second voice. “We can always make another, you know.” This one was clearly American, and both voices were deep, strong, yet somehow feminine.

  The beaded curtain leading into the backroom of Beatrice’s workshop parted with a cascade of click-clacks, and out stepped two enormous women – two enormous men, rather, who were dressed as women. My mouth fell open at the sight of them, Valero legends in their own right, the night club owners and arcane vigilantes known collectively as the Fuck-Tons.

  Statuesque was the best way to describe the Fuck-Tons. Stylish, in their own way, that kind of garish, gaudy aesthetic that favored a lot of bright colors and loud details, all the good stuff you’d see from a pair of seasoned drag queens. The outfit of the day, apparently, consisted of looking like ladies of the French court, all white powdered wigs and huge skirts, with the special detail of the two queens wearing a golden monocle on opposite sides of their faces. I thought back to the handbag and the rest of Beatrice’s collection. Their partnership suddenly made so much more sense.

  “Now, what seems to be the problem here?” said Imperial Fuck-Ton, the British one. The stories differed: the Fuck-Tons either met on the internet or on the club circuit, and thus their partnership began. Imperial looked at me, then blinked. “Oh. I know you.”

  I smiled politely, the anger draining out of my body through the soles of my feet. I could sense Beatrice getting pissed at the fact th
at I was already putting on a different face and leaving our argument behind. Hah. Served her right.

  “Imperial, good to meet you,” I said to the first Fuck-Ton. “And Metric. I’ve heard so much about you. The two of you are legends, huge stars in the arcane underground.”

  Metric unfolded a fan and held it over her mouth, giggling. “Oh, this one’s a flatterer. I like him.”

  “Ladies,” Florian said, leaning one elbow on the table. He waggled his eyebrows, eliciting another round of titters from Metric. Imperial looked less than impressed, but I thought I saw a little crack in the veneer of her face.

  Florian was apparently emboldened by the fact that this really was purely a business relationship after all, and that the word ‘partner’ referred strictly to Beatrice Rex’s commercial pursuits. It all hung together. The Fuck-Tons were powerful enchanters in their own right, weaving spells and magic into mundane objects to use them as weapons against the more villainous elements of the underground: ensorcelled press-on nails, teleportation compacts, lipstick grenades, you name it.

  I never thought that Beatrice’s idea of collaboration went beyond the style of her wares, but it was clear that the three were working together to empower the substance of the items they created, making significantly more effective enchantments and artifacts by combining their talents. As for why the collection was made entirely out of leather products? Well, the Fuck-Tons also owned and operated an S&M club called the Leather Glovebox. Come to your own conclusions.

  “The name’s Florian,” Florian said out of the side of his mouth, all his bashfulness gone, returned now to the leafy Lothario we knew and loved. Beatrice clearly felt the same, already forgetting about butting heads with me. From her perspective, I might as well not have existed. “I do nature magic, that kind of thing. I’m your man if you need lotions, potions, commotions.” He winked, and Metric, who by that point had convinced me that she would laugh at practically anything, tittered again. Florian gestured at me, meaning to introduce me to the Fuck-Tons. “And this is – ”