by M. D. Massey
Really, what you’re praying for is a quick death. So, when you see the ground coming up at you, you don’t shut your eyes. You just keep staring at it as it rushes up to meet you. And all that’s going through your mind is, Oh, thank goodness… blessed relief is on its way.
That’s when you remember your wards are still activated. Which is probably gonna mean the fall won’t kill you—immediately, that is.
And this is why it sucks to be a demigod.
My name’s Hemi Waara. I know it’s not the most Maori name, but it’s the one I was given so don’t hold it against me. Since I was little, I’ve always been a bit of an oddball. And, to some of my relatives, a real pain in the side.
My stepdad was the bloke who gave me the most grief. Can’t say I blame him. No man wants to be reminded that his wife cheated on him every day of his life. And if you think mortals are jealous, you haven’t seen jealousy until you’ve hung around with a few gods. Trust me, they take anger and jealousy to a whole new level.
Since I was a living breathing reminder to my good old stepdad that Mum had stepped out on him, well—you can imagine I wasn’t exactly his favorite son. Of course, the first time Mum caught him trying to kill me, she took me straight to my real dad and told him to hide me somewhere that even the Maori gods couldn’t find me.
Which is why I grew up on Oahu. But that’s another story. Finnegas asked me to write all this down, and what I’m supposed to be talking about is how I traveled to the underworld and back again. So, I guess I better tell you what happened after I died in Underhill.
As my friend Colin would say, here goes nothing.
You might be wondering how a Maori demigod ended up in the land of the Celtic fae. It’s not much of a mystery, really, since my best friend is a druid and all tied up with the Celtic Pantheon. He doesn’t fully understand just how connected he is to all those Celtic deities, but I do.
Not too quick on the uptake, that Colin. Good guy though.
Anyway, the fae had been stealing kids for purposes I don’t care to talk about. The whole thing got my blood boiling, so when Colin decided to put together a crew to get the kids back, he didn’t need to ask me twice. I followed him to Underhill, and that’s where I died.
Kind of a shitty deal, that one. Turns out when you die in the realm of another culture’s gods, it’s harder for your spirit to find its way home. And that made it easy for Whiro to throw a wrench in the gears.
Since you may not have heard of Whiro, I’ll fill you in. Among Maori deities, he’s the absolute personification of evil. All disease and illness comes from him, along with spells that cause sickness and pestilence. Nasty piece of work, that one.
What’s worse is he’s always trying to break free of the underworld. But he’s not strong enough yet, so he eats the dead to increase his strength. And, wouldn’t you know it, eating the corpse of a demigod gives him a whole lot more power than eating human corpses.
When Whiro heard I died, right away he started scheming to eat me. He knew my mother could easily heal my body and return my spirit to it, and then raise me from the dead. She is the goddess who rules the underworld, after all.
Whiro couldn’t allow that, so he used his evil magic to make sure my spirit didn’t find its way back to my mother’s house in the underworld. Instead, I ended up in probably the worst place I could’ve landed. After my spirit got whisked away by Whiro’s magic, I found myself standing right in front of the House of Endless Night.
22
Now, there’s something you ought to understand about the gods. You might think they’re all ancient and stuffy—a bunch of twenty-foot-tall people with booming voices and somber looks, sitting on thrones, brooding on eternity by torchlight. If you think that way, you’d be wrong.
Contrary to popular belief, the gods have adapted with the times. You wouldn’t know it, but many of them now live in the human world, interacting with mortals on a daily basis and living somewhat normal lives. In fact, you may have run into one a time or two and not even known it.
What’s more, the gods shape their realms to suit themselves. Take Miru’s house, for example. You might think a place called Tatau-o-te-Pō, The House of Endless Night, would be a dark, gloomy, dreary cavern somewhere, filled with things you’d rather not see in the light.
Once again, you’d be wrong… at least on one of those counts. Miru’s place was anything but dark and gloomy. Oh, there were corners of the place that you didn’t want to be caught dead in—no pun intended—and there were definitely things that lived there you’d rather not run into, no matter if it was day or night. But Miru had adapted to the times.
Instead of a dank cave or dark and dusty royal hall, The House of Endless Night was a rowdy, loud, neon-lit pub. And it didn’t look like some K Road nightclub, with electronic dance music pumping out of the speakers and lights flashing under a translucent floor. No, this place was more like some biker bar roadhouse you’d find on the sketchy side of Auckland—complete with tobacco smoke, the smell of stale beer and sex, and the distinct stench of dark sorcery and pure hate.
I’d been there once or twice, and the last time I was told in no uncertain terms that I shouldn’t come back. I may have torn the place up a bit in the middle of a drunken brawl. Not like that was something that wasn’t common in Miru’s place. It’s just that the normal patrons there weren’t as destructive as I could be after a few dozen drinks. Miru didn’t appreciate me tearing up his house—or her house, depending on Miru’s mood—so he kicked me out. Permanently.
So, when I walked up to the front door and a giant blocked my way, it wasn’t really a surprise. The bouncer had shrunk himself a bit to fit under the roof over the front entrance. He was still a few feet taller than me, about the size of that giant that had pulled me off the cliff back in Underhill.
“Hey, Matt,” I said with a nod.
“Hey, Hemi,” Matau said. “Heard what happened. Sorry about that. Must’ve been tough.”
I sucked air through my teeth and cocked my head. “Things happen, you know? But I appreciate your concern.”
“Yeah, sucks though.” Matt stared off into the night, then fixed me with a stare that held just a hint of regret. He clasped his hands in front of him—two huge meat hooks I’d personally seen him use to rip someone limb from limb. The giant flicked a finger at me, a barely perceptible gesture. “You know I can’t let you in here. Especially not like that. You’ve got no status. Some of them inside might decide to take you down. Help Whiro out.”
I scratched the back of my head. “Think Miru would allow that?” Matt shrugged, his eyes scanning the dark behind me. “I still have to get in there, Matt. Got to talk to Miru before I pass through.”
Matt shook his head. “Nope. Gonna have to go through me. Boss was clear.”
I’d been expecting as much, so I didn’t hesitate once the niceties were over. Matt’s kneecap was right there, being the size he was. I kicked it sideways just as he was reaching to grab me and throw a punch. I parried his arms, twisting his upper body slightly as I pivoted to the outside. That lined his jaw up for a big overhand right that dropped him to his knees.
I snaked my left hand around his arm to get an under hook on his right shoulder, then hooked my right hand behind his neck. This allowed me to control his head as I pulled him into my knee. I smashed my knee into his nose, once, twice, and a third time. He was dead weight by this point, out cold. I leaned him up against the side of the bar next to the door, then I went inside.
The interior was everything you’d expect from a roadhouse dive bar. Lots of exposed wood, plenty of neon signs, smoke-filled air, and the smell of stale puke, piss, and beer under it all. The bar’s patrons all looked like rough types—a rogues’ gallery for sure. They looked human, more or less, and in fact some of them had been human spirits once… until Miru’s sorcery twisted them into something different.
I tapped the waitress on the arm to get her attention as she walked by. She turned to look at me—a
pretty, dark-skinned thing in a skintight black T-shirt and denim skirt. For a moment, her glamour blurred and another face transposed itself on top of hers—something dark and reptilian, with long sharp teeth and a forked tongue that tasted the air with a hiss.
I pretended I didn’t see it. Everybody here was more than they appeared. “Miru around?”
She looked me up and down, frowning in a way that made the facial tattoos on her chin look like fangs. “He’s in back, but you probably don’t want to disturb him. He’s entertaining guests right now, so I don’t think he’ll appreciate an interruption. Especially from the likes of you.”
I glanced around the place, noticing that more than a few customers were looking my way. “He’d probably prefer that to me sticking around out here and tearing up his place again.”
The waitress popped her gum and shrugged. “Your funeral.”
I chuckled and headed to the offices in back.
23
I shouldered my way through the crowd until I reached a dark and worn wooden door with a sign that said “PRIVATE” tacked at eye level. I paused for a second before I grabbed the chipped, enameled metal door knob and shoved the door open. It opened to a hallway that faded into darkness just a few feet beyond.
As I passed through the doorway, a chill went right through me. Dark sorcery, for sure. The Kiri Tuhi on my shoulders and back lit up slightly, Mum’s kaiwhatu in the ink doing its work to protect me from the death magic spell Miru had placed here. Rūaumoko might have stolen my moko, and with it a great deal of my power, but he couldn’t touch my mother’s magic.
Even he wasn’t stupid enough to mess with that.
I walked forward into the gloom, knowing it was just an illusion—darkness spun of magic and nothing more. After a few steps, the shadows receded and Miru’s VIP lounge appeared before me.
The floor was dark wood, scuffed and stained with whiskey and blood. The only light in the room came from a lamp over the pool table, which sat in the center of the space. There were four people here, although you couldn’t really call them that. One of them was Miru, but I didn’t recognize any of the others. They were probably lesser gods of evil, since that was the only company Miru kept.
Miru was dressed like a real high-roller as usual—in glossy snakeskin boots, dark jeans, a white dress shirt, and a black dinner jacket. He wore a Rolex watch on his wrist, and each of his fingers were adorned with rings in precious metals and stones that glistened and sparkled despite the weak light. With his mocha skin, fine features, and midnight hair slicked back against his scalp, he might have seemed out of place in a dive like this. But one look into those sinister reptilian eyes, and you knew—there was no greater predator who stalked the night in Miru’s realm.
The other players were the typical rabble the death god kept around. One was a tall, muscular biker type who had a face like a bat, with a scrunched up nose and huge ears on either side of his head. Another was short and thin, in an All Blacks hoodie that the creature had pulled up to obscure its face. Its hands were gray and skeletal, its fingernails black and hooked, and wisps of shadow hung all around it like tobacco smoke. The final player was a patupaiarehe, one of the fae who had long inhabited Maori lands and parts of our underworld. She was tall and lanky in tight jeans and worn black combat boots, with skin as pale as the white t-shirt she wore tucked in at the waist, contrasting with her long, reddish-blonde hair and blue eyes that shone in the dark.
The others were minor gods, representations of illness and disease more than likely. Miru liked those types. But the faery—that was the one I needed to worry about. You couldn’t trust the fae, no matter where they were from. Plus, if she was here, she was evil and certainly a powerful sorceress—else Miru’s buddies would have killed her already. Maori black magic was nothing to be trifled with, not if a person could help it, and even the gods feared it. I’d keep one eye on her at all times for sure.
The game they played was a combination of pool and a traditional Maori game known as tī rākau. In the traditional game, players tossed sticks back and forth to one another to a rhythm they drummed on the floor and sticks as they played. But in Miru’s version, each player held a pool cue they used to tap out a blistering cadence on the floor and edge of the pool table between shots. It was mesmerizing, to say the least.
I stood back and observed, curious regarding how this might play out.
When they tossed their pool cues to each other, whoever was behind the cue ball had to make a shot and sink a ball without losing the tempo or dropping their cue. This was more than difficult; it was nearly impossible, since they had to make a shot in the split-second time gap between beats. No mortal could pull it off, but it was a perfect game for gods and dark creatures of the underworld.
I stood in silence, not wanting to risk the wrath of Miru by interrupting the game or breaking a player’s concentration. I was sure they’d laid some wager on the outcome of their match. High-stakes, almost certainly. So, I waited to the side, silently observing until the game was finished.
It was entertaining, to see these four creatures of dark magic tapping and turning and spinning and beating their cues on the floor. In a flash they’d toss them to one another, and one of the four would sink a ball in a pocket with a shot that would make any pool shark jealous. It was superhumanly impressive and supernaturally hypnotic. Were it not for the divine blood that coursed through my veins, I’m sure I would’ve fallen under the spell the players wove as they completed their game.
Soon, they were down to one last ball on the table. The pool cues beat out a rhythm and meter that no human percussionist could match, faster and faster as the sticks whirled and blurred. Finally, they passed their sticks, and the faery sorceress was behind the cue ball, directly across the table from me. She locked eyes with me, and without skipping a beat, she sunk the eight ball in the side pocket nearest were I stood next to the entrance.
This, of course, drew all eyes to me as the game ended. The bat god let out a small hiss, while the shadow creature’s eyes glowed a pestilent green as they narrowed at me. The sorceress flashed me a wicked smile as she rested the butt of her cue on the floor. I had no idea what that was about, but at least none of the others saw it. That might mark me as her agent or ally, and put me at odds with the other players. Gods were a capricious bunch—even the so-called good ones—and you never wanted to get on their bad side.
Which was why I was fairly nervous as Miru stared silently at me from the near side of the pool table.
Finally, the dark god smiled, his androgynous features softening while his eyes remained hard. He tsked and spoke in a soft, sibilant voice, his gaze chilling me to my soul.
“Tāwhere, Mutu, Mākutu… allow me to introduce Hemi Waara—Hine-nui-te-pō’s son.”
24
I observed their reactions while considering the names Miru had spoken. My thoughts lingered on one, specifically. Mākutu… that’s bad, really bad. I must’ve given something away in my expression, ’cause her face split in a self-satisfied smirk as she put her pool stick away on the rack. The others just stared.
After I’d put on a stern look, I nodded in Miru’s direction, foregoing the more familiar greeting of a hongi. You don’t press noses with a god of death—not unless she’s your mother. “Miru, just passing through. Came to pay my respects and ask permission for safe passage.”
Miru leaned back against the pool table, almost half-sitting as he laid his cue across the felt. “Brave of you, to come back here when I told you never to return. Or stupid. Which is unlikely, since you were never the stupid kind.”
I lifted a shoulder slightly, fixing my eyes on Miru but keeping the others in sight. “Had no choice. Died and got sent here by mistake.”
Miru tilted his head back and laughed out loud at the ceiling. “By mistake? No one gets sent here by mistake, you know that. Still, you don’t belong here, as anyone can see.” He stared more intently at me. “You’re missing more than one aspect of yourself,
I see. Heard about the one, but not the other. It’s a shame either way.”
“The second is a recent development,” I replied. “Now, I just gotta get to my mother’s realm so she can set me right. If you’ll allow me passage, of course.” Tāwhere, the bat god, and Mutu, the shadowy fellow, were whispering and snickering to each other off to the side. I turned and gave them a deliberate look. “Oi, is something funny?”
The big biker with the bat face spoke in a voice that was way too high for his stature. “Just noticed, you got no moko. Mutu guesses you lost it in a bet, but I say someone took it.”
My moko, or the absence of it, was a sore spot with me. To a Maori, facial tattoos signify more than just status. They also speak of their history and lineage, telling the story of who they are and why they are. My step-dad had managed to steal mine from me, which put him on the outs with my mum, but he’d done it anyway. Who would have thought a guy who spends all his time underground could be such a pain?
“Everybody knows what happened,” Mākutu said. “Give it a rest, Tāwhere.”
The bat-faced god turned on her. “You mind your own business, witch. The boy and I are having a chat, and I want to hear what happened from him.” He placed an emphasis on “boy.” Now he was really pissing me off.
Miru crossed his arms and watched this exchange with interest, seemingly unwilling to get in the middle of it. I locked eyes with him for a second, and a twitch of an eyebrow told me he wouldn’t interfere. Scratching my nose to hide the fact that I was mumbling a spell, I triggered the tattoos on my shoulders and arms. A blue glow lit the dark room up as my mother’s magic activated, causing Mutu to shy away. My mum might have been a goddess of the underworld, but she was born up above, and her magic reflects that. For a creature of the underworld, that’s something to be feared.