by Gwenda Bond
“What’s this all about?” Oz asks, as they make their way down a dark hallway in the lower levels that house most of the main Society offices. Carved insets cradle statues of famous figures from the organization’s history. Heroes the world had known nothing about before. “Did something happen to Mr Locke?”
“You could say Mr Locke happened to something else,” Bronson says.
He doesn’t elaborate, intent on their destination. Oz has heard many stories about the legendary oracles they are about to visit – about traitors uncovered and the locations of powerful relics disclosed – but as an operative who’s barely earned his stripes he has never seen them. Nor would he expect them to know he exists. He keeps quiet in case Bronson realizes that he’s probably been included in error and sends him away.
Down and down they go, until they reach a tall door covered in small pieces of glass. They reflect the soft blue glow of the sconce light, so that the door appears to be moving, flowing. Bronson presses it open.
The long room is lit by glowing candles in pale bowls. On the wall, a mural depicts a green mountain surrounded by wispy white clouds. Three high-backed black chairs sit at the chamber’s center, a pool of water in front of them. Both the Pythias have long white hair, despite the difference in their ages. One is elderly and the other not that much older than Oz’s eighteen. The old woman occupies the far left chair, the younger woman the far right. The middle chair is empty.
The oracle meant to be in the vacant chair left after the Awakening. She went mad, even according to the values of oracles and sanity. She was the director’s daughter and Henry Locke’s wife. Oz came here after that, after he lost his own parents, so he never met her. But he knows the orders. She was allowed to leave and now lives across town as a street oracle. Henry’s and her daughter – Kyra – is and always has been off limits. Society operatives are never to approach her. Her mother’s wish that she never be involved in its business was granted because, seemingly, it was in her father’s power to do it.
Oz has seen Kyra Locke three times. Once, not long after he moved here, when she was out running with her father. The second time was upstairs in the Great Hall, two and a half years ago, being told she wasn’t allowed in, not even if her father worked for them. He could tell she’d been crying. The third was a few months ago, when he and Justin were sent to collect a report from an informant at a Skeptics meeting. She was not only attending, but sitting on the lap of the son of the group’s founders. He left both of these facts out of his report, for what reason he still isn’t sure.
She’d gotten taller, long honey hair a messy tangle around her heart-shaped face. There was an almost feral intensity about her. As if, in the past few years, she’d gone wild.
The director stops opposite the Pythias, staying on this side of the pool and sinking to one knee. Behind him, Oz follows his lead.
“Rise,” the old woman says.
Oz waits until Bronson stands before he does. He spots a small black cup at the edge of the pool. In other times, these women would have been Apollo’s to command, the oracles at Delphi, decoders of mysterious visions. The Pythias still drink from Apollo’s cup, but in service to the Society.
“You have news for me,” Bronson says.
“We have a request,” the elderly woman counters.
The younger woman adds, “Our sister’s daughter is in danger. You know this, and have done nothing to protect her.”
They don’t mean sister in the familial sense, but the oracle one. Which means the person they’re concerned about is Kyra Locke. Oz’s interest, already high, spikes.
Bronson raises a hand to his cheek and scrubs at it. “I hadn’t even thought about her.”
“We know,” the old woman says. “You will send a force immediately to protect her.”
“Of course,” he agrees, bowing his head. “And your… sister. Hannah. She is safe?”
The old woman’s head tilts to one side. Oz wants to look away when her pale eyes land on him. They are white as milk from thick cataracts. “Bring me the cup,” she says. The younger woman rises, but the old woman says, “No, the boy. We will want a look at him.”
Bronson nods once. Oz has no choice but to obey. Though he’s curious about the oracles, being across the room was more than close enough. It seems they really did summon him too. His boots clomp against the stone floor as he strides to the other side of the pool and lifts the cup.
“Fill it,” the old woman says.
He dips the cup into the pool. The water chills his hand to the bone, but he gives no sign of it. When he rises, the woman beckons him and he goes to her, wishing for a monstrous god to fight instead. Those milky eyes never look away from him.
He has heard she’s blind, but he can’t believe it. She studies his every move. He extends the cup to her, gently touching her hand with it.
Her fingers clasp the cup, and he drops his. “Brave boy,” she says.
“High praise,” the younger woman chimes in.
“Thank you,” Oz says, hiding his discomfort as best he can.
The old woman sips from the cup, then presses it back into his hand. Her papery eyelids drift closed, quivering with the motion of her eyes behind them. He waits beside her, not sure if he’s dismissed or if he should take the cup to the younger woman. When he looks to her, her eyes are a near-solid black, her pupils enormous. She winks at him.
Yikes. But he stands, unflinching, like the good operative he’s trained to be.
The old woman says, “She will be down the street, at the statue of Einstein. You will find her there. Go quickly, or it will be too late to offer her protection.”
“It will be done.” Bronson hesitates, then asks, “Henry Locke, do you know where he is?”
A smile curves the old woman’s thin lips. “Yes. But I don’t think we will tell you. Not quite yet. Our sister would not want us to.”
Bronson opens his mouth, and Oz expects him to order her to tell him what he wants to know. Is Henry Locke missing? And, if so, why would his wife not want him found? Oz braces, wishing he was back on the other side of the room. But all Bronson says is, “Thank you, ladies who look upon darkness and light.”
“The boy,” the old Pythia says, her supposedly unseeing eyes on him heavy as a touch. “Send the boy for her.”
“It will be done.” Bronson backs toward the door with a bow.
Oz sets the cup down and joins him. “You’ll need relics,” says Bronson, beginning to outline the deployment. “If someone’s going after her, it’s likely to be the Egyptians. Set won’t be happy with what Henry’s done.”
“Of course, sir.” Oz will take Justin too. He’ll know which relics to bring.
When they reach the hallway, Bronson puts his hand on Oz’s shoulder. “This is my granddaughter, Oz. Bring her in safely. It’s past time she found out who she is.”
Oz nods, sure of only two things. One, that there will be no more dusty papers to worry about today, and two, that he’s about to see Kyra Locke for the fourth time.
CHAPTER THREE
The school day finally ends. As Bree and I cut across the lobby, we have to navigate around parents picking up little kids. “We should hurry,” I say, because I have a feeling. My ex-boyfriend Tam has been trying to catch my eye all day.
Bree doesn’t respond, but she stays with me when I speed up.
The entire building exists in a state of disheveled grandeur. The murals on the vaulted ceiling feature angels so dusty and faded they look sickly instead of sacred. This used to be the kind of school that only heirs to agribusiness or underwear fortunes, president’s daughters and senator’s sons, could afford to attend. Now that so many people have left the city, it’s the only school here, period, with a couple hundred students and a handful of teachers. What we’re taught is periodically interesting, but mostly irrelevant.
Take physics. Given that the gods’ magic has introduced chaos into everything, there are way more variables than math can account fo
r. More mythology instead would be useful, but they maintain it’s important that humanity “hold onto our wisdom.” As if that’s what gives us protection, and not the fact the Society killed a god and the others don’t want to die so they agree to (mostly) play nice.
Outside, the day hovers just shy of too hot. We make it down the stairs and to the sidewalk and I’m sure we’re home free… until a hand lands on my shoulder, and another one on Bree’s.
“Wait up,” Tam says, suddenly between us. His arms prevent our escape.
My chest tightens. A month ago, I’d have turned into Tam’s touch. I’d have spun to face him, stepping lightly onto his heavy boots and touching my lips to his, and Bree would’ve quipped, “Cough cough,” or something else vaguely chastising to remind us she was still there. We would’ve laughed, my hand in his as we walked home.
None of that is going to happen today.
“We can still hang out, right?” he asks.
My response is careful. I’m honestly not sure of the answer. “Can we?”
Tam is half-Vietnamese with overgrown black hair that’s always a mess. The three of us used to hang out all the time. Bree misses having him around, and so do I. I messed up our group dynamic. The breakup was my fault.
He drops his arms, and my sense of constriction eases. His answer for now must be that we can, because when Bree and I set off up the sidewalk, so does he. He lives in a different part of town than us, but in the same general direction.
“There’s a Skeptics meeting tonight,” he says.
“We know,” Bree agrees.
“Are you coming?” he asks.
Tam’s parents run the group, the most vocal and organized of the Society’s critics. Dad hates that I go to the meetings, which, of course, only makes them more attractive.
“I forgot about it,” I say. A lie. “I think maybe I have to be home tonight.”
Bree frowns at me. “Since when?”
I give her a look that I hope communicates something along the lines of: What are you doing, please go along with me, OK? In answer, Bree shrugs one shoulder. She’s ready to pretend mine and Tam’s relationship never existed. If only I was ready for the same.
Tam says, “There’s no reason this has to be weird.”
“Please both of you stop,” I say. “This is not normal. You’re supposed to repress this stuff, not talk about it. For my sake, repress.”
Tam and Bree exchange grins that that make me want to run again.
“You’re telling us to repress?” Bree asks.
She’s still curious about why we broke up. I haven’t given her a reason.
Tam adds, “Since when do you care about normal?”
He wears that smile, the one that lured me into bad decisions in the first place. I don’t respond.
Bree and Tam stop prodding me and turn back to the topic of the Skeptics meeting, what’s on the agenda, who’s supposed to be there. I count the seconds until I can break off from the two of them. For once, being alone at home seems infinitely desirable. I will put a record on the turntable – vinyl forever, now that most digital stuff’s spazzy when it works at all – and crank the volume way too loud and stare at my bedroom ceiling and pretend this awkwardness never took place. Iggy Pop, maybe? Or Patti Smith? The old punk stuff is easy to dig out at the market, and I’ve amassed a decent collection.
We reach the back of the National Academy of Sciences campus, the main building a hulking stone rectangle. The street next to it is our usual path to the Mall, the quickest and prettiest way home. Shade trees dot the grounds. Their leafy canopies sway in a light breeze.
Wanting some distance from Bree and Tam’s too-easy conversation, I brace on the low concrete wall and jump up into the yard. Tam extends a hand to Bree to help her follow. He leaps up behind her.
So much for distance.
I reach the platform that houses the Academy’s enormous bronze statue of Albert Einstein. He sits on a trio of steps, a sheaf of papers in one hand, looking a little thoughtful, a little sad. This was always the spot where Dad and I stopped to rest on runs. It’s one of my favorite spots in the city.
I climb the steps and put a hand on Albert’s arm with the intent of clambering over him, just like I used to when I was younger. Instead, I fall backward in mute shock.
Tam is close enough to lunge in and catch me. He holds me with my back pressed against his chest. My heart pounds, but not because he’s touching me. Because of what caused me to lose my balance.
An impossibly tall god perches on Albert’s ragged halo of hair. His shadow falls over us, blocking the heat of the sun completely. I realize that the god is at least the same height as the statue.
The statue is twelve feet tall. Dad told me that once.
A cobra-like hood flares on both sides of his terrifying snake’s face. His long, scaled arms slither over the sheaf of papers grasped in Einstein’s giant brass hands.
Outside the Tricksters’ Council and other gods with big followings, knowing every one of them would be like memorizing the name of every plant and flower, every rock and river. I wish I had done it anyway. I have no clue which god this is.
My breathing gets shallower by the second, and my heart beats so hard the god must be able to hear it.
Tam speaks, low. “It’ll be alright. Don’t move.”
The god’s eyes aren’t like an actual snake’s. Red lids lie heavy over globes set deep. I’m pretty sure Tam’s wrong, that none of this will be anything close to alright. Because I am almost certain that the god is looking at me. Not at Tam and me, just at me.
I can’t quite get my breath. I feel weak. I’m like a leaf in a strong wind, about to be carried off for good.
But I force myself to take a step away from Tam.
“Kyra,” he says.
“Tam,” I murmur, “stay back.”
The god’s red globe eyes follow me. Unmistakably.
“Kyra,” Tam says again.
“Stay put,” I say.
I’m the furthest thing from a hero, but maybe I can keep his attention long enough for them to get out of here. Bree must be even more scared than I am. Her sketches alone are proof that this is her worst nightmare. If the god wants me, for whatever reason, there’s nothing any of us can do about that.
I shift to the side… and he jumps down. He lands a few feet away from me, his scaly skin like wet black glass. He reaches out to rest a misshapen hand against my cheek, and his touch is cold enough to burn. His mouth opens, red tongue flickering out. Words pour into my mind: He took it, and now we will take you.
The strap of my backpack falls off my shoulder because I’m shaking so hard. I shrug it the rest of the way loose, and it drops into my waiting hand. This is the only weapon I have, and so I sling it at the god as hard as I can.
He knocks the bag away with a motion so fast it blurs.
If I don’t get out of here somehow, I’m done for. But my legs won’t move.
A deep voice says, “Now, now, Mehen. Calm down. We can’t have that. Your master’s not even here yet.”
I recognize the god who interrupts. West African, and he goes by more names than some others. Eshu, Elegua, but mostly known as Legba. He has on a black suit, but there is nothing else that seems human about him. He slowly approaches me, his brilliant red pupils surrounded by uniform black.
He’s one of the Council. Supposed protectors of humanity, though now I wish I’d never been to a Skeptics meeting, never heard their theories. The Skeptics claim the gods would gladly wipe out humanity if they could do it without risking death. The tricksters included.
I turn my head to find Bree mostly hidden behind Einstein, and Tam out in the open halfway between the two of us. He must be considering doing something stupid.
No, I think at him, I’m not worth it. Stay where you are.
“I want a word with the Locke girl before he gets here, if you don’t mind,” Legba says.
I blink. Shocked. Confused.
Th
e snake god stays put.
“Have it your way.” Legba comes closer to me. His teeth when he grins are sharp and pointed like a shark’s. He grips a cane in one hand, though he doesn’t lean on it. He twirls it in his fingers.
It’s made of metal and bone, and I’d bet anything the bone is of the human variety.
He follows my attention. “The old and the new. I like them both.” He extends the cane out to one side, pointing it at Tam. “No need for that, boy. Stay where you are. You should trust me. Your father does.”
The whole time Legba never takes his red pupils off me. “Your life is about to get very interesting. But remember, Locke girl, it’s your life. For better, or for worse. You do like to run, but something tells me you won’t go far, not this time,” and he leans in, his lips far too close to my ear. My terror is cold and blind and fixes me to the spot. I can’t even flinch. “You might try Enki House for him. Though I wouldn’t share that fact. Not if I were you.” Shark teeth flash as he backs away, grinning.
For him who? I think.
Legba says, “Look, Mehen, here he is now.”
Another trickster appears on the lawn not far from us. Dust rises around him in a cloud, despite there being only grass beneath our feet.
It’s Set, the Egyptian who is the strangest of all the city’s gods. He has a jackal’s elongated head with a sharp curved snout, his body a blend of canine and human. His square ears lift to attention, and his long forked tail writhes through the air behind him. He raises his arms and more dust appears from nowhere. Flecks of it hit my skin.
A whirlwind of… not dust, sand surrounds us, particles rotating slowly under Set’s control.
“That’s my cue,” Legba says, and is gone.
In the next moment, the sand builds and descends over all of us in a wave, and we’re caught in a dry, roiling ocean. I squeeze my eyes shut. I hear Tam call my name. Bree screams. I make a noise, but the whistling shriek of the sand swallows it. I drop, burying my face between my knees, curling into a ball.
Through the stinging fury of the sand, Mehen’s snake-cold hands touch my neck, my arms, and then lift me off the ground. I struggle, but I can’t open my eyes. Mehen carries me as if I weigh no more than my backpack.